Something about Nothing

I feel like this should be called "Redemption II" to redeem myself from a bad Friday post. Never mind. It is what it is and I stand behind myself, even if no one else does, during exciting times and boring ones.


Now that some time has passed, I feel I can be fair in my assessment of my recent experience registering with my local surgery (North Americans, this = local Dr's office. I have no idea why they call it a surgery when you can't actually have surgery there). Also for the benefit of anyone not in the know on the NHS (count your lucky stars) this is a necessary process before you can visit your local GP for routine things such as hay fever, cold, flu, girly stuff as opposed to urgent matters or emergencies where you just visit an A&E (otherwise known as ER in 'Merica). I did this when I first moved here nearly 4 years ago, so I am not new to the experience, but I apparently forgot how traumatic it is. Hence, in retrospect, why I remained registered with my Chelsea GP after I moved. Technically you are supposed to live within a certain post code to attend certain surgeries (especially in posh areas). I have heard that it's against the law for surgeries to turn away patients on the basis of post code, but since you MUST show proof of post code, I assume they would make something else up. We're all full, but thanks for coming down. Bu bye. Anyway, I digress. Registering basically just means you turn up in person and submit your details along with proof of address (council tax or utility bill), proof of residence in my case (Visa and National Insurance number) and Identification (Passport). You can't usually make an appointment to do this and the hours which they allow new patient registration are typically limited. For the people, by the people, of the people. Great.


So, I worked from home on a Thursday to take care of this. I turned up (during the allotted 2 minute window every month) with all the necessary information and identification, or so I thought. The woman was nice enough and took inventory of all my bits and then she called her supervisor over. The conversation went something like this:


Nice Woman to Supervisor: She has all the required forms, but I don't see an NHS number listed here, what should I do?


Bitter Supervisor: You can't register without an NHS number.


Me: Oh, is that different then my National Insurance number? If it is, I have never received it.


BS: Yes you did


Me: Erm, no actually I didn't. As you can see, I have all my ducks in a row, I am an organised person and wouldn't throw something important away. Who would it have come from?


BS: Your former GP. We can't and won't register you without it. I suggest you write to the health department and get it and come back when you have it. Then we can register you.


Me: Ok, well I took the day off of work (yes, this was a white lie, but whatever) and I travel often for work, so this isn't exactly convenient for me. Since I don't have it, but you say it exists, can you call my prior surgery and get it from them?


BS: No


Me: Ok, can you help me here? I need to register today, bottom line. How can I accomplish that?


BS: Get the number you need that you lost


Me: Aside from a long process of handwriting a letter, which I didn't even know people did anymore, what can I do? Can you problem solve with me here instead of working against me?

Now as I am sure you can extrapolate, I was getting frustrated. I was quite sure that any minute someone was going to scream, CRAZY AMERICAN at the front desk.

BS: Call your former GP and get the number, that's the best suggestion I can offer.


Me: Oh, ok, well why didn't you say that. Done.

I start to dial my GP, and BS stops me...No mobile phones in here miss. You can imagine the look on my face. Fine, I smiled, can I borrow a pen? Outside, I relayed the story to my Chelsea surgery who gave me the number but explained that it's totally unnecessary and no one ever actually has this number. She sounded sympathetic and it made me feel a bit better. Back inside, I waited another 20 minutes while some old folks tried to accomplish simple tasks of picking up prescriptions. Good luck I muttered under my breath and slowly regained my composure. Nice woman is leaving for the day now and it appears I am forced to deal only with BS. She looks at me and says, have you been helped? I wanted to shout, DUH you dumb fuck! You just read me the riot act, do you not remember? Instead I very snottily said, not really, do you not remember me. Blank look from BS. Ok, I need to register, here are all my things including the unnecessary NHS number you asked for. Spark of recognition propels her to remember to treat me like the low life foreigner I am.


BS: (Eyeing my residence visa) So this visa is new, you're new to London then?


Me: No, I have been here for nearly 4 years. I switched jobs last year and obtained a new visa.


BS: mmmmm, I see. When does it expire?


Me:Erm, I think 2012, but as you're holding it I can't be sure. You may want to check.


BS:mmm, I see. And where are you from?


