Gillian Polack's Blog, page 247
May 29, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-29T16:06:00
I have a drawer that holds blank cards and envelopes in case I need them. I used to get through a lot and, over the years, I've put the strays of sets in the drawer. Today I thought "I can use some of those!"
I found a lot of the unexpected. Tiny, tiny origami paper. Letterhead for the Uranium Export Office (I have not been involved with the Uranium Export Office in any way, but I know how the letterhead got there, I think). The most unexpected thing of all was New Year greetings from my grandmother to her close friend, Barbara. She obviously never posted it. She would have written it in Melbourne, about fifteen years ago. How it reached my collection of stray notepaper and cards and empty envelopes is a mystery. It ought to go to Barbara, but I can't bring myself to send it. Grandma is too long dead and the card would distress her.
Ten years ago, it would have been nice to know she was missed - now, it's just strange. Like my drawer. One day I need to explore it properly. One day when I feel adventurous, perhaps.
I found a lot of the unexpected. Tiny, tiny origami paper. Letterhead for the Uranium Export Office (I have not been involved with the Uranium Export Office in any way, but I know how the letterhead got there, I think). The most unexpected thing of all was New Year greetings from my grandmother to her close friend, Barbara. She obviously never posted it. She would have written it in Melbourne, about fifteen years ago. How it reached my collection of stray notepaper and cards and empty envelopes is a mystery. It ought to go to Barbara, but I can't bring myself to send it. Grandma is too long dead and the card would distress her.
Ten years ago, it would have been nice to know she was missed - now, it's just strange. Like my drawer. One day I need to explore it properly. One day when I feel adventurous, perhaps.
May 28, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-28T17:13:00
I don't know whether I should be asking this, or letting sleeping dogs lie.
Questions. It's been a while since a question thread and there are a good few weeks before I leave* and so many of you have been so very useful on practical travel matters that I feel that a bit of comeuppance is due. If you, too, feel that comeuppance is due, I'm happy to have a question thread. If not a single person has a single question to ask me, then there won't be one for months and months. What's more, I shall laugh most vilely.
If no-one wants a question thread, then tomorrow you might get a short post with many, many footnotes. This is the state of my mind and there are no other options. Well, there's one, and that's to distract me so much that I forget the questions and the post with more footnotes than content. I am, however, not easily distracted from these important concerns.
Questions or footnotes - which?
*I'm a sad soul who does her panics early so that she can actually enjoy travel - I know, this is very wrong of me
Questions. It's been a while since a question thread and there are a good few weeks before I leave* and so many of you have been so very useful on practical travel matters that I feel that a bit of comeuppance is due. If you, too, feel that comeuppance is due, I'm happy to have a question thread. If not a single person has a single question to ask me, then there won't be one for months and months. What's more, I shall laugh most vilely.
If no-one wants a question thread, then tomorrow you might get a short post with many, many footnotes. This is the state of my mind and there are no other options. Well, there's one, and that's to distract me so much that I forget the questions and the post with more footnotes than content. I am, however, not easily distracted from these important concerns.
Questions or footnotes - which?
*I'm a sad soul who does her panics early so that she can actually enjoy travel - I know, this is very wrong of me
fictional progress
I'm deleting bunches of text from my novel right now. Highlighting large chunks and erasing entirely. It's only temporary.
I want to follow one set of plotlines and find out where I'm at. I want to fill in the holes for these lines, since they contain all the characters who interpret the past for modern readers, and I want to check that these lines are consistent. I want to allow the mischief my characters have been brewing while I've been working on other things to come to the fore without destroying what has already gone. In other words, I want to focus.
It's rather fun to have created a temporary file and to delete all the main action and most of the minor action for a whole bunch of characters.
I'll print the modified version out and scribble all my changes. This is partly because this is the week for testing that I still have handwriting. Mostly, however, it's so that I maintain my version control. This is especially important today and tomorrow, because one of the other reasons I'm doing this check is because I know that some of my writing needs tightening and I have some diversions that need pruning (why do one thing when ten things at once are more entertaining?). My work over the last few weeks has really underlined the main paths I need to follow for the emotional side of things, so I can now start to reinforce those lines a bit more subtly.
