Right? Wrong!

I like my father. A lot. Still, he does get on my nerves. About thirty years ago he offered me a bet. On the year Goethe died. He was one year out. I won. As hollow victories go that one was bottomless. To this day.

U

Sweet innocence

What took me so long?

My son thinks that if his mother were an eskimo anyone could sell me ice. Maybe. Who knows.

Unlike most people in the UK I actually answer the phone with my name.

Phone rings. I answer: “Ursula …. speaking.” Answer: ” Can I please speak to Ursula ….?” “Yes, speaking.”

Remember: We have established that the caller is speaking to me.

Enter 1984, Big Brother is watching you, Orwell. I haven’t got the faintest idea who is calling me, only to be inundated with questions like: What’s your address, your maiden name, your mother’s maiden name, your pet’s name, your date of birth,  keep going …

Are these people ticking ok? So I, being friendly and forgiving of those in call centres ask, politely, and before answering their questions, who I am talking to. Here we enter the sublimely ridiculous: I am being told that,  for my security,  they first need to verify my identity in order to tell me why they are calling. Come again?

I put my foot down today, gently, politely. No more of this nonsense.

Whoever called me yesterday and today, twice in a row, trying to elicit rather personal information: I am sorry but please do tell your management that this is not the way forward. From now on I refuse to enter any such exchange unless you tell me your shoe size and why I have to make sense of incomprehensible accents.

Excellent. And it’s only lunchtime.

U

Displacement

In about ten hours I’ll be on train to Magistrates Court, Poole, Dorset, England, to face the music. Luckily I am tone deaf.

Postponing the inevitable I haven’t YET written a word, neither outlined budget why they can stick their fine where my monies will not stretch to.  That can wait till two hours before legging it down to the train.

However, by way of diverting anxiety as to imminent incarceration, explained earlier today to son how to work washing machine in my absence; not least to not forget to turn OFF the oven. It met with little amusement: Not because he doesn’t want to do his own washing but because he is worried that going to a cell will blow my already stretched mind (think knicker elastic ca. 1955, slightly worn by life’s joys and tribulations).

I packed into today more than most people will into their spring clean spread over weeks: Tottered to doctor, did NOT cry at his shoulder, nevertheless made it clear that after the last three years testing my patience above knicker elastic might need replacing. Him, of a kind disposition, realising that I’d react allergic to anything he might suggest by way of pharmaca handed me a tissue instead and a copious supply of Vitamin D tablets to keep – for my age – apparently borderline thin bones in shape. Brill. Have just blown all my chances with Ramana.

Staggered into town to keep various people in humoUr (depleted), queued quietly at post office; had heartbreaking conversation with son on return, eating muffins which, naturally - in attempt to keep some sort of resemblance to normal life – I had baked ca 0700 instead of writing that blasted court thing. Now, and don’t say it doesn’t pay to speed (unbeknown to me) on 20 August 2008: As displacement therapy goes I have excelled myself: Filed like the devil,  hoovered like Dyson, cleaned like Doris Day and Mr Muscle rolled into one.

With a bit of luck, tomorrow afternoon I shall return to an immaculate flat, alphabetically ordered.

Oh, shit.

U

April’s Fool Day

Sweet. Just had word. I am on bail. Date for Magistrate’s court hearing set for 1 April this year.

Still don’t know what the case is they will bring against me. However, am good at thinking on my feet. Jean, you might be interested, since you hold store by percentages, that I figure in the top centile of (only shared by 1 % of the population) of finding unusual solutions to (un)usual situations. Thank god for small mercies.

U

Gaol (Brit. variant of jail)

It’s turning ugly. Just spoke to “Courts Warrant Officer”. Haven’t got a clue what they are on about. Neither does he. Will call me back within an hour. Apparently there has been plenty of written communication to me at addresses I haven’t lived at for ages. The argument now being that I should have let them know about my movements. This is Kafka. Not his dung beetle, the other one to give you the creeps. Why would I, how could I leave them a forwarding address NOT knowing that they are after me?

Anyway. Whatever. They can whistle for their money. Haven’t got any for starters. You can’t squeeze a dry stone. I will take this to the press if I don’t get a satisfactory result. You know, what’s so sad: You call Mr Pepper, his name, several times immediately. Naturally he doesn’t call back till one of his colleagues makes him. Then he turns (and I rarely use that expression) into a “little Hitler”. There is something so distasteful about the lower ranks smelling the power they have over you. Take me to court – detain me “in police cells prior to the court hearing”. You will live to regret it. And that’s a promise. I am not vindictive but there are limits. Bureau CRAZY.

