Just another day

There are lots of people who describe Christmas Day as just another day.

And sit down to a huge Christmas lunch with all the trimmings, open their presents from the huge pile under the tree festooned with bright ornaments, have friends and family round for food, drinks, games, chat, fun, and maybe even watch the queen's speech for all I know.

That, is not 'just another day'.

'Just another day' is:

When you get up at the same time rather than waking up in the small hours dying to open your presents under the tree - because there is no tree, and there are no presents.

When you don't have children, or any family, or close friends coming to visit.

When you don't prepare a special - and far too large - Christmas lunch.

When you have enough space for your cards.

When you aren't religious, so most of what Christmas should be about goes over your head.

Just another day is doing exactly what you do on any other non-work day.

I wrote similar feelings on Itchy Feet last year, and reading back over it just now, I was surprised I'd written about the memories of childhood Christmases. This year, they didn't even come to mind.

Oddly today, I did wake up not long after midnight. Probably because the cat bites were hurting. But what was going around in my head, apart from dreams of being savaged by a pack of vicious cats, was a song by Lindisfarne.

It was from the album 'Nicely out of Tune,' and wasn't a particular favourite track of mine because it was a bit dirgeful. I'm not fond of dirgeful music, unless it is part of a funeral service. So I usually skipped this track.

But my Partner liked it, in fact he likes all the tracks on the album, so these days it gets played through.

It is an appropriate song for the time of year. 'Winter Song.' One of my best husky pals reminded me that the Winter Solstice the other day marks the start of winter.

I'm not one for lyrics, so I never really listened to the words to this song. My idea of a good tune is one I can happily la-la-la along to without needing to know the boring words. You can tell that, because even now, after 40 years, I didn't realise there was a reference to Christmas in this song.

And that wasn't the line going round in my head. Because, the trouble with British folk/rock bands is that more than most bands, they sing quite clearly, and even I can pick out the odd few words.

It was this: 'Do you spare a thought for the homeless...'

Because for the homeless, Christmas Day really is just another day.

Lyrics here.

Song below.

Merry Christmas people.

Christmas Eve rants of the day ....

Today's post was going to be a light-hearted post about incompetent staff, parsimonious customers, and rich supermarket owners.

You can read that one later.

For now, the first part is ....

Taking the dog out of the door for his lunchtime walk, Partner noticed next-door's cat in the stairwell.

This is not the first time the cat runs rampant around the block. Doing whatever cats do when they run rampantly around blocks.

Last time, I coaxed it upstairs, we did nice cat noises together, I picked it up and we did nice purrs. Partner and dog were able to leave the block in tranquility.

Well this time the little fucker was right outside our front door. Then it ran downstairs. By the time I got down to intercede, it was stand-off time. This, for anyone who doesn't understand, is where extremely large and fast dog who adores people, children and puppies, wants to kill cats that are encroaching on his territory.

When I say wants to, I mean will. Record to date: Pippa: a couple of cats, and an extremely large vicious rat. Cats and rats: 0. A couple of claws in his nose and a scratch.

Now, a cat with nowhere to go, is just not going to win this battle. I'll spare those of you with cats and rats the details of the dog's rather efficient technique. Suffice to say it works.

I went to move the cat out of the way in the hopes I would alleviate the situation. Hissing from cat and snarling from dog. Groaning from Partner.

They went one way and I tried to placate the darling cat who had been my friend before. I picked him up. Scratch, hiss, bite, went the little bastard. I dropped the fucking thing and cursed him to hell as he ran upstairs.

'I'll catch you up when I've sorted the blood,' I called after Partner and dog. Before I knew it the Vamps would be out wanting to chase cat, dog, and suck my blood. i shot upstairs too.

Owner of cat wandered out of her flat happily.

'Your cat was downstairs,' I snarled. 'It's happened a lot recently.'

'Oh, I know. My mother let him out for three hours the other day.'

Hello. Stupid fucking cow. You know? Why does your cat have the right to run up and down the block? Huh? When there are two dogs - to our knowledge - who live in it? And we have already told you our dog is not the most cat-friendly specimen in the world?

I am sure there are no bad cats, like there are no bad dogs. I'm not exactly fond of this cat at the moment, but I'm even less fond of his stupid fucking person.

