August turned out to be a busy month. So busy, in fact, I've only managed three nights in my own bed. Now, before you all start raising your eyebrows and doing Sid James impressions, it isn't what you think. The first trip away was a holiday in North Wales, staying in Harlech within thirty feet of the spot that Zoë and I had our honeymoon. We were with friends and managed to get the best of the weather (except for overnight rain on the final night7 which necessitated the evils of a wet pack of the caravan awning and annex). It was marred only by the swallowing whole without trace of my debit card by an ATM in Porthmadog (see previous ranting diatribe post). I still haven't heard back from either banks involved, so a letter may be sent next to the regulatory authority - the banks have been warned!
After that it was off to deepest, darkest Cumbria in the shadow of the shipyards (literally) in Barrow-in-Furness for a sailing trip. We didn't actually sail all that far, staying as we were at a Sea Cadet sailing centre within the shadow of three ships built for the Sultan of Brunei. It must be nice to be so rich that you can say: "Take these ships away and dispose of them, for I am bored with them now. Grey is so last year" and that is pretty much what he has done. A few hundred million squids of ships for sale for their scrap value. One careful owner, never raced or rallied and only ever put to sea once for trials.
The real reason for the trip wasn't to oggle some rich man's follies, but to teach children how to sail. Actually, my specialist area is pulling (for non-navy people read: rowing) and that's what I ended up doing. You get a lovely tan sat in a naval pulling boat through some of the sunniest weather I've seen this August. Unfortunately it manefests in a curious way, on account of me being sat on a stern bouyancy tank of an Admiralty Sailing Craft and my nose, cheeks, shoulders and knees are all sunburnt (though the rest of me managed to sustain only a light tan).
I've learnt a few things on this trip. Firstly, that a thirteen year old kid can produce a surprisingly large volume of vomit when they are ill in the night. I also learnt that other people's children quickly lose their gloss when you can't give them back for another week. On the Wednesday I reconnected with my hatred of modern sailing dinghies when I had a day free and went out on something called a 'Topper' It was more akin to sailing an ironing board with a dayglow orange sail. Oh for a proper boat, like the RMS Jennïkins that sat forlornly back in Bolton under a cover.
Getting back home yesterday proved to me that Zoë has money burning a hole in her pocket and without my stable influence, it tends to burn right through and drop into the outstretched hands of retailers. A jet black Xbox 360 has appeared to replace the old lump that was a plain Xbox. With it has come Halo 3, Grand Theft Auto 4 and Project Gothanm Racing 4. On top of that the digital box for the television now mysteriously allows me to watch far more channels than we got before on the free package. I'm just wondering what else came whilst I was away and managed to get well hidden from my prying eyes.
It's back to the grindstone for me here at Jenny towers, with books to write, two others to edit and some promotional material to go through for 'Bringing home the stars'. That's all on top of doing an imperial f**k-ton of laundry that seems to have accumulated a light dusting of sea salt. Why does it decide it must get on my shorts in interesting concentric circles at crotch level? Life's little mysteries...
Sunday 29 August 2010
Thursday 19 August 2010
Feckless bankers - coming to a cash machine near you!
It is very easy to take some technology for granted. There was a time when an ATM machine was something evil that charged you for the privelage of withdrawing your own money just so that you could spend it. There was also a time when cash was King, and most shops would not accept debit cards. Things have changed, and this modern world that we nlive in now has both ATMs and debit cards as an everyday fact of life.
Of course sometimes Satan likes to do something nasty in your kettle of life. Last Saturday appeared to be my turn, as whilst on holiday the ATM at Porthmadog in Tesco's carpark did just that. It ate my debit card as I was trying to withdraw cash. The card wasn't flagged, and I wasn't trying to withdraw money that I didn't have or indeed anything else naughty like that. No, the machine just crashed and took my debit card with it. Whilst watching the tiny screen scroll through a Windows XP desktop, it was apparent that my card was not going to re-emerge. The machine belonged to Royal Bank of Scotland, though thoughtlessly they had failed to provide anywhere contact numbers in case of issues. How thoughtful of them.
The manager of the Tesco store was quite helpful, letting me use his phone to call RBS. It should have been simple, but it wasn't. RBS failed at every level to take the issue seriously. Their automated switchboard disconnected me twice before it even let me speak to a human. At least I assume she was human, though maybe it is a requirement of working Saturdays in an RBS call centre to be an unhelpful and obstinant idiot? Refusing to help at all, she instead spent ten minutes trying to lecture me on how it was their 'policy' to not return eaten cards, and instead have them destroyed. She would not even transfer me to some-one else or furnish me with any helpful numbers for perhaps contacting HSBC - my card provider.
