So the Tory/LibDem local authority tell us it is the Government's fault the waiting lists for council flats are so high.
The Goverment tells us it is up to the local authority to allocate homes. The same homes the local authority are auctioning off.
We waiting, waiting, waiting, are the jam in this triple decker sandwich made with Fortified Iron. Or rather the jammed.
We're going underground, going underground
The brass band's mute, our feet are in pounds
Going underground
(Wouldn't ya know, it's The Jam, featuring ol' Stiggers of course)
Thursday, 5 November 2009
MP's lose allowances
MP's will not be entitled to a second home if they can commute to work. The poor things! Life's just not fair for them is it?
They'll lose their cleaning allowance too. Oh no! How ever will they manage? They should be donning their marigolds to get the country in order, not sinking their hands into last night's washing up. They have dishwashers you say? Oh they'll have to pay that back then.
Oh could life for them get much worse?
Well not immediately is the answer to that, for none of the new rules come into effect for another five years.
By which time do you think my son and I will be entitled to any home?
Answers on a postcard.
They'll lose their cleaning allowance too. Oh no! How ever will they manage? They should be donning their marigolds to get the country in order, not sinking their hands into last night's washing up. They have dishwashers you say? Oh they'll have to pay that back then.
Oh could life for them get much worse?
Well not immediately is the answer to that, for none of the new rules come into effect for another five years.
By which time do you think my son and I will be entitled to any home?
Answers on a postcard.
Bidding for the best there is
Four properties I bid on last week have been "offered to others". The street property has been "withdrawn". As a direct let for me? Naturally!
I was 69 out of 280 bidders for one tower
I was 82 out of 289 for the other
Shouldn't that be 78 out of 289? They like to make you feel thick down here.
I tried to think positively as I jaywalked across the road after running the boy to school ("Slow down mummy, you're going too fast!" "That's because we're late. Again...")
The sun shone in my face and I thought " There is light at the end of my tunnel!"
I have bid on two properties this week. Two! One is over the road. It's in a fairly sprawling estate, a bit grim, the PM came the other week and was enlightened on the stabbings and so on that take place there. A good place, methinks, to raise my son.
The other is the ground floor of a block over in Highgate, a short bike ride, which "has five external steps". The priority will be given to those "with a medical need for ground" (me me and Zat!), "then those with overcrowding" (me me and my son!) "and applicants with children under the age of 5 who live above the 2nd floor" (Oh! Not me... up on the 6th, my child has been legally entitled to his own room since the age of 5...)
The perk of this flat is that it's near the cemetry so undertakers wouldn't have to carry me far to dump me into a paupers pit.
Well... I'm not far off the pension I'm unlikely to get. You've got to be practical in your choices.
I was 69 out of 280 bidders for one tower
I was 82 out of 289 for the other
Shouldn't that be 78 out of 289? They like to make you feel thick down here.
I tried to think positively as I jaywalked across the road after running the boy to school ("Slow down mummy, you're going too fast!" "That's because we're late. Again...")
The sun shone in my face and I thought " There is light at the end of my tunnel!"
I have bid on two properties this week. Two! One is over the road. It's in a fairly sprawling estate, a bit grim, the PM came the other week and was enlightened on the stabbings and so on that take place there. A good place, methinks, to raise my son.
The other is the ground floor of a block over in Highgate, a short bike ride, which "has five external steps". The priority will be given to those "with a medical need for ground" (me me and Zat!), "then those with overcrowding" (me me and my son!) "and applicants with children under the age of 5 who live above the 2nd floor" (Oh! Not me... up on the 6th, my child has been legally entitled to his own room since the age of 5...)
The perk of this flat is that it's near the cemetry so undertakers wouldn't have to carry me far to dump me into a paupers pit.
Well... I'm not far off the pension I'm unlikely to get. You've got to be practical in your choices.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Verdi protests
I set about doing the tidy/cleaning thing with "La Traviata" on toppish volume. In amongst the clutter I find an unopened letter from EDF. I open it to find that someone is going to come round to do an essential maintenance check on my electricity meter to make sure it's safe.
