monster sarcasm rally

Keep calm

48 hours after the worst of the riots and — for the most part — everything has returned to normal. Yes, there were lives lost, and for their families and friends, everything has changed. Yes, buildings and property were destroyed and the recovery will take time. Yes, there will be economic repercussions.

But on the whole, for most people, life has returned to normal. The keep-calm-and-carry-on mentality is so deeply ingrained in the city's psyche that you just can't keep them us down.

Aftermash

I wanted to join the cleanup efforts today after work. When I got home, though, my neighbourhood had been all cleaned up.

I thought of going to Lewisham, which isn't far away. It was one of the areas that was hard hit last night. But there's a note from the Council that everything's all cleaned up there as well.

So instead I'm sitting with my housemates watching the complete lack of new news on the BBC. They just keep looping the same footage and bits of interviews, mostly from last night.

Panic on the streets of London

London is filled with looting, rioting and arson tonight. It's been going on for several days, but has spread from a single area to the whole London today.

I walked the dogs this evening. We went down to the main road about 100 metres from my house. I ran into a herd of these so-called youths (i.e. people under the age of 60-ish) running down the street with bundles of stolen goods. Four of them ran to an expensive car (for which they had the keys), shoved stuff in the boot, and drove off.

And that's just sleepy east Greenwich.

Update at 07:14: I spoke with some cops this morning. They told me that they'd caught people last night who had hired cars so they could transport all their loot.

Update at 08:49: For the record and because this is being reported a a race-related issue... All the individuals I saw last night were white.

Scenery and fish (minus the fish)

Guess who's got internet... Oh, and guess which country is riddled with pointless bureaucracy.

And now for some scenes from my first month in the UK...

Scene 1a: Going Postal

When i first opened my UK bank account, they said they'd send me my PIN. Of course, I never got it. I assumed that when I moved I could just — you know — go into a branch and get a new one. Nope. But you can call this number and they'll send it to your house. Right.

I ordered a new one. They assured it me it would be here by last Thursday. Ya, of course it would. I have now requested it a third time. I'm not holding my breath.

Scene 1b: Never Get into a Battle of Wits with an Unarmed Man

When I got my paycheque I went into the bank to withdraw cash and to pay my rent. The first teller I spoke to told me I couldn't pay rent until I completed this handy little form they had which contained all the same crap as the sheet I'd brought in. And then go to the back of the queue...

I got halfway through the form when I discovered she had given me the wrong form. Of course...

The next time I had to go into the bank the same teller told me that I could not withdraw cash unless I had my chequebook with me. I'm not sure what I'd want a chequebook for, but I haven't got one. It's probably in the same netherworld as my PIN. I think she expected me to turn around and leave at that point. No such luck, sweetie. She repeated that it couldn't be done. I assured her it could. No, not possible.

You did it on Friday.

I did? She actually pointed at herself.

I laughed and told her I'd wait for the competent one to finish what she was doing.

How is it that somebody so stupid manages to stay employed? Oh right, she's pretty. Gah!

Scene 2: Quality Control

I take my travel mug everywhere. It does seem to be less common here, but people generally give me a weird look and then put my coffee in my mug like I ask. Except the people at the little café kiosk in Waitrose near work. I ordered a latte and handed the woman my mug. Poor thing, she looked so confused. You [pause] want me [pause] to put the latte [pause] in here?

Yes. Please.

She decided she needed permission from her manager before she could do such a thing. The manager came over and very sweetly and patiently explained that — over here — when you order coffee in comes in one of these. She practised her product modelling techniques with a helpful, expressive gesture over the paper cup she held aloft. It comes free with the coffee.

Wow, really? Where I come from if you don't bring your own mug, they have to pour the coffee straight into your mouth. We haven't invented paper yet.

Right. Can I please have my mug back? I'm going to go somewhere else.

Hey! There's no need to get like that. I'm just explaining to you that we take our product quality very seriously. If we put our coffee into your mug, we obviously can't control the quality of the product.

That's what she said.

The cashier jumped in with a brilliantly helpful suggestion. I know! What if we make the coffee in the usual take away cup, and then we give it to her? She can put it into her own mug then if she wants.

Wow. That completely defeats the point of trying to create less waste. Now can I please have my mug back?

Scene 3: Slice of Life

I ran out of dishwasher powder, so I got this brilliant idea into my head to wash some dishes by hand. Of course, this led to a very deep, painful and bloody slice on my right index finger just where one might wear a ring. Brilliant. I'm awesome. Hey, you know what might be even better? Burning the exact same spot a few days later just as the cut started to heal. Ya, a blister on top of a slice.

