shinytoaster: (Default)
Tinkering with LJ.

There needs to be a way to change my icon settings. I have 15 right now, but I have more inactive ones still on the site from when I had extra icon space, and I want to use some of those, but LJ is assigning me my 15 icons out of my 38 uploaded icons completely randomly, and there doesn't seem to be a way to get the inactive ones back without deleting all the icons and starting over from scratch, so round and round and round we go.

Oh wow, people. Blinking.

I got away from the cold calling centre of doom last Friday, away from Toni with the funny name who consistently mistook my polite interest for actual enthusiasm. It's strange, but when hiring a temp for a paltry wage, he actually seriously expected me to care how many people showed up for his poxy little seminar (about three, incidentally). If you're in Brighton, you may feel free to go along and point and laugh. It's at the Hilton Metropole on the front at 6:30 this evening, and Toni is the one who looks like a Tellytubby crossed with Robert Kilroy-Silk.

So, House is getting it's UK terrestrial premiere this week, so I may give it a go and find out what the fuss is all about - from the vibe I'm getting it seems to be a bit like Green Wing, season two of which I am awaiting breathlessly. The only trouble is it clashes with Kath and Kim, arguably the best Australian show since Round The Twist.

I watched about two minutes of Big Brother 6 the other night, and, wow, well. Maybe it's the fact I've read Ben Elton's 'Dead Famous' since BB5 - an excellent critique and very funny murder mystery, if you're interested - but I have never in all my days seen such a bunch of empty-headed, boring little twats. I hate, hate every single one of them, with their stupidly spelled names and their 'Oh, we should respect Mykhael's feelings' or 'No, Enema has every right to express herself, Peatar' after Enema has just said something along the lines of 'I fink there's like a terrorist chav paedophile immigrant under everybody's bed innit?' and then it's into the diary room and backstab backstab backstab. We should deny them the oxygen of publicity; I would feed all of them to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

An Entry

May. 25th, 2005 09:22 pm
shinytoaster: (Default)
This week, I have been working at a property investment company. We cold call people. In contravention of the Data Protection Act. Happily most people are not sufficiently on the ball to recognise this. They are, however, sufficiently on the ball to tell me to go away when I ring them.

I absolutely hate cold calling. It was one thing I said I would not do when I signed up with Brook Street, and they committed me to this placement without telling me it involved cold calling, so I'm kind of mad at them right now.

Anyway, this afternoon we had a fire alarm. A real one. The firemen came and everything. They didn't get their hoses out to play, though. Most of them hid in the tenders. It was certainly the highlight of my day. One of the ground floor units in our building which was unaccountably not evacuated had a freezer with strawberry Cornettos in it. And it was quite hot. So there was ice cream and banter and abuse from a couple of drunks in army fatigues.

The company is clearly a huge con. It's full of wideboys called Tony who spell Tony Toni, to which I have no objection as long as you have boobs. Let me assure you that Toni does have boobs, but not quite in the sense I was thinking of. He also looks like Pat Sharp. I can't wait to get out of there. Away from the boobs. And Toni. Whenever I get near him I have an urge to pipe up with a few bars of Unbreak My Heart.

Basically, what we do is organise seminars with titles like 'YOU TOO CAN BE A PROPERTY MILLIONAIRE', generally in various airport Hiltons, in which we entice people to buy properties in Spain and Florida, selling them as off-plan, which means you take a look at the architect's drawings and buy the property before it's built. Smart move.

I have nightmare visions of ending up working there permanently, and in a few years being pursued across a muddy building site by Nicky Campbell and a BBC camera crew; "Is it true the condos in Boca Raton all had Legionnaires Disease? What happened to the 2 million pounds we thought you had, and how come you own ten thousand pairs of shoes?"

Talking of nightmare visions, last night I had a political nightmare, in which I was trying to unify a split cabinet. Then I dreamed I was being bullied by Gordon Brown because I was going out with Michael Howard. Then I kissed Michael Howard. On the lips.

Even my dreams pollute me.

I am not sleeping, either. I had a miserable time on Sunday night. Monday night was not much better, and last night as I was drifting off, my brain suddenly went "I wonder what it feels like to be conscious of falling asleep. Let's stay awake and find out." The upshot of this was that I was very tired and nearly drifting off, but every time I started to float away, my brain kicked in and went, "Wow, this is so cool" and woke me up again. This is how come I ended up sitting up in bed at 2:30 this morning with Classic FM on, reading a chapter of Jeremy Paxman's excellent 'The English,' which is what I do when I can't sleep. This had the effect of wearing my brain out a bit more so that then it got too fuxored to concentrate on what falling asleep felt like, and actually let me fall asleep. My brain truly has a mind of its own.
shinytoaster: (Default)
So, I have an interview today for a job that I do not want. But apparently it is a job that I have pretty much already got - Brook Street apparently feeling they can parachute me into any old role at this point. So ... yay. I win at life.

It's actually back at Kingston Borough Council, where I worked for about a week earlier this year, and it's general administration, and it wouldn't be so bad, except that it's in Public Housing Repair and I have to answer the phones.

The biggest issue here is that I do not like the phone ruling me. I like to rule the phones, yo. I want the numbers, I want to do the dialling, I want to speak to people on my terms. What I do not want to do is pick up the phone and have someone ranting at me about how their water pipes aren't working, because my natural inclination is to say, "Oh God, that's awful, and I bet the council haven't done a thing about it, the bastards." And they talk so quickly, and they frequently have really bad English, and they get so angry, and their problem is always more important than everybody else's. And I'm sorry they have to live in public housing; it sucks being poor, it really does and I'm sorry, but I don't want to do this!

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