Is there anything more frightening than a hairdresser that can't speak English? I mean, I'm quite used to hairdressers being chatty and this puts me at my ease. After all, I'm entrusting them with quite a big responsibility; there's nothing worse than getting a haircut akin to Rod Stewart... But having to explain what haircut you want using the international language of hand gestures is quite a nerve-racking experience.
This is exactly what happened to me this week (well I'm not looking too Rod Stewartesque but I do look a little lopsided).What made it worse was she was also a student hairdresser. A student hairdresser that can't speak English = any girl's nightmare.
All I wanted was a trim and I was trying to stay calm, but she kept saying “You keep changing your mind!” I honestly wasn't, it was just that my voice was getting higher and more hysterical every time she asked me what to do, until I could only let out a frightened squeak when she approached me with the scissors. I think we might have been making each other a little nervous....
Am I foolhardy to use the college hairdressers? It's hard to say, but can a strapped-for-cash journo really resist a haircut for 6 quid? Even if it did take 2 hours and cause me to break out in a stress rash....
In non-dodgy haircut news, I had a college trip to London on Friday, which was very fun. We went with the purpose of seeing the new Supreme Court, but that was pretty boring so it quickly turned into a shopping trip.
On the packed train on the way back, half our class (including me) were forced to sit on the-much-coveted fold-out chairs where your nose is pretty much pressed against the toilet door.
I don't know if you've seen them, but it was one of the the train toilets that's sort of circular shaped and has an automatic door that open and closes with the touch of a button.
Well we were innocently observing the train toilet-traffic and trying to breathe through out mouths when one man went into the toilet and forgot to do one very important thing; lock the door.
After a short time had passed, a woman came to use the toilet and before any of us had really realised what was happening, she had pressed the automatic door open button and the door was sliding back to reveal the man, desperately trying to shut the door again with one hand and covering his *ahem* 'shame' with the other... And I've got to say, once those toilet doors have decided to open, it's not so easy to get them to close again.
Cue carriage's incredibly English reaction to situation:
- Anyone not right in front of the door pretended that they hadn't realised anything was happening and either buried their heads in a broadsheet or looked determinedly out the window.
- Those directly in front of the toilet door (including me), Said 'oh dear' and 'oh my goodness', sat their stupefied for a second before trying to help caught-out man shut the door without making any eye contact whatsoever with anyone.
- Woman who had pressed the open button frantically jabbed at the close button, then realising this wasn't going to work, took a step away, disassociating herself by looking at the ceiling.
- When the man came out again we all chose a variety of poses: incredibly interested in watch, incredibly interested in floor, incredibly interested in next man's paper and incredibly interested in phone.
Luckily, no eye contact between anyone in the carriage occurred at any point during the incident and therefore, due to excellent employment of English embarrassment avoidance tactics, we can all pretend it didn't happen. Good work everyone.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Skip balancing and cold feet
I hear Cameron's having a moan about health and safety legislation. Well I have some ideas of my own to tackle a few of the world's problems and health and safety just happens to be one of them.
I had my brain wave whilst driving into college last week. I had the delight of being stuck in a traffic jam behind a lorry carrying a particularly dirty and smelly skip.
As we got closer, I realised there was a helpful warning sign on it showing a stick man with a skip on his head. It was quite clearly warning people not to balance skips on their heads.
Hopefully, it's fairly obvious to most people that no human neck could withstand having a skip placed upon it, no matter how often you wear hats made of lead. Do we really need a sign?
The most worrying thing about this sign is that I was under the impression that most warnings exist because at some point someone has suffered horrible injuries trying to do what it's warning against. Does this mean at some point in the past someone has died balancing a skip on their head?
Anyway, this brings me to my main point. I think most companies could protect themselves from being sued through health and safety laws if they just put one simple sign on their products:
Don't be a complete idiot.
My other bright idea combats the age old problem of cold feet in bed. I was trying to convince Joe about the merits of this idea last night, but he just seemed to think I was crazy.
If you're lying in bed on a cold night, invariably your top half is quite warm but your feet are absolutely freezing.
My suggestion is simple; after being in bed for a while, unable to sleep due to icy toes, simply switch ends so your feet are at the bit your body has warmed up and you're at the other end. NB: it is usually necessary to decamp fully with pillows to avoid neck discomfort.
