Today I have been mostly...

Irritated by adverts on TV...

2009-04-20T02:15:00.001+02:00

… specifically those that feature kids. Oh how I despise kids at the moment. Especially those in adverts. Number one irritating ad. is the one where the kid says he is going to “do a poo” at his friend’s house. It’s not the use of the word “poo” that is irritating – it’s the kids tone of voice. I just want to slap him. The ad. is a failure as far as I am concerned as I can’t tell you what is being advertised. Obviously something toilet related – at least I hope so. I think it might be for some sort of air freshener – or perhaps toilet cleaner – or maybe toilet paper. Perhaps it’s simply for toilets. The fact is, I haven’t rushed out to buy whatever the product is, and to be honest, even if I find out what it is, I would be more inclined to purchase a rival product – just because of that boy’s irritating voice. It’s worrying, too, that (assuming it is an ad. for air freshener) the kid seems obsessed with the stench of his own excrement. What the hell has he been eating? And if it really is THAT bad, surely the mother would already be using an air freshener. Also, why is toilet paper called toilet paper – we don’t wipe the toilet with it do we?

Then there’s that series of revolting adverts for bum-paper featuring that annoying toddler dressed in a suit. I just can’t bear it.

The other one that gets me all worked up, is the one where the kid’s party dress is on the washing line, and the mother notices a hideous stain (red wine, probably) and because of this the kid can’t go to the party. So – she only has the one dress? She has no other clothes? Does it actually matter what a kid wears to a party when they are going to come home covered in blackcurrant Fruit Shoot and vomit? And why is the mother washing the dress on the morning of the party? Does the kid go to a party every day? If so, then she should really have more than one dress – and if she hasn’t worn it for a while, why the hell hasn’t it been washed yet? No wonder the stain won’t come out. And what if it had rained? How would she have got the dress dry? Anyway – the random magical washing woman who knows how to get stuff clean (by using some magical product – again lost on me as I can’t remember what it is) is, for some reason, in the garden while the woman is examining the stain - where the hell was she when the dress was first washed? I reckon that if the dress has already been washed, the stain has been pretty much set anyway and there’s no chance of it coming out.

But no, after the demo where a greying garment is clearly dipped in neat Domestos, the dress is rewashed, and hung out to dry (yet again) and the kid is told she can go to the party after all. Every time it comes on I scream “Buy her another dress you bitch” – especially as that dress looks too small anyway. And white is not a practical colour for a child of that age. Also – why does the mother wait until she is hanging it on the line to examine it? I’d have checked as it came out of the washing machine.

Possibly worse than adverts are the sponsorship ones that come on before the start of a programme and annoy me for the duration of that show. The DFS ones on are quite bad, but the ones for online bingo are just hideous, especially the one where an annoying woman says “cheeky cheeky cheeky” – I could slap her and she’s only a bloody cartoon..

There are not many ads that I enjoy just now, although I quite like the one for a car where people keep pulling covers off the car and revealing another one underneath. Couldn’t tell you what the make of car is, but I like the way the car morphs into the cover. Very clever. And going back to blackcurrant Fruit Shoots, I like the ad for things that are £1, or perhaps it’s 99p, at Aldi where one of the items is a pack of “Fruity Shots”. A “Fruity Shot” is probably about as much like a “Fruit Shoot” as supermarket own-brand economy cola (6p a gallon) is like Coke. I’m guessing they also sell “Special J”, “Wanker’s Crisps” and “I can’t believe it! S’not butter”.

Buying shoes....

2009-03-09T18:28:00.003+01:00

Lots of my recent blogs seem to be shopping related. This week I decided I needed some black shoes, suitable for work, to replace the pair I usually wear which I have had for absolutely ages, which have completely worn out – well, one of them has worn out, leading me to suspect that I must walk really unevenly.

A couple of weeks ago I spotted the perfect pair in M&S. this was in the “Footglove, extra bloody wide, suitable for people with ducks flippers” range. I should have bought them then really, but I’d gone for brown shoes – and come away with brown boots. In the two short weeks since my last visit, everything had been moved. Always a bad sign. Wintery type shoes had been banished to a couple of racks, and you couldn’t move for sandals. I actually managed to find one shoe that looked suitable (although it was brown) – it was size 6 but it was way to big and fally-offy. (Suddenly remembering the advert from the 70s where the shoe-shop bloke says “You don’t want it all sloppy, do you?”…. suddenly remembering the trifle the husband made last year. I digress.) OK, I thought, the size below should be perfect. Wrong – I couldn’t even get it near to my foot. On closer examination I realised there was a slight difference between the two shoes, the 6 was the wide fit and the five and a half wasn’t. They didn’t have a wide five and a half and they didn’t have a narrow 6 – and anyway, they were brown. I started to panic. I tried on some sandals which were really rather nice and comfortable. I will go back in three weeks to buy these when they have none left.

I tried on all the totally inappropriate shoes, but nothing fitted. I went round the racks again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Bitterly disappointed, I decided to try the Clarks shop, knowing I’d end up paying double. I found a shoe I liked within seconds of entering the shop and after ten minutes I managed to attract the attention of the “assistant” who was idly examining the ceiling. She brought me the other one and buggered off and hid behind a sale rack. Within seconds I decided that they would do – they looked OK and I am sure they will be fine once I have broken them in. I walked nearer to the door and instantly attracted the assistant’s attention – that usually works. I braced myself for the usual hard sell on cleaning stuff.

First she told me that the shoes were not “weatherproof”. Now, call me old fashioned, but the one thing I usually look for in a shoe is its weatherproof quality. Had I not been concerned about having dry feet in the rain I could have had the bloody M&S sandals. Apparently, if I wanted them to be “weatherproof” then I needed a weatherproofing spray which I would need use every week. This is a blatant con. I have never needed to weatherproof my shoes before. I wondered what sort of weather they were crap in. Rain, I suppose. Snow – goes without saying. What else? Will my feet will get badly sunburnt in the summer? Maybe the shoes will blow away on a particularly gusty day. If not, then just be honest and say: “By the way, these £50 shoes leak to buggery.”

I declined her generous offer without even asking how much the spray cost. By the size of the can I was guessing £6 or £7, which means it would definitely be £9.99. I told her I already had some. She gave me a scathing look of disbelief, and I thought she was going to argue that it had only been invented this week so I couldn’t possibly have any. Instead she pointed out that because they were two coloured (black with a little bit of purple) I would need a special neutral shoe cleaning cream. I resented the implication that I was so stupid I’d clean the purple bits with black shoe polish. I can tell you now that is never going to happen. I’ve had my last pair for 8 years and never cleaned them. You see, if you don’t clean them all the dust and crap they pick up from the street waterproofs them naturally – and that’s my story and I am sticking to it.

After a bit more shopping and lunch in BHS I waited for my lift home and spotted the husband leaving the office at 2:20 pm, complete with bag so obviously finished for the day. However, he didn’t walk to the bus-stop the way I thought he would, he went a very convoluted route which involved passing a nearby pub. This may explain (a) why he took 2 hours to get his sorry ass home, (b) why he feels sick, and (c) why I am up here writing this blog and not downstairs cooking his tea. I think I should do more “spying” – I might follow him next time, and see where he really goes – when I’ve broken-in the new shoes, of course.

Tearing my hair out at the roots....

2009-02-24T13:20:00.000+01:00

Oh where do I start? It’s exactly the same “shopping problem” that I have had with the husband before. He is SO infuriating. I really don’t know why he just doesn’t leave it to someone else – like me? This time it’s an anorak. He needs a new one because (he says) the one he wears to go to Job 1 is old and tatty now. This is very true, but it must be at least 25 years old, and was originally from somewhere like M&S. In fact if I bought it, or if he had it as an Xmas present from my mum, then yes – it will have been bought from there. And that’s why it has lasted so long. The anorak he wears when he goes to Job 2 is revolting. This wasn’t really helped by him putting it down on a hotplate on the cooker the other week. He had actually been warned they were still hot. And anyway – who puts their coat down on a cooker?

So as well as being revolting, there is a big melted hole in the lining. There are still remnants of melted coat on the hotplate that won’t come off. So, he has decided, he wants a new coat to wear to Job 1. I am assuming, then that the old frayed current Job 1 coat will be demoted to taking him to Job 2. I should add, as well, that current holey Job 2 coat isn’t anywhere near as old as Job 1 coat – it’s one he bought, cheap.

Last week when we were in town, he decided to look in Millets. Goodness knows why! He needs to go somewhere like BHS, M&S or TJ Hughes. They sell the type of coat he is looking for. He tried one on, but it made him look like a prat. He didn’t buy it, not because of the ‘prat’ issue, but because he thought it’s waterproof quality would mean that rain would run off it and make his trousers wet. It was at this point that I suggested the type of place he needs to go. He actually agreed, but as he had tried on one coat already and because (he says) it’s too hot in shops to be trying on coats, we didn’t pursue the matter further.

So, yesterday he decided the best thing to do was go into town to the new camping shop to look for a new anorak. I decided NOT to go. I just can’t bear shopping with him. He doesn’t listen to any advise I have to offer, so there is little point. Naturally he came home empty handed. Why am I not surprised?

Apparently the ones in the camping shop were “a ridiculous price”. I did suggest (again) that he was looking in the wrong type of shop. I even offered to get him one for his birthday which is looming up rather quickly. I’d rather get him one that looks reasonable and will last. I don’t think spending something like £50 or so on a coat is a ridiculous price. The problem is, he likes a bargain. It would be worth it to get one from M&S, cut the label off and say it was £10 from the market. He’d love it then. (Mind you, if I did that, you can guarantee he would want another as a spare.)

So anyway – apparently he came to the same conclusion as me. He was looking in the wrong place. So he went back to Millets and was disappointed that prat coat from last week had been sold. He then went to TJ Hughes and found a perfect anorak – except the collar was grey. This was no use, as he said “it would get dirty really quickly”. Personally I don’t think grey gets dirty any more quickly than any other colour, it would get dirty at the same rate. If anything I would have thought grey would LOOK less dirty than, say, a white collar. But then, there is such a things as WASHING. I know he finds this a difficult concept to comprehend.

So the anorak saga continues. I can’t get into town to get one for him because he doesn’t like being left behind on his own anymore. The other thing he did yesterday was tell me exactly why he was unable to cut the lawns at the moment. Mainly it was because there was no room in the green bin this week. He then went out to cut the lawns. The reason why there is no room in the green bin is because I used to have a bamboo plant…..

Shopping...

2009-02-21T17:00:00.001+01:00

I seem to have somehow acquired a totally unjustified (in my opinion) bad shopping reputation. There are certain items which if I say I need, I can be sure of a lone shopping trip. The kids (and my mother) exchange a few knowing glances, and they adopt looks of panic in case I insist they come with me. These dreaded items are shoes, bags and purses. Yet (in my defence) the last two bags I bought were instant buys, especially the last one where I didn’t even get to touch it, or stroke it, or unzip it, and feel inside, and count the number of internal pockets, and test the strap before the purchase was made, because it was hanging up behind the till. And, to be fair, I hadn’t gone out to buy a bag. It was an impulsive purchase. The bag before that was a Christmas present I was choosing for myself – and that didn’t take long either. Shoes… well yes – they perhaps do have a point with shoes. Even I get no enjoyment out of looking for shoes.

The trouble is I pretty much know exactly what I want before I go shopping. The problem is tracking down what may or may not exist – and it usually doesn’t. For “ultimate handbag” it has to satisfy a very long list of requirements. Not too big or heavy, but with the capacity of the one in which Mary Poppins carried a standard lamp. It has to smell nice. The strap has to be non-slip - there are few things in life more exasperating than a strap that continually slips off your shoulder. It has to be easy access – no annoying flappy bits. Big enough to get my essentials inside – but not so big that everything I need hides down at the bottom with long forgotten half eaten packets of Polo’s, spare camera batteries and USB memory doo-dahs.

I’ll admit, I am much better at buying big things. Washing machines, fridges, cameras, computers, three piece suites – usually a five minute job. I walk up to the first one that takes my fancy – and that’s it. But clothes are a nightmare – and I suppose shoes fit into that category. I hate trying on shoes. My feet were not made for shoes. They hate being enclosed. They want to be naked and free. But the problem with naked feet, other than dog poo and drawing pins, is they do tend to elicit funny looks from passers-by. I can happily walk round the house and garden in my bare feet all day – but if I went down the road to post a letter – well, you can imagine – and sadly I do mind what people think.

I’ve been trying to buy a pair of trousers suitable for work since September. The ones I have – which are great but are beginning to wear out – were from Tesco and are size 18. I went back to Tesco and tried on (or at least tried to try on) 5 pairs of size 18 trousers. I couldn’t get them on. I then chose about 4 pairs of size 20, but they looked just awful. Yesterday, in desperation, I had a look in BHS. I suppose I knew I would come out empty handed. It’s annoying because I found some I really liked, the right colour, size and style, but they were “standard”. I’m not “standard” – I’m “short”. There was one miniscule section devoted to “short” but the material of the trousers there was different. It was cheap and nasty and felt all slimy and horrible. I just knew if I bought them they’d be all hot and sweaty within seconds – especially in a room heated by 16 computers and 25 kids. Do they think that only “standard” people are worth the nicer, cooler fabric? Do they think “short” people don’t sweat? I also wasted some time in the “petite” section. This is supposedly for people 5’ 3” and under. Well, I was 5’ 3” last time I looked, so in theory there should have been something there for me. What the sign doesn’t say, and should, is “Petite – for short THIN people” – because they really don’t cater for people like me - short and addicted to chocolate. Where is the “wide” section? They do “wide” shoes for people with duck’s feet (like myself).

I gave up on trousers and went off to the shop I refer to as Fat Pat’s – and every one else calls Evans, (think Eastenders). I wanted some tee shirts that are longer than normal length. Not because I am longer than normal, but I hate tee shirts that end at the waist. I like them to come down and cover my arse. It’s been impossible to get any longer ones for a couple of years, but they have made a very welcome comeback. However, I was out of luck again as the only longer length ones I could find were over size 30, apart from one size 14 lurking about on the rack. No surprise that it hadn’t sold, really – and it surely never will. If I was size 14 I’d be in Per Una, not bloody Fat Pats.

A bit fed up, I decided to go and look for some brown shoes in M&S. Something wide, preferably in their ‘Footglove’ range. I should have looked back in January, but the post-Christmas bout of pleurisy meant missing out on the sales. I must have tried on every bloody shoe in M&S, even at one point a pair of cream sandals which I really didn’t want.

The shoes that I could force onto my feet were hard and uncomfortable. The soft nice ones were black, or looked ridiculous. I should add that I can’t walk in anything other than completely flat shoes, which is also quite limiting. I was about to console myself in the sock and knicker department (I was determined to spend SOME money) when I spotted some boots I rather fancied. They were brown, and rather wonderful. I imagined that either I wouldn’t be able to get them on (or off again) and that they would be bloody uncomfortable. There was only one pair in my size and it took a while to find the left one. But they did fit, and they felt OK, and they even have a slight heel. I loved them. I thought they would probably cost a fortune, so I did brace myself somewhat when I turned them over to look at the price label. I was more than pleasantly surprised to see that they were only £30. Excited with my find, I bought them quickly before I could talk myself out of them, knowing that I’ll probably never wear them. I did buy some socks and knickers as well, because I never seem to have any socks these days, and it’s always nice to have new knickers, especially as I have so many that refuse to stay up – clearly knicker-elastic is not what it was. I have no idea why I am still in size 16 knickers, when I can’t squeeze myself into size 20 trousers. It makes no sense at all.

When I arrived home and displayed my purchases, I noticed the look of relief in the resident daughter’s eyes. I’ll wait till next time she’s out shopping with me – I still need trousers and shoes…

Woo Hoo!!!

2008-12-09T17:58:00.001+01:00

I now have a degree!!

Despairing...

2008-11-18T11:28:00.003+01:00

I know I have written extensively on the husbands weird and illogical shopping habits, but I feel he has excelled himself this time. He decided it was time he bought himself a new sweatshirt. It would have been preferable had he just put ‘sweatshirt’ on his Christmas list and left the shopping to someone else. But no – this was a mission that ended up actually taking a week. The problem, I think, boils down to his semi-retirement boredom and not knowing how to fill the day. The first part of the process was going through all his old sweatshirts and looking at the labels to establish his size. Then the stupid questions started.
“What does this label say?”
“Large.”
“So, do you think I should buy a large one then?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think this is too large do you?”
I should add at this point, he was talking about a sweatshirt he was wearing on our son’s first birthday (I have photographic evidence) and it wasn’t new then. Our son is 25.
The next day he went into town and was gone for several hours.
He returned empty handed. Apparently he had seen one in Asda for about £4, but he wasn’t sure if the large was large enough, or if it would be too large.
(Apparently, men don’t try things on… )
He had also seen one in Primark for a similar price, but didn’t know how it would wash.
(Hardly his problem as he doesn’t do washing.)
The ones in BHS had collars, and the ones in M&S were £25.
“TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS?!” he exclaimed. As an example of his tone of voice, imagine if you had gone to buy a loaf of bread and they tried to charge you about £500 for an old mouldy loaf, that was riddled with maggots – you’d be almost there!
“TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS?!” (imagine a really over the top Victor Meldrew impersonation done by Joe Pasquale on speed)
It took him the weekend to get over this. In the mean time I went into M&S and saw some for £35 but chose not to tell him. However, there were some ordinary grey plain sweatshirts for £9.50. No collar, so exactly what he wanted. I told him about these, and said I’d get him one for Christmas.
“NINE POUNDS FIFTY?”
The following Monday he had a second abortive trip into town, looking at some more “overpriced” sweatshirts in the wrong style that may not be the “right size of large” and may not wash very well, or last as long as his old one. (The one that carbon dating revealed to be pre-1980s)
“The trouble is,” he explained, “the nice ones are SO expensive - three times more than the cheap ones.”
I explained that they would last more than three times longer than the cheap ones, therefore – in the long run – were cheaper!
This was way beyond his ‘man logic’.
The next day he went back into town and purchased a cheap sweatshirt, in medium from a different shop. Not the cheapest, but cheaper than the £9.50 “outrageously priced” ones. When he got back home he tried it on. It was slightly tighter than skin tight.
“Do you think it’s big enough?”, he asked.
“Well no…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it looks a bit tight…”
“It feels fine.”
“Well don’t blame me if men chat you up in it!”
The next day he took it back and changed it for a large. Of course, the style and pattern is revolting – but that is another matter entirely. He is pleased with his “cheap” sweatshirt, although he says it’s not as thick as the ones from M&S, so he may have to wear a jumper on top.
So – it cost £6 plus four trips into town and back. The bus fares alone came to £12. In my ‘female’ logic – I see this as costing £18 – and he has an inferior product, that won’t last as long.

The following week he decided he needed a new hat…

...very happy but...

2008-09-20T00:22:00.003+02:00

...there is always someone to bring me down to earth with a crash.

And it's the ratbag husband again. I've just had an essay back. All my kids are living elsewhere. The budgie is very self-centred and doesn't care, and I could say the same for the assorted rodents. It was too late to ring my mother, so there was no one else to tell...

"I've had my essay back." I told him. Surely after 5 years of this, he should know that this means he should ask what the mark is - just in case it's fantastic.
He said nothing...
"That was really quick!" I told him. This was his second chance to ask.
He said nothing...

I suppose I could have told him at this point - but why should I? I shouldn't have to. If I tell him it doesn't mean anything. I want him to be interested. Or at least pretend to be. It's not hard, for example, I asked him how his day was and he'd been train spotting. I even looked at his photos.

"Yes..." I continued, "it was really quick - the deadline was only last Thursday."
"Well" he said, "Perhaps no one else bothered to send theirs in."
Yes - of course - that MUST be it. I mean - why would they? It was only worth 35% of this tutor marked bit of the course. I'm clearly the foolish one for actually doing it!

Anyway - he has gone to bed now, so clearly he isn't going to ask. And I refuse to tell him. I will have to find some other way. Perhaps in 6 ft high red numbers on our white garage door. 88%

Confused... and peed off... again!

2008-08-21T02:29:00.003+02:00

So, I went to London at the weekend, to see “Joseph” and it was brilliant. Lee Mead... topless... and that’s all you need to know about that!! “Sausage” travelled really well on the train & the tube – and showed that even in London, strangers want to come and talk to you if you are carrying a small, but devastatingly handsome, Jack Russell puppy!

Going to London, though, meant leaving Bosie (rabbit) and the Guinea pigs in the husband’s incapable hands. Knowing what he is like, I did a list of instructions. The first thing I put on the instructions was that the rabbit food was in the tall box with the green lid. I assumed then, with that information, he would work out that the Guinea pig food was in the short square box with the words “Guinea Pig” written on the lid.

The instructions also told him to put a large carrot in each hutch each morning; to fill the food bowls and change the water morning and evening; to check the water in the afternoon because the rabbit drinks a lot, and tends to put his toys in the water bowl. Oh and at bedtime, they have a large handful of hay. It's not rocket science is it? It is all perfectly straightforward - I think.

This list of instructions was attached to the fridge. Knowing what he is like (totally unable to buy the right things) I bought a bag of Guinea pig food in case we ran out over the weekend. We had enough rabbit food. I also bought a bag of carrots.

So when I got back on Tuesday, he confessed to having had a major problem. He couldn’t tell which was the rabbit food and which was the Guinea pig food. I said it was on the instructions. He said he hadn’t read that bit.

Brilliant.

Waste of my time and ink.

Twat... (me, that is, for thinking he could manage this simple task.)

So, as he explained – he opened the new bag of Guinea pig food, because then he would at least get that right. So I expected then that the girl Guineas would have the right food, and that in the hutch with the boy Guinea and the rabbit, there would have been a dish of the new Guinea pig food (Science Selective) and either a dish of rabbit food OR a dish of the old Guinea pig food (which wasn’t Science Selective because they didn’t have it last time).

