Death to Edutainment

Today I visited the Natural History and Science Museums with my sister and four-year-old niece.

Let me make my position clear: when I go to a museum I want to see a mummy, a three-headed goat preserved in formaldehyde, and all manner of freakish exhibits in dusty glass cabinets.

I do not want to see a fun interactive installation depicting how a volcano works, a video with a child-friendly actor explaining how earthquakes happen, and an entire wing devoted to different varieties of rocks. When did museums become so repellently kiddified? Quite some time ago, probably. As my sister observes, a trip to the museum now ranks a close second behind musical theatre in the all-time league of Least Favourite Entertainment.

A proper museum.

Happily, my niece broke up the kid-centric monotony by needing the toilet every 8 minutes. She quickly tired of the 'touch & explore' crap and we brought the educational tour to an end.

The three of us then spent a very happy 45 minutes browsing the lovely artwork and grown-up consumer durables for sale in the shop of the V&A.

Sand which?

They get off their pedestals and walk around at night.

Straying from the beaten tourist track can be quite rewarding. This afternoon a friend and I tramped the former south-east London docklands of Southwark, Rotherhithe and Surrey Quays.

It was a bleak and windy day, the perfect backdrop for these tragically peeling statues of an orphan girl and boy, standing over the entrance to a former charitable school for children of the poor. For sure, nothing says 'childhood' like a crumbling, hollow-eyed, 18th century, bible-clutching plaster effigy.

Then there was the gourmet hotspot of H's Café, "Where you KNOW you've had a sandwhich". And it probably is quite hard to forget that fact as you make your sixteenth visit of the evening to the big white telephone.

Another killer slogan for the collection.

Next stop Redhill

A pleasant day of wandering in Notting Hill, despite significant transportation challenges. Much of the underground service was suspended today, and many buses were operating as a (poor) substitute for trains.

The consequence of this was a lot of time spent hanging around on windswept platforms at train stations, exposed to travelling freaks. Changing trains at Gatwick on the way back to home base, I raced to board the connecting train at Platform 1. Although the train was still there, the doors refused to open and the lucky people inside stared smugly out at me while it began, with infinite slowness, to pull away.

I was left behind in the gloomy dusk to wait 25 minutes for the next train. Even though I had my headphones on (the universal symbol for 'don't speak to me'), a middle-aged woman in a leopard-print headscarf approached me. She appeared to be wearing a lot of shiny vaseline around her eyes, which meant that her mascara was unable to cling to her eyelashes in the usual way. Black segments of mascara like spider legs were making their way off her eyelashes and around the rest of her face.

Mascara Lady was going to Redhill and wanted to know from me whether the next train would be going there, even though the ticket office had advised her of this, a voice over the PA was announcing it, and the sign hanging over the platform also made the destination clear. She thought I looked like I might be going there, and wanted me to give the final verdict. I confirmed that the train was, indeed, going to Redhill.

When it arrived I noticed she still didn't get on it.

Crap Santa

Oh dear. Great disappointment this morning - although an enormous amount of presents had been left under the tree, Father Christmas somehow forgot to eat the provisions specially left out for him and the reindeer. Difficult to explain this to the children's satisfaction, but a strongly-worded email to the North Pole has been promised.

The day passed in an orgy of rampant wrapper-shredding consumerism, bickering and gluttony; followed by the inevitable post-frenzy afternoon slump and oppressively huge clean-up operations. Without which it just wouldn't be Christmas.

The Odyssey

That was the best flight I've ever had. We were an hour and fifteen minutes late in taking off because refueling is not allowed during an electrical storm. Then 2 of the 4 canisters of insecticide needed for the hold went missing and had to be found or the baggage would not be permitted to be unloaded at Heathrow.

We then took our place in the take-off queue behind 25 other aircraft. There was no in-flight entertainment, the food was the worst I've ever tasted on a plane (which is saying something), and when we landed the parking brake failed so we had to wait to be towed. The most-repeated phrase over the PA was 'Please bear with us...'

This was, however, all immaterial. Because due to a check-in fluke, I had a row of 4 EMPTY SEATS to myself. This was the closest I ever have, and undoubtedly ever will, come to business-class travel. I shall treasure the memory forever.

