Social Life
Creating Little Blips in Nothingness
MONDAY: Due to some rather mismatched fridge contents that need to be eaten, and the fact that my Co-Op rolls are too dried out and hardened for most of my filling options, lunch today is Bavarian smoked cheese with red peppers, spring onions, and an olive-feta mixture. It's a bit of a strange union which suggests standing on a dry hard mountaintop and yodelling to bouzouki music. And it tastes surprisingly right. It's accompanied by a fruit mixture that suggests insects, or perhaps a cleverly numbered shot out of the Peter Greenaway film Drowning By Numbers: very ripe blueberries and their stringy stems, kiwi slices with their dark membranes, and prawnlike clementine segments.
As escape from complaining about my job, I'm going to venture into the bizarre world of 21st century advertising. A few weeks ago I was struck by a full-page full-colour glossy ad in a magazine showing beautiful Norwegian fiords and picturesque scenes captioned with the simple message "Come to Norway.Co.UK". I imagine I wasn't alone in assuming this ad was supposed to be advertising the country of Norway. But no, it clearly was advertising the website of Norway.Co.UK. Come on, it's so easy: just turn on your computer, open your browser, go to Norway.Co.UK, and you'll see lots of beautiful pictures and you can even watch some videos. And it's all for free and so close to home! In fact, it is at home, so you don't even have to worry about transportation or booking accommodation. It's the new armchair travel for people who can't be bothered to actually leave their home. No tickets or passports or foreign currency required.
Although I have yet to check out SecondLife I do have a Facebook account simply in order to contact local friends for whom I don't have e-mail and to see their photos of recent events. But I never "do" anything on Facebook. What I mean is whenever a friend sends me a "kiss" or "flowers" or invites me to "sumo wrestle" or "take a movie quiz", I always "ignore" their request because I'd rather be doing something in real life. (And I don't mean RealLife.Com.) Life is too short to spend all of it in front of a computer.
Back when I designed websites, because I didn't have my own server I never knew where my clients' websites were parked. What this meant was that I was creating HTML files, GIFs, and JPEGs which all boil down to 0s and 1s, or Ons and Offs, stored on the hard drive of a computer that could be anywhere in the world. But this didn't concern me because I was getting paid for what anybody in the world with a computer and browser could see if they typed in a URL, and what they got was a visual image on their computer screen, sometimes with audio accompaniment emanating from their computer's speakers. But where was all this information, and in what form?
It's a strange feeling to be paid for creating tiny electronic flashings of 0s and 1s activating electronic logic gates somewhere on this planet. It's like being paid for nothingness. It's like living in nothingness. It's like…nothingness.
Or perhaps just "nothingness".
Us v. Them
WEDNESDAY: As a change from cheese, lunch today is a tuna sandwich. As my old California workmates would know, I'm really not a fan of tuna and mayo, and I am a bit particular about my tuna sandwiches. For one thing, I prefer tuna steak (or albacore in the States) and I much prefer it in brine rather than in oil. This morning, however, the only tuna in the house was tuna chunks in oil, so that's what I've used, draining it well. Then I mixed it with capers, a dash of caper vinegar, and chopped red pepper, and seasoned it with fresh coriander leaf, dried thyme, cumin, and cayenne. I make it differently every time depending on my mood and the available ingredients. And to keep it from falling out of my breadcake I use a thin slather of cream cheese for glue. As far as this blog is concerned it's Tuna Sandwich Experience No. 3. For fruit I've got some cantaloupe -- possibly my last cantaloupe of this gloriously tropical summer fruit season -- and some plump red grapes. And I'm eating it all in the newly lilac-and-blue staff room livened up by the same old fridge hum and air circulation buzz, not to mention the sound of Edward tripping over one of the new coffee tables.
This past Friday I was interviewed by phone on BBC Radio Sheffield. The last 2 times I was on Radio Sheffield I was prepared and eager to talk about coffee and tea. This time, however, I was sleep deprived and slightly hung over from my Thursday evening festivities, and the questions I was asked about the American Presidential campaign just didn't inspire my struggling mind. For instance, I attempted to answer the question about the difference between the Democrats and the Republicans, but as soon as I started I was so bored with the question that I was even more uninterested in my reply. They're 2 different parties, that's all, with the Democrats generally more liberal than the Republicans and the Republicans generally more conservative than the Democrats. But there are always exceptions, as there are with any generalisations.
