I was on a temping assignment (I won't say which one to protect the guilty). At this company secretaries emailed each other if they had any 'spare capacity', offering to help out with correspondence tapes or basic amending of documents. I didn't have much to do so sent out one of these emails. A 'higher management' person came trundling over to my desk with a huge pile of files and TWO FULL tapes (30 minutes each!). I started the first of the tapes and heard general administration instructions that I couldn't do (as I didn't work in that department), so I typed out the instructions. I did manage to do a couple of memo's, which I diligently crossed off the list I had typed.
Lunchtime came. The 'higher management' person came over with even more piles of work whilst I was eating - a sandwich was stuffed in my face as she started telling me what to do. I was somewhat annoyed - lunchtime wasn't staggered at this company and everyone had their lunch break 1pm-2pm without exception.
"I'm not sure I'll have time to do that," I said, chomping away.
"Why not?" she snapped, "What else have you got to do?"
Now, excuse me, but I was offering help out of the goodness of my own heart to assist some overwhelmed secretary in another department, not to have orders barked at me during my lunch break.
"I work for Pete," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "He's given me some work to do, so I won't be able to do any of yours."
With that, the 'higher management' person thew me a look that would have halted a charging rhinocerous in its tracks, picked up her files and staggered off furiously.
Later, I received a phonecall from her secretary. "What have you done off this list?" she asked. "Everything that's crossed off," I told her. "I don't understand," she said.
I went all the way over to the other department and found her shaking her head over my typed list. "What I've done," I said, very slowly, "Is what I've crossed off. If it's not crossed off, it isn't done."
"So you've done this then?" she asked irritably, pointing at an item that had, quite clearly, been crossed off.
"Yes," I told her. She turned back to her computer and started typing. No thanks for helping out or anything. I walked off, vowing never to offer my assistance to them again - it just wasn't worth the hassle.
May 2003
This was on another temping assignment. The boss kept all his loose filing on top of a cabinet, and I diligently worked my way through it whenever I got the chance. There were also files piled on this cabinet, lots of them. I did think to myself, 'He's working on a lot at once.'
Then, one day, about three weeks into the assignment, my boss said to me in passing, "It's looking a little messy on top of the cabinet with all those files, isn't it?" "Yes," I agreed, and innocently walked off. 30 minutes later, realisation hit me like a sledgehammer. I was an idiot! He wasn't working on them, he'd put them there to be filed away. There were about 25 of them, big buggers too. I rushed to the cabinet and started filing madly, noticing my boss smiling as I did so. If you're not told, you don't know, do you?
Wednesday 25 June
I was sitting on the top deck of the bus in the front (best) seat. The bus pulled up at a stop. A young man about 30 metres away ran towards it. He wasn't very old - in his 20's perhaps - and he didn't run particularly fast. He got on the bus and sat directly behind me, gasping and wheezing heavily into the back of my head - my hair moved! (I hate that!). 10 minutes later, he was still gasping and wheezing and I was contorting my head to get away from the waft of his hoarse breath. I thought he was going to die! And I thought I was unfit!
Wednesday 2 July
Yeah, we're back to bus travelling again. Considering I spend more than two hours a day, 10 hours a week, on public transport, its hardly surprising I have so much to say on the subject. What I want to know is, why is it only my bus that doesn't run with any discernible regularity. At the end of a long, arduous day at work, I stand by the bus stop and watch four No.129's, five No. 163's and a couple of buses to Cannock go by, but mine? Nowhere to be seen. It's easier (and quicker) for me to get from Birmingham to Wolverhampton than it is to get home, 4 miles away.
You see on the sides of buses these days, "Run Every 6 minutes," "Run Every 3 minutes." My bus has, "Runs ... oh, lets say every 25 minutes or so ... tell you what, lets round it up to half an hour-ish if the driver's up for it."
Friday 4 July
I was getting undressed for bed at night and wondering where all the bruises on my arms were coming from. There were 2 or 3 all grouped together in the same place on each arm (just above the elbow). It took me a while to figure it out, but today I discovered the reason. I noticed, as the bus was bombing its way through the traffic, blaring its horn and crashing through red lights, that every time we turned a corner, we appeared to do it at a 45 degree angle. This thrusts passengers (i.e. me) against the jutting window ledge, thus causing bruising. So not only at the end of your journey do you get off the bus feeling positively thankful to still be alive, but you get off battered and covered in bruises too. I'm considering suing for personal injury!
Monday 7 July
I'm not good with Monday's. I don't think they should be allowed and should be scrapped from the calendar entirely, giving us a nice long three day weekend instead.
I knew today would be a bad day when my alarm clock didn't go off, so I got up late. Rushing to get ready in time I stubbed my toe against the coffee table leg and wasted a good five minutes jumping up and down on the spot hissing all the rude words I could think of. My make-up wouldn't go on properly (like I've only been doing it for the last 20 years!) and then I couldn't find my bus pass. I didn't have time to search for it, so had to pay to get on the bus and, of course, I didn't have any change so was forced (with a snarl) to throw two £1 coins into the slot.
There were no seats downstairs and, as I staggered up the stairs with the bus doing at least 120mph, I dropped my purse. I bent to pick it up, and the contents of my bag (which wasn't zipped up) clattered down the stairs. I hurriedly picked them up with the entire lower deck watching me (watching, mind, not helping), then rushed back up the stairs, snagging my skirt on my shoe heel. The skirt didn't have a belt on it, so the lower deck passengers were treated to a fleeting glimpse of my knicker-clad posterior. I resisted the urge to write the day off, at 8.03am, and go home.
Tuesday 8 July 2003
My partner and I were, again, discussing getting married. As we've both been there before, we tend to bring the subject up every now and again, talk about it enthusiastically for a while, then start thinking up reasons why we shouldn't do it (i.e. we don't want - nor can we have - children; we're happy as we are; or - most important to me - if we ever get hitched I will become an instant grandmother!).
Whilst we're in enthuse mode, we decide we don't want to get married in a church (because we're both aetheists), nor do we want to do it in a Register Office (primarily because I want the excuse to buy a beautiful dress). So we talk about alternatives:-
Married at sea (Partner's suggestion). Not just any sea, but the Channel! Can't get much more romantic than that! "The Captain can do it," my partner says. Can you imagine it? A cross-Channel ferry, bouncing off waves in an inevitable storm, rain crashing down, everyone freezing to death, and the Captain saying, "Do you .... ?" "What?" "Do you ... ?" "Sorry, I can't hear you above the howling wind and the lashing rain." One of the advantages, I suppose, is that all the guests can buy duty free at the end (would save on reception costs, though ... buy yer own!).
On horseback (joint idea). Despite the fact that neither of us have been on a horse for at least 20 years, this initially seems quite romantic - big, fluffy white dress spread over the back of a handsome chestnut gelding. The reality, of course, might be somewhat different. I have visions of me clinging onto the back of some enormous beast that takes fright over the flowing veil, rears up and then makes a bolt for it with me still clinging and screaming ... I fall off ... break something ... say my wedding vows in the back of an ambulance with lights flashing and siren blaring. Hmmm, tempting!
Freefall parachuting (my idea). I saw this on tv, a couple tying the knot about 5,000 miles above ground, and it appealed to my machochistic tendencies. My partner, on the other hand, is afraid of heights. Assuming that I could get him into a light aircraft at all, I can imagine the consequences after I've physically pushed him out the door and he's careering to earth at a vast rate of knots.
Partner: "Arrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!"
(Faces contort with the G-force of our descent - my jowells flap, his cheeks swell to hamster-like proportions, both our eyelids form small canopies).
Partner: "ArrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"DO YOU ... ?"
(Partner, panic stricken, pulls parachute chord ... instantly disappears into the sky above us whilst me and the person who's performing the 'ceremony' hurtle on).
