So. You know when you are poor (like almost everyone I know), or at least not flush? I’m relatively poor, pretty much all the time as it happens, due to a series of necessitated house moves and relocations over the last few years.  I don’t have a huge amount of money to spend on maintaining myself, but (SPOILER ALERT FOR ALMOST NOBODY!) I am not a natural blonde… yet I like being a blonde.  My natural colouring is not sympathetic to looking hale, hearty and healthy.  (Thank you, genes.)  But being blonde costs.  I daren’t do it myself, as there would be a 97% chance of disaster.  They say you should redo highlights every 8-12 weeks.  I firmly sit within the redoing it every 12-14 weeks bracket.  Yes folks.  I’m what is commonly known as ‘low-maintenance’.  (In some ways.)

Anyway, so upon moving to that London, I had a dilemma in that suddenly, what I used to pay for getting my hair done (in the region of £68 for a full head of highlights, cut and blow-dry) suddenly pretty much doubled everywhere I looked.  Ironically, although my salary has gone up since moving to London, this is not by enough to soak up such an increase in appearance creation.  Happily, though, I was introduced by a colleague to the concept of getting my hair done via vouchers.  You know the ones: Groupon, KGB, Living Social etc…  So, in December, I used a KGB voucher, payed £40 and got to go to an AMAZING salon in Marylebone.  Everyone in there was called Mark, and my favourite one supported Spurs and was hairdressing because it was considered by his father to be more of a substantive and acceptable career than acting.  He was lovely; everyone was lovely, I had the most enjoyable experience (I normally dread the hairdressers as I feel like a fish out of water with all these groomed folk plus I never know what they’re doing or what the right answers are apart from “Yes, I know, it’s really fine but there’s lots of it, it always takes longer to put highlights in than you’d think”).  I was very regretful that I can’t afford to make it my regular hairdressers, because I had a really lovely time and came out feeling all shiny and new.

So, when March approached and I started looking like a two-tone scarecrow, I kept my eye out for highlights deals.  I saw one that was incredibly good value. £29 for a full head of highlights, cut and blow dry AND treatment. Too good to be true?  Well, it wasn’t so far off the kind of savings I’d made with the previous salon, it just cost me 11 quid less.  So I went for it.

I phoned ahead that morning because I couldn’t remember whether I’d booked it for 3 or 3:30pm.  I was told it was at 3:30pm.  I duly skipped out of work on my half day, and got the Overground to Caledonian Road.  I wandered around a bit on Caledonian Road, almost ending up in Pentonville Prison (eeks!) before finally locating the salon at 10 past 3. 20 minutes early - GO ME.

When I walked in, I smiled engagingly at the nearest stylist, who, after ignoring me for 10 seconds, said, “Yes?”  I explained that I had a hair appointment at 3:30pm.  She replied that they were running half an hour late, so I should come back in an hour.  I was fine about this; I had nowhere to be that night, so my time wasn’t that pressing.  Fine, I thought, I’ll go next door to the Co-op, buy some magazines and go sit in one of the nice-looking cafes that I’d already clocked just in case my appointment was slightly delayed.  From this moment, my afternoon just got worse.

I chose the nearest nice-looking cafe and ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea.  The man behind the counter in 2 Friends Cafe was, I think, Greek.  With limited English.  At first, he tried to sell me the box of Earl Grey, but after about a minute of me  trying out various variations of saying, no, I would like to drink it in here, please, we got there in the end and he gestured to me to choose a table.  In the cafe were two men of later middle age, like the owner.  It was a bit like Desmond’s, but without the barbering bit and in a different ethnic context.  I did feel like I shouldn’t really have been in there, but once he brought my pot with a cup and a free Bronte vanilla and chocolate biscuit, I ceased to care too much.  Instead, I buried my head in Glamour magazine and felt my brain cells melting.  Just before 4pm, I left my table and paid what might have been the son of the owner.  He flashed me a winning smile.  I grinned back at him.  It’s my natural disposition.  (I grin at everyone.  One of these days it’s going to get me in trouble in that London.)

At 4pm, I duly returned to the salon, Hair Dynamics.   I walked in, and waited around for a couple of minutes, looking engagingly at any staff member who happened to glance in my direction.  Finally, a woman (whom I later suspected was the manager) walked over to me.  “You have an appointment?”

“Yes, I came at 10 past 3, had an appointment at half past 3 but I was advised that you were running a bit behind so they asked me to come back at 4, and so here I am!”

She checked the book.  And glared at me.  “Your appointment was at 3pm.”

Now.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but if at 10 past 3 they were running half an hour behind, this is a fairly moot point, right?  Also, I had wasted nearly an hour of my time at their request.  So…why the glarey?  Additionally, I had phoned ahead to double-check when my appointment was, had been told it was half past three, and written it on my voucher at the time of the phone call, so I double checked my voucher and found that was what they had said.

