My Day Off

Sometimes I feel as though there are too few hours in the day.

This always seems to become even more apparent on a Wednesday.  I actually enjoy having Wednesday’s off.  I can do all those things that otherwise I would have to do in the evenings or at weekends.  The house can be scrubbed from top to bottom, the OU course can be looked at (and Tabatha-Cat is surely getting pissed off at me for continually shoving the camera in her face whilst she’s attempting to sleep), the work website can be thrown together (nearly there … thank goodness), appointments can be made, parcels can be collected, long enjoyable phone conversations can be had with people I know and love, recorded tellybox programmes can be watched, spying on the weekday activities of the neighbours is relished …

But when I look at the clock it says it’s four o’clock and my mind instantly thinks, I’d be leaving work now! I’m not ready to fall back into my routine! Where’s my day gone?!

I would like Wednesday’s to last a few hours longer than other weekdays.  That would make my world perfect. 

And this isn’t to say that I dislike my job.  I don’t.  I just wish that my day off lasted a little longer.  Maybe over two days …

Work has been odd since we went back after the summer holidays.  People thrust things upon me and then have meetings where they mention how wonderful I am because I get things done, beautifully and efficiently.  They buy me chocolate. Other people make me exasperated with their silly little ridiculous goings-on.  It’s like being at school again sometimes.  I think working with teenagers rubs off on some folk, till they forget that they’re adults.  But everybody forgets that I want to actually work with the students … my timetable is lacking (I only have three kids, once a week each) and it’s frustrating me.  They can’t afford to frustrate me … if I leave they’ll be buggered because there will be no wonderful person who does things beautifully and efficiently.   

I am not arrogant.  I am just good at my job. 

But even being good is not always enough.


I’m seeing dummies everywhere.

please God bless my job, which I love xxx Elsabeth

I’d rather have a moment of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special

I am full of cold.  Yummy green snot, fuzzy head and a throat made of glass.  Oh yes.  Baby.

There’s something terrible about taking a day off work just for a cold.  I struggled in on Thursday with sniffles and a croaky voice, and was awarded tea and sympathy for my troubles.  I didn’t struggle in on Friday.  Instead of struggling in I had a manic cleaning episode, which was futile because I still had to hoover the hall floor again this morning as there was a crumb sitting there, mocking me.  Tsk. 

I even started making Christmas cards.  I managed two in the space of an hour.  I may [or may not] get enough done in time for Christmas. 

My Open University course started on Wednesday.  Don’t get excited!   It’s only a photography course worth ten credits.  Tesco have, very kindly, paid for the course and they may be paying for the next one too [probably something literacy/English language based] if all goes well. 

I’m supposed [obviously] to take photographs for this course.  I have no inclination or motivation though.  No enthusiasm.  It seems to have toddled off to distant pastures, perhaps to re-energise itself in preparation for when I make it work really, really hard. 

Actually, I’m lying.  I had the most humongous sense of I want to take a picture of that! on Thursday evening.  ChavBoy

[aside: conversation from a couple of weeks ago …
ChavBoy: Those lights that people have on their cars are quite nice.
Katiefinger: They’re a bit Chavvy.
ChavBoy: I used to have them on my Escort!
Katiefinger: They’re still Chavvy.
ChavBoy: I’m not a Chav!
Katiefinger ponders this and doesn’t tell him that she calls him ChavBoy on her blog, mostly because he wouldn’t even know what a blog actually is.]

was driving us home and the skies were fabulously fandangly.  The road from ChavTown to FlatHickTown runs straight through the Flatlands, and for the most part is perfectly straight.  There’s an occasional house, a few dilapidated barns and a smattering of trees.  There’s also a little windfarm, with huge wind turbines.  Nice.  I’m so used to this road that I often pay no attention to the fact that on a clear day you can see for squillions of miles in all four directions of the compass.  But Thursday was absolutely gorgeous.  The skies were a perfect blue, the clouds were bunches of cotton wool glued onto a picture made by a four year old, and in the distance the odd shower of rain showed as a simple tiny grey patch on the horizon.  There was even a glimpse of a rainbow, and the sun made everything shiny.  And it was all around us; this immense and magical sky.  It was one of those awe-inspiring moments that can’t really be conveyed through the written word and desperately needs a picture to show off its awesomeness.