Despite blood gushing out of my hand (ok maybe not dripping all the way down the stairs) she called happily upwards for darling gatito and seemed not to notice my Significant Injury. She didn't move her idle fat arse and run up there to find him. Why would she? If she was that interested in what the cat was doing she would supervise his very annoying block excursions and wander around with him.

All I can say is, wait till the nice Doberman upstairs grows up. Heh. Heh. Heh.

And the second story is ......

Anyway, there we were in Morrisons as usual. I'd bought finger chillis, at £5 a kilo, previously called Thai chillis, and then priced at £5.99 a kilo.

Pesky woman rang them in at £5.99. I queried it. 'They're £5.99 a kilo and only 18p,' she said. And looked at me scornfully. I withered on the spot.

Really helpful Placatory Partner said maybe the sign on the shelf was wrong. I always thought they had to sell stuff at the shelf price or not at all. But I was clearly in the wrong. All ways round.

I looked at the receipt. Thai chillis at £5.99. I went back to the shelf. Finger chillis at £5. I moaned at Partner but said it was only a few pence so what did it matter.

Well, lo and behold for Christmas. He jumped on his soapbox and said 'Imagine doing that 100 times a day. In every Morrisons shop. Not even as though the staff get anything out of it. That's why their profits are so good. You go and ask for that money back.'

Ah right. Me. I have to be the one making a total plonker of myself saying this price is wrong and I want a few pence back.

I mean, his point had logic, and why should Mr Morrison have lots of my money unnecessarily? But for a few pence? Three, by the way, I had now worked it out to be.

Truth was, I'd been had before on this chilli lark. I'd bought the Thai ones, for £5.99 and been charged for the expensive ones at £6.99, but because it was only a matter of pence I didn't have the brass neck to go and complain.

He plonked the shopping bags down and insisted. I slouched up to the customer services desk and cringed. The woman looked surprised and went off to sort it. Trouble was, the nearest cashier she asked couldn't find them on her till code thing.

In the end the customer service person agreed to give me 5p off. I was wrapped. I had made all of 2p profit. I signed the form and wished her a Merry Christmas and still felt like a total arse for making such a fuss.

'You know,' said Partner, as we walked home, 'it's important to sort these things out.'

I have the feeling Santa won't be coming down my non-existent chimney tonight.

There's the bucket, pee in it

Once upon a time, my partner went to do a job in an expensive part of the city.

Actually it was a posh suburb/village/sort of thing where aspirational people lived.

Two bedrooms, a dining room, all to be painted white, and at the time, approx cost £750. Including paint.

Partner and his employee - a smart and totally respectable young man - turned up on the job.

They were busy unloading, dust sheets, tools, equipment, paint etc, when the Lady of the House came out.

She kindly pointed out the bucket in the garage. 'That's for you to pee in.'

'Simon, load everything back in the Land Rover,' he ordered. Simon was still reeling with shock anyway. I don't think anyone had ever told him to pee in a bucket. Certainly not in Darras Hall. FFS his mother lived there. He drank with Ant and Dec (I think they are TV people).

'I'll take you to court,' said the Lady of the House.

'I don't think you'll win,' said Partner.

You've got cancer and you're sick? Get back to work.

A good friend, who has gone through the gruelling ordeal of cancer treatment, has alerted people (on FB) to the latest really clever proposal by the Department of Work and Pensions in the UK.

Apparently having cancer does not mean you are sick. Oh no.

When I worked in the UK health service, the standard comment among clinicians was that there were three ways to treat cancer - butchery (surgery), burning (radiotherapy), and poisoning (chemotherapy).

Right, but having all those treatments so means that you are capable of going to work, having a back to work interview, and just skipping on with your life.

Hello, incredibly greedy grasping people at DWP and your political leaders. Have you thought about the impact this sort of treatment has on people? Physically? Mentally? And, do you really really think they are going to waltz into that wonderful crappily paid job you are going to offer them (anything to get people off benefit) and be able to give their absolute utmost? Maybe, they might have other things on their mind? Wondering how long they will live perhaps?

I am not a fan of Macmillan but they have organised a petition against this stupid proposal. Link here.

To summarise.

It seems that cancer patients receiving radiotherapy treatment, and those receiving non-intravenous chemotherapy (oral), have not been exempted from work interviews or medical assessments. Hell, what's a bit of radiotherapy? Or poisoning by taking tablets? No side effects from any of that surely?