“Well, I did call ahead this morning to double check my appointment, and I was told it was half past 3.”

“Who told you?”

“I don’t know.  Whoever answered the phone.”  (Like I’m going to know!)

“Hmmmm.  Well.  …(Pregnant pause…)… Ok we can see you. Sit there.  We will see you.”

Well, I thought, you SHOULD see me because I’ve taken half a day’s annual leave for this and I’ve done everything right so far and you haven’t!  But because I’m only sporadically assertive, I smiled a pathetic grateful smile and sat down.

In the meantime, I kept the growing nagging feelings of doubt, discomfit and paranoia that I would walk out of the salon with either bad hair or no hair at bay by passive-aggressively live-tweeting this experience.  Some lovely folk on Twitter echoed my feelings of worry; perversely, in a way, this made me feel slightly better. Possibly because I just didn’t feel like I was doing this alone in a place I didn’t belong. Even some men seemed to be concerned and sympathise.  If any of you are reading this, you’re all lovely.

During my waiting, I tweeted about my anxieties and a small child who seemed to belong to nobody in particular handed me a couple of business cards for fake tan. This was odd, but sort of made sense in a Twin Peaks kind of way, and was the highlight of the waiting period.

Finally, at 25 past 4, I was summoned by the managerperson, who I later found out was Russian, used to live in Bristol because she’s married to a man from there, who is an accountant, who now works in the City, hence her move to London.  She was highly unfriendly until I endeavoured to strike up some sort of rapport with her.  The following exchange was distinctly unfriendly.

“Ok.  So it is highlights yes?”

“Highlights, full head, cut and blow-dry and treatment.”

“Have you got a woucher?”

(I resisted the temptation to say, “I do.  I DO have a woucher.”  I also refrained from laughing.  But it was funny.  I think if a voucher’s really good in future, it could be called a ‘wowcher’.  But that word is just so much less satisfying to look at on the page, isn’t it?)

“Yes.”

“Give me your woucher.”

“Here you go.”

“Ok.  Your woucher is ok.”

(Sigh of relief from me.)

“Your hair is really bad.”

“I know.” (Struggle to maintain expressionless face rather than hurt face.)

“It is all broooken and spleeet…Bad.”

“Yes. I know.  My hair doesn’t like London.  The water is very very hard; I come from a soft-water area.”  (Ha!  Take that you evil stylist.  It’s not my fault I’m not a natural glamourpuss.)

“Ok. I will mix the colour.”  She disappeared.

At this point I panicked.  There should always be some sort of discussion with your stylist about colour, tones, what you want vs what you need vs what you can afford… I’ve done this long enough to know now.

However, she did return, having not yet mixed the colour, and then we did have a bit of a conversation about it. It’s almost like she remembered that’s what she’s supposed to do.  It certainly wasn’t the most thorough conversation I’ve ever had, and I wasn’t feeling altogether anything but apprehensive when she started putting the foils in my hair.  But here’s the deal.  I’m not a hairdresser.  I’ve never been a hairdresser.  I’m not even remotely good with hair.  I struggle to put bobbles in.  I create bumpy ponytails; if I put curls in they drop out within an hour; as soon as I step out of the door I cease to look groomed and I only have to lie on a pillow for 5 seconds to achieve bedhair.  (If only I lived in the 80s, again, I would be permanently on-trend.)  So I place my trust in hairdressers to know what they’re doing, because I sure as hell don’t.

Anyway, she left me a long time for the colour to take, but this is usual practice.  Then I was told to go to the sinks “for the washing out”.  This was done by a woman who did not look me in the eye, acknowledge my presence, speak to me, or even check if the temperature of the water was ok for me.  She did wash my hair very nicely though, and I could have happily sat there for another ten minutes with that. (Note to self: occasionally treat self to professional hairwash.  It was very relaxing.  Having said that, I was by this point the most uptight I’d been all month.  And I’m reasonably uptight on a regular basis.)

The hairwasher wrapped my hair in a towel and gestured for me to wait away from the sink.  Or so I thought.  Remember - she exchanged no words with me.  Instead, she led me to one of those overhead hair dryer thingies.  As though I was in Last of the Summer Wine, or Judith’s in Mytholmroyd (a local salon my grandma used to visit).  She sat me under it, and switched it on.  And left me.

Now. This is not normal procedure.  So at first I was a little disconcerted.  By the time I was finally retrieved from it after half an hour, during which time I imagined I would be bald upon removing the towel, by the Russian woman (“Are you cooked now?” - which is alarming a phraseology in itself) I was positively jittery.  Turns out (I only found this out 5 minutes before leaving the heaty dryer) they’d put the treatment on my hair.  BUT NOBODY TOLD ME THIS.  I had no idea why I was under there, what was going on, for how long I should be there or whether anyone was keeping an eye on me.  Nerves by this point were off the scale.

