I’m not a fan of New Year celebrations. Noises, crowds, good cheer … yikes! Give me a token amount of alcohol and something good to watch on the tellybox and I’ll gladly leave others to have fun on my behalf.
After all, next year is just going to be another lousy year …
Happy New Year!
My husband is fast asleep on the settee. I’m not sure if he’s suffering from restless leg syndrome or just letting his foot jig along to the music I’m subjecting his drooling state to.
(Robbie Williams, if you’re interested.)
I had no intention of writing a post on Christmas Day itself, but we’re being lazy (in preparation for two consecutive days of familial mayhem, which will begin with a visit to dialysis at 6.30 in the morning) and EastEnders doesn’t start for another twenty or so minutes.
I was a tad irked earlier in the week, but that simply serves me right for allowing myself to read the ridiculous views of ridiculous people on Have Your Say (which can be found on the BBC website, somewhere.) I love Christmas. I love buying and receiving presents. I love watching other people open presents. I love clapping my hands in excitement and giggling like a child. The anticipation and exhilaration that Christmas brings is a truly fabulous feeling, despite the fact that it doesn’t last long. I spend Christmas Eve wanting to desperately open my presents, and Christmas Day putting it off as long as possible.
And I hate (or maybe not quite, but pretty close) those people who spout forth with silly things about giving their money to charity to save the world by not buying cards, or who give vouchers or money, or who proclaim that some adults are childish for expecting presents when presents should only be for children.
Sheesh folks! Who took your sense of wonder and stamped on it?
I have nothing else to say. The Champagne is making me sleepy.
Merry Christmas!
I’m becoming increasingly disillusioned. This isn’t with life itself, or my marriage.
It’s just my job.
I’ve been in my current position since the September of 2004, which is the longest I’ve ever worked anywhere.
Go me!
For the most part I love like it. I don’t have to think too hard, I get a day off during the week – which I need, both emotionally and psychologically (and because I’m lazy), and I don’t have to bring work home with me.
But just recently there have been things happening which really irk me. I’m expected to be an all-singing, all-dancing, super employee, an expectation which is both demoralising and ridiculous.
I’m covering for one of our Science teachers who is on long-term sick. I can’t do Science. I’m the idiot who only got a DD in her Combined Science GCSE. This has been since May, with no information as to when the teacher will return. I’m also having to deliver some Maths (which I hate), some English (which I love) and some ICT (which I quite like) on my regular timetable (which changes three times a week, quite literally). On top of that I have to cover for absent colleagues, usually unexpectedly so work isn’t always set.
I don’t mind the variety in my timetable; I just wish it was based more on my strengths. The issue is more to do with the fact that there are so many changes and the students see me in so many different roles that it’s confusing for everybody (me included). I have put my foot down with regards covering reception when our receptionist is off; I’m not an admin worker and I don’t do phones.
Why are you teaching me English when you’re a Science teacher?
Tsk.
Oh, and then there’s Little Miss Perfect, Arselicker. I’m unsure as to why her lack of qualifications, courses and experience made her a better option than me for a particular role (one day a week) to cover for a colleague who left. I suspect that the fact she a) can drive and b) doesn’t mind talking on the phone were her only strengths over mine. And if I find out she’s getting paid for that day at a higher rate I shall be mightily pissed …
Maybe it’s time to start looking for a new (better) position, but I earn quite good money and like my day off. On the other hand I could just stop whinging like a sour puss.
It used to be fun in my place of work … now it’s just a bitchfest. (Although that can be quite enjoyable too …)
I have a problem with people. I don’t always ‘get’ them.
In my idealistic little world I enjoy thinking the best of people. I can’t help it. It’s almost like a need to believe that deep down all human beings are – simply – nice. So I find it difficult to understand why people are filled with so much venom for situations they had no personal part in, involving people they have never met and will never know.
Take the Jamie Bulger case. What happened to that poor defenceless toddler was inexcusable. He suffered in a way that most of us will never experience. But the perpetrators were two little boys, at least one of whom was also suffering in a way that most of us will never experience. I’m not excusing his actions; I’m just stating the facts. Once they had served their time they were given new identities … why on earth would they not be?
But this isn’t really about the Jamie Bulger case. It’s not about the Soham murders. It’s not about the thousands of little kids who get abused, day in and day out, or the elderly folk who speak to nobody for weeks at a time, or the mother who lets her husband beat her to protect her children.
This is about the pathetic folk who randomly react with exaggerated disgust because they believe it makes them look like caring individuals.
Nowhere is this more apparent than Facebook. As a popular social networking site it has the ability to reach into the minds of millions of people, young and old, and everything in between. People start groups within Facebook for all sorts of reasons, whether they be for fun, to whinge, or to keep in contact with particular people.
And occasionally they start groups because they’re so disgusted by something.
I do understand the disgust. I understand where it comes from and why people feel disgusted. But it annoys me. Pathetic people in their cosy homes raising their voices in the hope that they can appear more outraged than the previous commentator.
“I’m more disgusted!”
“No! I am!”
Apparently Hollyoaks are doing a storyline which is loosely based on the Bulger case. If it’s lightly based on the Bulger case it must also be lightly based on the case of Mary Bell, yet I hear no cries of indignation for her victims. What really irked me were the ridiculous comments about how wrong it was for a soap to take a real life event and loosely base a story about it.
“Think of those involved!” screams one commentator.
Soaps portray life, albeit in an often surreal and very exaggerated way. Children get abused, women get raped, extra-marital affairs are commonplace, men hit women, people get murdered, houses get ravaged by fire, planes crash, alcoholics live in pubs, kids get bullied, girls seduce teachers, people commit suicide, women lie about the father of their children … it all happens in soaps. It also happens in films, and we see similar stories every single day on the news.
So what makes one persons suffering more important than the next persons? Why are all the faceless thousands who suffer from terrible things immune to seeing these things portrayed daily in forms of entertainment? Where’s the indignation and disgust on their behalf?
Why do we choose to be so outraged about incredibly rare and tragic events whilst turning a blind eye to all the terrible everyday events which leave lifetime scars which will also never heal? Because that’s what happens … the ridiculous pathetic-ness of people who can barely spell or wRiT liK dIs 4sum reason on boards which can be read by anyone … and then they switch off their computers and forget about it.
It just strikes me as odd. And I’m genuinely curious as to why it happens …