beginner

Today started off with so much promise. I saw a number 4 and a number 5 just 10 minutes apart, thus taking my CNPS score up to a massive 5. It is strange how a spirit-crushing job makes you appreciate triviality. I was then deluded into thinking that today was my Lucky Day. However, that theory was soon put to bed when I got to work.

Is it dangerous to eat too many carrots? I had two last night and have today eaten 250g worth (I'm not sure how many actual carrots that is, but I fear I may be twice over the legal limit). I've heard they can turn you orange. Can orange juice do that as well? Because I've had about a pint of it today and a tangerine. Uh oh. I am totally becoming a sinister Oompah-Loompah of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory fame.

Tonight I am going to make gingerbread as a cheap alternative to Christmas presents. I hope I don't eat it all before I can give it to people.

Make that 2 tangerines.

It took me two hours to get home last night. Why is this relevant? Well, apart from the fact that two hours is far too long for a 45 minute journey to last, it has a part to play in a cruel and beautifully ironic tale...

I have become obsessed with CNPS. This is Consecutive Number Plate Spotting, and an explanation (and unnecessarily pedantic rules) are to be found at:

http://www.richardherring.com/cnps.php

In brief, it is one of those personal challenge games, in which one is required to spot numbers 1-999 in the form of vehicle number plates. Emma Kennedy is on 280, which is very good. I, however, have only just embarked upon this farce, and so am lagging substantially, being only on number 1.

As I mentioned previously, it took me two hours to get home on the cup last night. A frustrating and totally unnecessary amount of time, particularly because for the most part of the journey I was sitting next to Peter, 18, a student on his way, no doubt, to rehearse with his band, the Puking Warmongers. The putrid stench of dirty socks, 13 days old pizza and imitation Jackass stunts wafted from his matted hair and second hand sweater. Which is probably a reek that he has spent years cultivating.

Anyway, without alternative option, I wiped the steam off the cold window (and then the layers of grime off my hand and onto the seat) and began looking for number 1. Two hours lapsed and not a sausage. Not even a frankfurter or an Iceland mini cocktail sausage. Cars streamed by through the pouring rain, and I put seven curses upon them for not having a 1 on their plates. Hope sprang up as I neared The City and I found an increasing number of personalised number plates. Aha, thought I, clearly there is money here, and money means ego-boosting luxuries such as an Audi that reads '5tud' and 'Al1 G'. But half an hour later I reached Angel's, despondent and hating Richard Herring with a deep and abiding passion. I got off the cup and felt my neck click (which I put down to straining to see the plates of two 4x4s on the Caledonian Road) and wondered if I could sue as I puddle-hopped to the front door. As I reached the end of the road, the goblin in me silently slipped a thought into my consciousness: 'Wouldn't it be annoying, and yet somehow obligatory, and at the same time splendid if there was a car with a 1 parked right outside the flat....'

And there it was. EK1 AL. Gleaming, surrounded by a soft and ethereal glow, and a choir singing.

Bring on the journey home tonight. I'm gonna get me up to 3.

Au Revoir.

'Stupid stupid Barclays bank, they are stupid and all planks...' That is a new song and will soon be number one, knocking Alex Parks and her cohorts off the top spot.

The best thing about the song, is that it's all true and autobiographical. Barclays are stupid and the people that work there are all planks too. Today we tried to open a joint account, in preparation for being grown-ups and they wouldn't let us. This is because we look shifty and don't have the right documentation.

You see, we needed to bring utility bills, but they don't accept mobile phone or credit card bills.
And when you have a utility bill in your grubby paws, it needs to have a till stamp to prove it has been paid. So really, only old people can open accounts at Barclays because you can only get a till stamp if you pay your bills at a post office, and only old people do that.
Anyone that's sad enough to live with their parents (cuh! (in the words of Swedish) who'd do that, eh?) they're bound not to have utility bills in their name.
Fortunately, you are able to offer one of two other forms of ID - a bank statement or a driving licence. But the bank statement has to be for an account that has been closed.

So here is the deal: If you live with your parents, have a current account and don't drive, you can't bank at Barclays. Alternatively, if you have flown the nest, have a current account, don't drive and pay your bills like all normal people under the age of 65, you are precluded also. Bastards.