Credit where credit’s due: the (mystery) treatment was excellent, and she combed through my hair with ease, which doesn’t always happen.  In fairness to the Russian lady, she gave me the cut I asked for, although when I asked for her to dry my hair ‘with body’, I did have crazy Russian-style big hair which promptly blew everywhere upon leaving the salon.  But everything took so long, and they didn’t bother to ask whether I had anywhere to be that night.  It’s a good job I didn’t…because having arrived at ten past three in the afternoon, I FINALLY LEFT THE SALON AT QUARTER PAST EIGHT AT NIGHT.

But instead of feeling rejuvenated and shiny and beautiful, I felt shattered, stressed and ravaged.  The whole experience was thoroughly unpleasant and took an unreasonable amount of time.  I was left in turn bewildered, uneasy, concerned and downright paranoid; everyone bar the Russian lady pretended I didn’t exist and never have I been to a salon where I was made to feel so unwelcome.  I didn’t get home till 9pm that night, at which point I crawled straight into bed and within 10 seconds had turned my windblown new big crazy Russian hair into crazy big Russian windblown bedhair.

The full value of the whole thing was supposed to cost £135. Although upon examining their price list which was thrust upon me in the hope I would return, I’m not quite sure that this adds up.  One thing I’m pretty certain about is that it cost me more than my voucher, in terms of life expectancy.  Maybe it’s Russian maths?  Maybe they’re doing their sums using a woucher…

heardinlondon:

          

         

         

        

         

    

        

    

    

         

    

    

         

         

    

         

         

         

         

    

    

         

    

    

         

    

    

         

    

    

         

    

          

         

    

          

         

    

           

    

These are some photos I would have liked to show my mum. 

I hope you have enjoyed them instead.

May your 2012 be filled with dreams exceeded.

@HeardinLondon x

Mum 1947 - 2011

You know when someone texts you with a new number, and you put it in your phone, but because your phone is a smartphone - which means, in my case, that it’s smarter than you could ever possibly hope to be - even though you’re sure you’ve done all the right stuff like deleting the previous number, it somehow transpires that you haven’t?

Or, if you’re me, and a bit neurotic about these things, you give the new number a slightly different contact name, so that you can keep the old number JUST IN CASE. And you’re positive you’ll remember which is the new number, because usually, you type in “Such and such a person New Mob No” which will help you to recall in an instant which number you should use should you not have stored any texts from them for handy scroll and reply activity?

I thought it was about time I told a tale of bad service on my part, seeing as I’m always giving out about receiving it.  This incident is no exception, except for the fact that I did myself a disservice resulting in me ‘badservicing’ myself.  For if I had refused to give in to my mobile number neurosis, and had deleted the number, the following exchange would never have happened.  What happened below happened this week. (The grammar and vocabulary of the text below is an exact reproduction of the message exchange)

Me: Hey hey was gonna book a table for tonight for quarter to 6. You want to join us for cheap eats assuming no Japanese conventions are on?  Also, do you know what that pub is called? xx

NotMyFriend: Heyy I’m soo sorry got a new phone and don’t know who this is lol sorry who is it?? xx

Me: I am shocked and hurt that your phone doesn’t already have my number in it! This is Drinky.

NotMyFriend: Ohh lol hi!!  Haha sorry my lovely!! I can’t hun I’m back in london now   :( I would do I’m gutted I can’t come!!! Xxx

(Ok. At this point my suspicions were raised that I had in fact texted a wrong number. For I am located in London.)

Me: Hang on…I have two nunbesr for you.  This isn’t [my friend] is it…??

NotMyFriend: No! What Drinky is this lol!! X

Me: No worries. Probably not the one you think it is…

NotMyFriend: Lol what’s your last name! Its not whitely is it? X

Me: Might be…

(No way was I giving this person my surname.  Especially when they clearly hadn’t cottoned that we were having a conversation we were never intended to have.)

Me: Sorry to have completely got the wrong number!  I’ll stop trying to make you come out for tea with me now. Apols!

NotMyFriend: Lol Who is it!! Lol its [name withheld] if that helps! X

Me: Seriously, I think you may have my friend’s old number! We don’t know each other!! Sorry!

I’ve been a bit stressed this week, in a not very good way, and it took every bit of strength I had to stop myself from ringing the number on the other end of this exchange and shouting LOL before hanging up and blocking it.  But I am, at heart, a sensible person. Most of the time. So I didn’t. 