Me (looking at other person, jowells still flapping, wedding dress wrapped tight round my neck): "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"
15 July 2003
On the subject of weddings, there's a shop my bus drive past every day on the way to work. It’s a fancy dress shop. In the window is a dummy wearing a superman costume, surrounded by ‘accessories’ such as plastic hands, masks covered in blood, fairy wings, false wigs and beards, plastic poo and fake internal organs. There’s also a sign in the window. It reads, “Wedding Receptions Catered For.”! Catered for in what way, exactly? Can you imagine it? 300 guests at the reception, all being served by waiters wearing werewolf costumes serving champagne coloured red to look like blood. Its certainly not my idea of the perfect day.
Tuesday 15 July 2003
You know when you’ve been spending too much time at work when:-
• You try to open the front door of your house using the security card to your office (which is what I tried to do today, to the great amusement of my partner).
• You answer the phone saying “[Company name], can I help you?”
• At home, you dial 9 for an outside line.
Thursday 17 July 2003
My youngest son was two days away from his 18th birthday when he was struck down by a virus. I found out he had the virus when, at 2.30am in the morning, I woke to the sound of a weak knock on my bedroom door. Leaping out of bed imagining the house was on fire or we were being invaded by terrorists, I flung open the bedroom door and found my son on all fours, retching into a bucket. “What’s the matter?” I gasped, still half asleep. “What do you think?” he cried, retching again. I fetched him water, made him comfortable in bed, offered him a hug and told him everything was going to be alright – my son refused the hug (sob) and, far from believing everything was going to be alright, was convinced he was going to die. I spent the rest of the night in and out of bed lured by the sounds of more retching from his room next door. At 4.30am, I heard my son beat a hasty (and very noisy) descent to the downstairs toilet. He spent the whole of the next day in bed, recovering. I, on the other hand, got up at 6.45am and went to work as normal. I was a zombie.
Wednesday 23 July 2003
I’m not a particularly vain person. In the morning I put on lipstick, brush my hair and check that I'm suitably smart in the hallway mirror before I leave for work. That's the only time I look at myself in the mirror, I just assume I'll look the same all day, but it doesn't work like that does it. By the time I come home at night, the lipstick is long gone, my eyes look like a panda bears because I forget I'm wearing makeup and rub them a lot, my tights have rolled down to my ankles Nora Batty style, my clothes are dishevelled and my hair's a mess. Walking back into the house past the hallway mirror, I often scare myself (and I think all those people in the street are looking at me because I'm so gorgeous!).
Friday 25 July 2003
Its been incredibly hot the last few days, the nights almost unbearable. Its really difficult to get to sleep when its that hot, so last night we opened up all the bedroom windows and lay like naked starfish on the bed. It was marginally more comfortable - true, we know the exact time when three of our neighbours returned from the pub, the club and a girlfriend’s house, but once all the hollering and the sobbing died down we returned to unconsciousness.
What really woke us up and kept us awake, wide awake, at 3.30 in the morning was the bloody birds! It seemed like three million of them woke up shrieking “GREAT! ANOTHER DAY! YIPPEE!” The sheer volume of it was incredible, like something from Hitchcock’s The Birds film. What I wouldn’t have given for a machine gun.
Wednesday 7 August 2003
My mom, who’s just turned 60, has been pottering around on a pushbike for years. She doesn’t do more than 2 miles an hour, and she never goes more than two miles distance. She just … well, potters. Then she decided to get a new pushbike and picked one out of a catalogue. The catalogue didn’t have the one she wanted and sent a replacement. It was bright purple. “Look at this,” my mom said, pointing at the name emblazoned on the frame, “It’s called Wild Thing.” I sniggered. My mom riding a bike called Wild Thing! “And this,” she said, pointing at the bar holding on the back wheel; it read, “Born to be Wild.” Unable to resist, I went home and copied Mick Jagger’s ‘Wild Thing’ and Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born to be Wild’ onto a tape for her so she could listen to it on her personal stereo and gain inspiration as she pottered around on her new purple bike.
9 August 2003
My partner is an early riser ... 4am in the morning he'll be crawling out of bed (because his restlessness endangers his life if he wakes me up at that time). Consequently, by 9pm, he's usually fast asleep on the sofa (I fondly call him Mr Narcolepsy). My partner also talks in his sleep, which is interesting if somewhat surreal (unconscious people don't have a firm grip of reality). Last night I tried to wake him up for bed and he starts talking about his work at a steel factory.
"You're not getting your order," he says, unconscious, "You won't get it because you haven't paid your last bill."
"But I'm a good customer," I say. "I always pay on time."
"No you don't. We have to chase you for money and you never pay us for the work we've done, so we're not doing any more work for you."
This goes on for a while. He won't be lured off the subject of work until, out of nowhere, he sits bolt upright, still fast asleep, and says, "Nobody wants knitted swimwear any more!"
I'm on the floor at this point, laughing my face off and asking, "When did they ever?"
"No, its not right," he insists indignantly. "We give them to the men in the warehouse [big, burley men, these!] and they won't wear them."
"I don't blame them." I cry, gasping for air.
Like I say, very surreal. The picture of huge, well-muscled Black Country men, swearing profusely and hauling tons of steel onto lorries whilst wearing knitted swimwear is something that will stay with me for a very long time.
Friday 15 August
Another run in with the 'higher management' person who brought me files and files of work to do a few months ago (see first entry above). I was searching for a book for my boss, who said this person might have it in her office, so I went over to look for it. I asked the secretary first, who said I'd be lucky to find anything in the bombsite that was this person's office. I went into the said office - which did indeed look like an explosion had recently occurred - vaguely noticing that all of the secretaries outside had gone mysteriously quiet ... they knew what was coming.
With my usual smile, I asked for the book, giving her the title. The partner glared at me like I was a single celled organism and barked, "I need more information that that! There's lots of books called that! What do you want it for?" "My boss," I said, smile dropping like a rock from my face, "Its blue, if that helps." "No! Its doesn't help! You'll have to find out exactly which book it is you want! You could go down to the library and ask for it but with a title like that you'd probably get half the library!" My back was well and truly up by now - as a 42 year old woman who has raised three strapping sons, owned several motorbikes and has a tattoo, I wasn't accustomed to being spoken to like a three year old. "Right!" I snapped back furiously, "I will!" I outglared her glare, waiting for her to say just one more word, then realised I was still on my probationary period and it probably wouldn't look good to end up sprawling with an antagonistic partner in my first few weeks. Instead, I just snapped, "Thanks for your help!" and stormed out of the office before either of us could say anything else. Fortunately, I managed to find the book elsewhere, but I'm a firm believer that every dog has his day, and one day ...
I don't know how some people manage to get through life without someone beating them silent with the aid of a baseball bat.
Saturday 16 August 2003
My dad's a gardener. His wife prepares his sandwiches for him before he departs for a hard day of lawnmowering, and cleans out his sandwich box when he comes home. Last week, she opened the box and screamed in horror when something leapt out at her. It was a very large bull frog. Hearing her screams, dad rushed into the kitchen. "There's a frog in your lunchbox!" she cried, cowering by the fridge as the frog leaped and croaked on the floor. "Its from one of my gardens," dad said, "I thought I'd bring it home to clear up the slugs in my greenhouse." "Why didn't you tell me it was in there?" she asked. "Sorry," my dad said, "I forgot."
Forgetfulness can be a dangerous thing. Dad had only been working in one of his large gardens for a couple of weeks when, as he was tipping a wheelbarrow of cuttings onto a compost pile, what he thought was a jutting stick turned out to be an adder. Dad immediately went to the owner to warn them. "You have adders in your garden," he said. "Oh," the owner beamed happily, "We know. We just let them wander around." "You could have mentioned it," dad snapped back. "Sorry," said the owner, "I forgot."
Friday 22 August 2003
Interesting news from 'inside sources'. The secretary who took over my job at the last company I worked for 'permanently' (see Building Company No.2) has handed in her notice. She's just finished her three month probation and, apparently, couldn't take working for the Associate any longer. I'm somewhat pleased about this (I know I shouldn't be), but it proves that it wasn't just me who couldn't cope, that there genuinely is a problem in that department. It also shows that the letter I wrote to the Big Partner outlining these problems had absolutely no impact whatsoever - just as I suspected. I predict a huge turnover of secretaries in the future until somebody sends the Associate on a managerial course.
