Journal Entries
One year on.
Posted Jul 19, 2003
Well, one year and one day, I suppose. If you want to be technical. It seems to be working out quite nicely, don't you think?
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Latest reply: Jul 19, 2003
Peter.
Posted Jul 15, 2003
Well, alright, you know it's the height of pretentiousness to call St Petersburg 'Peter' when talking to foreigners, but the problem is that the whole concept just makes you want to hug yourself with glee. And in fact, start privately trying it out for British towns.
"Bye Mum, I'm just just nipping over to Steve for a few days."
"OK, dear, don't forget to give Eddie a call. I know your aunt wants to hear from you. And you might want to look in on Cam while you are in the area."
"Yeah, good idea, but I mustn't leave out Don."
Anyway: 'What I did on my holidays'. A1109332
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Latest reply: Jul 15, 2003
Look, now you're even writing about work.
Posted Feb 25, 2003
So there you are one morning approaching your workplace, with more than the usual amount of trepidation on account of being grabbed by an agitated coworker down the street and being told that there's a tax inspection going on.
The abiding image of which is from telly a while back where men in balaclavas with conspicuous machine guns had all the hapless staffmembers lying face down in the snow for three hours.
The pile of marking you've been putting off for at least a week, however, is pulling you forward ("I love my job"), so gingerly you enter the front door, noting as you do so that The Sign seems to have disaapeared...
... along with, you discover as you proceed inwards, the other signs, the noticeboard and the smoking bucket.
Also, your doorcode doesn't work. So you ring the bell, whereupon the door swings open and you are seized and jerked across the threshold in a somewhat premontary manner while being whispered at about the advisability of not going out again.
The place is dead. There are no teachers in the teachers' room. The photocopier is silent. The toilet is not in use. Your immediate boss is there, though, and has been for hours. And as a result of being locked in is sufferring a severe bout of claustrophobia, getting tighter lipped and more jumpy by the second. By the time, somewhat later, she is released to the third floor in order to teach she has been reduced to practically chewing the furniture, and has succeeded in producing in you a strong desire to get out and have a cigarrette.
Which is unfortunate, as you can't. At this point you've actually finisheed wading through your acccumulated backlog and urgent measuress are needed so you pootle across to human resourses to find the smokers, on the pretext of finding out what is going on. You end up hanging out the window with the big guns of recruitment being given the lowdown on the day's exitement.
Which turns out to involve a three way war between various goevernment and local government departments over the ownership of the building. We are hiding, apparently, because one doesn't just open up doors to beurocratic inspections, particularly not when they are being conducted by the department we are not leasing out officespace from.
Which is considerably less exciting than the prospect of being menaced by armed soldiers, but then life is full of little disappointments.
That day you go home in the knowledge of a job well done, especially the bit where you had to explain to your teenagers that we'd rather they didn't charge out onto the landing for a cigarrette during the break. Life goes back to normal for... oooh... a whole week.
And the next Friday, the school decamps to location two altogether. A temporary measure while Inspection 2 (Eviction) takes place, but sadly we reckoned without the men with blowtorches welding the doors shut. By Monday, therefore, we have colonized the otheer schools, though we are traipsing back to teach, sidling passt the policeman they now have stationed inside the door with a codeworsd which is presumably the name of a comapny in the building who are paying rent to the right department.
Now, it appears we've given up on that altogether and have decided to colonise the other school altogether. And it's amazing how many people were fitted into the other building. Open what was once a classroom up and you'll find a whole department and their computers ion there ("Oh. Who are you?" "We're the software department." "Software? We produce software?" You gotta love the boss's diversity).
The latest rumour is that we have, in fact, found a new location. Shame, that, you've been trying to resign from the management part of your job on a daily basis. On the otherhand, looks like we are going to conflate three schools into three, so you could be in with a chance after all. But then given the rate you're being found little jobs to do at the moment, perhaps not. Sigh.
I bet it's not the building with the en suitee swimming pool, sauna and gym though.
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Latest reply: Feb 25, 2003
Two for the price of one.
Posted Feb 7, 2003
Skipping over your trip to Britain, which probably ought to get a mention if only for the culture shock except that here we are in February and all, not less than two reasonably entertaining things have happened in the reasonably recent past. So here we go.
First was the social call to B's Monk at his Monestary. Which had already been put off twice as, frankly, I'm not sure that Xmas day is the best time to go calling on a man of God, and even for the purity of you're soul you are not travelling two hours on an electrichka in minus tweenty.