Ok. You know when you seem to end up moving house every year because circumstances mean that the most stressful thing you can do barring divorce (which, yes folks, I’ve done already so I am just one big experience stressball currently happily in my non-squeezed state), and each time you do, you consider changing your internet service provider because, you know, you’re with BT and you think wow it’s really quite expensive and I’ve already got SkyTV to keep someone happy with the football and they do this whole surf see speak packagey thing that MUST work out cheaper than paying what we do for BT, but then when you phone Sky they’re a bit useless and the whole thing starts becoming a parody of good service, and so you say thanks very much, I’ll think about it, and then you phone BT to see what THEY have to say for the fact you might be leaving them, and they are really helpful, so superhelpful in fact that you can’t even remember why you thought of leaving them in the first place, because they’re so fupping helpful you almost expect them to go out and do and deliver your weekly shop whilst simultaneously sorting all your clean laundry out AND vacuuming the stairs (does ANYBODY like that job?), never mind providing you with reasonably speedy Broadband that never cuts out and is connected once you move house the day after you move in, so it’s all cool and you’re all connected and it doesn’t matter that you live in the middle of nowhere in a strange (posh) county which is so rural you have to drive a mile to get a mobile signal and where you don’t have a notion where anything is because bar househunting you’ve never actually been there before in your life, so you think fup off Sky, if you can’t even get this bit right where I am TRYING to move to you, it doesn’t bode well for our relationship together and anyway I hate the fact you’re all Murdochy but unfortunately we are tied into a contract, not to mention that we like having you and we don’t want to have BT tv as well as phone and all the other stuff?

Anyway, so, if you managed to get all the way through that sentence (deliberately a seamless stream before anyone thinks I’ve inadvertently neglected my grammar), you might have a basic understanding of why, despite finding BT quite expensive, we decided to carry on having BT internet when we moved into our new abode.  (Which is very nice, thank you for asking.  It has a garden full of bunnies.  BUNNIES.  If I can ever figure out how to make Tumblr work on my phone, I’ll see if I can upload a Special Video. Don’t hold your breath. I am not terribly technical.)

BT, after Sky, who basically just talked bollocks for 20 minutes and seemed to be making things much harder than they needed to be, seemed like a breath of fresh air. They reinstated my faith in them, but more importantly, in myself for going with them in the first place. You know, you shop around for the best deal, and then you end up going with what’s easiest/fastest/going to enable you to watch the must-see sporting event of the year without going to the pub deal.  As a crusader for good service, I always endeavour to shop about for the best deal. But the fact remains, I’m not my dad and my patience with this stuff is such that I do tend to leave this task to Dr Drinky, who has no patience at all and will go with just what seems easiest. It’s a method.

Anyhoo, so it proved in this latest (and hopefully, for a while at least, final) move; Dr Drinky called the people at Sky, got annoyed with them for failing to be simple, and called BT who were persuasively cheerful about just how simple it would be to move house and get reconnected.  Yes, they said, you’re already with us!  It’s DEAD easy to move across.

Little did we know that we should have paid attention to the ‘dead’ bit more closely.

Hurray we said!  So we moved, and the next day we waited for the telephone to be connected.  It DID get connected. Hurray we said!  Next stop INTERNET. This was particularly vital as Dr Drinky works from home quite often but was not able to unless he could check his e-mails.

We moved house on the Tuesday.   BT said that the phone would be connected on the Wednesday, and the Internet by end of Thursday.  Thursday came. Thursday went. We still had no internet.

Friday came.  Friday went.  No internet materialised.  On Saturday, upon still finding us to be without wireless OR wired connection, Dr Drinky handed me the telephone and said, “Ok. I did the whole getting us connected thing. Now that we’re not connected, it’s time for you to do your whole getting us connected because they’ve failed to connect us thing”.  (I may be paraphrasing this.  I seem to recall a few more words beginning with the letter f.)

So, I telephoned BT.

Right. You know when you just think, I’ll just telephone BT and sort this out?  You only realise about halfway through that you should have factored in a tea-break.  After going through many fun push-button options (not sure that this is what version 2 of the Sugababes were singing about) I was then kindly put on hold, with some muzak which ALWAYS (ironically) sounds like the instrumental version of “You’re The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me” by the Style Council, for many, many minutes.  Finally I got through to someone.  I explained that we were supposed to have internet, and that we didn’t appear to have internet, and all I wanted to know were the following questions:

a) When are we getting the internet?

b) Are you going to reduce my bill accordingly to take account of the fact I don’t have any internet at the moment?

They were unable to answer either question satisfactorily.  I can say this with hindsight, because at the time I was assured that we would have internet the very next day, and I was also assured my bill would reflect this period of a lack of internet accordingly.  Satisfied (provisionally), I  rang off and informed Dr Drinky that I had “sorted it”.  I didn’t even have to get too arsey.  I wasn’t even remotely arsey. That time.

