Category Archives: Politics

Shopping, Shopping, Shopping, Get Those Doggies Shopping…SPEND!

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Heh, I amuse myself.

Anyway, today Simon and I are going to brave the opening weekend crowds to go to Victoria Square the largest something or other with the most something or other spent in NI.

Half the shops aren’t even open yet, apparently, but will be by June. I mostly want to go to House of Fraser today. I lurve me some House of Fraser. I still think its a little pricey/high class for Belfast, but we’ll see! Donna Karan Tights, here I come!

See, Donna Karan does something no other designer does. They size their tights based on height and hip size. Most companies do it by height and weight. And I am short. And a bit plump (although not as plump as I used to be!). Petite of height, not of width. So having the hip size there, helps tremendously to find the right size! And I adore DKNY anyway, which House of Fraser carries.

Speaking of not being as plump as I used to be, one of my friends at work, Pauline, told me yesterday that her husband Albert had asked her if I was okay. He noticed that I had lost a lot of weight and was thinking I was ill!! Nope, just trying to lose weight, thanks!

Anyway, I’ll let you know how Victoria Square is.

Shopping Shopping Shopping…..

Back now.  No DKNY tights, *pout*.  I guess not one of her women’s fashion House of Fraser’s cuz all I saw was DKNY Jeans for Men and some handbags. Speaking of handbags…HANDBAG NIRVANA!!

1,000 sq ft of that store is *nothing* but handbags.  Every handbag you can imagine? On display at the Belfast House of Fraser.

Also? Biggest Benefit cosmetic counter in Belfast.  I am not sure why we need 3 such cosmetic counters in Belfast (one in Boots, one in Debenhams and now one in House of Fraser) but this one was very nice.  I will still probably use the Boots one, however, as I get points on my Boots card when I buy it there!

Overall its a lovely shopping centre.  Mostly fashion, so nothing for the ‘boys’ as my husband pointed out.  Well, Zavvi, but other than that, nothing.  And we already have a Zavvi on Royal Avenue.  There were rumors of an Apple Store, but it either hasn’t moved in or wasn’t true.

I do think some stores in it are a little high brow for Belfast.  Now, there is a lot of money in certain parts of NI, but for the every day shopper? Tommy Hilfiger, Hugo Boss and Fossil are going to be out of their league.  Which I think is bad for a shopping centre billing itself as ‘A Renaissance for Belfast.’

On Sunday Shopping in a Christian Country

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First of all, stores aren’t allowed, by law, to sell anything until after 1pm. I do not know if this is a UK thing or an NI thing, but I actually like it. It means you can hang out at home on Sunday morning either doing nothing or doing whatever and not feel like you have to be out and doing. Yes, I realize it is this way so people can go to church. I must remind my readers here that I am Jewish. Even if I went to a religious institution on the weekends, it wouldn’t be on Sunday mornings.

However, the shopping tends to suck, as there are no deliveries on Sunday mornings. Why they don’t just get double deliveries on Saturday, I don’t know. But could you imagine half empty shelves in a store in the US? Never gonna happen, not even in the Deep South. Here it is a regular Sunday occurrence.

This, to me, is, once again, bad customer service.  Even people who go to church might go shopping after.  And what do they find? Very little on the shelves.

Northern Ireland really needs to come into the 21st C.  And soon.

A Look at the Past

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So this morning, while looking for scratch paper to write the grocery list, I found an old journal of mine. It only covered about 3 months, but it included my trip across the US from Iowa to California and a few months after that. It was painful to read.

Every page of that journal screams “chronic depression, anxiety disorder, agoraphobia” and yet my diagnosis didn’t occur until 2 years after that journal was written.

All of my old journals read that way, from the earliest one I can find, from when I was 16 and visiting London with my grandmother and cousin. And I certainly was seeing therapists at all of those points in my life.

So why did none of them *ever* say “Hey, there is something more going on here. Something other than a kid having a hard time growing up and being a total brat about it. Maybe its chemical. Maybe her brain is wired wrong.” But not one did until a GP when I was 28 or 29 who gave me prozac and told me to find a psychologist who could refer me to a psychiatrist.

It wasn’t too long after that that I had my first real mental breakdown. I ran away. I got in my car, with my cat, Kali, and started to drive back to Iowa, because I had never felt like that in Iowa. Yeah, right. I called my boss and quit my job (thank god he didn’t accept that), left a message for my brother so he wouldn’t worry if he couldn’t get me and started driving. I made it just past the Nevada border when I called my brother again, hysterical, having no idea what I was doing. He convinced me to come back to California and call my doctors. I was off work about 3 months that time.

The final break came about a year later, when I stopped going to work altogether. Hmm, mighty similar to when I quit going to school my junior year of High School. And no one thought to put me on meds then.

I asked my mother about that once. She said even if they had suggested it back then, she probably wouldn’t have let them medicate me. But no one suggested it.

I have scrolled through several Dxs. Bi-Polar Disorder. Chronic Depression. And, now, as I’ve said before, Anxiety Disorder and Borderline Agoraphobia. The last one seems to be right, although I do still suffer from depression at times. Mostly I am just incredibly anxious. All the time. Well, 80% of the time. The other 20% I’m asleep! (that’s a joke. There are long periods when I am not anxious at all.)

The attitude about medication in the UK is very different than it is in the US. In the US they put you on and you stay on. Probably forever. In the UK they do their damnedest to get you off meds. So I’ve had some very good treatment here in the UK. And I was off all meds for about a year until last November when I had a small bout of anxiety and was back on them for a month. I see my psychiatrist in two weeks and we’ll see if I’ll go back on them.

