Monday 7th January
Oh! But where have you been?, I hear you cry.
Well, nowhere very much, in truth. Indeed, with one brief exception, of which a little more later, nowhere at all - and especially not to work. Mostly.
Which was kinda the point, given that I was more than a little burnt-out at work, and rather startled to discover that I'd accrued at least five weeks holiday that needs to be taken before April 1st.
So I opted out of all of my more arduous shifts, as best as I was able, and settled in for a period of time tabulated, not under 'Stuff I Have To Do Today' (get up, wash, eat..) but 'Stuff I might do but probably won't'.
I mean no insult to you, Illustrious Reader, when I reveal that UpdateBlog was not high, even on that latter list.
As it transpires, by virtue of cravenly offering to work when there was truly nobody else to do it (up to and including Christmas and Boxing Day bank holidays), not even the whole of December was enough to eat up the holidays I'm owed.
So I'm leisuring into January as well. And maybe some of February too.
More later. (Or not.)
Saturday 23rd December
Season's Greetings To All Our Readers
Friday 22nd December
Apologies for absence; Blogadoon returns in the New Year.
Wednesday 21st November
London Bridge, Autumn 2007
Tuesday 20th November
Gordon Brown's recent Commons statement on anti-terrorism measures:
In addition to measures to process terrorist cases more efficiently and reduce the time between arrest and trial - including 14 new specially protected courtrooms - a single senior Judge has been nominated to manage all terrorism cases.
There will also be a single senior lead prosecutor in the Crown Prosecution Service responsible for cases relating to inciting violent extremism.
...otherwise known, presumably as the Terrorfinder General?
Monday 19th November
London Bridge, Autumn 2007
Sunday 18th November
I have not, yet, stormed out of any of the jobs that have characterised my motley career to date in a fit of pique.
Which is not to say that I haven't devoted a considerable part of my life to composing furiously vitriolic speeches for delivery at my putative leaving do.
If and when the time comes to deliver such a speech, I hope I have the courage (or simply rage) to mirror the furious verve of Stewart Payne, until recently the Thames Valley correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, whose valediction, quoted in the MediaGuardian reads, in part, as follows:
Why has my job gone?
It has nothing to do with multimedia platforms and the hub and spoke newsrooms. They still have their place in a changing world. It has everything to do with the personalities of the people who are now in charge of news-gathering.
The Telegraph I joined was a paper full of individuals, characters. The new regime cannot cope with that.
They are one-dimensional control freaks who work to a formula.
Their minds are not big enough and their shoulders are not broad enough to accept that district men were employed to share some of the burden of news editing.
I have found myself working for humourless individuals, the Gollums of the newspaper world, craven and driven and with no flair or character.
Saturday 17th November
London Bridge, Autumn 2007
Friday 16th November
Last Friday night I went to bed, as usual, at some unspecified early hour - 8am or so I guess. I had a fairly firm intention of turning out for the Lord Mayor's fireworks that evening but didn't set an alarm, confident that there would be plenty of time to wake up, caffeinate and then get on to the net to track down exact details of where and when I needed to be by early evening.
Very early evening, as it transpired: at 4:15pm, sitting naked at the computer, coffee in hand, I discovered that the display was scheduled to start at 5pm.
TimeOut gave the location of the display as "on a barge moored between Blackfriars Bridge and Southwark Bridge" so I set out, very promptly but otherwise as planned, for London Bridge, tripod in hand (or, more accurately, hoist over shoulder).
Astonishingly enough I got there by ten to: plenty of time to get the tripod set up and the camera mounted and pointed in roughly the right direction - attracting, as I did so, the unwelcome but ultimately flattering attention of a petite Japanese tourist, who described me to her boyfriend as velly plofessional.
Not so plofessional, as it turned out: when the display began promptly at 6, it was immediately apparent that the barge was moored further up-river than stated, and on the southern side to boot, so all I could see across the bend of the river was some vivid sparks rising above the bulk of Tate Modern.
Running across a bridge with an assembled tripod is not something I'd recommend to anyone intent on maintaining their dignity.
But I managed to get set up again, despite the crowds, in pretty short order and proceeded, as planned, to snap off a series of shots using shutter speeds as low as 2 seconds.
The results, as you can see, don't entirely merit all that effort.
The extended shutter speeds are evident in the longer trails of some of the fireworks. But, given the increased focal length of the zoom, so is every faint judder of the tripod - and it was viciously cold up on that bridge so at least some of my shivering seems to have made its way though to the final result.
Still'n'all, they're fairly okay. Let's hope I don't have to wait another twelve months for another go.
Thursday 15th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Wednesday 14th November
Obituary Watch: Sammy Duddy
In the 1970s, he was by day a propagandist for the Ulster Defence Association (UDA), the extreme Protestant group which was responsible for the killings of hundreds of Catholics.
By night, however, he appeared on Belfast's limited but vibrant cabaret circuit, presenting a ribald act in loyalist pubs and clubs dressed in fishnet tights, wig and heavy make-up.
