In which there are many exclamation marks
I had an interesting conversation a few days ago with one of my new co-workers. We were having the tentative getting-to-know-each-other talk over folding some of the leftover newspapers into envelopes for subscribers, when the inevitable subject of studying came up.
Co-worker F: *wistfully* And I really wish I hadn't taken History at Uni. I went to a good Uni too, but nobody wants to hire me for a proper job without further training and I still haven't really decided what I want to do.
Ro: *getting slightly wild eyed and clamping her hands over her ears* Why are you telling me this? I'm not listening to you. All I can hear is 'la la la la la-'
Co-worker F: I've stopped talking about it.
Ro: '-la la la la la la la la'
I'm enjoying the job on the whole though. It's nice being able to use my brain and write about interesting things. (Oh, writing! Longwinded overly-formal essay type language! Semicolons! The word 'indeed'! How I have missed you!)
As I've mentioned in chatzy though, my editor has had me ringing up the Home Office's Press Office. Again, and again. Sometimes twice in the same day, and once, just five minutes after I'd hung up from another call with them. I did begin to note a slightly tetchy tone from the poor harrassed newsdesk people whenever I phoned up. I tried to communicate as well as I could though my tone of voice alone, (since my editor could always hear what I was saying), that it wasn't my idea to waste their time by asking them to repeat in different words things from statements they'd already issued and emailed to us, or go hunting for photographs from obscure visits for me. The trouble was, my editor likes aggressive reporters, and I also have a need-to-impress complex.
This resulted in conversations like the one a few days ago:
Ro: *aggressively* Hello, I'm phoning from the blah blah.
Newsdesk lady: *grimly* Oh yes, I've been told about you.
Ro: *weakly attempting aggression* Have you really?
Newsdesk lady: *pointedly* Can I help you?
Ro: *switching quickly to apologetic* Ahah, uh, I was wondering whether any photographs are available from the Home Secretary's visit to blah on the blah of blah.
Newsdesk lady: There aren't any that I know of. I have your details here, I'll just check and get back to you.
Ro: You have my details?
Newsdesk lady: Oh yes, you're on a list of our most...regular callers.
Ro:...
Newsdesk lady:...
Ro: It's a blacklist, isn't it?
Newsdesk lady: More or less, yes. Will that be all?
I think any hope I ever had of being a swish young professional working as a parliamentary assistant or something is officially dead.
A few weeks ago, I got the train up to Sheffield to see elisio23. After a fun day admiring Sheffield and catching up, I settled down on the train with the remainder of Deathy Hallows to re-read. That is, until the train stopped.
Driver: There has been a signal failure at Kettering, but we should be on the move again shortly.
Ro: Thank goodness for that, it's 10pm already and there's still at least an hour and a half of travelling to go before we hit London.
Driver: Unfortunately, we won't be going far, since we're in a queue. With five other trains. All moving very slowly. We will be handing out torches, lifejackets and whatever we can spare of the snake venom antitode at the front of the train to passengers wishing to attempt to walk to Kettering station alone. Customers who are unable to swim are Strongly Advised not to attempt this. Good luck, and Godspeed.
Small child: Mummy, what's Kettering?
Mother: The mouth of Hell, my child. The mouth of Hell.
The atmosphere was slightly strange. People began to bond over the crisis.
Young man next to Ro: Look ahead, don't show any sign that I'm speaking to you. I hear they're doling out free tea in carriage B. If there're two of us, we should be able to fight our way through the pushy middle aged women before it's all gone. Are you with me?
Ro: I'm sorry, I stopped listening after you said 'free tea'.
Train staff on loudspeaker: We've got a man down in Carriage E! Does anyone on board have an inhaler? I repeat, does anyone on board have an inhaler?
Small Child: Mummy, are we going to die here?
When we got to carriage B we found ourselves swept into the crowd around the shady table in the corner.
Driver: To anyone who will need a taxi home from the station due to the delay, we ask that you write your names down on the pieces of paper being passed around. These will be arranged for you.
Ro: I notice that he didn't say we wouldn't have to pay for the taxis ourselves.
