And what do you do for a living?

I could, and would like to, speak about the last roll of toilet paper in the house. But I won’t.

Phil recently inspired two questions: How did you come by your name? Who decided your children’s names? A worthy subject. Going right to the core of our being. Not least directing you to the divorce court.

The Angel’s name came easy. And no, his name is not “The Angel”. He just looks like one. May I say, and be assured of my dismay, that some blogger took it upon herself to find out what my son’s name is and publish it. She preens herself on being ‘curious’. And was gracious enough assuring me (on my blog) that I was most welcome to take down the information she had put out there in more detail than strictly necessary, including my address. Well, Cheerful Monk/Jean – yours is one of two comments I took down in all my years of blogging. Not because the Angel could give a shit who knows his name. Well known anyway. But that moment I saw you as spiteful. Hope it’ll somehow chime with your Buddha.

Sorry, got carried away there with anger. Karma, no doubt, will take care of both mean Jean and myself.

Yes, names. What’s in a name? I don’t know. I chose my son’s by intuition. Since an unusual name here, people will gush over it. Yet, when I am introduced to someone  name doesn’t matter. Not really. A Benjamin is not necessarily a Benjamin. John is unfortunate. But only because there so many of them.

My grandmother registered my birth. Going against her daughter’s/my mother’s wishes. Thus I am Ursula (same name as my mother’s) and am very happy with it. I’d have hated to be what my mother had in mind and then named her second daughter, and beloved sister of mine. So I am an Ursula and most certainly not my sister. Ponder on this, any of you who have names and/or siblings.

And then there is one of my pet hates: Abbreviating a name. My son’s name can’t be abbreviated. For that it’s too short. Pity one of my nephews: Christopher. A name is a name. Say it. Even if it takes a nano second longer than abbreviating it. It’s one thing I do not like about English speaking countries: Their need to abbreviate. Why? You are given a name. How hard can it be for friends, family, teachers, colleagues to actually say your name in full?

The last paragraph felt good.

You may call me Urse. Only one person in my life has called me that, and I loved it. Yes, GG . And, in many a moment of affection,  I too shortened his six letter name to four.

Over to you, Phil.

Urse

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

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