Once again the manager was the only helpful person, finding a copy of the Yellow pages to get a number for HSBC and again letting me use his telephone to call them. HSBC (lovely 'Tom' - if that was his real name - sounding suspiciously like he was pulling a night shift in an Indian call centre) cancelled the card, and then promptly infomerd me that a replacement would be sent out 'within three to five working days'. Oh yes, nice one Tom. I just told you that I was 200 miles from home, on holiday, without any means to pay for anything else including the petrol required to get myself back that 200 miles to reach the replacement card, if it did indeed arrive. Apparently I was expected to scrounge from people any money I needed. Hey, cheers for ruining the rest of the holiday. I had £1.12 to my name, and only a cheque book that no-one would accept because cheques are so last decade don't-you-know and anyway the debit card was also the essential cheque guarentee card too.
It isn't nice having to ask friends to pay for things even as simple as a cup of tea or food. Getting them to fill your car with petrol too for good measure seems even more embarrassing and humiliating. Kiss goodbye to any daytrips because, you know, sponging for the price of a ride on the Ffestiniog railway seems a little too much to lay on the person you already begged £40 off for petrol.
So the modern world collapses faster than the operating system of an RBS cash machine. The nasty letters have been sent, outlining in advance that empty apologees without actual actions aren't acceptable. But you just know that the behemoths of the banking system aren't really interested. If it doesn't involve ripping us all off and making the world's economies collapse whilst paying mega-bonuses for irrisponsible financial risk taking, then they don't want to know.
As of yet, the promised replacement card hasn't arrived. Oh joy. It's particularly irritating because I'm off on a sailing expedition for a week and a bit on Saturday, so if it hasn't arrived by tomorrow then Satan will be laughing all the way to a second trip to that kettle.
Of course sometimes Satan likes to do something nasty in your kettle of life. Last Saturday appeared to be my turn, as whilst on holiday the ATM at Porthmadog in Tesco's carpark did just that. It ate my debit card as I was trying to withdraw cash. The card wasn't flagged, and I wasn't trying to withdraw money that I didn't have or indeed anything else naughty like that. No, the machine just crashed and took my debit card with it. Whilst watching the tiny screen scroll through a Windows XP desktop, it was apparent that my card was not going to re-emerge. The machine belonged to Royal Bank of Scotland, though thoughtlessly they had failed to provide anywhere contact numbers in case of issues. How thoughtful of them.
The manager of the Tesco store was quite helpful, letting me use his phone to call RBS. It should have been simple, but it wasn't. RBS failed at every level to take the issue seriously. Their automated switchboard disconnected me twice before it even let me speak to a human. At least I assume she was human, though maybe it is a requirement of working Saturdays in an RBS call centre to be an unhelpful and obstinant idiot? Refusing to help at all, she instead spent ten minutes trying to lecture me on how it was their 'policy' to not return eaten cards, and instead have them destroyed. She would not even transfer me to some-one else or furnish me with any helpful numbers for perhaps contacting HSBC - my card provider.
Once again the manager was the only helpful person, finding a copy of the Yellow pages to get a number for HSBC and again letting me use his telephone to call them. HSBC (lovely 'Tom' - if that was his real name - sounding suspiciously like he was pulling a night shift in an Indian call centre) cancelled the card, and then promptly infomerd me that a replacement would be sent out 'within three to five working days'. Oh yes, nice one Tom. I just told you that I was 200 miles from home, on holiday, without any means to pay for anything else including the petrol required to get myself back that 200 miles to reach the replacement card, if it did indeed arrive. Apparently I was expected to scrounge from people any money I needed. Hey, cheers for ruining the rest of the holiday. I had £1.12 to my name, and only a cheque book that no-one would accept because cheques are so last decade don't-you-know and anyway the debit card was also the essential cheque guarentee card too.
It isn't nice having to ask friends to pay for things even as simple as a cup of tea or food. Getting them to fill your car with petrol too for good measure seems even more embarrassing and humiliating. Kiss goodbye to any daytrips because, you know, sponging for the price of a ride on the Ffestiniog railway seems a little too much to lay on the person you already begged £40 off for petrol.
So the modern world collapses faster than the operating system of an RBS cash machine. The nasty letters have been sent, outlining in advance that empty apologees without actual actions aren't acceptable. But you just know that the behemoths of the banking system aren't really interested. If it doesn't involve ripping us all off and making the world's economies collapse whilst paying mega-bonuses for irrisponsible financial risk taking, then they don't want to know.
As of yet, the promised replacement card hasn't arrived. Oh joy. It's particularly irritating because I'm off on a sailing expedition for a week and a bit on Saturday, so if it hasn't arrived by tomorrow then Satan will be laughing all the way to a second trip to that kettle.