Either this is going to be the best novel I've ever written, or it's going to be hopelessly over-managed. I'm curious as to which. I can't just follow my instincts and build in my normal way, because of the dissertation. The dissertation is reflective and questioning and it forces me to evaluate what I do and what other writers do. This means that at every point in my novel there are elements I need to rethink.
This rethinking is partly why I'm doing what I'm doing today. I was working on a dissertation chapter a bit yesterday and key techniques William Mayne and Connie Willis (whose books are still following me, obviously) and Alison Uttley and Elizabeth Chadwick and Harry Turtledove use are still clear in my mind. While my mind retains these techniques, I want to find out what I've done and fix any egregious stupidities. For instance, I want to absolutely ensure that my characters have emotional links to the work they've given their lives to and that those links have resonances with the plot. While I'm at it, I shall sort those plotlines for those characters, add my stray notes, trim excess and see what eventuates.
This will take me the whole of today and probably most of tomorrow. If I'm lucky it will take me into next week. It's the fun side of writing. One of the many fun sides of writing. I still find it strange to be using my history and analytical brain for my fiction, however. This is why I can't tell yet if the novel is appalling or rather good. I tested some of it on CSFG, a few weeks ago, however, and no-one actually said it was appalling. This is not a bad start.
I want to follow one set of plotlines and find out where I'm at. I want to fill in the holes for these lines, since they contain all the characters who interpret the past for modern readers, and I want to check that these lines are consistent. I want to allow the mischief my characters have been brewing while I've been working on other things to come to the fore without destroying what has already gone. In other words, I want to focus.
It's rather fun to have created a temporary file and to delete all the main action and most of the minor action for a whole bunch of characters.
I'll print the modified version out and scribble all my changes. This is partly because this is the week for testing that I still have handwriting. Mostly, however, it's so that I maintain my version control. This is especially important today and tomorrow, because one of the other reasons I'm doing this check is because I know that some of my writing needs tightening and I have some diversions that need pruning (why do one thing when ten things at once are more entertaining?). My work over the last few weeks has really underlined the main paths I need to follow for the emotional side of things, so I can now start to reinforce those lines a bit more subtly.
Either this is going to be the best novel I've ever written, or it's going to be hopelessly over-managed. I'm curious as to which. I can't just follow my instincts and build in my normal way, because of the dissertation. The dissertation is reflective and questioning and it forces me to evaluate what I do and what other writers do. This means that at every point in my novel there are elements I need to rethink.
This rethinking is partly why I'm doing what I'm doing today. I was working on a dissertation chapter a bit yesterday and key techniques William Mayne and Connie Willis (whose books are still following me, obviously) and Alison Uttley and Elizabeth Chadwick and Harry Turtledove use are still clear in my mind. While my mind retains these techniques, I want to find out what I've done and fix any egregious stupidities. For instance, I want to absolutely ensure that my characters have emotional links to the work they've given their lives to and that those links have resonances with the plot. While I'm at it, I shall sort those plotlines for those characters, add my stray notes, trim excess and see what eventuates.
This will take me the whole of today and probably most of tomorrow. If I'm lucky it will take me into next week. It's the fun side of writing. One of the many fun sides of writing. I still find it strange to be using my history and analytical brain for my fiction, however. This is why I can't tell yet if the novel is appalling or rather good. I tested some of it on CSFG, a few weeks ago, however, and no-one actually said it was appalling. This is not a bad start.
May 27, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-27T19:29:00
I get a day when I do lots and then I day when I fritter. The frittering was all useful, but meant I couldn't feel consciously virtuous. It takes up an unconscionable amount of time to do things like wash linen and sort stuff. It's also unexciting. I have therefore spent the last hour investigating food.
Investigating food is not frittering, it's adding to my knowledge and understanding of the universe. The food I was investigating was chains in the UK. It looks as if fast food has changed significantly in London since I lived there. I am going to exercise great restraint and not put on weight. I shall work very hard for the next few weeks at shoring up this determination. The trouble is, of course, that I now want to investigate the ways the British diet has changed and how it's different from ours. And food. I must taste and taste more and... I shall be restrained. Mostly. It may mean developing mantras or avoiding places that sell food. Or maybe the best thing to do is do the foodie side of things with friends who already know what has changed in the UK in the last twenty years, so that I can just get the highlights.
What I'm doing tonight is work. Not food-related work. Otherwise I will put on weight just thinking about the trip.