Sunday came and went, but we still appeared to have no internet. Dr Drinky, “I thought you said you’d sorted this.” Me, “I did. I did sort it.” Dr Drinky, “Well, it would appear it’s not sorted though…” Me, “But they TOLD me it would be all on by now.” Dr Drinky, “You know what this means don’t you? You’re going to have to call them again.” Me (sighing) “Yeah ok. Time for ScaryDrinky.”

So, the next day in my lunch hour, I called them again.  Again, I listened to the Style Council Muzak rip-off, and waited for the requisite 15 minutes before getting through whilst being repeatedly assured that my call was important to them (though obviously not as important as hooking up my internet when they kept saying they would).

This time, the very polite man on the other end of the line was forced to listen to me question him quite heavily as follows:

“I do apologise Miss Drinkmeforfree that your internet hasn’t yet been connected.  There appears to have been an administrative error at our end.”

“Yes, it would appear there has been. Twice. Or more than twice, if you count the number of days I’ve now been without internet that was promised last Thursday.”

“Yes, as I said, I am sorry about that.”

“Never mind about sorry. I’m sure you are and I thank you for your apology. However, your apology would be even better if you could assure me when I might expect to have my internet connected.  And by expect, I mean when is it definitely going to be connected?”

“Well it’s difficult to say exactly.”

“How is this difficult? It doesn’t seem to be difficult for BT to take my money…”

“Well I can advise you that you *should* have internet by Thursday.”

“By Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“This sounds very familiar.  Not one week ago, we were told we could expect internet by Thursday. But Thursday came and went, and it’s now halfway through Monday, and we’re still not anywhere close to having internet.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Ok well you should have it by Thursday.”

“Do you promise me I’ll have it by Thursday?  Because, it’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that I’m a little sceptical, having been told twice I’ll have it and then it not materialising…”

“Yes, absolutely, I promise you it will be with you by Thursday.”

“But when you say Thursday, do you MEAN Thursday?  I don’t want to have to call you back again.”

“Yes, Thursday.”

“Ok. But it might be there earlier? I mean Thursday *is* the latest it will appear, right?

“As far as I can say, yes.”

“As far as you can say. Ok. Well, I sincerely hope you’re right. And I don’t want to be charged for these days of having no internet. If I receive my bill and I’ve been charged for this period I will write and complain.”

“You should not be charged for this period.”

“I know I shouldn’t, that’s what I’m telling you; what I want to know is that I WON’T be charged. Can you assure me that I won’t be charged?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. Then thank you very much for your time. You’ve potentially been very helpful.”

“Thank you and goodbye.”

The Internet was connected, on the Wednesday as it happened. It worked brilliantly, For 48 hours. Then our telephone suddenly started playing up, going off every ten minutes at 4am. And our internet started playing up, slowing down to the point of not working on an almost daily basis.

So I phoned again.  I wasn’t quite as jovial the next time. (SuperscaryDrinky.  The one Dr Drinky is afraid of.)

So. BT or not BT?  That is indeed the question.  Not sure I’ve found the answer yet.

(NB the next time, having spent many minutes on hold AGAIN before finally getting through, and being promised something would be fixed, which then wasn’t fixed for 10 days or so, I publicly whinged about it on Twitter.  Guess what? BT noticed, and tweeted me about it. They were pretty helpful, although they didn’t seem to talk to the other people that were dealing with my query, which resulted in me getting two different dates of problem resolution.  They did call me at work and say they would phone me back at home which they didn’t, and I did have to tweet them a couple of times more to get the thing sorted out, but credit where credit’s due, if it hadn’t been for their Twitter spies working to limit the amount of negative publicity BT receive, I’m still not convinced my complaint would have been sorted out without further lengthy correspondence.  If you ask me, on balance, I’d say probably not to BT.  The internet’s still slow sometimes…) 

Ok.  You know when you need a passport photo?  That MOMENT when you suspect you might need one but you have it confirmed always causes the heart to sink a little, doesn’t it?

This story begins back in April. Sort of. Those of you familiar with my life will be aware that I got a job in London which basically costs millions to live in a shoebox.  I refuse to live in a shoebox, but happily my new employer operates a Season Ticket Loan scheme to allow me to be able to live outside and commute in and afford the cheapest mode of travel: The Season Ticket.  This costs a Southern amount of money, so my employer lends me this money to buy it as they (quite rightly) assume I might not* have it to hand to fund this slightlymorebankfriendly way of travelling in and out of the workplace.

*do not

Anyways, I’ve been househunting for the last 2 months, admittedly hunting hard in the previous month; winging it slightly in the first month.  Happily we have now relocated from what is a much-missed Wirral.  But until 2 weeks ago, I was in no position to apply for the Season Ticket Loan as I did not know where I would be commuting from and to. The MINUTE I had an address to call my own, I embarked upon the Quest For The Season Ticket Part 1.  I raced to the Payroll Department where I was met with almost friendly indifference, and sent away to fill the form in.  I filled it in, raced down again, and waited for the money to land in my account.  I was advised that once the money appeared in my account, I had five days to go and get my ticket and rock up with the receipt, or I would be required to return all the Season Ticket Loan forthwith.  Not a problem, I thought, I will be FOCUSED AND I WILL DO THIS.

