On Being Loud and Female

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I am not a quiet person. Not at all. Ask my mother.

And, for a woman in Northern Ireland, that is very unusual. It would appear that women in this country are taught how to be quiet. It is so bad that half the time I can’t even hear what my female co-workers are saying to me across our open plan office. I have to get up and walk over to them. They practically whisper.

Even the women I know who are partners in Accounting offices and Law firms in this county are quiet.

I really don’t get it. Is that the ultimate in womanhood? To speak so quietly no one can hear you?

If that’s the case, I’ll never fit in totally around here.

I am just not a quiet person.

How’d It Happen?

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Along with wondering Who Decided? I often wonder, How’d It Happen?  How did the myriad of immigrants accents become the broad twang of the New York accent?  How’d it happen that the French speak French and the Germans speak German if, theoretically, all of mankind evolved from one place and one species?

How did those same immigrants who moved to the southern part of the United States start speaking in their accents?  Boston?  Yorkshire?  Northern Ireland?

How do accents evolve? How do they start?  Do they change over time?

And how are accents learned?  I speak with an American accent, Simon with a Northern Irish/English/Scottish one.  What kind of accent will our kids have?  Combination?  Northern Irish as that is what they will hear most often?  But we’ll be the ones teaching them to talk.

I can’t even tell you how Simon achieved his accent.  His parents are both Scottish, his father speaks with a definite burr, his mother sounds more English to me.  But one thing I have learned in my time here is that I have a hard time differentiating between the United Kingdom accents.  Someone will call at work for the CEO and not leave their name and I’ll tell him and he’ll ask me what kind of accent they had.  I can never tell him, unless it is *not* UK.

So…How’d it Happen?

If No One Complains, Nothing Will Change

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So we are waiting for a part to come in for our boiler. We were told it would be in in a week about a week ago. No part, no call from the boiler man. Our boiler works, but keeps overheating, which is a pain in the ass.

When I mentioned to Simon how annoyed I was that we hadn’t even gotten a call with an update he said, “Well, British repair men.”

Nope, sorry, not a good excuse. There is *no* excuse for poor customer service, ever. And until people start complaining about things like that, nothing will change, ever.

There are sparks of good service in the UK. We have ordered a new shelf for our ‘fridge as one of them was broken. I ordered it online and have received two emails now with updates as to what the delay is. I am not angry about the delay because I was told there would be a delay.

There used to be a TV advert for some airline, I don’t remember which, with a bunch of people waiting in a meeting room. They are getting more and more restless as the clock goes 20, then 30 minutes past when the meeting was apparently scheduled to start with no one starting it. Then a man comes in and says “And now you know how our customers feel when a plane is delayed with no explanation. Let’s get to work.”

That’s all people really want. An explanation. Some idea of what the problem is and about when it will be resolved. Whether its a missing boiler part or building a whole building that is behind schedule.

And until people start to ask for answers, none will be forthcoming.

And that’s the key to the customer service problems in the UK, and Belfast in particular. No one wants to complain. So nothing changes.

More About the New Flat

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The kitchen is big enough that Simon can stick the kettle on and make a coffee and I can make toast and pour juice at the same time.

The bedroom is big enough that even though I was running a bit late this morning, we did not get each other’s way while he got ready for his shower and I finished getting dressed.

The lounge is big enough that we both have plenty of room for our toys  (get your minds out the gutter, I mean our action figures).

The big sofa is big enough for Simon to lie full out.  All 6’2″ of him.

The bathtub is long enough and deep enough to cover me to my chin.

We are very happy here.

More About Me – Part 3

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Since I’ve just gotten back to work after being ill for a few days, I thought I’d talk about my job some.

My official title is Personal Assistant to the Senior Management Team (which is much neater than it used to be. It used to be Personal Assistant to the CEO and Two Other Executives. No joke, that was my title. Now you know why I don’t have business cards). But what does that mean, day to day?

It means I run the office. I type letters, take minutes, write Board papers, write minutes, ‘tart up’ (NISP definition, to tart up, verb, to fix a document so that it is in Science Park format and won’t make your eyes bleed. There is a severe lack of the ability to put full stops at the ends of sentences around my office!) papers, keep track of diaries, book travel, order supplies, make coffee, drink coffee, file, staple, collate, bind, post things, open post, book doctors appointments for the CEO, book appointments of all sorts for the other two Execs…basically anything that has to do with the smooth running of NISP, I do.

My day basically starts with email (as, I think, does most people’s these days). In my email will be instructions for the day. Drafts of letters, notes of meetings to be booked.  Then I check the Exec’s diaries for their appointments during the day, to see if they need taxis booked.  Then I get to work.  Of course nothing ever goes as planned and I am interrupted all day long by people needing things.  Asking questions.  Etc etc etc.

Oh, and I’m also the web mistress.

