sparkindarkness (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkindarkness) wrote2006-03-06 10:52 pm
sparkindarkness) wrote2006-03-06 10:52 pm
I am going to kill the next person I see. Just because.
I just had the most WONDERFUL day
please note: while text is incapoable of conveying the truly momentous amount of sarcasm in that statement, this is not a problems since even the most skillfully spoken word is difficient at trying to fill it with sufficient scorn
See, I went to London today. This is good, I love London. Going to London is one of my many joys in life - which makes the whole thing more galling.
I got up at dawn to drive for 4 hours to our nation's capital. That's ALWAYS going to piss me off since I hate driving and loathe mornings.
The person I am taking? Is a chain smoker. Seriously - he lights his next cigarette with the stub of his last one every single time. Right, I have a choice between closing the windows and creating a portable gas chamber or opening the windows and FREEZING since there's still snow on the ground (and falling from the sky) and I'd STILL have to smell the tobacco!
Have I ever mentioned how much I DESPISE the stench of smoking? Y'know, I don't care about them liquifying their lungs, even my lungs are pretty low on my priority list, I'm sure the exhaust fumes I inhale every day will kill me just as easily - but the SMELL? I was blessed, among my many gifts, with a very acute sense of smell. I can recognise what my beloved is cooking and how toxic it will be from the neighbour's house. The stench of tobacco makes me physically want to be sick. Imbuing my hand tailored suit and my brand new car's upholstery with tobacco smoke is going to put you right at the top of my "die soon of some horrible wasting disease" list.
So, I arrive in London (by the way, by some quirk of civic planning, a devious communist plot or possibly from sheer bloodymindedness - EVERY DAMN MILE OF ROAD BETWEEN MYSELF AND LONDON IS BEING REPAIRED! And the guys digging up all of our transport arteries weren't even hot). Then I have to argue with Mr. Smoky about where to go - Heathrow airport. No, not Luton airport. No, not Gatwick. No, not Stansted. Look, freak, there are FOUR, count them, FOUR airports in London to my knowledge, and probably several more I don't know about since London can hid ANYTHING. We cannot just go to ANY airport. If we could I would have taken slash&burn to the little Tonka Toy set known as Humberside airport and dumped him there.
So, we're damn close to being late that we have to go straight to Heathrow airport (and anyone who is having trouble with the concept of Hell need only behold Heathrow and fall to his knees to a deity of his choice begging forgiveness) and track down theEntrance Nazis nice immigration people.
Track down is, of course, the word. Heathrow is huge. There are CITIES smaller than Heathrow and national capitals with a lower population. This ios the WORLD'S busiest international airport. Sending us 2 letters with 2 different terminal numbers is NOT helpful. Staffing your contact numbers with poorly trained monkies is less so. Not even bothering with trained monkies at the immigration desk goes beyond unhelpful and makes me look for those communist plotters again.
Thanks to some divine providence (or possibly gods of mischief recognising that if I collapsed too soon they would miss out on some fun) we DID get to speak to the right person on time. Of course, he then kept us waiting for an hour, completely oblivious to me palming several of his head hairs for future curses. His first born will one day grow up and consume his flesh, if I have any say in the matter.
So we go into the interview. Now, it must be noted that this is a SECOND interview. This was just, and I quote, to "collect some paperwork you need to bring in, it will only take 5 minutes." Being the suspicious cynic I am, I booked an hour for this paperwork collection.
3 hours later, the interview was over. 3 hours. He only asked 20 questions. 15 of which were one word answers. He just asked them OVER AND OVER AGAIN. I actually told him I would record our answers so he can listen to our dulcet tones later at his leisure. And through it all Mr. Chimney was busily polluting the non-ventilated room while I contemplated ventillating them all with those damn stupid coffee stirrer. I wonder if the entire of Heathrow is aware that I was one double espresso short of going on a killing spree?
Of course, now we're so behind schedule it's unreal and I have NO time to do ANYTHING in the bestest city ever and have to get back into my poor car that now smells like a charcoal burner in a toxic waste site for the 4 hour drive BACK. And Mr. Chimney is still smoking every damn second of it.
Oh, and for added pleasure, he bitched so much about my music that I turned it off and pretended the player was broken just so I wouldn't have to hear it any more.
Soem days you just wish you hadn't got out of bed.
please note: while text is incapoable of conveying the truly momentous amount of sarcasm in that statement, this is not a problems since even the most skillfully spoken word is difficient at trying to fill it with sufficient scorn
See, I went to London today. This is good, I love London. Going to London is one of my many joys in life - which makes the whole thing more galling.
I got up at dawn to drive for 4 hours to our nation's capital. That's ALWAYS going to piss me off since I hate driving and loathe mornings.
