Housekeeping

Just been tidying up my sidebar a little. My there have been a lot of blog casualties of late. I've cut down the links sidebar by over 20. Site traffic is way down as well ever since I moved overseas. Hmm, have to think about that. Maybe start a new blog under my own name and let 'Bill Sticker' rest in peace.

Yes Dear

There is a phrase common to most married men which has it’s equivalent in every known human language. This phrase often is the last resort of the mature household peacekeeper and the disinterested male who really can’t be bother to listen to their other half kicking off about what is to them (The disinterested party), some trivial issue. You don’t really mean that you agree with everything that your spouse or significant other is saying, it’s just that you can’t be bothered right now and would like some peace and quiet to a) think b) watch the footie c) get out of doing any more bloody trudging round shopping centres.

The following may be useful as examples of the principle in action.

Figure 1: Evasion
Partner “Have you done the washing up / put up shelves / put out garbage / walked dog?”
You (Disinterestedly, carry on as before) “Yes dear.”
Half an hour later.
Partner “You haven’t done the washing up! Etc.”
You “Pardon?”
Partner “You said you’d done the washing up!”
You (With innocent surprise) “Did I?”
Partner “You said ‘yes dear’ when I asked you.”
You (Try to sound sincere at this point) “Sorry love, I thought you were asking about something else.”
Partner “Men! You’re all selectively deaf!”
You (Using pre emptive meekness) “Yes dear.” Now you can get the hell out of Dodge.

Figure 2: Pre emptive strike
You “Yes dear.”
Partner (Perplexed) “What?”
You (In tones of ironic apology) “Sorry love, thought you wanted something.” Now you can put those headphones back on or turn the volume back up safe in the knowledge that whatever you were going to be asked to do has been completely driven from your partners mind.

Figure 3: Passive – aggressive
Partner “You aren’t listening are you?”
You (Sweetly) “Yes dear.”
Partner “No you weren’t!”
You (All sweet reason and light) “Oh but I am now. What did you want?”
Partner (In frustration) “Owaarh!” Partner then shuts up and sulks for a bit so you can get on with whatever it was you wanted to do in the first place.

Mrs S and I often use the “Yes dear” on each other with an exchange that goes something like this;
Mrs S (Says something mildly contentious)
Me “Yes dear.”
Mrs S “I’ve been ‘Yes deared’ haven’t I?”
Me (With an evil grin) “Yes dear.”
Mrs S “Cheeky sod you are Bill.”
Me “Of course.”
Mrs S “I’ll get you later Bill.”
Me “Yes dear.”
Mrs S “Stop it!”
Me “Stop what?”
Mrs S “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
Me “Yes dear.”
Mrs S “Owaarh!”

Reciprocity

Right, I’m back from my travels and travails having finally sorted out an apartment and Internet link out in the boondocks of British Columbia. If you look on the sidebar, you’ll notice quite a few differences. The left hand sidebar has now got a section for publicising books written by fellow bloggers who have made a reciprocal agreement to plug my tome of rabid outpourings and rages against the machine on their sidebars or similar.

Recommended read now added to the sidebar is Nick Edwards “In Stitches – the highs and lows of an A&E Doctor” Don’t be tight – buy a copy, the reviews are good.

As for Anyone out there who still reads my semi literate offerings will also note the change in portrait. Same shape, greyer hair, and now a part time volunteer for the Canadian Red cross. Stepkids are still in England emerging from their adolescent chrysalis’ (Or should that by Chrysali?) to become fully fledged adults via University and College, but they have informed us that they will invade our new home at Christmas with Mother in law and the forces of chaos and darkness in tow.

For me, I’m sharing my new office with the dog and rapidly wearing out the keyboard of my trusty old laptop. Did have a look at a new one, but they all come with sodding Microsoft Vista, which anyone with any brains detests as it tries to do things for you instead of being a sensible operating system and doing what it is told without crashing. If I could lay my hands on a decent copy of WordPerfect’s Office suite I’d ditch Microsoft Office because it lacks certain features I grew to like way back when.

