Banks

I am absolutely fuming. I am trying to pay my flat mate my rent which is impossible. 

So I rang up the bank, after trying three different numbers, one for, and I quote, deaf and blind people...why the hell would a deaf person be using a phone? "I can not hear if i am through or not". The other number was for a different bank all together, seems like in the split Lloyds got one number and TSB another. Finally I got the right one, to which I had to put in all my details and yell answers to pointless questions to get to an adviser who says "Do you have the code we sent you?" 

"Nope"

"I can't do anything then I will send you another code it will be with you in 6 days"...

"So your telling me I just gave you my account number, sort code, date of birth, full name and address as well as the three digit security number and you wont let me in because your worried about fraud. Why give me a 6 digit number if I have to give you every other bit of information to get to the point in which I have to give you the number? I mean now everyone around me has every bit of information on me anyway!"

"I'm sorry madam but you can do it online"

"oh ok"

"I will put you through" 

So then I get to go through to the dumbest German known to man kind. I'm trying to log in but cant because they haven't given me a log in name because I haven't registered. I haven't registered because it wouldn't let me last time and locked me out. So I cant get a username and password until they let me in and they wont let me in without a username and password. He comes on "Madam can I help?"

"Yes I want to make a standing order" 

"ok" he says, "I can help you" he says, "don't worry" he says...LYER!

I explained the situation "It wont let you in, oh I will send you another code. But I cant do anything else until you have it. It will be with you in 6 days" MOTHER PLUCKER

"What can I do? Pay pall are going to charge me, to get the cheque I have to go to get my book and my flat mates paying in slip, then find a Natwest to pay it in and there are no banks near me. To wire the money or do a transfer it costs me an extra fifty quid. You people wont let me use internet or telephone banking without a stupid code. How can I pay this? Its your fault, you should be more accessible to people and have more branches. I mean there are more bloody Primarks than banks now, I'm more likely to find a dildo than a bank, Its easier to buy crack than pay a bill." Silence on the other end of the line....

Finally it speaks: "You have to go in to a bank or wait 6 days." 

"Wheres the nearest bank. I'm in London Tottenham Court Road."

"What city are you in?"

"LONDON" 

"Where abouts?"

"TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD"

"There is one in Hammersmith, that's the nearest to where you live" 

"Oh thanks for that, there's only one problem. I don't live there anymore, that is why I don't have my codes, they are at my parents, which I have explained, also I'm not there now!"

"oh...................."

"You know what fucking forget it" I hung up. 

Banks...take our money and don't want to give it back. Those filthy retarded bankers just want to put it in their fat pockets...I'm so angry!

The Royal Mail Saga

Royal Mail, their prices increase as their service declines. I mean if you cant do the job, don't continue to put up prices.

I had the lovely surprise of finding a little card on my mat as I stepped through my front door last week. Of course I wanted this package and I had two weeks to get it from them, otherwise, I only assume, it will be destroyed in the fires of postal hell. So I followed the instructions on line to get it redelivered. 

Apparently you can have it delivered to a different address, 'brilliant' I thought, 'I know, I will get it delivered to my work address, that way if I'm not there it wont matter'. I merrily filled out the form smiling at my fantastic idea. Twenty minutes later I have completed the questionnaire and press 'CONTINUE' only to receive a 'NO...we cant do that!' message. Apparently a mile down the road is too far for them to deliver. Right, so, let me get this straight, you will let me change the delivery address only if it is, in fact, the same address as on the card. In other words you can't! 

I then continued to try and get my package redelivered, since I really did want it, otherwise to be honest, I wouldn't have bothered. I would have taken it to be lost to the gods of post like all those Christmas cards filled with money my nan sent, its funny how the other empty cards always managed to find their way through my letterbox. So, I went back to stage one of the redelivery programme. This time instead of choosing a different address, which you cant do anyway, I decided to choose a different day. 'I can plan to be in on Monday or Thursday' I thought, 'I can work from home and make sure I am in to collect it'. 

Turns out, after spending another twenty minuets I will never get back, on filling in the same useless form, that those days this week are fully booked. Oh I'm sorry I forgot that it all has to be on your terms Royal Mail, who are now holding my package hostage for me to take a day off work. 

But dear readers don't fear the story from here on in just shows the depths of stupidity they can achieve. After numerous attempts at filling out the same form, with the same information, finally I found a day they could deliver. It was booked for the Monday after next. But was it? Could it really be that easy? 

NO. Because on the Friday before they realised their mistake, that Monday is a bank holiday. I then received an email telling me that I should rebook the delivery or go and collect it. At this point I saw no other option than to just go and get the package myself on the notion that 'If you want something done right, do it yourself'.

