New Poll: Maybe I’m being too harsh on the good men and women who keep our city running. (Well, mostly running.) Anyway, please tell me what you think of public transportation.

Tube Strike Over Comment at Web-Goddess!

Well, not really. I did, however, receive an angry e-mail about this post, where I commented that “Only the bloody English would strike over teapots.” A small (yet public) retort to this individual:

  • I didn’t say they were only striking over teapots. Did you even read the article I liked to? It’s very clear that the union leaders have other complaints. I just thought it funny that A) tea making facilities were ranked up there in importance with adequate female changing rooms, and B) every newspaper in the country made reference to the “tea” issue in their headlines.
  • As my original post was only one line, how could you even presume to know what I think anyway? “You no doubt believe that female toilet facilities are a minor disagreement…” Where in the world did I give you any cause to suppose this?
  • “Pity you don’t live in the real world and just make silly headline statements that are only half truths.” Headline statements? This isn’t a newspaper. I repeat, for those of you who don’t get it, that I am not a news service. This is a personal website. These postings are my personal opinion. Take issue with the Times or the Guardian, but don’t pick on me for not agreeing with you. Just stop reading.

Sorry for the rant, but I couldn’t resist. I have no problem with somebody disagreeing with me, but this person didn’t even take the trouble to find out my actual stance. They just attacked. For the record, I think working in public transport has to be one of the most difficult and thankless jobs in London. At the same time, I think the service is unbearably bad and many of the workers seem to have an “us vs. them” attitude towards both the public and the government these days. And I’m not speaking as a tourist; I’ve lived in this city for over two years now. And to be frank, I don’t care if drivers have to use a kettle instead of a boiler. And I don’t care if they have to wear ugly red waistcoats. I just want to take the Tube to Heathrow without sitting on the tracks outside Acton for half an hour every single time.

(How flattering is it that someone from London Underground reads my weblog? Well, I don’t know that for sure, but given that this individual only took offense at my Tube comment and not at my indictment of British cuisine, one can only suppose.)

The good thing is that our ADSL seems to be fixed and has been up continuously for the last couple days. The bad thing is that Snookums and I spent 12 hours straight sitting in front of our computers yesterday (me updating this and playing Sims, him playing a MUD and downloading kernel patches). Thank God for Papa John’s! 🙂

David Coursey of ZDNet wonders “Should foreign workers get the boot when Americans hurt?” My biggest complaint about the article is that it ignores Americans who are working overseas. He makes it sound like America is the only possible destination for the “best and brightest” workers. Meanwhile here I am in the U.K., watching the tech sector collapse and praying that I don’t get the axe. I’ve seen British co-workers get laid off, and they simply shrug and start to look again. I’ve also seen an American friend’s U.K. company go under, which meant his stay in England (and his relationship with a South African) was over. Coursey doesn’t realize that when people travel overseas to work, it isn’t just a job. They make a new life. All companies need to realize that when they import labor, that person is basically reorganizing his life to the company’s benefit. The least they can do is respect that.

Sandwiches

Frequent visitors to Meg’s site know about her daily battles with the woman at the Armenian deli. I used to think it was funny, until something similar started happening to me. My morning ritual used to consist of a hot bacon and egg sandwich from the little sandwich man who comes ’round, until I realized that they’re icky, fattening, and give me heartburn. So I started stopping at a little deli called “The Whole Hog” near my office on the way to work. For the first few weeks my order was constantly changing, as I tried through trial-and-error to find the perfect “American” type sandwich. I eventually settled on a brown bap, mayo (not butter), chicken breast, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mustard. (Helpful tip: British “gherkins” are NOT the same as American dill pickles. They’re more like “bread-and-butter” pickles and they taste AWFUL on a sandwich.) Anyway, so I’ve designed my sandwich and it makes me happy and I’ve been ordering it for weeks. Except that there’s one woman who messes it up every single time. She’s the younger, ditzier one, and she never fails to add cucumbers or forget the mayo or something.

This morning was the absolute worst. My sister was off work so she came along to get a sandwich as well. I walked up to the counter, noted with apprehension that Ditz Woman was on duty, and said, “I’ll just have my usual please. The brown bap with mayo, and chicken…?” You know, to jog her memory. She’s seen me every damn day, even when she doesn’t serve me. (I think she’s like an apprentice or something.) Then she turns to Amy who orders a tuna fish sandwich. We pay, I go to work, and unwrap my sandwich only to discover… there’s nothing on it but mayo and chicken. How could she possibly think that that was ALL I wanted? Do I look like a three-year-old? I know in writing it sounds like it was my fault for not specifying every ingredient, but honestly, both of the other ladies in there can make my sarnie without me saying a word. So this morning’s tea was a complete washout. Next to my soggy bun full of chicken, a hot egg and bacon sandwich looked pretty damn appealing.

Ewww

Omelette, Chips 'N' BeansSo a few days ago a big box that said “Welcome to your new home!” was delivered to our house. (We actually didn’t move; we just renewed the lease but the letting agency still put a sign out front, which is presumably how the box people found us.) Anyway, my sister opened it to find that it was full of samples: toilet paper, air fresheners, food, etc. She, of course, promptly ate all the cookies. Last night Snookums and I were going through the rest of it when we found this. That’s right, “Omelette, Chips ‘N’ Beans” in a can. And that, my friends, is British cuisine in a nutshell. A soggy omelette and a handful of fries dumped into a can of baked beans and hermetically sealed for all eternity. Can you imagine what kind of a desperate, hung-over, poor fool would eat such a thing? And these people had an empire on which the sun never set. The mind boggles.