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| 2011-10-10 14:04 |
| Less than two weeks... |
| Public |
 worried |
| travel, world |
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Until I get on a plane to Cambodia, and they're having some of the worst flooding since 1990. Cambodia is a very poor country, and it lacks the resources to deal with these kinds of disasters. Being Dutch, I'm used to flood precautions and aftercare being swift and efficient. We have good infrastructure, plenty of money and all kinds of plans in place for when (not if) the waters rise. We are the lucky ones.
And now I'm wondering if it's wise for me to get on that plane. Will I be an oblivious tourist getting in the way, or worse: will I get in trouble and end up appropriating limited funds for my rescue? Will I notice anything (most of the travel blog writers I found don't mention any problems, even the ones updated in the last few days)? Is the damage limited to remote areas that tourists don't visit?
There is very little info to be found about which areas are affected. I can find a dozen news articles reporting that so far 184 people have died, but nothing more specific than "in Cambodia". The news media probably figure that since so few people can even point to Cambodia on the map, naming a specific region will not mean anything to their readers so why bother?
Sometimes I feel like such a privileged asshole when travelling, and this is why. I can simply decide to stay at home and all I'll have lost is the price of my plane ticket and the malarone pills. The people affected don't have that luxury, and they've lost everything they have.
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Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it’s weigh
My chequer tolled me sew
Sauce unknown
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| 2010-01-15 20:36 |
| It's probably the climate control thingy |
| Public |
 hungry |
| health, weather |
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They say it's got something to do with the low humidity in the office due to the heating, but I've been having more than what I consider my fair share of headaches lately.
Discomfort led to some pointless ruminating, about how I might be willing to give up a body part if it meant I would never have another headache in my life.
And then I realised that the most logical body part to sacrifice for this purpose would be... my head.
Yeah. No.
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| 2009-06-03 09:06 |
| This is what happens when you are me |
| Public |
 creative |
| stories |
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And you hear people say something different than what actually came out of their mouth.
When I stayed with Mae, she told me that her neighbour - who took care of Mae's cat Vicky while she was away - had left the light on when Miss Vicky ate because she didn't want her to have to eat in the dark. Which is sweet of her but slightly silly, as cats can see a whole lot in very little light (it is a myth that they can see in complete darkness, but complete darkness in London is rarely achieved).
But I misheard this as "she didn't want her to have to eat the dark". Which may in a normal person spark questions as to the nutritional value of dark, or the sanity of any of the people involved in this conversation. It does not, generally, lead to this:
Title: They eat the dark.
Author: ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) lady_deirdre
Length: 250 words (and no, I wasn't aiming for that. It just ended up that way after the second draft)
Warning: this never happened, and hopefully never will. Probably not suitable for children under 8, or people with nut allergies.
( Behind the cut to protect your sensibilities, as you are undoubtedly more sensible than I am )
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The universe has a way of wheedling its way back into my attentions, just when I had resolved to spend the evening sitting on the couch with a cup of tea and a book within easy reach1.
And, accepting that it is both bigger and more important than me, I succumb.
Everything moves in circles. You keep going long enough, and you end up back where you started. Which is why it doesn't surprise me that just over two years after I wrote this post, I read in the newspaper that Stephen Fry, authority on surprising trivia and part-time deity, has broken his arm during the filming of Last Chance To See. The bit that doesn't surprise me isn't that he's broken his arm. In fact, I would have expected Master Fry to be above such mundane things as injuries and mishaps2. No, what seemed to me completely logical and right, like a hole in the world that is suddenly filled with an object that is not only a perfect fit for the hole, but is also quite obviously the only thing that could ever fit into that particular space, that thing is this:
Stephen Fry is going to be speaking those wonderful words written by Douglas Adams.
He's going to speak them in that perfect, reassuring, amiably condescending schoolmaster voice of his, guiding us past white rhinos which are really a sort of grey, elderly parrots looking for a shag, and the quiet madness of Mwanza Airport. And once you think of it, once you let the reality of it sink in, there's no alternative. Who better to fill the shoes of that erudite gentle giant with the unfortunate nose than the erudite gentle giant with the unfortunate nose who was his friend?
1) You are allowed to be lazy when you have already finished filling in your tax form before the 1st of February.
2) Like Wolverine, with an adamantium skeleton, though without the claws.
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| 2008-01-21 09:23 |
| Postscript to the Epic Post of Impending Doom |
| Public |
 chipper |
| birthday, friends, home |
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After destroying the ring, the hobbits return to the Shire. There they meet Saruman and Wormtongue, who they defeat in an epic postscript. Sam marries Rosie and lives happiliy ever after, while Frodo withers away in a fitful postscript. So as not to kill the mood, he is carted off by the others to a mythical postscript island none of them have ever even seen with a lot of postscript people who cannot help but look down upon him.