Off I went after checking Google maps for directions. It took me an hour to get there and I was forced to leave work early to make this journey. When I arrived there was a que a mile long, seems like I'm not the only one that decided to do their one job of delivering mail for them. 

When I finally go to the counter (after the receptionist spent half an hour refusing to take a piece of identification from a man because the corner of it had been in his mouth forcing the man to rout through his bag for another) the receptionist told me my package was not there...

Here is how the conversation ensued:

Me: "well where is it?"

Receptionist: "I don't know"

Me: "Well I'm not leaving until I get it, I have been trying to get it redelivered for two weeks now and on every occasion which have been many either your fully booked or cant deliver it. Now this utter cock up has been down to you I have the email of you admitting to that. It said to come and collect it. So where is it?"

Receptionist: "I do apologise it must have been redelivered today, have you been home yet?"

Me: "Do I look like I have been home today? If I had I wouldn't be standing in front of you in work clothes with a big back pack on." 

Receptionist: "Its not my fault madam."

Me: "Now I understand that this is not your fault, personally, however, you, at this point, are the face of the company and are going to have to deal with my issues with your service."

Receptionist: "They must have redelivered it today"

Me: "That's not my fault, I didn't tell them to do that, no one was at home, again."

Receptionist: "Well you will have a redelivery notice"

Me: "which will say what?"

Receptionist: "To either rebook the delivery or come here to pick it up"

Me: "Right so you want me to go home, get the note, and come back here to pick it up? when I am already here now...to pick it up. I don't have time for that"

Receptionist: "Well we are open from 7am to 7pm"

Me: "Right, and we have already established that I work. In fact I work from 8am till 7pm, which means I had to leave work early today to come here, meaning I am losing money due to your incompetence, only to be told that you tried to deliver it on a day I clearly was not in. So now I have to go home to pick up a piece of paper to come back."

Receptionist: "erm"

Me: "Right I will be putting in a formal complaint and a claim with your head office for all the hours I have had to take off work. This is ridiculous, what is your name?"

Receptionist: "I will go and check if its in today's post"

Me: "Thank you"

He came back with my post and handed it to me. 

Me: "Thank you. Do you need ID?"

Receptionist: "No, but when you get home rip up the other delivery notice please"

Me: "With pleasure, what else am I going to do with it anyway? Come here for fun?"

And that my friends is the story of the Royal Mail Saga.

No Wifi

I have no Internet here. I am writing blog after blog and can not post any. I am craving social media exploration and need to know what's going on. I want to write about the new beauty products on the market but have no way to research. oh what I wouldn't give for a quick google search. I never realised how heavily I relied on the Internet.

Is it me as a twenty first century girl or is it my journalistic nature? It's hard to know.

It's amazing how much the Internet aids our daily life. I find myself telling people to 'wattsap' or 'bbm' me instead of texting, which they can't. Then during phone calls concerning work I say, as I usually do, "ok just email it over to me", which I wont recieve in time. My social Callander is a complete mess I don't know who's birthday is when, what events are coming up, where and what time am I expected without Facebook. Don't even mention twitter, my finger hovers over that little blue bird symbol every time something slightly humorous happens or a random thought pops in to my head, all now long lost and forgotten. I have just realised I use twitter as a diary of my mental ness, every crazy thought or funny thing that happens, or is said...I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Tomorrow I have decided to go in search of some wifi. I know some places do have it but not many. How do people live out here without the internet? I mean in london you cant walk for five minuets without finding a hot spot. I have Been here for a week and not picked up one. Maybe that explains why everyone looks so relaxed, they all just mooch around slowly looking happy. Like they have no cares in the world, maybe its the lack of internet, without the non interrupted, constant white noise of online voices all fighting and screaming for attention and to be heard. I mean, I found it relaxing to begin with, the silence, the freedom. But now I'm pulling my hair out with worry on what I might be missing. What important emails have I not received, what deadlines are creeping up? what's going on in London, what events am I expected to attend upon my return?

This need of mine is causing arguments. My mother and I are having one right at this moment. "Why do you need the internets?" To get my emails mum, from work. "We'll they know your away" yes but no one expects that there will be no way to pick up emails now days, I may have a deadline. "Well your not there so do it when you get back" the deadline maybe Monday that will only give me a day to do it, but if I check my emails and know I have to do it I can start on it now. "Oh whatever, I don't see what difference it makes." GAHHH that's the problem people who have never used or had the Internet don't realise how debilitating it becomes without it. If no one used the Internet then all would be fine but the fact is you can not get ahead in today's society without conforming to the new way of contact, and at the moment it's all via the bloody Internet.

