I'm not going to have time to write my diary in the evenings for the next few days, thanks to The Boss and the local elections. Greg and I have just been ordered to help one of the candidates in his campaign to become a local councillor - in our supposedly free time, of course.
"If he'd just shave off that ridiculous twirly beard and sideburns combo, he wouldn't need any help on the doorstep," says Greg, but Andrew doesn't take any notice of that.
He's probably contemplating the creative possibilities offered by his own facial hair - when he's not fretting about LibDems getting creative with paper and ink.
Jen had promised to send me a letter she'd received last week from the LibDem to whom her MP lost his seat - which finally turns up in the post today. I'm so surprised when I see it that, like a fool, I email a scan of it to The Boss - who then goes up in metaphorical smoke.
"Christ, those LibDems know how to walk a fine line," he says, when he phones me to discuss the damn thing further. "Look at the colour of the paper, and the ink. The only thing missing is the bloody Commons crest."
For once, Andrew's right. The letter is within the rules, but it could very easily mislead. In it, the MP advises his constituents to vote for the various LibDem candidates at the local council elections in his constituency - as party political a message as can be - and which therefore mustn't be sent out on House of Commons headed paper.
Whenever The Boss wants to send anything similar to his constituents, we use the cheapest, plain white paper you can buy - which the Party has to pay for, of course, and not the taxpayer. It looks like shit, and doesn't really carry much clout at all.
However, Jen's new LibDem MP has found a cunning way to suggest that his suggestion of how to vote in the local elections has the official stamp of approval - which is why The Boss is blowing his top.
The letter is printed on cream paper which is exactly the same shade as the proper HOC* stuff, and the header is printed in green ink - also of the exact same shade as that used by the HOC. The lay-out of the MP's name and address is also the same, and the only thing missing is the Portcullis crest.
Now The Boss has decided that, if the LibDems should prove capable of similar campaign creativity in Northwick too, our candidates will need all the help they can get. Which apparently takes the form of me and Greg.
So, in the absence of a good barber with a way with twirly facial hair, that's the next few evenings spoken for - and all thanks to the new Green Ink Brigade. I can't wait for Friday night, and some time alone with Max - if he hasn't gone off and left me by then.
I wonder if you can cite jury service and local elections as grounds for divorce? Not to mention facial hair...
*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.
Showing posts with label Green Ink. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Green Ink. Show all posts
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Hacking, Paranoia And A New Use For Green Ink
God, I wish this phone hacking story would go away. It only encourages The Boss's paranoia. Now he's convinced that his calls are being tapped again.
He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.
It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.
Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.
Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.
"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."
When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.
When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.
"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."
"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."
Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?
I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:
"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."
"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "
"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."
Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)
"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.
"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."
"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.
He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,
"Molly, we're late for that meeting."
Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.
I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.
"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."
"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."
Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?
He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.
It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.
Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.
Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.
"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."
When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.
When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.
"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."
"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."
Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?
I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:
"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."
"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "
"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."
Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)
"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.
"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."
"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.
He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,
"Molly, we're late for that meeting."
Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.
I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.
"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."
"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."
Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Green Ink, Faith In Humanity And Fatmobiles.
I wish mad constituents still used green ink. Now everyone's got a computer, it's much harder to work out what I should be careful when opening. (I still haven't got over the whole decontamination incident.)
Anyway, today I spot a lavender-coloured envelope amidst today's post, so I leave it 'til last. Then I stab at it with the letter opener, while my back is half-turned. Eventually I succeed in opening it - without cutting it in half for once, so my technique is definitely improving.
"What is it?" says Greg, from underneath his desk.
"Oh," I say, then, "Aww."
"What? What? Can I come out or not?"
"Yes," I say. "You'll never guess what it is, anyway."
"As long as it isn't any more bloody white powder and my manboobs are safe from being put on public display again, I don't care what it is," says Greg, sitting back down in his chair, and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.
"It's a thank you card."
"Piss off, Molly! Don't be ridiculous."
"See for yourself," I say, and pass the card to Greg. It makes both our days. I can't remember the last time a constituent said thank you after we'd got them a result. Not that I think you should expect bonuses for just doing your job, but a thank you never goes amiss.
