Have you got the decorators in?

There’s a report in the news this morning about a standard appraisal questionnaire, used for staff in the Indian Civil Service, that has caused a bit of an uproar. Apparently, it asks women about their menstrual cycles and when the last time they were off with “confinement” (mat leave). The women who are subject to undertaking the survey as part of their annual appraisals are apoplectic with rage, but give them a few days and they’ll probably calm down once their progesterone levels settle down.

Ho ho ho.

Sleeeeeeeeeeep
I decided to come to Base 2a today. I couldn’t face the other place for some reason and, despite coming here involving a 30mile drive, I get half an hour extra in bed and I can wear my jeans and lesbian shoes (since there’s barely anybody here). I don’t know why they do, but the extra bed minutes count a lot when you’re so tired.

Sleep isn’t coming easily at the moment. At home, I get woken by a crying baby – well, not so much the crying baby, but its grandmother who leaps out of bed to assist as soon as her “mum radar” kicks in to detect the slightest bit of moses basket disturbance. Once I’m awake there, I notice the birdsong outside, which now starts at about 3am. At Trump’s, the local demographic seems to include some very nocturnal and very loud men from somewhere in Africa (from the sounds of their accents) who choose to stand in the street and have lengthy conversations at all times of the night. You know those deep and booming voices that certain blokes have? Well, those ones. It’s strange really, because if they made that sort of noise in the Serengeti, they’d be lion bate. Not that all men who originate from Africa here in the UK come from the Serengeti or anything, just the ones who come here to escape repeated nocturnal lion attacks.

Anyway, back to Base 2a. The fuckers have blocked Blogger access, so I can no longer post from here (I can’t even READ T&Ps’ pages from here – they have a firm “ACCESS DENIED” slapped on them). Instead, I have to write things in Word to upload later. Things kind of lose their vitriolic edge this way, as I tend to have calmed down once I am away from the incessant onslaught of insanity. But hey ho, it’s better than trying to fight with Microsoft Access, and typing in Word at least makes it look like I’m working.


Down tools!
I think most people have it hard in the workplace, none more so than our poor beleaguered teachers. Apparently, they’re going to refuse to work once classroom temperatures rise above 26°C. Bless their cotton socks, or sandaled feet, or whatever it is they wear these days. Let’s face it, we won’t get our first proper hot day until June and by this time of year, most teachers are already winding down their classes in readiness for the exam season and summer break. Perhaps they find it too hard to invigilate over students taking exams when it’s a bit warm. When you think about it, sitting at a desk at the front of a sports hall doing fuck all while a bunch of stressed out kids work through exam papers really saps your energy.

From May onwards, primary school teachers just fuck about outside doing “nature projects” or sports events. We’ve all been school children; we know what it’s like.


Hair bare
My phobia of hairdressers is getting worse. It’s getting to the stage where I’d rather look (even more) like Ronald McDonald than just bite the bullet and go and get it cut. I just never know how to describe what I want and they never seem to know what to do anyway. So I am currently suffering from something akin to an overgrown curly mullet. How do you tell them what you want, especially when you’re not sure yourself? And hairdressers are hardly the most attentive people on the planet are they? All that seems to be going around their heads are thoughts of:

a) Going out at the weekend
b) Going away on holiday
c) Latest bargains from Primark

All other intellectual activity has long since been obliterated by overexposure to hair styling chemicals. The combination of lack of residual synapses plus them being confronted with my hair leads to total sensory overload and meltdown, resulting in Sniffy looking like Elaine Paige.

So I find myself at the mercy of my sister and her hormones. She doesn’t do a bad job, but she won’t cut my hair short enough. Trump has now offered to pay for me to get my hair cut. I’m tempted to take her up on this offer and go to either:

a) The bloke in Afleck’s Palace who wears loads of makeup and talks a lot, or
b) The hairdressers in “The Village”, where they’ll probably try to make the most of my hair’s innate ability to grow in a mullet

What a life.