What I was looking for (seriously) was outlets for heritage fruit and vegies, so that I could follow up on some thoughts I've been having in Canberra about changing tastebuds. Also, I want to build my knowledge of 18th century varieties a bit - there's something amiss in how I'm interpreting some 18th century recipes. This was all a bit extra to what I'm actually doing this trip, and I got distracted so very quickly today (with no places that I could easily find out what I wanted, apart from specific research institutes like Brogdale, for which I simply don't have the time) that I may have to give up on this particular minor aim. (In my dream world I get to taste far earlier varieties of apples and pears, but it's all wrong, season-wise, I suspect. And besides, I am supposed to be working really hard on other things entirely. I need to remember this!)
In the interim, I shall not look at food guides to either Britain or France. I will take pot luck. And not overeat.
Remind me of this?
Investigating food is not frittering, it's adding to my knowledge and understanding of the universe. The food I was investigating was chains in the UK. It looks as if fast food has changed significantly in London since I lived there. I am going to exercise great restraint and not put on weight. I shall work very hard for the next few weeks at shoring up this determination. The trouble is, of course, that I now want to investigate the ways the British diet has changed and how it's different from ours. And food. I must taste and taste more and... I shall be restrained. Mostly. It may mean developing mantras or avoiding places that sell food. Or maybe the best thing to do is do the foodie side of things with friends who already know what has changed in the UK in the last twenty years, so that I can just get the highlights.
What I'm doing tonight is work. Not food-related work. Otherwise I will put on weight just thinking about the trip.
What I was looking for (seriously) was outlets for heritage fruit and vegies, so that I could follow up on some thoughts I've been having in Canberra about changing tastebuds. Also, I want to build my knowledge of 18th century varieties a bit - there's something amiss in how I'm interpreting some 18th century recipes. This was all a bit extra to what I'm actually doing this trip, and I got distracted so very quickly today (with no places that I could easily find out what I wanted, apart from specific research institutes like Brogdale, for which I simply don't have the time) that I may have to give up on this particular minor aim. (In my dream world I get to taste far earlier varieties of apples and pears, but it's all wrong, season-wise, I suspect. And besides, I am supposed to be working really hard on other things entirely. I need to remember this!)
In the interim, I shall not look at food guides to either Britain or France. I will take pot luck. And not overeat.
Remind me of this?
gillpolack @ 2011-05-27T12:15:00
Tomorrow I get to read a book for the pure simple joy of it. Actually, I was going to make that today, but then Rowena told me (for the BiblioBuffet interview) that The Chronicles of King Rolen's Kin were specifically written to curl up with on a Saturday after a hard week and, well, I have to test this, don't I?
I didn't get as far as sorting notes yesterday, but I read my six articles and my three books and took a multitude of illegible scribbles for later puzzlement. What I'm particularly pleased about is that I have some unexpected evidence on cabbages, leeks, sheets and shirts. For the latter, while I'm away I now have to check pictoral evidence from different regions to see if my suspicions are correct. If they are, I'll let you know. Perhaps. If you really want. Right now, I have borderline evidence for an unexpected style of clothing and borderline could just mean mistranslation. This is what a lot of my work is for, right now, to find out my limits and be able to push past them a little on my travels. To check what was actually happening in the stuff of daily life and to question my assumptions and, in fact, everyone's assumptions. If pears were 8 sestiers a tray, was that because they were overpriced, or new season's or a prized variety? How many pears were in that package? Was Wroe right in her inference (in reporting on the pears) that pears were a special treat? (in this instance, those particular pears were obviously a special treat - but we can't infer about pears in general from the information given)
All this will emerge in the novel as the fabric of daily life. This means that, very soon, I will be able to properly build up the local (not time traveller) end of the novel and bring it to life a lot more. I have no idea how a third party checks this for accuracy, though, given the level of research I'm putting in. If I meet someone who knows more than me about this place and time, I might ask them, but otherwise, it will have to stand from the Medieval end, I suspect, and I may have to trust my own research.
This is a bit of a worry. The reason I don't do many academic papers is that I have this feeling that research is transient and that judgement reflects cultural boundaries and limitations and that everything is prone to revision. I mostly teach my research, in fact, which is great for students but not so good for my career. I'm starting to write research down a bit more, but I still struggle with the notion of turning the impermanent into the long term statement. I would rather write novels containing the fruits of my research (and Illuminations contains my rather evil thoughts on historiography and how we make judgements about our pasts) than write a monograph.
