Journal Entries
Cardiff Protests
Posted Mar 20, 2003
"Have a look at the statue as you go past and message me if there's anyone there? I don't want to go at 5 and be the only one there with my dove." Were the approximate words my girlfriend said to me before I left for work. As most people know, we started bombing officially bombing Iraq again on this day, a matter of hours before I post this.
So I'm sat on the bus, it's a lovely day, not one befiting such a sad occasion. I'm thinking there should be a thunder storm, wrath of god style. But no, there's lovely sunshine, not too hot, but just nice. When over the radio from the bus companys HQ comes "Message to all drivers... Castle Street is blocked by... by war protesters. Avoid Castle Street, repeat, AVOID Castle Street. Use the normal back way into the station. I repeat, war protesters are blocking Castle Street, come into the station via the back way."
You're certainly not going to be alone with your dove, I think to myself as the driver stops the bus at the next stop and explains "A bunch of bloody students are having a little demonstration, we're not going to be able to go down Castle Street..." (just for the passengers who couldn't hear his 80 Db HQ message).
Upon arriving in the station, curiosity gets the better of me and I just have to go and look, just to see what 'A bunch of... students' looks like. So I walk down St Marys Street, amused as I watch car after car being directed left when they really want to go right. At the corner I look, and I can see about 200 people, topps, packed onto the corner of Castle Street, lost in the middle of the group is a guy with a megaphone, saying something just on the verge of hearing, but getting large cheers each time he finishes a sentance, so I assume it was good...
Now I'm sat in work, writing this before I start taking calls, longing to be there, protesting, saying (as is my girlfriends favourite) "Not in my name."
Discuss this Journal entry [12]
Latest reply: Mar 20, 2003
Tomorrow
Posted Mar 11, 2003
Today, Tuesday, March 11th... Plan: Get ready for work, Work, Come home, Laze around on the internet, Pack bags.
Tomorrow, Wednesday, March 12th... Plan: Travel up to Leicester, to stay with a friend of the family so I'll be there for Tomorrow...
Then... Thursday, March 13th... Plan: Attend the funeral of one of the strongest, most independant women I've ever met, and probably will ever meet. My Nana, everyones Nana. No one, not even her own children, called her Peg, and I don't think I've even heard anyone (except my mum, who told me) call her by her full name. Even to her older brother, she was Nana.
And in two days time I've got to go to a funeral where they will bury her six foot under. Where a priest will thank 'God' for her life, one which she spent 35 years of alone, where I'll have to stand, and listen to a man bash on about how 'the Good Lord' gave her to us, and how she is now in a better place, as if being in a one and a half foot by five and a half foot box, buried six feet under the earth is a better place than her house. A modest house, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a toilet you couldn't swing a cat in... but it was always nice, always clean. It amazed me how she kept it so clean, with 5 grandchildren between the ages of 3 and 13, who could trash a room just by looking at it.
Such a strong woman, if asked about a problem she might be having she'd give you a look which clearly, and forcefuly said 'What problem? I don't have any problems! Nope, no problems here! And I certainly don't want or need any help with any hypothetical problems which may, or may not have happened, be happening, or are yet to happen'. As if accepting help, charity, would make her explode.
Almost two months ago I went back home and we visited her. I was horrified to find a woman who had to have zips on her shoes because she couldn't even manage velcro, who couldn't remember how to make tea, who had to shuffle, because she was scared to raise her foot incase she fell, again. Sure I'd been warned, I'd been told she had a tumour. I'd been told it was about the size of a ping pong ball, told it was positioned in her head, on her brain, positioned so as to be totally inoperable, and I'd also been told she wasn't having any kind of treatment because it wouldn't help, wouldn't stop the inevitable. But no one had told me she looked so frail, weak, old. I know she was old, but she'd never looked it. Sure her face was a road map of cares, and her hair had been gray as long as I can remember, but she never looked old. It was all I could do to smile, to nod, to accept my hug without cringing away. It sounds terrible, I feel terrible, the last time I saw my Nana, the last time I would see my Nana, I didn't even want to hug her... two months tops she had to live, and I didn't even want to give her a hug. I wanted to run away, get away from this pale shadow of the lady, who in my mind, will always be strong, self sufficient, independant... able to make tea, able to tie her shoe laces, who didn't have to leave all the doors open in case she forgot how to open them.
I was phoned when she was taken into hospital. I was phoned when they put her on the DNR list. I was phoned when they eventually made the decision to turn off the machine which was helping her breath, told they'd said she would have two hours, max, before her lungs failed and she died. I wasn't phoned again untill 4 days later. She'd stayed alive 48 times longer than they said she would.
That was all last week.
Today I have work in an hour.
In two days time we bury her.
For now I sit, in my comfey chair, watching the time tick by as I write this and remember with a smile (and a tear) everyones Nana.
Discuss this Journal entry [1]
Latest reply: Mar 11, 2003
Callers.
Posted Mar 10, 2003
*** Warning, this is a flame, it contains little if any ***
*** reasonable thought, and much which could be ***
*** considered down right rude ***
Firstly, if I say "I'm sorry, that's the only number I have for that company" I'm not being mean, I'm not pulling your leg, I'm not kidding, I mean exactly what I said. That number [the one I've quoted you] number is the only instance of that company/department/person/whatever in the directories, I'm sorry if this causes you undue stress and discomfort, I'm sorry if this makes you unhappy, but that's life. No, I don't 'have' to have any numbers, the numbers we carry are those approved, and supplied by the company/department/person/whatever. We do not have a crystal ball, we can't just reach out into the ether and create a string of numbers for you to dial and talk to the right person.
You have to help us to help you, we need a minimum ammount of information, such as the name of the thing you want, the town it's in (or even near), and if you're really good to us or want a residential number, the street name too. This isn't too much information to hope for, it doesn't require the CIA to compile, it should be obvias.
No matter how many times you repeat the details you gave me, I wont find it if it's not there. "I'm sorry, that number is not listed" does not mean "I'm mean and don't want to tell you, ask me again"!
If you call back, you will probably get back to me because of the way the computer handles the calls... guess what, it's still not there.
I'm going to get more and more annoyed the longer you drag on the call, because you could single handedly ruin my days call stats and cost me money, excuse me if I don't think your 50 pence is worth my bonus.
"This is the time I've rung 192, and you can never find my number!" This is one of my favourites. I personally answer 600 calls a day, most of which leave with a number. Ask yourself, if 500 people for each of the 300 operators can get a number, could it be that you're just asking for crap that doesn't exist, or for a company which isn't called that? Maybe?
*** End Of Flames ***
*twitches* Sorry, I had to get that out of my system, and this seemed as good a place as any to do it.
Discuss this Journal entry [3]
Latest reply: Mar 10, 2003
Sleeter
Researcher U221709
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