Bloody Kids!

Times are hard!

Money is always a problem, then there's work, house maintenance, etc., etc..

The list is endless.

And then there's the 22 year old step daughter that insists an acting like a petulant 6 year old ALL THE TIME!

You have to wonder where you went wrong ... and if you are the only ones that suffers this way.

It's sad that a divide has opened up between the family generations and it is also so very annoying!

From the small things ... leaving empty milk or margarine cartons in the fridge ... to the bigger things ... staying out for days at a time without telling anyone where she is ... it is causing a massive amount of tension in the family home.

There is no obvious solution when the person you are at odds with just doesn't give a shit!

We just have to say 'hello' to be barked at. Each and every conversation is perceived as a vicious attack on our part ... and the best form of defence in her book is attack! Which she does at the drop off a hat.

If you ask what the problem is, it's us ... always banging on about something or other. But, even in the same house, we never see her to say anything anyway.

She won't get out of bed before 3pm, she bakes and cooks in the middle of the night (sometimes forgetting half way through what's she doing) and cannot do ANYTHING quietly, even when she know we both have to up for work at 6am!

Now, the solution might seem obvious to others, but not to us.

I've tried buying a gun, but they wouldn't let me have one!

And short of burying her head first in a deep hole in the garden, I don't know what else we can try ... Except chucking her out!

OK!

That was a mild mannered rant. Rest assured the real nasty rant isn't far off!

{Thinks: perhaps we could move out while she's at work?}

German For Runaways

The title is, of course, a pun which maybe only Germans will understand.

It refers to the German phrase "Deutsch für Fortgeschrittene" which means 'German for advanced students', but 'fortgeschrittene' could also mean someone who has run off, hence German for runaways.

Now that has been explained (it has little to do with this tale, but I thought it was worth a mention as I have at least one German reader), I shall tell you of mornings encounter with two German students that we (my client and I) bumped into as we left the cafe after our morning ritualistic latte.

"Excuse me" said a thickly accented voice. "Do you know where I find Charles Street please?"

I recognised the accent as being German straight away.

"Yeah", I replied. "Follow this road all the way to the third traffic light then turn right. At the next set of lights, turn left. Go straight over the following set of traffic lights and it will be the next right after that."

Easy.


He 'sanked' me very much and turned to go, whereupon his colleague said "Was hat der blödmann gesagt?"*


This rattled my cage big time!

As they started to walk away I shouted "Moment mal!"*

They both turned towards me. The student that had asked for directions was grinning. His friend looked decidedly shell shocked, as if he'd just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

" 'Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof wie du denskst, mein fruend. Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein. Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell".*

I don't have very many opportunities to use my German and, over time it's become a little rusty, but I really enjoyed that moment and the look on that guy's face.

* Translations


Was hat der blödmann gesagt?            =  what did the idiot say?
Moment mal                                             =  Just a moment
Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof 
wie du denskst, mein fruend.                =  The idiot isn't as stupid as you think,  my friend 
Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein.     =  You should be a bit more careful.
Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell.            =  Now Fu%& off very quickly.

Alarms, Bladders And Road Rage

For most of us, the day begins with an annoying noise.

Our alarm clocks remind us bluntly that we don't deserve another minute in bed and we should get up or it'll get louder.

The slumber button is always so difficult to find when your eyelids are still pasted shut.

The effort of finding the button and pressing it, finally silencing that ear-piercing din, albeit only for five minutes, is sufficient to get your brain working just enough to register that your bladder is screaming out for attention.

There is a squirming and a wriggling under the quilt as you attempt to find a posture that would give your bladder another couple of cc's capacity and, after realising that No! You ain't gonna have an accident, you settle back down to your slumbers.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

'That was never five minutes' you think as you waste precious sleeping time struggling to read the time, in stead of just pressing the slumber button again.  I think that everyone does this so they can catch their alarms cheating.

Your bladder is increasing it's pressure for attention.

The slumber button pressed for a second time, you settle back into your warm bed, but by now you are starting to get a little crabby because ... damn it! ... you work hard and need your sleep.

The insistence of your bladder reminding you that you are in desperate need of taking a leek is ... excuse the pun ... pi$$ing you off and, in that special way of 'holding on' that you developed as a child, you begin to jiggle your legs in the hope that sloshing the contents of your by now basketball-sized bladder, will ease the problem.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

The pressure by now is horrendous and you are faced with a choice: vacate or flood?.

Fuming, you decide against the latter and head for the loo.

Be careful stepping over the remains of your alarm clock, won't you!

After a pee timed at 4  minutes and 13 seconds, during which "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" was sighed several times, you admit to yourself "I shouldn't have waited so long".

From here on in, it's going to be a 'down hill' kind of day.

A shower fails completely to 'pick you up' and dressing (all those straps and things!) is soooooooooo difficult as your eyes, still convinced you should be in bed, are half closed and convinced you are just having a nightmare.

Slouching downstairs  you are determined to strangle anyone with the balls to say "Good morning!" to you.

Cereals don't help either and that smell of bacon and coffee that your other half is preparing just makes you want to vomit.

Eventually you leave for work and you hear radio reports of loads of road-rage incidents happening all along the stretch of road you are travelling on.

Funny that you haven't seen any of them.