This caution carries itself over into this particular novel, simply because of the nature of the novel and why I'm doing it. In fact, it's why I have written fantasy and invented history to date rather than writing anything that claims to represent an accurate past. I would take great care, and then add magic or put it a few hundred years in the future on a planet far, far away, just to ensure that everyone knew that it wasn't the past as their ancestors experienced it. This is where Illuminations came from, and New Ceres, for instance*.
I might have to get people to check for this new novel meeting their narrative needs (ie this is how the Middle Ages should read) - it won't, but it would be handy to know where it doesn't and why. Or I might just laugh at myself and put the work in elsewhere.
*I love Facebook right now. It's got me back in touch with Cary Lenehan, who did the technical specs for New Ceres. He and his wife are both super nice and uber-cool.
I didn't get as far as sorting notes yesterday, but I read my six articles and my three books and took a multitude of illegible scribbles for later puzzlement. What I'm particularly pleased about is that I have some unexpected evidence on cabbages, leeks, sheets and shirts. For the latter, while I'm away I now have to check pictoral evidence from different regions to see if my suspicions are correct. If they are, I'll let you know. Perhaps. If you really want. Right now, I have borderline evidence for an unexpected style of clothing and borderline could just mean mistranslation. This is what a lot of my work is for, right now, to find out my limits and be able to push past them a little on my travels. To check what was actually happening in the stuff of daily life and to question my assumptions and, in fact, everyone's assumptions. If pears were 8 sestiers a tray, was that because they were overpriced, or new season's or a prized variety? How many pears were in that package? Was Wroe right in her inference (in reporting on the pears) that pears were a special treat? (in this instance, those particular pears were obviously a special treat - but we can't infer about pears in general from the information given)
All this will emerge in the novel as the fabric of daily life. This means that, very soon, I will be able to properly build up the local (not time traveller) end of the novel and bring it to life a lot more. I have no idea how a third party checks this for accuracy, though, given the level of research I'm putting in. If I meet someone who knows more than me about this place and time, I might ask them, but otherwise, it will have to stand from the Medieval end, I suspect, and I may have to trust my own research.
This is a bit of a worry. The reason I don't do many academic papers is that I have this feeling that research is transient and that judgement reflects cultural boundaries and limitations and that everything is prone to revision. I mostly teach my research, in fact, which is great for students but not so good for my career. I'm starting to write research down a bit more, but I still struggle with the notion of turning the impermanent into the long term statement. I would rather write novels containing the fruits of my research (and Illuminations contains my rather evil thoughts on historiography and how we make judgements about our pasts) than write a monograph.
This caution carries itself over into this particular novel, simply because of the nature of the novel and why I'm doing it. In fact, it's why I have written fantasy and invented history to date rather than writing anything that claims to represent an accurate past. I would take great care, and then add magic or put it a few hundred years in the future on a planet far, far away, just to ensure that everyone knew that it wasn't the past as their ancestors experienced it. This is where Illuminations came from, and New Ceres, for instance*.
I might have to get people to check for this new novel meeting their narrative needs (ie this is how the Middle Ages should read) - it won't, but it would be handy to know where it doesn't and why. Or I might just laugh at myself and put the work in elsewhere.
*I love Facebook right now. It's got me back in touch with Cary Lenehan, who did the technical specs for New Ceres. He and his wife are both super nice and uber-cool.
May 26, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-26T14:19:00
I have turned today into tomorrow. All my messages and most of my housework will be done on Friday. This is because I was just so impatient to get back to my research that I couldn't put it off, not even to go up the street. I have food basics and I did the most urgent messages on Monday - everything else can wait a day.
My payback was that the first book I checked I could have done late last night or in six months time, for all the good it was. The book I'm working through now, however, is gold. There's so much material I can weave straight into my narrative and a nice list of things I don't have to hunt when I get to France. Cultural histories are lovely, when done well, and make sense of the small universes in which humans actually live. My big discovery of the last few minutes is that we actually have records of the sorts of nicknames semi-foreigners were called in equivalent towns in my region. This means that my guess for the second half of my character's nickname (which, being a guess, wasn't going into the novel - I found evidence for the first half early on) has been replaced by a viable nickname. And, knowing the system of nicknames for a whole group of people, I want to write my town rather like Dylan Thomas' Milkwood, which is so not going to work, but is still very alluring.