At my sister's house I was ready to luxuriate in a much needed-bath, but nobody mentioned that the timer on the immersion heater would allow only tepid water, rapidly cooling to a bracing absolute zero. So rather more on the 'endurance' than 'luxury' end of the bathing experience.

My brother-in-law has been stricken with a debilitating sinus infection, and my 18-month old nephew is having 'sleep issues', ie. shrieking his head off for an extended period when being put to bed. And then again in the middle of the night, resulting in all members of the household being sleep-deprived.

But the carrot, saucer of milk and mince pie have been set out for Father Christmas, so all is in readiness for the Big Day tomorrow. We are amped!

FREEDOM

The last few painful hours at the office have been suffered through, and tonight I fly to London to spend the Christmas break with my sister and her lovely family.

I can't wait, although flying long-distance does bring with it some inevitable anxieties. Will the airport scales agree that my luggage is just a shade under the 23kg allowed? Will sniffer dogs detect the lovingly-baked Christmas cake my mother has made me pack?

Last time I was at the airport I saw some poor woman having her muffins confiscated when a treacherous beagle parked itself next to her suitcase, staring accusingly up at her and waiting for the reward from its handler.

Also, I hope they don't attempt to weigh my hand luggage. It looks like a normal cabin trolley, but is in fact packed with the density of solid plutonium. When pulled along, the wheels could leave grooves in a concrete floor.


Further holiday updates to follow from the Other Side...

Lunchcrime

While rummaging around in the office fridge, I just accidentally flung someone's tupperware lunchbox onto the floor, spewing somebody's bizarre meal of noodles, baked beans and big chunks of meat onto the already-grubby kitchen floor.

I did consider shovelling it back into the tupperware, but in the end I binned it and cleaned up the mess. I then performed a half-hearted tour of the office to find out whose lovingly-prepared meal I had destroyed, but nobody claimed ownership of the lunchbox.

This has been the most significant event of the day so far...

SOS

Events at the office are conspiring to wreck the Christmas vibe in a big way. One of our (few remaining) clients put in their next big campaign brief about 2 months too late, and what with the film industry closing down for about a month over this period, it is proving virtually impossible to meet the mid-January deadline for TV.

 

This is the cause of recriminations, infighting, stress, rage and general pandemonium. Every day brings a fresh letter of resignation, leading to the unthinkable scenario of me ending up here on my own, clinging to the railings of the sinking Titanic with only the unemployable MAM for company. No danger of him going anywhere, apart from a drug & alcohol treatment centre. And that is a very remote possibility indeed.

Please God no

Concerns of the bed chamber

I really, really have to get some new pillows. Usually they are masked by presentable pillow cases, but this morning while awaiting fresh bed linen the full horror was revealed.

The origin of these pillows is uncertain, but I probably got them from my mum when I moved into my own place. If they are from the family home they could well be in excess of twenty-five years old.

All the stuffing in them has migrated into unyielding clumps, resulting in some interesting patterns on the face in the morning. They are also covered in disturbing mystery stains, to the degree that a self-respecting tramp would reject them for reasons of hygiene.

But the thing is, they are exactly the right height for me to sleep on. It's impossible to find pillows of the correct slenderness in any shop. Ordinary plump pillows give me neck ache, so I'll just have to keep inhaling the corpses of decades-deceased bedbugs a bit longer.

The Birds

It's been a serene and restful long weekend (apart from that bit when I had to go to work). Reading, present-wrapping and dining with friends have been the main activities. The general tranquility has, however, been a tiny bit marred by the local wildlife.

While buried in a book on the patio it dawned on me that for well over an hour, a mystery bird somewhere nearby had been twittering hysterically in a way that must have been causing great strain to its larynx: "AAAAKAaaakAaaakAaaakAAAAAKAaakAaaakAAAAKaaakAAAAK!!" Once I'd noticed the barrage there was no ignoring it.

I went out to look for the problem, and spotted a small Crested something-or-other flitting between trees and shrieking incessantly. Watching it for a while, I couldn't see any reason for it to be indulging in this behaviour, and my appearance on the scene did nothing to shut it up. Even a stick flying in its direction did not encourage it to move on.

