I need to apologise for bitching about the price - I wouldn't have done it for what Margery Allingham described as 'mink and millions'! and the grandchildren won't go to bed without their supper, because The dowager's estate can stand the cost. Sorry.
But there are so many places I could have spent it better...
Seems perfectly reasonable to me. Besides, you can't go on and on about what is probably the true basis of your distress without making us all lose our lunches. So by all means!
TICTH the creature - probably a fox or badger* - who got into our food-scraps bin last night and deposited its contents on the front lawn. The same thing happened to our neighbour's bin the other day - I wonder if the current reduction in traffic has emboldened the animals who allow us to share their habitat?
* In a general way, I think foxes and badgers are rather cute, but not when I have to clear up after them ...
I guess that with the closure of so many takeaways/fast-food joints etc., the amount of waste available to Wild Animiles must be very much less than it was a few months ago.
However, I can't say I miss the litter left by the wretched Humming Beans who casually strew their leftovers around the town (or, more specifically, the Church grounds... ).
Online adverts. I had noticed I was getting a lot of adverts for baby stuff - clothes, toys, "gifts" and I was puzzled. I'm way too old to be having a baby, I haven't bought anything for anyone else's baby and I couldn't figure out what sort of google algorithm made them think that I was in the "having a baby" age bracket.
Tonight, the penny dropped. Three adverts appeared - ridiculously expensive clothes, a "footprint" kit and a roll of paper calling itself a height chart costing £20.
"Weird" I thought "Even if I had a baby I wouldn't be buying any of this troc. This is the sort of stuff grandparents buy..."
Fuck.
The algorithm thinks I'm now in the "potential grandparent" category.
TICTH the infusion room and personnel at the World-Renowned Cancer Center I patronize. Part of it is known as the "Center for Advanced Medicine;" I call it the "Center for Advanced Waiting." And today was the worst ever.
I needed a blood transfusion, because my treatments were making me notably anemic. I'm not a fan of the infusion area (a little on the tired side; absurdly long waits for said infusions; a music channel of 80s pop hits plays constantly; no privacy; many of the nurses are pleasant, and many are decidedly not), which is in marked contrast to the one I used to patronize - but it's a pair of study drugs that are keeping me alive, and they have to be dispensed at CAW. I figured I could put up with in order to continue breathing.
I did ask if I could have the transfusion at my old place, but my oncologist is not on their list of docs. Like a fool, I forgot to call my internist, who is, and ask if he could put in the order. And I paid for it.
I was skedded for 8:30, and arrived a few minutes early. I had explained (cheerfully, sunnily) that my aides did their changing of the guard at noon, and that I need to be out of there by 11:30. I knew that a transfusion takes two hours, plus a few minutes to flush out my port. I thought that it should be doable.
The Bad Music was blaring. I got the snotty boss nurse I'd had on Monday (who made me late then, too) and a very friendly trainee. I got my bag o'blood at a few minutes before 10, as the trainee apologized. I called the agency to explain, and ask them to resked the afternoon aide for 1, just to be safe.
Then I looked at my nice black sweater, the left arm of which was suddenly streaked with reddish-brown stripes: The cleaning guy is now using undiluted bleach on everything - even the blood-pressure cuffs! - and allowing it all to air dry. The trainee was beside herself. Snotty Boss said, "Sorry," in a tone that said, "I don't give a shit." Things went downhill from there.
And they couldn't figure out why my blood pressure was suddenly through the roof...
Yes, both dismissive and inaccurate. That takes a certain kind of both arrogance and ignorance. I do hope they don't find out the hard way how wrong they are.
TICT a very gentle H the poor, undernourished, starving souls, currently causing traffic jams in the town centre whilst queuing for murderburglers McDonalds...
The season has decided to take a break from warm and sunny to wet and windy, and the boiler has decided to take a break full stop. No CH or hot water. An engineer tomorrow sometime between 8 am and 6pm.
TICTH the garden-dwelling bitey bastards that sunk their 'fangs' into my wrist yesterday leaving me with a brace of red, hot blisters and a swollen hand.
(I am given to this sort of reaction to the bite of flying things and it's less hot than yesterday when it happened, but it aches and I'm fed up).
Firenze, I always love the pin point accuracy of their intended arrival times and the way inanimate objects like boilers have of detecting precisely the right time to go on strike.
