Rosamundi's ramblings

There was nearly a murder done this morning. I hasten to add that I wasn’t involved; I was a mere interested observer from the sidelines.

Anyway.

My route to the Tube takes me past a girls’ secondary school, which happens to be on an oddly-laid-out junction, which causes all sorts of fun and games with the parents who can’t possibly let their little darlings walk to school, good heavens no, have you seen how many cars are on the road, it’s not safe.

This particular driver performed a worse-than-usual example of appalling driving, resulting in a pedestrian nearly being laminated to the road.

The pedestrian, not unnaturally, objected in the strongest possible terms.

Driver of car, to use the vernacular, “went off on one.”

Pedestrian and driver are giving it all that at full volume, attracting the interest of everyone in about a hundred yard radius.

Pedestrian finally says “and perhaps if you made your daughter walk to school, she wouldn’t be so [deleted] fat!”

The driver of the car naturally objected to their darling child being described as fat (although the poor kid really was not small), and started revving the engine, presumably preparatory to flooring the accelerator and finally laminating the pedestrian to the road surface.

Fortunately, at that moment, a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary proceeded up the road and enquired “is everything all right here?”

That last comment was just cruel, and I’m not surprised mumsy got a little irked. I’d have been tempted to run the pedestrian over as well.

But really, and this is the point that I don’t understand, surely to goodness, when your child can’t walk without lumbering, there is surely a spark in even the dullest mind that thinks “you know, something isn’t right here, I wonder if my child requires some form of medical attention?”

(Please note I do not have kids. Feel free to fill the comments box with variations on a theme of “shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” if the situation warrants it).

The bluetits appear to have developed a queuing system for the bird feeder on the window. For some unaccountable reason, I find this hilarious.

There’s two bluetits, and they don’t appear to have learned to share yet. So they sit in the tree that’s just outside the window, on two separate branches of it. Then *one flies into the feeder, eats a bit, drops the bits it doesn’t like onto the ground, while the other waits. Then the first one flies into the tree, the second one flies to the feeder, stuffs its little feathery face, and flies back to the tree, repeat from * until bored/not hungry any more.

There is a special place in Hell for people who come up to when
you’re surrounded by an entire rainforest that’s been chopped down
and turned into paper, and say fatuous things like “are you busy?”

“Yes I am busy, now go away.”

“Can I just ask you…”

“No.”

“But it won’t take a minute.”

What I really wanted to say next was “This is true, it won’t. It will take hours. Now go away, for I am busy, and you are stupid.”

What I actually said was “go on…”

This was a mistake of Biblical proportions. Please note, I have already had to explain the concept of double-entry bookkeeping to this person. An auditor not being familiar with the concept of three-line double entry (e.g. credit accounts payable, debit expense account and VAT) is a bit like a croupier not knowing what a deck of cards is. (That’s the analogy I used to explain that conversation to my housemate, who is a pit boss in a casino. Feel free to insert your own “a bit like [someone] not knowing [something really basic and fundamental to their job]” metaphor here).

“I can’t find this invoice in the December postings.”

“That’s because that’s a January posting. Try the January posting file.”

“But why wasn’t it posted in December?”

“Because I may be brilliant, but I am not psychic. That invoice was dated 5th January. It did not physically exist before then, and I can’t post what doesn’t exist. Now go away, because I have another family of orang-utans to render homeless.”

And he hovers. I can’t stand people who hover.

Gah. DIY shops are run by a bunch of sexist pigs.

I’ve been trying to get the loft insulated for ages. Having had four contractors cancel on me before any of them actually managed to produce a quote, I thought “it can’t be that hard, can it? I shall do it myself.”

The Bumper Book of DIY for Girls is reassuringly straightforward, the bloke at work was confident in my abilities, and so was my dad (the man who knows (a) how disaster-prone I am and (b) my level of DIY competence*). We have a theory that when I’m doing potentially dangerous things, it’s perfectly safe, because I concentrate. When I’m walking down the street, I tend to be on Planet Rosamundi, which does not necessarily intercept with Planet Earth all that much.

Anyway. I need X width by Y length of flat = Z sqm of loft insulation in panels A wide by B deep.

I also need a bigger stepladder (anyone got one I can borrow?), a crawl board to help reduce the risk of me putting my foot through the ceiling, a face mask and a boiler suit to keep the existing loft insulation (naked fibreglass) from irritating my skin. And this is where we hit the snag. Wickes will sell me everything else I need, but apparently boiler suits only come in Large, Extra Large, and Flippin’ Enormous, and I need a Small. Or possibly a Medium.

“There’s no call for small, madam.”

“Yes there is, I’m asking for it.”

Scowl mutter humph. Ah well, Google is my friend…

*Reasonably high. I do very neat wiring that has yet to burn Rosamundi Towers to the ground or black out the entire district.

Birds have found my bird feeder!

Bluetits, to be precise. I was sitting here, quietly minding my own business, when there was a “thunk-a-thunk!” from the window. Quite a loud thunk-a-thunk, too. I glanced up, and through the half-closed curtain, I saw a little fat bluetit. Unfortunately, he then saw me and took fright, and although he came back a couple of times, he’s gone again, so I have closed the curtains all the way in case me sitting here has frightened him off.

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”

And he replied, “Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!”

So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone east.

So heart be still!
What need our human life to know
If God hath comprehension?

In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention.

Minnie Louise Haskins

There are interesting times ahead for me with work. I just need to remember that whilst I don’t know what the future holds, I do know who holds the future, and step out in faith in the Risen Christ.

Someone remind me of this post in, about, oooh, June, when I’m a gibbering wreck, please. Ta ever so.

I guess I’m asking for some advice [you, ask for advice? Surely not! - Editor].

I’ve had a few people approach me recently asking if the rosaries on my flickr site are for sale. Those particular ones aren’t, as I made them as gifts for friends, and using flickr for commercial purposes is strictly forbidden, but I could make new ones easily enough. There’s a site called etsy that lets you sell hand-crafted items, kind of like eBay for crafters, but the price is fixed rather than bidding being an option.

So, what do you think? Crazy idea, or one that has merit?