But when the weather zooms up to a tropical zero, excuses run out so there you were at 8am, you and B, staring slightly resentfully at A who had messed up the train times and got you to the station over an hour before the train was due to leave. Still, left some time to do the shopping.
Now of course you know my feelings about the Metro. And a trip on an overnight train is also a reason for rejoicing. El;ectrichka's however, are a bit more hit and miss. In the summer monthes, despite the fact that the trains are so wide you can fit 12 seateed people across the carriage on benches and have space down the middle for walking, you ususally find yourself squashed standing in the corner between the babushka with 5 sappling fruit trees and trays of young tomatoe plants, the man with the fishing tackle and the young lady with the dog, the cat the chicken and the pig (or not, p'raps, but what is reality in the face of an amusing anecdote?). In the winter, you get stuck on the only unheated carriage and are too stubbon to give up your seat to find warmer climes, resulting in advanced pnumonia.
So this journey was relatively comfortable, being warm, seated and en book. Although since you have, after all, just come back from Britain you can't help noticing the truly relaxed pace of travel as you amble down the tracks for over two hours.
The walk through the forest was also nice. Blue skies, white snow, total silence. Lovely.
Then we got to the minefield. "That's the military base I was telling you about," says B. "What's that?" You counter pointing to the official looking enterance way up ahead.
So it turns out that the monestary is, in fact, inside the military base.
Under strict instructions not to speak, certainly not English, and preferably not Russian, you stand there smiling hopefully as B and A proceed to blag you through the checkpoint.
"She's my wife," says B.
"Documants." Syas the rather bored military chappie behind the window.
"Yes, well, I sort of forgot hers."
*rolls eyes* "And so she could be anyone, yes? Your wife. Not your wife. A sabatauer. A spy."
Solnushka smiles even more innoffensively.
Anyway, they let us in. We pootle through the base (you with eyes front in case curious glances are misinterpreted: oh why did they have to be showing the James Bond season this month) and eventually get to the monestary, situated behind the missile silo and next to the chemical wepons dump. Or perhaps that was a pig pen and a holy water spring.
It's clear that this is a working monestary. The buildings - built around the quadrangular wall - are a little bit shabby and all the monks are wandering round in jeans and jumpers carrying buckets and things. Hammering can be heard. There are some kids from the base messing about and sweeping snow, and a mother taking her daughter to the library. Cats are stalking possessively about and underfoot are a few chickens. Round the back are some snowed in greenhouses next to the bess ringers platform. The church in the centre is a hive of activity. It's being restored and so there's a smell of paint overlaying the smeell of burning wax - the insense hasn't had a chance to soak back into the stone, and all the decorations are shiny and new. We mooch about for a bit, and then tackle a Monk and ask for ours.
He's not there. He's been reassigned to Vladimir.
Still, it was a pleasent spot to have a picnic, so we did.
Then we went home.
And that story seems to have taken longer than expected, so I think I'll keep you in suspense about 'Trapped!'
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Latest reply: Feb 7, 2003
The Folly of Youth.
Posted Aug 15, 2002
Last time I was in Britain I was rumaging through my closets in order to find some scruffy clothes I could take back with me to lounge around the village house in...
...and I found these cutoffs I made back when I was about 18 or so.
The point being that I'd written a whole bunch of quotations on them.
So, in the spirit of "know thyself" I decided to post them here, before doing what I've been meaning to do for the last ten years and dye the shorts.
I think they sum the dog days of my teenage years up rather well, including the pretentiousness of actually wearing the damn things in public and all, though I suspect that some of the quotes I actually liked and some of them were there cos the quotee was in some way relevant to me at the time. If you give me the slightest excuse, I'll tell you which ones, and why they are there 
Anyway, in no particular order:
'Curiouser and curiouser!' cried Alice - L Carroll.
All kings is mostly rapscallions - M Twain.
I wouldn't take up religion permanently - R Gere.
I require three things in a man: he must be handsome, ruthless and stupid - D Parker.
Let's get serious... no, let's don't: let's mime the hard bits - Annon.
Dance, you scruffy b*****ds - Levellers.
God created woman to tame man - Voltaire.
'Forty-two,' said Deep Thought with infinite majesty and calm - D Adams.
It's the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine) - REM
All men, gods, and planets in this story are imaginary. Any coincidence of names is regretted - Robert A Heinlein.
Does History record any case where the majority was right? L Long.
What is particularly worrying is that under these quotes are a whole bunch of historical ones (some of them, gods help me, in French). Can I plead that it was subliminal revision, I wonder?
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Latest reply: Aug 15, 2002
Sol
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