Personally I’m sticking to 2000, which for all it’s vices does not change the settings you so painstakingly configured three hours ago before ‘rolling back’ to it’s default settings like XP and Vista, or crashing twice a day like NT4 (95 or 98SE? – Don’t make me laugh). Did flirt with the idea of going ‘open source’ with Linux and a KDE desktop three years ago (Even thought about a Mac), but that would mean throwing away most of my licensed and properly paid for software. Give me stability every time. Yes, yes, I know that Linux has a wide range of open source application software out there for free, but I’m not that much of a code cruncher, and I’m too bloody lazy to spend that amount of time rebuilding and customising.

Live Earth

End of shift conversation on Friday afternoon between me and my two beat oppo’s; happy because we’ve got a weekend off.
“First weekend off in months, Bill. You looking forward to it?” Colin asked me.
“Yeah. Last one before I take my holiday.”
“So what you doing this weekend?” Asif was putting his kit back in his locker with his trademark melon slice grin.
“The usual, might take a day trip to the south west if the weather forecast’s good. What about you?” I shrugged.
“I’m watching that Live Earth concert.” Asif sounded happy about it.
“Oh, right.”
“You don’t sound impressed.” Colin remarked.
“I’m not.”
“Going to watch it on TV?” He asked.
“Nah.” I tried to be noncommittal.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m switching the TV off to save electricity.” Asif and Colin laughed. They’re used to my acerbic brand of dry humour.
“No, seriously; you going to watch it?”
“Told you; no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all bollocks, that’s why.”
“What, the concert?”
“No, all this give everything up to save the planet malarkey.”
“Oh yeah, we know that.” Asif shrugged into his street jacket.
“You might just as well rearrange deckchairs on the Titanic.”
“Big con, that’s all it is.” Colin remarked. “Come on, time to go home. We’re not being paid for our time any more.”

We clocked out and went home.

Going to the dogs?

Another on and off rainy day, another run in with people who basically aren’t looking or don’t care. This little anecdote finds old Uncle Bill in his traditional stance (Arms folded, standing his ground) receiving a thorough telling off from a member of the General Dyslexic (Post Parking ticket of course).

“You know what’s wrong!” He frothed at me. “This country’s gone to the bloody dogs! You know why? Eh, eh!” The customary angry finger was thrust under my (apparently guilty) nose. “Go on! Why’s the country in the state it’s in!” He stood there, quivering with old rage, seeing me as the symbol of everything that was wrong with his country.
“Don’t know sir.” I responded carefully. An intelligent response will only wind this idiot up even more.
“Of course you bloody don’t!” He railed. “You’re the problem! All of you fucking jobsworths!” Thought so. I breathed a heavy inner sigh. So it’s my fault you took up a parking bay you weren’t entitled to because you were too tight to stump up fifty pence? “You go around making people’s lives a misery, and I bet you get a kick out of it don’t you? Don’t you!” The accusing finger dropped. I stood there saying nothing. Just waiting until the storm appeared to have blown itself out. As his blood pressure seemed to be dropping, I administered the coup de grace.
“Challenge procedure’s on the back of the ticket sir.” I advised gently.
“What?” I’ve really confused him now.
“The instructions on how to challenge the ticket sir. Should you wish to do so. On the back of the ticket. In the envelope. Sir.” I reiterated, not unkindly.
“ARHHH!” He shouted and stomped off back to his vehicle. Job done, another confrontation survived. There are ways of fighting back without actually getting into a fight.

What he said left me thinking. Why is England in the state it’s in? Am I part of the disease or the cure? I like to think it’s the latter. Doing little things like keeping streets running clear (Where I can) and showing the wilful that they cannot get away with being the grit in the ointment of other’s lives. Helping out where I can. Small stuff.

On that subject; albeit a little obliquely, I was reading ‘The Pub Philosopher’ a few days ago and found a link to this article (Why England is rotting) in a Canadian publication. It makes for thought provoking reading.

