There comes a time in everyone's lives where something impacts on them badly and they need to take time out to regroup and sort themselves out.
Circumstances chez Trumpsniffer are in terminal decline, dead in fact. A couple of months after moving in, before we'd got started on moving to the next phase of our lives together, Trump decided - with an impeccable sense of timing - that it is over for us.
Sniffy has been left in a state of devastation and confusion that is impossible to describe. Having the world collapse around a person doesn't leave them in the best state of mind for anything other than alternating between various emotional states, none of which are conducive to any activity resembling what might be normal for a person. The need for self preservation might include the occasional outpouring of hurt, grief, anger in a blog, but I think I need to concentrate on doing things like getting out of bed in the morning, getting a shower, eating, etc, etc.
Pretending things are ok for the timebeing. That'll be fun. It won't leave much energy for blogging.
Cheerio for now. I'll be back soon when things have started to heal a bit.
Thursday 28 August 2008
Tuesday 26 August 2008
FUCK!
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
Fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
And that just about sums it all up.
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
Fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
And that just about sums it all up.
Tuesday 19 August 2008
INTERVIEW!
I had to interview some candidates for a job in our department yesterday.
Could you imagine being interviewed by me? Those poor, poor people. Most of them were really nice, one was a bit odd, one we just didn't like, and one, I really threw with a stupid jokey question:
"I'll run through the job, then ask you a couple of questions before my colleagues ask theirs and then I'll finish off by going through your criminal record", meaning, we'll go through the mandatory questions, one of which asks about convictions, cautions, etc. Having never been to an interview before, she didn't know about "mandatory questions" and was completely thrown by it.
I'm such a twat. Luckily, she recovered really well and gave a very good account of herself.
The problem with interviews is, there's no real point to them. You're not allowed to ask the questions you really want to ask, and you're certainly not allowed to document the real decision process for picking your preferred candidate for the benefit of the Human Resources department.
We have to tell them our selection criteria and score each candidate against each one. Having the highest score doesn't get you the job, but it helps. Getting the highest score against the official selection criteria doesn't automatically get you the job because there are unwritten selection criteria such as:
Anyway, Sniffy had to phone the unsuccessful candidates and give them the bad news... and feedback. Not a nice job, but it's better than letting people hang on and not telling them at all.
In the night garden
Who'd have thought that this would work as an instant anxiolytic for baby throwing a tantrum?
Amazing.
How does it work? Is there a formula for tapping into a toddler's mind other than a cattleprod to the head?
I think the formula must include things like a brightly coloured asexual "thing" - Iggle Piggle - that dances and sings, but not in any discernible language. Add some other companions that are also brightly coloured, but slightly different in shape; again without a defined sex, but clearly a different sex than the main character - Upsy Daisy. And they jump around, dance, play hide and seek, then sleep in a boat.
Hey presto! All the children calm down. Unless its something to do with all newborns being chipped at birth with a device that can be activated by a specific signal from CBeebies.
CBeebies is a government tool for controlling the minds our children, thus eventually giving the country a generation of numbed zombies who they can control at the push of a button!
I suppose they said the same thing when they introduced the National Lottery.
Could you imagine being interviewed by me? Those poor, poor people. Most of them were really nice, one was a bit odd, one we just didn't like, and one, I really threw with a stupid jokey question:
"I'll run through the job, then ask you a couple of questions before my colleagues ask theirs and then I'll finish off by going through your criminal record", meaning, we'll go through the mandatory questions, one of which asks about convictions, cautions, etc. Having never been to an interview before, she didn't know about "mandatory questions" and was completely thrown by it.
I'm such a twat. Luckily, she recovered really well and gave a very good account of herself.
The problem with interviews is, there's no real point to them. You're not allowed to ask the questions you really want to ask, and you're certainly not allowed to document the real decision process for picking your preferred candidate for the benefit of the Human Resources department.
We have to tell them our selection criteria and score each candidate against each one. Having the highest score doesn't get you the job, but it helps. Getting the highest score against the official selection criteria doesn't automatically get you the job because there are unwritten selection criteria such as:
- Did we like them?
- Are they normal, or a bit weird?
- Do they have good social skills, or do they avoid eye contact and twitch alot?