Have I mentioned that I'm awesome?

And now for some pictures of my dogs...

Last day

Yesterday was my last day at my old job. Today I'm packing. Tonight I fly to Rekjavik, then on to London. Tomorrow I move into my new house. Monday I start my new job. Wednesday the chuckleheads fly out. I meet them at Gatwick obscenely early on Thursday morning.

Speaking of the boys... 

I told Velcro to go to his bed. He did. I told the Smelly One to go to his bed. And um... Well... This is what happened.

Note the way they're looking at me as if to say, excuse me. Do you mind? Can we get a little privacy, please?

Welcome to my surreality

My prospective employer is currently doing a complete background check on me. This morning I woke up to an e-mail informing me that I had failed to properly justify the gap in my employment history. The 'gap' in question covers the period of January 2000 to May 2000.

I had been asked to provide 10 years' of employment history. Since my work at a small local company fell entirely outside of the 10-year window, I left it off. But apparently, when they said 10 years, what they meant was 10.5 years. Or maybe 11 calendar years... Not sure. Either way, I hadn't provided the info because it hadn't been requested (it had specifically NOT been requested). And now it's an issue.

I love HR. Really...

Ugh. I'm sure it will work out, but I figured there was bound to be some HR ridiculousness along the way. I wouldn't have predicted the specifics of the absurdity, but I was sure there would be some.

When I got out of bed I found my street looking decidedly autumnal (although it was 40 degrees out). Several people were spreading the finishing touches of dead leaves and detritus around.

After taking the boys to the vet for their pre-flight check-up and picking up a bottle of anti-depressants for Velcro, I went to work. Well, sort of. I kind of — erm — went to the wrong work. I got on the completely wrong subway line. After several stops I noticed that something felt wrong. Ya, I was most of the way to the job I left in November.

Sigh.

And now some scenes from my 'hood.

Also, Noah Wyle stood about five metres away from me at one point this evening. He looked over and smiled right at me Velcro dog. Then he blew up. Safely, of course. Lots of fire and smoke, but no harm to anybody.

I sat and watched as they filmed a few scenes. I've never seen so many iPhones in one place before.

At another point I accidentally walked into the middle of a scene. A guy screamed: Stop! Somebody just came out of that house.

Also also, I've never really noticed before, but Noah Wyle is kind of gorgeous.

Update the First: You know, it occurs to me that it probably didn't help that I was reading a Douglas Coupland novel in which the characters matter-of-factly discuss characters in a Douglas Coupland novel.

Update the Second: The picture I couldn't get because I was busy sitting on the road, covering Velcro Dog's ears (courtesy of my housemate)...

Unhomeless

The second piece of my news came through today. I signed the lease on a house in the village about which Daniel Defoe waxed so eloquently. Well, it was a village 300 years ago. Now it's part of London. That's right, London, which is where I will be living as of NEXT FRAKKING WEEK.

Oh, and while we were interviewing prospective tenants / housemates to take my room in my house in Toronto, Noah Wyle was filming an alien invasion TV show outside the window. In fact, we had to conduct one interview in the semi-dark so as not to be visible on screen in a supposedly abandoned house. For that (and for being too lazy to mow our lawn for a month), we are receiving $200. And my house will be in a TV series — a science fiction TV series.

Of course, I didn't see Noah Wyle (aka Dr Carter from ER) because I was inside interviewing a random Irish dude in the dark. Maybe I'll see him tomorrow, and he'll fall madly in love with — um — Velcro Dog.

They like me, they really like me!

So, about that news... One piece of it came through today. I received a job offer. Oh yes, I did. It means working for a big, well-known company in their London office. And I will have a fancy title involving the words vice and president*. And, oh by the way, they really want me to start in two and a half weeks. 

Wow. Right. Ya. So, erm... I've got a lot to accomplish in the next two weeks.

The other piece of the news — the bit pertaining to the fantabulous quote — will have to wait a few days.

_____________________

*Okay, the truth is that Vice President sounds a whole lot fancy-pantser than it really is. It's actually pretty meaningless. There are more than 1,000 people with that title in the same division I'll be in.

Three jobs and a booby

Greetings, my two and a half remaining readers. How are you on this fine Sunday?

Life in Sarsland has been — well — interesting. I had my New York interview this week. It went well — mostly. I was interviewed by three people. I'm confident that two of the three will report back positively. The third person spent the entire interview actively smiling at me. Or smirking. Or smiling. Or smirking. I really couldn't tell. She either really liked me, or she really didn't. And since she's the big boss, her opinion matters. 