What I found was NO evidence of any Science Selective Guinea pig food being used at all. The dish in the girls’ hutch was the old Guinea pig food, so that was OK. No problem. In the other hutch however, where there are two dishes, one of rabbit and one of Guinea pig food, both had been filled with the old Guinea pig food. Now this is where I get confused and struggle to follow his ‘logic’.

It doesn’t really matter. The animals have all survived, it really isn’t a problem that the rabbit has been eating Guinea pig food, I just don’t understand. I have weighed the new (open) bag of Guinea pig food and none of it has been used. I also weighed the bag of carrots and none of those have been used either. And the bag of hay looks suspiciously un-used. Part of me thinks he does it on purpose so that I won’t go away for a few days again.

And don’t even get me started on the day I went. I picked up my bags, said I was going. No response.

“See you on Tuesday!” I said (determined to force some sort of reaction.)

“Mmmm, very good.” he replied without looking up. Very good? What the hell does that mean?

“Bye!” I added. Nothing. No ‘have a nice time.’ No ‘hope your journey is OK.’ No ‘enjoy the show.’ No ‘have you got your tickets’. No ‘here’s a fiver for a cup of coffee.’ Surely he could manage one of those – or even a simple ‘bye’.

And when we got back, no ‘did you have a nice time’.

And he has peed me off today as well. I was trying to read this morning, so he felt the need to discuss tea (as usual). He was asking me about some beef burgers that I bought recently that he had particularly enjoyed (probably because I'd cooked them properly, they'd cost twice what he pays and were 100% beef - and not 10% badger/90% navel fluff and burnt to buggery like the ones he tends to cook). He asked me how many we’d had. I told him where I’d had them from (the local farm shop) and that we’d had two each. (He was convinced we’d had one each). A bit later on, just before he went out to get them he checked again with me.

“So it was one each, was it?”

“NO! It was two each. I bought four.”

“Oh right,” he said – and buggered off into town. (You may remember I said I'd had them from a farm shop - not town...)

So he bought two. And no – that wasn’t even one each – he bought two for himself. He didn’t buy any for me. When I got in at 7 he was just sitting down to his huge plate of tea. How thoughtful. So I had a Cornetto. Still – it sort of made up for the day last week when I cooked the dinner for everyone, and cleared away the plates etc., and he decided we needed pudding. There were 5 of us and he did four dishes of ice cream – handing them round to everyone else except me. Perhaps next time I cook the tea I should miss him out, or perhaps I should make him a rabbit food pie so he learns to recognise it… with carrots and hay… we’ve got loads to spare.

I know he has been the subject of most of these blogs - maybe you think I embellish these little tales of woe. Sadly, I don't need to, he really is this inept. And from this week, he is semi-retiring. He's going to be working Tuesdays Wednesdays and Thursdays - coming home at 1pm on a Tuesday - so the only time I will have to myself will be Tuesday mornings. I'm going to have to find something to do to get me out of the house on Mondays!

Looking for explanations...

2008-07-08T12:06:00.003+02:00

Weird things have been going on in the garden again – and this time I don’t think the husband is responsible. I’m fairly confident that he was asleep when these things happened, so on this occasion I’m looking for another culprit.

Mind you – I am not sure I have forgiven him for what he DID do at the weekend, which robbed the garden of some much needed colour, (other than the many shades of green of course, the garden is a sea of greenery). He pruned MY rose. My climbing Masquerade. My all time favourite rose. The flowers change colour as they develop, meaning you have some youthful yellow buds at the same time as some vivid red and fading pink petals. It is beautiful. Well – it WAS. Now it’s a spiky green stick.

He had a new pruning device for his birthday. (Yes – I DO know what they are called, but I can’t spell it – spell-check is unhelpfully suggesting ‘escapers’, ‘securers’ and ‘sweaters,’ and I can assure you I am not spelling it THAT badly. Perhaps it’s a French word.) Owning a garden tool that works and isn’t rusty (yet) sent him into a pruning frenzy. He removed all the flowers and buds, thus saving himself valuable minutes picking up dropped petals later on in the year. This was a rose that often bloomed until late November.

He has also been in plant-moving mode. We have a lovely deep pink peony that he relocates every year. His reason is because “it must be in the wrong spot”. (It IS – it’s in our garden.) He is disappointed that it only ever produces one flower… I think, this time, he’s actually moved it back to its original spot, which is pretty amazing – he usually kills them off long before they make it all the way round. There’s no point complaining – he always “justifies” the latest move, and carries on regardless. Plus, if he didn’t do it, nothing in his life would ever change.

But anyway, last night – about 7.45 pm I put some frozen food away in the freezer which lives in one of the few spots in the garage where the roof doesn’t leak. There was nothing strange then. After Eastenders I went to get an ice-lolly. Still nothing weird to report. I went out much later on to give Bosie and the Guinea pigs their night time handful of hay, and to be honest, it was too dark and damp and slug-y and snail-y to hang around. This morning though, when I took their morning carrots out, there was a toothbrush on the patio. It’s pretty old and worn and looks disgusting – but how did it get there? It can’t have blown into the garden like a crisp packet. It’s not one that I recognise. So far, the only logical solutions I can come up with are: (a) the next door neighbour has chucked it out of her bathroom window in an effort to pay me back for the time I lobbed a snail over the fence which (if the short high-pitched squeal was anything to go by) MAY have accidentally hit her; (b) a passing burglar dropped it while making his escape through our garden – my mum acquired a large axe like that, just before she moved house; or (c) it fell out of the sky. I’ve ruled out the possibility of it being a gift from whoever – or whatever – left box of cat-food under my car a few months ago.

A quick look round the garden revealed other tell-tale signs of strange goings-on. Just next to the recycling-box I discovered a large frog, which although still alive, had one back leg outstretched and sticking out at a bizarre angle – yet there are no signs of a fight. No cat-fang marks at all. And yesterday, while I was alone in the house, there was a strange tapping noise, either on the roof, or possibly on the bedroom window. I blamed the magpies at the time, and quickly closed all the windows.

It reminded me of the time when my grandma was living with my mum, a few years back. Grandma had started to “see things”, and my mum had put these hallucinations down to a combination of an overactive imagination and “her age”. My mum would take her an early morning cup of tea, and ask what sort of a night she’d had. It was always dreadful. Grandma enjoyed the role of martyr to the full. She NEVER slept. (Quite why she snored half the night then was another mystery.)

She’d say things like: “At 4 o’clock there was a cat trying to get into my bedroom.” My mum would ridicule this suggestion. “No,” she would say, “You must have dreamt it, it’s impossible.” She’d look out of the window – there was no way for a cat to get up onto the window ledge, and even if there was, it was way too narrow to sit on. Sometimes Grandma would see the “cat” in her room in the afternoon. She’d be coming back from the bathroom, and it would be sitting on her chair. She'd call my mum up in a panic. My mum would investigate – there was never a cat. She’d sneakily sniff my grandma’s cup of tea to see if she'd added a drop too much whisky…

A couple of months after Grandma died, my mum was woken by a scratching noise at the window – and there he was. The cat who had mastered the art of walking up brick-walls! My mum felt the inevitable guilt… but at the back of her mind I know she was thinking, “I bet that’s her, come back to prove a point!”

I don’t really believe in all the supernatural stuff, but when inexplicable things happen, it seems easier to come up with irrational explanations – but wherever the toothbrush came from, whoever brought it – why a bloody GREEN one? We’ve enough green in the garden.

...moaning

2008-05-31T22:33:00.002+02:00

One of the problems of having a blog is that you run the risk of people thinking you are as bitter and twisted as an old lemon, always moaning like the old biddies that fill the buses. Partly this is due to not really needing to tell the world all is well. It would be a short and potentially annoying blog: Today I feel great because everything went right. Who would want to read that? I do have days like that, but they don’t inspire me to write. It’s days like today. You see I have woken up – well no – not true, I GOT up – to wake up you need to have been to sleep in the first place, and to sleep at the moment I’d need to pour a sneaky bag of cement in next door’s pond – something to clog up the incessant noise.
It used to be a pleasing gurgle – rather like the gentle hum of a new computer, it’s there, but you can block it out, and it’s only when you switch it off and the wall of silence pounds the eardrums that you realise there has been a noise. Then one day you switch the computer on and you look outside for the tractor which you assume is driving past.
The pump is making a knocking, rattling, banging, gurgling, spluttering electrical sort of clattery-hum, like a hideous aquatic one man band. It’s not just at night, it’s there in the daytime too, but I swear she switches the volume up as it goes dark. Perhaps she screws in a loudhailer attachment at dusk.
So I GOT up this morning to find that my right ankle has mysteriously doubled in age. The rest of me is as sprightly as an overweight elk (not as sprightly as I could be – but still sprightly), but the one leg is as agile as an antique table leg. How did that happen?
Yes. I walked a lot yesterday, but no more than normal days when I walk a lot. My foot doesn’t always inflate like a lead balloon. I’m walking downstairs like Long John Silver and I can fully appreciate why he yo-ho-ho’d in a bottle of rum all the time.
Not having any rum in the house, I took solace in the last slice of wedding cake. I’ll regret that later, when the after effects of the wheat kicks in. The contents of my stomach will be liquidised, I’ll feel like I’ve eaten a sack-full of nettles, and I’ll be farting for England, the gold medal will be dropped round my neck and the Union flag goes up and the National Anthem is played on a wonky trumpet. Today is the day I give up wheat. After a month of experimenting with it, there is no question, it really does hate me.
On Wednesday I developed hay-fever. I had it once before, very briefly when I was 14 and had a broken nose, but I haven’t had it since. When I go out my eyes run, they itch, they feel sore and swollen. Inside, they revert back to my eyes. There is something in the air, I can feel it, I can smell it. It must be some mutant pollen that is creeping in now that I’ve opened my bedroom window, still it takes my mind off the fat ankle and noise-polluting pump.
I’ve been reading a book this week – such a novelty. It’s something I just haven’t had time to do while I’ve been doing two courses, but now I’m just doing one I thought I’d treat myself.
I can’t cope with a novel yet. I can’t commit to one. I can just about cope with short stories. Something I can pick up, read for a while, then delete it from my memory when I put the book down. I don’t have to remember who’s shagging who, who's been murderered, and so on. Novels invade your life, yet in a way these bloody short stories are as well. Had the author not said she was Irish, I would have known by the way she writes, so I am reading it with an Irish accent, which I can do really well – in my head. But now I’ve put that aside for the day, picked up my book on post-war German cinema, and can I get rid of the Irish accent now? No I bloody can’t, it’s most off-putting.
I’ve watched half of the German film I have to watch for this module. I would have carried on watching, but it was time for Eastenders, and give me East-end 'reality' of Peggy’s wigs, Dot’s bible quotes and Jean’s ‘Sausage SURPRISE!’ any day over the unexpected full-frontal male nudity – it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been good looking, but no one wants to see some old ugly bloke’s bits flopping about in your living room when you’re trying to eat your tea.
Oh great… now there are bloody seagulls flying about outside my window. Not those poxy little small inland gull things either, these are giant beasts with 4ft wingspans and beaks like mechanical diggers. We’re about as far away from the sea as you can get in the country, so why are they here? I’ll tell you why - they’ve been lured here by next-doors pump and they are currently circling, looking for something the size of Niagara falls, and let’s face it, the only thing round here that fits that description is my bloody ankle.

wondering (but not wandering)

2008-03-27T10:37:00.002+01:00

This morning's sunshine and blue sky are begging me to go out and enjoy them, and I have no doubt that if one of the kids were here I would drag them out for a walk, but walking alone seems odd. I get funny looks, I am viewed with suspicion - yet all the time I am out alone, I have to view others with suspicion.

Is this person going to pounce and rob me of my phone - or worse? Does that person think I am a sad character with no friends? Where would I go? If I went missing - no one would know where to look for me. Would anyone look for me?

Is that large dog going to knock me over - or bite me on the bum. Perhaps I should carry a lead so that people think I too have a large dog, somewhere, off doing his own thing, but that will come bounding over to my rescue. Should I get a dog? Extreme when for the rest of the year it's likely to be grey or raining and I wouldn't want to go out.

Is it easier to just be a vegetable, and sit inside with a book - resenting each page because I want to be outside? Or should I just think - sod them all - all the other walkers with their dogs, their partners and their shared thoughts and experiences. I'll go, I'll feel the sun on my face, I'll watch the squirrels arguing, I'll hear the birds singing.

But if I do, the first unusual thing that I see will be wasted as there will be no one to share it with - just me. True - I could take a camera, the video camera perhaps - then if anything exciting happened, I'd have a record of it - and I could come home, to the emptiness, and relive the loneliness.

Or perhaps this good weather will clear up - and rain.

...grey

2008-03-21T23:27:00.002+01:00

Odd isn’t it, when you realise that other people perceive you in a totally different way to the image you see in the mirror (or have in your head). In the space of a week I realise that I have become ‘Mrs Bland’. The first indication was last week when I was trying to think of a book character I could go dressed as for the ‘book character day’ at school – I had less than 24 hours to find a costume. One of my colleagues suggested I get some bunny ears (yes girls, we all have those, don’t we?!!) and go as a rabbit (from Watership Down) – well I don’t have a problem with that, but it was the killer comment, “You wear a lot of grey…”
Do I?
I didn’t think I did! My work trousers are brown, purple and black (that’s three different pairs by the way, before you have me locked up by the fashion police), my tops are various shades of purple, green, pink, aqua, blue, brown, red, etc. I own 2 jumpers a black one for funerals (too hot for school) and a blue one. I have some turquoise tops, a frog green fleece, I wear a lot of jeans. I have some exciting shocking pink bras, and my knickers are – well definitely NOT grey – some have Spongebob Squarepants on them – bright yellow with turquoise edging.
I own 2 grey items of clothing. A grey fleece which I haven’t worn over the winter (instead I’ve been wearing a greenish coloured coat), and a grey and silver stripy top I’ve worn once to school. I do have a grey winter coat, but that is mainly for funerals as it’s wool and a bit itchy.
You get my point. I do not wear a lot of grey. So this must mean I am a grey person. If I create the impression I am colourless, then my personality must be monochrome. I’ve become John Major.
Great.
Just to reinforce my apparent blandness, yesterday, when the husband came in from work he ignored me completely. He looked grim faced, and I thought (as you do), "Oh shit, what’s happened."
I was sitting on the settee reading. I’m not sure what I was wearing, but it wasn’t grey. Actually, I think it was jeans and my shocking pink tee shirt. It was a bit cold, so my legs and feet were covered with an orange, purple and pink blanket (Ikea). You would think, against the dark blue background of the settee, I’d have been fairly noticeable. In fact, it didn’t occur to me that he hadn’t seen me – I felt I was quite un-missable!
When he came into the lounge, I said, “Hello” – as one does.
He ignored me, so I repeated it, more loudly; “HELLO” I bellowed.
No response.
“Hello” – I tried a third time, but then he was gone – he went upstairs calling, “Hello? Hello?”
He came back in the lounge and looked straight at me, and visibly jumped – he obviously didn’t expect me to be there.
“Oh,” he said, “THERE you are.”
So that’s that then. When I turned 50 I became invisible; Gandalf the Grey; the blandest of the bland; washed-up and washed-out. I think I might get myself a blue rinse, or perhaps one of those purple or pink Mrs Slocum specials.

Writing letters (that will never actually be sent...)

2008-02-04T12:23:00.000+01:00

Husband,

I owe you an apology.

You see I’ve been accusing you (in my mind) of becoming increasingly annoying. The crime? Leaving the toilet seat up more often than you used to. In fact, it’s obvious that these days you NEVER put it down. Ever.

It is something that I find intensely annoying. Not just because I have to put it down to use it, but because whenever I see it up I HAVE to put it down. It’s THAT offensive to me. And because the bathroom is right at the top of the stairs, whenever I come upstairs, it’s there – glaring at me, taunting me, revolting me. Annoying me.

I have been wondering why you have started doing this more than you used to. For a while I decided it was all part of the “Well we’ve been married for 25 years so she isn’t going to leave me now”, routine. (Don’t be so sure).

But this morning, I understood! I realised! It was obvious!! I’ve been a fool!!!

It’s because it’s just you and me now – and I don’t mean that now the kids have gone you think you don't need to make as much of an effort. It’s because when they were living here THEY were also putting the seat down when they used it (or when they saw that it had been left up). Three more people walking past, using it, and putting it down meant that I simply didn’t know it was left up as much as it was.

So, I apologise for THINKING that you were doing it more often, just to annoy me. I suppose it’s balanced out though by me giving you the benefit of the doubt over the urine on the bathroom wall, radiator and (God knows how) the back of the door. I can only assume you have had some sort of spray attachment fitted – like those you get in garden centres to go on hoses. While there were other males (resident and transient) in the house, I could always partially blame them (again, in my mind).

Now, I know.

Wendy
(PS – please put your bloody Christmas presents away. It is now February.)

Eldest Daughter (by about a minute),

I thank you.

Not only for your efforts in replacing the toilet seat and lid, but for answers to so many unanswered questions.

Yes – I have been in your room – or rather – what WAS your room. Blimey!

No wonder the earth’s resources are low and we have to recycle. There’s so much ‘stuff’ in your room, that I don’t really know where to start.

Perhaps coat-hangers is as good a place as any to start? 34 of them to be precise. Amazing. I have no idea where I am going to put them all!

Socks. I wonder if you remember all those times I asked you to check through your room to see if you had any of the “missing” socks? All those times you told me you had checked, but no – you didn’t have any? Well, I’ve been keeping that bag of odd socks for about 5 years or so – and last week I came to the conclusion that they must have been consumed somehow by washing machines or tumble dryers. I threw them away.

Total sock count? 61 – Hang on though – there were two more (not a pair) in a cardboard box I was going to put out for recycling. 63 then. About 40 of these were mine.

Then there is all the other stuff: A traffic cone. Please collect this – I really don’t want it. Missing dishes, glasses, plates, umbrellas, mugs, spoons, and so on, have now resurfaced. There are pens, pencils and birthday cards (unused) that look vaguely familiar. Some of my books that I have been looking for. Beads, buttons, needles, cotton, string, shoe-laces, plasters, paracetamol, lighters. Enough leads, cables, wires etc. to set up a small shop. Oh – and if your staple remover is a bit bent – it’s because I trod on it. DVDs and CDs not in their boxes, and empty DVD and CD boxes – but curiously they don’t match up (so no mystery solved there!) I am assuming you will be taking your giant ant at some point – or is it a wasp or a grasshopper?

Then there are all the weird objects that I can’t identify!

So many of these things are really small. I think it was sifting through these that took me back to the much younger you (probably because so many of these look like toys – and probably are parts of toys - if you have stopped eating Kinder Eggs they will have noticed a drop in their profits). You have always had a fascination for really tiny things! I guess it’s all part of your personality and what makes you, you. When these things have all gone, it will be strange (and SO much tidier) and I do pity anyone who shares your space in the future!! But I will miss you. I miss all of you – I just didn’t realise till now, sitting here on my own, writing my sad little blog because there is no one to talk to.

I guess I have done my job. No doubt I could have done things better. I hope I didn’t get everything wrong and that I’ve done some things right. When I’ve been tidying your rooms I’ve never found anything drug or knife related; to my knowledge none of you have ever been arrested; you don’t get into fights, steal; you don’t drop litter. I’m not taking the credit for this, I am merely pointing out how lucky I’ve been.

I am proud of you all – and of your various achievements, and it’s wonderful to see you looking happy, and sharing your lives with some lovely people.

As one chapter of my life comes to a close, new ones are starting for all of us. (I felt it absolutely necessary to close this letter in a really corny and cheesy way – but it is true).

Love you,

Love Mum XXXXX – No that looks wrong, Love Wend. XXXXX

...taking the PITH

2008-02-02T00:53:00.000+01:00

It was satsumas this time. I don't know how a grown man can be so bloody stupid at times. Where was he when common sense and logic were dealt out? Probably at the market, buying fruit.

He moans about the price of satsumas in Sainbury's. OK - but at least when you get them home they are mostly edible - and often you can get a BOGOF offer. I have to say, if I worked in Sainsbury's, I'd always be telling him to bog-off. I am, of course, referring to the husband.

He had a day off (oh lucky me). He started talking about our lack of satsumas, and how expensive they are in Sainsbury's. There is a farm shop just down the road - so two satsuma sellers within walking distance. He decided the farm shop would probably be as expensive as the supermarket. He said he should have got some from the market when he was in town. I agreed - pointing out that if you were in town already, well it made sense to get fruit from the market - however, if that was the sole reason for going - well it made it more expensive than Sainsburys.

Oh no - he argued - because they are only £1 in the market.

Ah but the bus fare (my argument).

So, he went into town to get some satsumas - to make it 'worthwhile' he bought £2's worth. The total busfare was £3. How is that 'cheaper'? Plus, the satsumas are hard as bullets, impossible to peel, the pith is welded to the fruit, they are sour and very pippy. Some are green in places - they have gone mouldy already. So we will probably end up throwing half of them away.

Surely it would have been better (and actually cheaper) to get the more expensive ones in the first place? It would also have saved time - and the fruit would have been edible.

Please, someone explain it to me, because I just don't understand!!!

Thinking about when life imitates art...

2008-01-06T20:15:00.000+01:00

The other day there was a story on the news about some rich guy, a ‘nob’ (as opposed to a knob), a lord or an earl or something of that ilk, has been made bankrupt and lost his house which has been in his family since the year 900 and something. OK, very sad and all that (I am sure he won’t be homeless and selling The Big Issue – but that’s not the point of this story, and neither is how his family got that house/land in the first place). It is this: After telling us this sorry little tale, the news presenter people went on to say that it was “life imitating ART” – the ART in question being the sitcom “To the Manor Born”, and they showed us a little clip of when Audrey Forbes-Hamilton lost the manor. Apologies if I have got her name wrong – this is something that was on in the 80s I think so I am having to think back quite a long way – I am referring to the character played by Penelope Keith (AKA Margot Leadbetter). Now it comes to something, doesn’t it, when they think we are that thick that we would be totally bemused by the story of someone losing their house until they show us a clip of a sitcom – and – poor confused us – it’s like someone has switched on the little light-bulb above our dense little heads!! “Oh I SEE” we yell at the screen, oblivious to the fact that Nick Owen and Kay Alexander can’t actually hear us!! Now we understand! Honestly – the day we need this sort of clarification is the day we should all start watching Newsround, which is, of course, great!