Perhaps you would if only .... "Get outta the way you fugging ass hole!  Up yours!" ... those others would drive ... "Ba$tards! I'll kick yer head off'f yer shoulders!" ... more  ...  "Yeah? You and who's army?" ... considerately.

What happened at work?

No! Not today.

Maybe I'll rub your nose in it another time ...

... Erm, you did get to work, didn't you?

Walk, Granny! Don't Run!

Once again I braved the early morning roads, on what should have been my morning off, in order to cover for an absent colleague.

Through sixteen miles (there and back) of stop-start traffic I struggled, along with all those other plonkers (who were obviously to blame for everything), in a desperate bid to earn my wage.

It was 06.45 when I mounted my trustee steed (my car, but a horse would have been quicker) and took off into the darkness and pouring rain.

I managed a magnificent half mile before being halted by the first of many delays ... a mini-bus trying to do a three point turn on a narrow street.  After about twenty 'points' he managed it and cleared the road, much to everyone's (there was a queue of about twenty cars by this time) delight.

Of we set again, through Llandaff North, past BBC Cymru (Wales) and into Llandaff itself.  Mere minutes it took me to arrive in Llandaff but it took another twenty before I could leave and head towards Canton.

And Llandaff isn't like, you know, big.  It's a titchy little patch of Cardiff's greater metropolitan region and usually it's behind me in two or three minutes.

It was, I discovered to my utter horror, dustbin day and the Refuge Collection Operatives (grubby men in fluorescent jackets) were out in force.

Canton, I feared, would be no better.

It wasn't!

Anyway, the eight mile journey - twenty minutes on a good day - robbed me of fifty-five minutes of my life.

After I had completed my call, I headed home again but by this time Cardiff's drivers were out in force and were all desperately trying to get to work on time.

Stop!

Start!

Stop!

Start!

I left my client at a little before 08.30 and managed to pull into my driveway at 09.35.

Cars, buses, trucks and cyclists are a pain and I complain (justly) about them far too often but it occurred to me this morning that there is another area of complaint well worth mentioning.

Pedestrians!

They ignore the pedestrian signals and just keep on crossing the roads with a 'What the hell! They're doing it' attitude.

And there is always ... always ... a granny at the back of them who ties to walk across with them. But, when granny realises that she has been left behind and is alone in front of a hoard of pi$$ed off drivers, she tries to break into a jog, somehow contriving to become even slower in the process.

And it's a safe bet that once she's started doing her impersonation of Usain Bolt, she will drop something and spend another couple of minutes doing the 'old person' squat (whilst groaning about her poor old back) and  try to pick it again.

It can be an excruciatingly painful thing to watch, but no one ever leaves their car to assist  lest they themselves fall under the hateful glare (and a few choice words) of their fellow motorists.

There you have it.

A completely unimportant semi-rant about road users and pedestrians.

Reading this may not have been your cup of tea, but writing it has certainly taken the edge of my lust for blood and the doing of physical harm to my fellow man!

I'm sure though that after today's vehicular experience that I am only one of many that have taken to the  Bloggi-verse in order to vent off steam.

Damn it!

I have to go back to work in twenty minutes.

Rant

(Originally posted on January 10, 2010)

You know, I have spent most of my life running around with an "it could be worse" attitude and I'm fed up with it!  It IS bloody worse!!!

I'm not one for excessive use of !'s but this country (and I mean the UK as a whole) is the cheapest, nastiest and dirtiest place on this globe and I think that justifies quite a few of them!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You know the old saying "practice makes perfect" ... well, successive UK governments have been practicing on us for God knows how many years and they still can't get it right.

I was a strong supporter of Thatcher back in the days of the miners strikes ... not because she broke the unions* but because she was consequential in what she did. But things have moved on and we have Gordon Brown ... a number cruncher who does not command respect and hasn't got a clue about getting the people on his side.

On the other hand who have we got? Clegg (just out of nappies) and Cameron (just out of shorts)!  Two smarmy yuppy types who'd much rather give slick answers than give a simple "yes" or "no".

Also there are too many do-gooders out there trying to save everyone's human rights from being abused and they are ALL trying to complicate the issue.  No one fights for "basic" human rights anymore with the excption of aid agencies.  The "do-gooders" are fighting for rapists, murderers and thugs in general to have radio's, PC's, gym equipment, TV's etc., etc., etc..  The victims of these people are left without a friendly neighbourhood human rights activist in sight.

We have gang violence and intimidation happening on a daily basis and how is it combated?  Tagging, verbal slapped wrists and asbo's!  None of which has been proved to be effective.  Convert the prison gym's into cells and lock the buggers up. Pack 'em in like sardines and sod their human rights. Lock 'em up for longer and longer until they get the message.  And I don't just mean the yob's and criminals out there ... put the politicians away too.

Now that was a rant, but I am really fed up with british society ... but I like dog's, so I can't be all that bad.










*my dad was a miner in the north and he was out on strike like (almost) everyone else.  I remember not having very much to each and most meals were corned beef and potatoes.  But I can also remember seeing that b%&*ard Scargill turning up at a rally in a chaufer-driven car and also hearing how he, as union leader was still on full pay whereas everyone I knew was on pittance strike pay.  I hated that man and blamed him and his arrogance for ALL of the hardships heaped on the miners during the strike.