If I can finish this book and read six articles before dinner, then tonight I can get stuck into my notes. This means, when I have done all my messages and housework tomorrow, I get to make sense of things and write.
This is my happiest time, when I get to bring it all to life, so I hope that this week nothing intervenes. I ought to be working on one of the last articles I promised (since I told myself I'd finish them by the end of the month) but I'm only just emerging from the keeping-my-head-above-water (I can work and do normal activities through the pain these days, but it's still not easy) and so I want to reward myself. Anyhow, I've had a bit of a break from nicknames, so now I get to make myself a pot of coffee and return to the Middle Ages, most frabjously.
My payback was that the first book I checked I could have done late last night or in six months time, for all the good it was. The book I'm working through now, however, is gold. There's so much material I can weave straight into my narrative and a nice list of things I don't have to hunt when I get to France. Cultural histories are lovely, when done well, and make sense of the small universes in which humans actually live. My big discovery of the last few minutes is that we actually have records of the sorts of nicknames semi-foreigners were called in equivalent towns in my region. This means that my guess for the second half of my character's nickname (which, being a guess, wasn't going into the novel - I found evidence for the first half early on) has been replaced by a viable nickname. And, knowing the system of nicknames for a whole group of people, I want to write my town rather like Dylan Thomas' Milkwood, which is so not going to work, but is still very alluring.
If I can finish this book and read six articles before dinner, then tonight I can get stuck into my notes. This means, when I have done all my messages and housework tomorrow, I get to make sense of things and write.
This is my happiest time, when I get to bring it all to life, so I hope that this week nothing intervenes. I ought to be working on one of the last articles I promised (since I told myself I'd finish them by the end of the month) but I'm only just emerging from the keeping-my-head-above-water (I can work and do normal activities through the pain these days, but it's still not easy) and so I want to reward myself. Anyhow, I've had a bit of a break from nicknames, so now I get to make myself a pot of coffee and return to the Middle Ages, most frabjously.
May 25, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-25T17:03:00
Today follows on very naturally from yesterday and I keep discovering things I thought I had finished but that now have grown tentacles. Deliveries (more than one!) that haven't arrived, for instance. Add to this another batch of messages that must be done tomorrow, and I am beginning to think that this is the week one has in between living. What I want is to hunker down with all my notes and make sense of them, but that will take a full day of concentration and a full day of concentration isn't going to happen until these stray ends and half-pieces stop peeking out and saying "Do me, or your life is dust."
My solution is an obvious one. I have an hour or so to do what I can, and then I'm taking the evening off to watch superhero cartoons with friends. My life can be dust tomorrow.
Right now, I need a hot drink. And to finish one last book before I desert duty.
My solution is an obvious one. I have an hour or so to do what I can, and then I'm taking the evening off to watch superhero cartoons with friends. My life can be dust tomorrow.
Right now, I need a hot drink. And to finish one last book before I desert duty.
May 24, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-24T17:28:00
I did 2/3 of my messages. Only some of them lacked frustrations. Let me give you just the highlights.
First highlight was the guy in David Jones who kept not listening. He was consistent in his lack of listening. I have bought yet more chocolate to take overseas, because my gift voucher* couldn't be spent on chocolate for me because I kept saying to him "I don't have a sweet tooth" and he kept pointing me at milk choc with soft centres - all I can say is that I hope my UK friends like bilbies and and frogs and choc ginger - if you do, feel free to drop hints when you see me. I have them. They can be yours if you drop the right hints at the right time.
The chemist had forgotten its own lines. This chemist only ever remembers stuff when one can point to it on the shelf and I saw the bit of the shelf in question and there indeed was none of my pain reliever. The young woman (everyone was young today - more mature souls saw me and found somewhere safe to huddle?) found me a cheap alternative in any case, so that wasn't so bad. In fact, it was good, because the cheaper alternative has more codeine. This means that my still high pain levels will be down very shortly. (The pain levels aren't as high as yesterday, either, so things are good, despite me obviously being the customer from hell just by existing.)
The most annoying segment of all was the bank. I had two bright young things advising me and they were both trying to sell me a product. I said three times that I had checked out that product online and that the reviews of it hadn't convinced me. At one stage I was forced to give statistics - 50% of clients on a particular travel site hated it, I explained, which is why I don't really want it. And it's linked to the same system as my current credit card, I also pointed out, which means that if one's down, I won't have access to the other - and I was asking about an alternative.