Which brings me to this week's subject. (I suppose it's more of a beef, although being a pescavegetarian I prefer the taste of subject.) This week I'm talking about generalisations and stereotypes directed toward enormous chunks of the population -- for instance, the believe by many Brits I've encountered that America is a land full of obese Bible-bashing gun-toting Bush-loving conservatives who are anti-abortion and pro-capital punishment. Now, I could argue that there are quite a few thin atheist Bush-hating liberals who are pro-abortion and anti-guns and capital punishment. But what about the slightly overweight Socialists? And what about the staunch Democrat pro-hunting self-called rednecks you find in some states? What about the Unitarian single moms who voted for Ross Perot in 1996? What about the middle-of-the-road beer-bellied apathists who don't have an opinion on abortion or capital punishment but who vehemently hate guns? I used to think of the Atlantic and Pacific Coasts as being more liberal and the heartland of the country as being more conservative, but how does that explain the California Conservative Movement or that great progressive from Texas, Molly Ivins?
Here in the UK there are stereotypes involving Northerners v. Southerners. When I lived "down South", eg. in Kent, and we were planning on moving to "the North", eg. Yorkshire, I was warned by my small number of Southern friends that I would find life miserable "up there". They honestly believed that in the North the pubs were filled with men while the women stayed at home cooking -- Yorkshire puddings, obviously -- and cleaning. When we moved to "the North" we were surprised to find not only a warm and friendly population whom we befriended instantly, but also pubs that were filled not only with men and women, but with women who were drinking full pints and appearing to have a good time, as opposed to the Southern women with their half pints I always saw who often looked angry, thoroughly bored, or at least like they were dealing with a mouthful of Marmite. I know that could be construed as my own Northern and Southern stereotypes, but it's my honest observation. Obviously I realise there are happy full-pint-guzzling women in Kent and miserable half-pint-sipping women in Yorkshire. So you really can't make generalisations about anybody anywhere.
I'm just glad I live in the North, away from all those sour-faced provincial "Souv'ners" with their million-pound homes and those horrid accents…
Inside (Not Under) The Bus
TUESDAY: Lunch is tuna and cream cheese on a whole wheat breadcake. Sadly I've been out of capers for several weeks and can't afford any at the moment, so instead of my usual caper vinegar I had to make do with a splash of sherry vinegar with loads of fresh dill and a few drops of Tabasco. It's actually quite nice. (Sorry, I'm just not a rootin' tootin' tuna-mayo kind of gal.)
Lately, because my current indenture -- er, job is located near the bus interchange, I've enjoyed the luxury of taking a bus to and from work instead of hiking three miles a day, the latter half of the trek requiring crampons and pitons. Unfortunately it's the 95 bus I'm riding, which is the same route that knocked me down and ran over me a few years ago. I still experience a bit of nausea whenever I come into close proximity of the outside of a bus, and I often get a flashback of pain in my now-healed-but-previously-fractured pelvis. As I've never been injured by the inside of a bus, being inside a bus is a completely different story. Not only am I out of danger of being crushed by the wheels, but I never know what eccentricities of life I may encounter during my ride.
My morning journeys into town have been the most enlightening. One recent morning, as the bus edged its way slowly down a narrow city centre street, a 70-ish man in a cap hobbled slowly past the bus on his crutches, hurling a loud Marmite-textured "F*** OFF!" in our direction with every other step. I couldn't help wondering how many times he'd been run over. In stark contrast, the next morning a woman boarded the bus and greeted the passengers loudly, wishing everyone the best day and thanking the Lord for giving us such a beautiful day as well as our health. As the bus pulled out of my neighbourhood and progressed toward town, she continued to address us all, joyfully reciting various Bible verses and finally breaking out into some sort of psalm or hymn (forgive me but I didn't grow up Christian so I don't know the proper terms). At the close of her song she recited another few prayers, said "Amen", and began reading her book, which was a Bible, no doubt. In a couple of minutes she debarked, again wishing all of us a glorious day thanks to the Lord and so on and so forth. The whole time the other passengers were either hiding in their reading material or staring blankly ahead in the hopes that she would stop and they could continue undisturbed in their bored reveries. Ah well, I thought. At least she was happy and pleasant and wishing us all the best, as opposed to the passenger a couple of friends experienced on the same route a few months ago who kept uttering TSK! TSK! and angrily muttering, "…god!" and "I don't BELIEVE IT!" every time the bus stopped.