In perspective; not so very long ago, a couple of decades in my recollection; anyone messing around with the rule of law could expect some fairly rough handling. If you got drunk and stupid, you could expect a night in the cells and a short trip down the steps if you got disrespectful. It was an experience to be avoided and feared (Unless you were too stupid and full of yourself to care). Likewise, anyone messing with the Royal Navy could expect to be summarily blown out of the water. Now everything seems so emasculated. We expect our front line soldiers to be nice. This is crazy. Our Armed Forces and Police were never meant to be social workers. To illustrate by comparison; Dobermans were never really bred to be house pets. They are primarily guard and attack dogs.

In addition there is this asinine view that everything can be micro-managed remotely by non-combatant politicians and the guy on the spot has to refer each command decision upstairs. This way of doing things is quite frankly ludicrous. That ain’t no way to run an army. It’s a sure fire way to lose a war. Does no one read any history around here?

To enlarge; there is an idea that seems to stem from this huge, confused power / guilt / ego / morality trip that much of the left leaning English middle class seems to be hooked on. It’s like some people are trying to out-nice each other in the hope that the meek really will inherit the earth. (They will eventually, after everyone else has finished with it; but not just yet, it’s not their turn this millennium, or the next if human nature is any yardstick.) We are told that we have to stay on some farcical ‘moral high ground’ and ‘save the planet’ (That’s all utter bollocks if you ask me, this planets biosphere could shrug us off as a species without a twitch in it’s orbit and still keep going round the sun – it’s still got billions of years left in it).

England (As a societal entity) seems to have been so busy bending over backwards for so long that now, without turning it’s figurative head, it can make a spirited attempt to kiss it’s own arse as well as everyone else’s. We seem to have missed the middle ground somehow. I know we are no longer a colonial superpower and should accept this; our ancestors did many ‘bad’ things (By today’s standards, perhaps not by theirs). I understand one of my own distant ancestors was hanged for murder – but that doesn’t make me (Or any of my close relatives) a killer. Similarly, it’s no reason to (As a nation) wear sackcloth and ashes for the rest of eternity. What I’m trying to get across is that we as a nation should ‘fess up, learn the lesson and move on without all this guilt. It’s so adolescent and self-indulgently destructive. For want of a better term, it’s just so Chav. Which is half the problem really.

Rainy days and open days

Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but any more of this rainy weather and I’ll be evolving webbed feet and a beak. Failing that, I’ll put in a request for a total immersion suit. Although knowing our supply system, we wouldn’t get the bloody things until next years heatwave (If at all).

Took youngest stepdaughter and friends up to Manchester University ‘Open Day’ yesterday on my last day off. One is going to study Maths, one is going to study English Literature, and youngest is going to study Law and Criminology. We’re going to have a Lawyer in the family! Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Youngest will require three straight ‘A’ grades to get on the course, which I know she is capable of.

Mrs Sticker and I let the girls off the leash and spent an agreeable few hours wandering around the campus. They went to several lectures, we looked over the Students Union building and tagged onto one of the many ‘walking tours’ around campus. We spent well over three hours in the Manchester Museum. They sell some really cool stuff in their gift shop – Roman and Medieval reproduction arms and armour (Wonder if I could get away with carrying a Roman Pugio or better still a Gladius or Spatha on duty – probably not); we lunched on huge burgers at the Phoenix Pub on the corner of Oxford Street and Booth Street West. If you’re ever there, the ‘Scream Deluxe’ burger is real stick to your ribs stuff, and they have no truck with all this namby pamby ‘salad garnish’ nonsense.

Conclusion; it was a fair hike to get there, but well worth the trip. I have a soft spot for Manchester as a city, having done quite a few jobs in the area during the late 1990’s. My only beef with travelling there was the Motorway congestion. The plague of speed cameras on the approaches is likewise a nuisance and tends to take your mind away from your driving. Nonetheless, despite the odd shower it wasn’t a bad run. All told, a nice day.

