Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

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  • The Flip Side of Procrastination

    My desk is tidier than it has been for months.

    I have a test on Wednesday. This test is on the business analysis section of my course that I signed up for in a bid for self-improvement. At the moment I am heading towards a borderline fail/pass, depending, so I am attempting to learn all six parts of the Business Analysis Service Framework.

    I should have taken this test several weeks ago when the knowledge was fresh, but I didn’t. I am now attempting to regain lost knowledge and learn what each and every acronym means. This has led to Best Beloved reading out the chapter on strategy while we ploughed up the M40 yesterday (with a brief hiatus when the heavens opened and traffic slowed right down to 30mph, because no one could see where they were going and the M40 is not the straight slab that both the M4 and M1 are).

    I digress. Focus is not my strong suit on a Monday morning.

    So I got as far as sticking annotated mini post-it notes on Chapters 1-3 and rehearsing over and over again the Business Capability Model, the Business Model Canvas, the Business Analysis Service Framework and the Boston Box (whose axes make absolutely no sense whatsoever, at least one is backwards). I can now describe VMOST, the development of a Business Case (it starts with Alignment and then its something beginning with ‘D’) and have achieved the seemingly Herculean task of remembering Porter’s Five Powers.

    Yes, there is an industry with almost as many acronyms as Education. Loyal FB readers may have heard me rant about acronyms and mnemonics previously. But here I go again.

    An mnemonic should only flow out of a set of tasks/procedures/instructions naturally. It should not be shoe-horned into anything. It makes it ridiculous and irrelevant and too many of them make them too difficult to remember.

    They do however give business people a useful game to play in boring meetings; many years ago – I am told – key players in the numerous associations surrounding the energy and insulation industries were sitting around a table trying not to fall asleep while the latest government initiative was outlined in detail. One individual (who shall remain nameless because I can’t remember it) put all 13 acronyms into one sentence, which he randomly interrupted the meeting to deliver. The table creased up. They broke for lunch.

    My next post is likely to be rant about the different use of the word ‘environment’ in said mnemonics. One is the natural world, climate etc and the other is…. I forget what. For crying out LOUD!

  • Compare and Contrast

    The city of Oxford in term time with the city of Oxford in the Summer.

    Do you prefer being mown down by student cyclists and failing to find a seat in any coffee shop because someone is writing a 2000 word essay on their laptop so is ensconced for the duration.

    Or streets teaming with tourists and groups of foreign teenagers half of whom are paying more attention to their phones than the dreaming spires.

    St Andrew was a bit like this. It morphed into a quaint seaside town over the Summer from its term time manifestation of cold, damp hallowed halls of learning and noisy, boozy pubs.

    I am all for any university filling its coffers courtesy of ambitious parents paying a lot of money for Summer school filled with students from around the globe. These young people will absorb something of the beauty that surrounds them and remember it fondly decades later. They might even learn something new.

    However the induction session should include guidance on how not to block an entire street with your large waiting around for the next instruction groups (when you proceed to not listen to said instruction when it’s given), how to queue properly (when in Rome ) and a specific direction to speak your native tongue to any and every Brit you come across with the specific purpose of showing them how irritating it is when visitors to you land do not even bother with basic courtesies I the local lingo (learning is a two way process ).

  • Perplexed of Little Chufford

    Why have mullets returned? Why are the youth of today sporting these filial atrocities? They didn’t look good in the early 80s and they don’t look good now.

    One’s negative opinion has not been enhanced by one’s Best Beloved’s oft repeated anecdote that his father shaved him.l a mullet when his primary school was suffering a six legged plague.

    Furthermore , which doyenne of female hairstyling said the current trend of choppy random waves would ever look smart. It doesn’t. It simply looks like you slept on moderately damp hair and/or didn’t bother to use a hairbrush today.

    Why fashionistas and style gurus promote certain fashions is completely beyond me. The – thank God short lived – trend for smart trousers with a short and utterly pointless split up the front is a case in point. I was very disappointed to see Julia Roberts sporting a pair in some movie a year or so ago. One expects better from one’s cinematic heroines.

    I think a you can tell whether anyone is truly comfortable in whatever they are wearing by the confidence with which they comport themselves and whether they are fidgeting with their outfit (specifically for women, with neck and/or hemline and trouser length for men.

    Wisdom delivered. Off to find an ice cream

  • A Pleasant Encounter

    Packed up and departed holiday park with 10 mins to spare. Hurrah!

    Now creeping along the motorway between The Hague and Rotterdam so 10 minute cushion is evaporating. Arghhhhh!

    Luckily we have another cushion built into our arrival time at Dunkirk. Of course, by smugly declaring that we have a cushion we are asking for trouble. So forget I said that.

