Imbeciles

It’s been a day of admin, so feel free to skip this blog if you’re looking for something interesting to read. The day went something like this; wrote on the kitchen table, went to Finchley to copy music, had a row in post office, had row in the gym, came back home and did more work.

The two rows were triggered by imbeciles. The woman in the post office was particularly stupid and unhelpful. “I need to get this package to Leeds by Friday” I said, very clearly. “Do you want to send it first class?” she asked. "Yes, I think I do" I said, "how much would that cost?" “If you send it first class," she interrupted, "it might get there on Friday, or it might not arrive until Monday.” I did a cartoon double take. “But it’s Wednesday” I said, “and we’re not in the third world.” Of course, I immediately regretted the previous statement, because the woman was plainly of Indian origin. “Surely sending it first class means it will probably reach its destination tomorrow, or by Friday by the latest?" I said, "Surely, that's how the Royal Mail always used to work.” She sighed, a great big elephantine sigh. “If you want to guarantee it gets there on Friday, you’ll need to send it by guaranteed mail, and you’ll have to send it tomorrow, or it will get there before Friday.” “No!" I said "I said, I said it needed to arrive before Friday, not on Friday...” And with that, I gave up, and simply paid an extortionate £7 to make sure the package arrived on time.

I wondered if this was a new jolly on the part of post office staff; pushing up the profits by exploiting the fact that no one trusts the postage system any more. Now that first class only “guarantees” delivery within five days, I'm not sure that sending letters has any purpose at all. The system is broken. They've closed down half the post offices, you have to wait for hours to be served... There'll come a time when it's quicker, and cheaper, to deliver packages by hand, through a network of friends travelling up and down the country. I'm currently wondering if I know someone who might be going up to Leeds within the next couple of days who might stick the package in their bag. Or maybe I should just leave it in the loo of a Virgin Train...

The argument in the gym was triggered by the guy who stands on the reception and looks like Diana Ross. The showers at the gym were all broken. Well, the three cubicles I visited were. One didn’t have a soap dispenser, another didn’t have hot water, and the last had lost its shower head, so water was just pouring out of a hole like a tap.

As I left the gym, I asked Ms Ross when we might expect the showers to be repaired. “They was [sic] repaired yesterday,” he said. “But at least three of them are still broken” I replied. “It’s going to take a while for the heating system to sort itself out" came the response. “But two of my issues are nothing to do with the heating system.” By then, he’d lost interest, and started doodling something on a piece of paper. “I see you’ve finished talking to me.” I said. He slowly looked up from his pad and shrugged. I lost my temper “I was talking to you!” I said. “You haven't answered my question, you’ve completely lost interest and now you're painting a pretty picture on a pad.” “You’re being rude to me” he said “I don’t have to listen to that.” He’d have said the same thing if I’d have sworn.

I realised at that point that I was getting nowhere, so stormed out, gracefully... I regret now that I didn't say what was rolling around in my mind; “Look, Ms Ross, I realise it must be very hard for you to be working in a gym when you used to front The Supremes, but you have a job to do, and you’re not doing it very well.” There would, of course, have been no point in saying anything. He wouldn't have known who Diana Ross was, would have taken the comment as a racist slur and lethargy has very much set in at LA Fitness. None of them care anymore. It’s a classic example of "broken window" syndrome. The staff are bored of customers whinging, because their superiors never address any of the issues that get raised, which makes the customers rattier, and the staff less interested as a form of self-preservation. And unfortunately the same situation is happening in libraries, hospitals and schools across the country. If in doubt, blame the recession.

I read today of a former ballet dancer with crippled legs who was told that the local authority wouldn’t pay
for the night care needed to enable her to go to the loo. They suggested instead that she might like to wear incontinent pads. But the woman is not incontinent. She simply can’t reach the loo in the night unassisted. So, because of government cuts, she has to lie in her own urine. It's difficult enough to maintain one's dignity as one gets older, but this is surely wrong? It’s astonishing what we’re allowing ourselves to become. Under New Labour, we had ten years of making everyone aspire to middle class values; vast sums of money were wasted on putting hundreds of thick people through university. We all knew our rights. We all whinged about the health service, and waiting times, but now we can’t even look after a crippled former ballerina. It’s pathetic. And watch out, people, because this discontent will spread. People will start to blame some minority group or other, and a Hitler figure will be just around the corner waiting to pounce.

Saturday July 6th, 1661, and Pepys was awoken with the news that his Uncle Robert had finally died. His response was predictably frank; “Sorry in some respect, glad in my expectations in another respect.” Our hero was, of course, in line for his uncle’s estate. Pepys journeyed into the City to tell a number of relatives the sad news, and then bought a pair of riding boots, grabbed a couple of horses and a messenger, and rode with haste to Brampton, just up the A1 in Huntingdonshire. He was actually there by 9pm. Not bad, really, for a 70 mile or so journey.

Pepys’ father was well, and his uncle, as predicted, was dead and lying in a coffin “standing upon joynt-stools in the chimney in the hall.” The corpse had obviously started to putrefy in the hot weather, so Pepys demanded that it be taken out and stored in the garden, watched over by two men.

Pepys’ Aunt Anne had taken to bed, and was in a “nasty ugly pickle” which made Pepys “sick” to see. Pepys shared a bed with his father “greedy to see the will” but not so impatient that it wouldn't wait until the morning.