So, basically, I don't know. I've no clue. I'll either get an offer out of them this coming week, or else I'll get a please-go-away-now letter. One or the other...

The flight back was a nightmare, but I haven't got the energy to tell that story. And it's not that funny anyways, just frustrating.

The following morning I had a phone interview for a completely different job. That interview went spectacularly well. The guy ended the call by saying I think you're the perfect candidate for this position. (Well, thank you. Yes, I am.) Normally I would follow up several hours later by sending a thank-you note to the interviewer. In this case, though, he sent me one approximately 30 seconds after the call. Seriously.

I have a second interview this week with the head of the European team. Unless I seriously screw that up or there is some major HR frak-up, I feel reasonably confident that I will get an offer from them.

I really don't know which one I would choose if offered both. Both have roughly equivalent salaries. Both have good prospects for the future, but in different ways. Both seem to involve great teams of people. One has more interesting day-to-day work; the other has better work-life balance (a concept almost unheard of in my industry). One has the added advantage of a great title and name-brand recognition, which I guess sways the odds in its favour. Hmm...

As soon as I got off the phone, I got dressed and headed to the hospital. Yes, that's right, the hospital. The urgent care centre, to be precise. You see 48 hours earlier a golf-ball sized lump had appeared in my left tit. And it frakking hurt... In the two days since the stupid thing had doubled in size (to about the size of a tennis ball). It felt like it weighed about as much as a bowling ball, and it hurt like nothing else on this earth has any right to.

Oh yes, that's right. I not only had a job interview while in more pain than I have ever been in in my life, I kicked serious arse on said interview.

I spent many hours sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the hospital's waiting room, re-reading Heinlein's classic novel, Friday. To make a long and (literally) painful story less long, I was eventually told that it is almost certainly an abscess. Neither pleasant nor sexy, but definitely not life threatening. Painful? Oh wow, yes. But I'll be okay.

I have to go back tomorrow to be poked at and prodded some more. And I'll be on antibiotics for another week. But that should be that.

In the meantime I've got one really big boob, which is pretty awesome. I feel like I should take some side-profile shots of myself just to prove that I ever achieved such 'status' even if only briefly and for all the wrong reasons.

Anyways, back to the whole job conversation... On Friday I got an e-mail from a former colleague who wants me to work for her company. Cutting another long story short, I may have a job offer from them before the end of the week as well. Hee hee.

I guess this is what it feels like to be popular!

Movin' on...

Guess who's got a job interview in New York this week...

What? New York, you exclaim. But I thought she was moving to London. What gives with New York?

Calm down. Keep your pants on. The interview is in New York. The job is in London. They're flying me down to the Big Apple to meet with various heads of divisions, including the guy I'd be working for in London, who's in the NY office this week.

Not that that's intimidating at all or anything...

Anyways, given that they're spending a whole lot of money to fly me down there for this... I mean, it's still far from a sure thing, but it demonstrates a certain level of interest on their part. At least, I think so.

Whether I get this job or not, I've decided I want to make my move in the latter half of August. My father doesn't approve of moving without a job offer signed on the dotted line. But then, he doesn't approve of the move at all. And it is proving somewhat difficult to secure work whilst not in the country. Headhunters keep saying the same thing: great, call us once you've moved here.

Sigh. So, I'm going to do it. Job or no job. But hopefully with job.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It don't look no better than it did before
And I know what's happening behind each door
If I don't get out today, I'm gonna waste my life away
And that's a part that I can't play

I don't wanna spend my whole life in this town, I can feel it driving me away
Baby you and me were meant for higher ground, we've got to steal away

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Oh, yes. That's right. I'm quoting hair rock at you. I am indeed.

I'll drink to that

Guess who got approved for her UK work visa today!!!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, guess who's been rewatching Firefly. And now for some random quotes....

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My days of not taking you seriously are surely coming to a middle.

Our love for him now ain't hard to explain.
The hero of Canton, the man they call Jayne...

Box-dropping man-ape gone-wrong thing...

Can't come out now. Too much hair.

Impatient

Stupid visa services people are taking too long with my application. Jackasses!

Random thoughts

Watching Fanboys as I write this. As excellent as it is, I've got to say... It offends my sensibilities as a true science fiction geek. I am sorry, but Star Wars is NOT real science fiction.

And now we're watching Plavalaguna's favourite, Glee. She likes the drama and the singy bits. I enjoy the snark. And occasionally the ridiculosity...

In other news... Last week I did the online application for my work visa, paid the exorbitant fee and made an appointment to take all my supporting documents to the visa office. Today was that appointment.