It's not only in Sheffield or the UK that one can experience this unique world when riding the bus. I've experienced some wondrous things on buses in America, especially Southern California. When I was young I worked for a few months at a steamship agency in downtown Long Beach, and I commuted to and from work on the bus, a rare way to travel in the Los Angeles area. As I had recently graduated from university with the intention of becoming a film director, and as I absolutely detested my mundane job and my over-the-top sexist boss, I took great pleasure in the slightly Fellini-esque part of my day spent on the bus. I even made a diorama of a Long Beach bus stop peopled with the actual or composite characters with whom I rode every day: the Bird Woman who worked at the cafeteria, with her long wrinkled neck and large glasses resting on her pointed beak of a nose, jerking her head this way and that like a bird eyeing the grass for worms; the old gent who enjoyed chatting just a bit too lasciviously with young female passengers; the Candy Man who always wore a pink candy-striped t-shirt, shorts, striped tights, and bright green shoes; the man dressed in camouflage clutching his shoe box full of useless bits of debris and junk and occasionally answering calls on an old telephone receiver, its loopy cord dangling freely in the air. This was Life, this was Inspiration, and I loved every minute of it.
I feel sorry for people who are so chained to their driving licenses that they can't fathom subjecting themselves to Public Transportation. But car travel, by contrast, is so boring!
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is mature cheddar and English mustard and blah blah blah. I know I've said this before, but I'll say it again: why are so many people who work in University libraries so damn patronising?!! All the more reason to get out of this biz…
Becoming Historic
TUESDAY: Lunch is one of my usuals: basil marinated tofu and cream cheese on one of my local bakery's breadcakes. I watched a bit of a documentary last night on Richard Burton -- the Victorian explorer, not Liz' ex. I remember my father becoming fascinated with Burton's travels after reading a book on the subject while on a business trip. Sadly I didn't pay much attention as I was still at the point in my life where I had very little interest in the subject of history.
I attribute this lack of interest in history to the fact that I grew up in suburban Long Beach, California, in a house built in the 1950s and kitted out in Danish Modern. My neighbourhood was devoid of social history, being a brand new residential area in what was once soybean fields. It wasn't until I was well into my twenties that I first visited Rancho Los Alamitos, an early 19th century Spanish adobe ranch house which is today surrounded by my alma mater, the 1950s-built California State University at Long Beach. Soon after this awakening I learned about the Tongva tribe who lived in Long Beach centuries before my childhood home was built, and long before Los Angeles's freeways began to spread across the landscape.
But this was local history. I still felt no connection to or interest in standard American history, eg. Revolutionary officers crossing rivers in their tights and fancy hats while making grand poetic statements. I mean, coming on! Growing up in 1950s California suburbia, spending the summer barefoot at the beach, and spending my allowance on rock concerts and records, why would I give a toss about Abe Lincoln growing up in a log cabin or Betsy Ross sewing a flag?
When I started travelling to Europe I gained more of an appreciation for history, as the history over here is just so much, well, longer than the history of the United States. You've got so many different eras and ages, and the range of architectural styles left behind is staggering. My real epiphany came when I was working in Sheffield as a photographer of antiques and I was looking at an old tablespoon. The tablespoon was manufactured in 1764; and I suddenly realised that this spoon I was holding in my hand was being utilised most probably by a family for daily meals, just like we use our tablespoons today for soup or cereal or Marmite. But this was happening 12 years before the nation where I was born even existed!
It's this personal aspect that makes history real for me. I mean, I've seen lots of historic sites like Canterbury and Salisbury Cathedrals and Notre Dame in Paris and even the Skara Brae Neolithic Village in Orkney. But shortly after I moved to Sheffield a friend loaned me a video of Sheffield during the Blitz; and that's when I realised just how historic my adopted city is by the fact that much of it was blown away by World War II bombs. That's why so much of Sheffield looks relatively recent, with very few buildings dating back before the Victorian era. It makes one wonder what the city looked like before it was all blown to smithereens. Having worked on a research project on the Sheffield Flood of 1864 I am now really curious to find out even more about the city's history.
My god, what's happening to me? Why am I gaining this respect for history? Is it became I'm becoming a bit historic myself? Uh oh…
Sundays, pub animals, and not complaining about work
MONDAY 11th FEBRUARY: Another week, and I promise I won't go on and on complaining about my job, even though that's what I spend much of my waking hours doing these days. I know how boring it can become, so I know how boring I must be at the moment -- except, perhaps, when I'm genuinely trying to gear myself up for positive change, possibly resulting in a stroke of genius or at the very least an amusing insight. I suppose, on the plus side, this is the worst, most physically exhausting, most unrewarding, and lowest paid job I have had since I started working in the UK. Before this job I was paid to work on a historical research project, to photograph antiques and sightseeing attractions, to write sightseeing blurbs, to design websites, to research the Internet, and even to deliver fliers door to door. So at this point there's only one way to go and that is the proverbial Up.