I nearly said that the leaflet the young man kept thrusting into my hands was, nevertheless, very pretty, but I refrained.
"But I've never had a problem" the young woman cooed (yes, her tones were dovelike and lo, even dulcet).
"It says it's for travel," the young man helpfully hinted and proceeded to inform me that if I use my credit card at home (including online) it costs me the amounts I knew, but that if I use it overseas (likewise including online) there's a three per cent surcharge for each and every transaction. My response to that was to suggest that this meant I probably needed a different credit card and maybe I should try St George.
He found another possible way for me to get at my money overseas at this point (my bank has a London branch with no surcharge for withdrawal from my normal bank account, I finally found out) and I washed my hands of the whole help desk.
I'm going to ring up and see if the central bods are better informed about their own products. Or care more about service and less about selling a particular line. At least they can't thrust leaflets into my hand. Although I guess they could still ignore the real questions. If there really is a 3% surcharge on every single transaction on my credit card once I leave Australia, I definitely need to change banks. At this stage, however, I'm not convinced the young man actually knew what time of day it was - he was eyeing off the dulcet-toned one rather than paying attention to me. I don't know if this was because she was pretty or because she was his supervisor.
My remaining forays into various things can wait until later in the week, when I have more fortitude. I do hope my UK friends each chocolate. If not, then I shall thrust large quantities on ADM at Leeds, and on Ian at Leeds. That will redeem this afternoon, at least.
*Not a birthday present. It was probably proper that I spend it on friends. Proper, but frustrating. What I really wanted were the Russian Paddington chocolates, but I couldn't find them and the young man serving me was so certain I needed milk chocolate...
ETA: The phone banking person was lovely and has solved all my problems. I know exactly what charges go with what uses and have a reverse charge phone number should things go wrong. Basically, Camille and Barbara, I'm doing what you suggested, but with the added security of that reverse charge phone number for issues.
First highlight was the guy in David Jones who kept not listening. He was consistent in his lack of listening. I have bought yet more chocolate to take overseas, because my gift voucher* couldn't be spent on chocolate for me because I kept saying to him "I don't have a sweet tooth" and he kept pointing me at milk choc with soft centres - all I can say is that I hope my UK friends like bilbies and and frogs and choc ginger - if you do, feel free to drop hints when you see me. I have them. They can be yours if you drop the right hints at the right time.
The chemist had forgotten its own lines. This chemist only ever remembers stuff when one can point to it on the shelf and I saw the bit of the shelf in question and there indeed was none of my pain reliever. The young woman (everyone was young today - more mature souls saw me and found somewhere safe to huddle?) found me a cheap alternative in any case, so that wasn't so bad. In fact, it was good, because the cheaper alternative has more codeine. This means that my still high pain levels will be down very shortly. (The pain levels aren't as high as yesterday, either, so things are good, despite me obviously being the customer from hell just by existing.)
The most annoying segment of all was the bank. I had two bright young things advising me and they were both trying to sell me a product. I said three times that I had checked out that product online and that the reviews of it hadn't convinced me. At one stage I was forced to give statistics - 50% of clients on a particular travel site hated it, I explained, which is why I don't really want it. And it's linked to the same system as my current credit card, I also pointed out, which means that if one's down, I won't have access to the other - and I was asking about an alternative.
I nearly said that the leaflet the young man kept thrusting into my hands was, nevertheless, very pretty, but I refrained.
"But I've never had a problem" the young woman cooed (yes, her tones were dovelike and lo, even dulcet).
"It says it's for travel," the young man helpfully hinted and proceeded to inform me that if I use my credit card at home (including online) it costs me the amounts I knew, but that if I use it overseas (likewise including online) there's a three per cent surcharge for each and every transaction. My response to that was to suggest that this meant I probably needed a different credit card and maybe I should try St George.
He found another possible way for me to get at my money overseas at this point (my bank has a London branch with no surcharge for withdrawal from my normal bank account, I finally found out) and I washed my hands of the whole help desk.