Eventually I glanced at a section of wall partially hidden by leaves and saw the neighbour's evil yellow-eyed tabby cat draped along the top, surveying the scene regally as though staking out a baby warthog on the savannah. I can't reach the bird, but I can definitely get my hands on the cat.

Zeitgeisty!

Found out yesterday that the punchline from one of our TV ads is being borrowed to get laughs in the annual Janice Honeyman Christmas pantomime at the Joburg theatre.

This is especially gratifying since the Red Queen had despised our humble little ad when shown it earlier this year, condemning it as the worst thing she'd ever seen and not in the least bit funny.

This pushed myself and the co-creator into an abyss of professional despair and self-loathing, or more accurately snipped the fraying rope that we were dangling from, in the aforementioned abyss she'd long since kicked us into.

We had been told recently by media that the ad was tracking well with viewers, but you can't demonstrate more mass-appeal than being referenced in a Christmas panto, right? Right? Take that Your Majesty, you stuck-up, humourless harpy. Unfortunately the chances of her seeing this or any other panto are zero, unless it's a panto held on a yacht on the Côte d'Azur with costumes designed by Yves Saint Laurent.

Surrounded by Turkeys

I was in the midst of a pre-movie dinner at a nice restaurant around 7pm last night, serene in the knowledge that the following day was a public holiday, when my phone rang. After ignoring a couple of calls (I had a dark suspicion it might be work), I relented and answered. Fatal mistake, naturally.

It was indeed work-related, and my presence would be required at the office at 8am this (holiday) morning to sort out some job, the original creator of which had disappeared on leave. I would be briefed on arrival by client service people. Begrudgingly I set the alarm last night, dragged myself out of bed for a slice of toast and entered the unhallowed halls of the office at five minutes to eight this morning.

Picture my irritation as 15 minutes, then half an hour went by without the promised client service or production people showing up. After several frustrated calls (other people are more astute about switching their phones off), it emerged that my sole reason for being there was to drag a folder containing the job from one server onto another server.

Because heaven knows, anybody else might be electrocuted if they touched the computer. And it's not like I could have told them over the phone where the job was filed, what an outlandish notion. Then of course there's the fact that the instigators of this plan all had more important things to do than BE AT WORK AT 8 O' CLOCK ON A NATIONAL HOLIDAY JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

green curtain update

Green curtain still missing.
Police baffled.

Is it just me...

...or is there something peculiar about this? I found it attached to the gate when I got home this evening.

I am convinced it's a coded message. Somebody arriving at the front entrance to my townhouse estate will see this and know to take the suitcase of amphetamines to the disused warehouse near the gasworks.

Or else it's a haiku. There's something strangely zen about the composition. I think it's the enormous gap after 'AND..............................', giving the reader time to reflect. Then there are those tiny, tiny words at the bottom left which contradict the sentiment, 'It would be greatly appreciated'.

The third possibility is that Marguerite has a strong emotional attachment to a green curtain which someone accidentally removed, presumably when they accidentally leaned in through a window and accidentally detached a hundred curtain hooks.

You better believe I'm on the lookout for that green curtain.

I'm with the Zzz Team

Another session of flogging ye old brain on the giant brand ad today. A couple of hours of deep and painful thought resulted in a grand total of 1(one) idea which could be profound genius, or then again may be utter crap. More likely the latter.

I fear we may be in for a lukewarm reception at our review tomorrow anyway. When our creative director looked in on us during our brainstorming session she discovered the slumbering and unresponsive body of one of our party, fallen asleep face-down on a bench after consuming a bottle of cider at lunch. Oh yes, we're the consummate professionals alright.

Hard time

I seldom take leave in the run-up to Christmas, reasoning that things at the office will be quiet enough to provide a virtual holiday anyway. Year after year this hypothesis is proven to be hopelessly deluded, as some enormous and urgent job always gets briefed in by one of our inconsiderate clients before they take off for the beach.

This leaves precious little spare time to devote to the soul-destroying task of Christmas shopping. Even as we speak, I lie crippled on the sofa after a gruelling Sunday spent at the shops. The crowds, the noise, the doubt, the exhaustion, the inevitable misplacing of the parking ticket when wishing to make an exit.

