An unpopular opinion.

I love the London Underground. I love to travel by tube. The only time a delay really bothers me on the tube is if I’ve arranged to meet someone – if it’s a commute to or from work, or if I’m just going somewhere in London on my own, I really don’t mind the delays – I’m willing to deal with the fact that sometimes, things just go wrong. As a general rule, I’m grateful and sympathetic toward those who make the Underground work. (Part of this is that I don’t often have to commute by tube, the last few months notwithstanding.)

The central line is out of service for the next couple of weeks, and several of my friends are up in arms, screaming and ranting. Were I still in my old job, I’d be utterly fucked, and probably a bit put out myself. But still – it’s out of service for good reasons, like public saftey (read the government’s abject and cowardly refusal to put in the money it requires to actually bring the damn thing up to date). And still, it’s London Underground that are blamed.

So y’know, while everyone else is upset and hating the underground, I thought I’d take a moment to just reiterate: I love the tube. Even at rush hour.

Just for the sake of balance, y’know?

Announcement:

Anyone caught informing the world that “It’s Snowing”, or that it “Looked like it was snowing, but it didn’t settle” will be taken out the back and assaulted by a large number of crazed gila monsters.

Popular Front.

I’m back in Tooting. Back home. It’s not the same flat as last time, but it’s back in with the same friends (well, Jamie’s gone, but, y’know, I got his room, so it’s not all bad), and in fact, the flat’s even nicer. So here I am, back on the right side of the Thames, back on the tube, and yeah, I’ve got unpacking to do, and I’ve got money hassles to sort out, but I just don’t care about any of that right now. I’m back where I ought to be, and I can get on with 2003.

Long Week.

It’s only Wednesday, and I’m shattered. Last night was my best chance for a decent night’s sleep between now and Saturday, and I blew it utterly. Well done, that man. So now I’m tired before I ever get to the pub tonight – going for a drink with the folk at my former employers. I’ve been meaning to say something about the shiny redesign they did the other month – aside from the huge swathe of orange across the page if you’re not logged in, looks gorgeous. Clean, modern, elegant, and fits loads on the page without being confusing, although I have the nagging sense that the small blue header bars aren’t all the aligned quite right.

Anyway, must leave for beer.

Tired, Cranky, and Tax problems.

It’s been a long few days. Fin and I were both tired and cranky this evening, so it didn’t help to get home to my mother giving me an earbashing for having lost my P45 (or at leat the part I have to give my new employer). I know I’m a complete tit already, thanks. I’m already annoyed enough at myself, and worried at the prospect of paying more tax than I need to for at least the next while. I don’t need any further opprobrium heaped on me, especially not in the mood I’m in tonight.

Anyone know if there’s anything I can do to avoid having to fill out a P46 and paying more tax than I have to, if I really have lost my P45?

I Hate You Telephone Thing.

I’m not fond of trying to do business by telephone. I hate talking on the damn things – I’m keenly aware that 80% of communication is non-verbal, and at least with the written word, I’ve got the time to really get the verbal part right, in a way you don’t on the phone. But still, I have spent a good chunk of my morning on the phone. Net gains – 800 quid and change. OK, it’s money that I was owed, but I feel good about having got it back by telephone.

Sometimes it really is the stupidest things that make us pleased, isn’t it?

I hate this.

I want to write. It’s nearly 2 am, I’ve got a headful of static, sitting here with the window open, enjoying the chill, and I’m trying to further in on the first of these monologues, and I just can’t hear it. It’s like it’s being mumbled on the edge of my hearing. A secret that she doesn’t want to give up. I’m on the verge of starting over, listening for the opening sentences again, and letting it go somewhere new…

This is the really annoying bit about writing, you know? Where you’ve got the ideas, and you know where you’re going, and the words just sit up there, dug in behind your eyes and refusing to budge.

New Year, New Look.

Black Ink is back, with a new, CSS-driven look. I confess, it’s a template I lifted and modified, but one step at a time, eh? I’m probably going to tinker further with it later in the year, as I get to grips with using CSS for layout (rather than just for text) a bit better. I’ve already got a few ideas for where I want to take it, but as I say, that’s for later. Got to finish 9A first…