I slowly looked around thinking she must be talking to someone else. Nope, she was talking to me. I literally looked at her, with my passport in her hand, with eyes that could sear through an iron wall. I didn't say anything. This line of questioning went on for about another five minutes and by the time it was done, I was 2 seconds away from pulling out a payslip and throwing it at her so she could see how much National Insurance tax I pay every month. GRR. Now I needed to make an appointment to have a Rx re-filled. At this point I had run out of energy, time and the will to live. BS turned the appointment scheduling over to a mental giant who couldn't figure out what day of the week dates in April fell on. Ie: shall we make that appt for Thursday the 23rd of April? Me: I think the 23rd is a Wed, I need to schedule it on the 25th actually. Oh right then, Monday the 25th of April. I will let you draw your own conclusions, but let's just say this back and forth took up another 10 minutes.

Now you can possibly see why I needed a hot chocolate from Starbucks and why the Tramp was even more entertaining. I now understand why imigration is such and issue here. It's people like me who weigh down the system.

Redemption

Spring is an amazing time of year. Cherry blossoms bloom, rain washes away the grit and dust left over from the snow in the winter and the sun finally begins to peek out from hiding. It's also a time, I find, for reevaluating things in ones life. I have a good mate who "spring cleans" friends when she realises the relationship has reached its sell by date. I tend to take a good inventory of where I am at in my life, given that a quarter of the year has passed, and decide if I am on track for where I want to be by Jan of next year. If I am not, I reassess.


My last trip to Turkey was truly awful. In jest I blogged about the surface irritants, but in reality, it was a lot worse. Business was bad and I saw no light at the end of the tunnel for me achieving my PR goals in that region...EVER. Fast forward to last night when I arrived at Heathrow with a whole new outlook on Constantinople. This trip was good. Business was good, leisure was good and team building was successful. Result, Hurrah! It also reminded me how circumstantial the positive or negative perception of situations can be. In life, if we tweak a couple of things, can it make all the difference in the outcome? Or at the very least, the perceived outcome? Me thinks yes.


Bit too deep for a Friday, I admit. I think the barista spiked my soy latte this morning.

Rantings of the semi sane

I am not sure where the last week has gone nor why I've not posted anything in 7 days! Some of the possible reasons might be:

• The fluctuation between sleet, snow and scorching sun this week has messed with my Chi*


• Despite fighting against it my whole life, I became very aware this week that I am "that girl" or rather NicB and I are "those people" You know, the duo you see on the tube who make you want to hurl? They are so besotted with one another they don't notice the dead guy on the floor who was just knifed by the granny who fled to the next carriage? Yeah, that's us. I am making myself want to wretch on a daily basis


• The no drinking thing is going really well, but I must admit, I feel like an absolute tool ordering my 4th cranberry juice on nights out. I did this in the US when I was training for a marathon and it wasn't as big of a deal there. Here in London, I actually have bartenders trying to talk me into a drink, "com'on luv, one n'er urt ya."


• My new neighbourhood is so posh that the rubbish collectors tip their hat with a cheery "good morning" when I leave for work. Not quite used to it, it's only today that I smiled back rather then reaching for my mace


• I worked from home yesterday so that I could register with my surgery which of course only registers new patients from 2-3:50 on every 5th Thursday of months that end in Z.** Along with alcohol I have also given up sugar and processed food for the month of April. Like I said before, this wasn't a huge change in habits, but after my "experience" at the local surgery, I decided I needed a hot cocoa (soya of course) to smooth my ruffled feathers. There in front of Starbucks in my terribly posh neighbourhood was a disheveled tramp sitting at a sidewalk table. Her home was taking up 3 seats and she had one of those portable cassette players on the table broadcasting some bizarre self help tape. This scene in almost any other London borough would not seem odd, in NW8 it's a spectacle. The most entertaining bit was the way all the nannies pulled their charges to the other side of road in order to avoid crazy (who also by the way was in a bikini top rubbing Vaseline on her neck in the freezing cold)


• I have to go back to Istanbul on Monday. Nuf said. I think I feel a bout of meningitis coming on
  
• I am a human thesaurus these days. Because I work with agencies in so many countries, I spend a very good portion of my day thinking of synonyms for words that the people I work with don't understand. I say "publish" for instance and there is silence on the other end of the phone. Issue? Release? Send.to.news.wire.who.then.copy.press.statement.and people.everywhere.can.see.the.words? I actually got to the point yesterday where I stopped and said,"I'm sorry, I am plum out of words. I have no more words to describe what I am trying to say." It's not their fault, but it's exhausting
  

This was a lame excuse for a post, I realise that. But it's the best I've got. If anyone can either arrange to have my trip to Turkey cancelled, or for the sun to come out for a whole day, my creativity might return.