So, on Monday this week I got paid. HURRAY! The loan was in my account. SMASHING.  Ok, I thought, this lunchtime I will go and apply for this baby!  Not literally a baby; that would be a lifestyle choice that requires more preparation than a loan from my workplace.  So, on Monday lunchtime, I embarked upon The Quest For The Season Ticket Part 2.  I dutifully trotted off to Waterloo Station, heading straight into the Travel Centre (I think they are starting to recognise me in there as I am a querysome girl…) and waited in the queue until it was my turn.  “Cashier Number 3, please”, chirped the humanesque female voice over the audio announcing system thing. 

“Hello”, I smiled.

“Hello”, smiled the cashier.

“I’d like to apply for a 12 month season ticket please.”

The cashier laughed.  I mean, REALLY laughed.  Apparently, I am hilarity central. Wasn’t even trying. Then she said, “No no no no no. You don’t apply for this. You just show up here with a passport photo. And the money. It would be good if you could perhaps prove your address.”

“Ok…thaaaaaaaanksssssss.”  I slunk off, feeling stupid. How ridiculous, to think I might need to apply for something like a season ticket.  Once again, Drinky gets it wrong.  However, in fairness to the cashier, she was amused but not maliciously so.  I suspect her colleagues aren’t much fun.

At this point, I hadn’t yet figured out where the photobooths were in Waterloo Station.  After this exchange, I didn’t quite feel in the mood to take on what we all recognise is, even for the finest-looking people and not mere mortals such as I, a photographic struggle.  So instead, I picked up some timetables (the location of which I’d also had to ask about as apparently they don’t belong in the Travel Centre but are “under the big clock”. Of course they are) and trotted off back to my office, thinking, not a problem will sort this out tomorrow now I know what to do.

Tomorrow ended up being today, as can sometimes happen.  I was in a very lengthy meeting from 10am, so it was after half past three by the time I embarked upon my Quest For The Season Ticket Part 3.  I had watched the thunderstorm come and go outside, praying that it would be in the gone phase on my way to the dreaded photobooth.  I had done my research (asking Officemate, then asking someone with more specific information) about where to find a photobooth in Waterloo station and I kept my heels on to go, because Drinky in heels is Drinky feeling good.  If I were going to subject myself to the photobooth for the first time in a SIGNIFICANT time (i.e. I can’t actually remember the last time I got some of these photos taken but suspect it was 2004 for my passport or driving licence or something) then I was going to meet it head on.  I was going to negotiate with it; I was going to dive on in there, go WHAM BAM BAM PHOTO YES THIS IS OK IT WILL DO YAY SURVIVED THE ORDEAL, and then wait patiently for the photos to appear in that little slot that is MADE for people with tiny fingers like me.

Having been advised to go up the escalator, I did so (and yes I walked it - every opportunity for a tiny bit of smugercise) and at the top, turning left, I located the Photobooth.  I clutched my fiver, in optimism…YES! It COSTS A FIVER I GOT IT RIGHT!  NO!  IT DOESN’T TAKE FIVE POUND NOTES, ONLY FIVE POUND COINS!  Ah well. I must admit, because I was in go-getting mode, I had prepared myself for this eventuality and had already lined myself up a place nearby to exchange the note for coins.  So, I headed over to the Cafe Nero stand, where I waited for a German girl to communicate with difficulty about only wanting a mocha but with no milk, and then was promptly told by the guy working there that he was not permitted to exchange notes for coins.  I’m not quite sure why this should be, provided you check your change, but them’s the rules and this is one battle not worth fighting.  So, I went back down the escalator (again walking, yes), and went to the cash machine.  I got a tenner out, then went and bought some raspberries and asked for all the change to be in change.  The woman looked at me a bit funny, but acceded my request.

Clutching my raspberries and bag, I headed back up the escalator again (yep, walked it again though with less enthusiasm if not determination) and headed straight for the booth.  It was one of two.  I went to the first one, after agonising over which one to go to for a second (what if going into one booth was slightly less embarrassing than going into the other?)…

I sat on the stool. “WELCOME TO THE PHOTOBOOTH!  ADJUST THE SEAT SO THAT YOUR EYES ARE LEVEL WITH THE INDICATOR ON THE SCREEN!  THEN TOUCH THE SCREEN TO START!  DO NOT PUT ANY MONEY IN THE MACHINE UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DO SO!” I was pleased by these thorough instructions.  If there’s one thing i like when confronted with technology, it’s comprehensive and thorough unambiguous instructions.