It's not as if I even did much to earn this one, either - I only sorted out Mr Bradley's hospital transport, which should never have been overlooked anyway. He writes that he's now got his prosthetic leg, that he's managing "very well" and that he and his wife will be "eternally grateful" for what I did for them.
You've got to love Mr B, even when his thanks make you cry. It seems that I can cope with anything in this job - except for people being nice to me. Greg's quick off the mark with a reality check, though.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" he says.
"What does?" I bet I've got mascara halfway down my face.
"How some people are so reluctant to ask anyone for help, no matter how much they deserve it, and then all these other bloody whingers - " He waves his hand across all the files and letters on his desk.
"I know," I say. "But at least there's some hope while there are still people like Mr B around. Now answer the phone, and let me get on with all this. I've got the damned diary to do as well today, don't forget."
An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, all his new-found faith in humanity will be lost. The reason for this turns out to be that Mr Franklin has just phoned - from the seaside.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say.
"He took his fatmobile there, on the train," says Greg.
"And?" I can't see what's so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere. Because he's fat. That's the whole point, plus I am too busy trying to decipher an invitation from the Cuban ambassador. Flowery handwriting is very hard to read.
"And he's run out of petrol, for f*ck's sake. Halfway down the pier. Wanted me to sort something out."
"And did you?" I ask.
"If I'd been there, I'd have pushed him off the end, but as that's not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don't get out of here for a bit, I'll be needing the other AA. So much for a renewed sense of purpose," says Greg, as he puts his coat on. It won't surprise anyone that I decide to join him.
Anyway, today I spot a lavender-coloured envelope amidst today's post, so I leave it 'til last. Then I stab at it with the letter opener, while my back is half-turned. Eventually I succeed in opening it - without cutting it in half for once, so my technique is definitely improving.
"What is it?" says Greg, from underneath his desk.
"Oh," I say, then, "Aww."
"What? What? Can I come out or not?"
"Yes," I say. "You'll never guess what it is, anyway."
"As long as it isn't any more bloody white powder and my manboobs are safe from being put on public display again, I don't care what it is," says Greg, sitting back down in his chair, and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.
"It's a thank you card."
"Piss off, Molly! Don't be ridiculous."
"See for yourself," I say, and pass the card to Greg. It makes both our days. I can't remember the last time a constituent said thank you after we'd got them a result. Not that I think you should expect bonuses for just doing your job, but a thank you never goes amiss.
It's not as if I even did much to earn this one, either - I only sorted out Mr Bradley's hospital transport, which should never have been overlooked anyway. He writes that he's now got his prosthetic leg, that he's managing "very well" and that he and his wife will be "eternally grateful" for what I did for them.
You've got to love Mr B, even when his thanks make you cry. It seems that I can cope with anything in this job - except for people being nice to me. Greg's quick off the mark with a reality check, though.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" he says.
"What does?" I bet I've got mascara halfway down my face.
"How some people are so reluctant to ask anyone for help, no matter how much they deserve it, and then all these other bloody whingers - " He waves his hand across all the files and letters on his desk.
"I know," I say. "But at least there's some hope while there are still people like Mr B around. Now answer the phone, and let me get on with all this. I've got the damned diary to do as well today, don't forget."
An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, all his new-found faith in humanity will be lost. The reason for this turns out to be that Mr Franklin has just phoned - from the seaside.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say.
"He took his fatmobile there, on the train," says Greg.
"And?" I can't see what's so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere. Because he's fat. That's the whole point, plus I am too busy trying to decipher an invitation from the Cuban ambassador. Flowery handwriting is very hard to read.
"And he's run out of petrol, for f*ck's sake. Halfway down the pier. Wanted me to sort something out."
"And did you?" I ask.
"If I'd been there, I'd have pushed him off the end, but as that's not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don't get out of here for a bit, I'll be needing the other AA. So much for a renewed sense of purpose," says Greg, as he puts his coat on. It won't surprise anyone that I decide to join him.
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