So I should get back to the original intention of this blog, eg. describing UK life from the viewpoint of an American. I think I'll start with a couple of points from my Life In The UK Pros and Cons list (not in any particular order):
Life In The UK Con No. 1: Sunday 4:00 Closing. Now, how ridiculous is it for supermarkets to close at 4:00pm every Sunday? Even the 24-hour supermarkets are closed from 4:00 to midnight on Sundays, negating their claimed 24-hour status. Why is it assumed that every single person in Britain will be settling down midday on Sunday for a big home-cooked roast meal, followed by an afternoon either in front of the tele or else down the pub with friends, with plenty of leftovers at home if one feels a bit peckish later? What about those of us who work for a living, often Monday to Friday, and the weekends are two days crammed with everything else we need to do in our lives, often leaving the general food shopping until Sunday afternoon -- at which point there's a rush to get to the supermarket by 4:00? And of course by that time the shelves are empty of Marmite and other necessities and the aisles are packed with herds of slow-moving family groups pushing trolleys the size of small cars, and if you've ever had a panic attack in your life this is the exact point in time when you may have your next one.
I mean, look at the facts. They opened pubs in the afternoons and there were no drunken riots in the streets. They extended pub hours at night and the cities and towns of Britain didn't crumble into anarchic wastelands of chaos. So how about a little more Sunday leeway, perhaps opening until 6:00pm for a start?
Life In The UK Pro No. 1: Animals in Pubs. Having grown up in a country where anything having to do with oral consumption is strictly regulated, it's so refreshing to walk into a British pub and sip your pint while scratching the ears of a dog or petting a cat. This just would not happen in America because of all the possible lawsuits just waiting to happen. I mean, what if the dog were to suddenly go out of it's normally placid character to bite a customer, even if said customer has just trod over the dog's genitalia? What if the cat were to take a sly sip of a customer's drink and the customer ends up with a bad case of feline distemper? Because of threats like these pets are prohibited from entering American bars and pubs, except of course for guide dogs who must be able to prove they're guide dogs by providing proper ID.
What a relief to see pets in the UK enjoying pub life with their owners. Sure, there are a few restrictions, like the fact that pets are barred from pub rooms during the times that meals are being served. And obviously a publican can choose to not allow pets, or at least certain pets, which is sad but probably sometimes justifiable. But if you walk into a friendly neighbourhood pub which doesn't serve food there's a good chance you'll meet a dog or occasionally a cat, or even a parrot. I once had the pleasure of drinking in a pub in the Kent countryside when a rabbit hopped through. I will admit I have yet to meet a gerbil, guinea pig, rat, or iguana, but I have met a snake in a pub. (Don't worry -- he didn't stay long. Snakes aren't really inclined to enjoy pubs.)
THURSDAY VALENTINE'S DAY: Today's lunch is Wensleydale, Wallace and Grommit's former favourite cheese, with spring onion, red pepper, and avocado on a Tesco's malted grain breadcake. They call Wensleydale a man's cheese, but I can't really see that at all. Is it because it's solidly dry and crumbly? Come on, I'm a grown woman -- I can happily handle solidly dry and crumbly. I find Wensleydale quite satisfying in a sandwich. As a nearly lifelong pescavegetarian I like to bite into a sandwich filled with some sort of protein-rich substance. That's why my favourite home-prepared sandwiches these days involve either Wensleydale or basil-marined extra firm tofu. Yum. I feel like I'm eating a hell of a lot more than salad.
A recent report stated that working in a library is one of the least stressful jobs one can have. I find that statistic rather misleading, as my current job -- my first one in a library -- has stressed me out more than any other job I've ever had, and that includes previous work experiences of working late hours getting a software release debugged on time and working in a busy chip shop full of crotchety impatient customers. I will admit most of my stress is caused not by my workmates or supervisors but by the Human Resources department. And there are the frequent injuries, such as when a copy of the massively oversized Textbook of Pain (by Wall & Melzack, edited by McMahon and Koltzenberg, 4th and 5th editions, Dewey No. 616.0472 WA) leaps from its shelf and lands directly on my toes.
But an average workday in a seemginly peaceful library can be full of surprises. Earlier today a security guard accidentally chopped his finger off. Now, I would certainly call that "stressful", wouldn't you?
