Alasdair Watson

Worried about the dreadful lessons movies teach children today? So are these people.

Tonight, I am mostly feeling petulant. I’m really not proud of this. Allow me to explain:

Fin has an interview for art college coming up, so she’s had to get a portfolio to take her work around with her. It’s quite heavy. So I thought I’d surprise her on her way home from work, and carry her portfolio back to her place for her, before heading home to do the the jobs I needed to do tonight. So I bought my ticket from the office to Wallington, where she lives, and then hopped off the train at West Croydon, because I knew she’d be on that route home, and about what time she’d be there. I couldn’t leave the station, but I could wait on the platform.

So I waited there for half an hour, and then assumed I’d missed her, and chuckled ruefully that my good deed had gone a bit wrong. I got a bit worried when I phoned her at home to have a laugh about it, and she wasn’t in, but figured that maybe she’d had to work late, and I’d missed her in the other direction.

Turns out that no, I hadn’t missed her – she’d gone from work to a friend’s birthday party. She’d completely forgotten it was that friend’s birthday until her sister rang to remind her. So, y’know, just one of those things.

And there is where the childish bit comes in. See, I dislike the friend in question. Now, I know it wasn’t her fault, or indeed, anyone’s fault. It was, as I say, just one of those things. And still, there’s a nasty childish part of me that blames her. That’s annoyed at her for blowing my good deed. That’s put out with her that I sat for half an hour in the freezing bloody cold, and took much longer to get home than I should have. I know it’s not her fault. I don’t blame her, not really – I mean, it’s her birthday, for christ’s sake – of course she’s entitled to a good day on her birthday, with her friends about her. I wish her a happy birthday. But still, I’m feeling childish and petulant, and a tiny part of me wants something to go wrong for her tomorrow, just to get a bit of petty revenge.

Not really very grown up, is it?

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?

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.

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.

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.

Via Hugh, I find that Cafepress are planning to seriously expand their product range. Of particular interest, are print on demand books, CDs and DVDs. If the prices on these are right, this is going to be very interesting indeed…

I found my P45, after all that. Result!

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’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?