Jun. 29th, 2004

thessalian: (Who's Who)
Our cat. Jumped out. The window.

No, I mean really. We're three stories up. We're pulling into a parking space in the car park behind the block of flats (and the Budgens) and there's a very familiar overcute grey furball sitting at the top of the space. Our moron of a kitten got out the window and managed not to hurt herself. Fine, it's only one story down to a flat roof, from there onto a glass overhang and from there only a couple of feet to a high wall, so she could have taken it in stages but...

OUR CAT JUMPED OUT THE GODDAMN WINDOW!

We the proud pet owners are a little confused. Between the escapology, the yowling, the 'territory marking' and the complete inability to deal with being in the house for more than three seconds running, Yuki's acting for all the world like she's on heat. But that can't be right because ... well, neutered. Well, we assume neutered. We did take her to the vet to get neutered, and she came back with stitches and everything. We're starting to wonder whether the vet made a mistake ... or screwed us over. In the meantime, we're taking countermeasures. The windows in rooms she has access to are remaining closed. We'll have to take her for walks or something but sweet Jesus, the whole point of owning a cat is not having to deal with this kind of maintenance. I feel like a very bad pet owner. I know the flat is small, but I've had cats in flats that size before. They never got like this. It all just bites.

Finally managed to get to sleep at 1:30 in the morning. Am now monumentally tired. Game was worth it, though. Big amusements of the event were:

Simson's character: Sir Oswald is a Knight of Elaine. Sidhe-blooded, obviously has some glamour ... and is deeply, deeply stupid. Quintessential hero, he will go to the rescue of a damsel in distress despite the fact that people are pointing guns at him and will shoot him if he moves -- good thing he has the glamour, because in today's case it meant that he could get away with it. (Of course, not very useful when he's with another person who will also get shot if he moves, but the glamour thankfully distracted them enough so that I could pull guns of my own when they'd fired theirs empty.) Other bizarre thing about Sir Oswald is that he refuses to accept that my character's a Jenny. It came up in conversation a couple of times and when I finally owned up to it (it's kind of nice, being referred to as Lady Alison), the following conversation took place:

Oswald: Oh, that's a little harsh, Lady Alison. I mean, a free-spirited lady, you may have gone a bit astray...
Alison: Actually, fully-paid-up member of the Guild.
Oswald: Ah, so you're a patron. I'm sure it's a laudable investment...

I gave up. This guy's not going to believe I'm anything but a Lady until he actually sees me shag some guy for money.

Toos' character: Pietro. Oh, Pietro got it in the neck. We were talking about the best way to cause a distraction and get the people barricaded in the house we were keeping watch on out in the open, and the idea of setting light to it and driving the people out came up. There was some resistance to this idea because people might get caught inside -- we didn't care if the guys we were after burned but you know, servants and things. Pietro basically said, "Who cares? They're only peasants." In earshot of our Ussuran peasant who already doesn't like him. Said peasant hit him -- laid him out, broke his nose. My character hadn't heard this so did the solicitous 'girlfriend' bit until she asked him (when he finally came to) why Pyotyr had hit him. He told her the truth. She's also not exactly nobility and took it very much amiss; kicked him in the nuts. Eventually, her extreme rancour made him apologise. Just for the spectators who haven't been playing this for months -- this is an event. Pietro Villanova does not apologise. He sure as hell doesn't instigate apologies; he'll grumble if he's forced to apologise but he does have to be forced. For the word 'sorry' to come out of his mouth without someone directly ordering him to say it is ... miraculous.

Additionally, he admitted he was jealous of the eye-making between Alison and Sir Oswald. Apparently, if you get him drunk enough he will use the L-word. Again, something you do not get Pietro Villanova doing. Nice for Alison; not so nice for Pietro, mostly because his Strega wife, Strega daughter and Strega former flame are guests at this dinner party thing we're all having to go to. Don't know so much about the former flame (Fiora might at least pretend not to be bothered because she does profess to hate Pietro with an almighty passion) but the wife is going to take one look at the Cups strand between her husband and this Jenny and... Well, actually, this might not be so nice for Alison either.