NEWS JUST IN: I've just found out that, not only is the secretary leaving, but the surveyor who's only been there 12 months is leaving AND the surveyor who started just before I left (four months ago) is ALSO leaving. Amazing! How can a company run like that?
Monday 25 August 2003
Monday - never a good day for me at the best of times, but today my mind was (a) still half asleep (nothing new there, then); (b) consumed with thoughts of the ex-husband coming into my home to ‘check’ on the ‘independent’ valuation of the house (and seeing my bedroom for the first time in four years … he should be so lucky!); and (c) the total re-organisation of my boss’ entire filing system. So, with my head spinning (in a semi-conscious oh-my-god-it’s-Monday kind of way), I left the office to go for a cigarette.
I passed the toilets on the way and thought, ‘Hmm, kill two birds with one stone’. Instead of putting my cigarette on the floor (and risking typhoid and other nasty diseases) I put it in my mouth and sat there, pondering, twisting the lighter in my hand and thinking about things. Next thing I know, I’m sitting there puffing away, having lit the cigarette without realising it and was now happily blowing smoke into the air. Someone coming into the toilet disturbed me from my comatosed reverie. The brain kind of twitched at this point and quietly wondered where I was going to flick the ash. Ash! Fag! Toilet! I’d lit a fag in the toilet! I’d set off the smoke detectors, the alarms were going to go off and hundreds of people would be evacuated from the building and it would be all my fault.
I suppressed a scream of sheer panic, tossed the cigarette down the toilet and flushed it in one movement. Then I raced from the loo (becoming a walker - or, more descriptively, a runner - rather than a washer), hoping to not be identified by the person in the next cubicle and waiting for the alarm bells to start ringing out. They didn’t, fortunately - lucky escape. I’ve vowed never to kill two birds with one stone again.
Friday 29 August 2003
My 18 year old son came home laughing last night (amazing in itself as I haven’t seen him crack a grin properly since puberty started way back in the year 2000). “What’s up?” I asked, sort of half heartedly as, in his teenage-angst state, he rarely acknowledges my presence on the planet let alone speaks to me. To my astonishment, he engaged in a conversation punctuated with more fits of laughter: “This bloke’s just comes into the garage [where son works] and I fixed something simple on his car for him. He asked how much he owed and I said ‘Oh, just buy me a drink.’ The bloke gets back into his car and drives off. Five minutes later he comes back with a single can of Carling lager in his hand and gives it to me.”
Wednesday 3 September 2003
I’m a fan of Barbra Striesand and all of my sons endured this music throughout their childhood, tolerating the sad attempts of their mother to reach the high notes whilst dusting/vaccing/washing up, so they know most of the tunes and lyrics that blighted their upbringing.
My partner and I got home from work late one night and I announced that tea (or dinner, if you’re posh) was going to be a DIY affair: aka beans on toast. Middle son. (19) wanders into the kitchen as I’m slumped over the cooker working up the energy to turn the toast over before it burnt, and burst into his own dramatic and impromptu rendition of Papa Can You Hear Me: “Mommy, I am starving, Mommy, I am hungry, Mommy can you please cook me some tea. Mommy, I am fainting, Mommy I am fading, Mommy can you please please please feed me. Can’t you hear me wailing, anything I’m saying, even though my stomach is so empty.” The toast burnt because I was laughing so much.
Thursday 4 September 2003
The company I work for have been dealing with tenants going into the new Bull Ring Shopping Centre in Birmingham and, to celebrate its opening today, the company decided to give us all an extra half hour at lunch time so we could wander down and have a look. As I have an allergy to shopping and an even bigger one regarding ‘shopping in crowds’, I didn’t even venture from the building at lunchtime and went home half an hour early instead. So I left at 4.30. Missed my bus. Jumped on the first bus that was going in my general direction. Got stuck in (perpetual) traffic. Got off at the closest bus stop to my house and walked about a quarter of a mile. Result: got home a full 10 minutes earlier than normal. Sometimes it just ain’t worth the effort!
Did see the new Bull Ring on the local news that night. Apparently there were over a quarter of a million people (that’s 270,000 for those who like figures) shopping there today (my idea of hell). I like what they’ve nicknamed the strange looking Selfridges - The Marmite Building (you either love it or you hate it … I hate it, but then I probably have no taste). I’ve nicked a couple of photos off the internet so you can see it in all its glory (click for bigger pic)..
My two sons at home both work (one just during summer as he’s at university studying Astrophysics … I don’t help him with his homework much!) They usually give me their housekeeping on Friday night when they’ve been paid and, because finances are so tight, I use it to buy the weekly grocery on Saturday.
Last Friday, one son just forgot, the other, when I asked for it, told me to stop nagging (and a swift cuff round the shoulders for him - I can’t reach the back of his head any more). Didn’t shop on Saturday as we did our monthly trip to Yorkshire to visit my partners family. When no housekeeping was forthcoming on Sunday, I thought Bugger It and my partner and I went out for lunch instead (a nice carvery in the Dirty Duck/White Swan just outside Harborne). The boys, noticing our absence, assumed we’d gone shopping. When we returned, they both went to raid the fridge. It was empty. They didn’t say anything. Neither did I. Housekeeping arrived at 5pm on Sunday, too late to shop then.
We were forced to do it on Monday after work (dragging our knackered bodies round the local supermarket groaning a great deal) due to the total lack of any sustenance in the house. When we got back, small son (18) did two things which absolutely floored me; (1) he noticed we were verging on complete exhaustion, and, even more amazing, (2) he said, “You two go and sit down, I’ll put the grocery away.” And he did. A first!
I don’t anticipate they’ll be late with their housekeeping this week … but you never know with teenagers.
Friday 5 September 2003 - housekeeping update (so you can sleep at night knowing all is well with the world)
Small son couldn't wait to hand over his housekeeping tonight. Middle son left Friday afternoon to stay with his girlfriend for the weekend. I delicately asked if he could leave it for me before he went, but he forgot. Also forgot Monday, when he came back, nor did it materialise on Tuesday. By Wednesday an accumulation of events made me 'Lose It Big Time' (see below), and his housekeeping materialised on Thursday morning. It wasn't the money, it was the principle of the thing ... I've supported them all their lives, I don't expect to still be doing it now they're both grown men.
Tuesday 16 September 2003
It's been a really REALLY bad week. Last Monday I discovered that my dad had a heart problem and was going in for tests, so the whole family were worried sick but trying not to show him (frantic phonecalls passed between us siblings whilst we were all telling dad, "Ah, don't worry, its probably nothing."). Stress level at this point, around 6.
Tuesday night, our neighbour came round. My youngest son has been seeing his daughter, and they've spent a lot of time in his room watching videos (the numerous gaps in my video collection bear testament to this). We thought said girlfriend was 16 but the neighbour informed us that she was 15. We said we would talk to small son and reach some compromises. The neighbour went home and an argument ensued (which we could hear through the adjoining wall). He banned his daughter from seeing small son. Small son was gutted. Girlfriend took an overdose of tablets and was taken to hospital. Stress level: 8, and rising.
Wednesday: letter from ex's solicitors insisting that ex-husband is present when the valuation on the house takes place. So that put me in a bad mood. Work was a nightmare and I worked through lunch. That afternoon, my partner rang to say small son had been driving around in his car again - despite not having past his test and without insurance, tax or MOT. Stress levels now touching 10. I rang small son and gave him a 'severe talking to' - swear words were involved (I wasn't even sure of the meaning of some!). Stress level now way over 10. I was shaking with adrenaline. Got home that night and, basically, Lost It Big Time. Upset everyone, including myself.
Thursday: adrenaline wears off, leaving me semi-comatosed. I can barely move. Take the day off work and do Absolutely Nothing. Talk to boys that night and we reach an understanding about things, life, and all that. Friday, still unable to face work.