- Are their kids likely to keep them at home at short notice?
- Would they be a pain in the arse?
- Are they likely to fuck off and do something a lot more challenging?
- Do they come from Stornoway?
Anyway, Sniffy had to phone the unsuccessful candidates and give them the bad news... and feedback. Not a nice job, but it's better than letting people hang on and not telling them at all.
In the night garden
Who'd have thought that this would work as an instant anxiolytic for baby throwing a tantrum?
Amazing.
How does it work? Is there a formula for tapping into a toddler's mind other than a cattleprod to the head?
I think the formula must include things like a brightly coloured asexual "thing" - Iggle Piggle - that dances and sings, but not in any discernible language. Add some other companions that are also brightly coloured, but slightly different in shape; again without a defined sex, but clearly a different sex than the main character - Upsy Daisy. And they jump around, dance, play hide and seek, then sleep in a boat.
Hey presto! All the children calm down. Unless its something to do with all newborns being chipped at birth with a device that can be activated by a specific signal from CBeebies.
CBeebies is a government tool for controlling the minds our children, thus eventually giving the country a generation of numbed zombies who they can control at the push of a button!
I suppose they said the same thing when they introduced the National Lottery.
Saturday 16 August 2008
But how do I make it WORK???
I'm fed up buying stuff that doesn't work. Thanks very much Tesco for selling the following pile of shite items:
The cross cut shredder is great so long as you use for no more than 30 seconds in any one time, giving it half an hour's rest before even thinking of attempting to shred another single piece of paper.
We've had two of these now. Both rubbish.
The water pistol was bought to train Rocky to walk on his lead properly. The original super power soaker merely dribbled, so I took it apart, tried to fix it, and then it leaked. That ended up in the bin.
We bought another this evening, it didn't work at all, not even a dribble of water.
Fucking rubbish.
Don't Tesco check these things before they sell them? What do they pay their buyers to do? Pick things that they know that are rubbish that people will buy, but won't bother to return?
I don't know, I really don't.
Adios, Fucktards!
One thing I've kept quiet about since moving here to Bellend Towers has been our neighbours. Not the fellers next door, not the family next door but one, but the scratbag tenants in the flat around the back.
Day one - Awww how lovely! The day we moved in, I saw "Sam", the female, leaving the flat with a very cute puppy. Strange... I'd seen the advert for the lease and it said no smokers, no DSS, no pets. Hrrrm.
Day three - What the fuck? Got home from work and found one of their visitors had parked in my parking space in front of my garage. Cocks. I blocked them in. They wouldn't do that again, but it didn't stop their visitors parking in the residents only parking area or in other residents' parking spaces. Grassed them in to Carol, the marketing woman, who informed us that Simon, their landlord, lives just round the corner "I'll tell him!" I happened to mention the dog too, and the cig butts all over the parking spaces that they dropped from their window "I saw the advert for the lease and they're not supposed to have a dog or smoke."
Week one - Eezer Good. It was obvious in our first week of being here that the young occupants of the flat were dealing drugs. And endless stream of vehicles would come each evening, visit the flat clutching bundles of cash, leave no more than a couple of minutes later stuffing things in their pockets.
Trump mentioned it to our neighbours, who may well have told the coppers. Whether this resulted in anything or not, I don't know, but the activities stopped after a couple of weeks when they must've cottoned on that they were very conspciuous now that other residents had moved in.
Week three - "Gizmooooooo!". Did I mention that their puppy is a St Bernard? In a small flat? Gizmo was left to roam the parking lot and crap all over the place, including on our parking space. Gizmo was left out at all times of day and night and frequently our sleep would be disturbed in the early hours by Sam shouting him, "Gizmooooooooooo!". Fucking cunt.
Week four - The sound of music. Not only was our sleep disturbed by "Gizmooooooo!". Sam and Jason (for that is his name) had a delightful habit of playing their music ever so loudly at all times of day, but especially in the early hours.
Week four and half - A knock on the door. One evening I saw their landlord trying to get them to answer the door. They had a habit of not bothering to answer it and he ended up having a conversation from the doorway up through the open lounge window. He'd return the next day. He did.