Stories go a bit like this. (Read slowly – that’s how they talk)
Some children in a school are helping the environment by making their own carrier bags out of old onion skins because they are what grown-ups call bi-o-de-gra-dab-le, that means that they melt away into nothingness after lots and lots of years. Not like the ones you get from your local supermarket which are made of Kryptonite and will kill superman. Some of you have been emailing in your thoughts on this story.
Emily from Dundee says: “I think it’s a very good idea, we should be saving the planet, it’s a nice thing to do.”
Hubert from Doncaster days “It’s silly, we’ve been using Kryptonite bags for years now, and they haven’t done any harm.”
Chris from Wolverhampton says, “I don’t care what my shopping bag is made out of as long as I get my cheese.”
Even Newsround don’t feel the need to tell us it’s “life imitating art” and then go on to show clips of when Sooty and Sweep had a huge falling out over who should put the rubbish out, and then Soo the annoying panda came along and made them all recycle everything, just before Sweep hid under his duvet and Sooty squirted Mr Corbett with his water pistol.

But to go back to the original story. Imagine that bloke and his wife sitting down to have their tea (presumably in some hostel somewhere) and the telly is on, and they have to suffer that clip of “To the Manor Born”. So, now, with every news story I see I am trying to relate it back to some sitcom or soap, so I can sit there and say, “Oh I get it, like on Casualty, when Charlie had that very unconvincing heart attack”.

trying to write a poem, but failing miserably...

2008-01-06T15:27:00.000+01:00

...I’ve now come upstairs where there are distractions of a different type. Downstairs, the distraction is in the shape of a moaning ogre. He is moaning because, he says, sitting in the chair is making his shoulder hurt. He is sitting in the chair while he is saying this. Is it only obvious to me then that maybe he should get out of the offending chair? Now I could, of course, use all this as material to write a poem, but after listening to a piece of music (it’s one of the activities in ‘the book’) I should now be writing, inspired by the mood created by the music. And I was happily writing about a kite. But then, after the distraction of his first batch of moaning, he buggered off to the shop to get a paper, leaving me in peace. However, after being out for almost an hour (when I managed to get back in the right kite-y frame of mind) he returned saying he’d got to the shop but didn’t have any money. He must have been walking in slow motion, because I can get to the shop, do the shopping, and be home in half an hour – if I rush. So he went back out again, and when he returned with the paper (and a few bits of shopping) I was getting my lunch. It was then that he started moaning about crumpets. He was going to give them to the birds round by the lake (I assume he means the feathered variety) because he had a couple this morning (crumpets I think, not birds or women) and they were a bit stale. His reason: “They don’t seal the bag after they’ve used them.”

They? Who are these ‘they’? I assume (I am doing more assuming than I should be) that he is referring to the kids who were probably the last people to have any of the crumpets. This was TWO WEEKS AGO – even in sealed bags, they are not going to be at their best by now, are they? In fact in sealed bags it’s likely that they’d be mouldy rather than stale and dried out. But I tried to ignore all this and get back into ‘kite mode’. This worked for a while, but then he came into the lounge. Moaned again about the chair giving him a bad shoulder, then he put his lamp on and in the process kicked over two bottles of wine which are still standing (or rather were still standing) by his chair since he opened them on Christmas day (round about the same time the crumpets were opened). Now, he was the one who left them there – I’ve moved all of my presents, in fact I eaten, drunk, used, played with, listened to and read most of mine already. Some are in a little pile waiting to be used. Wine that I unwrapped has been put away – or opened and consumed – mainly put away because I haven’t felt much like drinking this past couple of weeks.

But anyway, I digress slightly. “Oh good!” I thought; “Now he might move them.” But no – again I was wrong in my assumption. He said: “Blasted wine bottles!” and kicked them across the room. Luckily they didn’t break, (although they did clatter together quite a bit), but he has just left them where they landed – and I am NOT going to pick them up, even if he has got a “bad shoulder”. I have noticed that the “bad shoulder” comes and goes depending on if he wants to do something. If he wants someone to do something for him, it becomes totally unusable, for example when he was conning someone into wrapping Christmas presents that he really should have wrapped himself.

Anyway – I have just been in the kitchen to see what is in his shopping bag, and there is quite possibly the one item I would never have guessed he would have bought in a million years. It’s a box of nettle and fennel teabags. I’d say it’s the most out of character thing he has ever bought. Possibly, if I look hard enough, there should be lots of inspiration and material for writing a poem about how much he gets on my nerves, but I dearly want to write a happy poem, my kite poem – which just isn’t happening. So, now I am upstairs, I have the distraction of writing a blog; my current Scrabble game on Facebook; an OU website to look at with its various forums to read (that’s not the correct plural of forum, is it? Perhaps it’s fora? Spellcheck doesn’t know, and is somewhat unhelpful in not offering me a useful suggestion); and a window to look out of, with clouds to find shapes in, and an irritating man driving past in a van overusing his horn and shouting “Scrap iron”. But no kites.

Perhaps I will go and fill the bath with outrageously decadent quantities of bubbles, put my MP3 player on, and lie there listening to my inspirational music, and then, when I am all warm, relaxed, dry and dressed, and with nice smelling hair, I’ll go for a walk and think about kites, then maybe I will come home and be satisfyingly poetic. Either that or I’ll stick those two bottles of wine where the sun don’t shine.

ill, and sad...

2007-12-31T11:13:00.000+01:00

as Christmases go, this has not been the best, or the happiest. In fact, quite a lot of sad things, so we’ve had to clutch onto the amusing things, for sanity’s sake, really. And rather like Rimmer (in Red Dwarf) was sent to keep Lister sane, I have ‘t’other arf’ – to either keep me sane (I take comfort in knowing my family may be weird, but not half as weird as his) – or to drive me completely bonkers, I’ve not yet decided which.

Two things stand out at the moment. There was the trifle. It was Sunday, and he “found” a Bird’s Trifle in the back of the kitchen cupboard. I have no idea how it got there, although I know he has bought and made them in the past – but by past I am talking 25 years ago, at least. I mean – who needs a kit? They are a piece of piss to make. But I am not a huge fan so I guess I don’t make them as often as he would perhaps like. So, if a trifle is a piece of piss to make, an easy trifle kit should be fairly idiot proof – you would think!

I should have realised that with the first batch of stupid questions, I should have just gone into the kitchen, cut out the “muddle” man – and made the stupid thing myself. It would have been far easier. But, you know, sometimes, you have to make people suffer (even if that means suffering yourself). I’ve cut this down, by the way, for each of these questions, imagine it asked in about 6 different ways (but basically meaning the same thing):

Question: Where’s this Bird’s Trifle come from?
Answer: Dunno – didn’t know we had one.
Question: Is everything there, in the kit then?
Answer: I expect so
Question: But what if you wanted to put fruit in it? Would that be possible?
Answer: You could put reindeer turds in it, if that’s what you wanted, you can do what you like with it. (I was wrong there – but never mind!)

After an HOUR in the kitchen, he had made the jelly part, looked pathetically at the sponge fingers – he wasn’t quite sure what you had to do with them (men don’t really read instructions terribly well, do they?) – and I had come to his rescue and snapped them into smaller pieces. He ruined a saucepan making the custard. He also cocked up the custard. Big time. He told me he’d made it and put the clingfilm on its surface to stop the skin forming. I knew he wouldn’t have done this properly – he doesn’t “do” clingfilm at all. It was over the jug. I told him it was supposed to be actually on the custard itself, or the skin would still form. That’s when I spotted the mistake. There was almost two pints of extremely thin custard. That’s what had taken an hour, he’d been waiting for it to thicken – let’s face it, if he’d stirred it till now, it wouldn’t have got any thicker. I told him he had used too much milk. He insisted that he hadn’t (and tried to make me look foolish for even suggesting it). I pointed out that there was substantially more that a pint in the jug – ‘ah yes’, he agreed, ‘but don’t forget the powder’ – I told him that I really didn’t think that the small quantity of custard powder from the packet would make that much impact on a pint of milk. He then got me the milk carton out of the fridge to prove to me that he couldn’t possibly have used too much – if anything, he had used LESS. I wasn’t convinced. He then went over the instructions with me (again, to prove his point), ‘Look’, he explained, ‘it says use a little milk out of a pint to mix with the powder, heat up the rest of the milk and add it to the milk and custard powder mixture’.

Question (from me): so, did you measure it out?
Answer: Didn’t need to, I just used this milk – and look, there’s some left, and it wasn’t a new one.
Me: Yes – but that’s two pints…

So, the extremely thin custard – or slightly yellow milk as we may as well call it – was left, and on Monday it was still there, as thin as ever.

Cue second batch of stupid questions.
Question: This custard will be OK to eat, won’t it?
Answer: Might have been better to put it in the fridge
Question: Yeah, but you could eat it with a banana, couldn’t you?
Answer: You can do whatever you like with it…

It stayed on the side in the kitchen exactly where he’d left it; jelly was still in the fridge. So, what with it being Christmas and everything, I thought I’d be nice (for once) and I went out on Christmas Eve and bought some new custard, made it (perhaps slightly too thick, just to make sure) left it to cool for a while (with clingfilm), added it to the trifle, and made the “Dream Topping” – I thought maybe it wasn’t such a good idea if he made it, after the custard problem. Jenni sprinkled on the decorative “Penguin Poo” (as we call chocolate vermicelli) and the trifle was put back in the fridge. Now, really it should have been eaten on Monday, (well, no – REALLY, according to the date on the box, it should have been eaten in December 2005, but what’s a couple of years…) but the trifle stayed in the fridge all day Tuesday (and the jug of thin custard stayed exactly where he left it – by now I’d decided (a) I was NOT removing it, as it was nothing to do with me, and (b) I was NOT having any of this damn trifle. Boxing Day tea time arrived and he decided he was going to have some of his trifle, but obviously I warned everyone else not to try any (the sell by date alone put most people off), but he’s only eaten about a quarter of it. It’s going to be at least Saturday the time he has finished it – and it is possible that he will decide to have one every week from now on, as he does tend to do things like this in quite long cycles. (He does this when he hasn’t had pork pie for a while, he enjoys it because it’s a novelty and he remembers how much he likes it, then he will have pork pie every day for about a year, then I’ll get one for him because he always eats them, and he will say he’s not too keen on them! (He’s also done this with beetroot!)

Naturally I am wondering just how long the discarded milky custard will take to completely go off, and will he ever finish it off with bananas, and also wondering if the old trifle would finish him off! I mean, if that story was printed in our local paper “Man killed by trifle” most people would think it a misprint.

I missed today’s minor amusement, by falling asleep. He was brandishing a couple of wet tea towels around and asked me if I thought it would be OK to put them on the radiator in the dining room to dry. I said be could do what he liked with them. (Mainly because I’d be taking them off and putting then in the washing machine ASAP, but also because I am dosed up to the eyebrows with LemSip and Neurofen and I honestly couldn’t have cared less at that point of almost falling asleep.) Apparently he took them into the dining room, where the lamp was on for the budgie who has been banished for Christmas to make way for the “tree” – or branch as I tend to call it – it being a branch! I haven’t had a Christmas tree for some years now, because they are way too wide in my opinion. Our tumble drier is long dead, so I’ve been drying things on the radiator in the dining room, so there was loads of Jenni’s stuff on there, so had he put the tea towels on the radiator he would have had to have moved some dry stuff first (there’s no way he’d have done that) – anyway – the light was on, he came back out, said “It’s a bit dark in there, I’ll take them back another day”. (No doubt he expected me to leap up and make room for them, but every bit of me aches, so I didn’t.) I’ve now put them in the washing machine, and put a couple of clean ones out to use. If anything happened to me, he would just use the same tea towel for ever, drying it on the radiator in the winter and throwing it over the line in the summer. He wouldn’t know where to look for a clean one (the airing cupboard – where I have kept them for about 25 years or so). His argument is that in theory, tea towels don’t get dirty because they are only ever used to wipe water off clean plates, and water is clean. What he fails to notice is that when he washes up, the water is NOT actually clean, it’s bloody rancid. And he never changes washing up water, because he thinks it’s a waste. He never gets rid of any washing up water; he leaves it in the sink until I find it and return it to the wild.

(Update - as I type it is now Dec 31st - and there is still some leftover trifle in the fridge...)

…spotty and bloated (but that’s another story)…

2007-12-16T22:31:00.000+01:00

What I have been doing is thinking about the last three letters of the alphabet, as you do! X – first of all – as in ‘The X-Factor’. I have renamed this ‘The Y-Factor’. Y – or why – does this programme continue each year, getting steadily more dull? Why do all these bloody half-wits who know that they can’t sing really, insist on embarrassing themselves? And, more importantly, why the bloody hell do I keep on watching it? I mean, take yesterday’s programme. The group that came third, they could be renamed “Nice”. Everyone kept going on about what ‘nice’ people they were. I don’t have a problem with ‘nice’ people, I think it’s great – there should be lots more nice people in this world. But the judges said it week in, week out, so that by the end I wanted to throw something very large at the TV. It’s not the ‘nice’ factor is it? If it was, then they would have won. Similarly, it’s not the Weird-Factor either – had it been, then Rhydian would have won. But can I also point out that it’s not the Bland-factor. Yes, the winner (I have already forgotten his name) has a nice voice. But where is the charisma? The sex-appeal, the X?? There was more X in Strictly Come Dancing. Lots more – but even that annoys me. Why do most of the judges insist on shouting all the time? They do have microphones. Shouting is totally unnecessary. Imagine if the News was delivered like that, or Songs of Praise. It would be horrible. But back to X-Factor for a minute, that song – the so called “winning” one – was just awful. Oh and how annoying is it, when someone from Scotland, Wales or Ireland is in it – that bloody awful Louie Walsh has to mention where they are from. Doesn’t matter if the act is rubbish, can’t sing, or has no talent,
“I’m sure everyone in Scotland/Ireland/ Wales/ etc. (never England, have you noticed) will be voting for you.”
Why? Just because someone is Scottish, does that mean they can only like, or vote for, a Scottish singer? If that was the case, wouldn’t English people always win, because there are more people living in England? How refreshing it would have been, when they went live to wherever they were in Wales, had someone in the audience said something like,
“Well, personally I prefer Mr Bland from Scotland, or The Nice group, and I will be voting from them because it’s about talent, not geography, and more to the point, because I know my own mind.”
Anyway, that’s X and Y – on to Z. Z-list “celebrities” in particular. This year I renamed “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here”, “I’m a Nonentity, Get me a Career”, because that’s what it is. The “set” doesn’t look like real jungle to me. My back garden looks wilder. It looks quite a nice place to be. There don’t seem to be too many insects and wild animals. I think they probably put a few rats and the odd spider in, but I think I could live there for a couple of week without feeling the need to drape myself over some ex-Eastenders “star”, who hasn’t done anything since he departed from Albert Square, not even Panto. I don’t know why it’s called “Reality” TV – there is nothing REAL about any of it.

...illuminated.

2007-11-29T17:54:00.000+01:00

Why go all the way to Blackpool, when you can get this, at home?

thinking about me, school & science...

2007-11-29T01:11:00.000+01:00

Not a great combination, me and school, in the 70s. I was pretty crap at most subjects. French was bad, English was horrific, but the science subjects were just dire. Now, things are different, and I am quite sure that the answer I gave in one memorable biology lesson would probably be marked as correct these days. The task was to draw a 'normal' geranium and one that had been clamped upside-down. We had to draw how the upside-down geranium would grow.

The 'control' plant looked a bit like this. No problems there. I'd have probably got a tick in my book for that diagram, had my work been marked.

The problem was with my experimental geranium. The upside-down one, which I drew like this:

Now, to this day, I STILL maintain that my diagram is correct. Yes, I KNOW they wanted me to draw an upside-down plant, with shoots coming up round the pot, towards the light, BUT - think about it. How are you going to water this plant? This was my argument, and I wrote extensively about the problems of watering an upside-down plant, going into the ins and outs (or should that be ups and downs) of gravity (yes, I may have said something like "...gravity, as invented by Isaac Newton", I probably lost a few marks there). I also said that because the water wouldn't wet the soil, it would fall to the surface the clamp was on, the soil would dry out, shrink back from the side of the pot, and join the puddle of water, the withered plant (sadly not a Poinsettia), would also fall out, therefore, a plant clamped upside-down would not grow. Naturally the other 32 girls in the class went for the "correct" shoots growing upwards towards the light.

I was right. However, I didn't get my biology 'O' level. One of the questions was to draw a named fish and butterfly, and label some of the parts. We never did fish or butterflies, as our teacher spent about 2 years only ever discussing the sex life of the hawthorn twig (which I can assure you is NOT the raciest of sex lives). But I couldn't resist the opportunity to show off my shite cartoon skills and drew my named fish (I named it 'Eric') and my named butterfly (also 'Eric').

Physics was another disaster area. I didn't do it for 'O' level - I was well and truly chucked out of physics after a year, and an end of year exam which got an embarrassing 5% (which was upped to 50% by the time my parents got my report, I always used to take two report envelopes so I could make a few slight adjustments before my parents read it. I don't know why I bothered, they still went ballistic. My best alteration was changing 'Wendy has made little effort', into 'Wendy has made a little effort', very nearly had the ink the exact colour as well. A triumph of my forgery skills which were bloody good anyway, I could do my mum's writing for notes to get off PE etc. (more of that another day).

Anyway - the physics exam. List 5 similarities and 5 differences between eyes and cameras. Well, I had a field day with the differences, starting with an inspired "You can't hang your eye round your neck", and "with your eye, you don't have to send a film off to get the pictures". Similarities were harder, but I thought "both are useful on holiday" was quite good, and so was "you wouldn't want to lose either".

Chemistry - I got 13% for the end of year exam, changed to 48%. The only things I can remember about Chemistry is the horrible gassy smell of the lab, and making some rather magnificent blue crystals, much better than anyone else's and selling them for a 1p a time, getting discovered and having to give the money back.

I must have a think about some of the other subjects, as I was pretty shite at them as well. I spent more time outside the classroom than in it, in the last few years, from age 13 to 17. And there was the day I played truant, and how I got caught, and my suspension for 3 weeks, and the 17th birthday present I had off my mum who must have been seriously pissed off with me!

...waiting

2007-11-03T00:16:00.000+01:00

As the husband is usually in at 5pm on a Friday, by 11pm I was wondering where the hell he was. Especially as he said the office was closing today at lunchtime. It is now 11.15pm and he has just strolled in. Part of me is disappointed.

Thinking about trifle...

2007-10-22T18:48:00.001+02:00

…it was the glorious sunrise that set it off, it was layered, like trifle. Jelly and custard colours, sort of merging, when you haven’t waited long enough for the previous layer to set. And there were hundreds and thousands of starlings in the sky. That’s a lie. I didn’t see one. That’s my artistic – or perhaps poetic – license at work. If I ever decide to describe one, then the starlings will be there. I did see a disgruntled looking magpie, but that’s about all really. I might have surprised some of the neighbours as well. They saw me walking back to the house at 7.30 am, looking dishevelled, and it may have got them wondering where I’d been, and if I was just getting back! Actually about 10 minutes prior to that I was fast asleep in my bed! It was the magnificent orange glow that woke me up. I stopped only to put my hair into some sort of order, grab some jeans and trainers, a fleece, and of course, my camera – then I was out in the chilly stillness of the morning. A different start to the day, and because it was so early, it meant I have got lots more done today than on a normal day. I did loads of course work, a bit of reading and some cleaning. I actually replaced the bag in the Hoover – that is how industrious I was. OK – I was somewhat spurred on by an expected visit from my mum – but I cleaned out the budgie cage (and washed it, in Dettol), and did loads of other unnecessary things as well. I polished the drinks coasters at one point, and watered a plant. Mind you – I was sort of expecting her at 10-ish so when she rang at half past to say she would be coming round much later, I then had to try and not untidy everywhere. I had to hope that the dust wouldn’t settle again!

I was mid feeding dandelions to the rodents this morning, when I got a phone-call on my mobile from some woman who wanted to try and save me money. I told her it was inconvenient – it wasn’t really – but as the Guinea pigs had smelt the leaves, the squeaking was that loud I couldn’t really hear what she was saying, so I had to go out of the garage, and I felt guilty then, that they were all worked up about their treat with no sign of it coming. I am quite sure it was not the woman’s intention to save me money – and it really annoys me that they think I am that gullible. She said she was going to ring back at 5, but she hasn’t – but at least I know to ignore the call now. It’s easier than being rude, I suppose – although less satisfying. I know she is just doing her job – but where did she get my number from anyway. She wasn’t from T-Mobile so she can sod off. Perhaps mid-forties is too young for me to become a ‘grumpy old woman’, but it is mainly caused by phone-calls like this, and annoying people brandishing clipboards at tea time, constantly ringing the doorbell and telling me they are not selling anything. At the moment my answer to this is “Excellent, because I’m not buying anything” and I shut the door. Perhaps it would be better to say “Oh no, really – what a shame because I am really gullible and I buy everything people try to sell to me at the door, especially at teatime when I am distracted by trying to cook a meal without burning it – oh well, never mind, byeeee,” and slam the door. I think I will try that. Within the last half hour a tall woman with a really long Gestapo style Mac has been to the door, but I ignored it so I will never know what she wasn’t selling! My other source of irritation is from the constant stream of ‘Bettaware’ catalogues though my door – followed by cards through the door to say they were sorry they missed me, but would I leave my catalogue outside for collection the next day. Apart from telling all the local burglars that I am out, leaving a catalogue on the doorstep means that everyone (even the husband) brings the sodding thing in again!