I'm going to ring up and see if the central bods are better informed about their own products. Or care more about service and less about selling a particular line. At least they can't thrust leaflets into my hand. Although I guess they could still ignore the real questions. If there really is a 3% surcharge on every single transaction on my credit card once I leave Australia, I definitely need to change banks. At this stage, however, I'm not convinced the young man actually knew what time of day it was - he was eyeing off the dulcet-toned one rather than paying attention to me. I don't know if this was because she was pretty or because she was his supervisor.
My remaining forays into various things can wait until later in the week, when I have more fortitude. I do hope my UK friends each chocolate. If not, then I shall thrust large quantities on ADM at Leeds, and on Ian at Leeds. That will redeem this afternoon, at least.
*Not a birthday present. It was probably proper that I spend it on friends. Proper, but frustrating. What I really wanted were the Russian Paddington chocolates, but I couldn't find them and the young man serving me was so certain I needed milk chocolate...
ETA: The phone banking person was lovely and has solved all my problems. I know exactly what charges go with what uses and have a reverse charge phone number should things go wrong. Basically, Camille and Barbara, I'm doing what you suggested, but with the added security of that reverse charge phone number for issues.
gillpolack @ 2011-05-24T12:55:00
Today is yesterday, except that the messages I was going to do yesterday appear to have grown signficantly in number. Just as well no-one wanted to meet for coffee, because I no longer have time! I have a long list of things to be crossed off and completed.
My missing objects are no longer missing. I spent two hours yesterday tidying and sorting in order to locate them. They were where I had left them, weeks and weeks ago. I still don't know why I couldn't see them, there, on the shelf, right in front of me, at eye level.
Anyhow, the direct result of the detour is that I now have a bag ready to go to Vinnie's and floor is actually visible in my library and I have located four pens and some postcards containing my sister's recipe for potato latkes (the one without onion). I don't know what to do with the latter. They may just go into the recycling, given they're old and I have already put a couple aside for memory's sake. Or I can use them in class tomorrow, as a prompt.
I know this is a week for small matters to be got out of the way, just as the week before last was the one when I caught up with a whack of work, but I miss sitting down and hammering through substantive stuff. I really do. Everything feels rather inconclusive, even when it isn't. I've signed a contract to teach punctuation and etc in Sydney in late August, for instance, and I'm over 2/3 of the way through my reading for the masterclass. Neither of these things is inconclusive or even insubstantial, but they feel ephemeral.
Tomorrow is all about teaching. This means that from Thursday I can start back in on substantive stuff. That's the aim. And, if I'm very, very good and get through all my messages, I'm allowed to sort some of the notes for Thursday tonight.
My missing objects are no longer missing. I spent two hours yesterday tidying and sorting in order to locate them. They were where I had left them, weeks and weeks ago. I still don't know why I couldn't see them, there, on the shelf, right in front of me, at eye level.
Anyhow, the direct result of the detour is that I now have a bag ready to go to Vinnie's and floor is actually visible in my library and I have located four pens and some postcards containing my sister's recipe for potato latkes (the one without onion). I don't know what to do with the latter. They may just go into the recycling, given they're old and I have already put a couple aside for memory's sake. Or I can use them in class tomorrow, as a prompt.
I know this is a week for small matters to be got out of the way, just as the week before last was the one when I caught up with a whack of work, but I miss sitting down and hammering through substantive stuff. I really do. Everything feels rather inconclusive, even when it isn't. I've signed a contract to teach punctuation and etc in Sydney in late August, for instance, and I'm over 2/3 of the way through my reading for the masterclass. Neither of these things is inconclusive or even insubstantial, but they feel ephemeral.
Tomorrow is all about teaching. This means that from Thursday I can start back in on substantive stuff. That's the aim. And, if I'm very, very good and get through all my messages, I'm allowed to sort some of the notes for Thursday tonight.
May 23, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-05-23T15:52:00
I keep treading on my own feet, metaphorically. I read things differently to other people, it seems and remember different elements. Or maybe my mind is like a sieve. Either way, when people discuss books, I don't seem to recall the elements they're referring to, while quite different scenes and moments stick in my mind with strange clarity. This happens often and doesn't worry me much.
What worries me is when people occasionally assume from this that I either don't read at all or that I don't think about what I read. It seems that more and more people are blogging every book they read and placing their views of those books firmly on record and that some of these people are judging my reading by their own blogging habits.