Someone is coming round, er, last September. Whoops. I tear it up into shreds to put in my recycling bag whilst simultaneously wondering why I am doing this as usually I keep all documents from electricity/gas/water/tv providers.
Oh well, I take my housework to the corridor, swept up by this tale of doomed love, which I brush into my dustpan.
All of a sudden, the music stops, mid aria. In its place the electricity meter starts to fizz. I switch on the light. It's not a power cut. The meter continues to fizz quite manically, enough for me in a moment of terror, to rush outside should the flat blow up. It doesn't so I step back inside.
Damn me. Damn me! I dig into my black 'recycling' bag and take out lots of little pieces of paper and sat cross legged on a slither of kitchen floor, try and piece enough of it back together again to call EDF. They're coming in the morning.
The meter has calmed down when I finish all that so I start the cd player again, from the beginning, and move into the bedroom.
Alfredo declares his love, Violetta answers that friendship is all she can offer, love is so painful she avoids it, pleasure is all she asks of life! Stigmum feels it so acutely, she picks up stray clothes and throws them with passion into the "dirty pile".
The music stops again! The meter fizzing uncontrollably! We abandon our task, it's nearly time for the school run anyway. The meter relaxes and I've not heard a peep out of it since. The CD player's working fine too, churned out some Brit Pop songs while the boys played.
I can only assume, having considered these turn of events these past few hours, that Verdi didn't like housework and wanted no part in my own. Alas. Can't blame him though, treacherous job so it is...
Someone is coming round, er, last September. Whoops. I tear it up into shreds to put in my recycling bag whilst simultaneously wondering why I am doing this as usually I keep all documents from electricity/gas/water/tv providers.
Oh well, I take my housework to the corridor, swept up by this tale of doomed love, which I brush into my dustpan.
All of a sudden, the music stops, mid aria. In its place the electricity meter starts to fizz. I switch on the light. It's not a power cut. The meter continues to fizz quite manically, enough for me in a moment of terror, to rush outside should the flat blow up. It doesn't so I step back inside.
Damn me. Damn me! I dig into my black 'recycling' bag and take out lots of little pieces of paper and sat cross legged on a slither of kitchen floor, try and piece enough of it back together again to call EDF. They're coming in the morning.
The meter has calmed down when I finish all that so I start the cd player again, from the beginning, and move into the bedroom.
Alfredo declares his love, Violetta answers that friendship is all she can offer, love is so painful she avoids it, pleasure is all she asks of life! Stigmum feels it so acutely, she picks up stray clothes and throws them with passion into the "dirty pile".
The music stops again! The meter fizzing uncontrollably! We abandon our task, it's nearly time for the school run anyway. The meter relaxes and I've not heard a peep out of it since. The CD player's working fine too, churned out some Brit Pop songs while the boys played.
I can only assume, having considered these turn of events these past few hours, that Verdi didn't like housework and wanted no part in my own. Alas. Can't blame him though, treacherous job so it is...
Making beds
"Why are you making Grandpere's bed?" asked my son when I was at my parents.
"Well, because Grandpere can't," I replied.
"Why not?"
"Making beds is really difficult. Not for you and me, we have duvets. He has sheets. He has to bend and stretch, he's old now."
"You can leave it," says my son.
"Yes, I could, but if Grandpere goes into his tidy bedroom and his bed's all messy, he's just going to think his whole life is messy too and he can't do anything about it, which will make him sad. His tidy bed is symbolic of his tidy life."
"Oh, ok."
"Bloody hell," I say later to my sister. "Everything I'm doing in this house; the tidying, cleaning, cooking, bedmaking, sweeping, I don't do any of this back home in London!"
Two days ago, after I'd hit the snooze button a couple of times on the alarm clock, my son jumped on me. "Mummy, get up, see what I've done!"