I feel like nailing the card to the door with this written on the back of it: “Thank you for your thoughtful catalogue, the dog ate it and had to have an expensive operation to have the plastic bag removed from his intestine where it had caused a blockage. I will be sending you the vet’s bill and, of course, the invoice for the cleaning that had to be done following the dogs explosion in the hallway. The total is currently estimated to be £895.73, but this may well go up, as the cat, pining for his constant companion, has become depressed and needs feline therapy. This could go on for several months. Meanwhile, the house has become overrun by rats and mice, so Rent-o-kill had to be called in (invoice to follow). Oh and I would like to order one of those bendy brushes that cleans out the spout of a teapot. I am afraid I don’t have an order form that isn’t partially digested, and I only know about the brush because it was on the fragment of the catalogue that hit me in the face during the aforementioned explosion. Have a nice day.” I don’t have a dog, but that’s another example of poetic license. Of course, as it is quite a small card – I might just put “If you want it so badly, don’t put it thorough the letter box in the first place.”

Admiring Mr Titchmarsh...

2007-10-14T20:05:00.000+02:00

OK – so I’ve always had this thing about Alan Titchmarsh. He has this air of innocence about him (Yes – I have read his books), but it’s this sort of ‘school boy’ appeal, an untouchable quality. I just want to drag him off into the nearest potting shed and watch him pricking out his seedlings. So, as you can imagine, when I realised I’d forgotten to watch his new programme I was a bit cross with myself for missing it. But JOY! It is repeated today – and it is on as I type. But what is it with nature programmes? I was watching a brilliant bit with hares having a proper “girls fight” very reminiscent of the one between Hugh Grant and Mr Darcy in Brigit Jones. Next time I looked up – they were in the middle of an intimate act that made me feel like I was watching animal porn. Now, Alan is diving – he’s encased in rubber – so ideal viewing for anyone with a celebrity gardeners and rubber fetish – but I must point out – that isn’t me. I rather see him ankle deep in compost and fondling a large tool – like a rake…

Hmm – he’s got badgers nibbling his nuts now. The first shot of the badgers looked quite fake, a bit like glove puppets! Oh he’s just said “goodly” – who says goodly these days – that’s why I like him!! He’s got this way with words – no one can say “damp earth” and “moist soil” quite like he does. He has a very easy voice to listen to, and an infectious enthusiasm.

For me, the highlight of this first episode was the flea-free blonde hedgehogs of Alderney. I really must remember to watch it next week.

Too Busy to Blog...

2007-10-10T23:10:00.000+02:00

But I felt I needed to share this with you. A couple of weekends ago, we hadn’t been to Sainsbury’s for anything for our Sunday dinner. In fact, it was one of those days where I couldn’t decide what I wanted – and to be brutally honest, just could not be arsed to cook. However, at the local shop, ‘£ for £’, or whatever it’s called, they do some reasonable curries. They taste OK, they go in the microwave, and they cost £1 each. This seemed a good option to me. Obviously, if I think it’s a good idea, you just know that ‘him indoors’ will disagree. However, I think he realised that if he disagreed, (a) he would have to think of an alternative, (b) he would have to go and get it, and (c) cook it. Curry it was then! The one problem he foresaw was that there is never enough rice. Well, I disagree – I think there is enough. But, because of the meagre portions, he asked me if I would do some extra rice. Well, basically, NO. If I don’t want to cook and that’s why we are having these things, why would I want to cook extra rice – plus, as the curries themselves would be in the microwave – and I always cook rice in the microwave, the timing wouldn’t work out. So, I suggested that a reasonable alternative would be for him to get some naan bread. At first, he pulled a face, then commented that I wouldn’t be able to have one, so I suggested that he got me some poppadoms (which may not be spelt like that), which I can eat.

All went to plan. I microwaved the curries, and took his food into him. Although he had the naan bread, he also wanted 2 of the 5 poppadoms that were supposed to be mine, but it wasn’t a problem – easier to let him have them. I finished ages before he did. I know I eat far too quickly, but he was really being extra slow, I thought. Then I realised he was really struggling to eat it all – and obviously couldn’t really leave it, after his comments about there never being enough! He sat for ages with the tray of food on his knee, and he was watching TV. He must have been really determined to finish it, but had to wait a while to fit it in.

I’d washed up my plate, and had some ice cream. Still he sat with the tray. But then, all of a sudden, he exploded with the most almighty sneeze, which obviously took him by surprise. The tray landed somewhere over by the fireplace, the plate didn’t travel quite so far, the fork ended up by the door, and rice scattered across the carpet.

“Oh dear,” he said, “I had a bit of a sneeze then.”

Funnily enough – I had noticed! (As had the budgie who was nearly blown off his perch). After a while, he went to get a cloth to clear up the mess. I was unable to go into the kitchen myself, due to my trying to keep some sort of control and not laugh. (I’m laughing now, just thinking about it.) What I did notice, the other day, however, was that when he used the cloth – he didn’t actually remove the curry. He must have just used it to pick up the rice grains! It’s a bloody good job that I don’t have a pale carpet – because with him around, it would just look like a patterned one!

Enjoying writing (and not complaining for a change)

2007-09-24T14:38:00.000+02:00

This is the life! A WORK book that tells you to look through a magazine for inspiration! Brilliant. “No – I’m not slobbing around, reading Heat. I’m doing RESEARCH.” Hopefully the next chapter will instruct me to create a very large pile of clean, but crumpled clothes, and observe its daily growth, for inspiration. Hope so – I’m half way there already.

The downside is the time element. “Spend half an hour writing a haiku.” OK – off I go, fiddle with words for what SEEMS like half an hour – discover it’s been an hour and a half. I need a time machine! Need to go back to this morning and do the housework! Loving haikus – if that is the plural. I’m not sure one a day will ever be enough. I started yesterday and I have seven already. I love the way they force you to concentrate your mind.

My current task is to think of a pseudonym – purely because I like the idea of creating a persona and inventing my own name to match – nothing to do with the course, although I can see it might have its uses if I was trying to think of a character’s name, for example. Years ago, in a job I had pre-marriage and kids I adopted this alter ego called Lucy Lastic, who used to write to my friend Jane, advising her on matters of the heart. A sort of agony-aunt-come-dating agency! That name still appeals, but is probably not quite right for a dark, gothic style novel – not that intend writing any, but anyway – the quest continues.

It has to be a name I like and can relate to AND appeals to my sense of humour, but could be serious as well. I am open to suggestions, especially as I can only think of things like “Chester Drawers” and “I. P. Freely”. I’d like something a bit exotic I think, but obviously would have to dress differently, to match.

Heidi Hole is really appealing at the moment, but probably wouldn’t be taken seriously enough. I like Heidi as it’s not too dissimilar to Wendy. I do like my own name, but I feel a bit strange about pairing it with a different surname. I wouldn’t want to see “Wendy Davies” on a shelf – although I can appreciate the benefits of being at the front end of the alphabet.

Heidi Fox – I quite like that, and topical at the moment as I’ve just been doing this quiz thing on a website which tells you what your “Daemon” is – and mine is a fox called Nicholeus. (Go to http://www.goldencompassmovie.com – and have fun exploring the site).

Other names I have come up with are: Mavis Clatterbridge; Fiona Fishwife; and
Daisy Smap (this was me being dyslexic and trying to write the word Spam)
and possibly my favourite so far, which would REALLY stand out on the shelf:
SANDRA TURD.

Anyway – after a hard morning’s “work” – I’m off to watch Neighbours and Doctors… um… I mean… do some extensive research on contemporary Australian family life, and the British medical profession and the current state of the NHS.

...bored

2007-08-31T13:09:00.000+02:00

In fact the whole of the summer holiday has been mainly tedious with the odd, extremely rare, highlight. I can't believe (once again) how fast the weeks go by - but the days themselves have been pretty dire! Today is the last day of the husband's stupidly long holiday. In the four weeks he has been off, we went out once - for half a day - with my parents - and it was a struggle to get him to agree to go then. Yet today, one phone-call from some someone in the office (who has such a manly voice that I am sure she said her name was "Manne") and it's on with his pink tee-shirt and off to the gay pub in town. Haven't seen him move so fast in ages! Or, indeed, ever, thinking about it. He is the type of person who, if he thought he would miss his bus by just walking normally, would just slow down so that it didn't look like he was intending to get that bus anyway, and try and arrive at the bus-stop when the next bus arrived - whereas I think most people who could, would speed up a little to save waiting 10 minutes.

Highlights have been (1) non-resident daughter getting the job of her dreams. (b) A very nice Mexican meal in Birmingham. (c) realising I started these points numerically and seem to have lapsed into alphabetically!! (d) A bizarre trip to London where I didn't actually set foot in the city - but saw a lot of the tube stations, had a nice meal in a pub after syringing Kate's temporarily deaf best friend's ears, and then hearing the most hilariously embarrassing story - which I am not going to repeat here because I can't tell it half as well as the person who told it - but it brightened up my week no end! (5) - (to revert back to numbering this list) - finishing my last essay for my current course (not counting the dreaded End of Course Assessment), and (e) going to the Cold War exhibition at Cosford. Oh and I have registered for my NEXT course - the one I will be doing AFTER the one I haven't actually started yet.

Lowlights - constantly having to watch MY programmes upstairs on the crappiest TV in the world. Constantly having to listen to the bloody racing channels in the background. Dyeing my hair orange after the crappy haircut. Reading the statement "...metaphor is a metaphor" (what?) And this morning - while writing, producing ot and ni instead of to and in - now I know I TYPE dyslexically all the time - but it's actually getting worse with my hand writing! Oh yes - and I think I have put the toilet seat and lid down EVERY time I have been upstairs.

I haven't read the three books I was going to read. I haven't watched the DVDs I was going to watch. I STILL haven't found "ultimate handbag" although I came close yesterday!

But I have started the diet - I have lost 5lbs. Not much I know - but it is a start.

Thinking about what I'm going to wear for the wedding...

2007-08-26T10:22:00.000+02:00

With a little over 8 months to go, I've been considering what to wear in my forthcoming role as "The Groom's Mother". OK - I understand that it's not quite the prestigious role as "The Bride's Mother", but I still want to look nice - so that (a) I don't ruin the photos and (b) I don't let anyone down. And, at the moment, standing in the way of this is about five and a half stones worth of blubber. And, as I can only start a diet on a Monday - tomorrow is my D-Day! In theory, it ought to be possible, if I lose 2 lb a week - which is what is recommended anyway. I don't intend to follow any wacky diet either. I am going to do it the sensible way. I'm going to stop eating between meals. I'm going to have less food. I'm going to exercise more - however, I'm not starting the exercise just yet - I need to lose a stone before I do anything too strenuous.

From now on though, don't expect any amusing anecdotes concerning my family members. When I'm on a diet all I can think about is FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD! This is likely to get extremely boring, and I can only apologise in advance.

I will say this though - usually, when the husband spots I'm on a diet, that's when he starts buying large multi-packs of chocolate bars, etc. I wonder how long it will take him to notice this time.

On the hair front - I think my hair is now a lot less orange than it was - and I probably won't try dyeing it red again - however I do think I achieved the 'cover up of the shite haircut' as no one has said to me "Your haircut is shite" - so at least that has worked. And I have 8 months to get my hair 'back to normal' and get a decent cut before the wedding. Anyway - I'm thinking of wearing something tasteful, but perhaps fairly bold in colour - something that will stand out a little, but not too much. I have to avoid green because the place where the photos will be taken is entirely green, and I don't wish to just look like a floating head - unless I don't lose the weight, in which case, it's an option! I am thinking a dress with a jacket, and one of those things on my head that isn't a hat - but I don't know what they are called. I think it begins with an F but the only thing I can think of is 'fornicator' and is seems unlikely that they are called that!

The husband seems to be planning to wear Mark's old suit which is (a) too long and (b) too tight. But apparently there is this woman in Welshpool who does alterations. He is going to get her to shorten the trousers, and as he said last week, "I'll get her to put a triangle of material in the back for me, because it doesn't matter if they go too big because I can always use a belt." So... no plans to get a new suit then! I guess it doesn't REALLY matter - I won't have to sit next to him!

(I think in order of importance, regarding outfits, etc. it's 1. The bride, 2. The bridesmaids, 3. The bride's mother, 4. The groom 5. Assorted other attendants, 6. The bride's father, 7. The groom's mother - because no one remembers what the groom's mother wears - but that is as it should be, then 8. The groom's father. I guess whether or not anyone remembers what the groom's father is wearing will largely depend on whatever material the old biddy in Welshpool uses to make the trousers larger - if it's something pink and floral I may well be upstaged!)

Oh - I've just found there is a spell-checker on this blog thing! That's useful - I wonder why I haven't spotted that before?

Suffering...

2007-08-16T21:56:00.000+02:00

... so, I might not have spicy food for a while.

Burning...

2007-08-16T09:18:00.000+02:00

Suddenly started thinking of these lyrics for no apparent reason...

Love is a burning thing
and it makes a firery ring
bound by wild desire
I fell in to a ring of fire...
I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down,down,down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns,burns,burns
the ring of fire
the ring of fire.
The taste of love is sweet
when hearts like our's meet
I fell for you like a child
oh, but the fire went wild...
I fell in to a burning ring of fire.....[etc]

I can't think why...

Anyway - on an entirely unrelated matter - I had an excellent Mexican meal last night. Lots of chillies.....

Taking photos with my phone...

2007-08-16T09:12:00.000+02:00

This is a sign I spotted yesterday - it's a bit sad someone has ripped it, maybe these things should be laminated. But anyway - I have one question....

Spade??

Amazed...

2007-08-13T22:54:00.000+02:00

…at how clever guinea pigs are! I know Oodles, my male guinea pig is clever, because he dunks his food in water, waits a while for it to soften, and then fishes it out and eats it. He’s been doing since he was old enough to eat the guinea pig food, and I assumed he learnt that trick from his mum, Smitty – as I saw her do that at Christmas when the dining room was a guinea pig nursery. (I thought they would be a great double act for “dunkers corner” in the staff room!!)

Tonight I’ve seen Noodles and Peanut – the girlies – working together! Each night I always put them some hay on top of their 'igloo' – and each morning it has all gone, and I assumed they just climbed up to get the hay! How wrong I was! One piggy goes inside, holds up their head and stands tall, lifting the front of the igloo up so that the hay slides off and the other waits at the bottom to grab a bit. The first time I saw this happen I just thought it was accidental lifting, from rearranging the igloo to their preferred position. But then they swapped and Peanut went in the igloo opening and stood up tall, again some hay slipped off – and Noodles retrieved it. OK – maybe this was a fluke – but I will be watching again tomorrow night to see if they do it again!

There were seagulls in Perton today. Not the usual bog-standard black-headed gulls – your actual SEA gulls – making authentic seaside noises! That’s not a good sign is it? We are quite a long way from the sea – does this mean that storms are likely – or are they just on their holidays? Whatever the reason – they are bloody big birds!

Still on a bird theme – this morning I saw what I think was a juvenile robin. It had the right sort of legs for a robin, it was really cute and quite bold as I got quite close to it.

And, birds again I’m afraid (this blog is very Alfred Hitchcock isn’t it?), what is it with pigeons at the moment? Are they always frisky at this time of year, or are they thinking it’s another spring? I’ve got pigeons in the garden building a nest – maybe they always nest in July – I’ve just never noticed before. And when I was out at the weekend scouring the lanes for dandelion leaves, if I’d picked up all the pigeon feathers I saw I could have come home and knitted a new one!

Last night I stayed up to watch the shooting stars – I sat in the garden wrapped in a blanket, till about 1.30 am and I saw loads – mainly single ones, but at least one a minute – sometimes more – I saw three which came in quick succession and then 2 more quite big ones. Best display of shooting stars I’ve seen in a long time.

Other exciting news – the new fence has started to appear at school, so I took a photo of it for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet!

PS -Today's font colour matches my hair.

(Photo was taken with my phone)

Plagued...

2007-08-09T17:12:00.001+02:00

Because of the wet - then warm - weather, (according to the paper, the news, and some old woman who always seems to be on the same bus as me), we are going to be plagued by pointless annoying creatures. Mosquitoes, Daddy-Long-Legs (what is the plural?) and, most annoying and pointless of them all, Vattus Manus Vacationii - this one will last for about three weeks.

So, day 1 then - and had I not had my hair cut yesterday, I'd be tearing it out already. He's been buzzing around all day like an annoying bluebottle - not settling anywhere long enough to be swatted with a giant newspaper.

Stupidly, I just happened to mention that I'd see some burgers in the Co-op yesterday - 2 packs for £3 - and he decided that he wanted to go and get some. So I then faced a grilling worse than the burgers will eventually get! Where in the shop are they? Which shelf? What are they near? What colour is the packet? Are they frozen? Are they called anything strange? How many in the packet? How many did we need? I could go on! Anyway - as he would be coming back past all the dandelions I didn't pick on my way home yesterday (in my quest to get home before anyone saw the hair) I thought he could take a bag and collect some for me - well not me - it's the Guinea pigs and rabbits that actually eat them!

I explained EXACTLY which bit of lane they were in. He left. I had an hour or so peace. He came back saying I was wrong. They were NOT 2 packs for £3. They were £2.98. I checked in the fridge, he had bought totally the wrong thing. Not only the wrong burgers, these only had 2 in the pack! As if that wasn't bad enough - his dandelion collecting bag was empty. Apparently I was wrong about that as well. There were NO dandelions in that bit of lane. He then volunteered to go and get some from the nearby field. I decided to go and get the ones I KNEW were in the lane! He wasn't happy because I was taking the discount card with me because I wanted some hair dye. I didn't think he needed it in a field!

So, I walked to the Co-op - and YES they did have the correct burgers - 2 for £3. I bought them, I then fought my way through the dandelion overgrown lane, filling a carrier bag in a matter of minutes. I did begin to calm down at this point - it's very calming picking dandelions. I can recommend it!!

When I eventually got home and showed him the burgers he claimed there was nothing like that half an hour previously when he had been there. "They must have just filled the shelf," he claimed.

Yeah - and the dandelions have only just grown!!

Shawn!

2007-08-09T00:40:00.000+02:00

The look I’m going for with my hair at the moment is, (sort of), Shirley from Eastenders. Short, blonde, a bit spiky, a bit choppy. That’s not to say that I want her personality or character – just the hair. But, because I didn’t have a photo of her on me when I went to the hairdressers this morning, I asked for exactly what I have asked for the last couple of times I’ve been to get my hair cut. I said: “Quite short, no parting, coming forward – slightly to the right, choppy, spiky, finger dried – a little bit of wax.”

At no point whatsoever did I say: “I’d like it all straight, standing on end – sort of David Bowie when he was in his Ziggy Stardust phase – make me look like I have been hanging upside down in the bat cave for a couple of months – then add enough wax so that if I set fire to it, it will burn for several years – I’m going for the ‘greasy sticky unwashed’ look. Oh and please get the straighteners on it, because that will really accentuate the shit cut.

I like to come out of the hairdressers feeling – well perhaps not a million dollars (especially as it only cost £15.50) – but I’d like to think my hair looked nice enough to be able to go out. What I don’t want is to come out praying I won’t see anyone I know on the way home. It took me about 35 minutes to walk to the hairdressers – but only 20 minutes to get home – even taking into account the slight downward slope – it’s still bloody good going to get back in around half the time! I had to wash it and re-style it as soon as I got in (after taking a couple of photos, which I can’t publish here at the moment as it is way too embarrassing). I’ve cut some stray long bits, put a small amount of wax and hair spray on it, and it looks less of a monumental cock-up. I will not be going back there in a hurry. I need to find another hairdresser – and I really want to dye my hair a radical colour to detract from the shitty cut! I’ll have to see what I can find tomorrow.

Disheartened...

2007-08-09T00:32:00.000+02:00

I was examining a bare patch of garden today. One which up until recently had stripy petunias and mixed French marigolds in it. I bought them earlier on in the year, lovingly planted them, and was looking forward to a nice colourful display. (My mum bought some at the same time and hers look great.)

Flowers, plants and trees have a tough time in our garden. Problem is, we don’t agree on gardening styles – mine is sort of “plant things, leave them to develop and get nice and bushy, sit back and enjoy” style, whereas the husband favours a “Jack the Ripper” approach. So, basically – I plant it and he digs it up and throws it away, or prunes it in a funny way, or moves it to a less appropriate place (then digs it up sometime later).

Recent disasters include: A bamboo which had just nicely filled its space, and was looking lush, healthy and vigorous - this has been massacred. A passion flower which he prunes every year just as the flowers are forming – I’ve had it about 6 years now and in all that time it has produced one flower. And roses – these move about more often than a bunch of hyperactive kids high on E-numbers during a particularly energetic game of musical chairs. He also has an “unusual” style of pruning. He removes any side stems that form, thus producing some fairly tall thin rose “bushes”. He also re-plants them all up against walls. My mum once asked me why I’ve only got climbing roses – I explained I have actually got NO climbing roses!

If a plant flops about in a natural way, he sticks a hideous stake by it, making it unnaturally erect – foxgloves, delphiniums, lupins, they all get this treatment. Montbretia is another – it just doesn’t need it. The stakes he uses range from hideous planks of wood – big enough to stake a tree; or rocket sticks – which he goes out “harvesting” every November 6th. I like plants dotted about, he likes rows. I plant in threes, he plants in fours. (I say tomatoes and he says tomatoes – oh hang on – that doesn’t work when you type it – well anyway – let’s call the whole thing off!!)

The shed is a bloody nightmare as well. Not only is it falling apart, it’s also home to three dead lawnmowers, a couple of hundred split plastic plant pots, a spider colony, and a truly magnificent collection of rusty, bent, broken and blunt tools. Forks have prongs that point in all directions. Spades lean backwards, shears are crooked with bits hanging off, and nothing can be used properly. Also resident in the shed is “Mickey the frog”. He moved in several years ago, making his “nest” amongst an old box of assorted crappy pots. He left the door open one day, and “Mickey the Frog” hopped in. He told me about it. He said, “There’s a frog in the shed, I saw it go in when I locked up.”