It's not just the wifi I am having problems with though. The reception out he in the middle of know where is playing havoc with my social life. I am finding myself so desperate to send and receive texts that I am holding my phone above my head like its Simba and jumping about in the hope to find just one single bar.

Anyway this is Michelle, in the middle of France, hoping you receive me loud and clear, over and out!

The French and their keys

Today has been the third day in a row where I have driven to some historic castle or chateau only to find that it is closed. I'm staring to get the impression that the whole of France is closed or they just don't want to share their history with the British.

I get an image of a French man clad in stripes with a beret with a coffee on a white fenced balcony on the look out for any Brits that may come to the village. "Lock your doors" he shouts and grannies scramble to close everything. In moments the entire place looks like a death town. I can't prove this theory of course.

But for the last three days I have found the tourist office and asked when the place of interest is open, and they always say "you have to get the key from...." The first one was from the bakery, the second was kept by the butcher and today's key, well I think she made up a word to be honest. All three were either closed or never found.

This is beside the point. The fact is I don't feel comfortable when I have the keys to a friends car or flat let alone the key to a 15th century castle. It's too much responsibility, I mean, what's their lock smith situation like? I haven't seen one since if been here and how would a locksmith deal with a historic lock?

Could you imagine it? sorry entire village I just lost the key to your most historic prized possession.

Why don't they just leave it open? It's not like people are going to steal anything and if they did I'm sure someone in the village will notice a person walking about with a 15th century massive tapestry or chair. I mean leave it open, get someone to sit there, ask for a few euros and hey presto your making money. That's better than people turning up, going on a key hunt and then leaving. You would even make money from the tourists buying stuff and eating.

Tomorrow I will try again, maybe I will get lucky and find something open. Perhaps everything closes Saturday to Monday?

Not speaking French

So I'm on holiday in France. The problem is I don't speak French. It's annoying and I feel so typically English and ignorant. I keep trying to talk to people in either Spanish or English, neither work.

I'm trying to learn while I'm here, reading from a phrase book which does no bloody difference because they can't understand my god awful accent. This is the first time I have been in a country where I have no means to communicate with the locals and its killing me. How do people do it?

I have been on holidays before where everyone around me speaks no other language other than English. They just shout and point and seem to have no problems other than the odd rude look which seems to just go over their head. I have been at a bar and have someone yell "I WANT A BEER" to the bar man. They seem to think nothing of it, where as I was so embarrassed I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. But that's what I'm doing now.

It made me think, why do we have so many different languages? Why don't we all just learn one? Why did every country have to make up different sounds in which to communicate?

It would make life so much easier without the language barriers. People keep trying to talk to me, just randomly, maybe I look French? The first time was a woman in a perfume shop, she didn't work there, she was browsing and came up to me smiled and jabbered on. I smiled back and then pointed to myself and said "English" and she nodded and walked off. Then some teenage boy came up to me in the street and started talking to me so I said "pardon, no pole vou Frances" he looked confused and stood there. Then I thought saying I don't speak French in French is a little confusing. So by the third stranger I came up with a cunning new tactic. I made hand gestures and pretended I was deaf, that seemed to work. I just hope that I don't bump in to someone who knows French Sign Language!

Churches and no smiling Jesus

Why is it that people seem to become infatuated by churches when on holiday? Don't get me wrong, I like to have the odd mooch around an old church or chapel and basque in their gothic beauty, the 'odd' being the operative word. I don't want to walk around every church I see, when you have seen one, you have pretty much seen them all.

I mean apart from perhaps the pictures not much else differentiates them. They all have an organ, benches, candles, big wooden doors, and a cross and table at the front. Some are beautiful and I am interested in the way the interior has changed through history or per continent. But there are only so many times you can walk around smelling the mixture of mold and frankenscence while commenting on the beauty of it.

Today we entered one and I felt uncomfortable. This happens a lot in churches. I feel sometimes like I may combust or that I shouldn't be there. I suppose this is down to my lack of belief in religion. I feel like a fraud creeping around a 'house of god' that I don't believe in. I see people sitting in silence, some praying and feel guilt, I can't explain why. Perhaps it's the fact that religion, through history, has been used as a way to control the masses using fear. If you don't prey or live by the rules then you will burn in hell. Maybe that's it, maybe I feel hatred towards religion and so uncomfortable when entering the hub.

I mean it's not just the whole, if you follow our rules you will be rewarded in death that I don't agree with. It's the wars religion caused, the deaths it has warranted, the money it makes, the terrible things done by the very people who preach in its name and the way these bad deeds are pushed under the rug. Its so contradictory and is part of everything it preaches against.