Some news of very little import

Well it’s happened. The book of ‘Walking the Streets’ (The book not the blog) by Bill Sticker is almost ready for the printers. A lot of stuff that never made the blog is in there, with some of the better blog entries rewritten and improved. Names, times and dates will remain changed in order to circumvent any putative legal action; but aside from that I have striven to be factually correct. In other words; yes it happened; these are the events, but I’ve changed the names and places to protect both innocent and guilty alike.

Useful things to know like the section ‘getting off a parking ticket’ have been expanded, along with more detail, sample letters and hopefully some better jokes. I say hopefully because sarcasm, irony and bathos are lost on some people, who are only reduced to fits of guffaws over things like a Kitten falling onto a running chainsaw. Please note that I do not have any stories that they will find amusing. The book is not aimed at that audience.

Publication date is hopefully 20th June 2007.

If this is not to your specific taste, to quote one of those rather endearing Americanisms – “Bite me.”

Update;

The book (Which is much better written and I hope funnier than the blog) will be available solely through Amazon.com to begin with. If anyone wants a signed copy, well, I might be doing a quick 'guerilla signing' tour of the UK at various evening dates during July 2007. In August I shall be elsewhere. More about that later.

Banter on the Sabbath

Patrolling Car parks early on Sunday morning. The sun is shining and I’m feeling quite relaxed when two elderly ladies (in their late 70’s I think, and dressed for Church) approached me and one spake thusly;
“What are you doing working on a Sunday?”
“It’s the job madam. The Council decided that we have to patrol seven days a week, so here I am.” I gave her a polite smile.
“Hmph!” She rejoindered with not a little scorn. “God’s word is that you should not have to work on the Sabbath day.”
“Ah madam.” I replied. “Regrettably it is my Managers will that I work on Sundays, so again, here I am.”
“Well you shouldn’t have to.” Said her friend.
“True, but damned souls like me are forced to walk the earth, or rather these car parks, from early in the morning to late at night, whatever the day.”
“Sinner eh?” They both gave me broad, denture lined grins.
“Afraid so.”
“God said even sinners should not have to work though. It’s in the commandments.”
“Yes Madam, but I believe I come under the ‘Ox down the well’ exemption.”
“Cheek.” The first woman laughed at me. “You’re too clever for this job.”
“True Madam. Unfortunately I’m probably, as my father often observed, too clever for my own good.”
“God will punish you.” Her friend warned me, but she said it with a smile.
“He’s not already?” I countered. They laughed again.
“Well he should punish the people who make you work on Sundays.”
“If you’d put in a good word for me Madam, I’d be extremely grateful. As for my Managers, all thunderbolts gratefully accepted.”

They got the joke and we all parted with smiles.

Monday, Bloody Monday

Plenty of sirens this bank holiday Monday as various Police response cars dopplered around the town, but no foot patrols spotted. Just us lot as usual on our errand to try and keep the streets running smoothly. Not that we always succeed.

Today I have had a vehicle driven at me (One I had just ticketed – but it’s a risk you take in this game), and several quite virulent exchanges with some very pushy members of the General Dyslexic.
For example; “Restrictions don’t apply on Bank Holidays” Says who?
Me; “Yes they do sir, and that’s why I booked your car.”
Retort; “You utter Cunt!” Ah, an intellectual.
Me; “Good day sir.”
Retort; “Was until you ruined it!”
That was the general tone all day. Some people simply felt aggrieved that they couldn’t park where the hell they liked. My job is to see that they don’t; ergo the multiple conflicts.

I even had one very silly person indeed begin to raise his fists to me. I just folded my arms and stood back just a little out of his reach, looking straight into his eyes. That way I’d at least have had a clue about when he was going to ‘kick off’ and do my best to dodge. What actually happened was that there were a couple of tense seconds before he made a cry of frustration and stalked off. Had he tried to make good his threat my cap and badge would have probably come off, and then I’d just be a private citizen and allowed to defend myself (Although I’d probably have been fired for it – but bollocks to that). Which leads me to this old chestnut;
“What do you say to a six foot plus Traffic Warden with a Judo belt and wearing steel toe caps?”
“You’re a complete twat?”
“Wrong – try again.”
“Oops, sorry Officer, I won’t do it again.”
“Correct! Now push off or I’ll book your car.”