So, I steeled myself for the ordeal.  I realised I was about a head away from said indicator.  *sigh*  I started twisting the stool. And twisting. And twisting.  Kept testing it. I didn’t realise that these things were meant to give you a minor work-out before you are ready for your photo.  At the fifth attempt of twisting and sitting, I finally judged my eyes to be meeting the indication point.  Confidently, I touched the screen.

NOTHING HAPPENED.

I touched it again.  “ADJUST THE SEAT SO THAT YOUR EYES ARE LEVEL WITH THE INDICATOR ON THE SCREEN!”  Oh.  I thought they were. Still, I obeyed and adjusted it again.  Then I touched it again.

“ADJUST THE SEAT SO THAT YOUR EYES ARE LEVEL WITH THE INDICATOR ON THE SCREEN! DO NOT PUT ANY MONEY IN THE MACHINE UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DO SO!”  Ever the obedient soul, I adjusted the seat again.  I touched the screen again. I definitely didn’t put any money in.

“ADJUST THE SEAT SO THAT YOUR EYES ARE LEVEL WITH THE INDICATOR ON THE SCREEN! DO NOT PUT ANY MONEY IN THE MACHINE UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DO SO!”  Ok.  I was getting a bit concerned at this point.  Not only because I was in danger of exceeding my lunch hour, but also because I couldn’t see how much more aligned I could get my eyes with the indicator.  So I shifted on my seat (AHA!  The Sneaky Shift aka The Pretend Manoeuvre) and touched the screen again.

SUCCESS!  Or so I thought.  The screen changed and the disembodied voice advised as follows: “SELECT THE TYPE OF PHOTOGRAPH YOU WOULD LIKE!”  Ummm…that’ll be a passport one please.  To be honest, all of the options bar one looked like passport ones to me.  I was a bit thrown by the ‘railcard option’ one, but erred on the side of caution and chose ‘passport’.

The screen moved to a shot of ‘Passport photos’.  And froze.  I touched the screen.  Several times.  I wiped my tiny hands all over that baby.  Nothing happened.  Then, as I sat back on my seat, wondering what to do….”ADJUST THE SEAT SO THAT YOUR EYES ARE LEVEL WITH THE INDICATOR ON THE SCREEN! DO NOT PUT ANY MONEY IN THE MACHINE UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DO SO!”  

At this point I gave up and went into the next booth.  Only to read on the screen, “THIS BOOTH IS OUT OF ORDER. SORRY FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.” 

I had no option at this point but to leave and return to the office.  So I went and got a slice of banana and walnut cake for me and Officemate.

I have until Friday to get this ticket and prove to Payroll that I’m not just after a nice big sum of money to prop my overdraft up.  Tomorrow, I shall embark upon The Quest For The Season Ticket Part 4.  I need to find another photobooth around Waterloo first though…

So. You know when you go for a meal, and you have wine, or indeed any other beverage?  I would venture that the least anyone expects is that having ordered something, which of course must be paid for, you are given a reasonable amount of time in which to drink it.

This is the tale of a mini-tweetup, with the most lovely girls I met via Twitter @Being_Becca and @corakorka.  One is Scottish, one is French. Both are fabulous restaurant partners. And then some.

First off, we all ordered a cocktail whilst looking at the menu.  Nice. I didn’t get to have much of mine, since poor old @coracorka accidentally spilled 89% of it before I got much further, but in hindsight I’m convinced she did me a massive favour.  Only one person actually knows just how drunk I suddenly found myself later that night and he is sworn to secrecy.

ANYHOO, so we all ordered food.  I can’t remember what I had to be frank.  This is to do with the mysteries of the memory and nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol intake, for this incident occurred back in April.  (I did type this blogpost once over, back in early May, almost finished it, then my laptop crashed and I lost the whole thing.  Bastardio.  Anyway, this isn’t about my electronic woes.)

So with the food, we ordered wine.  A bottle of some sort of house red. I can’t tell you what it was, so apologies to the oenophiles out there, but I DO know that it was perfectly nice. Happy days. We finished it, and ordered another.  We were having a beautiful evening, getting to know each other, 3 random souls that might never otherwise have met had it not been for me being lonely and new in London and them just being fantabulous girls who kindly offered to help ease me into my first few weeks in the big smoke. 

We finished the second bottle, and ordered another.  We had mostly finished our food by this point.  The waiter brought us another bottle, opened it up and poured it out.

Right.  Let’s just stop here shall we?  Because What Happened Next was, quite frankly, outrageous.

Within two minutes of opening the bottle and pouring it out, we were approached by a waitress and told to “drink up”. A WHOLE BOTTLE OF WINE.  Which was about £15.  Which, in Yorkshire money, is a lot.  Especially given that we’d already purchased two bottles prior to this.