I digress, I apologise, I shall retract to my original point. While walking around this church I noticed that in every picture of Jesus he is always Laying about dying. In every statue, he is attached to a cross dying. Why is he always dying? Why are there no pictures in churches of him smiling? What about doing some daily activities like healing leprosy, blessing people or turning water in to wine? I mean wouldn't that be nicer? If you love him so much and have so much respect for him why use the worst possible part of his life to focus on? I mean no one looks at their best when their nailed to a cross with blood dripping all over the gaff.

Another point, I may have made it before, what's all this nonsense about drinking his blood and eating his body? That's vampirism and cannibalism right there. Now I think that Jesus would have something to say about that!

Badly Made Horrors

Blood, guts and gore are not the only things that make a horror. Granted they are the first things you think of when you hear the genre, but to make a good scary movie so much more needs to be taken in to consideration.

While on holiday I came across a British made zombie film. Unfortunately I bought it. One rainy day, I decided to give the churches and castles a rest so, I lit the fire, got a packet of peanut puffs and snuggled down under a blanket ready for a good old horror.

It was a cheap film but I thought, theres not much you can get wrong with a horror, is there? The answer is 'Yes', to be honest, this film: 'Night of the living dead resurrection' got very little right, when I say very little I mean nothing at all.

I feel at this point I should stop, fearing that James Plumb, the film maker, may be upset by my criticism. But I won't, you see I am in the middle of France, it's raining, and cold, this film was meant to be today's saving grace, it made it worse. In fact, it's so bad I'm looking forward to my run to the local (mile away) village, in the rain, to get some 'lait et du pain', the most mundane groceries ever.

To start, the camera work and sound is appalling. You can hardly hear the lines through the tin sound, at one point you hear quiet talking in the background thats not even supposed to be there. The camera work is jumpy, twisty, upside down and badly angled. The overall look and sound is cheap. I wouldn't mind if it was accidental, but you could tell lots of the shots were done in an attempt to be 'artistic'. Well, it's not artistic, quite frankly it's rubbish, confusing and pointless when it's not done properly.

It's not big and it's not clever to have a follow view of someone's bottom walking up the stairs or an upside down and back to front view of someone laying on a bed. These shots need to be done at the right time, to coincide with the script, in order to create fear and anticipation within the audience. They need to have purpose not just be random, for instance, a follow view should be done when someone is spying, creeping up on, or hiding from the person in shot, usually their back. An upside down or spinning shot should be used, again, if the person in shot is feeling confused or disorientated. These convey the same emotion to the audience in order to create a bond between them and the character, usually the protagonist.

That is another thing this film didn't have, character, audience empathy. At no point did I identify with any characters. It jumped through too many. There wasn't a chance to bond with any and so, to be honest, I didn't care if any of them lived nor died, or got eaten alive. It started with a wimpy man being harassed by some welsh yobs, who i thought were in their late twenties, early thirties but later it transpired they were young teens that apparently needed someone to buy them alcohol, well I wouldn't have asked for I.D. Anyway the man enters the shop and low and behold their all zombies. At this point the film could still be good maybe this guy will man up and become a hero...NO he gets bitten.

He then turns, you know this by the ice blue contacts, blood pouring from the mouth and usual zombie slow shuffling on the side of the feet, groaning walk. He leaves the shop and bites the yobs, great more characters I didn't get time to identify with. Then another man randomly stops his car, gets out and yells "get away he has been bitten". The yobs don't heed his warning and so he gets back in to his car and drives off with us, the audience by his side. He drives down, of course, deserted country lanes and rings someone to tell them he is coming to get them. HA! you think, he is the protagonist and he is going to save someone, NO he gets his brains blown out by some welsh man through the letterbox. I should have known, he was the tocan black man in he movie, bound to die.

So now were stuck with some welsh family which in better circumstances would have been on the Jeremy Kyle show. A mum and dad, an emo Justin Bieber lookalike boy, who has been bitten, an old man spurting 'the end of the world lines' who has also been bitten, a pregnant woman and her husband who is sleeping with her teenage sister.

The rest of the film is them, in a house, trying to survive with an emo and old man locked in rooms rattling on wooden doors while zombies approach. Ahhhh but that's not all, now a new group emerge. A group of yobs. These are fixed on devastation and destruction, killing everyone in their way, for no reason at all zombified or not, even running over the father with his own car, while spurting out game references "this is like COD" and "lets go all world of warfare on his arse". Later when the sun rises and everyone is dead yet another group appear shooting zombies and dressed in army camo. They find a survivor and end the film with the line "put her in the rape van".

One may argue that this film is trying to show the end of humanity in present day and this can be blamed on the desensitisation of children through the media? But I feel that would be giving this film to more consideration than it deserves. It's unclear just like the entire story line. There is no back story to the family or the outbreak or anything. But there is lots of badly shot, terribly lit, off colour, intestine eating.