*If I was my Chi, I would hide too. Especially given that this is the first time ever that I have even acknowledged Chi in my life. Chi must feel very neglected

**This was SUCH an ordeal that it deserves its own post. I am however still too bitter to be balanced in my analysis and criticism of the NHS. Watch this space

Casual Friday

In business, I am a big proponent of dressing for where you want to be, not where you are. I realise I am little more uptight about this then others, but hey, to each their own. My office is very corporate. Big multinational corporation type attire. Suits make up a large part of my wardrobe and my boss quite literally even wears a suit on Friday. I am less formal then that and tend to wear a dress with flats or something else that would likely be typed as "smart casual." And for the record I hate that term. I mean, do people expect that others will show up stupid casual if they don't preface it with smart? Anyway, as usual, I digress. Many of the people who work in my office seem to view Friday as an opportunity to infuse their personality or interests outside work into their wardrobe choice for the day. Some might take a fancy to clubbing judging by their outfit choice, while others seize the moment on Friday to not bother with clothing at all. These are the people who show up in their pajamas. The most entertaining however, are those who seem to really have special interests. Some women seem to be hookers after hours and another who clearly loves her Harley. There's one bloke who wears a turban during the rest of the week and on Friday mixes it up with different scarves and wraps from prominent companies. I am guessing he finds these for free at trade shows or something. I'm not quite sure.

In general, I run across at least 3-5 people a week, regardless of what continent I am on, or what country I am in who amaze me with their choice of garments. Now please understand that I am not claiming to be some fashionista who never gets it wrong, god no. I get it wrong. A lot. If I was famous I am pretty sure I would end up in Hello or OK! on at least a monthly basis with one of those red circles and a wardrobe malfunction. There are some things though, that should kind of be intuitive right? Like how come everyone that gets done for child porn or neglect of their 12 children by 11 baby daddies looks like someone who you wouldn't let near a dog, much less a child?! Jiminy, one of my new favourite bloggers, has a pretty good photo on his blog today that illustrates my point. His picture is way better then mine and more current. However, 1983 is making a come back, I can feel it!

In conclusion, I would like to say that I don't think I really have a point. But be kind and consider the people around you when making clothing choices. It's not as personal as you might think.

Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder

In a vain attempt to reclaim some of what was formerly known as my health, I decided to give up alcohol, sugar and basically anything processed for the month of April. Strange combination of things one might think, but it was born out of the need to return to my regularly scheduled eating habits, whilst still not appearing a drip or a fussy Westerner during the many business trips that flank my weeks and months. Sugar and alcohol can be avoided in any country as opposed to things like dairy or wheat or whatever the fad "go without" of the moment might be. Also, living closer to a lovely park coupled with brighter mornings and longer days has reignited my motivation for running. So, with one fell swoop, I gave things up (for a limited time only), signed up for a Race for Life run (BTW if you want to sponsor me and didn't receive my email pleading for money, drop me a note and I'll send you the link to my fundraising site) and returned to my former ways of healthy thinking. Its been fantastic. I feel loads better already at less then 2 weeks in and have realised that the only major tweak I am making is the alcohol deprivation.

Abstinence is not a word I throw around lightly. I don't condone it when it pertains to most things (particularly in the traditional sense of the word) as I believe that moderation is the key to success, health and happiness. Who cares if your stick thin if you are a miserable twat who desperately needs a krispy kreme. That said, I knew that despite a short refrain from the wine I love, the vodka and soda that calls my name and most importantly the champagne with which I have built a loving relationship; they would still be there for me when I decided to be their friend again. As NicB has been staying with me, he has been cooking lovely meals. In addition to the lovely meals, he picks up after himself, goes out of his way to make sure that my life is easier and does nice things like run me a bath before I get home from work if he thinks I had a long day.* Ok, I digress, but you have to admit that's pretty amazing stuff and worth bragging about. Anyway, I realised how accustom my palate is to the compliments of wine with a good meal. The wine is the only thing I really miss. The boy actually caught me gazing longingly at his glass of vino the other night during Sunday roast. I think I have actually built up the pairings to a point where my expectations are unrealistic. While he was trying to enjoy his wine, I was pressing him to dissect the flavours, identify the layers and describe the body of the red I had chosen for him with dinner. So now I reckon my first meal with a nice glass of wine in May is going to be a let down, because the hype could be more then the reality. Sad Sad life I lead.