I was concerned – I didn’t like the idea of a frog stuck in there, starving to death – so I unlocked the shed and started looking for it. I found it. He was one of the most unusual frogs I’ve ever seen. Strange brownish colour, two beady black eyes, thin pointy snout, whiskers, long furry tail… sharp teeth…. He scurried away – I left him to it, satisfied there were no imprisoned frogs!

“Are you sure about the frog?” I asked.

“Oh yes – I saw him run into a box of old pots.”

Run? “What colour was he?” I asked.

“Brown.”

He has had his eyes tested since then (the husband, not Mickey the Frog-Mouse).

I’ve really had to fight to save my favourite tree as well – he has done some awful things to it over the years. I think he tries to make it look so bad I’ll agree to him getting rid of it altogether. It has just about recovered from the last “attack” so it’s probably due for another severe hacking any day now. Last time he kept removing branches from the bottom of the tree so it ended up looking like something a child had drawn. I couldn’t understand why, because it used to hide a nasty looking fence. He threatened to cut it down a couple of years ago, but this would have been a little inconvenient (I pointed out) because my washing line is attached to it. He said he would replace the tree with a “nice” concrete post. Lovely! You can imagine how excited I was at the thought of that! Why have a lovely tree that goes a gorgeous golden colour and looks fantastic when the low autumn sun gets behind it, when you can have a sexy concrete post?!!

But to go back to my petunias and marigolds – really – what is the point? Next year I’ll cut out the middle man. When I get home from the garden centre I’ll just tip my plants straight into the bin – why waste time and energy planting the buggers?

Poisoned...

2007-08-08T00:01:00.000+02:00

My own fault – I really must stop getting my apples from that mysterious crone that comes round when everyone is out at work, then, when she gets home, talks to her magic mirror. I was OK first thing. Went to town with Kate, was home by eleven. Sat down around 12-ish with a magazine, a cup of tea (run out of coffee), a nice crunchy Golden Delicious (first apple I’ve had in months), and put the TV on – there was a programme on saying how fruit is good for you. (I felt quite smug really!) Had my lunch, watched Neighbours and Doctors, went to sleep. Woke up. Checked for emails. (None – where is everyone?) Thought it might be a good idea to get some coffee before the withdrawal symptoms kicked in!

Perhaps if you are eating, or planning to – or are squeamish, do not read the next paragraph, which some readers may find offensive (don’t say you haven’t been warned).

It was about 3-ish. I felt this sudden urgent desire to go to the loo. I get this quite often because of the problem I have with wheat – but I definitely haven’t had any. Managed to make it in time (just) – but was a bit shocked to discover that the apple I’d had only 3 hours earlier had already gone through my system. Undigested I might add – it was 100% recognisable as apple. Seems a bit quick!!

Went to get my coffee, thought I’d try a different one for a change – big mistake, it’s revolting – but while I was in the shop I developed a craving for Lucozade – I only usually get this when I’ve got a really bad stomach, so I bought myself a bottle to drink on the way home as I was feel a little dehydrated.

The last time I really craved Lucozade was when I went to London and I had to wait about 16 hours before I found somewhere that sold it. On that occasion, just as I had got on the train to come home, I opened my drink and the bloody thing exploded out of the bottle. Lucozade is probably the stickiest thing with which you can coat the inside of a train! And I had to sit there for the next two hours, sticking to the floor, sticking to the table, sticking to myself! I pity the poor person who had to 'stick' there next – it was bad enough for me and I did it and knew what it was! So – back to today – was walking home, a bit thirsty, remembered the drink, opened it…

What the bloody hell do they put in it that makes it so ultra-bloody-fizzy?? I left a sticky orange puddle outside the clinic. I had to walk home orange and sticky. Got home, prised the bottle from my hand, put my clothes in the wash, de-stickied myself.

“Never mind”, I thought, “At least I can have a nice cup of coffee.”

Still, the day did improve. The husband was trying to open a new jar of jam this evening. He moaned that the lid was on too tight. He tried to use the jar opener – with no success at all – he couldn’t even work out how to do it, he was turning it this way and that, trying to grip the lid, and failing miserably! This was amusing at first, but you know how when someone is trying to do something you get this overwhelming urge to take over because it is just irritating?

When I could stand it no more I said “Give it to me!” But before I used the jar opener I just HAD to have a go without it, and yes – the lid was quite tight, but I opened it without too much effort! “Oh” he said (crestfallen) – then “I must have loosened it.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said, “I’m just strong.”

Wondering what to call this blog...

2007-08-02T16:36:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I discovered that housework is just bloody dangerous. I wasn’t even being THAT ambitious. I made myself a list in the morning, and it said “carrots” and “sort out socks”, (“carrots” being more of a shopping list).

It was more than just “sort out socks” as well, really – I was doing all sorts of related tasks – washing, ironing, distributing clean clothes, and so on. I was putting some stuff away in the bedroom when I managed to scrape my knee on the open drawer – there was blood everywhere! Then I started the mammoth job of pairing up socks. It’s always a nightmare – and I always have about 60 odd socks left over at the end – and they are not necessarily the same socks.

Last time I did this I didn’t even attempt to match up the husbands socks – I thought that if I left a huge pile of unsorted socks on the bed, he might match them up himself. They disappeared, and I assumed he had dealt with them. How wrong was I? What he had actually done was to put them all in a carrier bag and hidden them in the wardrobe. I thought it was strange that he kept moaning about having no socks, because I know he’s got millions of the buggers!

Anyway – after an hour or so of pairing up the ‘female’ socks, and asking Kate to email me a photo of her odd socks in Bournville, (so I could see which ones in my odd sock pile matched up with hers), and still having about 30 strays, I started on the ‘male’ socks. I always find them an ordeal, because they are mainly black or navy blue – it’s much easier if you are looking for something with Tigger or Snoopy on, which is why I leave his till last. I’d got about 15 or so left over that weren’t even a close match, then he confessed to having a bag of odd socks. So I got him to bring them down, and managed to make about 10 pairs, but there were still loads of odds left over, and bizarrely, 2 pairs of pants that had also been in the bag! I thought this a little odd – and made some stupid comment like “Well, these are PANTS – they are never going to be matched up!”

“I can’t wear them – the elastic has gone in them.”

“So – throw them away!”

“Oh no – I couldn’t throw them away – they can be used for rags”.

Rags??? Who the bloody hell uses RAGS these days! He’s not living in Welshpool now!! I told him that was disgusting and I wasn’t using his old pants as rags – even when he explained that they were clean! So he said he would take them round to the clothing bank.

“No! You can’t do that!” I said – horrified at the thought. “You can’t have some poor bugger in Africa with your saggy baggy old pants!”

“They don’t send them to Africa – they make them into rags. They use them on ships.”

Ships?

I said I still thought it was disgusting. Then he said (in a scarily wistful way) “Oh I don’t know, I rather like the idea of my pants ending up on a ship.”

Perhaps he ought to start going out with sailors?

Is this normal? I’d be mortified if I thought someone was using my old undies to buff up their foghorn.

I know he likes ships, and the sea – but he doesn’t like them enough to want to travel; to go on a cruise and see the world. As far as I know, since I’ve known him, the only time he has been on a boat was (a) the little ferry at Hampton Loade and (b) the slightly more substantial Mersey Ferry – and on both occasions he refrained from handing out bags of discarded knickers to the captain.

But, what do I know? He was a Customs officer for several years. Who knows what went on.

While I was looking for washing yesterday I ventured into the lair of the resident daughter, whereupon I discovered one of her ‘traps’ as I stood on the evil plug end of a phone charger, and, had the window been open, could have taught the neighbours one or two choice expressions (probably last uttered by a weather-beaten old sea-dog brandishing a pair of Marks & Spencer’s finest). I now have an interesting purple bruise on my foot, which goes nicely with the slashed knee. As these things come in threes it didn’t surprise me when I ran upstairs with a basket of ironing only to stub my toe on ‘Of Mice and Men’ – hardback version).

Today I have managed (so far) NOT to injure myself – however, I am intrigued to know where the plug has gone out of the bathroom sink – because there was one there last night – I know – I used it. I’ve looked for it, but really, when it’s not on the end of it’s little chain, where the hell do you start looking?

Flushing the evidence away…

2007-07-29T03:20:00.000+02:00

Is it just me – or do other people get embarrassed when they have to use the ‘facilities’ at someone else’s house – especially when it proves almost impossible to get rid of the evidence? I was in this situation today, at a party in Bournville.

The party seemed successful, although it was a shame the rain couldn’t have held off a little longer. Everyone took an item of food – and I would say 95% of the guests took a pudding or a cake! There was an interesting range of puddings, but all involved wheat, and there were a couple of quiches and a couple of pork pies. So, I had some cucumber sticks and a couple of mushrooms – followed by a selection of things dipped in my wonderful chocolate fountain. Strawberries, meringues, dates, fudge and marshmallows.

I was amazed at how easy this thing was to set up! It also seemed quite popular as well. I overheard many favourable comments, and all was well. The chocolate I got off the internet was fantastic. No complaints there are all. Brilliant!

However (and there is always a “however” isn’t there?) – because I didn’t want to rely solely on chocolate that may not have arrived on time, I took the precaution of buying some Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and some vegetable oil – this was my backup plan in case the other didn’t arrive, and I thought it could be used to top up the fountain if necessary.

This was not a problem. I found a “recipe” on t’internet that worked very well and, not knowing how soon I would need to top up the fountain, (having never used one before), I melted some of the CDM in the microwave, mixed it with the oil – tasted it to make sure it didn’t taste horrible (it tasted wonderful) – and left it in the microwave ready to reheat as required.

Well – it was ages before we needed it. In fact, we were thinking about leaving and – not knowing how long the party would go on for – I thought I’d do a quick top up before we left.

Now, it’s always difficult, I think, using someone else’s kitchen equipment, and the microwave there is very different from mine. For a start, mine is 22 years old, VERY easy to use and the size of a barn. This one had all these fancy buttons on and if you pressed one of the buttons once, it gave you a minute. So, I pressed the button once, and then carried on talking…

Chocolate is weird stuff, isn’t it? When it’s cold it is stiff, and when it is hot it is runny – up to a point. Cross that point, and you get “stiff” again. But not just “stiff”. When we took the jug of chocolate out of the microwave, the chocolate was melted perfectly – apart from this evil smoking volcano sitting in the middle of a chocolate lake (it was a big jug).

Bugger!!

What do you do when you are in someone else’s kitchen and have a jug of smoking lump of chocolate? (Other than silently panic?) Well, we fished it out with a spoon (and, rather like an iceberg, it was much bigger than we expected) but we didn’t want to risk putting it in the kitchen bin in case it melted it!! We took the “lump” outside – still smoking. We considered the dustbin, but then I had a flash of inspiration.

“Flush it down the loo.” I suggested to Mark (I was stirring the remaining chocolate and tasting it to make sure it didn’t taste burnt - it was fine).

So he dropped it, like some vile volcanic turd, into the (outdoor) bog, leaving a few tell tale drops of chocolate on the seat, and the most awful chocolatey skid marks inside. He flushed…. but the stubborn chocolate “turd” remained.

BUGGER!!!

I flushed… it seemed to disappear, but when the flushing subsided, I could see the thing, teasingly peeping out at me. I flushed for longer – with the ‘longer flush’ option (quite an upmarket outside loo, it has to be said!)

Satisfied it had gone – or at least gone far enough away to not be seen, we went back inside. I was still stirring the remaining chocolate. Someone saw me come in and asked if I had melted the chocolate outside. I explained that I was merely stirring it outside (goodness knows where they thought I’d melted it – it’s not like it was sunny or anything) – in retrospect I should have just said “yes” and let them wonder where, or how!

So, fountain topped up, flowing well and tasting perfect, I thought I should at least attempt to clear away the drips and skid marks before I left! I KNOW it was chocolate, but I didn’t want anyone thinking it was pooh – and, more to the point, that I may have been responsible – but, I think, even more than that, I didn’t really want anyone else to KNOW it was chocolate! The drips on the seat were easy enough to wipe off, it was the skid marks that were the problem! They’d had 3 lots of cold water flowing over them by now – the chocolate smear was well and truly set and welded to the loo. At this point, a few sheets of bog-roll in hand, and hand down the bog, I was thinking – ‘I do hope that this IS chocolate and not something that was there previously!’ Anyway, most of it came off, eventually, and I guess the cleaner will have to do the rest!

So, next time you are visiting someone, using their loo, worrying about producing an “unflushable” – just think – it could be worse!

PS – Oh I have just remembered! After topping up the fountain, there was a little bit of melted chocolate left in the jug – when I say “a little bit” it was more than I was prepared to pour down the sink (in case it blocked it) and I needed to wash the jug to bring it home. So I drank it. Yes. You heard right. I DRANK IT. Just as I was finishing it, this bloke walked into the kitchen – looked at me (in disgust) as if I’d drunk a litre of the stuff – saying (in a sarcastic tone) “Sweet tooth?” I didn’t bother to reply, I just thought, ‘Yes and full of sodding holes…’

Confused and amused...

2007-07-24T02:51:00.000+02:00

I wanted some tights that would make me appear thinner. I found the control ones, but was a bit mystified re the sizing. They had light control – no point me having them, I really need something substantial. Medium control – maybe? But then there were “bodyshaper” – what does this mean? Are they the ones that feel like they are made of iron? If so – that is what I want. But they didn’t have any extra-large, they had medium – but to be honest, if I was ‘medium’ I wouldn’t need them!

I caught the husband doing something weird this morning! He was in the kitchen with the radio on, and he obviously didn’t know I was standing right behind him, when the song on the radio started with a bit of a fanfare type of note – he swung his left arm out, somewhat dramatically like a deranged conductor – almost hitting me in the face (which might have been funny in itself – although I am glad this didn’t happen – largely due to my evasive action!)

Now – this is the amusing bit – embarrassed, he tried to cover it up with a cough. Now, that’s never going to work, is it? It might – sort of – work with a fart, but not with a dramatic arm movement. It sort of reminded me of some programme from years ago, where Robert Lindsay played the part of an absolute git, but with some kind of unexpected arm movement problem – but I can’t think what it was called. It’s going to be a strange one to research, really – but I will have to find out as it will annoy me that I can’t remember.

Also slightly worrying as well that the husband might be developing some weird compulsion.

He has spent the morning chopping down flowers that haven’t finished flowering, thus producing a rather uniform green garden – not quite what I had planned for mid-summer, but like he said: “I don’t want to put the green bin out empty.” (Who does?!!)

And on the subject of bins, the kitchen bin battle rages on, as it has done for years. If I haven’t mentioned this before, my idea of a kitchen bin is something you put a bin liner in, you then fill this up with rubbish, then you remove it, tie it up, and pop it in the wheelie bin outside. His idea of a bin is something that you put a bin liner in, but you must not at any point fill that bin liner! If I put something “big” in it (and as you may have already guessed, my idea of big is not quite the same as his), he goes through and removes the offending item and puts it in the bin outside. We may as well just have a bin outside!

Kate had a pizza for her tea and part of the packaging was a thin polystyrene disc. It wasn’t the biggest pizza in the world, and I put this disc in the bin – it had barely dropped inside when he had the lid off and removed it! It was “too big”, apparently, nothing else would fit in the bin. Well, firstly – it’s about 2 mm thick, and the bin is as big as you can get for a kitchen bin. And anyway – say I did happen to put something in that filled the bin – surely that is when the bin gets emptied?

It all seems so simple to me, and I just don’t understand why he has to complicate it, why he feels the need to go through the rubbish and check everything I throw away, or even how he finds the time. Is it some sort of OCD? Or is it some “man” thing? Do all men do this? (Or have some got a life!!)

Still – I shouldn’t really complain. He provided the rest of the household with comedy moment of the week - and the biggest laugh since he accidentally and unknowingly got soot all over his face and then went to sleep watching TV. That was one of those occasions when I thought I would burst from trying not to laugh! There was a programme on TV last week, which I wasn’t really watching, as I was cooking the tea. Anyway, when I went back in the lounge they were explaining that the shark they’d been discussing wasn’t able to kill and eat a person, due to the size of the stuff it could swallow, then they went on to say it was vegetarian – and that it only ate plankton. Now I am not entirely sure what plankton is – whether it’s some kind of plant related thing (in which case, it probably is a vegetarian shark) but on the other hand, for all I know plankton could be some small creature. All I said was, “So, what IS plankton?”

“Well”, he explained, “they are little orgasms”.

It took a couple of seconds for my brain to process what he’d said, and I made the mistake of looking at Jenni. When you know you shouldn’t laugh, you should really make a supreme effort NOT to look at another person – because nothing is funnier than seeing someone else struggling not to laugh – except, perhaps, someone accidentally saying “orgasms”. The only way we could deal with it was to talk of mildly amusing things, to give us an excuse to laugh – but when you are trying NOT to laugh, it is difficult to talk properly without sounding strange. I still don’t know if he realised and decided not to draw attention to it by correcting himself, or if he really didn’t realise what he’d said (in which case he must have thought we had gone a bit weird), or more worryingly, does he think that is what they are called?

tearing my hair out!

2007-06-29T17:38:00.000+02:00

OK - so here's the problem. Some bastard has buggered off with our bin. I didn't notice, but was aware of one randomly outside one of our neighbours houses. So, t'other half arrives at home last night, demanding to know what I've done with the bin! As I said, I didn't know it was missing, so he went back out to investigate, when I mentioned the one a few houses away... He arrived back - empty handed, saying that he can't see who that one belongs to because most people seem to have one.

(EXCEPT US!!)

So - I go out (if you want a job doing properly, you have to do it your self don't you?) Well, it was obvious it was NOT our bin, because ours has a bit missing where the lid is fixed to the bin - a sort of round thing that fell out (and I probably got the blame for). A quick look at who had one and who didn't revealed that it is possible this one belongs to some people who were out (unless they keep theirs in their garage) - so I took it. I then removed all the old "extra rubbish collection" labels off the lid, in case they came looking and recognised it. I went back in the house and told him what I'd done - then I thought it would probably be a good idea to put some stickers on with our house number, in case we have some sort of bin war.

As the husband is off work today, and he was going to the shop, I asked him to get some numbers. We used to have some, but he bought black ones and you couldn't see them - anyway, they fell off years ago - so I suggested white ones would be more visible (and useful).

So he came back with the numbers - he bought 2 black number 1s and 2 white number 2s - not the most useful combination for our house - number 12

What planet are they from?

having FUN FUN FUN!!!

2007-06-18T01:04:00.000+02:00

You have to admit - this looks exciting, doesn't it?

However, the sad reality was this...

Not quite the 'serving wench' that Mark and Will had been expecting! The really sad thing is, since I was handed the ad for the event, I'd been looking forward to going!

It wasn't exactly packed!

It was a little muddy!

But as you can see, we made the most of it, and enjoyed a really fun and entertaining 10 minutes (and that was seriously spinning it out)

There was a stall selling those phone things you hang round your neck with the names of English football teams. There were no men in those sexy leather short things (I am not attempting to spell it - rest assured I do know what they are called) - the only good thing I can say is that the sausages were very nice. There was also a stall with nuts and olives.

Anyway - it was Fathers' Day today - and Mark drove for three and a half hours to surprise his dad and take him out for the day. He thought he might like to go to Cosford to see the Cold War exhibition. He was wrong...

Conversation went like this:
M: Would you like to go to Cosford to see the Cold War exhibition?
T: I hadn't really thought about it.

So, while he was having his breakfast I went in to see if I could encourage him to go.

W: So, now you have had time to think about it, would you like to go to the Cold War exhibition?
T: I hadn't really thought about it.
W: Well, quite. But you have thought about it now. Would you like to go?
T: I don't know.

Eventually he came up with a valid excuse - he said he couldn't go because he had to post a letter...

We didn't take him to the German festival of joy and fun - but I rather wish we had now!!

Ice sculpting...

2007-05-24T03:04:00.000+02:00

Oh yes – ’tis very therapeutic! Just for the record, in case anyone has any doubts – I just LOVE being woken up before 6 am to be told that “someone” has left the freezer door open, and consequently we are now the proud owners of roughly 12 lb of squishy blackberries; enough snow to build a snowman; and a puddle. The door won’t shut because of the icicles – and obviously only a woman can wield an ice-pick at that unearthly hour. I dread to think what he would be like if he lived on his own.

And while I’m on the subject of rude awakenings, he forgot his key last night, so after being asleep for about half an hour I was woken up by incessant doorbell ringing – trouble is, of course, at that time of night/early morning – you don’t exactly leap out of bed to answer the door. By the time I’d woken up enough to realise what it was, located appropriate door-opening clothing, armed myself with a suitably long heavy weapon (OK feather duster probably not the best – but it was either that or a kite as the only other thing I passed) he was well hacked off! He was also quite annoying because when I put the light on at the bottom of the stairs (which most people would treat as a sort of warning that someone was about to open the door and let you in), he decided to walk to the back door and start rattling that. Perhaps he thought I’d walk all the way past the front door to open the back door – I didn’t – however it was quite eerie opening the door to no one. He told me the somewhat unconvincing tale of how he couldn’t find his keys – this was supposed to justify his waking me up? Then he moaned that there wasn’t a key hidden outside (he always says “Don’t keep a key outside, it’s dangerous!”) OK – this is what I think – if he had really ‘lost’ his keys, then surely he would have said something beforehand so that I didn’t lock the door? Also, he could have checked the hiding place before he left and made sure there was a key available. He also added that he didn’t have enough money for the phone box. He would have had difficulty finding one as the nearest one to our house is long gone! And anyway, if the doorbell didn’t wake me immediately it is highly unlikely that the phone would have. I have had an idea though – maybe I should hide the spare key in the freezer, in a big block of ice, with an ice-pick attached to it.