Well I don't care, anyway, because I shall find us a new bank and they will not care about our utilities bills and they will welcome us with open arms and call us friends and love us like their own.

yes they will.

home time.

ta-ta pet.

Another weekend over. 007 was in town on Friday night so we danced the night away. Well, when I say danced, I really mean chaotically threw our limbs about without any sense of rhythm. I think my Jarvis Cocker impression went down a treat. Alright.

I am appalled and shocked at the Kids of Today, however. Never in my life could I have imagined that the dulcet tones of Morrissey and the sleight of hand of Mr Johnny Marr could actually clear a dance floor. But on Friday night, the kids were so young that they hadn't even heard of these paragons of musical virtue who represent all that is good and true. And whilst 007 and I went a bit mad (see above) and our associates stared at us in disbelief, it became clear that the Kids thought it an appropriate time to go to the bar/toilet/drug dealer instead. Shocking. What is the world coming to?

Saturday was rainy and grey as only murky November can be. Precipitation dripped and sploshed and puddled and gurgled from every soaking orifice of London, and the muddy, insipid waters crept up the leg of my jeans throughout the course of the day. I had intended to go to the gym in the morning, but because of it being November I forgot things and was slow and didn't go in the end. Then Angel came home from netball (can you believe that a person would play netball in those conditions? It is lunacy in its most extreme and disturbing form) and we went to the pictures to see 'Love, Actually'.

At this juncture, it would be good form to give a detailed review of said film, but since I only ever watch cartoons and romantic comedies, it is needless to say that I loved it. The only bad bit is that there are so many famous people in it that you spend all the time trying to work out what else they've been in, instead of concentrating on the film.

Anyway. The most exciting thing I did on Sunday was to make a roast dinner. It turned out pretty well, all things considered. Billows of smoke from the oven excepted. Hooray for moving house soon.

It is time to go home now. Maybe I will make it back in time for Neighbours.

I forgot to mention:

After the excitement of being a right-on activist, I decided to go to a cafe to calm down. It was a very friendly place that I often frequent, and as such is very busy (not because I frequent it, you understand, but because it is friendly). Unfortunately, this means that space is at a premium, and one may often end up sharing a table with a complete stranger, though that is part of its charm, I think.

A strange thing happened. I was sitting there, minding my own business, with my hot chocolate, feeling glad to be inside and looking pseudo-intellectual by reading a book. Along came a Lebanese lady and asked if that seat was taken. It was free, I replied with a smile, and she proceeded to arrange herself at the table. After taking off her coat and depositing her shopping in a corner, she placed one of those little plastic order numbers they give you when you've ordered food. Awkward, I thought, as the table wasn't really big enough for the both of us, so I retreated further towards the wall and moved my bag to allow more space - everyone knows eating requires elbow room.

Eventually her food arrived - a bowl of orange coloured soup and some bread. It smelled gooood, but at that stage I thought I would be eating with Angel and so decided to save myself. Concentrating on my book (I didn't want to make her feel scruitinised) I then noticed her finish her drink. Odd move, I thought, I would have saved some in case the soup was hot, or too salty and I needed a drink later. Still, it takes all sorts (though she was clearly a freak, for reasons that shall become apparent).

After finishing her drink, she put her coat back on. Odd move, I thought again, but maybe she is cold, since we were sitting near the door, which kept opening due to the aforementioned popularity of the establishment. Then, gathering her bags, she left the table. Not wanting to appear nosey (even though that is an accurate description of my character) I buried my head in my book, which, it turns out, was a huge mistake. For I didn't see where she went. She vanished. Into thin air. My assumption was that, needing to powder her nose, but not trusting me (I was still sporting my protester hat) she decided to take her valuable possessions with her, leaving her soup to reserve her place (this is a good tactic and one I may adopt, for the perennial problem of the lone diner is how to a) go to the toilet or b) order more food without your place being taken). I laughed at her foolishness (though not out loud as I was alone and didn't want to look like a maniac) as she could have just asked me to watch her belongings and awaited her return.