One mistake I never make is to turn my back and walk away before they do. That’s an invitation to get knocked down from behind. If I do get attacked, I at least want to know where it’s coming from. Still got the shakes for twenty seconds after it had all calmed down. Covered it up well, and no one seemed to notice but me. It was just a case of “Next!” and getting on with the job.

Notwithstanding, I had to keep my mouth tightly shut and take all the crap handed out instead. By shifts end I was seriously pissed off, and it took almost an hour of soothing words from my dear lady wife to cool my fevered wits from fever pitch.

Incidentally, none of this went on any report form. If I’d tried to do that, I’d never have got any patrolling done on Monday. This form filling is all a big game of ‘cover your arse’ anyway. Not for me, but for the higher ups, so they don’t get blamed or sued for anything (Perish the thought). At the moment of writing I’m still so steamed (Two days later) that if summoned to account for my behaviour by Management I’m inclined to simply sit down and wait for them to finish before saying, “Is that all?” then leave the room to get back on patrol. They can fire me if they like, but I at least won’t have to take shit from both sides of the fence without any comeback anymore.

Sometimes using your brains isn’t enough and you just want to lash out and sod the consequences. I hate being an unwilling victim.

I’ve run out of things to write about

No, honestly. It’s all repeats. The situation with my employers remains as insane as always, certain members of the general public seem to be so short sighted it’s a wonder they can get out of their own front doors in the morning, and as for me; well that’s another story.

Mind you, there have been a couple of weird incidents. An eleven year old girl sitting slouched and unresponsive on the corner of a street. There’s a woman walking her dog standing over her, looking concerned. I wandered over.
“She’s just sitting there not talking. She won’t talk to me.” Says the woman, all motherly concern.
“Oh, right.” Say I, and the woman leaves me ‘holding the baby’ as it were. The girl very much reminds me of my youngest when she was eleven, so I try to see if she’ll talk. “Hello there. What’s up?” No response.
“It’s too cold a day to be sitting out here.” Not a twitch.

As a ‘caring’ parent, my next move would be (With my own kids) to edge my boot up to the unresponsive backside to nudge a response and tell a joke. Regrettably, in the eyes of our social worker infested paradise such behaviour would more than likely be misconstrued, so I key my radio and put out a call to CCTV.
“Hello Cameras, this is 515. Got a kid sitting slouched on the corner of Borough and Shetland Avenue – cancel that.” A Patrol car pulls up and a solitary Copper gets out. “She’s not talking, just sitting here unresponsive.” I said.
“Thanks for the call.” He says and steps into the breach, obviously thinking it was me who had called him out.
“No problem.” I respond, for want of a more appropriate thing to say, and get back on my beat.

Then there was the car whose driver forgot to turn a corner and ended up stuck on a grassy bank in one of our car parks, so we all turned out to shift it back into a more forgiving environment for a hatchback, i.e. good old tarmac. Around about the same time too. Like I said, nothing of any great import, and not much to write about.

Public transport

One of the problems with public transport is that there isn’t enough of it at the right time and place, and what there is doesn’t really solve the congestion and pollution problems. The major problem facing any public transport system is that too many people need to get around in the same space at the same time at peak hours of the day. In my travels I’ve witnessed Oxford Streets’ notorious ‘People jams’ where footway traffic comes to almost a complete halt because there are just too many people vying for the same space; also packed railway platforms and bus stops all over the British Isles.

The same goes for traffic. The reason people like me are in a job is because there is too much traffic for the roads at peak times. They all want to go to the same places and park all day outside their favourite shopping haunt for next to nothing, or preferably nothing.

A simple solution would be to stagger working times away from ‘Bankers hours’. More flexible working hours with public transport cover staggered to cover these broadened peak times. Unfortunately this isn’t the whole story. Even with this kind of cover, the current infrastructures of public transport just don’t have the flexibility and timeliness required to cut congestion down to more acceptable levels. Besides, the problem with public transport is that in Britain at least it is often dirty, crowded and full of the ‘great unwashed’. Not to mention the fact that the nutter always seems to sit next door to you and want to be your ‘friend’, or you pick a train plagued by a bunch of half cut ‘lads’ whose idea of fun is making a lot of adolescent noise. Hells teeth, I’d rather walk! I often do.