TICTH God. Over and over again the poor are sent away empty and the rich filled with good things. What happened to the Magnificat vision? I feel like it has been torn down and sold for scrap.
My candidate for Hell today is my MP's website. I went to it yesterday to write an email to her about Boris's Rasputin, and found it quite fascinating - the latest item on her news page (on May 7th) is about changes to the council's refuse collections, because of course you go to an MP's website rather than to the council's if you want to find out when your bins are going to be emptied. Anyway, I came to write an email, so I press the Contact W at the side of the screen and find the link isn't working. Out of interest I try the Book an Appointment with W button - and the link isn't working. A little further down the page is a small photo which appears to show W bending towards someone doing something with the caption "Need any help? Contact W", but...
But then I see that there's another contact button at the top of the screen, and I try it, and it works! It gives her email address and the address and phone number of the constituency office and a cheery message - "I'd love to hear from you, so please do get in touch!" So I sent off my email. Perhaps I should have added to it "I'd love to hear from you too" as she's only ever answered one of the three emails I've sent her in the five years she's been our MP, and that was with a standard letter that didn't actually reply to what I'd said...
TICTH God. Over and over again the poor are sent away empty and the rich filled with good things. What happened to the Magnificat vision? I feel like it has been torn down and sold for scrap.
Hermes. supposed the deity of communication, as well as merchants, thieves and other things the rest of the Olympians couldn't be bothered with.
We are going to deliver between 1500 and 1900 hours. You can ask us to put the delivery in a safe place.
No, I can't.
I have a very safe place. It is my bin cupboard by the front door. It has a Yale lock, so when a delivery is put in it, the courier can engage the lock. It has a notice on it, with this instruction. There is another notice by the front door with the same information.
Last time, this was ignored and the delivery left on the doorstep. When I was in. I have three doorbell buttons. None was used.
The original courier used to use the cupboard anyway. Well done her.
I went on the website. You can only enter a prelisted safe place, porch, shed, greenhouse, letterbox, outbuilding, garage.
I tried every contact option. Holly, a supposed AI chat bot. The writers of Red Dwarf should get them. She is not intelligent. Repeats delivery times and shuts me out.
There is no phone number on the website or their email. I research this and find the customer "service" number. Another computer generated female bot which I will not describe as AI. Same rubbish, no options.
I will just have to trust the courier will have enough non-artificial intelligence to follow instructions on the notices.
And stick up a large paper notice as well.
I am going to happily CTH whatever nonsense makes Hermes mess their couriers about as well.
In our last home we had a Great courier. They knew all their customers. But no. They were Never allowed to have their own patch for longer than a month or so
I don't know if Colis Privé (a French company of the same type) is related, but they can join them in the hot place anyway.
It was a small packet - some photos that I was printing to free up some space on my phone memory. They allegedly tried to deliver once and we were out - surprising given this was during lockdown and we were leaving the house rather infrequently. I went on their website and chose a new date and then waited at home all day from 8 am to 7 pm. They never turned up. They then tried to deliver the following day and claimed we were out again - see previous comment about lockdown.
I complained to the vendor and they reprinted the photos and sent them a second time. This time the courrier delivers them in the mailbox. Can anyone explain to me why the **** they didn't do that the first time?
A very apposite one for the Ship. The Church Times for having a cover I want to deface with marker pen two weeks running. Last week it was Cummings, this week they've got Trump's Bible stunt on the front.
I saw the photo shot on James Corden’s show on Facebook. The Donald looked almost as if he had dementia, he stood in front of the church with a Bible and didn’t know what he was doing.
A very apposite one for the Ship. The Church Times for having a cover I want to deface with marker pen two weeks running. Last week it was Cummings, this week they've got Trump's Bible stunt on the front.
To be fair to the Church Times, the cover is a split picture. The top half is the Trump photo-shoot picture. The bottom half shows the tear-gassing if peaceful protestors that preceded it. As I read it the intention is to show up the photo-shoot picture for the deceit that it was.
Not afflicted at the moment TBTG, but I have been in the past...
...so, yes.
Me (in a pharmacy in Wales, sotto voce) 'Er...have you got an ointment for treating haemorrhoids, please?'
Pharmacist (to assistant): 'HAVE WE GOT ANYTHING FOR AN ENGLISHMAN WITH PILES??'
Not afflicted at the moment TBTG, but I have been in the past...
...so, yes.