Not only had he made his bed, straightened the blue blanket on top of it, but he'd also tidied up his book case, cleared the books and toys around it, effectively cleared his entire space.
He's inherited my mum's tidy gene. I so want him to have his own room so he doesn't have to deal with my clutter.
I must attack my clutter. Right now. If not for me, for him.
Puccini's Nessun Dorma, sung by Pavarotti, translation messed with by Stigmum
Nobody shall sleep! Nobody shall sleep!
Even you oh prince
until I tidy our room...
.....
.....
At dawn I will win! I will win! I will win!
"Well, because Grandpere can't," I replied.
"Why not?"
"Making beds is really difficult. Not for you and me, we have duvets. He has sheets. He has to bend and stretch, he's old now."
"You can leave it," says my son.
"Yes, I could, but if Grandpere goes into his tidy bedroom and his bed's all messy, he's just going to think his whole life is messy too and he can't do anything about it, which will make him sad. His tidy bed is symbolic of his tidy life."
"Oh, ok."
"Bloody hell," I say later to my sister. "Everything I'm doing in this house; the tidying, cleaning, cooking, bedmaking, sweeping, I don't do any of this back home in London!"
Two days ago, after I'd hit the snooze button a couple of times on the alarm clock, my son jumped on me. "Mummy, get up, see what I've done!"
Not only had he made his bed, straightened the blue blanket on top of it, but he'd also tidied up his book case, cleared the books and toys around it, effectively cleared his entire space.
He's inherited my mum's tidy gene. I so want him to have his own room so he doesn't have to deal with my clutter.
I must attack my clutter. Right now. If not for me, for him.
Puccini's Nessun Dorma, sung by Pavarotti, translation messed with by Stigmum
Nobody shall sleep! Nobody shall sleep!
Even you oh prince
until I tidy our room...
.....
.....
At dawn I will win! I will win! I will win!
The Tenors of Opera
This evening at Beavers, all the little Beaver cubs are allowed to bring a friend. This is to encourage new recruits to this burgeoning little group.
My son, who usually goes to after school club before hand, has invited his little friend G, who doesn't go to after school club. So I suggested to Mother On Whose Shoulder I Dropped My Head (really must find her another name), G's mum, that today I would pick both boys up from school. I told the school my son wouldn't attend after school club. I told her I'd tidy up.
Bless my son, he has four little best friends, but rarely, rarely do any of them come to play. He goes to them.
Back in reception Ugly said to me "He'll probably get teased sharing a room with you," and since our spat back then, her son has never been allowed to come and play. I don't trust her with mine.
My son would ask Media parents child, but one day in Year 1, little A said his mother said our place was "too dangerous."
Fortunately Juggling Mum and Mother On Whose Shoulder I Dropped My Head don't hold any such prejudices but all these children have activities on different days after school so it is tricky to arrange anything anyway.
Back in reception, in order to somehow emotionally protect my son and the awful heartache he'd come home with, I started to say that as soon as the flat was tidy, I'd sort something out for him. Two years on he understands more than I'd want him to and rarely does he ask a friend, any friend now, to come and play. Partly my fault for not encouraging it.
However, today he has a friend coming over so I must tidy up, really tidy up, clear as much space as possible. I, as you know, I need music to get started on such things. Yesterday when I was buying electricity in a Camden Newsagent, I spied CD's for 99p. I treated myself to 'The Tenors Of Opera".
I played it softly this morning while my son played his psp.
"Do you like it?" I asked him when he'd switched off his game.
"Not really, I like sweets! I like Match Attacks!"
I, on the other hand, love opera! In a minute, I'm going to play the CD really loudly, really fecking loudly. I love opera when its so loud, so fecking loud, you can feel your heart tear out of your body and cradle the sky!
I need to put all my heart into this job today, may even shove on Verdi's "La Traviata" if it all takes too long. It is with some luck, some luck indeed, that the neighbour isn't in.