International Association of Buffy Fans

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Some of you might have noticed the comment in yesterday’s entry by my friend Asta (sorry, hon, I have no idea how to get the accent over the first a!). If you clicked on her name, it will take you to her blog. Which you will only be able to read if you can read Icelandic (at least I assume that’s what she writes in!). That’s because Asta is from Iceland.

How do I know someone from Iceland? Same way I know my husband and quite a few of my internet friends. We met on The Buffy Cross and Stake posting boards, ‘lo these many years ago.

Once the show was over, most of us moved over to Live Journal and continued our friendships. As such I have friends from all over the world. Iceland, Germany, South Africa, United States, Canada, United Kingdom and probably other places I can’t recall at the moment.

And that, to me, is the true value of the internet. It brings people together who never would have met otherwise, in a way that has never happened before in the history of humankind. To be trite, the world is getting smaller and smaller every day. And I love it that way.

It isn’t only that I never would have met Simon without the internet, I never would have met a lot of people who are my closest friends. All of The Hussies, for one thing. Most of the people on my friend’s list on LJ, for another.

And, yes, I have met quite a few of them in person. They are my ‘true’ friends. Whether I have met them in person or not.

Maybe I can’t ring most of them up and say ‘meet me at our local’. Maybe there are some that I will *never* meet in person. Doesn’t matter. They are my friends.

And I love them all.

Feeling Much Better

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Penicillin is a great invention.

Simon and I went out to dinner last night.  Which brings me to another thing that makes me insane about Belfast.  Lack of waiter interest.

Take your order? Sure no problem.  Bring you food? Sure no problem.  Come back and see if you need anything? Not gonna happen.

Apparently this is a UK, possibly Europe, thing.  Dump the food and leave the people alone.  Great, but what if I want another drink?  Or a new fork?  Or if there is something wrong with my meal?  Yes, I can flag a waiter down, but that doesn’t work very well in Belfast either.  It seems that you get your food and then *poof* you’re invisible.

Then it takes them ages to clear the dirty dishes and bring a pudding menu.  Then you get your pudding and BAM the bill is on your table.

So the whole experience is wait…wait…wait…BYE NOW!

Doesn’t matter what restaurant we go to, this is how it is.  I hate it. But sometimes I hate cooking and washing up more.

Just a Quick Post Today

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As I have a urinary tract infection, feel like crap and am home from work.

Happy Valentine’s day, or, as many of my friends prefer to call it, Half Price Chocolate Eve.

Simon and I exchanged cards and are going out for dinner tomorrow night.

And now I am going to go take an amoxocillian (yayayayaya for doctors!) and crawl into bed.

More About Me, Part 2

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My family is huge.  Thanks to divorce and re-marriage I have: –

1 biological brother, who is married and has two daughters.

3 step brothers, all of whom are married and between them have 5 children.

2 step sisters, both of whom are married and between them have 4 children.

A step, step niece who has a baby of her own, which makes me a step step Great Aunt.  (a step step is when one of your step siblings has a step child, in case you were wondering).

A dad and step mom.

A mom and step dad.

A mother in law and father in law

A sister in law who is engaged and getting married in September in Tuscany.  Can’t wait!

A husband.

Many many cousins, cousins in law, second cousins, third cousins and who the heck knows cousins.

We live all over the US, including Alaska (but not Hawaii) and in Northern Ireland, England and East Timor.

As my brother says, we are a nuclear family that exploded.  All over the world.

So, What Do I Think is Better in the UK?

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So yesterday I wrote about what I find or found it hard to deal with when I moved here. So what do I think is better?

The beer. Hands down. I go to the States and drink what is considered beer there and I practically gag on it, its so watery and nasty. This is why I am still in shock that you can actually buy, and people drink, Budweiser and Miller here. Just, why???

The people. They are warm and welcoming. Shop assistants call you ‘love’. Seem to really mean it when they tell you to have a nice day.

Some of the food. As mentioned before, the national dish is an Ulster Fry, or just a Fry. Eggs, bacon, sausage, bread, tomatoes, mushrooms, black/white pudding. Heart attack on a plate. And delish. I also really like the savory pie concept, that you don’t really get in the States. Shepherd’s Pie (which is made with lamb. To quote James Martin “What Shepherd herds cows???”), Cottage Pie, Steak Pie, etc. All served up with mashed potatoes (yes, even the ones with mash on top of them. What can I say? Its Ireland!) and a veg. Little HP on top…YUM!

Which brings me to potatoes. And a conversation my mother had with my friend Andrea at my wedding, which I think pretty much sums up Ireland food philsophy.

Mum: I knew I was in Ireland when there were two kinds of potatoes on the plate.

Andrea: Yup. And, actually, some nice potatoes and a really good gravy and we all would have been happy!

For the record, we served roast beef, champ, roast potatoes and veg at our wedding. What’s that? What’s champ? This is champ. LOVE IT!