Me (in a pharmacy in Wales, sotto voce) 'Er...have you got an ointment for treating haemorrhoids, please?'
Pharmacist (to assistant): 'HAVE WE GOT ANYTHING FOR AN ENGLISHMAN WITH PILES??'
Perhaps everyone else within hearing distance was a monolingual Welsh speaker?
Not afflicted at the moment TBTG, but I have been in the past...
...so, yes.
Me (in a pharmacy in Wales, sotto voce) 'Er...have you got an ointment for treating haemorrhoids, please?'
Pharmacist (to assistant): 'HAVE WE GOT ANYTHING FOR AN ENGLISHMAN WITH PILES??'
Perhaps everyone else within hearing distance was a monolingual Welsh speaker?
Under five or elderly with dementia? Unlikely I fear.
If haemorrhoids were an Olympic event I'd have won the gold medal while I was doing the chemo thing a few years ago. It was so bad that the pain affected my eyesight - I couldn't focus. When I told one of the home care nurses this, she laughed. I was furious, which didn't help at all. Apparently a euphemism for the affliction is 'the grapes of wrath', which I had never understood until then.
Just so. By all means, let them be sent (en masse) to Mr Trump.
Fortunately, at the time of the Incident to which I referred, I was doing a standing-up job (as fireman on a certain Great Little Train of Wales), so there was some relief - until I tried perching (in traditionally nonchalant engine crew fashion) on the edge of the cab side-sheet.
I'm surprised the driver didn't have to stop the train, and pick up my AGONISED body from the trackside...
The pub in the village served some good real ALE, which helped alleviate the pain.
The young man who spat in the street earlier today while I was out walking. And even worse, the cyclist who emptied the contents of his nose onto the road the other day. Utterly disgusting and unforgivable at any time, incomprehensible at the moment.
Aren’t people taught to use handkerchiefs any more?
I trust other afflicted Shippies will join me in consigning haemorrhoids...
Absolutely!! And their near relation, the anal fissure. I developed a bad one of those a few weeks after heart surgery, and it was much worse than the surgery had been. The pain could be excruciating, and of course it’s not the kind of thing you share with people that much. Unfortunately, at first I thought it was hemorrhoids—my grandmother was convinced they were the thorn in St. Paul’s flesh—and used hemorrhoid cream, which makes a fissure worse.
3+ months later (with thrice-daily applications of nitro-glycerin cream), and it’s still not fully healed, though it is much better.
Sorry for over-sharing, but this particular consignment to Hell struck a nerve, so to speak.
Comments
I am so sorry this happened.
AndI ll happily cth all daft owners of dogs
But there are so many places I could have spent it better...
It seemed to me that the tangent about words and phrases we don't like could probably fly in its own right, so I've split it into a thread in Heaven.
Thank you.
Piglet, AS host
Now, back to the toasting-forks ...
* In a general way, I think foxes and badgers are rather cute, but not when I have to clear up after them ...
However, I can't say I miss the litter left by the wretched Humming Beans who casually strew their leftovers around the town (or, more specifically, the Church grounds...
Tonight, the penny dropped. Three adverts appeared - ridiculously expensive clothes, a "footprint" kit and a roll of paper calling itself a height chart costing £20.
"Weird" I thought "Even if I had a baby I wouldn't be buying any of this troc. This is the sort of stuff grandparents buy..."
Fuck.
The algorithm thinks I'm now in the "potential grandparent" category.
I needed a blood transfusion, because my treatments were making me notably anemic. I'm not a fan of the infusion area (a little on the tired side; absurdly long waits for said infusions; a music channel of 80s pop hits plays constantly; no privacy; many of the nurses are pleasant, and many are decidedly not), which is in marked contrast to the one I used to patronize - but it's a pair of study drugs that are keeping me alive, and they have to be dispensed at CAW. I figured I could put up with in order to continue breathing.
I did ask if I could have the transfusion at my old place, but my oncologist is not on their list of docs. Like a fool, I forgot to call my internist, who is, and ask if he could put in the order. And I paid for it.
I was skedded for 8:30, and arrived a few minutes early. I had explained (cheerfully, sunnily) that my aides did their changing of the guard at noon, and that I need to be out of there by 11:30. I knew that a transfusion takes two hours, plus a few minutes to flush out my port. I thought that it should be doable.