Week five - Thank you for the music. Gizmo was getting bigger, his poos bigger, the music was getting louder. I was on the verge of putting a note through the landlord's door, telling him to get rid of his scumbag tenants, but I held off. The blokes from next door joined us for an evening of merriment and we found the experience therapeutic, airing our displeasures and plotting ways of getting rid of them.
Week six - Gone. They've gone. They moved out last night.
Can't wait to see what we get next.
Fucking buy to let bastards, allowing any fucking scumbag into a place without worrying about their neighbours. I suppose we're lucky in that we know who the landlord is and where he lives, but bugger me, you shouldn't have to be plotting to burn somebody's house down within days of moving into a place!
Isn't the weather shit?
- Texet cross cut shredder
- Crappy battery powered water pistol
The cross cut shredder is great so long as you use for no more than 30 seconds in any one time, giving it half an hour's rest before even thinking of attempting to shred another single piece of paper.
We've had two of these now. Both rubbish.
The water pistol was bought to train Rocky to walk on his lead properly. The original super power soaker merely dribbled, so I took it apart, tried to fix it, and then it leaked. That ended up in the bin.
We bought another this evening, it didn't work at all, not even a dribble of water.
Fucking rubbish.
Don't Tesco check these things before they sell them? What do they pay their buyers to do? Pick things that they know that are rubbish that people will buy, but won't bother to return?
I don't know, I really don't.
Adios, Fucktards!
One thing I've kept quiet about since moving here to Bellend Towers has been our neighbours. Not the fellers next door, not the family next door but one, but the scratbag tenants in the flat around the back.
Day one - Awww how lovely! The day we moved in, I saw "Sam", the female, leaving the flat with a very cute puppy. Strange... I'd seen the advert for the lease and it said no smokers, no DSS, no pets. Hrrrm.
Day three - What the fuck? Got home from work and found one of their visitors had parked in my parking space in front of my garage. Cocks. I blocked them in. They wouldn't do that again, but it didn't stop their visitors parking in the residents only parking area or in other residents' parking spaces. Grassed them in to Carol, the marketing woman, who informed us that Simon, their landlord, lives just round the corner "I'll tell him!" I happened to mention the dog too, and the cig butts all over the parking spaces that they dropped from their window "I saw the advert for the lease and they're not supposed to have a dog or smoke."
Week one - Eezer Good. It was obvious in our first week of being here that the young occupants of the flat were dealing drugs. And endless stream of vehicles would come each evening, visit the flat clutching bundles of cash, leave no more than a couple of minutes later stuffing things in their pockets.
Trump mentioned it to our neighbours, who may well have told the coppers. Whether this resulted in anything or not, I don't know, but the activities stopped after a couple of weeks when they must've cottoned on that they were very conspciuous now that other residents had moved in.
Week three - "Gizmooooooo!". Did I mention that their puppy is a St Bernard? In a small flat? Gizmo was left to roam the parking lot and crap all over the place, including on our parking space. Gizmo was left out at all times of day and night and frequently our sleep would be disturbed in the early hours by Sam shouting him, "Gizmooooooooooo!". Fucking cunt.
Week four - The sound of music. Not only was our sleep disturbed by "Gizmooooooo!". Sam and Jason (for that is his name) had a delightful habit of playing their music ever so loudly at all times of day, but especially in the early hours.
Week four and half - A knock on the door. One evening I saw their landlord trying to get them to answer the door. They had a habit of not bothering to answer it and he ended up having a conversation from the doorway up through the open lounge window. He'd return the next day. He did.
Week five - Thank you for the music. Gizmo was getting bigger, his poos bigger, the music was getting louder. I was on the verge of putting a note through the landlord's door, telling him to get rid of his scumbag tenants, but I held off. The blokes from next door joined us for an evening of merriment and we found the experience therapeutic, airing our displeasures and plotting ways of getting rid of them.
Week six - Gone. They've gone. They moved out last night.
Can't wait to see what we get next.
Fucking buy to let bastards, allowing any fucking scumbag into a place without worrying about their neighbours. I suppose we're lucky in that we know who the landlord is and where he lives, but bugger me, you shouldn't have to be plotting to burn somebody's house down within days of moving into a place!
Isn't the weather shit?
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