Half an hour later it became clear that either she had fallen down the toilet (a real hazard in some places), or that she had, in fact, left without touching her soup. Odd move, I thought.

Well I feel much better after a cheeky break, though no less glad that it is Friday.

Yesterday was a strange day. After what can only be described as faffing in the morning, I decided to go and hurl insults at political leaders, as is my civic duty, in the afternoon. I was in two minds, but the BBC inspired me to go, with their story about a group of pensioners who were making the effort. 'If those doddery old fools can do it', I thought, 'so can I'. So I wore my hat, to look like a real protester, and travelled from my comfortable Home Counties residence to shout about the injustices in the world (hoping that no one would notice that I was almost entirely clad in Nike and Gap)

I'm glad I went, though. There was a lot of madness - drunken people and soforth - and a lot of infuriatingly obtuse people. These people are often to be found at demonstrations of various sorts. They are totally unable to participate in reasoned political debate, their tiny minds being furnished only with a few facts, that are not supported by anything based in reality. They rant and rant and rant about Guantanamo and suchlike, and really they don't even know where it is or anything. I'm not talking about the organisers of these events, because they seem to be quite coherent (and very middle class, which is the best way to be, natch) but more the hangers-on, who are totally bedazzled by the mass-mobilisation and all the rallying. Simpletons. No wonder Hitler got into power - show some people a stage, a few lights and give a rousing speech, and they're like putty in your hands. One day I might try and rule the universe, just to see if it can be done. I would get all the billy-no-mates of this world to unite behind me (which would obviously happen because these people are desperate to belong to a cohesive group - that's why so many gay people have speech impediments and are often slightly clingy) and then I would be seen to have popular support, so the Guardian and the Times would start doing little pieces on me. This, in turn would make all their borgeois readers think that I had some credibility, and they would start discussing me at dinner parties. And then, because they would be scared of accusations that all they do is talk and not act, they would take an interest, and they would feel like it was wrong to say I was a loser because I so clearly had the support of the marginalised groups (and to scorn me would be to scorn them). And so it would go, and then the world would be mine, all mine...

Anyhoo, there was much whooping and hollering and gnashing of teeth at the evils of the world, and lots of speakers all came up and said the same thing, about how Bush was bad and stuff. Right on. It was quite cool at sunset, because a Muslim man came on and did lots of wailing to signify the end of the fasting for Ramadan (is it still Ramadan? It seems to have been going on forever). It was quite beautiful really, with the sun setting, and everyone being respectfully quiet, and it made me wish that I was less cynical.

And then came the debacle that was the symbolic pulling down of the effigy (which, if truth be told, didn't really look much like GWB - but I can see what they were trying to do there). After many logistical issues, mostly relating to the uncovering of said effigy, its flimsy form toppled to the ground and people jumped on it (which was a bit unnecessary and ever so slightly savage, I felt). And then everyone thought that it was over and tried to leave.

That taught me a valuable lesson in appropriate apparell for demonstrating - it seems baggy jeans are all too easily trodden upon in the crush to get the hell out of there.

And thus ended my day as a political activist. I wasn't on the 10 o'clock news, but my time will come. Oh yes it will...

It seems I have received criticism already. Sparkler thinks blogs are stupid and said (and I quote)

'But first one must ask the question why a blog? Why do you feel the need to inflict nonsensical drivel on the world? Will anyone read it?'

It is a very good question, and I'm glad it was asked. I shall answer it as soon as I know (which may well be never). I was also reprimanded by the same geek for my poor use of paragraphs. I hope this makes up for it. Not that she will ever know, having dismissed My First Blog as 'nonsensical drivel'. And to think I played hopscotch with her only a few months ago.

I am taking the day off from helping the needy tomorrow because I am tired of giving of myself. I think I might go and protest with all the Swampys (what is the plural of Swampy? Is it Swampys or Swampies? - answers on a postcard to the usual address) which is very brave of me. I'm a bit scared really and still might not go, but now I feel duty-bound. It is ever since Maniacal Mother (MM) told me not to go so it is all her fault. It's like a kind of force over which I have no control. If, for any reason, maniacal or otherwise, she tells me not to do something, I have to do it. I am bound. It is ever so.