We protested, saying that we had only just opened the bottle.  They told us we could drink it, but that we must drink it fast.

I think this is simply outrageous.  If they were wanting to close, they should have made it perfectly clear that there was not enough time to have another bottle.  Instead, they chose to sell it to us.  So, we chose to drink it.

We sat there, conspicuously drinking, feeling uncomfortable about it, regardless of the fact that we had been having a wonderful time up to that point.  Around us, the restaurant made preparations to clear up.  All the staff ate their dinner.  And finished it.  Still we hadn’t finished the bottle.  They turned the music off.  And the lights in the toilet.  They also followed my companions to the ladies.  Individually.  Not sure what they hoped to achieve by this.  They did everything possible to let us know they were not happy that we were there.  In doing so, they also managed to relieve themselves of any tip they might have otherwise been given.

So Mexican restaurant, please listen. Next time someone orders a bottle of ANYTHING and you’re thinking about telling them to finish up two minutes after opening it, maybe you shouldn’t sell it.  Or perhaps at least advise your paying customers first that the restaurant will be closing imminently and that perhaps there isn’t time.  We would have gone to a bar.  There were plenty around that were still open.

Finally, with some relief we finished the bottle and headed out.  We had a mini partylike moment outside in a random part of Victoria for about twenty minutes, then the girls had to go get their respective tube trains.  I wandered back to my sister’s.  As I turned onto the relevant street, I suddenly became more drunk than I’ve been since I was 20.  But that’s another story.

I have to confess that I had been to this Mexican restaurant only two weeks prior to this incident.  This was generally because I was new in London and had no idea where anything was.  There, once again I was the last person in the restaurant, where suddenly the samba music was turned off and I and my companion were treated to some heavy cockrock which may or may not have been an attempt to get us to leave.  It worked on everyone else who was still there but goddammit we had food to finish.  I don’t believe in rushing through a meal in a restaurant; surely the whole point of eating out is that it’s that little bit more special than having something at home or on the go.  And also, on that occasion, they took forever to bring us the bill.   I still have very little idea where anything is, but what I do know is that I won’t be going back there any time soon.

I also hold them entirely responsible for the fact that I was still drunk the next morning when I woke up.

A couple of months ago, Dr Drinky and I decided to visit one of our local pubs for food and a wee drink, to combat the cold of Winter.

Having had our food (adequate but, in fairness, cheap) and a drink, we decided we were having such a nice time together we’d have another drink.  Dr Drinky decided it was my turn to go to the bar as he had been on the previous occasion.  He persuaded me with words too interesting to publish here; suffice to say it worked.

This is a pub we had visited on many occasions, and although there had always been a low-level air of at the very least service disinterest, I had put up with it because it had not actually crossed the boundary of bad service.  Although, it must be said, I do like service with a smile.  Sadly, this was not to be.

I went up to the bar.  The landlady (who was of a “Mrs Cube” type - a description applied by Pa Drinky in the early 1990s to describe women who are, basically, cube-shaped) said, “Yes?”

I said, “Could I have a bottled coke with ice, and a pint of Carlsberg please?”

She moved ever so unswiftly to get the coke, then began to pour the pint.  She finished pouring the pint and placed it on the bar in front of me.

Now here’s the deal. Dr Drinky likes a pint of lager to have a bit of a head on it, because that’s how he likes it.  I like it to have a good head on so I can draw a smiley face in it.  But that’s by the by.

The pint presented had what I would estimate to be about a 2mm head on it.  I knew that this was not sufficient for Dr Drinky to be able to enjoy his pint.  So, I ventured forth: “Sorry, would it be possible for me to get a slightly bigger head on that, please?”

Mrs Cube stared at me.  Then scowled.  Then said, “You’ll have to take a sip out of it first.”

I wasn’t quite sure I had understood.  I mean, if you ask for a pint to be topped up for a bigger head, usually the protocol is to….top it up, no?  So I said, “I’m sorry?  This isn’t my drink.  I just wondered if I could get a bigger head on it?”

Mrs Cube: “TAKE a SIP OUT.” (Exactly in that manner.)

Now, I was thrown off-balance here.  Normally, if I’d been operating at full assertive capacity, I would have refused, as it was not my drink. I may even have argued.  But I was quite frankly so thrown off-course by this unexpected instruction and the slightly menacing nature of Mrs Cube that I obeyed, even though I was not drinking lager and indeed had no wish to.

So I took a good sip out, and presented the pint back to Mrs Cube.   Who promptly topped it up and managed again to create a tiny head, of about 3mm this time.

I did not dare take this further.  But the impropriety of the request, coupled with the rude manner in which it was delivered, meant I returned to the table full of indignation.  Upon which Dr Drinky and I decided not to bother drinking these drinks and just leave.

We have not moved house. This, however, is now no longer one of our local pubs.