I wonder if he will ever learn that pre-6 am, LEAVE A NOTE! And don’t call me WEND – I have a Y – USE IT.

writing... reading....screwing up bits of paper...

2007-05-07T20:35:00.000+02:00

'Twas "that" time of the month again last week. "That" time, when I become irritable, snappy, difficult to live with, manic, depressed, disillusioned, desperate and all the other negative words you might find in the dictionary. I also become self-obsessed, boring, and, well, more boring! (Yes - that's how boring I am).

I think it's called "pre-TMA-tension". But it's nearly done now - I'm just going through the last few minor adjustments, and desperately trying to spot my typos - I always miss a couple, due to reading what I think I have written.

I've now caught up with myself - a week off due to illness a couple of weeks ago, where I could do nothing at all didn't exactly help me in my quest to always be one week ahead - but I'm so pleased I had that spare time, otherwise I'd have been in a much more manic state now!

I should emerge from the TMA tunnel later today - occasionally the light is visible, but then my train stops, rolls backwards a bit, and sometimes I come across the wrong sort of cows on the line - but I am looking forward to going on to the next part of the course. I don't expect the mindless optimism will last for long, I will probably read one page and I will be all back to my normal state. Confused!

Doing very little…

2007-04-19T21:22:00.000+02:00

Well I’ve been ill – and my energy levels have been zero. However, I did venture out to Sainsbury’s last night – but a very slow walk round there left me feeling like I had run a marathon. (Not that I actually know how that feels, but I was bloody knackered).

But while we were there we encountered the shopper from hell.

We were on the 'hand-basket only' till - there weren't too many people in the shop at that time, but there weren't many tills open - and we carefully avoided the deranged extra slow checkout operator - the one that handles everything like it's a ticking bomb!

There was a guy waiting to be served, and one person already being served when we joined the queue. There was a loose grape on the end of the conveyor belt thing, and I was contemplating putting a 'next customer stick' across so that it looked like someone was just buying a grape, and seeing if it actually weighed enough earn itself a price - and if it didn't, would this mean it would be possible to acquire grapes individually and get a whole bunch for free (although clearly this would be a tedious process).

Then the bloke in front of us got his turn. All was going well until he got his wallet open to pay. He decided that before he could part with his money, he would start telling the woman on the checkout that when he was in previously, he had been complaining about some potatoes - apparently they didn't quite look "up to scratch" - but despite this fact, he had bought them and "thrown them on the barbecue" anyway. And guess what - they were not horrible at all. There he was, having complained about them, but they were, in fact, somewhat delicious.

Ah - we thought - this surely must be the end of his ironic little story...

Sadly this was not the case.

He continued... and – guess what - there was a twist in the tale! He happens to have some kind of ulcer - from where he pointed it would appear to be in the throat area. The delicious, but previously thought to be horrible potato, somehow got stuck in his throat...

(Oh dear - we were thinking, this is going on a bit – but maybe he lives on his own and this is his only chance of talking to another human being... we were mildly irritated... and the queue was starting to grow behind us...)

Anyway - because of the ulcer thing, and the potato, blocking his airway, he realised pretty quickly that in order to survive this ordeal he would need to take a few sips of water in the hope of washing it down.

But no!! He couldn't swallow it. He started to panic slightly. He knew he was about to die, although, as he pointed out, his life didn’t actually flash before him. (Well obvious really – wouldn’t that only have happened had he actually died? And as he was in Sainsbury’s, he presumably must have survived – although the thought did cross my mind that he may have been some kind of zombie.)

By this point I was quite willing to put him out of his misery myself and I’m guessing a few people in the queue had gone to look for some of these potatoes with the vague hope of ending it all.

But (the man continued) luckily he called to his wife… (so he could still speak then?) (This guy is married??) …and she ran to his rescue and saved the day!

Shame...

So, he then concluded by recapping – TWICE - (just in case the checkout woman wasn't entirely sure of the point of the story) - that he had originally thought the potatoes might not be nice, they were in fact, nice. But they nearly killed him - so he was right all along - they were not THAT nice. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Hmmm - let me think now - if I went to customer services every time I bought something that might kill me, I'd be there an awful lot.

"Oh Sainsbury's - what are you trying to do? Are you trying to kill me with this Coke? I might empty it into a bowl, place my head inside, and drown."

"Oh Sainsbury's - you brute. You have sold me this cling-film and I might wrap it round my head and suffocate."

"Oh Sainsbury's.... matches.... how could you?"

Surely the consumer has some sort of responsibility to use the products wisely? I am guessing that the reason he nearly choked is because he was probably talking while he was eating.

Anyway - he FINALLY paid - by this time his shopping had been packed away. I didn’t see what he had bought, but I am imagining something along the lines of a multi pack of extra sharp razor blades, some head sized plastic bags and (with any luck) a gun.

Then she asked him if he had a Nectar card....

Oh God, no.... now what?

He had to send off for a new one - now I don't know if this was because his wife had to use the old one to perform some sort of lifesaving potato related operation (one I have yet to see on Casualty). But anyway - he finally left the shop.

Words were not spoken, but several glances were exchanged. You have to be a bit careful - it might have been her dad. But anyway - sighs of relief all round.

Next thing we know - the old bugger is back!! He felt compelled to return, and add one final bit to the story...

Guess what!! (Shock, horror!!) When he rang up for a new card, he was put through to a call centre in INDIA!!! Oh my God. Can you believe it? India?

So effing what matey? You’re getting a new card aren't you – as long as you get your card, it wouldn’t matter if they put you through to a call centre on Neptune.... His reaction was as if someone had put him through to a call centre in a parallel universe, or in Victorian times...

"I rang up for a new card and spoke to Isambard Kingdom Brunel!"

I would imagine he would be the type of guy who would have been really confused when Tom Baker was doing the voice of the speaking clock (some time ago).

"Oh God no - what's happening? A time lord in charge of time? I rang up and got put through to the TARDIS"

I bet his wife sends him out shopping every single night for a bit of peace. You can just imagine it can't you, "Oh Algernon, just pop out for some Spam would you? Oh and don't forget to tell everyone about your near death experience."

It is awful though isn't it when all you want to do is get home as quickly as possible? The woman on the till was desperate as well, you could tell - she was holding out her hand for the money - but he had a captive audience, there was nothing she could do till he handed over the cash, and it would have been rude to just demand it. He got his timing just right for maximum disturbance.

Obviously next time I go there in the evening, I will check the queue for this guy – and if I spot him, I’ll take my chances with the “ticking-bomb” woman.

Relieved… and annoyed…

2007-03-25T20:54:00.000+02:00

I’ve finished my essay – all 2,041 words of it. I can’t help but think if anyone asks me in a week’s time what it was about I will struggle to remember. Why? Well I just momentarily forgot and I haven’t even sealed the envelope yet. Oh well – on with the next one. Another 2,000 words – but I need to do a load of reading first. At least my arm will be rested – well assuming I don’t need to do any long blogs!

I suppose I will be spending some time on my new “Easter” section of the website – but I am not in the mood today – we will have to see what tomorrow brings. I would like to have it done by the end of the week if possible.

Slightly annoyed by the husband this weekend. Well VERY annoyed. It starts out as just a stupid trivial thing, or 2 or 3 – then they mount up. Just because HE doesn’t find Harry Hill funny does NOT, in my opinion, mean that Harry Hill is not funny and that I am wrong. Anyone who earns a living as a comedian must be ‘funny’ to more than just one person. I accept that the husband doesn’t find him funny – so why can’t he accept that I do? This works the other way around as well, when the husband thinks someone/something is funny which I don’t find funny. I don’t think it means that I am wrong – I think it means we have differing opinions. Why can’t he see that? Why are my opinions always ‘wrong’ and his always ‘right’? THAT is what is WRONG.

Likewise, ‘Allo ‘Allo does NOT, in my opinion, LOOK dated. How can it be? I don’t think something like that (Dad’s Army is another example) can look dated because they are set in a particular time. I think Mr Twat was basing his theory on the World War 2 costumes. It can’t be because of the humour because Officer Crabtree was on (Good moaning!) and I was pissing myself when he said “Shall we have a poke” instead of “peek”. It’s the reactions of the ‘French’ that’s funny and I happen to think it is extremely clever writing. I said as much – but NO – apparently I was wrong, again.

The other annoying thing about his ‘sense of humour’ is what HE finds funny is only ever someone taking the piss out of someone else. His heroes are all people who belittle someone else, and his main hero is Jim Royle. Sometimes it is funny when someone is a bigoted, dirty, lazy good-for-nothing git – but he thinks it’s funny because it is right to be like that. It’s hard to explain really, Alf Garnett was another of his heroes. I think my sense of humour is more ridiculous things or surreal stuff – so we are never going to agree – all I want is for him to accept that I can have a point of view that is different from his.

I told him that I was fed up with his constant criticism of the things I like, and said I didn’t like the things HE watches – then he said he NEVER watches anything because he is never in!! I mentioned the constant repeats of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ – something HE didn’t find funny when it first came out – but that he now watches as much as possible – even watching the same episode immediately after it has just been on. So we know the bloody things off by heart – they really don’t seem funny when you know exactly what’s coming – especially when you heard it less than an hour previously. I also mentioned the constant racing channels he watches. But no – he insists he never watches anything!

If that is the case, why did I have to watch Casualty etc. upstairs on a crappy TV with a crappy picture that looked like it was snowing with crackly noises making it difficult to hear any dialogue? Because he was watching ‘Only Fools’ repeats – while asleep – with the remote control balanced on a part of his anatomy that ensures no one will attempt to change the channel. That doesn’t seem fair to me.

Then today he annoyed me even more by asking me stupid questions about my course. He wanted to know if I was going to try a level 2 course next year, suggesting it might be “a bit too hard for me”. Then I had to explain – yet again – that I have done 2 level 2 courses already. Then he asks the same stupid questions he has asked millions of times before about the points you get for the courses. I’d rather he didn’t ask at all than pretend to be interested – because if he was THAT interested surely he could try to remember my answers from last time. It’s all like the comedy thing – because he thinks he KNOWS how it works, then I must be wrong – again. Like when he was convinced Kate wasn’t at Birmingham University because someone at work told him it was a good university – so kept asking (for 2 years) which Uni she was at. ‘Birmingham’ I would reply. 'Yes – but it’s not the REAL Birmingham University is it? It’s one of those other ones.' 'No – it is in fact the REAL Birmingham University'.

He has got it in his head that you must get more points for a harder course – and no amount of explaining that all the courses I’ve done have been worth the same amount of points will convince him. He said again today that there would be no point anyone doing a harder course if you only get the same amount of points. I explained, yet again, that you have to do so many level 1, 2 and 3 courses to get a degree – and he said “Yes – but you won’t get one of those will you.” – I haven’t put a question mark there because he said it as a statement.

Well with that sort of support probably not – but I’m going to have a bloody good attempt at it, and he can stick that in his irritating pipe and smoke it.

Calling for Hughie, Ralph and Ruth…

2007-03-18T20:32:00.000+01:00

Today I can appreciate the benefits of the Roman “Vomitorium” – which, if I understand correctly, is a place that the Roman’s went to empty their stomachs, to make room for more food. A room with a spew. (Obviously, if I have misunderstood, then it’s quite possibly the worst named “whatever” – and to be honest I don’t have time to look it up at the moment – but rest assured I will at some point and will, of course, report back).

(Before you ask – NO – I haven’t eaten too much chocolate – well, I have – but I have quite a high chocolate tolerance level – on this occasion it is not the reason for my nausea!)

The whole day (which, as Mother’s Day I understood to be some sort of ‘day of rest and treats’) started disastrously. I should explain that because I once had a really revolting cup of tea, I haven’t been able to drink it for several years, so I usually drink coffee, coke, or coffee flavoured Pepsi. However, I can’t face coffee first thing in the morning so I tend to have a drinking chocolate – one of the 40 calorie ‘Options’. They used to do a ginger one which I loved – but they stopped making them. Although I like the orange and mint ones, I prefer the Belgian chocolate ones, or (for a real treat) cinnamon flavour. So, imagine my horror when I discovered the husband had bought 10 Turkish Delight flavoured ones. I hate, loathe and despise the rosy-perfumed flavour of Turkish Delight. If I accidentally eat one from a box of chocolates – I HAVE to spit it out. They are VILE. I did try one, but it was revolting – so not the best start to the day.

Then later on, I went into the kitchen to make some coffee – and was greeted with what can only be described as a cross between an alien autopsy, a bad accident in Casualty and that scene near the end of the film “Murder by Decree” (Starring the rather gorgeous Christopher Plummer as Sherlock Holmes and James Mason as Watson, investigating the Jack the Ripper murders – anyway if you’ve seen the film it’s the scene where the Ripper has bloody hands and there’s bits of goodness-knows-what all over the walls – very reminiscent of the ‘reveal’ at the end of a Anna Ryder-Richardson/Linda Barker Changing Rooms episode. If you haven’t seen the film and want to, well I’ve got two DVDs because it’s so good I bought it twice! Don’t ask! I have mentioned my crappy memory haven’t I?) Anyway – picture the scene - the dripping blood, the flashing blade of the knife, the bloody hands – and this is my kitchen now – not the film – and don’t get me started on the smell! I was absolutely heaving, and just about managed to make the coffee without throwing-up. Then, when I went back later to wash-up the cups – there it was, uncovered, no cling film – just sitting there, in a dish, oozing…

For some reason, the husband decided he wanted LIVER for Sunday dinner. To me, it is more of a Saturday thing – and, what with it being Mother’s day, it seemed harsh to buy something he doesn’t know how to cook. Quite why he thinks it needs chopping up into tiny pieces is a mystery to me. He has teeth. And he just leaves it there in a bowl, uncovered.

When I eventually recovered, I went to see my mum and deliver her Mother’s Day card. Things got worse! She cut the top of her foot open on Wednesday. She went to the doctor and had some sort of strip things put across it to hold it all together while it healed. She’s taken the bandage off and was in the process of removing the strips when I arrived. It was swollen, it was oozing. The sight of it caused this weird kind of tingly-wobbly feeling all down the backs of my legs. I had to cover it up!

So – now I need to go and cook this bloody liver, then I’m off to design my Vomitorium and apply for planning permission…

... hard at it!!

2007-03-10T15:35:00.000+01:00

I've been extremely busy with my course work today. I think these photos speak for themselves.

I'd like to thank Jenni for taking these photos, especially as she is extremely busy herself "writing an essay" - I know this is true because I can hear her typing away on her computer, and she is definitely NOT playing games... I suppose it is something to do with her laptop, but her keyboard makes really unusual noises, a bit like swords clashing together, with the occasional shriek or shout - I expect that is the space bar or something?

Which reminds me, I used to have a Monty Python disk that made silly keyboard noises, like farting etc. (if I've remembered correctly) - also a silly game which, when you were stuck, offered a message that said "For help press F1" - when you pressed F1 it said "Help!"

Actually, this is possibly the most useful help message I've ever had!!

Anyway - not much time for blogging today - must get back to the books...

...not QUITE so strange as yesterday!

2007-03-04T14:13:00.000+01:00

I was in a funny mood yesterday – ‘funny’ as in ‘weird’. I put much of the strangeness down to doing a language course straight after a classics one. It’s done strange things to my head. Add to this weird mix a good dose of pre-menopausal memory glitches! I can never remember words these days – but am reliably informed that this is quite, er, something-or-other, for my, um, thingamyjig – which is something at least). To digress slightly, some members of my family would suggest that I’ve always had a crap memory. For example, I’m always having surreal conversations with my mother about places she insisted I’ve visited, places of which I have no recollection.

“Remember that time we went to Barmouth?” or “You HAVE been to Peterborough!” usually results in a blank look from me and desperation from my mum – who clearly has a better memory than I have. I always insist I’ve never been, or can’t remember – and I can think of numerous reasons why I can’t remember. I was probably only two or three at the time. My parents didn’t stand me in the middle of the town and say “This is Peterborough - remember it well, for we shall quiz you about it when you are 49.” But mainly because nothing interesting ever happened.

To make a ridiculous example, if my parents say to me, “You HAVE been to … ” (feel free to insert any English seaside resort because I can’t remember the name of the place I was thinking of now, and it really doesn’t matter where, and it will probably come to me later!*) and I argue that I’ve never been, and if at this point they go on to add, “You know – that place where the sheep exploded.” I would (I hope) be able to say, “Oh yes!” because I do remember things happening – just not place names! (*Skegness)

I mean, I am guessing that my son remembers the time that we were on a beach (somewhere in Wales?) when he was quite small. (Small enough to think that lying in a shallow puddle was ‘swimming’, and old enough to make a few brave exploratory steps down the beach away from us (with four sets of eagle eyes unblinkingly watching him) – when, totally unexpectedly, The Red Arrows flew over and out across the sea. I’m sure it was a brown trouser moment for many people that day. (Possibly explains why he has this irrational hatred of Red Arrows pilots!) I am positive he remembers that moment, but won’t necessarily know where it happened, other than ‘a beach’. And this is the argument I put forward to my mum in one of her exasperated moments when trying to convince me that I’ve been somewhere. Of course, it all falls apart when she goes on to explain that it was only two years ago! (Or as on one 'memorable' occasion - the previous month.)

I can’t remember my point now… Oh yes… language/classics/etc.

I was walking along yesterday and in my head (I’ve not yet taken to talking to myself out loud when I’m outside – it is, however, only a matter of time!) I was criticising someone’s “ironic columns”. I know at this point I did say “Ironic?” out loud, with a sort of questioning/puzzled intonation – much to the surprise of a man washing his car.

Had I actually been looking at what was supposedly columns in a vaguely Ionic style, I could perhaps have been forgiven a slight (vaguely humorous) “slip of the mind.” Except they were, in fact, bad examples of an unconvincing Doric style. I suppose they were in fact neither style – so what is the point? I have since named the style “Pathetic”. They were shit columns. [J. there is a metaphor in there somewhere!!] Neither one thing nor t’other. Now if I had the money to erect some pretentious, pointless, OTT, decorative columns myself, I’d like to think I could do it with some style! These people who have ridiculously oversized statues and fountains in the front gardens of their modern houses are clearly deranged and have more money than taste. I know I have a stone-effect bird bath with a gnome on it in my back garden – but it is in proportion (and it can’t be seen by the general public!) I like statues and fountains etc. but in the right space.

Now I shall stop criticising people’s choice of garden ornaments (‘tis, after all, a free country) and go back to recognising creative use of language in everyday discourse. Yesterday I spotted some intertextuality in Sainsbury’s. Brilliant! Intertextuality alive and well at the checkout AND I spotted it. Bakhtin would be proud!

Warning: Next year I want to do a course on Film & TV history. You get to write about Eastenders! I’m looking forward to that. The following year, Creative Writing – can’t wait! (Perhaps I should have done this one first?) The other day I had this idle passing thought that when I’ve finished all this I might go to college and get a science GCSE, and when looking at the website of the local college I discovered you can also do GCSE photography – wouldn’t that be fun?

I suppose, as I appear to be working backwards, I might look into retaking my Eleven Plus exam and perhaps Cycling Proficiency – both of which I failed. Being classed as a failure has a remarkable impact on an 11 year old, especially one with a destructive combination of self-consciousness and laziness. “Failure” is a very sticky label. Even if you manage to shake it off, the sticky residue is always there.

Depressed...

2007-02-19T13:29:00.000+01:00

I was OK when I got up – but an article in the paper this morning left me very much with a “why bother” feeling. It started quite well too – the reason I picked up the paper in the first place was the front page headline “Chocolate can save your life”. I just needed to know how much and how often (to be fair, the amount I eat, I’m hardly likely to be in danger!). But it is QUALITY that counts, and not QUANTITY – like so many other things in life, especially when (as this article was) written by a man! I should have stopped there, really – but I started glancing through a few more pages. An article on Tea Tree Oil making boys develop breasts, was surprising (and indeed worrying), a picture of a bald Britney was amusing (probably not to her the day after she did it), then BAM!!! Page 21. Our Future. A picture of how the world will end. The sun will run out of hydrogen, expand until it reaches the orbit of Mars – and in the process – “Goodbye Earth, been nice knowing you”. The sun will then fizzle out and shrink. It’s not going to happen for another 3 or 4 hundred million years, apparently (how exact!) so, the article claims, no need to panic, (yet). I’m not panicking – just feeling like “What’s the point?” Then I suppose the inevitable thought: “Will the Earth last that long – or will we have killed it off long before then?”

I need chocolate!!

Quite busy...

2007-02-11T19:50:00.000+01:00

… Oh I had it all planned out! Tomorrow (Monday) I was going to paint the ceiling in the lounge. Tuesday – the walls. I decided it was too much for one person to do in a day. I did the dining room in a day and I could barely move the next day – and it is a small room. My lounge isn’t big – but it is bigger than the dining room.

But then impatience set in – and I thought – if I got one coat on the ceiling today, it would save time tomorrow. Then, of course, the inevitable: “If I get TWO coats on today – well that would be even more time saved.” So – the ceiling is done. Oh – and I kind of did one coat on the walls as well! Had it been light enough I would have carried on! But anyway – I will get up at 7 tomorrow and do the last coat on the walls.

Deciding to start the decorating today was (to say the least) extremely unpopular with the husband! When I told him I was going to paint the ceiling he immediately went out for a long walk!! By the time he came back, I had done the part of the ceiling immediately above his chair, so he was able to sit down. He then went to sleep – and we have some video (done on my camera) of me painting and him asleep. I painted round him, and eventually he woke up and I moved his chair to do the bit of wall behind where he sits. I don’t think he was too impressed because he took the paper in the kitchen and stood in there to try and do the crossword.

Stupidly I forgot to have any lunch so by the time I’d done the walls I was feeling quite knackered. But I made myself some coffee and struggled on with the final coat on the ceiling. He was then back in the lounge like a shot, on his chair with his newspaper the instant I’d put his chair back in the corner. I then went into the kitchen to cook the dinner – only the two of us tonight because Jen has gone out. I heard this huge over-sigh when he discovered that his lamp had been unplugged and not plugged back in. The noise he made you would have thought it was the end of the bloody world!