So, why didn’t I take my little compact out and start snapping away to capture a moment that can never be captured again?  Because I was embarrassed.  Yes.  I must stop feeling that.  But, it was ChavBoy!  He’s a Chavvy idiot.  Very Flatland, very a woman’s place, very … dull.  No creativity, no shades of grey, no awesomeness.  A lifetime of nothing special.

How could I get across the magic of the moment to someone like that?

I wish, with my whole heart, that I had caught the moment on film.


please God bless my photography xxx Elsabeth

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still

If there’s one thing I really [really] hate, it’s having my picture taken.  Having somebody shove a camera in my face not only irks me, but also makes me want to run a mile.  Filming is just as bad.  The fact that my whole walk along the high street every morning, and every afternoon, can be caught on three different CCTVs is something I try not to think about …

However, taking pictures of other people is something I enjoy.  Even more so, I really enjoy taking pictures of anything [within reason, and perfectly legal of course, and because I know how horrid it is I would never take a picture of somebody who hated having their picture taken].  I’m not particularly good at it, as you can judge for yourself if you toddle along to my Flickr site, and I will never be as good a photographer as The Baby Brother, who takes the most amazing pictures with his squillion cameras and lenses [and perhaps contributed to me starting to enjoy photography and seeing it as more than simply pointing and clicking], but it’s something I like, a way of me being creative.  I am not a creative person; I only got an F in my GCSE Art exam, for goshness sake! 

Tomorrow I’m off on a course to learn how to use my our Canon EOS 400D.  It’s a course specifically for the camera.  I shall have to spend the day talking to folk I don’t know [yikes!] and I shall spend the journey there panicking about this, and I won’t sleep tonight because I’ll be worrying that the other people there will know more than me … *sigh*

But there was an article on the BBC Magazine page that made me wonder if the course is worth the money The Blokey is spending on it. 

People take pictures all the time.  It used to be mainly tourists and media/journalist types [and trainspotters], but now that cameras are cheaper and smaller, and now that we have them as standard on most mobile phones, nearly everybody takes pictures.  They take them in pubs, at events, in schools, even just whilst walking down the street.  See something you like?  Just whip out your camera, point and click, and the moment is captured for you to keep forever, or for as long as you want.  In the digital age you can delete it immediately if you hate it and if you want to keep it you can have it stored somewhere on your PC before the person next to you can utter the words, That’s cool!  Let’s put it on Facebook!

But the freedom of photography comes with a price sometimes; society judges you.  If I take a photograph in a public place it isn’t because I have an unhealthy interest in children.  Nor is it because I plan to bomb a building in order to cause chaos.  It’s certainly not because I’m stalking you.  It’s simply because I want to capture that moment/place/scene, which I’ll probably never be able to capture again. 

As a society we’ve developed an unhealthy paranoia in everything:  the world is a worse place than it was thirty years ago, everybody is a potential criminal, and nobody has morals anymore.  Because of these unfounded views children don’t play out in the streets like they used to, strangers look at you warily if you try to strike up conversation and anybody wearing a hoody/baseball cap is automatically categorised in our minds as a thug and we cross the road to avoid them.

And obviously, if you cart a camera around you’re either a terrorist or a paedophile.  

But it is legal to take photographs in public places.  And photographers [whether amateur or professional] have rights.  I think I’ll be printing them out and carrying a copy in my camera bag lest I ever get accosted by some inexperienced policeman just out of nappies.   

Bloody idiots.

please God bless this paranoid society xxx Elsabeth