While avoiding work one morning (I'm on the UK Olympic Prevarication squad) it occurred to me to have a nose at the Gutenberg Project to see if they had "Enquire Within" on file. And so they did!
An old favourite of mine, ever since I read a copy which includes such gems as the adverts in the cover ("The London Truss Company - For the relief of the Ruptured Poor throughout the Kingdom") and the many and varied Things You REALLY Need To Know
It contains all sorts of useful advice about removing stains, making almond icing etc. and Victorian etiquette. I'm sure the following would make life so much easier, if applied today. Better than "Got MSN and Cam?" anyway...
1978. Love's Telegraph
If a gentleman want a wife, he wears a ring on the first finger of the left hand; if he be engaged, he wears it on the second finger; if married, on the third; and on the fourth if he never intends to be married. When a lady is not engaged, she wears a hoop or diamond on her first finger; if engaged, on the second; if married, on the third; and on the fourth if she intends to die unmarried. When a gentleman presents a fan, flower, or trinket, to a lady with the left hand, this, on his part, is an overture of regard; should she receive it with the left hand, it is considered as an acceptance of his esteem; but if with the right hand, it is a refusal of the offer. Thus, by a few simple tokens explained by rule, the passion of love is expressed; and through the medium of the telegraph, the most timid and diffident man may, without difficulty, communicate his sentiments of regard to a lady, and, in case his offer should be refused, avoid experiencing the mortification of an explicit refusal.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Musings on travel
Well. Wasn’t THAT fun.
Just as I’m about to start a 3 hour training session Expedia ring to tell me that The Earth Is Going To Spiral Into The Sun (OK, actually there’s a strike at Rome Airport so I’ll have to have an earlier or later flight). So while I’m training, Kim from the office keeps trying to ring to let me know this too. The first time I muted it, the second time my phone vibrated itself across the table and fell off…
So – I’ve picked a later flight to give me some slack time to finish off on the ship. The Housekeeping Manager schedules an hour between two 10 minute presentations despite my telling him they’re only 10-15 minutes long. And then complained, in tones of great surprise, that they were so short (I suppose he had just had to put up with me droning on for 3 hours).
Which is OK – I’m still on time for the Heads of Department meeting. Which is late.
Which is OK. Until I spend too long bringing Javier up to speed ‘cos he’s bright and keen but his English is SHITE. But I drag him through the test to the point where at least I’m sure he’s going to kill bugs and leave people standing and glance at my watch. Ah. Time I was leaving the ship.
Better pack then (I know, I know, but I would have had plenty of time if people hadn’t been late for me, honest). Oh goody, my cabin key doesn’t work. Chase down a cleaner with a pass key to let me in – throw everything in the case and trundle off to pay the bill and collect my passport.
“Oh, you are leaving today Mr. Mason?” My passport has apparently been abducted by naked yellow spotted aliens and they haven’t made up my bill because the crew card they gave me didn’t work. I did wonder why I was signing for everything, while everyone else had their card swiped, but it wasn’t actually mentioned that my card was useful only for scraping ice off the windscreen. So – a bartender is summoned to price up my copies of the bar tab (If I’d realized I could have quietly binned the ones with fags on!) – I hand over Euros and I’m off!
Well – I would be if there was a taxi.
But – there IS crew transport which leaves at 15:00 and takes 40 minutes to get to the airport.
16:45 internal flight, Hmm... OK. An hour to check in.
[smokes ciggy]
[smokes another ciggy]
…
[notices that 15:15 is after 15:00] “Um, when do we leave?” “cinco, cinco, bang a da wallaby obstinata obrigata” Which apparently translates to 15:30.
Well it's a fast journey – he did leave a few minutes before half past and I kept my fixed smile on my face when he stopped for diesel. And a care in the community, semi disabled and chatty pump jockey came over to fill the transport and enquire into the drivers health, love life, inside leg measurement in mm and the chances of Rome winning the world cup.
I do get to Rome with 30 minutes to spare before wheels up. Am told I’m late. “No shit, really?” Am told I can get on, but my bag will be on the following flight (which I didn’t realize you could do in these days of terrorist bombers round every corner).