Then, fortunately (before I went completely round the bend), things started to get better. On Saturday small son FINALLY passed his driving test (yes!). On Sunday, we struggled with the Mensa test of getting all middle son's belongings into the car to take him back to University. Deposit his belongings in his room, the hallway, the living room. Sobby farewells, but he's happy.
Monday, small son obtains insurance, MOT and awaiting tax for his car. He's legal! I get home from work and the moment I've waited for for MONTHS finally arrives ... my youngest son (my baby!) drives me round the block (I felt very old). We're barely out of the driveway before I'm saying, "Shouldn't let the car roll back like that, keep control at all times. Watch that car. Watch that child. Always assume everyone on the road is out to get you [bikers law]." I can't help myself. Son politely tells me to shut up. I clamp hand across mouth. He's actually a good driver. He's happy.
Tuesday (today), small son's girlfriend has made a full recovery and is due out of hospital. Her father retracted the ban and small son plans to take her for a drive in his car. Talk to my dad, who says the tests weren't as bad as he expected and he feels optimistic. I book a much-needed holiday for myself and my partner. We plan to do nothing but eat, drink and read til our eyeballs drop out, and simply chill until all stress is eliminated. So we're happy too.
Sometimes life just bites you on the bum, but things usually work out okay in the end (oh, I love happy endings).
24 September 2003
Thankfully, after that horrific week, things calmed down both at home and at work. Haven't seen small son since he passed his test, he's out in it every night and spending an absolute fortune on petrol. He was 'pulled' again by the police the other night and they started writing up a 'producer' (for him to show all his documents at the local police station), and he cried, "Oh for Gods sake! This is the third time I've been pulled in three days!" They 'let him off'.
It was officially the last day of summer on Monday - the temperature dropped dramatically, it absolutely pelted down with rain and blew a gale. I'd decided to do a bit of shopping at lunch (smart, eh?) and made it as far as the traffic lights at the top of Colmore (a full 12 steps from the building) before I turned on my (soaking wet) heels and bombed it back to the office. Its definitely the last we'll see of good weather for a while, but I think I prefer it this way - winter clothes are much nicer and more comfortable (and cover a multitude of sins!).
26 September 2003
I was reminded today of a story my mother told me a while back. My mother worked in Harborne and used to shop at a local supermarket before catching the bus home. One night she left her bags of shopping on the bus, but was determined to get it back at whatever cost. She rushed to the nearest phonebox to call the operator for the phone number of the main bus station. Then she rang the bus station and told them about her shopping. They informed her that the bus she had been on was just finishing his shift and was then returning to ‘base’- she could probably collect her bags of shopping then. Mom asked for directions to the bus station and was told which buses to catch. Four buses, and only vague directions, to the other side of the city. It was a three hour round trip, in the middle of which mom was joyously reunited with her shopping. “How much was the shopping worth?” I asked, when she related this story to me (I was thinking bottles of Krug champagne or maybe a seriously expensive jar of caviar). “Oh, only £8,” she said, “But it was the principle of the thing. It was my shopping and I wanted it back.” I’m hoping its not hereditary.
30 September 2003
I might not have mentioned this before, but back in August I had a letter through the post, one of those chain letters that I normally put straight in the bin. But it must have caught me at an idle moment and I thought I may as well try it - it guaranteed £70,000 after six weeks! So I diligently photocopied and posted out 230 copies of this letter and waited. I'm still waiting. Its a great way to waste a huge amount of money on postage!
1 October 2003
We're off on holiday tomorrow and, to be perfectly honest, never have I needed a holiday as much as this one. This year has been frantic and eventful ... my divorce (finally!) came through in February, had a post-winter holiday in March, handed in my notice at work in April and started temping in May, my lovely dog died in June, I was still attending multiple job interviews in July before landing this one, middle son came home from university for the summer, small son's teenage angst is still driving me round the bend and I've constantly been battling with my ex-husband about his share of the house. Frankly, I'm knackered.
20 October 2003
Well, that's it then, holiday over and back to the rat race. For the first working week we simply survived day to day and went to bed early every night - having done virtually nothing for a week, we were inordinately tired. This is the second week back at work and its like we've never been away ... except that we look marginally healthier than our milk-bottle white colleagues. Ah well, it'll soon be Christmas!
If you're mad keen on find out what other people's holidays are like (!), read about ours in Lanazorote.
21 October 2003
My partner had his car MOT'd at the garage where my youngest son works this morning. Only son wasn't there and nobody knew where he was. Partner rang me and I, instantly diving into panicked-mom-mode, rang his mobile. He sounded groggy when he answered. "Are you in bed?" I asked. "Yeah," he replied. My panic increased ... my poor baby was suffering at home all alone. "What's the matter? Aren't you feeling well? Are you ill?" "No, I'm fine," he croaked, "What time is it?" "Midday," I told him, "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" "Oh crap!" he cried (and I could hear him leaping out of bed), "I forgot about work!"
Forgot? How can anyone forget about work? Its not like you wake up in the morning and think to yourself, "Hmmmm, what have I got to do today? Put petrol in car, do a bit of shopping, oh yes, go to work." Teenagers!
23 October 2003
A bit of wild rambling .... I was sitting on the bus this morning, reading a book as always, when the young woman beside me broke into my reverie/coma to ask if we'd passed Colmore Row yet. I glanced quickly out of the window to see where we were, giving my brain a chance to think, "Colmore Row? Colmore Row? Sounds familiar but not sure where it is." Its the bus stop where I get off every single day to go to my place of work. I could blame the early hour and the fact that I wasn't fully awake yet (when am I ever?), but really I'm always like that - throw me a name and I'll throw you a complete blank.
Colmore Row was, in fact, gridlocked. There were bollards on the path and just edging into the road. Three workmen and an inspector were standing inside the bollards. They were all staring down at a single paving slab that had been removed from the path - not doing anything, just staring! No doubt they'll still be staring at it when I go home tonight.
Actually, there was a particularly funny passage in the book I'm reading at the moment. A woman makes tea for her dad and his lady friend, notices nobody's washed up the breakfast things, is ironing shirts for her husband and being asked by her daughter to babysit, when she 'throws a fit' and lies down on the floor, urging them all to "Walk all over me why don't you. Go on, do it all together if you like." Oh how I empathised!
Thursday 30 October 2003
I got a lift into work yesterday morning by my youngest son (my baby!). He was off work feeling ill but he volunteered to rescue me from the dreaded commute into the city. It was an incredibly noisy journey, all high revs and Eminem blasting from the stereo, but he dropped me right at the door to my building which was a nice treat. He said it was like taking his test all over again with me (mom) in the passenger seat - wasn’t quite sure how to take that.
By comparison, this morning’s journey into work was positively leisurely- at least, the bus driver thought so. After we’d sat in all the traffic inching our way into Harborne (a notorious bottle neck into the city), the driver hesitated on a traffic island. He then turned left instead of right, going completely the wrong way. This woke all the comatose passengers and we divided into two groups - those who blamed themselves (“I’m on the wrong bus!”) and those who blamed the driver (“Silly bugger!”).
An elderly man of the second faction shouted out, “Oi, driver, turn round at the next island and get back there!”. At the next island, the bus stopped again and two people got off. We then sat in traffic inching our way back into Harborne. A woman got on the next bus stop and asked the driver, “Do you go down [so-and-so] road?” The old man piped up, “Love, its no good asking him, he doesn’t know where he’s going but, judging by the journey so far, this bus will take you anywhere you want to go.”
Friday 31 October 2003 - Halloween
Because we don't have small children of our own to indulge any more, my partner and I thought it would be fun to dress up on Halloween night to scare all the kids that came trick or treating to our door. They’d been coming for days, and we told them all to come back on Friday. I went mad buying pumpkins and skulls with flashing eyes from the Pound Shop (money no object!). Rushing home from work, we excitedly got changed, me into a witch (easily done, my sons would say, but especially with the aid of a dress I bought for a Christmas party but which is definitely more suited to fancy dress). My partner donned all black clothing with a skull mask. Glow-in-the-dark skeletons were hung in the hallway, candles were lit and there was a brimming sweet bowl draped with a red scarf to (vaguely) represent blood. When everything was ready, we waited. It was raining outside. Nobody came. We raced over to my dad’s house so at least somebody would see our outfits, then raced back again. Still no kids. At 9 o’clock we had to admit defeat … they weren't coming. I was most disappointed. It took ages to take off the makeup.