    Successful trip with only one complaint from holiday park residents- and that may not have been a complaint. The site manager appeared on Thursday evening asking us if everything was alright. He had received a call saying that a fight of some sort had broken out and there was lots of shouting.

    Fortunately he clocked the culprit who was wandering around our little garden squawking. The internet- for which read Disney+ – had gone down so His Nibs was struggling to regulate himself. The manager – I would like to think – realised that the “concerned” resident was possibly a busy body. He told us not to worry with a genuine smile and pottered off.

    Ooooh we are off again! Whatever it was, was cleared and we are making progress.

    The above incident was refreshing. On the whole most people respond positively when met with the antics of one’s middle child. And we do our best to keep a lid on the worst of it. But there is always someone…

    Take the woman behind me on a flight to Boston about 15 years ago. His Nibs had kept up his usual racket for the duration of the flight, unimpressed with the movie and utterly overexcited by the act of flying in a large plane.

    The lady in question asked me in a rather testy manner whether I was aware that he had been making noise for the whole flight. Given that I had been sitting right next to him and shushing him at regular intervals, I felt it was patently obvious that I was, so I gave her my mother’s best drop dead stare and went back to packing up my table.

    This reminds me of another American lady bitching about a toddler screaming in the airport lounge at Heathrow, just loud enough to penetrate the racket and reach the ears of the mother who was clearly exhausted. I wonder whether people really do think you are letting the racket happen for the fun of it or that being made to feel worse or more embarrassed than you already do is helpful or just plain mean.

    Ooops we’ve stopped again. Best Beloved suspects bridge ahead has been lifted.

    Anyway, I am already plotting our next Summer sojourn in Holland as it suits His Nibs and us. Car boat, bikes and lots of water to splash about in. What is not to like?

    Off again! Dunkirk and the ferry, here we come!

  • And the rain, rain, rain…

    Came down, down, down in rushing, rising rivlets.

    About 10 days too late to rescue some of my pots, which I had been carefully nursing back to life.

    I am waiting for the soothing effect of a change in the weather to permeate through the house so the task I have set myself is not an exercise in sweat.

    I have a large collection of puzzles which – I have finally decided after years of spousal grumbling – needs a purge.

    Of course my idea of a purge is not what his idea of a purge is. I have my favourites and I am going to keep them. I have a lot of favourites. Some have sentimental value, some are beautiful, some are tricky and yet to be conquered to my satisfaction. So I am keeping them.

    Anyway, when I bought my enormous collection of ‘stuff’ back home from my last school, I had to make room for it. Purchase of rather nice filing cabinet for a tenner off Market Place did for my worksheets, but it ousted my puzzle cupboard, which I decided to dismantle.

    Well, chests of drawers full of puzzles simply will not do. They are awkward and the boxes get stuck. So, while Best Beloved is glued to radio listening to the Lions trounce Australia (please let me not have spoken too soon) I am going to reconstruct my puzzle cabinet where it will sit on the landing. If I put all three shelves back into action it should reduce the temptation to stash the detritus of family life on top as it is a little high for random placement of dirty cups and pillow cases.

    Then I shall take the remainder down to the charity shop in the hope that the pennies they earn will benefit someone.

    See, am thoroughly organised and disciplined saint.

  • Pegging Out

    The washing, that is. Rather a lot of it. Taking advantage of the last of the heat wave you have been experiencing in Blighty.

    My youngest, hitherto known as WhizzKid, deep cleaned the kitchen before we got home. It was indeed extremely tidy and clean when we got back.

    I know that the clean was deep because I picked up her phone in error (it looks like mine but is a tiny bit bigger) and read her “FFS” rant to her sister – to be known here as MiniMe – that we had barely been in the house five minutes before it was “trashed” (for which read, I put my car keys and the small Tesco shop for tea on the counter and wheeled through the suitcase full of dirty clothes, carefully packed for just such a purpose).

    I find this amusing. Welcome to my world, my love. It has been and continues to be one of the Sisyphean routine of endless housework which just seems to invite more housework. Washing, cooking, cleaning, washing, cooking, cleaning, washing, cooking, cleaning.

    A friend who went into teaching a year or two before me observed that all teachers need a housewife. If you have children, you have no time to yourself and not enough money to live off ready meals. I know plenty of teachers who are not hitched to someone prepared to share the housework and are run ragged.

    In recent years I have been blessed with a husband who did a lot of this during term time, while I kept up with planning and marking, planning and marking, planning and marking. This arrangement was by mutual agreement as Best Beloved recognised that I had done it for 25+ years and wanted to develop my career.