But cancer patients on intra-venous chemo, ie nasty needles stuck in veins and sucking poisons for hours, were exempt.

Not unreasonably IMNRHO, cancer charities asked the DWP to end this anomaly and treat all cancer patients the same. Because, actually patients on radiotherapy and oral chemo amazingly also suffer side-effects. And possibly they do not feel very well.

Anyways the bright sparks at the DWP seemed to think that the best way to sort this was to take away the exemptions from the intra-venous chemo patients. Gosh! What a very clever way to go!! Total equality for all extremely sick patients.

I have had three good friends die of cancer this year. One of them I was lucky enough to meet before she died, the other two I didn't. The thought of any of them having to go through interviews to go back to work makes me want to poke someone's eyes out. Another friend has recently been diagnosed with cancer.

Cancer is not nice. It doesn't discriminate. The treatment is not nice either. It is invasive whether it is surgery, chemo or radiotherapy and there are physical and mental after effects whatever the treatment.

And when all these cancer patients are offered jobs while THEY ARE STILL POORLY - will they get time off with pay for chemo? Cos how many employers will want to pay for that?

I read some shite about the UK on the internet, and this one really, really, leaves me cold. Make sure you don't get cancer if you live in the UK, 'cos you need to be right back to work the day after you have been diagnosed.

After all, you are hardly sick are you? Stop bludging and claiming those benefits to which you are not entitled.

You've only got cancer,

Donna, donna, and Joan Baez? Just another hypocrite?

Ay!

When I was a kid at junior school, ie below 11 years of age, we sang this song.
I couldn't sing it without crying.

Couldn't bear the thought of the poor calf being killed. Vegetarian before I knew it maybe?

Joan Baez is tougher than me. Puts human rights before animals. Her choice. Great that she takes on Czechoslovakia in 1989. But whoever speaks for the animals? And the calf with a mournful eye? Using a sad Jewish song with your beautiful voice to gain political points? Crap sweetie. However lovely your voice and your right-on politics. Even if you may possibly have been vegetarian for a few days back in 1968. Possibly.

So my dears, eat your steaks sweethearts. And enjoy. After all who gives a shit about one more dead animal if it tastes nice.

Cows are easily bound and slaughtered - of course.

Oh, and here is the lovely record with the absolutely unbeatable, almost unbearable, voice of Ms Baez.

Ms Baez who don't give a shit about animals.

Arguments

There are lots of good things about the internet. Mostly, in my opinion, that includes sharing information for free.

But there are an awful lot of bad things too. Truth is, I'm not sure what value it has added to my life. I managed well enough before.

Fax, 'phone, mail order worked fine.

But, let alone the abhorrent, pornographic, and violent garbage that is on the internet, there are also your average arguments.

I'm more than qualified to speak about this as I have argued with the whole world on the internet.

On forums, via Facebook, pms, and emails. Not on blogs as far as I can recall because I am a supreme dictator on my blogs and censor anything that I think is rubbish. Such power.

One of my - natch - ex-friends, described Facebook as the Work of the Devil. In a way she was right. But the truth is, it's not the (social - or anti-social) network site - whether FB or a forum - that is the problem, it's the online intimacy that develops between people who have never met. And may never meet. When there is a mix of dynamics where some meet and others don't, the situation gets even more complicated.

The reason I started this post was because I was saddened to read something on a FB wall. It was on the wall of one my friends (who I didn't meet) who died this year. Won't take a genius to work out who that was. I never fell out with her (!) and I respected her courage and strength. Wow! Was she tough.

There was a disagreement on that person's wall about posts after her death. And, all the points had merit, I didn't disagree with them. The bizarre thing about FB is that when someone has died, people go back to their wall and post, and say 'We miss you.' Or maybe they just go back to read, because you don't, or can't, just wipe out a lifetime with a flick of a key. Maybe people want to just look back and remember. Who knows? It's like a photo album, or reading through old letters or whatever.

To me, those pages should remain for what people want to say on there, if anything. People may want to leave messages to family, friends, and make commemorative posts. I have another friend who died this year, who I did meet. Her FB page is a peaceful place to visit. And that, to me, is how FB pages for our former friends should be.

If we want to spat about stuff on FB, there are other places to take it. Or even a link, but I really think it would be nice to leave the pages of all of our former friends as that peaceful place.

On FB, we all have our own walls, our own groups where we can share our hurt feelings. They are the best places to vent. Or maybe on our blogs.