Man with a Russian Accent: I say we rebel. They can't keep us all here. I saw the tracks ahead when I walked past the driver's door, they're all clear. They want to keep us here forever and use our labour to feed their expensive lifestyles!
Lady with Blonde Hair: And this tea isn't even that good.
Whimsical teenager: Perhaps we're in a new reality TV show. Maybe my mum's watching!
Ro: But, why would the driver lie to - why would you even think -
Driver: To the dodgy looking group in carriage B, I see you, and must warn that dissent will not be tolerated.
Whimsical Teenager: *quietly waving to the newly spotted cctv-type camera* Hi Mum.
When we finally pulled into St Pancras, every passenger from each of the five trains who had asked for a taxi gathered in an angry mob which found the station manager, who had only just been handed the lists. After sorting out three taxis, she radioed in for backup. When people began to heckle her, I gave up on a refund and decided to make a mad dash and see if any public transport was left to me.
Ro: Watch me fly, kicking up dust, all down the - wow, this really is Europe's longest champagne bar.
Heavy-eyed traveller: *having reached the tube station and queued at the top-up machine first* I believe I will pay using my card. The machine makes funny noises. There is a red light. Perhaps it will not accept my card. I will ponder this for a minute before trying another card. And another. No? Perhaps a note. Ah no, I forgot the cardinal rule of using notes when topping up your oyster card: Don't do it. Coins it is then. I wonder if I have perfect change on me.
Clock: *ticks ominously*
Ro: I hate you.
When I did get my card topped up, I made the mistake of stopping to ask the harassed station man at the barriers whether there were any trains still to leave for the night.
Harassed station man: There's a train leaving in one minute. You might catch it if you hurry.
Ro's retreating back: Thank yooouuuu!
I promptly fell down the stairs, tore my jeans and stated bleeding copiously, got to the platform only to get on the wrong train, arrive at the right mid-way station after all, only to discover that there was still twenty minutes to go before the real last train of the night left for my station.
Whilst bits of this adventure were fun, I don't think I've ever been quite so glad to get home. I knew all was well again when my mother chided me for re-opening my scab and bleeding on her kitchen floor.
Co-worker F: *wistfully* And I really wish I hadn't taken History at Uni. I went to a good Uni too, but nobody wants to hire me for a proper job without further training and I still haven't really decided what I want to do.
Ro: *getting slightly wild eyed and clamping her hands over her ears* Why are you telling me this? I'm not listening to you. All I can hear is 'la la la la la-'
Co-worker F: I've stopped talking about it.
Ro: '-la la la la la la la la'
I'm enjoying the job on the whole though. It's nice being able to use my brain and write about interesting things. (Oh, writing! Longwinded overly-formal essay type language! Semicolons! The word 'indeed'! How I have missed you!)
As I've mentioned in chatzy though, my editor has had me ringing up the Home Office's Press Office. Again, and again. Sometimes twice in the same day, and once, just five minutes after I'd hung up from another call with them. I did begin to note a slightly tetchy tone from the poor harrassed newsdesk people whenever I phoned up. I tried to communicate as well as I could though my tone of voice alone, (since my editor could always hear what I was saying), that it wasn't my idea to waste their time by asking them to repeat in different words things from statements they'd already issued and emailed to us, or go hunting for photographs from obscure visits for me. The trouble was, my editor likes aggressive reporters, and I also have a need-to-impress complex.
This resulted in conversations like the one a few days ago:
Ro: *aggressively* Hello, I'm phoning from the blah blah.
Newsdesk lady: *grimly* Oh yes, I've been told about you.
Ro: *weakly attempting aggression* Have you really?
Newsdesk lady: *pointedly* Can I help you?
Ro: *switching quickly to apologetic* Ahah, uh, I was wondering whether any photographs are available from the Home Secretary's visit to blah on the blah of blah.
Newsdesk lady: There aren't any that I know of. I have your details here, I'll just check and get back to you.
Ro: You have my details?
Newsdesk lady: Oh yes, you're on a list of our most...regular callers.
Ro:...