Photographs to follow as soon as I can download them off the digital camera (which NEVER seem to be plugged into the back of the computer, despite constant use).
Monday 3 November 2003
Three weeks ago my partner announced that we would be attending his company's 'posh' Christmas do, and I was to go out and buy myself a 'posh frock' (he was paying so no problem ... I thought!). Well, I hate shopping at the best of times - I'm more of a see it in a shop window as I'm passing, like it, dash in and buy it type shopper. So I started looking for a 'posh frock'. I must have tried every single department store, designer shop and market stall (I was desperate) in Birmingham city centre. I dragged my partner round Debenhams in the new Bull Ring trying on four or five dresses at a time (gorgeous but just not me). I even went to Merry Hell but couldn't find anything I liked that was (a) flattering, or (b) less than £160 (£160 for a dress!!!).
Today I went - again - to Marks & Spencers. I'd been before and have no idea why I went again today, I just sort of ended up there. I went in, muttering under my breath, and wandered miserably around the dresses I'd muttered at before. And then I saw it. Long, black, strapless, and exactly what I wanted. I snatched it up and raced into the changing rooms. It fitted perfectly. I didn't look how much it cost, I just took it to the counter, where I was told the price. "Pardon?" I said. The girl repeated the figure. I handed over my credit card, hardly daring to breathe, and then I raced outside with my purchase, expecting to be chased down by store detectives. A mistake had obviously been made. It was a designer dress, obviously hugely expensive, it looked expensive, and yet they charged me ... ah, that would be telling.
Success! I now have my 'posh frock' and don't intend shopping (spit spit) again until at least Christmas Eve.
Tuesday 4 November 2003
I’ve just been in a secretaries meeting (during our lunch hour - I hate that!). They’re actually quite fun and very informal … basically, all the secretaries just sit around a huge table and moan their faces off about different aspects of their job whilst eating a free lunch. It sounds boring, but most of them do it in a way that has you in absolute hysterics (there’s a lot of eye wiping involved). “I went to use the binding machine and it wasn’t switched on. When I tried to switch it on I noticed the plug was missing. Not only that, but the entire back of the machine was gone, just not there.” Or how about this … “PowerPoint opens up a different company template now, but we haven’t been told about this. Or has someone screwed up the master template and we’re all using the screwed up one thinking its a new one?”
The Birmingham branch of the company is travelling up to the Nottingham branch for an AGM meeting in two weeks time. That’s over 700 people in transit. And nobody’s booked the coaches yet. Or figured out how to get over 700 people out of the building to board said coaches without (a) causing injury/mass panic, or (b) gridlocking the centre of Birmingham with queues of coaches. And then there’s the fun involved getting back from Nottingham - they’re staggering the departure for those who want to leave early and those who want to stay and get Really Plastered, so there’s three different leaving times. And, of course, because most people will be Pretty Well Plastered by late afternoon, they’ll forget the time, or what coach they’re supposed to be catching or, if they do remember, they have to make sure they don’t get on the coach going into Nottingham city centre instead of back to Birmingham. We anticipate lots of inebriated bodies (mostly partners) staggering around in the middle of the night, utterly lost.
Wednesday 5 November 2003
Bonfire night! And every night for the last two weeks! Honestly, you’re sitting there quietly watching tv/reading a book and this explosion goes off outside the house, with a sudden blast of light behind the curtains. Its like the end of the world has come. Scares the living daylights out of me (undoubtedly a sign of getting old). And I still look for the dog to calm him down (sob).
Another 'to-do' with small son last night. He hasn't been to work for over a week because of 'illness', but I never see him because he's out in his car every night (yeah, that ill). He had a doctors appointment yesterday morning and I tried to ring him beforehand, primarily to make sure he was up and didn't miss it. He didn't answer his mobile. I tried the home phone but he didn't answer that either. I must have rang 20 times before he eventually picked it up. I told him to take the doctors note to work so he'd at least get sick pay (he didn't). I told him to take in a form that would give him some money each week because they're changing to monthly wages (he didn't). I told him to get rid of the wrecked car that's been languishing like a rotting dinosaur in my driveway for months (he didn't). I said we needed to sit down and have a talk about his attitude of late (which annoys me, so must push my partner to the edge of insanity) and could he make sure he was there when I got home. He wasn't. So I rang him. And, again, he didn't answer. Hugely frustrated, I threw the pile of clothes I'd washed for him on Sunday (and which still sat in the living room) out of the front door into the rain ... just as the window cleaner turned up for his money ("Just having a bit of a clear out," I told him sheepishly). I was that angry I even locked the front door and went to bed - son came home and got into the house without breaking anything, which was somewhat alarming security wise (can't tell you how he did it until the electric fence and vicious guard dogs are installed). I left him a note this morning, "1. Get rid of car off driveway. 2. Take form into work so you get paid. 3. Bloody talk to me! I am not the bloody enemy!" He's just rang to say the car is being towed away tomorrow, he's taken in the form, and he'll be there when I get home tonight. I hope so, I don't think I can take much more!
Friday 7 November 2003
He was. We did. And the car was towed away. So World War III was .... I was going to say averted, but I guess its just been delayed until next time!
Interesting journey to work this morning (isn’t it always!). Stood at bus stop at 7.50am, no bus. 8am, nothing. 8.10am the bus trundles slowly up the road - so slowly I could have gone home, had a cigarette and maybe watched a bit of breakfast television before sauntering back to the bus stop to catch it. When I get on, I notice the driver is a huge Jamaican smoking a roll up! Our top speed is 8 miles per hour - that is, until we hit the traffic around Harborne, when the driver obviously flips a bit and increases our speed to a steady, unwavering 50mph. A two lane road suddenly becomes a three lane road as the bus mounts the pavement at a sharp angle. All the passengers grip tightly onto the seat in front of them as the bus scrapes passed the two lines of traffic. Amazing! At the Harborne traffic island, the bus goes round so fast I swear the driver was trying to make the rear end spin. Stuck in the traffic going out of Harborne into the city, he bounces up and down on the brake, accelerator, brake, accelerator. Some passengers got off, primarily, I suspect, because they felt sick - I know just how they felt. By the time I got off myself I was shaking, and late for work. My boss didn’t have to ask why, he could tell by the look on my pale, wide eyed, gaping mouthed face.
Wednesday 12 November 2003
I have to tell you this. We were watching a programme on tv last night called 'Dumb and Dumber' about the stupid things stupid people do, all caught on video camera. One had both me and my partner rolling on the floor in absolute hysterics. A group American teenagers in a pick-up truck find themselves on the top of a bridge. As they happen to have some elastic rope in the back of the truck [as you do!], they thought it would be fun to bungee jump off the side of the bridge. The camera records the first one going over the side. Wheeeeee. The elastic rope stretches. And keeps stretching. The kid suddenly hits the rocks at the bottom. He looks stunned and surprised, but amazingly he's not hurt. He jumps up, laughing. On top of the bridge, the camera turns to the other teenagers, all laughing wildly. "The rope looked about the right length," one of them guffaws.
Looked about the right length?!!! They didn't bother measuring it??!! Isn't it just plain common sense to measure the drop, measure the rope and at least test it using a large household appliance such as a fridge or a washing maching before you fling yourself off the top of a high bridge? Or is that just me? Tsk, teenagers! They'll do anything for attention.