He is well known for being totally unable to make any favourable comment in connection with anything I do – but he did make an effort this afternoon. He’d gone to sleep in a “soft aqua” and “sugared lilac” room – and he woke up in a “mellow mocha” one – what did he say?

“Ooh the paint smells nice!”

Anyway – I’ve had my dinner now – and a VERY LARGE glass of wine (ha – didn’t give him any!!) and now I’m off to have a nice long soak in the bath, with a cup of coffee and a chocolate mousse, (I will try not to fall asleep in the bath), and I have to be down here at 9 pm ready to tape “24” and “Lost”.

Plans for the rest of the week: Try and get to Ikea for a new curtain pole to match the one in the dining room. Find some nice curtains from somewhere – preferably a nice pale natural sort of colour. Put the stuff back in the lounge that needs to go back – and try and get rid of some of the junk he has accumulated over the last 7 years. Go to Birmingham on Wednesday – hopefully to see some programme being made – don’t know if we will get in or not – we have our eTickets, but there are no guarantees. Hair cut on Thursday (at last) and out for a meal with my parents on Thursday night. Might have a lie in on Friday!

It is tempting to stay up all night and finish the painting once he has gone to bed – but I know I shouldn’t. REALLY!! I MUST NOT DO ANY MORE PAINTING TODAY!!!!

...busy!!

2007-02-08T18:28:00.000+01:00

Aren't unexpected days off just fantastic for getting all those jobs done that you normally don't get the time to do. I've been so busy today - I haven't stopped. I've taken photos of the snow, checked for emails about 7 or 8 times, more photos, slept, watched Neighbours, Doctors AND Diagnosis Murder (it was very good) and got down to some serious....
snowman building!

Hard to tell from the photo, but he is about 5 feet tall!

Don't you think these gnomes look like they are plotting something?

Especially the one in the red hat leaning against the gnome post... The other two look innocent enough I suppose!

In a quandary...

2007-02-05T10:11:00.000+01:00

... I am all fired up (there’s a metaphor in there somewhere!!) with enthusiasm (for work? I must be ill!) But – do I (a) check for emails first, and risk being distracted by any possible replies that I might need to write – OR (b) crack on with my work and risk being distracted by the THOUGHT that there might be emails that need replies – OR perhaps (c) – write a blog…

… don’t ask!!

2007-01-25T19:59:00.000+01:00

Part experiment, part greed – I ate one chocolate biscuit yesterday. I’ve been as wheat-free as physically possible for the last 14 months – but at the back of my mind there has been this nagging doubt – what if I can actually tolerate wheat and I’ve been eating this expensive bloody awful bread for nothing?

I have answered that question. I won’t be having any more biscuits.

...confused!

2007-01-22T17:31:00.000+01:00

I have to write an essay about a reading in one of my course books. The main problem with this is I am having great difficulty understanding the reading. To me, it is like being presented with a rather exquisite, expensive knitted scarf! The object seems to be to finely examine the scarf, looking for dropped stitches, bad joins and other possible mistakes. However, because this scarf has been knitted by a professional, I don’t expect to find any holes – and if I did spot one, I would assume it was meant to be there!

We are expected to unpick the scarf, stitch by stitch, row by row – then use it to reconstruct it in a different form. Now I am sure some clever people will at some point during this process have a nice firm ball of ideas, they will seek out other balls of wool of different colours and textures, and weave this into their work, and they will transform their scarf into – oh I don’t know – a pair of magnificent gloves.

Me? Well I’ve looked and looked at the scarf several times and all I can come up with is: “Oh! It’s a scarf!” As I clumsily attempt to unpick the words I find myself with a seemingly infinite ravel of knots and tangles and general wooliness.

I predict one of two things: At some point during the next week or so I will cut up my tangled rubbish, remove all the knots and throw them in the bin (these will prove to be all the vital, salient points), then I will tie up what’s left in all the wrong order, and I will end up with a wonky tea-cosy – OR – I will make it into a giant pom-pom, where my main point is hidden deep within a mass of general fluffiness. Either way, I pity my poor tutor!

Why do I put myself through this torture??

Right! Diversion over… back to reading about sodding metaphors.

Celebrating my birthday...

2007-01-21T23:13:00.000+01:00

I've had a nice weekend - I wasn't really looking forward to my birthday being on a Saturday, but if anything, it was better because I still felt quite "birthdayish" today as well. The card count so far is 29 - which is quite impressive for me. I didn't used to get that many - and it is possible I might get another one tomorrow - unless my brother is ignoring me this year!!

I read in the paper (and there was a notice in the local garden centre as well) that this week is National Rabbit Week. I do hope Bosie doesn't feel neglected. He does get a lot of human contact and he has got a Guinea pig friend, and he has a lovely clean (big) hutch, and he gets fresh food every day. He came for a run round this morning and I took this photo of him. I think if there was ever a "cute photo" contest - this would have to be my entry!!

I've just put my swan photo up in the lounge. I think it looks OK - it is strange to think I took that photo a week ago - and there it is hanging on the wall. It doesn't look as blue as it does on screen. I've also framed a somewhat inbred looking family photo. The husband and wife in the photo do look related to each other. All very worrying - glad it isn't MY family. I need to find out more about the people in the photo - names would be a good start.

One of my birthday presents was some vouchers to get my hair cut at a decent hairdressers in town, so hopefully in the next couple of weeks I can find the time to get my hair sorted out. Trouble is, I've seen a hairstyle I like very much, but the person the hair belongs to is a right slapper in Eastenders (Kevin's ex-wife, Shirley mother of Deano and Carly) - she wears ridiculously tarty clothes for her age, and even though there is a photo in the TV mag this week, I don't think I can take it in and say "This is what I want to look like!" I need to find a nice person with similar hair if possible.

Also I am a bit loathe to carry that photo around with me - firstly because it will look a bit dodgy if I have an accident and someone has to go through my belongings! (You can imagine the nurses, can't you, "And she had this picture of that tarty woman from Eastenders"). Secondly because my mum went through a phase of finding the ideal hair style photo, cutting it out and keeping it in her bag to show the hairdresser. Nothing wrong with that is there, except all these people that she kept a photo of for this purpose suffered a hideous premature death, or dreadful tragedy. What if I have inherited that power? (Quite tempting to carry a photo of Bill Oddie just in case.)

Went out for lunch today, one of those all you can eat for just over a fiver. One of the choices was either baby squid or possibly octopus - I am not sure which. I did take one, and sat it on my plate - but when it came to it, I couldn't eat it. One of the problems with it was it was whole, and it had developed a personality by the time I'd sat down. It also looked like a plastic toy, and I felt terribly sorry for it - poor little thing. I think it was possibly quite rubbery as well and I decided better to leave it than risk throwing up all over the place! It was most odd. I'd be no good doing a bush tucker trial. There was a weird dish of black shells as well - possibly they were mussels. YUCK!!!

The octopus thing looked like this - although it may not have had a face.

Hopefully it will be "National Octopus Week" soon, and we will leave them in the sea where they belong!

Nostalgic...

2007-01-21T21:48:00.000+01:00

Not a rant (for a change) just a couple of old photos...

This one proves that many years ago I did actually have thin legs! (Interesting that I currently have equally crappy hair!)

Always loved a man in a uniform!!

Currently the wallpaper on my phone - Bobble the Owl - cute, isn't he?

Doing it myself!

2007-01-19T01:23:00.000+01:00

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you are woken up at some ridiculously early hour to help find more bricks. At 6.30 am your brain isn’t in gear enough to wonder why! You stumble out of bed, bleary eyed. It’s only really when the gale force winds and icy rain hits you in the face you think “What the hell am I doing?!!”

This was my rude awakening this morning! The husband decided he needed more than one brick up against the kitchen window to prevent the glass from falling out. For about the last 8 years or so – probably more – the window frame has been rotting away. He has been patching it up with (indoor) Polyfilla – which is about as much use as using an ice cube to irrigate the Sahara…

Last week I noticed that it had got much worse - bits of rotten wood were falling off. The recent windiness hasn’t helped, and when he opened the back door to go to work the glass came completely detached all along the bottom and part of the sides – thank goodness the top bit stayed in! Hence his experiment with the brick, but every time he left the house, the brick fell off. So, he came to get me to help find more bricks – although I feel the real reason was so that he could pass the problem on to me and bugger off to work. Bit annoyed about this because he doesn’t actually need to be in work till 10 am.

He left me standing in the garden, in the wind and rain, (in quite a skimpy tee-shirt) holding the window, and went off to work saying he would “nail a piece of wood up” when he got home. Fortunately the bricks held the window in place long enough for me to find a suitable piece of wood. Luckily I was able do something slightly better than the bricks! It looked as though it might hold, but I spent most of the morning worrying that I might be minus a window when I got home. I rang home at lunchtime to make sure all was OK – and thank goodness it was. When I got home the piece of wood was still there, (as was the window) although ‘his’ bricks had dropped off! A further piece of wood was added to make it even more secure.

He finally came home – without any wood – and asked who had added the wood.

“Me” I told him.

“Oh.” His face fell. Obviously if I’ve done it, it will be a crappy job.

“Did you use screws?”

“Yes.”

(I resisted the temptation for sarcasm here – I could have said “No – I used pasta sprials, but it was OK because I only boiled them for 8 minutes, so they were ‘al dente’”. I should point out at this stage that he is the one who once tried to mend a broken light fitting with Pritt stick glue and adhesive (paper) reinforcing circles – and the reason that it was broken was because he had hit it with a hammer in an attempt to… er… no… I don’t know why he hit it with a hammer – but anyway, that was the day that he was banned from touching anything electrical. He has also put a kitchen cupboard door on inside-out and upside-down and back to front – and he has put a bolt on a rabbit hutch on the side of the ‘door’ that had the hinge – so he’s no Handy Andy – think more Jasper Carrott’s ‘Wiggy’)

The inquisition continued…

“Ah – but did you screw it into the outside frame?” (He was determined to find something wrong.)

Duh no?? I thought I’d screw it into the glass! Or perhaps into thin air! I could hardly have screwed it onto the wood that no longer exists now, could I?

He keeps pressing it from the inside – I rather suspect he would love it to fall out, to prove to himself I am more inept than him.

Ungrateful git!!

So that’s 2 episodes of ungratefulness I’ve come across today – the other was at work. I’d like to think that when it is someone else’s birthday and I eat something THEY brought in, I wouldn’t effing criticise it. “Oh your lemon cake isn’t quite lemony enough and those coconut things have got coconut in them!”

F-F-F-fancy that! Coconut thingies with coconut? Whatever will they think of next?

I might spend the next year perfecting a recipe for the most lemoniest lemon cake ever. Made with lemon peel and the juice of 50 lemons, with a thick layer of lemon slices, all sandwiched together with home-made extra lemony lemon curd, soaked overnight in concentrated lemon juice and decorated with one of those naff plastic lemons.

Rant over…

Well almost. Bosie keeps eating the Guinea pig food – I wouldn’t mind but he has £14 worth of rabbit food to get through…

I’m off to have a calming bath, and a Lush bath bomb… (NOT the lemon one!!)

...getting to know new family members!

2007-01-10T21:34:00.000+01:00

Introducing Bosie - latest addition to the family...

I chose him to be a companion for one of our baby Guinea pigs, Oodles (as it is time Oodles is separated from all his sisters, as we intend to avoid having any more 'little surprises'!)

Bosie and Oodles...

So far, they seem to be getting along with each other. Bosie seemed mildly interested to see who he was living with, while Oodles was (understandibly) wary of the 'giant'. Today, Oodles has come out of hiding and was apparently climbing over Bosie earlier on. Bosie is not going to get much bigger, and seems very laid back.

At the weekend, Smitty, Galvatron and Bilo will be returning to Bournville, so Peanut and Noodles will probably move into the hutch in the garage (if it isn't too cold).

Bosie was named after Oscar Wilde's attractive friend (played by Jude Law in the film when Stephen Fry played Oscar - excellent film, superb actors - gorgeous rabbit!)

Discovering...

2007-01-07T15:44:00.000+01:00

...the secret of The Loch Ness Monster!

(artwork by me)

Moaning about bread...

2007-01-07T15:14:00.000+01:00

Wheat free bread to be specific. Now I only have limited experience of this product, but basically, all you need to know is, it is not brilliant.

Wheat free Christmas cake, wheat free Christmas pudding and wheat free mince pies all taste, and look, just like their wheaty cousins. It'd hard to tell the difference. They are very nice. As are some wheat free cakes, biscuits and puddings.

I have just VERY CAREFULLY removed 2 slices from their packet with the intention of making myself a ham sandwich. I was being extra careful because I know it can be quite dry and a little crumblier than ordinary bread.

This is exactly how it came out of the bag.

And according to the packaging, this is "IDEAL FOR TOASTING".

In what?

Buying light bulbs...

2007-01-06T21:05:00.000+01:00

Why do they all “go” at the same time? Why do I never have the sense to keep spares? Am I that disorganised? Would I just rather spend my money on much needed chocolate than spare bulbs? (Yes is the answer to that last one.)

Well anyway – I groped about in the dark for a couple of days, because, of course, I don’t think about buying replacements when it’s light – it’s only when I need the light that I think about it, by which time the shop is closed or I can’t be bothered. But they are done now!

At least I do replace them. I really don’t know what would happen if I wasn’t here to do it. Like the other things I do that no one else would, e.g. changing the sheets, washing tea-towels and cleaning the toilet. Yes – all the glamorous jobs! The resident male’s answer to the lack of bathroom light was to light a candle. Several candles might have been better, but he chose a tea-light in a pink and green glass tea-light holder which made it about 100 times less bright than just a tea-light. I was surprised to find a candle in there on Wednesday morning, when I got up – but not at all surprised that he came home without a new one – despite him working opposite a shop that sells bulbs. I had to wait in for the gas man on Wednesday, followed by a trip to the vet, and wasn’t in a bulb – or anything else – buying mood that day. So we managed with the dull candle till I got some on Thursday. It is actually quite relaxing having a bath by candle light – if you can get over being cross about being the only one who replaces the stupid bulbs.

Talking of baths – I’m still enjoying the glorious post-Christmas excess of lovely smelling bath additions – and have several Lush bath bombs which always make me feel quite deliciously decadent. They smell wonderful and some of them can be quite surprising, especially if it’s one you haven’t had before. I had a white one this morning – there were a few red ‘bits’ in it, and a red star. Inside there was a message telling me that my wish had been granted! Perhaps I should have looked more closely at the bomb details first to know that this might have been a possibility – then I could have made a suitable wish! Is the granting of the wish null and void because I haven’t made a recent one? Does it just work on the last wish I made? Are there any bath bombs with “Better luck next time” messages? Do Lush grant ALL wishes – and more to the point – what on earth WAS my last wish? Could it perhaps work on the next wish I make? Should I dash out for a lottery ticket? Would ‘world peace’ be a less selfish wish? Should I just be greedy??

Problem is, of course, I have a feeling my last wish was something silly like everlasting light bulbs. Now I can see many people would benefit from this, so it’s not completely selfish – but what of the poor bulb-factory workers? What would become of them?

Can I cope with all the guilt this early in the morning? Baths are supposed to be relaxing, aren’t they? You would have thought I’d learnt my bath bomb lesson of checking the contents after walking round for pretty much an entire day wondering why I felt so uncomfortable – to eventually discover a stray lavender spring nestled between my arse cheeks! Which reminds me – I don’t remember seeing the red star floating about in the bath water…

Annoyed

2006-12-24T10:31:00.000+01:00

This is who I really hate:
Those compelled to write
poems at this time of year,
or at some national plight.

They are published in the paper,
and are full of dodgy rhymes,
they have boring words, and mundane thoughts,
and most contain one or two much longer than the average lines.

A poem should open like a flower,
and words, wave softly in the wind,
with thorns to pierce the hardest hearts,
and thoughts to tame the wildest mind.

A poem’s life is infinite
Etched on the soul with rage,
and published in a dusty book
not a chip stained letters page.

Fragrant!

2006-12-09T00:26:00.000+01:00

For an exciting evening of raw passion and sensual pleasure – look no further than a night in washing your hair! Yes – I have been reading the back of shampoo bottles again! I have given up in the rabbit-shampoo-smell-a-like, and decided that it is better to have nice smelling dandruff!

I’ve been using my new shampoo (as opposed to the previous sham-‘pooh’) since Wednesday, and have come to the conclusion that the woman in the advert for this particular product is quite possibly overacting. My reaction to it has been more along the lines of “Mmm, that smells quite pleasant.” Maybe I am just harder to please…

The stroke of amazingly good fortune I had earlier in the week was finding someone in the family who was about to buy some of the foul shampoo!! I happily donated mine and I couldn’t have been more delighted (although still not close to ecstatic reaction of the woman in the Herbal Essences ad.)

It is interesting, while waiting at the bus stop (something I seem to spend a lot of time doing) to look at the passing cars and see if the drivers ‘match’ their vehicles. While I was doing this today, I spotted a ‘friend’ (sort of) who has been driving for about the same time as I have – with the same 20-odd year break between passing the test and actually driving. I do hope that I don’t have the same expression on my face when I am driving – I have to say, how she looked is how I feel when I am driving – but I like to think I can hide it with an aura of nonchalance.

I am nervously awaiting my exam result. I can honestly say I have no idea what sort of mark I will get. I hope I did enough to pass, but I know I waffled and rambled a lot. If they were looking for clear, concise answers, then they would have been somewhat disappointed with some of the gibberish I wrote. Although panic did set in during the exam, it in no way affected my ability to waffle and ramble for England. In a waffling & rambling exam I’d get 100%.

Although I was disappointed with last year’s 58%, what counts more than anything is getting 40% - how pissed off would I be with 39% - let's hope I never find out. I would be happy with 40% because it means not having to re-take the exam, I'd be devastated with less than 17% (which would mean re-taking the whole course again - which I don't think I would want to do). Obviously anything more than 40% and I will be auditioning for shampoo adverts!

Smelling... like a rabbit??

2006-11-28T17:51:00.000+01:00

I’ve got this new shampoo. It’s for dandruff. Well – strictly speaking, it is not FOR dandruff – it is AGAINST it. I suppose the warning on the back of the bottle should have been a clue to the main problem with this particular shampoo. It says that the colour and “fragrance” are due to the “active ingredient”. (Incidentally, the same active ingredient as in the rabbit shampoo – see earlier rabbit bathing blogs!)

Now, I don’t know about you – but to me the word “fragrance” conjures up a nice smell, a delicate perfume, a gentle floral aroma, a light summer breeze drifting over a bed of lavender. When driving through the countryside you don’t comment about the “fragrance” emanating from the local pig farm, do you? The words “stench”, “stink”, or possibly “smell” would be more appropriate. Now I know if they put “the colour and the stench of this shampoo are due to the active ingredient” they probably think that are not going to sell many bottles – but let’s face it, it’s shampoo, do we read the bottle? We know what it does and how to use it. Although I guess I will be reading them in future.

Sadly, it was cheaper to buy 2 small bottles than one big one – and you got more. Even sadder – I still have dandruff…

Flushed with pride...

2006-11-21T22:58:00.000+01:00

Call me old fashioned, but I kind of expected the toilet to be mended by the (so called) man of the house at the weekend. Although it broke in the middle of last week, I didn’t expect him to come in from work and have to mend it, but I did think he might get the new part for it on Saturday and possibly do the repair on Sunday. I hadn’t investigated what had broken, (in my role as ‘mere woman’!) but as it’s now Tuesday I was starting to get a little pissed off to say the least. The novelty of flushing with a bucket of water had worn off – especially as I was thoughtfully filling the bucket ready for the next person – and stupidly hoping everyone else might do the same.

So, I had a look inside this morning and identified which bit had broken, it was a sort of white plastic thing that is attached to the handle thingy on one end and a sort of bent piece of metal on the thin end, which seems to be attached to the thing that makes it flush. So I found one of those things in the bog-handle shop in Telford and although I thought it was the right thing, I decided to buy a complete handle with all the bits – and I am glad I did, because it had a diagram on it, and it is a nicer one that we had, and it also hangs at a more “normal” angle – it’s been a bit weird since it was mended last time. It took about 5 minutes. I am quite impressed with myself that I have managed to replace it without a man! It was difficult to get the old one off to start with, but that was the most awkward bit. I know it is probably quite an easy job, but at one time I wouldn’t have considered even trying. It was nice to have the tools to do the job (so a big thank you to the person who has bought me my tools over the years – you know who you are!)

Christmas shopping has now started!! I have also made myself a Xmas shopping list on Excel – it’s all colour coded, green for anything I’ve got, yellow for what I need to get (and know what I am getting) and red for things I need to get but don’t know what to get. How sad am I? I have also wrapped and labelled everything I’ve got so far…

The Ollie saga goes on – another trip to the vet. Another bill! Now I’ve got to give him painkillers (ooh fun!) and some liquid food, because he is reluctant to eat. He is looking better though. I was determined not to have any more animals – but we have just had the news that Smitty, Kate’s younger Guinea pig has a really good reason for doubling in size over the last couple of weeks, and have also been able to understand exactly why Galvatron (the older Guinea pig) was so excited to have a new Guinea pig friend! Galvatron was supposed to be female. I gather he’s booked in for the ‘snip’ ASAP!!

Counting the scratches on my arms...

2006-11-16T00:53:00.000+01:00

Yes – Ollie is back on antibiotics for teeth/mouth/eye-infections. He had some very expensive surgery yesterday. It would be great if I could find a decent NHS dentist for him – or even some sort of rabbit “den-plan”. Today I gave him his first dose of medicine. He really does not like it at all – even when it’s disguised with Ribena – and I am giving him the sugar free one as well! He did make an attempt at grooming himself today, which is the first time in a couple of weeks. He also spent about half-an-hour “grooming” me, so I’ve just had a bath to remove the layer of rabbit spit, and I think I’ve finally defurred my eyes, nose and mouth. I expect he will put up more of a fight tomorrow because he’ll know what’s coming.