The charge which put Duddy behind bars related to security force documents on republicans which were leaked to the UDA, and which the organisation attempted, with little success, to use to target IRA members.
On one occasion, Duddy's home was attacked with a pipe bomb, while on another shots were fired into it.
While he was uninjured, his pet chihuahua, Bambi, was hit by gunfire and died.
Born Belfast 1945; twice married..
Tuesday 13th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Monday 12th November
Truly it is said: men are like fireworks.Many of them look impressive in the box, but often prove disappointing, proving difficult to set alight.
One in a while, you may find one one that arcs high above the others, leaving only the warm glow of a dazzling display.
But most just make a lot of noise, fizzing away unpredictably, leaving you uncertain whether they've completely finished.
And a few just lie there, spluttering, on the floor.
But the ones you really need to look out for...are the ones that go off in your hand.
Sunday 11th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Saturday 10th November
You remember John Le Mesurier surely?
The actor who cornered the market in upper-class harmlessness, culminating in his role as Sergeant Wilson in Dad's Army?Whose last words were (allegedly) "It's all been rather lovely"?
One of the unlikelier lesser-known facts about his life was that he was married to Hattie Jacques.
A new biography of whom reveals that Mesurier's infamous vagueness was nothing to do with class - and everything to do with a developing penchant for "extra strong cigarettes"...
Friday 9th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Thursday 8th November
As I was saying, my family is small, and my knowledge of them even smaller.
My father's mother, like my mother, died when her son was still young - and I know absolutely nothing about her.
My father's father, whose name I don't recall, died when I was still young, though I have faint memories of him walking round from his house to ours, in Enfield, once a week (for Sunday lunch?) and bringing me sweets.
The only other two parts of folklore I have are that I dimly recall my father once claiming that his father used to walk to work in Brixton which, if you have any knowledge of London geography, makes no sense at all - it would surely have taken him most of the day to get there.
The other is that his job was described as "machine-minder" - a phrase that always made me think of him sitting beside some giant bit of kit and patting it from time to time, murmuring endearments. Although I never gave this much credence, it was clear he was no rocket scientist.
I now know that 'machine-minding' is actually a pukkah job: I'm not certain but I think it's a printing term, referring to the men who would stand on watch as the presses rolled, ready to spring into action if and when the giant reels of paper tore. (Similar to, but somewhat more challenging than, what happens when the paper jams in the photocopier.)
My father came from a small family, just him and one younger brother, Bob, who married a woman, Noreen, whom I remember as being shy, possibly to the point of neurosis. She died quite early, I think.
They had a single son, my cousin Graham, whose early life, along with mine, was - if photographic evidence is anything to go by - dogged by being dragged to the park to play ball-games for which neither of us displayed much aptitude.
I lost touch with that side of the family when we moved away from Enfield towards the end of the Fifties (though I later bumped into Graham on a train when we were both in our twenties, and he was working for a bank).
Uncle Bob was still alive when my Dad died in the mid-Eighties, though I don't think he was well enough to come to the funeral. He may well be dead by now.
And that's pretty much the sum total of my knowledge of my father's side of the family.
Not a lot to go on, exactly.
Wednesday 7th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Tuesday 6th November
My thanks to all of my friends who sent emails (however brief) to celebrate my birthday and especial thanks to the half a dozen or so who insisted on marking the occasion by getting blind drunk with me.
Given that we started early, watching Dame Edna at the RVT on Sunday evening, my birthday dawned with me, at Horse Meat, very drunk indeed - and it ended, as far as I recall, with cheap and unsatisfactory sex.
So, if my theory that the events of one's birthday foreshadow the year to come, I think we know what to look forward to: more of the same, ho hum.
Monday 5th November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Sunday 4th November
I hope you're enjoying the fireworks.
I have written before, I think, about my ambivalent relationship with seasonal pyrotechnics in the run-up to my birthday.
So you may be a little suprised to find me filling space with fizz-bang-sparkle, especially since these pictures appear to have been taken prior to this year's Guy Fawkes Night.
There's a simple enough explanation: being determined to take at least some good firework photos before I die, I made sure I was in pole position for the display marking the end of September's Thames Festival (an event that lasted several days and gave me quite a few good pictures, which I hope to share with you soon).
One of the things I learnt from that night's experience, jostled into the bosom of the crowd at the northern end of Blackfriars Bridge, is that fireworks are, durrr, really quite big: as you'll see, some of the display was actually too large to capture from that close up, even with my zoom lens set at its widest.
I wasn't able to get any further practise in this year because I was foolish enough to allow myself to be rostered to work last night, thus missing all of the big official displays.
And there seems to be very little scheduled for the Monday November 5th itself - which I have been at pains to take off.
But there is still hope: next weekend is the Lord Mayor's Show and there are fireworks planned to mark that, launching from a barge between Blackfriars and Southwark Bridge.
I plan to be one bridge back, on London Bridge, far enough away to capture most of the action.
