Living for Disco

Hello! I’m back from my holiday, during which I did not have much opportunity to blog the many marvellous things that happened to me, which included being pecked by lorikeets, seeing possums and wallabies, drinking dirty martinis under the ocean-side palms and watching my little sister get married on a beach. There will be holiday updates soon, and oh my, will they be a hoot. I hope.

In the meantime, the first thing that we had to do when we got back was to visit the registrar to state our intent to marry each other. I had no idea you had to do this kind of thing – get permission from the council to get married? What the fuck have the council got to do with it? Aren’t they responsible for refuse collection and digging up the roads in an inconvenient fashion?

Of course, I realise that there has to be a record of births, deaths and marriages, and that this has to be done by the parish. However, I’d not given much thought to the fact that you have to go and hand over a cheque for £60 and answer questions about your intended in order to prove that you haven’t imported them from a developing nation for tax breaks.

I actually started to get a bit worried when Gordon, having been asked the relatively straightforward question of his age at the current time, had some trouble answering. Would the registrar think that he had failed to memorise his cover properly? I hoped he didn’t sound too Lithuanian.

‘You’re 41′, I hissed, hoping to support him (in a future-wifely fashion) through this mental meltdown.

‘Don’t help him! You’re not allowed to help him!’ said the registrar.

The same thing happened when it came to the answering of questions about his bride, amongst which were details of my age, occupation and length of time lived in Bournemouth. There is only so much information you can convey with your eyebrows, and ’34′, ‘Trust Fundraising Manager’ and ’7 months’ tends to be a little specific. We did get there in the end, although I think my gurning may have alarmed the registrar.

So, we have no officially declared our intention to get hitched, and with any luck, no lunatics (you know who you are) will write in to the council objecting on entirely spurious grounds in the next 15 days.

It feels like I’m practically married already.

My colleague, with whom I share a tiny office, has a speaking voice that you can hear from space. He is one of the natural wonders of the world, I swear.

I am sitting here, listening to him trying to explain over the phone how to use a computer. The person on the other end has never used a computer before. I have been advocating for training in basic computer skills for all our staff, because none of them really knows how to use them for anything other than downloading music and propagating nasty viruses. Of course, now the computers have been delivered, but the training hasn’t.

This is what I can hear (at 1,000,000 decibels):

“Now you need to put the reports into Microsoft Word.”

…..

“Microsoft word. It is on the new computer. You need to open it.”

…..

“OK, switch the computer on. Now, did you get the CD I sent you?”

…..

“Put it in the computer.”

….

“There is a place in the box where you put in the CD.”

….

“No, you need to press that button.”

And he hasn’t even managed to open Word yet. Hours of time wasted, trying to work out how to click into tables and enter information. And it will be a matter of days before the thing is full to bursting with trojans and worms or whatever, and we have to get the IT guys out again to clean it up.

Sigh.

I spell my name with an extra ‘a’, as in Michael. Most people, however, spell it the standard way – Rachel. This annoys me, particularly in emails, because my name is my email address. How hard can it be just to raise your eyes a few millimetres and check? You typed the goddamn thing in after all. I know I’m being pedantic, but it’s my name, and I like it just fine the way it is.

However, what really annoys me, and it happens ALOT, believe me, is when I spell my name out and people still don’t get it.

The conversation usually goes something very similar to this:

“Can I email it to you?”

“Of course. My email address is rachael, that’s spelt r, a, c, h, a, e, l at [my organisation] .org.”

“OK, I will do that.”

Phone rings two minutes later.

“That email address you gave me, it is not working.”

I know already what the problem is, and I always find it difficult to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“How did you spell my name?”

“R, a, c, h, e, l”

“No, it’s a, e, l.”

“r, a, e, l?”

“No, that’s Rael. Rachael. With an a before the e.”

“R, a, c, h, e, a, l?

“No. A E L. A. E. L.”

“Ah, ok”.

Then I will usually get the email, because they’ve managed to retain the information for long enough to type in the address, but it will start off “Dear Miss Raecheal”, or “Dear Miss Rechal” or some such nonsense.

Over and over again, this happens. Do people not have ears? Do they not learn the alphabet? Why is it so difficult?

Gaaah.

I do not understand.

I’m sorry if I’ve worried anyone – I’m on holiday. Things busy at work before I left, and didn’t get a chance to update the old blog. Anyway, I will be back next Monday.

Right, off to drink wine in the sun.

Sorry – bit quiet. Working hard. Really craving a small pot of chocolate mousse. You know the ones – all gooey and sweet, and made with too much cream.

Also quite fancy a crumpet.

Back soon with an inspiring review of Windhoek’s swinging hotspots, as requested by Susy.

That is all.