Right; An old mate of mine and I were chatting about this earlier tonight (He doesn’t know about this blog incidentally) and has worked out a flexible solution to add an extra layer of relatively low cost lightweight transport infrastructure which he is willing to share. It’s been patented and his proposals look interesting; but he’s not really much of a businessman and hasn’t had much success generating interest in it. Me, I think the idea has legs, and if anyone wants a copy of his idea in PDF format or the patent office reference, let me know.

Dazed and Confused

I’ve been having a bit of a “What the hell?” day today. Everything has been coming and going without a moment to draw breath. First thing this morning my dog was playing up, dawdling on his morning walk when normally he races ahead and I’m busy trying to keep up. Next Mrs S has gotten out of the wrong side of the bed saying she doesn’t want this and that. Youngest was whining like a wonky bearing because she suddenly decided from out of left field that she wants a Navel Piercing and her Mum wasn’t having any of it. Everything was going to pieces so fast I was getting hit by the emotional shrapnel. I’ve rarely been so glad to go to work.

I got into work fifteen minutes early and the Supervisor was looking daggers at me for some reason, even though he’s been on his days off and we got on very nicely thank you without him. My mates were all bitching about how crap everything was before we’d even got started. I got out of there pronto. What on earth had got in to everyone?

When the rain hit I stayed out on Patrol in one of my usual little sheltering places, watching the world go by. No sense in going back to face the witches cauldron of emotional torment that everyone else had wound themselves up into. Thought I’d got away with it until late morning when;
“Control calling 515, where are you?”
“Out on patrol at the end of the High Street. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. Just hadn’t heard from you.”
“I’m fine, just keeping a general eye on things, it’s pretty quiet out here.”
“Okay 515, can you return to base soon as possible.” Oh bugger.
“Okay Control. 515 out.” There ends my peaceful morning. I dodged the showers and took my time getting back to base. There was nothing there I really wanted to do, just clearing the storm drains, tidying store rooms and all the other silly make-work that goes on when it gets too wet to patrol.
“How come you’re not soaked?” Was the question that greeted me as I walked in to the mess room.
“Me, heap big friend rain god. Him no-um rainum on me.” I grinned for a moment then looked around at all the glum faces who’d missed the ‘Rain God’ joke entirely. “What?”
“Why didn’t you log on to wet weather?”
“Because I was out there, on patrol.”
“You’re making the rest of us look like idiots.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re out there and we’re all logged on wet weather.”
“So what?”
“It makes us look like a bunch of prats.” What? Really? That wasn’t difficult was it?
“Well, sorreee!”
“What were you doing out there anyway?”
“Skiving.” Let’s see if the truth confuses ‘em.
“Typical Bill, always taking the piss.” It did.
“Better than being pissed on.” I shrugged out of my damp kit.
“You’re in the wrong fookin job then.” This is, at least in our crew, the absolute height of witty banter and produced a huge guffaw of laughter all round the mess. Oh God.

I just dried off and sidled out to watch the rain. There are times when you just have to let your mates win one, or they get all mardy.

Back at the ranch as they say, I returned home to listen to a low level argument switch between youngest, eldest, then wife, and back again. Don’t ask me what it’s all about; it must be a female thing. As a mere male, I just keep my head down and try to ignore all the kerfuffle.

A good officer never gets wet

During our initial training, we were told that “A good officer never gets wet”. Taking this to heart, and wishing to be a “Good officer” I found several places around town that were warm and comfy refuges from the worst of the British climate, from temperatures of (This year) down to minus seven Celsius, to quite heavy downpours. All of said facilities had (Notice the past tense) a dual function; we had access to keys to secure gates, change machines and other of the councils facilities.