Be sure I'll let you know how I get on...
Saturday 3rd November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Friday 2nd November
dit dit dot dot dit dit dot
dit dot dit dit dit dit dot
dit dot dit dit dit dot dot
dit dit dit dot dit dit dot
dot dit dit dit dit dit dot
dit dit dit dot dit dot dot
As if it weren't enough to expect me to work from 6:30pm to somewhere around 3am, my employer also insists on a rota that means I can never be sure which of our traditional nine days a fortnight I'm working from one week to the next.
Happily, in this respect at least, I don't have a boyfriend who would presumably insist on being able to plan ahead to see me at least once or twice a week.
And, to be fair, some of the mess is of my own making: I used to ask for Wednesdays off so that I could attend the once-much-loved Amateur Strip at The Swan on Wednesdays, but that changed when David Hoyle started Magazine at the RVT on Mondays - and my rota has never really recovered.
The only consistency that remains is that I insist on having Sundays off; hence the fact that every week ends with a dot rather than a dit.
Imagine then, my indignation at discovering - amidst all the recent furore - that, until recently, the BBC paid its staff an annual supplement of five mega bloody thousand pounds (£5*k) in return for "working whenever they are needed".
I suppose it could be argued that my wages already include some sort of compensation for unsocial hours - but for the fact that none of my colleagues who've recently taken themselves off to predictable daylight hours have been asked to accept a pay cut as they do so.
So: grrrr and double grrrr - with a side-order of pftui to go with it.
Thursday 1st November
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Wednesday 31st October
So how much did the recent postal strike affect you?
Not much, I'm guessing: there was a time, especially when I was living in the country, that checking the mat for incoming was a definite moment in my day.
But those days are long gone.
These days my personal news, be it bad or be it good, arrives by email and whatever little truly important posted material there is (mostly bills) flutters down to lie at the foot of my front door amidst a mulch of pizza flyers and estate agents' nonsense, waiting for a rare moment when my patience breaks and I decide to dig in and separate the rare wheat from the chaff.
Except, that is, when I'm expecting something - like a copy of my parents' marriage certificate, for example.
Anticipated delivery of which happens to have coincided with, yes-you-guessed-it, the postal strike.
Ho hum.
Tuesday 30th October
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Monday 29th October
I admit that I was tickled, in a minor key, on learning that J K Rowling had told a press conference that the benign head of Hogwarts was gay.
I admit that I thought, well, ahah, there's one blog entry taken care of.
I admit that, when I came to consider it further, I couldn't think of single interesting or amusing thing to say on the subject.
Unlike the comments box for the relevant entry on SLOG (the Seattle Stranger's news blog) - which currently runs to a grand total of 318 submissions.
Guys? Get a grip. He's a fictional character. In a book, yah?
Sunday 28th October
Blackfriars Bridge, Summer 2007
Saturday 27th October
Wet enough for ya?
I agree. Time to move on: to the dying embers of the year.
Friday 24th October
Battersea Park, Summer 2007
Thursday 25th October
In other office-related news: I've finally got my hands on my new photo-pass.
The Good News is that it bears an uncanny resemblance to a familar figure revered around the world for his loquacious sagacity.
The Bad News is: Yoda.
Wednesday 24th October
Battersea Park, Summer 2007
Tuesday 23rd October
Pestered by email from HR...
(And I have to stop, right there, and say that I always expect HR to stand for Human Relations. And I'm always depressed when I remember that we're actually mere Human Resources. Capitalism 101, right there.)
Pestered by email from HR, I eventually went to the web-pages dedicated to Workstation Asessment, doing my best to find a radio button to check that reflected the truth of our newly-officed status (Unsatisfactory? Very Unsatisfactory? Highly Unsatisfactory?) and resorting to the Add Your Comments box on numerous occasions to offer some advice on just what exactly was needed to ameliorate our problems with the keyboards, the desk-space, the temperature, the monitors, the noise...
I rather resented the fact that I had to do most of the work in this exchange, but tempered my irritation with the thought that at least I was doing Good Work on behalf of my colleagues.
Good Work that, who knows, might even result in some other human being taking effective remedial action.
Imagine then my feelings on receiving fourteen identical emails by way of response...
"Thank you for completing the workstation assessment.
"Some of your answers show that you need more information.
"Please click here to view this information.."
...each directing me to a different web-page offering me an asinine summary of what defined good practise as regards the keyboards, the desk-space, the temperature, the monitors, the noise...
Worse yet, each page ended with yet more radio-buttons, requiring me to state that (A.) I have read and understand the document listed above. Any problems or issues I may have had with my workstation are now resolved or (B.) not.
Deprived of the chance to stamp each page with a big red sticker reading "This is not communication. This is voicemail!" you can probably guess which option I chose most frequently.
And to date, I have had precisely one further email, offering to meet with me to discuss the heating issues.
Human Resources not Human Relations. Human Resources not..
Monday 22nd October
Battersea Park, Summer 2007
......previous week