The person I am taking? Is a chain smoker. Seriously - he lights his next cigarette with the stub of his last one every single time. Right, I have a choice between closing the windows and creating a portable gas chamber or opening the windows and FREEZING since there's still snow on the ground (and falling from the sky) and I'd STILL have to smell the tobacco!
Have I ever mentioned how much I DESPISE the stench of smoking? Y'know, I don't care about them liquifying their lungs, even my lungs are pretty low on my priority list, I'm sure the exhaust fumes I inhale every day will kill me just as easily - but the SMELL? I was blessed, among my many gifts, with a very acute sense of smell. I can recognise what my beloved is cooking and how toxic it will be from the neighbour's house. The stench of tobacco makes me physically want to be sick. Imbuing my hand tailored suit and my brand new car's upholstery with tobacco smoke is going to put you right at the top of my "die soon of some horrible wasting disease" list.
So, I arrive in London (by the way, by some quirk of civic planning, a devious communist plot or possibly from sheer bloodymindedness - EVERY DAMN MILE OF ROAD BETWEEN MYSELF AND LONDON IS BEING REPAIRED! And the guys digging up all of our transport arteries weren't even hot). Then I have to argue with Mr. Smoky about where to go - Heathrow airport. No, not Luton airport. No, not Gatwick. No, not Stansted. Look, freak, there are FOUR, count them, FOUR airports in London to my knowledge, and probably several more I don't know about since London can hid ANYTHING. We cannot just go to ANY airport. If we could I would have taken slash&burn to the little Tonka Toy set known as Humberside airport and dumped him there.
So, we're damn close to being late that we have to go straight to Heathrow airport (and anyone who is having trouble with the concept of Hell need only behold Heathrow and fall to his knees to a deity of his choice begging forgiveness) and track down the
Track down is, of course, the word. Heathrow is huge. There are CITIES smaller than Heathrow and national capitals with a lower population. This ios the WORLD'S busiest international airport. Sending us 2 letters with 2 different terminal numbers is NOT helpful. Staffing your contact numbers with poorly trained monkies is less so. Not even bothering with trained monkies at the immigration desk goes beyond unhelpful and makes me look for those communist plotters again.
Thanks to some divine providence (or possibly gods of mischief recognising that if I collapsed too soon they would miss out on some fun) we DID get to speak to the right person on time. Of course, he then kept us waiting for an hour, completely oblivious to me palming several of his head hairs for future curses. His first born will one day grow up and consume his flesh, if I have any say in the matter.
So we go into the interview. Now, it must be noted that this is a SECOND interview. This was just, and I quote, to "collect some paperwork you need to bring in, it will only take 5 minutes." Being the suspicious cynic I am, I booked an hour for this paperwork collection.
3 hours later, the interview was over. 3 hours. He only asked 20 questions. 15 of which were one word answers. He just asked them OVER AND OVER AGAIN. I actually told him I would record our answers so he can listen to our dulcet tones later at his leisure. And through it all Mr. Chimney was busily polluting the non-ventilated room while I contemplated ventillating them all with those damn stupid coffee stirrer. I wonder if the entire of Heathrow is aware that I was one double espresso short of going on a killing spree?
Of course, now we're so behind schedule it's unreal and I have NO time to do ANYTHING in the bestest city ever and have to get back into my poor car that now smells like a charcoal burner in a toxic waste site for the 4 hour drive BACK. And Mr. Chimney is still smoking every damn second of it.
Oh, and for added pleasure, he bitched so much about my music that I turned it off and pretended the player was broken just so I wouldn't have to hear it any more.
Soem days you just wish you hadn't got out of bed.
no subject
Honestly he'd better have ben paying you a ton of cash. otherwise I woulda told him 'look buddy, this is Not a company car, this is MY car. Put it out and deal or that cigarette is going up your Nose.
SIDEWAYS!'
And if he's bitching about your music, you could also tell him to sht up and deal. He's not paying you for entertainment, or for your bedside manner. He's paying for your legal advice right? You're legal advice comes with Music of Your choice.
and I thought smoking at airports was illegal outside designated smoking zones...
no subject
It's actually an interesting conflict of laws. While you may not smoke in an airport you also may not interview someone who may be suffering from bad withdrawl as it is considered an inducement for them to say whatever you want them to just so they can get out easier - which is why police interview rooms always let you smoke. Since we were in a seperate interview room, he was fine.
no subject
no subject
The flaw in this is while I hold power over life and death, that includes mine :) Besides, I think it's actually unethical to threaten client with death - but I think I may have got away with it in the circumstances. Gah, I'm just too damn polite.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Anmd I may just do that :)