Archive for the 'Getting old' Category

Memories are made of this

August 14th, 2011

I read a great article yesterday.

Twenty ways to improve memory.

I was going to print it off today.

Can’t remember where I read the fucking thing.

For training purposes

July 28th, 2011

I do not like telephones.

I have what you might call a hate-hate relationship with them.

My first memory of a telephone was of a black Bakelite thing that hung on a bracket in the hall.  It had one of those twirly dials that cut the finger off you if it was a long number.  The only good thing about that phone was that if the caller was boring, you could idly pass the time by untwisting and unknotting the cord to the hand piece.

Nowadays they are all cordless and mobile so I keep losing the fucking things.

Apart from losing them, I find that they are constantly needing recharging which is a bit of a bugger.  I normally leave the main phone charging in the junk room where no one can hear it, or else I bring it out to the living room where it promptly discharges, gets lost and ignores all incoming calls, which suits me down to the ground.  My mobile is a simpler matter – I have discovered that switching it off stops the battery discharging, so that’s the way I leave it.  Unfortunately when I want to use it I can never find it and there is no point in ringing it from the other phone as it’s switched off.

I had to make a few phone calls yesterday and today.  As luck would have it, the calls were all to State and Semi-state organisations.  Of course this involved using their fucking menu systems which drive me mad.  Each one is a five Prozac job.

The last call was a ten Prozac one.  I dialled the number and immediately this female with an oh-so-cheery-chirpy voice came on to welcome me to the company.  Then we had the obligatory warning that “all calls are recorded and may be used for training purposes”.  Why they can’t just warn us to watch our fucking language is beyond me.  Next she announced that their menu system had changed [why I don’t know, as I don’t know what their old system was like], and that I was to listen to the entire menu before making my choice.

The very first option was the one I wanted so I pressed “1”.  I swear to fuck she sighed at me.  There was a pause and then she ignored my attempts and continued the whole fucking way through the menu.  Then she asked me to make my choice.  I pressed “1” again and the whore then started off on another series of fucking options.  It is really no wonder they have that implied “watch your fucking language” notice at the beginning.

I swear if all companies ditched their fucking menu shit and employed real people it would make the world a better place to live in.

And we’d employ half the unemployed.

In case of emergency

July 1st, 2011

Why buttons?

What’s wrong with zippers?

Have you never thought of Velcro?

But buttons?  For fuck’s sake.

Buttons on a fly are fucking lethal.

At my age I never know when I might need emergency access.

Fucking buttons!

Idiots.

Perchance to dream

June 29th, 2011

No sleep at all last night.

No forty winks.

Not even one wink.

No dreams of Sharon.

On the other hand, no nightmares about being back working in RTE.

I hate those nightmares.

No reason for the no sleeping.

Just one of those little kicks in the nuts that life throws occasionally.

I’m tired.

In fact, I am fucking knackered.

Excuse me while I shut my eyes for a moment.

No pro like an old pro

June 17th, 2011

At least once a day people arrive here looking for “the pros and cons of getting older”.

I started pondering that subject again last night having replied to a comment saying that I can be grumpy if I want to.

The single thing I enjoy most is the freedom.  From birth I relied on my parents and had to answer to them.  Then I started school and had to answer to them as well as my parents.  Over time, I left home, but by then I had a job so had to answer to my employers.  In all those years, my life wasn’t 100% my own.  I couldn’t dress exactly as I wanted.  I couldn’t take off on a holiday if I wanted.  I couldn’t even have a lie in if I wanted.

Since I retired, all that has changed.

For the first time in my life, I have total freedom to do what I want to do, and when to do it.  I don’t need anyone’s permission.  Fucking sweet!

If I wanted to, I could climb into the car right now and head off to the West for a weekend away.  Except that it’s raining and I don’t want to.  And that is the point – I am not going, because I don’t want to and not because some fucking jobsworth at work says I can’t be spared.

If I wanted to, I could wander around all day in the pelt.  I grant you that that does lead to the odd sideways glance when I nip [sic] down to the village for baccy, but that’s their problem.

I go to bed when I want to, and I get up when I want to.  If I decide to spend all day in bed then I shall.

No one can even dictate if I write this or not.  It is my choice, and if I want to stop then I wi

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