They tricked me though. I thought I may as well have a gander at the luggage, and mine was the first one (second actually, but first sounds more dramatic) off the carousel. 'Hah and yah boo sucks to all you poor sods' I thought as I trundled past the…
Municipal Police (armed)
Police (armed)
Dunno but he had an AWFUL lot of gold braid and a natty cap (armed)
Dog handler (armed)
Dog (unarmed but jolly excited about a 'boil in the bag' sized dog which was being taken as hand luggage. It’d never work out though as :
… to the exit where my trusty driver awaited holding a sign saying “Mason” (I also accept “Manson”, “Georg Mason” or any other variations).
Hold on – no driver.
Did anyone tell them I was on a later flight? When I arrived in Barcelona they didn’t even know I was coming (that’s why you take the port agents details with you – it’s nice to have someone to moan at, who understands English).
No matter. I always eat a BIG breakfast when I’m working, ‘cos sometimes it’s the only meal you get, so I valiantly soldier on. Still haven’t seen a smoking area yet though. Aha – a driver! They wait until you’ve rung the office then leap out from behind pillars, I swear it.
Off to the Hotel Centrale – which I looked up beforehand and it said it had internet access - yee ha!
Nice man at hotel, efficiently books me in. I mention that I’m looking forward to indulging my 3 (OK, 3 of my) vices, smoking, coffee and internet.
Italy has decided that the best way to really piss me off is to declare public smoking illegal.
Anywhere.
Apart from a few small bars. But all hotels, restaurants and on the street? Nonononono… Well he is a nice reception man and tells me that I have to open my window when I have a cigarette or the smoke detectors will go off. Good man.
Hmm… [puffs gently] No WiFi signal – maybe it only works in the lobby – that’s sometimes the way with these old hotels. As I amble down to the lobby I notice:
A telephone booth
With a computer in it (too high for comfort)
And a stool (too low for comfort)
And a light which goes off after 3 minutes if there is no movement (“no movement” can be simulated by sitting at a computer typing – the only gross movements are when you’re finding where they’ve hidden the ‘ @ < > ? / keys on an Italian keyboard)
Did I mention it was slow?
And had Messenger 4.0 on it? (which doesn’t work now)
And which after 10 minutes downloading the installer, won’t let you install 7.5 because you’ve insufficient administrative rights?
And the new man on reception is a different kettle of fish. He has one fluent phrase. “I don’t speak English well” OK, that’s still way better than my Italian. Have I mentioned he’s sinister looking? Dark glasses at 21:00? He turns to answer the phone. OMIGOD his eye is going to pop out! Oh. No, it’s not. But my word, it is big. And glass. And scary.
And so to bed.
Rose in the night, pissed well…
(I haven’t mentioned my search for “lunch” yet)
Just as I’m about to start a 3 hour training session Expedia ring to tell me that The Earth Is Going To Spiral Into The Sun (OK, actually there’s a strike at Rome Airport so I’ll have to have an earlier or later flight). So while I’m training, Kim from the office keeps trying to ring to let me know this too. The first time I muted it, the second time my phone vibrated itself across the table and fell off…
So – I’ve picked a later flight to give me some slack time to finish off on the ship. The Housekeeping Manager schedules an hour between two 10 minute presentations despite my telling him they’re only 10-15 minutes long. And then complained, in tones of great surprise, that they were so short (I suppose he had just had to put up with me droning on for 3 hours).
Which is OK – I’m still on time for the Heads of Department meeting. Which is late.
Which is OK. Until I spend too long bringing Javier up to speed ‘cos he’s bright and keen but his English is SHITE. But I drag him through the test to the point where at least I’m sure he’s going to kill bugs and leave people standing and glance at my watch. Ah. Time I was leaving the ship.
Better pack then (I know, I know, but I would have had plenty of time if people hadn’t been late for me, honest). Oh goody, my cabin key doesn’t work. Chase down a cleaner with a pass key to let me in – throw everything in the case and trundle off to pay the bill and collect my passport.