*Before you all say it, YES I know that all relationships are like this in the beginning and if we actually lived together things would not be all roses and chirping birds. BUT, I will enjoy it while it lasts and not look for the end. It's too good to spoil.

The price of love

I am absolutely besotted with my new neighbourhood. I spent the day Saturday running along the canals, tooling through Regents Park and puttering around my flat. Feeling a bit peckish, I stopped off at the local gourmet deli, when to what did my wandering eyes appear? One of my favourite snacks from America, Wheat Thins and Light Cream Cheese. (I realise that none of my readers outside North America will understand what this snack is, but never mind, you'll get the point). Along with some other items, I purchased these snacks and headed home.

Later in the evening I popped in a newly aquired Entourage DVD and slumped into the sofa to have a good fix of home, WT & CC in hand. It was only then that I noticed the price tags and saw that I had paid the equivilant of $14 USD for a snack that would cost about $5 at most any store in the US. After I got over my initial shock, I started thinking of all the things over the years that I have spent obscene amounts of money on, just for the sake of comfort. Food, products, plane tickets. There is no price too high when happiness of the heart (or Tummy) is on the line.

In other lurve news, I had a lengthy conversation with a friend on Friday night, who also reads my blog, about the public image I have crafted for CB. She rightly pointed out that he is no longer the CB that I first wrote about a year ago. Therefore he needs a new name. So, from hereforthwitherto he shall be known as NicB (New, improved, cricket Boy). So NicB and I are playing house this week as he has a class in London and is staying at mine. Ahhh, it's divine. I do however have something hanging over my head that I need to come clean about this week and I am absolutely dreading it. Come clean is probably not the right expression, as it's not as if I have done something wrong that I have hidden. It's more a matter of being upfront about something from a long time ago that I don't readily volunteer with people. I would just as soon leave unsaid unspoken, but popular demand from my mates has brought the issue to the forefront of my mind and I now think I have to proactively bring it up.

Any tips* on discussing sensitive matters whilst not wanting to jump out the window before the person has a chance to respond?

*Yes I realise, my job requires me to teach people how to do this, but give me a break. I teach people how to do this en mass, not 1:1 when love is on the line.

Irritated in Istanbul

Nothing against the Turkish people, but WTF? Are we not in the year 2008? Could you maybe try to catch up, I mean even to 2000 would be nice. Some thoughts and advice on how to bring Istanbul into the 20th century:

• Smoking indoors isn't even allowed in the UK anymore and the UK isn't exactly progressive on the front of banning things. If you must smoke, inside, does it have to be DURING our business meeting?


• Well done you for beating Chelsea in the footie last night. I mean, the Blues are rubbish this year, but nevermind. Rioting isn't really a socially acceptable pass time any longer. Especially when you are rioting because you WON! Get a grip people.


• It's rude to stare. It's even more rude to stop, stare and then instruct all of your slimey associates to do the same.


• I like that fact that you have metal detectors everywhere, but they aren't any use when you let everyone walk through them and only require that the bloke in front of me (who does not appear to be a police officer) hand over his gun whilst he walks through. Glad you handed it back to him on the other side. I feel so much safer now.


• No kind taxi driver sir, I will not give you a kiss in exchange for my cab fare. Whilst your offer is tempting, I think that creeps into the area of prostitution.


• The car horn has a purpose, figure out what it is. Even in New York people don't use it as an arm rest or pillow or bed or whatever it is that you are doing to cause a constant stream of beeping.


• I know when you are talking about me! I may not speak Turkish, but I am not deaf. Ok, that wasn't exactly something that would bring Istanbul into 20th century, but it's also rude and not the done thing.

I'm too tired to whinge any more. Given the riots and beeping are all on my front doorstep, I'm sleeping even less then normal. I will say that of all the times I have been here I have come to love some things. I just can't remember what they are right now.