July 2002


by Suw on July 20, 2002

You know, I really must get out of the habit of putting my laundry out to dry at 10 in the morning and then forgetting to bring it in until after dark. It really is a bad move. Becasue you know what happens… you stumble outside at half midnight, trying to see by the crappy yellow street lights that barely even illuminate the pavement, let alone my garden, and you try to gather up your clothing as best you can, but it's inevitable. You are just bound to drop a trail of knickers behind you, so that when the postman comes at 7.30am you have the double embarassment of being both bed-headedly unkempt and facing the sight of your best black briefs draped becommingly on a red hot poker. (That's a type of flower, by the way, not something left over from Richard III's bedroom closet.)
Other than that… I have to report progress in the spider-terror stakes. Being a certified arachnophobe with a history of arachnid-inspired hysteria, I was very proud today to deal with a sizable spider using the glass-and-card method. I am well impressed. No hysterics, no screaming, no climbing over the furniture in an effort to escape. Not even a raised heart rate. Bargain!!

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Yes, I'm still here

by Suw on July 19, 2002

I just haven't been able to face posting for the last, ahem, few weeks. Why? Well, spent most of the last month chasing round after banks trying to get funding for my business, and generally met an unfavourable response. At least none of them laughed. Although Nat West did ask some fucking stupid questions that, frankly, a three year old could have answered by herself. Obviously they're too thick to actually read the business plan and find out for themselves that I actually do know my competition, and that I'm not actually providing a service that the BBC already provide. Dickheads.
But then, that's banks for ya. They look at the figures, don't like them, then come up with some assinine reason for rejecting your request for funds. I'd rather they were honest and said, 'Frankly, we don't like your figures'. But no, they have to say things like, 'Well, we're not really sure about the market'. Of course you're not sure, you dolt. You're a bank manager. I'm the expert in my particular field of business. I've done the research and it's all there in black and white, and if you weren't too thick to be able to read words of more than one syllable, you'd be able to actually read the business plan and find out for yourself whether there's a market there.
Y'know, there's no point doing these business courses, and consulting with advisors, and spending three months preparing a business plan. You might as well just throw a fictional cashflow together overnight and save yourself a lot of shit.
Ok… rant over. Promise. (Although I do feel better for it. I did get quite antsy with some of these banking dickheads, but then it doesn't do to sink to their single-cellular level.)
Anyway, I did eventually get funding for my new business, and since that happened, I've been rushing round like a blue-arsed fly, trying to actually get everything in place to actually start the everything going. Which is a whole different kettle of fish to just thinking about starting a business. Sort of like the difference between reading Ranulph Fiennes' book about walking across the Antarctic, and actually walking across the Antarctic. Whilst you may cringe at the description of the puss-filled blisters that ate away at his feet, it's not quite the same as actually having puss-filled blisters. Not that I have had puss-filled blisters, although I did once burn the bottom of my feet and end up with blisters the size of satsumas. I couldn't walk for several days, and it really was quite unpleasant. But not, I hasten to add, as bad as puss-filled blisters and the inevitable frostbite that curses all polar explorers. Which I'm sure is much worse.
It's really nice to think that I am, finally, my own boss. Not just pretending to be my own boss in that self-un-employed way, but actually having a business, and a limited company and the whole nine yards. In fact, it's more like ten… but it is scary. Exciting, but scary. And exciting. But very scary.
I think you get the picture.
So, tomorrow is Saturday. Another working day, but not without it's lay in. If the cat will let me. Which this morning she wouldn't, having decided to play trampoline on my bed at 5am. Even locking her out doesn't work – she just sits under my window and miaows like some pitiful little kitten that I know she's not. Bless.
Hm, right, so what was I saying? Er, dunno… not that that matters, because I know no one is actually reading this, so I can be as self indulgent as I like… *sigh* Ah, the catharsis of confession without the embarrassment the next day when the alcohol clears and you suddenly remember what you said…

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