I fought very hard to go off of them, actually. You see, Simon and I are trying to have a baby. And most of the Mad Meds (TM Trepenny Peck) I was on make bad babies. But, since they can’t exactly get women preganant and feed them Mad Meds, there is really no way to know how bad those babies might be, if bad at all.

So in two weeks we’ll see what my old psych says. And if he thinks I need to go back on meds, back on them I go. And if he says I can’t have a baby while on them? Well, we’ll see. I don’t think I know a single completely sane pregnant woman anyway.

Time Goes By…

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The street where I wait for the bus to work is where a lot of school children walk to get to school. I don’t know what school they go to, but at least 15 – 20 of them walk by every day.

There is one group of boys I have been seeing for the past 3 years. I’ve actually watched them grow.

3 years ago they were small children. Horsing around as they went to school, calling each other names. Now the shortest of them is taller than me. In only 3 years. And they look so darn serious, like the weight of the world is on their shoulders. In only 3 years.

I want to ask them what happened. What happened to them razzing on each other. What happened to the fireworks they used to throw around Bonfire Night (almost got me with one, once. I was less than pleased). When did they become ‘adults’? And why?

Why do we have to lose that? That playfulness as we walk to school? The feeling that all things are possible and all things are fun, even walking to school. Maybe the destination holds hard work, but getting there should be a joy, yes?

Now they walk to school, still in the same group, but they barely talk to each other. They walk like they are going to their doom.

I miss those playful little boys. They were a joy to watch. Now they are just another group, trudging through life, and it makes me sad.

The ‘Joy’ of the NHS

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So I went to the Diabetes Clinic today. I don’t think I mentioned before about my having Type II diabetes. But I do.

I control it with diet and *cough* exercise. In other words, I watch what I eat and think about doing exercise.

Wasn’t too bad today, although they were running an hour behind. The Doc seemed pleased with my current levels. Last A1C was 6.3, which is very good. Under 7 is very good. Under 6 would be excellent.

So, what’s the ‘joy’? The fact that I never seem to get my most recent test results until I go back, 6 months later. That’s even with a rush put on the A1C results, as I am suppose to have those numbers the same day. But I never do.

And the waiting. I wait to be weighed. I wait to have bloods taken. I wait to see the doctor. Waiting waiting waiting.

I always go prepared, book in hand (and I bought a magazine today). But it is still aggravating. And they always run out of chairs.

On a good note, however, when I went to check in, I told the receptionist that my address had changed. She asked whether I was in University, because if my address changed regularly she’d be happy to send my letters and such to my mum’s address. I thanked her for thinking I was young enough to still be in University. She then noticed my age on her computer and laughed at herself. But I was very thankful!

Other Differences Between the US and the UK…

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In the UK Mother’s Day is 3rd March this year. US 11th May.  This means I have to buy Mother’s Day cards now and remember where I put them so I can send them to my mom and step-mom in May.

It used to be that the clocks changed a week apart in the fall, but that’s been changed and we do it on the same day now.

A UK worker gets about 25 days of holiday a year.  US, 10 if they’re lucky.

In the US there are, I think, 6 Federal Holidays that everyone gets off.  In the UK it varies by area, but here in Northern Ireland we get 12.

In the UK chips are crisps and french fries are chips.

In the US you drive on the pavement and walk on the side walk.  In the UK we drive on the road and walk on the pavement.

In the UK we have boots and lifts and moving staircases.  In the US you have trunks and elevators and escalators.

In the US you have subways.  In the UK we have tubes.

UK cars use petrol.  US cars use gas.

In the UK we take a coach.  In the US you take a bus.

In the US the alphabet ends with zee.  In the UK it ends with zed (totally messes up the song to have it end with zed, I think.  Go ahead, sing it with zed, if you’re from the US, you’ll see what I mean.  See? It doesn’t rhyme any more!).

In the US, at least at my private school, 4pm was time for PE.  In the UK, time for tea.

Neither is better.  Neither is worse.  They are just different.

Be There When You Said You Would

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So today the plumber was suppose to come by to look at the toilet in our En Suite bathroom.  It works but not well and sometimes you have to flush twice.  He never showed up, never called.  We don’t have his number to call him, as it was arranged through our Landlord.  Who will be getting a call on Monday.  Yet another example of crappy customer service.

I realized I was lecturing on proper customer service, but never proved I knew anything about it.  I do.  My early career, just after University, was in CS.  I worked for Telecom USA Published, who was acquired by McLoed in 1996.  I left there when I moved to California.  They published telephone books and I worked at their customer service desk.   Then, when I moved to California, my first permanent job out there was with Proxim as the tech support Admin and first line tech support.  I worked there for a couple of years before moving on.  So I do know what customer service is and the difference between bad and good customer service. I’m not just talking out my ass!

I still, in some ways, work in customer service.  Our tenants are our customers at NISP and my SMT are my direct customers.  And I give good service.  I may bitch, to my co-workers, even to my bosses, but I always do what needs to be done when it needs to be done.  And that’s the true hallmark of good customer service.  It doesn’t have to mean bending over for the customer or giving in to unreasonable demands, but it does have to mean doing what you said you were going to do when you said you were going to do it.

Whether that is showing up on time to fix the toilet.  Or getting the papers done for a meeting.

And if you can’t do it, then call, send an email, hell put up smoke signals.  Don’t just leave your customer hanging.

I do not believe the customer is always right, because they aren’t always right.  But they always deserve an explanation of why things didn’t go as planned.  And really, its not too much to ask.

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.

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.

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.