Monday 17 November 2003
The day before my dad went for some heart tests he was, not surprisingly, nervous. So I trawled the internet looking for relevant bits of information that would cheer him up - how great he’ll feel afterwards, only short recovery period etc. I came across ‘heart valves’, one of which was called The Hancock Valve. As dad is a HUGE Hancock fan, I printed this out too. The next day, after the test was done, dad, his wife and my sister are in the doctors office and the doctors telling them in layman terms about the possible operation. To lighten the atmosphere, my dad casually pipes up, “Will I be having one of those Hancock valves?” The doctor pauses for a moment then, thinking dad is obviously tuned in to medical science, continues, using medical jargon that even my sister (a midwife) doesn’t understand. They figure it out in the end!
Wednesday 19 November 2003
Oh my God! Its here. Again. Another birthday. What the hell am I doing with my life to get this old this fast! I've been telling my three sons I'm 37. I've been telling them this for the last six years. "Weren't you 37 last year?" they ask suspiciously. "Nah," I say, "36 last year, 37 now." I think they have doubts.
My dad and his wife bought me a bottle of whisky (they know me so well!) and a life-like toy puppy. I carried this puppy home in my arms, stroking the top of its head. When I walked in the house, I said to my partner, "Look what my dad gave me." "A puppy!" he gasped, horrified, "He gave you a puppy! Are you keeping it?" You should have seen the look on his face when I suddenly threw it across the room.
Cards at work. I bought cakes from Greggs (£8 ... a couple of years ago spending this much on cakes would have floored me, but I'm now a woman who can afford cream cakes on her birthday ... deep sigh of satisfaction here). My partner met me from work, waited in reception looking drop-dead gorgeous in his suit - I was so proud. Met friends in a local bar, yakked a lot, drank quite a bit on empty stomachs and got wonderfully tipsy. Then me and my partner sauntered (nay, staggered) down to the Chinese quarter for a meal at Chung Ying which was to absolutely die for. A truly fabulous birthday, despite the fact that I'm now 43 (bottle of whisky came in handy for drowning my sorrows - thanks dad).
Thursday 20 November 2003
Had day off work to 'recover' from excessive birthday celebrations. Wonderful to have time to myself and potter about. Other women have days off to clean the house, but not me. I worked on my website and some short stories and a couple of articles to send to magazines (I'm hoping to get back to freelancing, though no idea where I'm going to find the time between travelling, work and sheer bone-crushing exhaustion). Bliss.
Friday 21 Novemer 2003
A seminar at work which I was 'meeting and greeting' meant I had to get up at 6am, leave the house at 7 and be at work hopefully around 8 to prepare the meeting room and be ready for registration at 8.45. Wouldn't ya know it, no traffic on the road so I'm at my desk by 7.30am! Get everything prepared and the delegates start arriving at 8.30, but my 'helper' is noticably absent (you need two people to meet and greet, one to sign em in, one to lead them to the meeting room). I'm signing in groups of people, finding their badges and herding them like a sheepdog on speed to the room on my own. By the time I get back from rushing one group into the room, another group are gathered impatiently around the registration desk at reception. I'm exhausted. My 'helper' got caught in traffic and didn't arrive until 9.10am, just in time to catch the last few stragglers before the presentation started at 9.15. I weighed myself when I got home. I haven't lost a single pound. I worry that I've suddenly become a woman who weighs herself.
Thursday 27 November 2003
I've been off work for the last couple of days. Now that I've reached the old and decrepit stage my body thinks it can do what it likes and just collapse in a heap whenever. My tonsils have always been a problem, fickle dangly things that they are. My sister had her tonsils out when she was 7 (I remember being dead jealous cos she got a present in hospital and I didn't), but my parents saw fit to torment me with mine and, of course, I'm too old to have them removed now (although there have been times when I've considered removing them myself with the aid of a sharp kitchen knife). I only have to walk past someone in the street who has the beginnings of a slight cold and the dangly things scream, "Right! Germs! SWELL!" I now have bowling balls in my throat and a pathetically limp body that groans a lot. Even my eyeballs hurt.
I've had to ring work every morning to croak, "I'm ill, I'm not coming in." I HATE ringing in sick. I've gone into work with feeling desperately ill before simply because I'd rather 'go in and suffer' than 'ring in sick'. I always feel so guilty, wondering if they'll believe me or if they'll think I'm putting it on. Nightmare!
Friday 28 November 2003
Because my website finally 'went live' a couple of weeks ago (it now comes up on most search engines, including Google, Yahoo and AOL - only took six months), I thought I'd try and 'promote' it a bit more. So I emailed a web magazine asking them to review my website. They replied that they have too many sites to review at the moment and suggested I try their Readers' Website forum, which I did yesterday. And I've had the most amazing response. So far I've had 100 people visiting my website, and they seem to like it! It's given my enthusiasm a big boost. If you want people to look at your website and give their views on it, check out www.webuser.co.uk/forums (Readers' Websites). Brilliant idea! (I know forums aren't new, but I've never tried one before, and this one is great for feedback and brilliant for learning new stuff).
Saturday 29 November 2003
Still ill. Tonsils have deflated and I now realise its probably flu. Feel wretched, weak and pathetic. If I don't stop sneezing soon I fear my head might explode. My partner, usually a live-wire, is barely moving today so suspect I may have infected him too.
I’ve been sucking these lozenges from the Health Food shop to assist in the shrinking process of my tonsils - they’re quite good, numb the buggers. On the side of the lozenge box it reads “Contains tree resin. Do not take if allergic to tree resin.” Like you’d know? (“Ah yes, when I were a young lass I distinctly remember getting an allergic reaction to tree resin when I sucked on the bark of an old Oak.”) And it doesn’t specify which tree - you might be perfectly alright with, say, a Beech or a Chestnut, but have the most enormous reaction to Ash or Birch (swell up to gigantic proportions, perhaps, or maybe roots begin to grow from underneath your toenails - who knows).
Anyway, bored into a stupor (and because we cleared out the loft a couple of weeks ago) I began sorting through some old photographs and came across these ...
When they used the loo we used to throw things over the top of the door so they were bombarded with potatoes, clothes pegs and anything else that was handy. Ah, those were the days.
Right: this is the alcove in 2003 - state of the art technology (including over 100 videos and DVDs) all crammed into one tiny corner.
Oh my God! Three weeks until Christmas. Whilst I love Christmas itself (all that precious time to do nothing except talk and read and listen to music, all cosy in the house, tv on all day, drinking at lunch and eating almost to incapacity), I hate the run up to it. All That Shopping! I go into the city centre every lunchtime and am amazed at the number of people ‘Out There’ - surely more than the population of the whole of Birmingham and the surrounding West Midlands put together. Where do they all come from?! And they’re starting to panic now … you bend to idly pick an item off the shelf in a shop and you’re bludgeoned violently by frantic shoppers bearing huge Christmas lists. Its scary! I’ve resorted to ‘mass internet shopping’ just to guarantee my survival.
Friday 5 December 2003
On impulse, four of us (secretarial types) went to the German market in Victoria Square at lunchtime. It was heaving. We had the biggest hotdog I’ve ever seen - you could have pole danced/punted a ship with it (people were falling every time I turned). Next stop, mulled wine with brandy (at least 70% proof!). Decidedly tipsy, we went on the carousel and nearly made ourselves sick giggling and singing Christmas songs. And they expected us to work after that!
I lurve Friday’s with a passion - the working week is over and the reward is to go home and 'veg' Big Time. Whisky bottle comes out, my partner’s in the kitchen making his Curry-To-Die-For, and there’s a couple of good videos to watch. The best film we’ve seen in a long time is Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt in “As Good As It Gets” (the title come from where Nicholson is in a psychiatrists waiting room and he says, in his deadpan way to all the depressed, anxious patients, “What if this is as good as it gets.” If it was, I'd be happy ... maybe a lottery win, perhaps the ex doing a runner to Outer Mongolia, but nothing more than that).
Saturday 6 December 2003
Frantic day! Had to cram all the shopping, washing and ironing we normally do over a whole weekend into one day, and not even a whole day, just up until 4pm when we had to get ready for a concert at the NIA (National Indoor Arena in Birmingham city centre). My sister and mother came - I lied to my sister about what time the concert started because she is utterly incapable of being anywhere near punctual so, for once, she turned up early (gasping her usual “Sorry we’re late … “) and we even had time for a quick drink before we left.