Then after a while, switch back so you're at the right end again (because there's nothing more disorientating than waking up in the wrong end of bed). You will now notice the bottom half of the bed is warm and your cold feet problem is solved. It's a tried and tested method I have been using since I was a child.
Now don't be giving me none of this 'why not use a hot water bottle?' Or 'why not wear a pair of socks?'
That would be far too easy.
I had my brain wave whilst driving into college last week. I had the delight of being stuck in a traffic jam behind a lorry carrying a particularly dirty and smelly skip.
As we got closer, I realised there was a helpful warning sign on it showing a stick man with a skip on his head. It was quite clearly warning people not to balance skips on their heads.
Hopefully, it's fairly obvious to most people that no human neck could withstand having a skip placed upon it, no matter how often you wear hats made of lead. Do we really need a sign?
The most worrying thing about this sign is that I was under the impression that most warnings exist because at some point someone has suffered horrible injuries trying to do what it's warning against. Does this mean at some point in the past someone has died balancing a skip on their head?
Anyway, this brings me to my main point. I think most companies could protect themselves from being sued through health and safety laws if they just put one simple sign on their products:
Don't be a complete idiot.
My other bright idea combats the age old problem of cold feet in bed. I was trying to convince Joe about the merits of this idea last night, but he just seemed to think I was crazy.
If you're lying in bed on a cold night, invariably your top half is quite warm but your feet are absolutely freezing.
My suggestion is simple; after being in bed for a while, unable to sleep due to icy toes, simply switch ends so your feet are at the bit your body has warmed up and you're at the other end. NB: it is usually necessary to decamp fully with pillows to avoid neck discomfort.
Then after a while, switch back so you're at the right end again (because there's nothing more disorientating than waking up in the wrong end of bed). You will now notice the bottom half of the bed is warm and your cold feet problem is solved. It's a tried and tested method I have been using since I was a child.
Now don't be giving me none of this 'why not use a hot water bottle?' Or 'why not wear a pair of socks?'
That would be far too easy.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
A council meeting hangover
Well yesterday I got my first taste of a full city council meeting. Democracy in action, it was thrilling.
The day started badly (like a lot of my days seem to, and I always thought I was a morning person). Some idiot had parked outside our garage blocking our car in, forcing us to take our bikes to college despite rain and near gale-force winds.
By the time I got to college, I had an attractive wet and muddy streak between my bum cheeks, due to my bike's sad lack of a mud-guard. I like to call it the cyclists' skid mark; a proud badge of honour.
After the obligatory early morning slog through short hand, we were off to council, held in the middle of the city. It's a cycle ride that normally takes 20 minutes but due to before mentioned gale force winds, took nearly 45 minutes.
I arrived at the council chambers wobbly-legged and wind swept but enthusiastic nonetheless.
The main item on the agenda: Portsmouth's world cup bid. Debate began at about 1.30 and raged
with only one short break until 7 o'clock.
Good lord councillors like their own voices. The most annoying thing was that most councillors started their little speeches with “I know what most I'm about to say has been said before...”
WELL WHY ARE YOU SAYING IT THEN? No one here wants to hear you parrot what has already been said a dozen times. We all want to go to the pub!
After a lot a lot a lot of debate, and a lot of time spent squabbling over how they should actually conduct the vote, they eventually voted to 'boot out the bid', much to the consternation of some of my football fanatic classmates.
By that time, I just wanted to get out of there (I was hungry). Of course, just like real journalists, we had to write up our story over night.
I have the unfortunate problem of my brain completely shutting down past about 9 o'clock. And plus I had about 50 pages of short hand notes to decipher.
Needless to say, the evening was a bit of a slog.
It was pretty hard getting out of bed this morning. Perhaps my 'council meeting hangover' is best illustrated by the fact that as I stood slack-jawed in the shower, I forgot to shut my mouth when rubbing a nice soapy lather on my face. Uck, I could still taste soap at lunchtime...
The day started badly (like a lot of my days seem to, and I always thought I was a morning person). Some idiot had parked outside our garage blocking our car in, forcing us to take our bikes to college despite rain and near gale-force winds.
By the time I got to college, I had an attractive wet and muddy streak between my bum cheeks, due to my bike's sad lack of a mud-guard. I like to call it the cyclists' skid mark; a proud badge of honour.
After the obligatory early morning slog through short hand, we were off to council, held in the middle of the city. It's a cycle ride that normally takes 20 minutes but due to before mentioned gale force winds, took nearly 45 minutes.