I’ve had one of those “clumsy” days where I have dropped lots of things (most spectacular being a large pile of baking trays and saucepans onto the kitchen floor which made quite a satisfying metallic clatter), then when trying to hang my trousers up in the airing cupboard (the tumble drier is dead) I broke 2 coat hangers, (minor things I know, but irritating all the same) and now (rather more drastic) I am having to “flush” the toilet using a bucket of water!! Something went “snap” inside and now the handle thing (that you flush with) sort of dangles, pathetically.

So, all in all, an average day.

Feeling more than a little foolish...

2006-10-29T19:23:00.000+01:00

Jenni and I were watching X-Factor when we first heard the fireworks. But we didn’t immediately rush over to the window to see them, because invariably when you do that, it’s too late. But then we commented on how they were going on a bit – they were good ones too – they sounded expensive. “A few pounds worth there!” we commented. We carried on watching X-Factor. More fireworks – they were in the distance – but definitely at the back of the house. We still didn’t feel the need to go and watch. Too busy!! Jenni was getting ready to go out, straightening her hair, putting several coats of nail varnish on, etc. And still the fireworks were going. We realised now that this was some impressive display – and never mind X-Factor, this was now definitely worth going to take a look! Well obviously I was too lazy to get up, but Jenni went – and there was nothing. No hint of fireworks. Typical, we thought – fireworks non-stop for an impressive 25 minutes or so – and when you get up to look – they finish. But then they started up again – and she realised where they were coming from. It was my screensaver.

I had completely forgotten that I’d decided to have a change from the Diagnosis Murder screensaver I’ve had on most of the summer! I had completely forgotten the screensaver I’d chosen had fireworks on it – and that there was sound with it – and that it was so bloody realistic! Oh how we laughed – well you had to be there really. I guess it would have been a great April Fool – but the fact that there are fireworks going off intermittently anyway at the moment added to the realism. I just wish I’d done it on purpose, because then it would have been hilarious! Oh well!!

This morning was infuriating. Had a stupid “conversation” about frozen chicken with Other Half. Apparently there has been a major cock-up at local supermarket and what should have been fresh, unfrozen chicken was accidentally put in the freezer – so it was being sold off really cheap to staff, with a warning about not re-freezing it. Great – I thought – get lots! “Ah!” said Other Half, “But it can’t be re-frozen” - I explained that it didn’t matter, I wasn’t planning on re-freezing it! “But…” he went on, “we’d have to eat it all today”. I explained that we wouldn’t – we would merely keep it in the freezer until we needed it… “Ah!” said Other Half” (repetitive, isn’t he?) “But it can’t be re-frozen”. I explained that I knew it couldn’t be re-frozen – but then it occurred to me that he must have meant that it had been accidentally frozen and then de-frosted – in which case he might have a point (although I’d have just cooked it and frozen it – because you can – but I realised he might not know that so I went into details about freezing etc.) But no! This wasn’t the case at all. Apparently it had been accidentally frozen – but it was STILL frozen. So what was the problem? He seems to think that if you buy it frozen from the shop and bring it home – and then put it in your freezer (even though it hasn’t de-frosted in the 5 minute journey home) – then THAT is classed as re-freezing. Even though I was starting to lose patience by now, I tried to explain that as it was STILL frozen – it was NOT “re-freezing” – and 4 nice plump chicken breasts for 50p is too good a bargain to miss. Anyway – for the next half hour or so, over breakfast, he kept randomly coming out with, “Do not re-freeze – I wonder what that means?” to himself. Anyway – he didn’t get any in the end – because he “didn’t want to chance it as you can’t be too careful”. I don’t know why he is so worried about food poisoning – he’s more likely to be beaten about the head with a packet of fish-fingers (non-re-frozen). What planet are they from?? (Men I mean – not fish-fingers!)

I might put that screensaver on later and see how long it before he starts to complain about fireworks going off all night!!

...bored.

2006-10-28T00:00:00.000+02:00

Bored, bored, bored!!! I don’t know what’s happened to me really – I seem to have slipped into a post-exam depression. I can’t find anything I want to read. I pick up a book, look at it, put it back down. Yesterday I washed the kitchen floor. Today I put some petrol in the car– and that was the highlight of the week. I don’t even know why I bothered – it’s not like I’m going to go anywhere. Perhaps over the weekend I will put Ollie inside for the winter – I usually do this time of the year. I need to make a space for him though. Don’t know if I’ll be able to stand the excitement…

…scared – then mindlessly optimistic!

2006-10-17T20:29:00.000+02:00

...Scared prior to 2.30 pm – especially when “Tom Tom” went into weird perpetual loop because you were not allowed to go down one particular road it wanted to use, but eventually it found another way round. Panic had set in at that point, but I arrived on time – in fact in enough time to go to the toilet 3 times – 2nd and 3rd time being completely unnecessary – but nerves had got to my empty bladder!

Can’t write about the exam questions as such – even though I haven’t said what course I am on – we weren’t allowed to bring the question paper out either. But anyway – I feel a glimmer of mindless optimism, purely because I felt it went better than last year’s exam (I felt I could write something for a start!) – however, I don’t think I was particularly coherent, I’m not sure all I wrote was relevant, I think I was a bit repetitive, and I know I got a few secondary source dates wrong. I don’t know if what I wrote was what they wanted – but I DO know that what I wrote was pretty much all I knew about things – so I couldn’t really have done any better – unless instead of revising for all the things that didn’t appear, I could have concentrated on the things they did ask about!! Oh well – nothing I can do about that, other than hope, and patiently wait, and hope a bit more, and then start waiting impatiently, then desperation will set in – and fingers crossed for at least 40% - then I can set fire to the books, dancing round them manically, and file away my TMAs so that in years to come I can look back over the tutors “helpful” comments and think “I wonder what the hell that says!!”

Fingers crossed next year for a tutor that can write clearly! What a bonus that would be after the totally unreadable scrawl produced by this year's tutor - OK he did warn us, and blamed it on being left handed, but when your writing is THAT bad I think you should type everything. Of course the main bonus will be never having to see “Stripy” and “Crunchy” at tutorials again!! I’ll miss my current tutor though – he was quite cute, in a quirky, teacher-y sort of way!

Panicking

2006-10-16T20:50:00.000+02:00

… but this time tomorrow it will all be over – unless I need to re-take – in which case it won’t be over for ages – so I will have to leave the books out, at least till Christmas. I have reached the stage where revision is doing no good at all. Today I don’t know anything about anything – which is more or less where I was this time last year – only I didn’t know it then – to be honest, last year, I felt I knew quite a lot – until I turned the exam paper over and immediately realised that I wasn’t going to be able to write about anything I felt I really knew well. I wish I knew what the questions were! That would be an enormous help!!

I am looking forward to NOT having an exam next year – and I hope I can find another course for the following year that doesn’t have an exam – but that’s all ages away. I hope I get a more relaxing nights sleep tonight – last night was terrible! When I got into bed I realised I hadn’t checked whether the back door was locked. So I lay there for ages wondering if it was worth going down to check. I was trying to remember stuff I’d revised – but the thought that the back door might not be locked – and that someone might come in and steal something (irrational because there’s bugger all to steal) – wouldn’t go away. Eventually I went to sleep, but was dreaming about going to check, but it wasn’t my house – well it was half my house – there was a weird mysterious passageway that had appeared leading to another back door – but that’s dreams for you! I woke up – still couldn’t be arsed to go and check – lay awake – and decided that if I went and got a glass of water, THEN it would be worth checking the back door. Why?!! I didn’t need water! How lazy am I if I need 2 ‘good’ reasons to get up to make it worthwhile??

Anyway – it was locked! (Typical) Went back to bed – drank some of the water – finally went to sleep – but then was dreaming I was at a quiz – and I was marking answers, but it was awful because I was really high up, sort of looking over a balcony – and it was a long way down, and then I dreamt I needed a wee… (water had got to the bladder) – so I had to get up again – so I think I might stick a post-it note to the light switch in the lounge tonight saying “check back door/no water beyond this point”.

Anyway – I don’t need to worry about the exam, because I have, according to the clairvoyant, “someone watching over me” – lets hope they are either Greek, Roman, a historian, or someone who knows all the answers.

I think my trip to the clairvoyant has just proved to me that I am quite cynical. Even though some of the things that were said to me made sense, there were an equal number of messages that other people had that made more sense to me. I’d probably go again, as it was entertaining, and certainly something to think about – but I’m not yet convinced. It did inspire me to spend an evening doing some family tree research, and I hope to do more of that when I am Greek & Roman free – which is frighteningly soon – but I’m keen to get it over with.

… thinking about the afterlife.

2006-10-02T15:23:00.000+02:00

Yes, folks – I am off to a clairvoyant on Thursday – not a personal reading, they are way too expensive, but a much smaller gathering than I have been to in the past, where there has been a whole theatre full of people, therefore less chance of a reading. (And for all of you who know me quite well – yes I am quite a cynical person, however part of me must think (or perhaps hope) there is something more to life than this!! Otherwise – what is the point? OK – maybe there is no point – maybe THAT is the point, that there isn’t one – but I hope to approach this with an open mind and look forward to reporting back!

Let’s face it, for me to “believe” I need names, dates, and talk of things only I know about! What I don’t want is “Is there someone here called Joan… Jean… Jane?? Geoff??”.

I am a big fan of “Most Haunted”, mainly because it is so entertaining, much of which is due to a certain person (we are talking Richard Felix here) being so unconvincing you wonder why he is allowed on the show. He is the type of person who, if he had a complete change of career (whatever he does??) and became a weather man – even if there was a foot of snow outside and he said it was snow – you would be thinking “Well it might not be snow – it might be icing sugar”. He just has this air of – I don’t know what, exactly – ineptness about him. He seems totally inept.

Which brings me very nicely to something I have been pondering this week – what is the opposite of inept? Is it ept? Have you ever heard someone described as “ept”? No – nor me!! Perhaps it is uninept? Spell-checker is, of course, ept enough to show me that these words are not real. Thesaurus tells me the opposite of inept is competent – but anyway – inept is my word of the week and I will be using it as much as physically possible.

Also today I have discovered the cure for insomnia – it is a short book called Rome in the Late Republic – for any sufferers out there, it is worth getting – I can’t get past page 4 – I keep waking up with my face on the pages. It costs £12.99 – you could maybe get one cheaper from Amazon Marketplace – but it would probably be soggy with dribble.

Ooooh! I have just spotted another word for inept – ham-fisted – I wonder what a ham-fisted vegetarian would be called. Quorn-fisted perhaps?

Do you get the impression I am struggling with my revision today? I can only work between 6 am and 9 am – after that it is all downhill. And I am really NOT a mornings person – I have only recently discovered this is my best working time. It might explain why I was so crap at school – had it started at 6 in the morning I’d have been great! Of course, the problem with not being a mornings person is that I do have to force myself to get up at that time – and this morning it just didn’t happen! So I am sort of trying – but struggling with a wandering mind – hence this blog… hence my testing all my various highlighter pens out to see which is the best… hence sorting out my black biros into thickness order (thickness of pen – not ink), although this is because I have just read that when you are writing for 3 hours in an exam you need a variety of thicknesses of pens. You should start writing with the thinnest and progress to the fattest – this is supposed to stop your hand hurting. I wish I was ambidextrous – that would be great – I could then write 2 answers at the same time and leave after an hour and a half. Actually (for any inventers out there) what I REALLY need is something that looks exactly like a biro, but has a little hidden window, and some sort of memory inside the pen, so that I could cheat really effectively. If it could also be used to scan the question, then wirelessly connect to the internet and find the best answer, then write it out in my writing, even better! (Quickly though – the exam is in 2 weeks!!)

Concerned about “Diagnosis Murder”…

2006-09-08T02:08:00.000+02:00

… I have been watching as much as possible over the summer hols. Got into a nice gentle afternoon routine: Lunch, “Neighbours”, “Cash in the Attic”, “Diagnosis Murder”, followed by a short sleep. Have enjoyed watching the series with “Jack” (played by the gorgeous Scott Baio – who played Bugsy Malone some years back) – and was frankly, shocked when that series came to an end and launched straight into the series with “Jesse”. But I loved the re-cap at the beginning which, in no more than 30 seconds, explained where “Jack” had gone, who “Jesse” was, and, more to the point how come “Amanda” was suddenly married and pregnant! What it failed to mention was Barry Van Dyke’s close encounter with a bottle of bleach. We sat there, transfixed! We kept saying: “I don’t remember “Steve” being blond!” I have since found a photo of him with brown hair – thank goodness – and I can only assume it is some kind of mid-life crisis. That sort of thing messes with your head! We were beginning to doubt ourselves, wondering if “Mark” had a moustache the previous day!

Now I learn that Jack Klugman has been in a couple of episodes of Diagnosis Murder – (for those of you not into cheesy daytime crime drama, Jack Klugman was “Quincy ME”). This got me thinking – wouldn’t it be great if he played his Quincy character in Diagnosis Murder! Maybe Amanda could have a day off, or something, and Quincy could take her place! Quincy and Dr Sloan would be able to solve twice as many murders if they were working together! Wouldn’t that be brilliant!

I’ve always thought that this sort of thng would work brilliantly in UK soaps as well. If someone was ill in “Eastenders”, they could go to the hospital in “Casualty”; if they were robbed, they could see the ‘coppers’ from “The Bill”. If they needed a vet for Wellard, they could ask Rolf Harris… No, wait – that was real life – they would have to see James Herriot – which would be weird, because as well as a vet he was that boring doctor in “Doctors”. Perhaps they could see Robert Hardy instead. I have major problems with him – either he can’t act at all, and just plays himself – or he is an extremely accomplished actor who is forced to play every part in exactly the same way.

Now for a good actor, look no further than the gorgeous Christopher Plummer. The way he put on a pair of gloves to dance with Julie Andrews in “The Sound of Music” was awesome – which, in a very roundabout way, brings me back to Dick Van Dyke.

Would it be a bad thing if I recorded Diagnosis Murder on the days I work?

…pretending to revise.

2006-09-03T22:58:00.000+02:00

Stupid, really. Exam is only 6 short weeks away – and I’m back to work next week, so less time to revise – OK – so I only work 2 days a week, but I am easily distracted.

I spent 2 hours this morning doing Sudoku puzzles. I have sort of convinced myself that they will somehow “warm up” my brain and make it more receptive to information – however, in reality, they just make me tired! But I am getting quite good at them. Pity they don’t feature in the exam! I did make a half-arsed attempt at typing up my notes on Homer. I really should practice trying to do some exam style questions – but they are always worded so weirdly, aren’t they? Who writes exam questions? If I wrote myself some questions about Homer, I have no doubt in my mind that I could answer them. But in exams they are written in such a cryptic way, so is there any point? Alternatively, I could prepare for the exam by spending the next six weeks writing out all the main points onto Polo Mints – then when I have finished each question, eat the evidence. Perhaps I will look into acquiring some non-toxic ink.

My memory is crap these days. Will I be able to remember anything about the Iliad or the Odyssey when I have to? I know more about Homer Simpson than I do the old ancient Greek guy. I’m thinking I will probably be able to quote Homer Simpson, as I sit there silently saying “Doh!” to myself as I read through the paper and wonder what I have been doing for the past nine months.

Last year, after the exam, I said “I NEVER want to do another course about the English Language again!” That’s why I did a classics course this year. I NEVER want to do another classics course again – even though it has been fascinating reading about Greeks and Romans.

Next year I am doing another course about the English language… But the good news is, there is no exam, so I should save a fortune not having to buy mints.

Considering hedgehogs and chickens…

2006-09-03T11:55:00.000+02:00

According to a recent newspaper report, McDonalds are redesigning their McFlurry cartons, to make them more ‘hedgehog friendly’. Apparently, they get their heads stuck inside and, if not rescued, starve to death. Now, I don’t know about you, but I have seen more flat hedgehogs on the road, than I’ve seen hedgehogs wandering around the countryside with McFlurry cartons for hats. But, obviously it is a problem and they are apparently ‘making the cartons smaller’. Smaller than a hedgehog’s head? That is pretty small, isn’t it? Surely the problem would be solved if they just made them much, much wider than a hedgehog’s head, then they could eat their ice cream like the rest of us, and wander off down the road (probably to get flattened by a car because they can’t run very fast after eating all the ice-cream). You do have to wonder though, why they don’t use the spoon, or perhaps have the hot apple pie? Another thing I wondered, do they use the drive-thru?

In the same paper there was a wonderful story about the lady who had prepared a lovely meal of chicken wings for herself and her daughter, when suddenly she came across a chicken head! And she was complaining!! She was quite happy to eat the poor bird’s wings – but not its head. Why ever not? It was cooked. She could have left the beak. I don’t know why people are so surprised – it is a chicken part after all – it’s not like it was a frog, or a horseshoe. You also have to wonder as to how she had been just about to eat it before she noticed the unusual head shaped ‘wing’. Personally, when I’m cooking I look more closely at the food when arranging it on the baking tray or the plate, than when I have reached the eating stage. There was a picture in the paper. The expression on the chicken’s face was, I felt, more pissed off than that of the woman.

…thinking about revision.

2006-09-02T15:34:00.000+02:00

OK – so that is either going to sound incredibly diligent, like I have spent the majority of the day planning, working out timetables, and so on; or it is going to sound like delaying tactics again. Why am I thinking about it and not doing it? Well, in my defence, it is barely 7 am. So, although revision has been on my mind, I haven’t yet had the chance to get started. And why am I writing this? Well, the CD I needed was in this computer, so I had to turn it on to retrieve it so I can listen to it on my personal CD player, so as not to wake everyone up.

Mind you – I wonder what people would think if I did have it on loud? Would they wake up and realise I was listening to a “how to revise” CD – or would they think the most patronising sounding man in the world had broken into the house to deliver a lecture! You really would be hard pushed to find a more condescending tone of voice. I don’t really have a problem with that, although I do think his advice to “enjoy” the exam is bizarre and unrealistic, to say the least. Who the hell “enjoys” exams? Have you ever heard anyone come out of an exam saying, “Oooh – I did enjoy that.” People say, “That was crap. I think I failed.” Mainly, I think, because they don’t want to say it went OK in case it sounds like boasting, or in case they really have failed. They would then look a prize prat when the result came out, as no doubt everyone would remember that they had thought they’d done OK.

When I came out of my exam last year, I just wanted to cry - but I was too numb; it was that diabolical. It was so awful that I very nearly walked out in the first 5 minutes. The only thing stopping me from walking out was the thought that I would have to retake the whole course if I scored 0, but if I could somehow get myself 17% I would be able to retake the exam (for free). The thought of wasting £500 is quite an incentive! I was very surprised - shocked in fact - when I discovered I had passed – I just hope the next one is not as traumatic!

...bathing a rabbit.

2006-09-01T20:14:00.000+02:00

…In fact, if I were still a Girl Guide I would probably have gained my ‘rabbit handling’ badge – assuming there was one, of course. There were badges for pretty much everything, so there probably was. I am presuming they still do badges. I will have to look into it as I am now interested! Of course, if I were still a Girl Guide, I’d have had to have had my uniform let out a little at the seams.

Actually, to back track a little – I don’t expect there really were badges for “everything” – that would be hideous. I now have an image of hoards of blue skirted, blue hatted little girls terrorising the community by practicing their arson, or their machine-gun handling. So I should say they had badges for most “nice” things. Cooking, sewing, saving people’s lives and, of course, tying boy scouts to trees with piano wire, smearing them with jam and leaving them to be eaten by ants.

Ah – I am showing my age now. No doubt the uniform is slightly more practical than the blue mini-skirt of the late 60s/early 70s, and they are no longer called Girl Guides and Boy Scouts. They will be Guides and Scouts – less sexist, more PC. I think Brownies is still going – though I was never a Brownie. I went once with my friend Tracy, but we were going to be 10 the next week, so we went straight to Guides, and never found out what they did with the secret toadstools that were kept in the cupboard, that we caught sight of when they were clearing away – they were quite big, and not real toadstools I should also add – I am not for one minute suggesting that Brown Owl was some sort of drug crazed maniac, high on magic mushrooms, but it cannot be ruled out entirely.

I think I would have liked to be a Brownie. The uniform was crap, but I would have been a Sprite. That sounds enormous fun, doesn’t it? Guides was OK (I was a daffodil). I got my emergency helper badge – but I think that one had to be renewed every two years, but I kept the badge because we moved away. The only other badges I’ve had were for swimming (400 metres – which isn’t far really, but I had only learnt to swim two weeks previously) and my Grade 1 ice-skating – both when I was about 11. For Grade One you had to “skate forward and stop”. I never managed grade two because we moved away, again, and to be honest had I gone every week from then till now I still would never have mastered the somewhat dubious art of skating backwards. I do like to see where I am going – especially when participating in potentially dangerous activities.

But anyway, I digress, the rabbit is now bathed and looking decidedly un-masculine, he is extremely fluffed up and resembles a dandelion clock. To say he enjoyed his bath would be a bit of an exaggeration; in fact to say he tolerated it would be as well. However, I think he realised quite early on that it would be futile to struggle – there was no escape.

...writing an essay

2006-09-01T07:58:00.000+02:00

…or rather, finding a variety of delaying tactics, mainly because I am stuck. I need 2,000 words in total. Now, because I have more or less done my conclusion (about 200-ish words) – it means that all I need to do is write just one word for every page of the new Argos catalogue. When I started this morning I was in the mirrors and lighting section. Now I have added enough words to be in washing machines. My aim is to be in power tools by the end of today. I’d like to point out that I am using plain paper – I am not actually writing the words in the Argos catalogue – it would make it a ridiculous price to post, although my tutor might find it slightly more interesting than the drivel I am writing.