The concert, Classical Spectacular, lived up to its name. My favourite pieces of music played live gave me goosebumps (by the end of the concert my skin was knackered). The finale was the 1812 overture, complete with cannons and them old fashion guns (ah, muskets), which were fired level to where we sat about 5 metres away (I’m guessing the distance here as I’m from the old school of metric, lets just say these musket bearers in uniform were close). They fired on cue and everyone (and I mean everyone) left their seats in perfect unison for a full second - I swear my heart swelled to 10 times its normal size in shock.
Sunday 7 December
The Yorkshire Run - in case I haven’t mentioned it before, my partner is a Yorkshireman and once a month we go up to Bradford to visit his family. Two and half hours travelling to get there, pick up small children, go to big children’s cottage and have fantastic meal (my partner’s young son gasped, “Daddy does all the cooking in your house?” to which I replied, “He likes it! And anyway, when I try to cook he just comes and interferes so I let him get on with it.” - note that my partner used to be a cook in the navy).
We always have a lovely time, except at the end. My partners ex-wife is never - but never - in the house when we return at the allotted time (she’s in all day, then decides to go out 20 minutes or so before we’re due to arrive). Drives me nuts. We have a two and a half hour drive ahead of us, and the mother is nowhere to be found. Sometimes we wait outside the house for her (smirking) return, other times we drop the children off at their grandmothers. One time we were late taking the children back (not expecting her to be there anyway), and she was ringing up and telling us to hurry, she had to go out - when we pulled up outside the house they were sitting in the car, waiting (they had to wait for us - we couldn't stop laughing at the irony!). Very strange behaviour.
Monday 8 December
I’ve just finished the most amazing, brilliant, funniest book I’ve ever read. You MUST buy this book. I was laughing out loud on the bus the whole time I was reading it - one morning I had to put it back in my bag cos I couldn’t stop giggling (and getting very strange looks). Mil Millington’s “Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About” (he has a website of the same name, but the book is different, it’s a ‘proper’ story). Go … buy … now.
Tuesday 9 December 2003
Great news! The computer magazine I emailed a couple of weeks ago have said they’ll review my website in their January issue! Really pleased. More people will get to see my site. Buy Web User on 8 January … hopefully they won’t pan it!
Friday 12 December 2003
It's my partner's birthday today. I bought him a dictaphone machine as a present because he so loves to talk, and he has such great stories about his life I thought he should put them all down for posterity (he's been a postman, a cook in the navy, an insurance salesman, a steelworker, a driving instructor etc etc). The plan was that I would take the tapes to work to type them up, but unfortunately they don't fit my machine (despite me trying to hammer them in). So it looks like I'll be typing at home at weekends ... just what you fancy doing when you've been typing in the office all week!
Less than two weeks to Christmas, but the Christmas spirit hasn't hit me yet, primarily because I've been avoiding Christmas Shopping like the plague (oh how I love the internet - pick what you want and they deliver it straight to you, as simple as that). I screwed up big time with one internet order, though. My dad wanted a specific book and said I would only get it from a certain website. The book cost £13.95, plus £2.50 postage. The company rang me the following day and said, "Hmmm, we can't guarantee delivery before Christmas unless you pay extra." So, grudgingly, I paid an another £2.60 for super-fast-delivery - total cost of postage £5.10! This thin, paperback book cost me the whopping sum of £19.05. I was gutted. And to make matters worse, when I (belatedly) looked on Amazon.com they not only had this specialised book, but it was priced at £11.95 plus £2.30 postage. I could sob into my socks. ("Here, dad, here's yer pressie. I know it don't look much, but it cost me £19.05!"). Bah humbug!
Saturday 13 December 2003
As it was my partner’s birthday yesterday, he met me from work (looking drop-dead-gorgeous in his suit, as always) so that I could treat him to a mini pub crawl and a fabulous meal. The plan was to start off at Bushwackers for a couple of drinks, but we’d no sooner reached the bar through a deafening crescendo of alarm bells when we were asked to leave – not just us, you understand, but everyone since there was a fire alarm (that no-one was paying any attention to until the bar staff herded them like sheepdogs out the door!).
We went to the nearest pub and encountered office parties that had been celebrating the festivities since lunchtime (‘illicit liaisons’ took place across the crowded room as drunken arms were thrown round flushed necks and intoxicated bums sat upon equally intoxicated laps - most entertaining!) We tried the Old Joint Stock after that but it was so packed we could barely get through the doors, so went to Bennetts instead (where the rabbit warren or corridors leading to the toilets required the laying of breadcrumbs to find your way back).
In the pouring rain with an umbrella on its last legs, we giggled our way to the Mailbox, where I had promised my partner a Mexican meal he would remember for the rest of his life. I had been to Santa Fe Restaurant a couple of years ago and the food had truly been to die for. The restaurant was packed with Christmas parties, but we’d booked a table and ordered excitedly. I was so disappointed with our meals when they came I could have cried. My partner had what was basically a spicy soup with some kidney beans, a few bits of meat and one lone tortilla. My Green Chille Enchillada with chilli beans and rice had sat on the plate for so long I had to scrape it off in dried lumps and, although both were spicy, neither was tasty (“I’ve cooked better at home,” Steve commented). We paid and left, vowing never to return. (My partner, upset that I was upset, emailed the restaurant … they are “currently dealing with our complaint”).
Sunday 14 December 2003
We did the Christmas shopping today in a large supermarket in the Black Country (we only go there on special occasions because the choice is extensive and the food bill is goes through the roof). Wherever we go, my partner always draws attention because (a) he’s so tall and distinguished looking, (b) he has this funny Yorkshire accent, and (c) he’s has a million watt smile. Today was no exception. I’ve never seen so many shop assistants smile at a single customer before. When my partner asked where the cheesecakes were (we have a passion for this supermarket’s divine cheesecakes) the response he got was amazing – five staff all dashed off in different directions breathing ‘Cheesecake, must get cheesecake.’ One came rushing back with the cheesecake held in her hands like a precious offering and, when my partner smiled his gratitude, her eyelashes fluttered fast enough to create a small breeze. I was invisible and didn’t even elicit a glance.
Then we got to the checkout. I unpack the trolley, my partner packs them into bag, which means he's closest to the check-out girl. “That’s an unusual accent,” the girl said to him, smiling broadly, “Where are you from? How long have you lived in Birmingham? Do you like it here?” Etc. Etc. She didn’t even notice me. “I’m a Brummie,” I pitched in. “Oh yeah,” she said, utterly bored. I paid and said, “Thanks. Bye.” “Bye,” the check-out girl mumbled to me then, turning to my partner, she chirped, “Bye, hope to see you again soon.”
None of this ever bothers me. I think its funny. But going back through the supermarket car park I couldn’t resist calling him a ‘tart’ – he responded with indignant, wide-eyed innocence.
Monday 15 December 2003
I was going to go out at lunchtime to do yet more Christmas shopping. I wasn’t really in the mood (when am I ever!) and only got as far as the doors in reception - I took one look at the crowds battling with each other outside, turned on my heels and went back to my desk, where I proceeded to order off the internet (much easier).
Tuesday 16 December 2003
Whilst rushing round the shops at lunchtime (cursing mothers with pushchairs and meandering teenagers who Just Weren't Moving Fast Enough), I bumped into my mother. We chatted for a couple of minutes before I noticed she was with someone. One of her friends, I thought. Which it was. Only the 'friend' happens to be my ex-mother-in-law who I absolutely cannot stand (they stayed in touch after me and my ex split up). I haven't seen the ex-m-i-l for four years and, to be perfectly honest, would be perfectly happy if I never saw her again as long as I live. Well, she was there, with my mom and, as I can't be rude, I was at least civil to her (look at me now, I kept thinking, as I strode with dignity and huge confidence in my office finery - long black coat and fur hat - see how far I've come in four short years!). I was magnificent!