The Bad Music was blaring. I got the snotty boss nurse I'd had on Monday (who made me late then, too) and a very friendly trainee. I got my bag o'blood at a few minutes before 10, as the trainee apologized. I called the agency to explain, and ask them to resked the afternoon aide for 1, just to be safe.
Then I looked at my nice black sweater, the left arm of which was suddenly streaked with reddish-brown stripes: The cleaning guy is now using undiluted bleach on everything - even the blood-pressure cuffs! - and allowing it all to air dry. The trainee was beside herself. Snotty Boss said, "Sorry," in a tone that said, "I don't give a shit." Things went downhill from there.
And they couldn't figure out why my blood pressure was suddenly through the roof...
"Only"?
(I'm pleased for the McD staff, though)
(I am given to this sort of reaction to the bite of flying things and it's less hot than yesterday when it happened, but it aches and I'm fed up).
But then I see that there's another contact button at the top of the screen, and I try it, and it works! It gives her email address and the address and phone number of the constituency office and a cheery message - "I'd love to hear from you, so please do get in touch!" So I sent off my email. Perhaps I should have added to it "I'd love to hear from you too" as she's only ever answered one of the three emails I've sent her in the five years she's been our MP, and that was with a standard letter that didn't actually reply to what I'd said...
It's in the past tense, he hath not he shall.
We are going to deliver between 1500 and 1900 hours. You can ask us to put the delivery in a safe place.
No, I can't.
I have a very safe place. It is my bin cupboard by the front door. It has a Yale lock, so when a delivery is put in it, the courier can engage the lock. It has a notice on it, with this instruction. There is another notice by the front door with the same information.
Last time, this was ignored and the delivery left on the doorstep. When I was in. I have three doorbell buttons. None was used.
The original courier used to use the cupboard anyway. Well done her.
I went on the website. You can only enter a prelisted safe place, porch, shed, greenhouse, letterbox, outbuilding, garage.
I tried every contact option. Holly, a supposed AI chat bot. The writers of Red Dwarf should get them. She is not intelligent. Repeats delivery times and shuts me out.
There is no phone number on the website or their email. I research this and find the customer "service" number. Another computer generated female bot which I will not describe as AI. Same rubbish, no options.
I will just have to trust the courier will have enough non-artificial intelligence to follow instructions on the notices.
And stick up a large paper notice as well.
In our last home we had a Great courier. They knew all their customers. But no. They were Never allowed to have their own patch for longer than a month or so
Numpties
We also had a delivery from Hermes, no problem.
It was a small packet - some photos that I was printing to free up some space on my phone memory. They allegedly tried to deliver once and we were out - surprising given this was during lockdown and we were leaving the house rather infrequently. I went on their website and chose a new date and then waited at home all day from 8 am to 7 pm. They never turned up. They then tried to deliver the following day and claimed we were out again - see previous comment about lockdown.
I complained to the vendor and they reprinted the photos and sent them a second time. This time the courrier delivers them in the mailbox. Can anyone explain to me why the **** they didn't do that the first time?
To be fair to the Church Times, the cover is a split picture. The top half is the Trump photo-shoot picture. The bottom half shows the tear-gassing if peaceful protestors that preceded it. As I read it the intention is to show up the photo-shoot picture for the deceit that it was.
...so, yes.
Me (in a pharmacy in Wales, sotto voce) 'Er...have you got an ointment for treating haemorrhoids, please?'
Pharmacist (to assistant): 'HAVE WE GOT ANYTHING FOR AN ENGLISHMAN WITH PILES??'
eta: cross-post with BF, whose post (sorry!) made me laugh out loud.
Perhaps everyone else within hearing distance was a monolingual Welsh speaker?
No, I suspect not...
Under five or elderly with dementia? Unlikely I fear.
Fortunately, at the time of the Incident to which I referred, I was doing a standing-up job (as fireman on a certain Great Little Train of Wales), so there was some relief - until I tried perching (in traditionally nonchalant engine crew fashion) on the edge of the cab side-sheet.
I'm surprised the driver didn't have to stop the train, and pick up my AGONISED body from the trackside...
The pub in the village served some good real ALE, which helped alleviate the pain.
Aren’t people taught to use handkerchiefs any more?
MMM
3+ months later (with thrice-daily applications of nitro-glycerin cream), and it’s still not fully healed, though it is much better.
Sorry for over-sharing, but this particular consignment to Hell struck a nerve, so to speak.