There was a woman in there also applying for a visa. She had previously applied for — and been awarded — a visa. She had even moved to the UK. And then her passport was stolen...

Canadian passports command the highest price on the black market, it would seem. The Canadian embassy gladly replaced her passport. Then they sent her home to reapply for an all-new exorbitantly expensive visa.

Here's hoping she makes it back again in time for her own wedding!

I've got a baaaaaaaaaad feeling about this...

I was always more of a Star Trek fan anyways.

And then she screamed

Part 2

Two weeks after the non-interview I received another call from the Coked-up Confused Headhunter. His client loved my CV, he said. Of course, he felt obliged to point out that he couldn't figure out WHY they loved it. They must not have read it properly, he said.

He said they wanted to interview me, but he didn't know how it would be possible given that I was still in un-TAH-row (which is Idiot for Ontario).

I suggested three apparently not-so-obvious methods: a phone interview, a meeting with management at the client's local office, or a video conference via the client's local office.

The ruh-TARD informed me that his client had no offices in un-TAH-row. Duh. Now why didn't it surprise me that I knew more about his client than he did?

He called back a week later to book the phone interview. He gave me the date, time, and the name and title of the person I'd be speaking with.

Not only was there a glaring misspelling in the person's job title, when I googled his name, I came up with nothing. Fortunately I am smart. I typed in the correct spelling of the guy's name and found what I was looking for. I should have taken that as a sign.

Part 3

The next day (i.e. the day before the scheduled interview) my phone rang just as I was getting doggy breakfast ready. Oh yes, that's right, dude gave me the wrong day.

I apologised and arranged for him to call back a few minutes later. He told me the headhunter had already screwed up three other interviews. Wow.

I didn't want to do the interview from home in case the dogs started barking or my housemates started — erm — singing. I didn't have enough time to get to the office, so I went to a nearby park. Foolishly I thought it would be a nice, quiet setting. Right...

The three trains that went by during the 30-minute interview weren't even the worst part. A woman was walking by with her dog. The dog, of course, wanted to meet me and approached me. A passing cyclist, who must not have been paying close attention, collided with the dog less than a metre away from me. She fell. And then she screamed...

Both dog and cyclist appeared unharmed, but I looked like a loser running away from the scene. I'm sure I sounded like one too.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of the job I didn't get.

Good enough

After much hard work and some extremely frustrating moments, as of 64 minutes ago I qualify for the UK work visa under the new rules.

One last letter from my bank to chase up and I should be ready to make my application next week.

Today (for a change) I don't hate everyone. Even you.

Twelve Frakking Days

Three plus years I've been working towards this stupid work visa. Three plus years of neurotically checking the requirements website to make sure I'm still going to qualify... Three plus years of working my arse off and saving every penny I could while spending an obscene amount on an MBA... Seeing my income go down over that time, thanks to the frakking recession... And to quote Metalocalypse, the recession is an asshole.

I was 12 days away from meeting all the requirements. I already meet everything but the reserve funds thing (they're there, but they have to be there for 3 months). I have been chasing paperwork from the various parties and beating my head against a wall trying to make them understand what I need (no, the online slips are not good enough). TWELVE FRAKKING DAYS.

And then...

I re⁴²⁷-checked the visa services website today. And they've changed the requirements. As of yesterday.

I had 85 points. I need 75 points. Now I have 70 points. Frak me!

The one possible solution I can see is that IF I get my completion bonus* promptly at the end of this contract and IF the exchange rate stays at the obscenely inflated level it's at now and IF I make my application a month later than planned... Then I will just barely scrape by.

If anybody else has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

On the bright side, this means I may be able to make it to my friend's wedding in Vancouver in June after all.

__________________________________

* Euphemism meaning 'money I've earned but that my employer is holding back to make sure I don't leave before the end of the contract'.

Doing

It's now approximately two months  until move date, possibly a bit less. So exciting...

Thus far I've done plenty of the fun side of preparations: research. I've been researching jobs, salaries, places to live, things to do, dog walkers, etc. But now it's time to get down to the less fun side of things: the tangible preparations.

Yesterday I decided that from here on out I need to DO (as opposed to research) at least one thing every day to get ready. Yesterday I went through my novels and picked out the ones I could bear to be parted from (nine if you're wondering). Then I took them to a local used book shop. Today I cleaned out the extra fridge to get it ready for sale.

Tomorrow? Who knows, but Thursday is the passport...