Monday 9 August 2010
That just takes the custard cream
Why is it that retailers wait until just after I have bought something to reduce the price and appear to be clearing out unsold stock? It's happened with no less than three items this week, and it is getting annoying. I can only think that retailers gauge the point at which they have sold all they can at full price by seeing what I am buying and adjusting straight after I have bought. Things that I haven't bought, even within the same set, invariably hold their price. It's bloody annoying.
I can only assume that either there is a conspiracy, or that I simply have unpopular tastes in books, software and other goods and have very bad luck when it comes to money. Rememeber folks: it isn't paranoia if they really are out to get you.
I can only assume that either there is a conspiracy, or that I simply have unpopular tastes in books, software and other goods and have very bad luck when it comes to money. Rememeber folks: it isn't paranoia if they really are out to get you.
Have tastes changed so much?
I've been trying to read a book called The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin. It's part of a large set of 73 that I have published by Gollancz called SF Masterworks. A lot of the books in this set were published originally from the 1950s to the 1980s with a big emphasis on 1960/70s. There are, it has to be said, some real gems in this set. On the other hand, there are some real lemons too. I'm afraid that The Dispossessed probably falls into the lemon category from what I have read.
The book failed to grab me; I did try and persist. Longwinded and without any real point, the first two chapters failed in any way to give me a story or characters that I could latch onto and feel for and get into. Actually, come to think of it, there seemed very little point to what I read. When I first began writing, wordy, self-indulgent stuff was referred to as 'Purple prose' and was to be avoided at all cost. Unfortunately, Le Guin didn't go to that lecture when she wrote this. She isn't alone though; even Arthur C. Clarke's early works had a habit of falling into this trap. I am forced to conclude given the rave reviews this book had that tastes have changed, and some books have not aged well.
In some respects, the 1960/70s were the years to be trying to get published if you wrote sci-fi. Stick a rocket on the cover and you could be forgiven for thinking that anything sold in this genre. On the other hand, maybe the glut of boring self-indulgent books of this time were responsible for the decline of sci-fi as big genre for those who came afterwards. Now it is quite hard to get sci-fi published.
Other books in the set have impressed me, and it isn’t all doom and gloom. Flow my tears, the Policeman said by Philip K. Dick is an astounding work, and so were Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke, I am Legend by Richard Matheson and Mission of gravity by Hal Clement were all excellent reads. So there were still excellent works in amongst this glut of over written rubbish. What makes me surprised is the fact that some of these bad books won prizes, gathered rave reviews and - above all – are considered masterpieces. I think that tastes have changed an awful lot. Would any of these poor works have been published today if Le Guin had gone to a publisher in 2010 and punted that manuscript around? A part of me thinks probably not.
Still, what do I know? Well, maybe beyond what I like.
The book failed to grab me; I did try and persist. Longwinded and without any real point, the first two chapters failed in any way to give me a story or characters that I could latch onto and feel for and get into. Actually, come to think of it, there seemed very little point to what I read. When I first began writing, wordy, self-indulgent stuff was referred to as 'Purple prose' and was to be avoided at all cost. Unfortunately, Le Guin didn't go to that lecture when she wrote this. She isn't alone though; even Arthur C. Clarke's early works had a habit of falling into this trap. I am forced to conclude given the rave reviews this book had that tastes have changed, and some books have not aged well.
In some respects, the 1960/70s were the years to be trying to get published if you wrote sci-fi. Stick a rocket on the cover and you could be forgiven for thinking that anything sold in this genre. On the other hand, maybe the glut of boring self-indulgent books of this time were responsible for the decline of sci-fi as big genre for those who came afterwards. Now it is quite hard to get sci-fi published.
Other books in the set have impressed me, and it isn’t all doom and gloom. Flow my tears, the Policeman said by Philip K. Dick is an astounding work, and so were Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke, I am Legend by Richard Matheson and Mission of gravity by Hal Clement were all excellent reads. So there were still excellent works in amongst this glut of over written rubbish. What makes me surprised is the fact that some of these bad books won prizes, gathered rave reviews and - above all – are considered masterpieces. I think that tastes have changed an awful lot. Would any of these poor works have been published today if Le Guin had gone to a publisher in 2010 and punted that manuscript around? A part of me thinks probably not.
Still, what do I know? Well, maybe beyond what I like.
Wednesday 4 August 2010
All over the house » Archive » Parrot fashion
Beware of Parrots belonging to rude people - they pick up all those snarky private comments and repeat them when you least expect it...
All over the house » Archive » Parrot fashion
All over the house » Archive » Parrot fashion
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