Now we found out (No one told us) today that the locks have been changed, and we will no longer have access to these cosy little bolt holes in wet or freezing weather. We are now forced to waste up to half an hour patrol time walking back and forth to base to get and return keys to lock and unlock Council facilities. There are no more handy places to dry out your kit if you get caught in a sudden downpour. Oh yes, and we are forbidden to use public facilities whilst in uniform. We have no recourse but to freeze or be soaked when the weather turns and take ‘comfort breaks’ back at base. Union, what bloody union?

The reason for this closure is that one of our number was caught using one such bolt hole for twenty minutes to fill out his note book after a particularly successful foray. Instead of addressing his behaviour, the Council has seen fit to penalise all of us. The chair polishers are so petty. We get told that “Well you get a paid tea break” Ahem. Excuse me, you bastards can wander away from your desks every ten minutes if you want to, and have to have a ‘screen break’ of 5 minutes every hour (Check the health & Safety directives) and it doesn’t even get logged. Effectively giving them more break time than us. They can have cups of tea every hour on the hour and no one will say a dicky bird.

Fine, just let them try “Bill, can you do this for us?”
My reply will be “Sorry, be at least half an hour.”
“Oh Bill, can you…”
“Kind of tied up right now..”
“515, where are you?”
“515? Are you okay?”
“Anyone out there seen 515?”
“515 here control – Rather busy at the moment – can someone else help?”
“515, what are you doing?”
“I’m out at (Quote location on beat furthest from requested venue). Isn’t there anyone closer?”
“515, my office – now!”
“Can you hang on while I finish this first…”

The fun will be unending, or maybe an ending.

Skiving

Word has come down from on high that we’re skiving. To wit; swinging the lead, goldbricking, bunking off, and playing hookey. To further expand; apparently we’re avoiding the work we are paid to do – all of us.

Well bugger me with a large dirty parsnip; I never knew I could avoid work because I’m so heavily scrutinised at the moment I can’t even fart without having to record the fact with times dates and locations. I have to log on to each street and record the fact with a test ticket from each pay and display machine I check. The same for car parks. The ‘test ticket’ has to be kept in a special place to be retrieved so I can prove where I was. Everything I do has to be proven. I’m actually quite gobsmacked that they don’t ask for a urine and faecal sample to prove I actually had a toilet break.

My managers are so fucking paranoid that I will stop and smell the roses that my movements are recorded and scrutinised daily. If I take too long on a street or car park they want to know why and what I was doing. If I didn’t book a vehicle they want to know why. If this is common to all parking enforcers, no wonder we’ve got the reputation of being a lot of lemon sucking misanthropes. You’d be miserable too.

Our management really know how to motivate people, don’t they?

The only thing that cheers me up is the fact that most people I talk to are legal decent, honest and truthful. Just a little careless sometimes.

Counter culture

This is a concept I’ve been trying to put into some coherent form of words for some time now. Trying to quantify what is actually the matter with things, why people are so dag-blasted unhappy all the time (Including me). Recently, what with one thing and another, I’ve had the time to think about such matters while walking the streets of my hometown.

Taking a leaf out of the inestimable Mrs Sticker’s book, I compiled a list of ‘Unhappiness factors’

1 Dissatisfaction (With life, looks, job etc.)
2 Depression, Reactive (Linked to loss)

Okay, as the old cliché goes, how can I make my life better? Count my blessings? Nah. Thank goodness I’m still breathing / not a starving person in Africa? Nope. None of that. How about the following;

Get better job / start up my own business. Not a bad idea, but then that raises the issue of how to avoid the ministrations of the ‘bean counters’ who can’t rest until they have a numerical value for everything and take the long way around getting the figures?

I could of course apply to be a PCSO. Nice idea, not much weekend working, and not so many late nights. No justifying every single waking moment of your day via a hand held computer. No having to log everything including the tweely named ‘comfort breaks’. All that and much better money. They’re actually recruiting in my area.

Unfortunately I’ve just had a look at who may and may not be a PCSO, and I can’t (Old financial problem, don’t want to discuss it). So there goes that idea down the toilet. Bugger. Back to the keyboard then.