    It became problematic when I ceased to enjoy my job, my health failed and despondency and despair set in. At various points this year I have been unable to drain a pan of potatoes or wield a knife to chop carrots. I frequently struggle to get to my feet, such is that state of my knees. This very quickly degenerates into a downward spiral and niggling resentments.

    I felt I was not doing my “job” has a wife and a mother. My children occasionally pointed out that I behaved like Queen Victoria when perched on the sofa asking to be brought an orange after supper. Dad – I felt – was becoming the hero for cooking supper and doing the washing, while I “did nothing”.

    In hospitals they call the inactivity of some patients as “institutionalisation” hence the sometimes overly robust encouragement to get back on your feet. I can see why it happens. You lose confidence first and then inclination. And it is not good for you, physically and mentally. When you like to spend a Saturday afternoon purging the garage or the under-stairs cupboard to give you a sense of achievement at a fully complete task (which does not exist in teaching) inflammation and chronic pain chip away at your psyche.

    Anyway, now that I am on the mend – unemployed for the time being, but happier – my energy is creeping back. My children and husband understand my limitations and support me with unscrewing bottle tops and draining the veg. The youngest even helped me purge the garage of rubbish (but not spiders). His Nibs enjoys periodic trips to the dump. We are finding new ways to exist.

    I am still inclined to mutter, “If you really want to know what ‘do nothing’ looks like, I can show you what ‘do nothing’ really looks like.” as I mentally log the detritus I pick up as a potter around the house, the cupboards and boxes I routinely sort and purge, the forms I fill in, the packing I complete for however many people are going away with us, the Sunday roasts… Then I knock back the painkillers and set about purging an upstairs cupboard of clothes and shoes that have not seen the light of day in years.

  • Appointments for the Appointee

    I am all for due diligence when it comes to checking up on those who are claiming benefits. And I am all for timely reviews of benefits so they remain fit for purpose. This is how the system is kept in check, theoretically.

    His Nibs is migrating from ESA to Universal Credit. His Nibs is not able to work and will never be able to work. At the age of 28 he has a learning age of a pre-school child and has to have two to one support in public. His is not a borderline case. He has a mental disability. He can make modest progress, but he cannot be cured.

    What completely flummoxes me – and has driven me to tears in recent weeks – is the ridiculousness of the system.

    I am my son’s appointee. I have been his appointee since he turned 16 and the very nice man in the horn rimmed specs came to check that His Nibs could not manage his finances himself. It was at a difficult time (shortly before we had to send him away to a residential college due to his behaviour) so I was a tad testy when this chap rang up and said he needed to come and see us.

    Why did the DWP need to do a face to face to gather evidence when His Nibs file was full and comprehensive, detailing everything he was unable to do in painful detail (and I mean painful, you have to lay your life bare with these things)? Didn’t they have it all? What was the point?

    Anyway, DWP gentleman turned up, we filled out the form and then he asked to meet His Nibs and see his bedroom (this is standard with Social Services et al as a welfare check). I called upstairs to warn His Nibs that we were coming up. His Nibs appeared, grunted at the gentleman and slid down the banister. “Point taken,” said the gentleman. “I shall leave you in peace.”

    Now, 12 years later and the DWP has got round to migrating those on ESA to Universal Credit (UC) using their natty new online service. Mindful of the rather imminent deadline, I created an account and did my best. I was informed that my identity needed to be verified. Fair enough. Something had clearly gone wrong with the passport upload or whatever. These things happen.

    Mindful that we were about to depart on holiday (previously detailed in these pages) I chased the verification several days later as I did not want a palaver if we missed the all important deadline. So I rang the UC helpline and went through a series of advisors who were unable to help.

    No they could not discuss His Nibs case with me because I had not been verified as his appointee. “But you are writing to me as his appointee” I proffered. “You write to me the whole time about his benefits. You have done for 25 years.” Nope, they could not discuss it.

    All I wanted to know was whether I was going to hear from someone soon because we were about to go away. Nope, they could not, would not tell me. The clincher was when I asked, “Is this because you don’t know because you don’t have access to the information or that you cannot tell me what it says on the screen in front of you?”. The pause followed by a repeat of denial said it all.

    Anyway, I did not lose my temper. I left that to after I put the phone down whereupon I slammed my pen down, then my mouse, then my notebook. And then I cried. Admirable self restraint for which I patted myself on the back when I stopped sniveling.

    So, picture us having stopped at Maidstone services on the way to Dover, ready to jump back into the car to meet the boat. It is a good thing that I had factored in traffic delays as the DWP chose that moment to ring up and verify my identity. I was loath to miss this opportunity to sort it out so went through the questions posed by “John” which took a good 20 minutes by which time His Nibs was demanding “Come on! Time to go now!” at the top of his voice, getting increasingly cross.