My son, who usually goes to after school club before hand, has invited his little friend G, who doesn't go to after school club. So I suggested to Mother On Whose Shoulder I Dropped My Head (really must find her another name), G's mum, that today I would pick both boys up from school. I told the school my son wouldn't attend after school club. I told her I'd tidy up.
Bless my son, he has four little best friends, but rarely, rarely do any of them come to play. He goes to them.
Back in reception Ugly said to me "He'll probably get teased sharing a room with you," and since our spat back then, her son has never been allowed to come and play. I don't trust her with mine.
My son would ask Media parents child, but one day in Year 1, little A said his mother said our place was "too dangerous."
Fortunately Juggling Mum and Mother On Whose Shoulder I Dropped My Head don't hold any such prejudices but all these children have activities on different days after school so it is tricky to arrange anything anyway.
Back in reception, in order to somehow emotionally protect my son and the awful heartache he'd come home with, I started to say that as soon as the flat was tidy, I'd sort something out for him. Two years on he understands more than I'd want him to and rarely does he ask a friend, any friend now, to come and play. Partly my fault for not encouraging it.
However, today he has a friend coming over so I must tidy up, really tidy up, clear as much space as possible. I, as you know, I need music to get started on such things. Yesterday when I was buying electricity in a Camden Newsagent, I spied CD's for 99p. I treated myself to 'The Tenors Of Opera".
I played it softly this morning while my son played his psp.
"Do you like it?" I asked him when he'd switched off his game.
"Not really, I like sweets! I like Match Attacks!"
I, on the other hand, love opera! In a minute, I'm going to play the CD really loudly, really fecking loudly. I love opera when its so loud, so fecking loud, you can feel your heart tear out of your body and cradle the sky!
I need to put all my heart into this job today, may even shove on Verdi's "La Traviata" if it all takes too long. It is with some luck, some luck indeed, that the neighbour isn't in.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Cycling in the rain - a song
I'm too sexy for my life too sexy for my life
Life's going to leave me
I'm too sexy for this tower too sexy for this tower
So sexy it hurts
And I'm too sexy for a hostel too sexy for a hostel
Private rental or a borstal
And I'm too sexy for state policies
Too sexy for state policies
The policies that stink
I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on my balcony
Yeah on my balcony on my balcony yeah
I do my little turn on my balcony
I'm too sexy for Zat bike too sexy for Zat bike
Too sexy to hike
And I'm too sexy for my helmet
Too sexy for this hat what d'you think about that
I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn at the junctions
Yeah at the junctions at the junctions yeah
I shake my little touche at the junctions
I'm too sexy for my too sexy for my too sexy for my
'Cos I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn by the traffic lights
Yeah by the traffic lights by the traffic lights yeah
I shake my little touche by the traffic lights
I'm too sexy for my waterproofs
Poor flourescent oil stained leaky tat
I'm too sexy for my life too sexy for my life
Life's going to leave me
And I'm not too sexy for this song
(Right Said Fred featuring Wrong Said Stigmum)
Life's going to leave me
I'm too sexy for this tower too sexy for this tower
So sexy it hurts
And I'm too sexy for a hostel too sexy for a hostel
Private rental or a borstal
And I'm too sexy for state policies
Too sexy for state policies
The policies that stink
I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on my balcony
Yeah on my balcony on my balcony yeah
I do my little turn on my balcony
I'm too sexy for Zat bike too sexy for Zat bike
Too sexy to hike
And I'm too sexy for my helmet
Too sexy for this hat what d'you think about that
I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn at the junctions
Yeah at the junctions at the junctions yeah
I shake my little touche at the junctions
I'm too sexy for my too sexy for my too sexy for my
'Cos I'm a stigmum you know what I mean
And I do my little turn by the traffic lights
Yeah by the traffic lights by the traffic lights yeah
I shake my little touche by the traffic lights
I'm too sexy for my waterproofs
Poor flourescent oil stained leaky tat
I'm too sexy for my life too sexy for my life
Life's going to leave me
And I'm not too sexy for this song
(Right Said Fred featuring Wrong Said Stigmum)
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