And then, we take them down. Or at least I do. When someone has read my really fed up rant of the day, I can take it down and move on. Because taking it down shows you have put it behind you. To you, and to everyone else.

Arguing over the internet.

You see, sometimes we don't need to do it. I will share my golden PR rule for the zilliionth time, the one I often forget. Never argue with the stuff that doesn't merit it.

Because, arguing, gives that crap point credence. Leave it alone. There are different ways - and different places - to get your message across.

Hey - I always follow my own rules .....

Does your vote count?

Well, not much of a surprise but Spain seems to have gone for another right-wing government, yet again the Partido Popular (PP) is in power.

When we first moved to Spain, the PP was in charge under Jose Maria Aznar. But people didn't like the American alliance decision to invade Iraq, the horrific bombings in Madrid in 2004, and suddenly the PSOE (a left-wing party) was in power.

There are some things about the PSOE term that reminded me of the first idealistic terms of the Blair government in the UK. Not least, Zapatero was determined to make his cabinet equally balanced between women and men. How many other countries have ever done that?

He did pull the Spanish troops out of war zones that the local population did not want to support.

To remind you all, Zapatero's grandfather, who fought on the Republican side, was slain by Franco's soldiers during the first weeks of the war. Can you imagine living with that and not trying to do something about it?

Our neighbour's father was killed in the far north of Spain, in the prison in Oviedo, and she still cries on the anniversary of his death. After that, she spent her youth picking beans in the field. She still can't read and write. What a great legacy Franco.

Her husband's younger brother was killed aged 21. In a gunfire fight between - who knew who was who, and on what side? These memories continue on, but perhaps for not so much longer.

Just thought I would add a few points about the Civil War in case anyone hasn't heard about it.

But was it really Zapatero's fault that the world economy crashed and Spain's did too?

Come on Spaniards. The world is in a recession and has been for some time. Know why? Ever heard of American bankers?? Spain is a bit player in the world economy. Just like most of us.

The most surprising thing about this Spanish election though, is that the PSOE was kicked out of Andalucia. As most of us know, Andalucia is the home of poverty, peasants, subsistence agriculture, and communism. No longer it seems. It is now the home of people who don't believe the socialists can do anything for them and they need to look to the right-wing party.

Hell, there ain't no construction, there ain't no great house sales, there ain't no tourism, and there ain't much else tanpoco in Andalucia.

But, things are looking good for Spaniards because it seems that all those who voted for the PP now expect a job. Yeah, right.

Because to me, Rajoy's austerity measures don't sound like more jobs for anyone.

En sus suenos.

And next up, Gibraltar elections.

Oh and as a total sideline. I recite a tale from my rather capitalist/conservative/right wing parents.

They so loved it when a labour (ie left-wing) government was in power. Why? Because there was more employment, and more money to go around. So more money for people to spend with them.

You all vote right wing if you want. You will have no job, no money, and you have no conscience. Be it on your own head.

Not such a sideline. Think carefully before you vote in Gibraltar if you want a job.

Poets Day

As everyone knows, today is Poets Day.

No, this is not like World Awareness Day, Meditation Day, Ingrowing Toenail Day, Wear a Blue Ribbon in your hair to show solidarity with Oppressed Bankers in America Day, or any of those other days.

Because this, and every other Friday of the year is Poets Day.

I was sitting happily in our revamped civil service office in Notting Hill. It was Friday afternoon and not much was happening (fortunately). We'd dealt with the pesky anti-government reporters from the Observer and Saturday's edition of the Guardian, and no-one else was giving us any grief.

'Right then, I'm off,' said one of my colleagues. 'It's Poets Day.'

I looked up, interested. Colin was rather arty, into amateur dramatics, and had a nice posh plummy southern voice. Well spoken, is the phrase that comes to mind. Not something that us lasses from Yorkshire usually get labelled.

I wondered which particular poet he was talking about. Or was it a group of them? I started on the interrogation, which Colin - and everyone else - enjoyed immensely. He finally put me out of my misery.

Here in Gib, the mass exodus starts around noon. You can tell it's Friday because the car horns start tooting as people absolutely MUST leave the Rock as quickly as possible. I have no idea why there is this burning urge to get out of Gib (apart from people who live in Spain of course and want to go home) but the few roads we have are clogged.