    Now, this call was unexpected. Particularly as I picked up the invitation after the call had ended. As I was checking my emails regularly in anticipation of being off grid for a week, I know this for a fact.

    Fast forward to Tuesday morning this week. We were on our way down to the West Country for a family funeral. An email popped up to tell me that I had an in person appointment for the following morning. Said email arrived less then 24 hours in advance of said appointment. I spent the next hour trying to access my online UC account from my phone to rearrange.

    Some of this is petty frustration. Government IT systems are clunky in comparison to online retailers, because there is a limited to the whiz-bangs that can be accommodated within the budget. My brain tells me that procedures and protocols need to be followed. I am happy to adhere to safeguards and checks as necessary. You cannot expect to get money from the Government without providing evidence that you need it.

    But I do wonder how many appointments (phone or in person) are missed because you are not told about them in a timely manner. Does this not waste time and effort and delay processing of claimants further? For me it comes in the same bracket as the appointment to make an appointment with the NHS MSK referral service. And leads me to scream. Arghhhhhh!

    So, I am off to the Job Centre tomorrow morning, having dug out all the relevant paperwork. And this time, I will remember where I have filed said paperwork and not worry that I bunged it in the loft behind the Christmas decorations.

  • Creeping, Slowly, Towards Blighty

    Staring beadily at Dover Castle and its position relative to the ferry window strut, attempting to ascertain whether we are stationary or just moving extremely slowly.

    Given that The Channel is doing a fair impression of Piccadilly in the rush hour today, we may be experiencing the nautical equivalent of being stacked over London (with a splendid view of the White Cliffs rather than the Thames).

    Best Beloved has his nose pressed to the glass in manner of someone desperate to drive on the left and swear about the M25.

  • Pinching a Fag

    Nothing like a car ferry queue for rampant judgement or mindless staring at fellow passengers (if I am being charitable).

    I have sacrificed myself on the alter of others entertainment by attempting to change into my plimsoles only to see my right sock flutter off in the direction of Calais. In my bare feet I caught up with offending item and stamped on it with my big toe before it could make good its escape. Perhaps I shall have a new career with Border Force, catching migrants with a flick of a digit.

    So, you don’t need to be in school to suffer ritual humiliation in front of a bunch of teenagers. I trotted off to the terminal building and – remembering that there is another loo upstairs so no need to join lengthy queue by the front door – attempted to climb the rather shallow stairs. And tripped. Landed as close as you can to flat on your face as is possible on a staircase.

    I might of sworn. Nice German teenagers asked if I was okay. I hope they were German. I hope no one took a picture.

    Anyway we are now sitting behind white Skoda Fabia discussing the addition of an inver grave accent above the S. The newer version in the next aisle has no accent.

    Driver of white Fabia has spent a long time fastidiously cleaning his windscreen, my Best Beloved tells me. He was also observed pinching out his cigarette on the way to the terminal. Very Old School we agreed.

    I comment on this because I am reading Richard Harris Precipice where a minor character (soldier about to leave for France) pinches out his cigarette. I wonder how many people do that still.

    Anyway ones Best Beloved is slightly taller than me and appears to have seen a lorry move towards the ferry. Ooooo red lights and movement. Ta ta!

  • Packing a Punch

    Passport control with a boot check. How reassuring!

    Best Beloved leapt out to do the honours.

    So scanty was said boot check that the not particularly handsome young Frenchman in tres smart uniform barely took time to admire my packing.

    We are queuing behind a young biker who – on the third security stop – has got the hang of finding his passport and stopped taking his gloves on and off e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e t-i-m-e.

    Oooo a fourth stop after friendly Brit girl at third who asked for His Nibs window to be wound down so she could match him to his passport photo. This palaver was prolonged on acccount of window lock in place to stop His Nibs chucking random stuff at fellow road users. His Nibs now has a new friend.

    Prematurely bald French bloke in equally smart uniform also requested boot check and also failed to take the time to appreciate my packing.

    I take packing VERY seriously. As a veteran of expeditions where I packed ourselves, three not so small children, a vast quantity of camping equipment and a lot of wine into reasonably sized car, I can jam an awful lot of stuff into a very small space.

    I start by pre-sorting the dirty washing and folding it neatly, before placing it in my suitcase. I then stuff the gaps with knickers and socks. I add an additional layer to that which initially seems impossible to compress already, shut the lid and sit on it. Ta-da! Into the boot it goes.

    I then have a myriad of bags and totes that fit in like a jigsaw, carefully positioned for emergency accessibility. Coats and brollies top it off.

    I feel I may have bored you all with my packing on previous occasions so please take this as a timely reminder on how to fit in that extra case of Bordeaux Superior that you so richly deserve.