I arrived at the council chambers wobbly-legged and wind swept but enthusiastic nonetheless.
The main item on the agenda: Portsmouth's world cup bid. Debate began at about 1.30 and raged
with only one short break until 7 o'clock.
Good lord councillors like their own voices. The most annoying thing was that most councillors started their little speeches with “I know what most I'm about to say has been said before...”
WELL WHY ARE YOU SAYING IT THEN? No one here wants to hear you parrot what has already been said a dozen times. We all want to go to the pub!
After a lot a lot a lot of debate, and a lot of time spent squabbling over how they should actually conduct the vote, they eventually voted to 'boot out the bid', much to the consternation of some of my football fanatic classmates.
By that time, I just wanted to get out of there (I was hungry). Of course, just like real journalists, we had to write up our story over night.
I have the unfortunate problem of my brain completely shutting down past about 9 o'clock. And plus I had about 50 pages of short hand notes to decipher.
Needless to say, the evening was a bit of a slog.
It was pretty hard getting out of bed this morning. Perhaps my 'council meeting hangover' is best illustrated by the fact that as I stood slack-jawed in the shower, I forgot to shut my mouth when rubbing a nice soapy lather on my face. Uck, I could still taste soap at lunchtime...
Monday, 23 November 2009
Earpods and sat navs that moo
It was only 7.30 and Joe was already having to fish me out of the wardrobe, where I’d been forced to take refuge.
How can a girl be expected cope when she has spilt a huge blob of foundation on her last clean top? How come my make up all seems to have come off my face by about 10.30 in the morning and yet no amount of scrubbing or swearing will make it come out of my top?
Sticking my head into the wardrobe and refusing to move seemed the only sensible solution and it took a considerable amount of coaxing to get me out. By this time we were late and I was wearing a top with holes in it.
The day passed in a blur of shorthand, media law, over priced college coffee and a news writing exam. A typical day in the life of a journalist-in-training. As we left the college, I revelled in the gloriousness of Friday afternoons – the whole weekend ahead of you, endless possibilities and Monday morning is a lifetime away.
And this Friday afternoon we were off back to Suffolk to do the dedicated-daughter-thing and see my parents. We had to check my fiesta (aka the Bethmobile) over first. Since her sojourn to Croatia this summer, she hasn’t quite been the same. And I think she’s angry at me for accidentally slamming the garage door on her bonnet this week... But all seemed well and we set off.
The time passed quickly, despite the fact that my mum has managed to set my sat nav to moo at me whenever I break the speed limit. Why did we let parents learn to use technology? I’ve resorted to making it moo in time to music by rhythmically accelerating.
Back home, my grandparents came round for dinner and on the subject of ipods (my dad just got one for his birthday) my grandma remarks that she can’t understand why they’re not called earpods. She’s got a point there.
I spent the evening considering my latest book idea: Grandmas say the funniest things.
How can a girl be expected cope when she has spilt a huge blob of foundation on her last clean top? How come my make up all seems to have come off my face by about 10.30 in the morning and yet no amount of scrubbing or swearing will make it come out of my top?
Sticking my head into the wardrobe and refusing to move seemed the only sensible solution and it took a considerable amount of coaxing to get me out. By this time we were late and I was wearing a top with holes in it.
The day passed in a blur of shorthand, media law, over priced college coffee and a news writing exam. A typical day in the life of a journalist-in-training. As we left the college, I revelled in the gloriousness of Friday afternoons – the whole weekend ahead of you, endless possibilities and Monday morning is a lifetime away.
And this Friday afternoon we were off back to Suffolk to do the dedicated-daughter-thing and see my parents. We had to check my fiesta (aka the Bethmobile) over first. Since her sojourn to Croatia this summer, she hasn’t quite been the same. And I think she’s angry at me for accidentally slamming the garage door on her bonnet this week... But all seemed well and we set off.
The time passed quickly, despite the fact that my mum has managed to set my sat nav to moo at me whenever I break the speed limit. Why did we let parents learn to use technology? I’ve resorted to making it moo in time to music by rhythmically accelerating.
Back home, my grandparents came round for dinner and on the subject of ipods (my dad just got one for his birthday) my grandma remarks that she can’t understand why they’re not called earpods. She’s got a point there.
I spent the evening considering my latest book idea: Grandmas say the funniest things.
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