Only comfort that if I were in Spain I’d already eat my Tapas in cell 66. The Spanish don’t hang about. Neither does French police. At least both those nations’ forces look so dashing in their leathers and boots, pistols at the ready in strategic place. If that is what turns you on. Wonder if Spanish be good enough to afford me a glass of Tio Pepe with my tapas. Chilled.

U

Done

How exciting.

You couldn’t make it up if you tried. Actually you could but why bother.

Opened post at lunchtime; glad tidings that “a warrant for your arrest has been issued“. Luckily I had quiche already in oven – so sudden dip in mood had no impact on what eventually constituted my son’s brunch.

Don’t say you don’t consort with outcasts. WANTED. More than two years ago I drove home feeling as sick as a rabbit caught in headlight, slammed car into closest to home (opposite house) vacant parking space, ran into house since didn’t want to soil car, threw up, washed my face, cleaned my teeth, came out ten minutes later to repark only to find parking fine ticket already issued. Never one to be huffy before strictly necessary called Council’s offices immediately to explain “Kotze” (another fine jiddish word). No probs. Put it in writing too. Fast forward nearly three years: I now owe £600 and am on brink of immediate arrest. Neither was anyone available when I called number, as advised, IMMEDIATELY.

I don’t mind going to prison for a short time; Since I’ve never been it would help my many researches. But son does mind. Very. Have now transferred all monies into his account so should worst come to worst he can pay the rent in absence of mine – and visit me. Poor boy. What mother he got himself lumbered with. They even stoop so low as to type IMPRISONMENT in capital letters. Shan’t comment lest air will turn blue.

Remember what I said the other day: All important to keep your nerve. Forgetting the state forking out to entertain and keep me in their own four walls (and I have to say that one of the reasons I do not rob banks is because I can imagine little fate worse than being confined to a cell) am I actually paying tax to keep people who have nothing better to do than soiling A4 sheets of paper in employment?

U

Fashion police

Looney, my views on abortion as promised to you have to wait.

I have more pressing things on my mind this minute – not least that the wearing of jimjams (that’s pyjamas to you and me) in bright daylight, public and on the streets of China is causing somewhat of a headache to the government. China appears anxious not to insult fashion sense of international visitors attending the forthcoming World Expo. One civilian who refuses to give up his perfectly stylish jimjams has challenged the Chinese government to comment on the rumour that Scottish men do not wear protective garments (or thongs as the case maybe) underneath their kilts.

I love this world: One minute we kill each other, the next I learn that sartorial rules given in the run up to the 2008 Beijing Olympics by the Chinese are about to be re-issued, and I  kid you not:

“Comb hair appropriately for your age” – Good job that Zandra Rhodes and I are unlikely to attend.

“Women should disguise THICK ankles with dark stockings” – Whilst I agree with the motion in principle I am a little lost as to how thick ankles undisguised might impact on proceedings.

“Men should steer clear of white socks with black shoes” – Does it really need the Chinese to tell us what’s been known forever, a fashion sin not to be commited unless you are 18, Fred Astaire, Noel Coward or Michael Jackson?

Now we are getting positively prescriptive: “Do not wear more than THREE colours in an outfit.” 

Let’s rope in a currently unemployed psychologist: “Too small clothes make people feel the wearer is unreliable”. 

Such a pity that I am not off to China any time soon otherwise I’d pack some multi coloured shrunk night gowns (they don’t have an edict on those yet), comb my hair in directions following the compass and take along a man wearing socks with sandals (used to be easy to come by in the UK). I don’t know what to do about ankles since mine are not thick (yes, I know, it’s one my pet hates too, how vanity will make you slip in little pieces of unnecessary information about yourself. What else are blogs for?).

I shall now go and consult Debrett.

Can’t get hold of my youngest sister right now otherwise I’d bid you Shanghain greetings.

U

Behind bars

Some members of  my fan club will be pleased to learn that, in the morning’s post, I received a letter informing me that not only do I owe a 600 Pound Sterling fine but that an arrest warrant has been issued. How exciting.

On phoning the number given in the letter they cannot tell me the nature of my apparent traffic offence committed on 20 Aug 2008, yes, 2008 (such efficiency). Neither do they know why I haven’t received any correspondence to that effect before. Apparently I was sentenced by the courts – in my absence – some time last year.

Two telephone calls later (I still don’t know what I am supposed to have done), and this just shows you why bureaucracy is CRAZY and keeps people in jobs, they will now reverse the process and start again. I therefore will have to attend court to make a “statutory declaration” that I never received any communication from the police to alert me to whatever my misdeamnour was. Copious correspondence will then be issued to my correct address, forms to be filled in and a date for a new court hearing be set.  This is what we pay taxes for. Still, policemen have to be kept occupied,  judges don’t want to twiddle their thumbs all day and  prisons need to be filled with villains.

U