Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Most annoying thing? I was trying to get home in time to see Ben Miller being sleazy in that ITV period murder thing, and obviously completely failed. Ah well.
I might, just very possibly, have ordered Honey on DVD to cheer myself up. Maybe. Because I really wouldn't do a thing like that, right?
I might, just very possibly, have ordered Honey on DVD to cheer myself up. Maybe. Because I really wouldn't do a thing like that, right?
Monday, April 11, 2005
Yesterday I broke down on the M4. In very slow moving traffic. And very narrowly missed crashing with a breakdown vehicle steaming along the hard shoulder when I pulled over. Oh, and... I, uh, meant to sign up to the RAC on Saturday and I forgot. So no breakdown cover. Nice one.
So, yeah. Caught up in the usual Sunday evening east-bound traffic on the M4 which had slowed to a crawl after an accident at Junction 5. This had happened the last time I drove back from Reading to London and so had texted my Dad to say so. Then warning light comes on. Traffic is moving so slowly that I am able to retrieve the Renault handbook and peruse the manual. It’s the temperature gauge thingy, but the manual doesn’t make it seem so hazardous. Few minutes later, steam and lots of steam bellowing out of my bonnet. Swing through the inside lane, with complete barging blinkers on, cos, well, I’m severely stuffed and so are you if I conk out in the middle lane. Barely clip a vehicle coming along the hard shoulder which I barely register other than recognising the company logo from work. He stops and walks up to me, I realise, somewhat less than quickly, to inspect my vehicle rather than to see if I was OK. He was nice enough though, and being in an alarmingly sensible mood, I asked if he thought that there was any way that I could carry on driving my car. "Uh, no", would be the response.
I call my parents, sounding somewhat more together than I really should be, because I thought they might be able to organise some sort of outside assistance rather than what I thought would be the only option from the orange phone box, which is to offer up a load of money to get yourself towed off. I obviously just succeed in worrying them, despite them being eminently sensible creatures. So with the frisson of finally getting to use the orange phone box, which was fortunately within sight, I connected with a lovely lass who gave me the RAC number and promised to call my mobile back in 5 minutes to see if I had any joy or if I was going with the £105 tow-off option.
So the RAC signed me up for the year for possibly £50 more than I was going to pay for whatever scheme I was after, but I considered it a good deal because I’d thought that I was completely screwed as soon as I saw that steam. They even put the call out before I was able to give my credit card details. "We’ll get someone out to you within 30 minutes, because you’re a lone female." I call my parents, who offer to come out to me, but I say that there’s no point because in the traffic it will take them ages, and I really don’t want to endanger them too. 30 minutes went by, and to be fair, they called me very promptly... "it’ll be another 20 minutes". Which really was a kick in the stomach after you’ve prepared yourself for the 30 minutes of the cold and the spiders and the being a tourist attraction while there was slow moving traffic.
Once came the dear shout "You should’ve joined the AA!" from some blokes which, being so rubbish, they shouted when so far past me that I didn’t have time to stick my finger up at them and shout "FUCKWITS!" You know what, lads? Karma’s a bitch. After 20 minutes, I called the RAC again, and asked what was happening, seeing as I was balancing about 2 foot from the sodding M4 (no bank to go up like they tell you to, only a ruddy fence in the way) and uh, cars now moving quickly, so feeling a little vulnerable. "I’ll just call the driver and call you back." 10 minutes later, aware that possibly my parents were a wee bit worried by this point seeing as how it was well over half an hour since I told them that someone would be there within 20 minutes, the RAC called back and said that it would be within 25 minutes. At this point, I think things were really catching up with me, because I really thought that I couldn’t bear another 25 minutes. Mostly because I prepared myself for 30, and then 20. Ascertained from the woman that he was really on his way, because ooh I’m getting tearful now, I’ve just had to jump in the car to try to get my hazards going again, and big fast cars whishing by, and big-ass spider just there, and then the guy turned up about 15-20 minutes later.
He was lovely. He had a different story from the people on the phone, who blamed a "really manic Sunday evening"; he said that they put more patrols on during the day than the evening stupidly thinking that there will be more breakdowns then. Have they ever seen the M4 on a Sunday evening?! After chucking some water in and working out that some emergency-use fan was not working, he followed me off to the next junction. Whacked some fuses in, which my car promptly blew, sprayed some WD40, but couldn’t get it moving of its own volition. It would move, but not spin freely. So I’ve got to get the fan motor replaced.
I am thankful for many things. That there was a hard shoulder (it ran out 200m on). That I didn’t completely crash into the OnTime flatbed. That I had one of my warmer jackets on. Most of all, that I didn’t have my sister and my 18-month-old niece with me as I was due to do so until a change of plans. That I vaguely know the call-sign thingies for the letters of the alphabet... there’s me, pretending to be a 2-line-an-episode supporting artiste on The Bill with a finger stuck in my ear shouting "TANGO. DELTA. PAPA!" above the engines of the personalised-number-plated Audis screaming past me back from their weekend retreat in the country.
Biggest tragedy. I forgot to use my hazard triangle. My flippin' BMW hazard triangle. And my lasagnes slightly defrosted.
So, yeah. Caught up in the usual Sunday evening east-bound traffic on the M4 which had slowed to a crawl after an accident at Junction 5. This had happened the last time I drove back from Reading to London and so had texted my Dad to say so. Then warning light comes on. Traffic is moving so slowly that I am able to retrieve the Renault handbook and peruse the manual. It’s the temperature gauge thingy, but the manual doesn’t make it seem so hazardous. Few minutes later, steam and lots of steam bellowing out of my bonnet. Swing through the inside lane, with complete barging blinkers on, cos, well, I’m severely stuffed and so are you if I conk out in the middle lane. Barely clip a vehicle coming along the hard shoulder which I barely register other than recognising the company logo from work. He stops and walks up to me, I realise, somewhat less than quickly, to inspect my vehicle rather than to see if I was OK. He was nice enough though, and being in an alarmingly sensible mood, I asked if he thought that there was any way that I could carry on driving my car. "Uh, no", would be the response.