“Oh, you are leaving today Mr. Mason?” My passport has apparently been abducted by naked yellow spotted aliens and they haven’t made up my bill because the crew card they gave me didn’t work. I did wonder why I was signing for everything, while everyone else had their card swiped, but it wasn’t actually mentioned that my card was useful only for scraping ice off the windscreen. So – a bartender is summoned to price up my copies of the bar tab (If I’d realized I could have quietly binned the ones with fags on!) – I hand over Euros and I’m off!
Well – I would be if there was a taxi.
But – there IS crew transport which leaves at 15:00 and takes 40 minutes to get to the airport.
16:45 internal flight, Hmm... OK. An hour to check in.
[smokes ciggy]
[smokes another ciggy]
…
[notices that 15:15 is after 15:00] “Um, when do we leave?” “cinco, cinco, bang a da wallaby obstinata obrigata” Which apparently translates to 15:30.
Well it's a fast journey – he did leave a few minutes before half past and I kept my fixed smile on my face when he stopped for diesel. And a care in the community, semi disabled and chatty pump jockey came over to fill the transport and enquire into the drivers health, love life, inside leg measurement in mm and the chances of Rome winning the world cup.
I do get to Rome with 30 minutes to spare before wheels up. Am told I’m late. “No shit, really?” Am told I can get on, but my bag will be on the following flight (which I didn’t realize you could do in these days of terrorist bombers round every corner).
They tricked me though. I thought I may as well have a gander at the luggage, and mine was the first one (second actually, but first sounds more dramatic) off the carousel. 'Hah and yah boo sucks to all you poor sods' I thought as I trundled past the…
Municipal Police (armed)
Police (armed)
Dunno but he had an AWFUL lot of gold braid and a natty cap (armed)
Dog handler (armed)
Dog (unarmed but jolly excited about a 'boil in the bag' sized dog which was being taken as hand luggage. It’d never work out though as :
- The big dog was neglecting his duties and doubtless allowing huge quantities of drugs and/or explosives past and
- The BITBD was about condom sized)
… to the exit where my trusty driver awaited holding a sign saying “Mason” (I also accept “Manson”, “Georg Mason” or any other variations).
Hold on – no driver.
Did anyone tell them I was on a later flight? When I arrived in Barcelona they didn’t even know I was coming (that’s why you take the port agents details with you – it’s nice to have someone to moan at, who understands English).
No matter. I always eat a BIG breakfast when I’m working, ‘cos sometimes it’s the only meal you get, so I valiantly soldier on. Still haven’t seen a smoking area yet though. Aha – a driver! They wait until you’ve rung the office then leap out from behind pillars, I swear it.
Off to the Hotel Centrale – which I looked up beforehand and it said it had internet access - yee ha!
Nice man at hotel, efficiently books me in. I mention that I’m looking forward to indulging my 3 (OK, 3 of my) vices, smoking, coffee and internet.
Italy has decided that the best way to really piss me off is to declare public smoking illegal.
Anywhere.
Apart from a few small bars. But all hotels, restaurants and on the street? Nonononono… Well he is a nice reception man and tells me that I have to open my window when I have a cigarette or the smoke detectors will go off. Good man.
Hmm… [puffs gently] No WiFi signal – maybe it only works in the lobby – that’s sometimes the way with these old hotels. As I amble down to the lobby I notice:
A telephone booth
With a computer in it (too high for comfort)
And a stool (too low for comfort)
And a light which goes off after 3 minutes if there is no movement (“no movement” can be simulated by sitting at a computer typing – the only gross movements are when you’re finding where they’ve hidden the ‘ @ < > ? / keys on an Italian keyboard)
Did I mention it was slow?
And had Messenger 4.0 on it? (which doesn’t work now)
And which after 10 minutes downloading the installer, won’t let you install 7.5 because you’ve insufficient administrative rights?
And the new man on reception is a different kettle of fish. He has one fluent phrase. “I don’t speak English well” OK, that’s still way better than my Italian. Have I mentioned he’s sinister looking? Dark glasses at 21:00? He turns to answer the phone. OMIGOD his eye is going to pop out! Oh. No, it’s not. But my word, it is big. And glass. And scary.
And so to bed.
Rose in the night, pissed well…
(I haven’t mentioned my search for “lunch” yet)
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