What Do I Know?

Belgian Phone Company Mobistar Gets Pwned

Those Belgians really know how to pull off a prank. (There's a reason they were named one of the 12 coolest nationalities.)

See what happens when a TV program decides to serve Mobistar, a hated Belgian phone company (is there any other kind?) with a sample of their own customer service. They deposit a large steel container, a "customer service" number printed on the side, in front of the entrance to the company headquarters. Inside the container are—, well, watch the video, especially the final twist of the knife. (English captions, for the Flemish impaired.)

The Brits should try a similar tactic. I know a BT customer service rep I'd like to subject to that synthesizer.

In Which I Lie! It's Not My Blogiversary.

I came here to tell you I've been blogging for six years, but it turns out it's six years and three days. I started this blog on January 21, 2005. Originally I intended to give you a piece of my mind on a regular basis, but lately my mind hasn't been co-operating. (Perhaps I shared too many pieces.)

Like many writers of now-defunct blogs, I got over the urge to spill the contents of my mind about any and every subject that hit the news. British politics? Let's face it; I really don't know anything about how Parliament works. Except it's cool to hear them shout at each other in proper British accents. 

American politics is more my taste, but there's a lot of shouting there too. (Anyone else planning to watch the State of the Union just to see which Republican shouts at President Obama? And whether they can come up with anything more clever than "You lie!"?)

I seem to have grown out of clever. Every once in a while a clever thought enters my brain, usually in the wee hours of the morning, but by the time I have a keyboard in my hand, it's long gone. This is probably due to middle age. Take this as warning, you young bloggers out there hoping to capitalize—err, monetize—on your clever. 

It won't last. 

One day you'll be gazing at your computer screen (which will probably be some sort of wearable mobile device) and the screen will be blank. Fortunately, your blogging device will feature a built-in camera, so you'll snap a photo of your dog, or some similarly cute animal, and post that in lieu of a blog post. 

Like this one: 

(Hopefully your camera will be better than mine and won't turn its subject yellow.)

Speaking of clever, Sparky is a very clever dog. In a future post, I'll tell you how clever. Really. Just as soon as I get one of those wearable blogging devices.

Stonehenge and Solstice, Minus Sanctimony

Someone made a snowman. A five inch snowman. Perspective is everything.

It's been too long. Once again I've neglected my poor blog. 

But you should be grateful I spared you the full force of my anger and frustration these last weeks. A week before Christmas, my husband left for Heathrow to pick up Daughter Number One. Seven hours later, he returned home alone. There was no daughter to welcome home, a ritual I cherish.

She was in Paris, and Heathrow was shut down due to—get this—a total of five inches of snow. 

I could understand a few hours of delays. But just as her plane was about to land, it was diverted to Charles de Gaulle in Paris. And there she stayed for three days. Three. Days.

Oh, but I said I was going to spare you my frustration and anger. Like the anger I felt at the local council, who never bothered to clear any minor roads, including those in our neighborhood. Cars slipped and slid all over, at least until they could get to the highway. 

Or the anger I felt at my neighbors, who didn't bother—for a whole week—to shovel or salt their driveways or sidewalks, as I slipped and slid on my daily dog walk. 

And I promise, I won't sound sanctimonious as I tell you how I shoveled the cul-de-sac the first day it snowed, knowing the steep drive would be treacherous when my husband returned from the airport. (The treacherous part was the three-hour drive home, through diversion after diversion, caused by—that's right, five inches of snow. An amount that wouldn't have been a problem in any other civilized society. A society that invested in snow plows.) 

Oh wait. 

Water under the bridge, and all that. 

When Daughter Number One finally arrived—only after my husband drove to Paris to collect her and two other passengers (but there I go, sounding sanctimonious again)—we drove to Stonehenge, since by then two houseguests had joined us. I'd blithely promised to show them some old stuff, not knowing most old stuff would be buried under five inches of snow.

It happened to be the Winter Solstice. 

And when we drove up to Avebury, another lesser known stone circle, there were the Pagans in full force, performing a ceremony that turned out to be a wedding. 

Sitting in a pub with our daughter and friends, watching the fire twirling around the dancing Pagans as the sun set over the stones, I decided to let it go. 

Yeah.

It's a new year. Daughter Number One is back in the States, Daughter Number Two is here, and I hope you're enjoying your new year. So far, mine hasn't been too bad.