The money exchange around the corner has a queue down the street - and if you get there too late they have invariably run out of euros. We never see anyone in there during the week, they seem to exist solely on the currency exchanges they make between noon and 3pm on Fridays.

Building sites close at 2 or 2.30pm. Construction workers can be seen falling into the pub for a quick one, at the exchange as most of them live in Spain, or just walking/cycling home across the frontier. A few even live in Gib.

After that peace descends on Gib. To me the weekend is the best time to be here just because it is so quiet. Half the shops close on Saturday because the proprietors are Jewish. No offices, banks or building societies open, and on Sunday, the only shops open on Main Street are the ones catering for tourists - selling perfume, tobacco, spirits, jewellery and electronics.

But when you don't work - Friday can be a stressful day. No really, I'm not joking.

You see, when it gets to Sunday evening, there is no gloomy 'It's Monday tomorrow' feeling. In fact, Monday is rather to be looked forward to, as everyone else has to go to work, but you do not. You remember having to drag yourself into that ghastly office - and revel in your freedom. So you don't do anything on Monday. Your reward for being chained to that desk for so many years. Tuesday is pretty similar, after all the week isn't even half way over yet.

But by Friday, you realise that you have done stuff all this week, and if you want to achieve anything more than sewing a button on, or ironing a few T-shirts, you need to get a move on. Especially as government offices close at lunchtime. The only thing that opens late on a Friday is the library which keeps going until 7.30pm. About the only place in Gib still open at that hour.

So when it gets to Friday, I have to do everything in a few hours that I have failed to do all week. And Friday should be a day for winding down and doing very little. After all, it is Poets Day.

Piss Off Early Tomorrow's Saturday - in case you didn't know.

I want that dog/puppy/designer lifestyle :(

Today on Facebook (which I really try not to look at very often) - I saw a dog who looked just like mine.

It is the strangest feeling to look at a dog in a KILL shelter - THAT MEANS, IT WILL SOON BE DEAD IF NO-ONE ADOPTS/FOSTERS - who looks like yours.

You think to yourself, I rescued my dog, and for the last eight years, he has been safe. It could have been different for him.

You look at that other dog, and think, they may not get the chance.

Please people, put away your pedigree puppy aspirations and rescue a dog who maybe only has hours, let alone days to live.

Does that designer puppy really mean so much to you that you will condemn a different dog to death?

Because that puppy you buy, means one more dog, that no-one wants, will end up dead in a shelter (that isn't really a shelter at all - more of a staging post on the way to death).

Rubbish recycling?

Recycling - what? Plastic bags - or profits??

Sadly Morrisons in Gib has gone down the road of charging for plastic bags. I think they cost 2p and any proceeds (note - not profits) go towards local charities.

In fact, they tried this one on some years ago, but it failed miserably and free bags were re-introduced.

But aided and abetted by the likes of Eroski, Mercadona and Supersol (to name but three) supermarkets in nearby Spain, Morries has gone down the same road again.

Naturally this move is to help the environment by encouraging people to reuse their bags.

Hello, Morrisons (and every other supermarket under the sun). We DID recycle our plastic bags quite happily. 1) They got used in our rubbish bins and 2) they got used when we took out the dog.

It doesn't take Brain of Britain (and/or Gibraltar/Spain) to work out that no free bags from the supermarket means you have to acquire them from somewhere else. But where?

Sadly, we accepted the miserable fact that we might well have to buy some plastic bags. I picked up a bag of pedal bin liners. They cost £1.75.

We were standing at the check-out and I was gazing at 40 bags for £1.75 and doing the sums. The first thought was that 40 went into 175 more than four times - 4.375 to be exact.

So actually buying rubbish bin bags means paying more than twice the price of a previously free and now 2p carrier bag. Am I going to use any less bags for a) the rubbish bin and b) picking up after the dog? No. Is it going to cost me more? Yes.

There may well be people who got free carrier bags and chucked them in the bin. If so that was extremely silly of them. We did not.

This bright shiny environmental move to encourage recycling is going to make JSN difference in this household. Apart from costing us more.

Far be it from me to say kind things about the many tobacco smugglers who take their fags out of Gib and into Spain with more than the legally allowed limit - but at least when they take them out of the cartons and stash them in their cars/motorbikes - they throw away those lovely black bags.

We didn't buy the pedal bin liners. Just in case anyone was interested.