The plumber came, and in a flurry of activity lasting only half an hour fixed everything in my flat that needed fixing, including the laundry. Oh no, that last bit was my Mum. But he did clean up after himself and was generally useful and helpful. I has a drain!!1! Yay :)
Postscript to the postscript: Mum got bored, that’s why she folded and ironed my laundry. Which was very much appreciated, as it made tidying up the house for the birthday party on Sunday a lot easier.
Postscript to the postscript to the postscript: Birthday party yesterday afternoon was fun, fruitful and friendly. I got among other things a waffle-maker, a chocolate fountain and yoga socks. I closed the door behind the last visitor at around eleven p.m. Today is a work day, after all!
Postscript to the postscript to the postscript to the postscript: I do have 3/4 of a birthday cake left. God knows what I’m gonna do with that.
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I think it’s that time of year again. Time for An Epic Post of Impending Doom.
My kitchen sink and the dishwasher machine have developed an unhealthy co-dependency. They are sharing the same water, refusing to let anyone else get to it. In other words: the drain is blocked. If I run the tap, the water ends up in my dishwasher. If I set my dishwasher to ‘Pump’, the water1 bubbles up from the kitchen sink. So, after mucking about with caustic soda for a bit, I did what any self-reliant, single career-woman in my position would do.
I called my Dad.
In a moving display of parental love for his only daughter, Dad selflessly agreed to give up his precious afternoon off to try2 and resolve the issues sink and dishwasher are having with the world at large. A friendly talking-to did not, however, persuade them to send their offspring out into the world drain. Nor did the application of some more caustic soda, this time 5 with boiling water. Disassembling of the pipes rendered no visible blockage, so Dad decided to employ more drastic measures.
The cable auger.
If by this time you’re still reading, it would be nice if you could make some shocked noises, like a sudden intake of breath or a muttered “Ooh!” Please remember that my father was not just doing this to keep my kitchen from being flooded, he was also working hard to entertain you6.
*insert drum roll here, or hushed silence, or whatever you prefer to indicate the passing of a certain amount of time in which exciting things happen in a tense atmosphere*
I am sorry to say the cable auger did not survive his venture into my pipes. I would probably be a lot sadder if I knew what a cable auger is7. Which brings this tale to the point where Dad runs out of ideas and/or tools.
So now I’m waiting for a plumber to call me back. I don’t know whether it’ll be good news or bad. I do suspect however that it’ll be expensive news.
1) Looking by now increasingly murky, as you can understand.
2) He did use to be a plumber, so even if I had had a resident male person3 the latter still wouldn’t have the honour of unclogging my drain. I will only contemplate offers from skilled professionals in plumbing, not anyone merely skilled in ‘putting the toilet seat down and generally keeping me happy’. Though right now some plumbing is definitely required to keep me happy4.
3) And by person I mean ‘human’. Max isn’t even able to keep himself properly drained.
4) Please, everyone, get your mind out of the gutter. Really.
5) Against all regulations and quite probably common sense. Daddy-dearest paid for it: the fumes made him go all dizzy. He had to sit down for a bit and raid my chocolate stash. Somehow this always happens when he’s doing stuff in my house in my absence.
6) Although he may not have been aware of it at the time.
7) I’m lying of course. I do know what a cable auger is. I just find it very hard to get all emotional about a long metal wire with a knob at the end. Or the beginning, depending on your perspective.
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Last week I found a small written note in my mailbox asking me to not give wine to a specific neighbour (can you still call someone who lives four floors above you a neighbour?) "because of alcoholism". Presumably some family member or anyone else who cares about him has put a note in every mailbox to foil his brilliant plan of getting drunk without actually buying booze. I wonder how long it takes him to figure out he's been had. I also wonder if anyone ever did give him a bottle when he rang their bell at 3am (yes, 3am. You can start drinking after 5pm, but no one ever specifies when you're supposed to stop).
Now, this guy has called at my door once or twice in the evening to ask if I had any wine. Always wine, btw. Never beer, or stronger liquor, or "whatever you happen to have in the house, paint stripper is fine too." Nope, wine. I told him no both times (ringing my doorbell at 10pm to ask for booze does not make you my friend), but it got me thinking.
If I do say yes, will he then ask if it's red, white or rosé? Dry or fruity? "You wouldn't happen to have a Cabernet Sauvignon in the house? A nice 1998, perchance? Oh, it's from the Languedoc? Eh... I'll just try next door, okay?"
LadyD
likes her alcoholics to have some standards
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| 2007-06-21 16:29 |
| Testing one two three |
| Public |
| chipper |
| web |
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Yeah.
Just in case, I am looking into insanejournal. It feels a bit quiet around here yet, but we'll see.
The layout is pretty nice, at least :)
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annoyed
curious