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Nov. 16th, 2004 08:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
froodleGrumblegrumbleparentalunitsgrumble.
Picture this: it's after twelve on Monday night. I've been up since 8 doing boring-as-Hell uni stuff. I'm in bed, asleep. Paul McGann and Yukimura are providing background noise. I'm probably dreaming something indecent involving hobbits.
The phone rings.
A single, malevolent eye appears in the narrow gap between pillow and hair. There's some incoherent muttering and a suggestion of movement under the mountains of duvets.
The answering machine clicks on.
Ears are half-cocked, expecting the sound of whiny Bisexual Wiccan complaining about the latest dramas in her painfully uninteresting life. Instead, I'm hearing the nasal drone of my mother's Irish accent. I stumble out of my cocoon of precious warmth and over to the computer desk, just in time to hear the answerphone beep as she hangs up.
Hmm, thinks I, as I press the replay button.
Through my sleep-befuddled mind I catch the words "emergancy", "need to speak to you" and "call my mobile as soon as you get this". Oh noes! I think. Some terrible calamity hath befallen the Clan Froodle. Perhaps Buzz's gigantic head has eclipsed the sun, bringing about the second Ice Age. Perhaps Wilhelm - or indeed, Pa Froodle - has been arrested for Intense Stupidity. Perhaps Johnathan has impregnated some teenage whore and needs to know where I stashed a supply of wire coat hangers and rubbing alcohol*. Perhaps Mother has finally realised that she's Irish and plans to kill herself from the shame, in which case, this could be my only chance to say goodbye!
So I immediately ring back, and am instantly harangued over a letter from my dissertation supervisor demanding to know why I missed my first meeting. Bear in mind that this letter is addressed to me and dated November 3rd (thus proving that the Leeds Law Dept. could not organise a prayer in a nunnery, since even on the IOM, it doesn't take 12 days for a letter to arrive), and did I mention, it's almost 1am?! What the fuck?! If you insist on invading my privacy by opening and reading my letters, and then calling me up to bitch about the contents, can you at least do it at a reasonable time?
Got very pissy and explained that combination of computer account being locked due to some fuckwittery on the part of the ISS, and being busy enjoying the throwing up and writhing around on the floor in pain aspects of life thanks to goddamn ear infection had caused me to miss not only the meeting, but the emails preceeding them. Parentals eventually placated (some time around 3am) and said goodbye, leaving me to sit up until 5am fuming about thier idiocy.
In future, shall unplug phone before going to bed.
*Fun Fact: there is nowhere to get an abortion on the Isle of Man. You have to go to Liverpool to get one.
Picture this: it's after twelve on Monday night. I've been up since 8 doing boring-as-Hell uni stuff. I'm in bed, asleep. Paul McGann and Yukimura are providing background noise. I'm probably dreaming something indecent involving hobbits.
The phone rings.
A single, malevolent eye appears in the narrow gap between pillow and hair. There's some incoherent muttering and a suggestion of movement under the mountains of duvets.
The answering machine clicks on.
Ears are half-cocked, expecting the sound of whiny Bisexual Wiccan complaining about the latest dramas in her painfully uninteresting life. Instead, I'm hearing the nasal drone of my mother's Irish accent. I stumble out of my cocoon of precious warmth and over to the computer desk, just in time to hear the answerphone beep as she hangs up.
Hmm, thinks I, as I press the replay button.
Through my sleep-befuddled mind I catch the words "emergancy", "need to speak to you" and "call my mobile as soon as you get this". Oh noes! I think. Some terrible calamity hath befallen the Clan Froodle. Perhaps Buzz's gigantic head has eclipsed the sun, bringing about the second Ice Age. Perhaps Wilhelm - or indeed, Pa Froodle - has been arrested for Intense Stupidity. Perhaps Johnathan has impregnated some teenage whore and needs to know where I stashed a supply of wire coat hangers and rubbing alcohol*. Perhaps Mother has finally realised that she's Irish and plans to kill herself from the shame, in which case, this could be my only chance to say goodbye!
So I immediately ring back, and am instantly harangued over a letter from my dissertation supervisor demanding to know why I missed my first meeting. Bear in mind that this letter is addressed to me and dated November 3rd (thus proving that the Leeds Law Dept. could not organise a prayer in a nunnery, since even on the IOM, it doesn't take 12 days for a letter to arrive), and did I mention, it's almost 1am?! What the fuck?! If you insist on invading my privacy by opening and reading my letters, and then calling me up to bitch about the contents, can you at least do it at a reasonable time?
Got very pissy and explained that combination of computer account being locked due to some fuckwittery on the part of the ISS, and being busy enjoying the throwing up and writhing around on the floor in pain aspects of life thanks to goddamn ear infection had caused me to miss not only the meeting, but the emails preceeding them. Parentals eventually placated (some time around 3am) and said goodbye, leaving me to sit up until 5am fuming about thier idiocy.
In future, shall unplug phone before going to bed.
*Fun Fact: there is nowhere to get an abortion on the Isle of Man. You have to go to Liverpool to get one.