I call my parents, sounding somewhat more together than I really should be, because I thought they might be able to organise some sort of outside assistance rather than what I thought would be the only option from the orange phone box, which is to offer up a load of money to get yourself towed off. I obviously just succeed in worrying them, despite them being eminently sensible creatures. So with the frisson of finally getting to use the orange phone box, which was fortunately within sight, I connected with a lovely lass who gave me the RAC number and promised to call my mobile back in 5 minutes to see if I had any joy or if I was going with the £105 tow-off option.
So the RAC signed me up for the year for possibly £50 more than I was going to pay for whatever scheme I was after, but I considered it a good deal because I’d thought that I was completely screwed as soon as I saw that steam. They even put the call out before I was able to give my credit card details. "We’ll get someone out to you within 30 minutes, because you’re a lone female." I call my parents, who offer to come out to me, but I say that there’s no point because in the traffic it will take them ages, and I really don’t want to endanger them too. 30 minutes went by, and to be fair, they called me very promptly... "it’ll be another 20 minutes". Which really was a kick in the stomach after you’ve prepared yourself for the 30 minutes of the cold and the spiders and the being a tourist attraction while there was slow moving traffic.
Once came the dear shout "You should’ve joined the AA!" from some blokes which, being so rubbish, they shouted when so far past me that I didn’t have time to stick my finger up at them and shout "FUCKWITS!" You know what, lads? Karma’s a bitch. After 20 minutes, I called the RAC again, and asked what was happening, seeing as I was balancing about 2 foot from the sodding M4 (no bank to go up like they tell you to, only a ruddy fence in the way) and uh, cars now moving quickly, so feeling a little vulnerable. "I’ll just call the driver and call you back." 10 minutes later, aware that possibly my parents were a wee bit worried by this point seeing as how it was well over half an hour since I told them that someone would be there within 20 minutes, the RAC called back and said that it would be within 25 minutes. At this point, I think things were really catching up with me, because I really thought that I couldn’t bear another 25 minutes. Mostly because I prepared myself for 30, and then 20. Ascertained from the woman that he was really on his way, because ooh I’m getting tearful now, I’ve just had to jump in the car to try to get my hazards going again, and big fast cars whishing by, and big-ass spider just there, and then the guy turned up about 15-20 minutes later.
He was lovely. He had a different story from the people on the phone, who blamed a "really manic Sunday evening"; he said that they put more patrols on during the day than the evening stupidly thinking that there will be more breakdowns then. Have they ever seen the M4 on a Sunday evening?! After chucking some water in and working out that some emergency-use fan was not working, he followed me off to the next junction. Whacked some fuses in, which my car promptly blew, sprayed some WD40, but couldn’t get it moving of its own volition. It would move, but not spin freely. So I’ve got to get the fan motor replaced.
I am thankful for many things. That there was a hard shoulder (it ran out 200m on). That I didn’t completely crash into the OnTime flatbed. That I had one of my warmer jackets on. Most of all, that I didn’t have my sister and my 18-month-old niece with me as I was due to do so until a change of plans. That I vaguely know the call-sign thingies for the letters of the alphabet... there’s me, pretending to be a 2-line-an-episode supporting artiste on The Bill with a finger stuck in my ear shouting "TANGO. DELTA. PAPA!" above the engines of the personalised-number-plated Audis screaming past me back from their weekend retreat in the country.
Biggest tragedy. I forgot to use my hazard triangle. My flippin' BMW hazard triangle. And my lasagnes slightly defrosted.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
My goodness, Dodgeball SUCKS. Like, sucks more than Starsky & Hutch. Why do I keep doing the Ben Stiller thing to myself? I should know better. Going by the extras, the director has an incredibly inflated idea of his own "sophisticated" humour, and the 'joke' commentary was a 'joke' too far. Especially when my DVD player was unable to let me select the proper commentary easter egg link, so I had to load the DVD on my computer to access it.
To cleanse myself, I finally got around to watching/listening to the Heathers commentary. Ah, it was good. Always like a bit of gratuitous Shannen Doherty slagging.
(Writer) Daniel Waters: (something not totally complementary to Shannen).
(Director) Michael Lehmann(I think), reproachfully: "Dan.... She was very professional."
Daniel Waters, going for obvious joke: "So was Mussolini."
I love a director's commentary, and in this case, finding out how many decisions were made out of budget constraints as told by actually nice people with an artistic opinion was very relatable. Rather than *clink of glasses*, "oh there's Sarah Michelle Gellar...wasn't she fantastic to work with?!"
To cleanse myself, I finally got around to watching/listening to the Heathers commentary. Ah, it was good. Always like a bit of gratuitous Shannen Doherty slagging.
(Writer) Daniel Waters: (something not totally complementary to Shannen).
(Director) Michael Lehmann(I think), reproachfully: "Dan.... She was very professional."
Daniel Waters, going for obvious joke: "So was Mussolini."
I love a director's commentary, and in this case, finding out how many decisions were made out of budget constraints as told by actually nice people with an artistic opinion was very relatable. Rather than *clink of glasses*, "oh there's Sarah Michelle Gellar...wasn't she fantastic to work with?!"