My views change even from one moment to the next and all I can do is occasional essays on a few of the books I read, just from one simple angle. My brain is not big enough to encompass carving a single interpretation of any book into stone and letting it stand as a monument to thought, forever, and my essays are even smaller.
I'm not sure that I have a single firm and indelible opinion of books that were originally carved into stone, to be honest, much less those on transient parchment or flimsy paper. Right now I'm reading William Gibson. Thirty pages ago I was thinking of Scott Westerfeld's riff on similar themes, and also Connie Willis' (wherever I go this year, Connie Willis' books follow me - it's quite worrying, really - yesterday it was To Say Nothing of the Dog, and today it is Bellwether - if any of you know her, would you mind suggesting to her that she housetrain her books a bit more so that they stop following complete strangers, that would be a great help, thank you). Right now I'm thinking of how we bring male and female characters together in fiction and how our view of whichever is the more important is often expressed more clearly by encounters with people who demonstrate the potential for sexual tension (how a character handles that potential says so much about the character, in so very few words). In thirty pages time I will be contemplating something entirely different.
What I really want to do today is write my own novel. My characters are still getting up to mischief without me. Today is a high pain day, however, and so I'm rearranging everything so that I get the most lifestuff done with the least hurt. Messages will happen tomorrow (and anyone who wants to meet for a cuppa in Woden only has to say).
I haven't had this much pain in a fair while, so I'm not worried by it. It's rather magic to be able to look back and think "All days were like this, not so long ago. All I have to do is wait and do all my exercise and take all my medicine and then I won't get these days again. They're fading." It will be even more magic when they're gone from my life completely. This may, however, take a while. In the meantime, I have painkillers on my shopping list for tomorrow (since I'm almost out) and I am working my way steadily through the chocolate that wise friends gave me for my birthday. Every single one of my birthday presents is demonstrating that all my friends are wise, in different ways.
My cup of coffee is sadly empty, so it's time to return to Gibson. One day I need to learn how other people read books, so that I can understand them from more normal directions. Today is not that day. (Also, if I put books on a leash, will they at least behave with public decorum when they follow me around?)
What worries me is when people occasionally assume from this that I either don't read at all or that I don't think about what I read. It seems that more and more people are blogging every book they read and placing their views of those books firmly on record and that some of these people are judging my reading by their own blogging habits.
My views change even from one moment to the next and all I can do is occasional essays on a few of the books I read, just from one simple angle. My brain is not big enough to encompass carving a single interpretation of any book into stone and letting it stand as a monument to thought, forever, and my essays are even smaller.
I'm not sure that I have a single firm and indelible opinion of books that were originally carved into stone, to be honest, much less those on transient parchment or flimsy paper. Right now I'm reading William Gibson. Thirty pages ago I was thinking of Scott Westerfeld's riff on similar themes, and also Connie Willis' (wherever I go this year, Connie Willis' books follow me - it's quite worrying, really - yesterday it was To Say Nothing of the Dog, and today it is Bellwether - if any of you know her, would you mind suggesting to her that she housetrain her books a bit more so that they stop following complete strangers, that would be a great help, thank you). Right now I'm thinking of how we bring male and female characters together in fiction and how our view of whichever is the more important is often expressed more clearly by encounters with people who demonstrate the potential for sexual tension (how a character handles that potential says so much about the character, in so very few words). In thirty pages time I will be contemplating something entirely different.
What I really want to do today is write my own novel. My characters are still getting up to mischief without me. Today is a high pain day, however, and so I'm rearranging everything so that I get the most lifestuff done with the least hurt. Messages will happen tomorrow (and anyone who wants to meet for a cuppa in Woden only has to say).
I haven't had this much pain in a fair while, so I'm not worried by it. It's rather magic to be able to look back and think "All days were like this, not so long ago. All I have to do is wait and do all my exercise and take all my medicine and then I won't get these days again. They're fading." It will be even more magic when they're gone from my life completely. This may, however, take a while. In the meantime, I have painkillers on my shopping list for tomorrow (since I'm almost out) and I am working my way steadily through the chocolate that wise friends gave me for my birthday. Every single one of my birthday presents is demonstrating that all my friends are wise, in different ways.
My cup of coffee is sadly empty, so it's time to return to Gibson. One day I need to learn how other people read books, so that I can understand them from more normal directions. Today is not that day. (Also, if I put books on a leash, will they at least behave with public decorum when they follow me around?)