Mark's character: "Banana fish upstairs." I think that's all I need to say.

Suddenly occurs to me. I'm going to have to redo this Who's Who icon. The 'Markswoman' is now a Knight, [livejournal.com profile] cholten99 seems set to retire his 'Sorceress' for a soldier, the 'Priest' is now ... well, decidely not and the 'Swordswoman' may also be retiring at the end of this Vodacce nightmare in favour of yet another Avalonian man. Oh well, it'll serve for now -- it's about half-right anyway.
thessalian: (exasperated)
Ever since the new office manager showed up, things have been going rapidly fucked. Dr Slater (one of my three consultants) and Dr Gallagher (her singular consultant) seem to have this thing going where Dr Gallagher receives pancreatic, oesophageal or general GI cancer patients and refers them to Dr Slevin's clinic, as Dr Slevin and his happy band of party pals are the experts. This loses me control over the clinics so I never have any idea who's going where when. Not even when Friday afternoon rolls around and she drops sets of notes on my desk saying, "These need to go to clinic". What the bloody fuck? Those things are supposed to be assembled and brought through to clinic on Wednesday afternoons! If she sat down and discussed procedure with me for three seconds, she'd know that. But no; I tried to tell her routine so she'd know to ask for notes earlier, and her reaction was, nearly in so many words, "Well, I don't care; this is how it's being done". So I'm putting together the notes, letters and general patient bumf twice a week instead of the general once, and hauling notes and film packets to clinic with Dr Slevin's Dictaphone. Worse, I'm forced to leave the notes at the front desk and hope they get to the consultant or registrar who needs them because, since I didn't book the fucking appointment (or indeed even know about it until Friday afternoon), I have no damn clue who the patient's seeing.

This came back to bite me in the arse this morning, when the office manager secretary bitch (OMSB) turned up to me and said, "Do you have [patient]'s notes?" I remembered this patient -- this was the one whose King George notes she dumped on me Friday. Unfortunately, only the Barts ones had come back from clinic, and I told her so. Cue huff: "So where are the King George notes? I need those notes!" I told her I didn't know where they were and managed not to say, "Well, if you've got such a wild hair up your butt about those notes, maybe you should be keeping better track of them, finding them your own damn self and stop wasting my time".

Since I was in the middle of typing a letter for that patient, I at least knew what consultant the patient had seen, so I asked her if she'd seen them. She said the notes had never got to her, so I rang the clinic front desk. They said those notes had never come up and weren't there. Suspicious (after all, I dropped them on the desk yesterday morning and they're bright fucking orange), I went out to the clinic. Guess what I saw as soon as I walked in the door? Bright fucking orange and three feet from the phone, and the ijits who man the clinic desk still couldn't see them.

Triumphant, I bring the notes back to the office and put them on the OMSB's desk. She gives me this patronising little smirk -- but at least she said thank you, no matter how smarmy it was. I swear, this woman's got it in for me. I don't know what her problem is -- my clothes, my youth, my nationality, the fact that I could do her job in my sleep and everybody knows it -- but it seems like she really likes rubbing it in that she can order me around. One of these days I really am going to have to tell her that I haven't got time or inclination to do her file-monkeying and if she doesn't like it, she is cordially invited to talk to the hand that is currently balled up into a fist and travelling towards her nose at high speed.

And then dear Dr Slater comes in to talk to me, puts one hand on the buttons of the transcription machine as she leans across the desk and manages to screw up her whole tape. It's farce.

Ask...

Jun. 29th, 2004 06:20 pm
thessalian: (content)
Anyone remember this entry?

Well, came home, wandered into the study for cola and a comfy T-shirt (probably the Iced Earth one), and found that very WANTS IT shirt lying on my chair.

My boyfriend just utterly and completely rocks.

And no, you can't have him.

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