I think I'm on The Truman Show

Every morning I take a 10-minute walk from my front door to my bus stop. During that walk I will see (and in this particular order):

1) A skinny woman muffled up like a mummy, walking a skinny nervous black dog.

2) A kid on a bike, delivering papers.

3) A man who takes a walk around the block, then goes into a nearby house and emerges with an enormous and arthriticky golden retriever.

4) The retriever, who wees on the same spot every morning.

5) A beat up black station wagon.

6) My bus arriving.

Hmmm. In case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.

Elizabeth is...

creeped out by daylight savings!

The real Big Brother

And you call me paranoid?

In two minds

On my way through town on Saturday morning, I popped into the World Shop and browsed through a fair trade market (I managed to avoid the three(!) evangelists on the way). They had a number of really lovely and yummy things. I bought some freshly made olive and sundried tomato paninis, I dithered over the rooibos chai tea leaves, I admired all the tchotkes and thingamies that seem to have collected in Reading from all over the world.

There were whisper dishes from Tibet, carvings from Kenya, items made out of recycled materials from Zimbabwe or similar. And I found myself horribly torn. On the one hand, they're well crafted and unusual, imported from those countries or made here by refugees or immigrants. Buy them, because they're interesting, because they tell a story, because they're beautiful. On the other hand, by them and if someone asks you can say you got them at a market. In Reading. I love the little carvings and boxes I got in Mozambique because I got them in Mozambique. I want a whisper dish from Tibet, but I want it to be from my visit to Tibet. Is it cheating to buy these things from a shop that also sells fair trade coffee and chocolate, and at night is a good place to score space cake?

I get the same feeling every time I buy coffee from Starbucks. Guilt.

PATTOTE: Better living through the global village - I'm unconvinced.

On fittingness

"Claire spoke often in her poetry of the idea of 'fittingness': that is, when your chosen pursuit and your ability to achieve it - no matter how small or insignificant both might be - are matched exactly, are fitting. This, Claire argued, is when we become truly human, fully ourselves, beautiful. To swim when your body is made for swimming. To kneel when you feel humble. To drink water when you are thirsty. Or - if one wishes to be grand about it - write a poem that is exactly the fitting receptacle of the feeling or thought that you hoped to convey. In Claire's presence, you were not faulty or badly designed, no, not at all. You were the fitting receptacle and instrument of your talents and beliefs and desires."

From On Beauty, by Zadie Smith

Passenger action

When the tinny annoucement comes over the intercom that the Jubilee line has been delayed due to passenger action, what do you think that means?

That there's some doofus in carriage five with a sandwich board declaiming, "Hell no, we won't go"?

That somebody ignored the Big Sign of Impending Doom and Touched The Button That Communicates With The Driver, the hellmouth opened, and they received the much-lauded spot fine?

Or that somebody jumped in front of a train?

I hope it's number one or two.

The Mother Ship

Catching the tube back in the evenings is distinctly apocalyptic. Everybody lining up, as if the final disaster has arrived and we're all being evacuated from the earth.

PATTOTE: Better living through my super secret underground bunker.

Tales from Reception Part 3

Dear Reception caller,

When I say: "Please hold on", I'm not actually putting you on hold. I'm looking for the number to switch you through.

So the guy I overheard yesterday telling his dog: "If you do that again it's doggy hell for you. That's 29. Another 96 and that's it. Doggy hell." should be a lesson to you.

Tales from Reception Part 2

These people are my new favourite enemies.

Example A:

Me (friendly, chipper, faking it to the hilt): Good morning, large unnamed charity, can I help you?

Them: Is that large unnamed charity?

Me (friendly, chipper, biting my tongue): Yes, can I help you?

Them: This is Mrs A.N Body, of number 25 Whatever Lane, Lower Sheep's Bottom, West Sussex, SW5 6XT. I would like to speak to somebody about donating some money.

Me (friendly, chipper, rolling my eyes): I'll transfer you to our fundraising department.

Them: It were a coffee morning, you see. And now I have all this change. I don't want them bandits in the hills to get it. It are a lot of money, y'see.

Me (confused): Yes.

Them: Well girl, are you transferring me or not?

Me: *click*

Example B:

Me (friendly, chipper, faking it to the hilt): Good morning, large unnamed charity, can I help you?

Them: Can I speak to mumblemumble?

Me (friendly, chipper, ears straining): I'm sorry, who?

Them: Mumblemumble!

Me (huh?): I'm sorry, could you repeat the surname for me?

Them: MumBLEmumBLE!!

Me: (weakly): Could you spell that for me?

Them: *click*

Tales from Reception Part 1

Five days in reception.

Four nights of waking up from a nightmare in which I can't find my headset but I can hear people in the background saying: "Hello? Hello! Hello?"

Switchboards are stressful.