Next year I will definitely get my act together and do it all online. And perhaps not use up every nano-second of my annual leave before reaching December.

W is for Woe.

Oh yeah - I forgot to mention our new business pitch was not successful, as we found out yesterday. Short-sighted potential clients seem to be holding the departure of our top management team against us, for some reason.

On principle I can never again eat at a certain burger-based restaurant chain whose name begins with a 'W'. Unless really desperate, of course.

In other news, my badminton bruise has gone from a brightly attractive red & blue to a clashing yellow & purply-black mess. Also there was another painful trip to the dentist this morning.

I was warned not to eat until the anesthetic had worn off, which is good advice since I once contentedly chewed up a section of my tongue along with the steak and kidney pie I was eating unwisely soon after an injection.

I grow Weary of this Week.

In the Lair of the MAM

Received an invite out of the blue today from an erstwhile friend, and now flatmate of the MAM, to come round for dinner.

In the spirit of a those war correspondents who venture into Darfur and return with tales of pestilence & horror, I accepted this invitation.

Journalists in Sudan, however, never had to deal with the sight of the MAM's soiled underpants flung into a corner of the bathroom during a visit to the loo.

There had recently been a burglary at the flat, but the MAM & friend had been too strung out on pills/alcohol to prevent or notice it. This had caused the friend to become slightly paranoid, hiding any remaining items of value throughout the flat. She told me that she was still looking for the MAM's half of the December rent, four thousand in cash that she'd hidden somewhere in her bedroom (valium plays such tricks on the memory).

Eventually dinner (chicken a la king) was served, the MAM thoughtfully wiping my plate clean with the front of his t-shirt before dishing up. Bon appetit!

Damn you, Karma

Got my comeuppance for sneering at the MAM's 'ailments'. I was at badminton practice this evening playing mixed doubles with Mahesh, who is built like the proverbial sturdy toilet constructed of brick.

I was standing behind him, because it was his turn to receive the service. The shot was heading well to the back of the court and clearly OUT, but Mahesh decided that this was the time to open a Can o' Whup-ass on our opponents. He somehow got behind me and delivered a powerful slashing blow, missing the shuttle completely and hitting me in the side with his racquet.

I now have a picturesque red-and-blue weal over my left kidney shaped like the rim of a racquet.

sicko

God, the bleak abyss of Monday. The high point of the day was the absence of the MAM, since he called in sick this morning. According to his best buddy at the office, the poor bloke is 'man down'. Down at the bottom of a vodka bottle, we cynically speculate?

Far be it from me to besmirch his reputation, but there has been a trend in the past for him to be stricken by 'migraines' following a weekend. Or, as those among us with less medical expertise have called them, 'hangovers'. I wonder whether a sick note will be produced, as per company policy.

Feel the Noize

Went with friends to a skanky dive today where a band called the 'Hip Replacements' was performing. There was really no good reason for subjecting ourselves to this, apart from a misguided feeling that we should be getting out more.

We should definitely not be getting out more. We should be staying in with DVDs and books and cakes and cups of tea.

It was a small and intimate venue. Our table was mere inches from the band and their very large speakers, which seemed to me not all that necessary in an enclosed 3 x 6m space.

The Hip Replacements don't do covers, performing their own material and singing bluesy love songs with a passion that is frankly unseemly in a gang of crusty old men. Mercifully there was too much distortion to be able to make out most of the lyrics. One New Age-looking audience member provided an entertaining diversion with her earnest free-form self-expressing dance moves.

All in all though, probably not worth the hearing impairment we have suffered.

Yet more disturbingly old-maid behaviour

After my evening ablutions, I thought I'd just pop out and check the post box. For this expedition I threw together an über-casual ensemble of paint-spattered tracksuit pants, flip-flops with socks and an offensively bright blue fluffy hooded top, capped by damp & bedraggled hair.

I'd forgotten that this was the evening rush hour, so in the short walk to the post box I was subjected to intense scrutiny by an enormous procession of crawling cars, as roughly 600 people returned home at the same time after their day's labour. 

Striding purposefully along and staring intently at a distant point seemed the only option.