So I shall go, hoping that none of the new age types notice I am entirely clad in Gap and Nike, avoiding as many Socialist Workers as possible. All because of a few silly men and some guns. In the words of Swedish, 'cuh'.

I am not staying at Angel's tonight, as there are cats that need feeding at MM's yard. I shall love them and care for them and teach them the evils of Nestle cat food, and then I shall leave them brutally in the morning to shout political abuse at 14,000 policemen and women, who probably couldn't agree more with The Cause. Maybe we can turn them - rationalise with them. Then, we could get 14,000 policemen and women on our side and we would totally kick Bush's ass. Right On.

Or maybe I will stay in bed, get up and watch Richard and Judy (who are totally Fern and Philip now, but I just can't get out of the habit of calling them R&J. I think this is a student throwback, but it must really annoy F&P). I might also go to John Lewis and buy some crockery as I am soon to be a grown-up and must practise when I get the chance.

Anyhoo. All of this means that there will be no blog tomorrow, which is good in some ways and bad in others.

I bid you good night.

Another day, another dollar. Today the tubes were silly. Having left the flat with ample time and a spring in my step (which was necessary for jumping over the cardboard box mulch and pool of urine on the pavement) I arrived at Aldgate to find the man, that for one glorious moment in his life felt like the god of all humanity, closing the gates. What??? A thousand identically suit-clad office workers demanded. The blue-collared deity pointed wordlessly to the hastily scribbled white-board notice to his right that said 'All trains, in the world, ever have been cancelled'. I took the information in slowly and its full implication dawned on me in the manner of a Beadle's About victim realising he/she has just been betrayed by all whom he/she loved. After a quick check for men with false beards and an eye of suspicion towards the Ms London distributor, I hot-footed it over to a different station, from which all the cups are dispatched. Cups? I mean buses (predictive texting is taking over my life). Except they have hidden the buses. They have stealthily concealed them down side roads and one-way streets that I never knew existed. And this doesn't seem fair because everyone else seems to know where they are. It is clear that some memos were sent vis-a-vis cups and I was not included. Anyway, I don't care because in the process of searching for a mode of transport, I was fortunate enough to discover not one, but two amazing things. Normally, I hate investment banks with a deep and abiding passion. I scowl at them as I pass them and wish seven plagues upon them at the very mention of their corporate names. I hate the way they are so smug, making money by just sitting around and having lattes. And I hate the way all their employees are called Jonty and come out with expressions like 'let's baste this turkey' when they mean 'let's finish this meeting' without a hint of seasonal irony. Most of all I hate the way no investment banks would give me a job when I asked nicely. Anyway, it was with all this pent up bitterness that I found myself walking through the grounds of UBS Warburg, feeling extremely intimidated by everyone called Jonty, wishing I had a flashy job that require I wear a suit and cursing the eyes of all who work for Transport For London. When Lo! What should I discover, but two cool things within a few feet of each other. The first is a real live ice rink. Yes, a real live ice rink in the middle of London. How exciting. I'm not sure if you have to pay or if people who don't work for UBS Warburg are allowed to use it, but still, there it was, in all its surreal beauty. The second thing is way cooler and I have to confess I had seen it before this morning, but it is made cooler by the fact that there is an ice rink near by it. It is this funny kind of grid thing, that is made of light and is buried in the paving stones, so that at night, just this grid of light shines up from the ground and it is like you are walking in a computer game or something. Everyone looks really weird and it's like being on some strange kind of technological trip. And the people called Jonty just don't care about it. They walk across it like it's not magical and it's totally lost on them. But anyway. I have decided that UBS Warburg are the best investment bank because of all the cool stuff they have near their offices, and it is also due to this that I hate them slightly less than all the other smug investment banks that wouldn't give me a job.
Finally I found the cup and made it to work, though not without noticing the grumpy man. He was on the cup last night and I think he works in Camden, which is near to where I work. He has a penchant for wearing military colours, but I can't help but think he is a member of the Stop The War Coalition. A walking paradox. I wonder if he will be on the bus again tonight...