Newsdesk lady:...
Ro: It's a blacklist, isn't it?
Newsdesk lady: More or less, yes. Will that be all?
I think any hope I ever had of being a swish young professional working as a parliamentary assistant or something is officially dead.
A few weeks ago, I got the train up to Sheffield to see elisio23. After a fun day admiring Sheffield and catching up, I settled down on the train with the remainder of Deathy Hallows to re-read. That is, until the train stopped.
Driver: There has been a signal failure at Kettering, but we should be on the move again shortly.
Ro: Thank goodness for that, it's 10pm already and there's still at least an hour and a half of travelling to go before we hit London.
Driver: Unfortunately, we won't be going far, since we're in a queue. With five other trains. All moving very slowly. We will be handing out torches, lifejackets and whatever we can spare of the snake venom antitode at the front of the train to passengers wishing to attempt to walk to Kettering station alone. Customers who are unable to swim are Strongly Advised not to attempt this. Good luck, and Godspeed.
Small child: Mummy, what's Kettering?
Mother: The mouth of Hell, my child. The mouth of Hell.
The atmosphere was slightly strange. People began to bond over the crisis.
Young man next to Ro: Look ahead, don't show any sign that I'm speaking to you. I hear they're doling out free tea in carriage B. If there're two of us, we should be able to fight our way through the pushy middle aged women before it's all gone. Are you with me?
Ro: I'm sorry, I stopped listening after you said 'free tea'.
Train staff on loudspeaker: We've got a man down in Carriage E! Does anyone on board have an inhaler? I repeat, does anyone on board have an inhaler?
Small Child: Mummy, are we going to die here?
When we got to carriage B we found ourselves swept into the crowd around the shady table in the corner.
Driver: To anyone who will need a taxi home from the station due to the delay, we ask that you write your names down on the pieces of paper being passed around. These will be arranged for you.
Ro: I notice that he didn't say we wouldn't have to pay for the taxis ourselves.
Man with a Russian Accent: I say we rebel. They can't keep us all here. I saw the tracks ahead when I walked past the driver's door, they're all clear. They want to keep us here forever and use our labour to feed their expensive lifestyles!
Lady with Blonde Hair: And this tea isn't even that good.
Whimsical teenager: Perhaps we're in a new reality TV show. Maybe my mum's watching!
Ro: But, why would the driver lie to - why would you even think -
Driver: To the dodgy looking group in carriage B, I see you, and must warn that dissent will not be tolerated.
Whimsical Teenager: *quietly waving to the newly spotted cctv-type camera* Hi Mum.
When we finally pulled into St Pancras, every passenger from each of the five trains who had asked for a taxi gathered in an angry mob which found the station manager, who had only just been handed the lists. After sorting out three taxis, she radioed in for backup. When people began to heckle her, I gave up on a refund and decided to make a mad dash and see if any public transport was left to me.
Ro: Watch me fly, kicking up dust, all down the - wow, this really is Europe's longest champagne bar.
Heavy-eyed traveller: *having reached the tube station and queued at the top-up machine first* I believe I will pay using my card. The machine makes funny noises. There is a red light. Perhaps it will not accept my card. I will ponder this for a minute before trying another card. And another. No? Perhaps a note. Ah no, I forgot the cardinal rule of using notes when topping up your oyster card: Don't do it. Coins it is then. I wonder if I have perfect change on me.
Clock: *ticks ominously*
Ro: I hate you.
When I did get my card topped up, I made the mistake of stopping to ask the harassed station man at the barriers whether there were any trains still to leave for the night.
Harassed station man: There's a train leaving in one minute. You might catch it if you hurry.
Ro's retreating back: Thank yooouuuu!
I promptly fell down the stairs, tore my jeans and stated bleeding copiously, got to the platform only to get on the wrong train, arrive at the right mid-way station after all, only to discover that there was still twenty minutes to go before the real last train of the night left for my station.
Whilst bits of this adventure were fun, I don't think I've ever been quite so glad to get home. I knew all was well again when my mother chided me for re-opening my scab and bleeding on her kitchen floor.