One year ago today

One year ago today I hopped on a plane to London, where I proceeded to experience The Worst Holiday Ever (parts -1, 0, 1-5, 6, 7). London was not the reason for the awful-ness of the trip — far from it. In fact, it was during that trip that I made a decision. For a long time I had been wanting to move there — you know, someday. But I never did anything about it.

So last year I decided it was time to... well, in the words of Doctor Lisa... suck it up, princess. I decided to work towards making it happen. But then along came the sun global economic crisis and dried up all the rain bonus money. So the saving-up-cash process slowed down. And then the Santa Claus Incident swallowed what savings I did have. But now that's behind me, the uber-pricey MBA is history, and I even got a bit of a raise. 

What does this all mean? It means I'm moving to London, baby. I've done up a fancy budget thinger, and I've got my spending habits (mostly) under control. I'm on track to make the move some time around March.

All this talk of London reminds me of a Toronto story. Sort of... Let's say you land at Heathrow and you get on the tube. You will hear a voice clearly announce something like the following: This is a Piccadilly line train to Cockfosters.

In Toronto you can enter any TTC station at any time of day, and you will hear this announcement: -- tion all -- bway pas -- periencing a delay at our -- ation with a ---- se crews are ------ expect serv -------- Repeat: -- lay at our sta --

I believe this message can be interpreted as: Attention all subway passenger-hopefuls. We are experiencing a delay at the station near your house with yet another jumper and/or drunk person. Emergency response crews are dispassionately observing the scene. We expect service (if you can call it that) to be restored the moment you give up and start walking. Repeat: We are experiencing a delay at a randomly selected sampling of our stations due to a last-minute strike.

Anyways, that's my ramble for the evening. Thank you for joining humouring me.

Life soup

Oops. Guess who didn't pay her Typepad bill for a while...

Some snippets of life from the past few weeks:

• VelcroDog has decided to stay, which means he has to start the doggy visa process right now-ish for the move to London.
• The Blue Jedi, alas, he is gone*.
• One of the chuckleheads at work was handing out free fruit-juice popcicles one day. I took an orange one. At least, I thought it was orange. One lick informed me of my error. Pineapple. My lips were numb for several hours.
• The dude I work for/with/whatever shall henceforth be known as Kara. No, not that Kara.
• Speaking of Star Trek, Sylar makes a hell of a sexy Spock.
• VelcroDog performs the sacred rite of the dinner dance, but not at dinner time. At pretty much all times except while I am making his dinner... While I'm making his dinner he sits patiently by and watches. Beandog would be horrified, or at least perplexed.
• I am so done with this MBA. I mean, I'm not, but I am. You know?

And now an office tale from this morning...

Last week the company president (henceforth: Gaius Baltar) pulled me off what I was doing and had me do a project for him. I spent a day scrubbing, sorting, aligning, and analysing 200 rows of data, and turned my report in at the end of the week.

On Monday I was told I'd been given the wrong file. The file I was supposed to have been sent contained 600 rows, not 200. So I scrapped my work and started fresh. I did up a report and sent it to Baltar on Wednesday night. This morning Bridget told me to call him. Now.

Baltar picked up the phone and demanded to know if I thought this was good work. Do you really think you're good at your job? Let me ask you something: are you actually proud of this? He spat the questions at me, more hissing than yelling. This is a man who enjoys making people cry. His non-work hobbies include stealing chocolate from small children, kicking puppies, and expensive women.

Oh dear. Did I screw the whole thing up? Make a typo? Put too much effort into a little thing? Put not enough effort in? What?

Um... Well, I was until about 10 seconds ago. Now I'm worried.

He laughed and said, I am so funny. I crack myself up. I should be a stand-up comic. Ya, shades of David Brent. He went on to say the report was great. He loved it. It's excellent. From now on, do the same thing every month.

Ya, Kara ain't too pleased about that part.

*He's not dead. He just lives with his new forever home now.

Pissy friggin' frak and crap

I told somebody about the London plan. I wouldn't normally tell anybody at work anything personal, but I figured I was safe as she's not in my department and doesn't talk to anybody in my department. Except I forgot... There is one person around here that she talks to. 

Mimi. 

And because the person I told is somebody with no career-climbing ambitions, she didn't think it was a big deal if anybody knew that I had long-term goals that didn't include this company because it was so far into the future (like six moths). 

Of course, Mimi is the one person who's job I'm next in line for (and would do a better job at). And she knows it. So Mimi, in turn, told the bossman. 

And that's how I got called into the bossman's office yesterday to discuss said plans and my future with the company. 

Not happy. It's my own stupid, stupid fault. But still... 

Not, not, not pleased.