Got back to the office and panicked. My mother is well aware of my violent emotions towards my ex-m-i-l, yet still asks every year if ex-m-i-l can come with her for dinner on Boxing Day at my house. Now that my mother has witnessed me being tooth-grindingly civil to ex-m-i-l, it is not beyond the realms of possibility that my mother, believing she's doing her Good Deed for the year, will bring ex-m-i-l to my house for an impromptu festive visit. If that happens, blood may be shed.
Wednesday 17 December 2003
I’ve had six migraines in seven days! I’m a bit worried. They always come in batches every year or so, and Migraleve tablets work absolute wonders in getting rid of them in 20 minutes or less (those zig zags across the eyeballs and the inability to remember my own name are very alarming). But six since Thursday night is more than I’ve had before, and of course I’m now working myself into a frenzy about brain tumors and resisting the urge to write loving farewell notes to my family.
Monday 22 December
Well the migraines finally stopped (thought I’d better do a blog entry in case you all thought I’d kicked the bucket!), but the Christmas Crises have started. We get them every year (I’m now starting up a Christmas Crisis slush fund to cover all eventualities). First the washing machine broke down so I had to get someone out to fix it, which took a couple of days, which means the washing pile now resembles a small, toxic mountain. Then, horror of horrors, the gas fire conked out! December with no heat in the house! (again! See The Fireplace Farce). I tried ringing a few gas people on Friday with no joy. On Saturday morning, my partner and I trawled through the yellow pages ringing every single gas service engineer that was listed - they were all busy, except for one, who would come for a huge call out fee on Monday morning. Perseverance found us someone willing to come out on Sunday evening, and sheer shivering determination got us a service engineer for Sunday morning. He duly came. Wonderful bloke. Completely took the gas fire apart, removed it from the wall, checked the chimney with a smoke bomb (“Could you leave me a couple of those to get my youngest son out of bed in the mornings?” I asked), cleaned and tested the fire He was there two meticulous hours, charged a measly £40 and left the fire burning better than when we first bought it two years ago. If you live in Birmingham and want a reliable non-cowboy gas engineer/plumber, email me and I’ll send you his details - people this good are worth their weight in gold.
I’m starting to panic about Christmas now. I thought I was doing quite well and even congratulated myself on being pretty organised this year - ha! famous last words! Three days left and I’m still rushing about for presents, I haven’t wrapped the presents I’ve already got yet, and I haven’t even had time to put up the Christmas decorations! I’m going to be one of those desperate people rushing around on Christmas Eve buying smelly stuffs in fancy boxes at extortionate prices. Joy to the World!
My partner went up to Bradford at the crack of dawn yesterday to see his family, spent all day with them then dashed over to Leeds, packed the car to Absolute Capacity with middle son’s belongings and brought him home for Christmas. Son is barely through the door before he’s turned on our computer, complained that it takes too long to start up (and that he’ll sort it out), snatches up my laptop (bought second hand and cheap) and wallops a wireless network card into it (saying he’ll sort that out), and whinges about the lack of Crimbo decorations (which, hopefully, he’s going to sort out today). He’s also added his own mountain of toxic washing to the pile that’s already threatening to form into a living species. My partner just slept.
Wednesday 24 December - CHRISTMAS EVE
Its Christmas Eve and where am I? At work, that's where! I can't believe I'm here. There's SO much to do at home and I'm twiddling my fingers at work (there's hardly anybody here, certainly not my bosses - the city centre is, surprisingly, like a ghost town). Back at the ranch/home, there's still no decorations up yet, the Christmas cake isn't iced, and I still have a couple of presents to wrap and visit my mother yet (before she has the chance to bring my ex-mother-in-law to my house). Manic! Chaos! Next year I'm DEFINITELY booking the whole two weeks off.
There's a couple of suggestions for 'Gifts for Bosses' in my company's newsletter (bear in mind, as you read these, that I work for lawyers!)
* “Why don’t you surprise them with the biggest gift they’ll ever receive: a block of polystyrene the size of their house? As polystyrene is the cheapest product in the world this should set you back a matter of pence. You could spend the extra cash on having it carved into an unusual shape, such as a dinosaur or, if you’re feeling seasonal, a Brussels sprout.”
* “Show them how different they are by paying for them to have a spider web facial tattoo (as worn by Mike Tyson) cruelly carved into their skin. In order to make the gift a surprise, we suggest that you chloroform them and drag their limp bodies to the tattooist yourself. Just imagine their surprise when they wake up from their drugged sleep to find that they’ll never look the same again!”
* “Let them experience what its like to be normal, just for a day. We’ve found a service in London where a bloke called Barry will pretend to be their friend for 24 hours. Barry will take them to the pub and have conversations with them about football, DVDs and other stuff. He’ll even buy them a drink and pretend to like them.”
My partner, who has finished his corporate slavery for the year, waved me off this morning saying, "When you come home, Christmas will be ready." What a lovely thought. And then the festitivities can begin, the front door will be locked, as it is every year, so nobody gets in, and nobody gets out until Boxing Day. Fabulous.
Christmas 2003
I love Christmas. Well, actually, I love Christmas when I have the time to prepare for it, which I didn’t this year because I was, for the first time, working right up to Christmas Eve (ran out of holiday wouldn’t ya know). The decorations didn’t get put up until I got home (it was a case of Open The Box, Toss Tinsel Over Everything and Bugger the Tree There’s No Room Anyway). Phew, Christmas at last!
I casually mentioned to my three sons that I wouldn’t be doing the stockings this year because they were too old, and they all went into spasms of indignation. They’re 18, 19 and 23! And they still insist on stockings full of presents at the end of their bed on Christmas morning (middle son said it was “tradition” and he wasn’t coming home from University unless I promised stockings, but when, exactly, does this ‘tradition’ end? Will I be creeping into their houses when they’re 40 and have families of their own to lay stockings at the bottom of their marital beds?)
So anyway, pushover that I am, I struggled to fill three festive bags (legs cut off knackered tights just don’t do it any more) with gifts suitable for teenagers and above (i.e. men) – plastic toys, bags of jelly babies and toy cars were so much easier. I was reduced to the ‘old standbys’ … socks, pants, Thorntons chocolates and a book for the son that read, a couple of videos for the ones that wouldn’t recognise a book if it had a label on it (they couldn’t be bothered to read the label let alone the book). So anyway, I buy em, wrap em, stick em in the festive bags, and then realise I have a problem. At 18, 19 and 23, they no longer go to bed, full of excitement, at 7pm. They’re up later than us. The problem was, how was I going to get the ‘stockings’ to the bottom of their beds?
5am on Christmas morning I was wide awake, having programmed by brain to boot up at that unearthly time by chanting 5 o’clock 5 o’clock over and over again until I drifted off to sleep. My tip-toeing mission around the house started off well – Big Son was sleeping on the sofa and I merely put his bag on the coffee table. Then I sneaked into Middle Son’s bedroom in the dark, tripping over the things he’d left lying on the floor and almost breaking my neck. I placed the bag (at 5am the sound of wrapping paper sounds like fireworks going off) at the bottom of his bed. He rolled over. The bag promptly crashed to the floor like an explosion. Son was comatosed. I picked the bag up and tripped over to his desk, breaking his remote control and a pen on the way.
Small son’s room (imagine a cross between a scrap yard and a council tip with a bed in the middle) had me standing in the only three inch space available with bag in hand, turning this way and that trying to figure out where to put it. I eventually embedded it on top of a pile of washing. I went back to bed and heard movement from Small Son’s room. Seconds later, his bedroom door opened … unable to locate the ‘stocking’ in his debris, he was looking further afield for it.
Christmas morning, the festive CD was dusted off and presents were opened. The highlights this year was Middle Son’s present to both me and my partner with a note reading, “To mom, who will never be able to lose this lighter! To Steve, who will never need to give up one of his own ever again!”. It was a giant Zippo lighter the size of a small family car. Catchphrase 1 for this year’s festive season was, “Have you got a light?” Flick, spark, inferno. I’d asked for ‘slippers that didn’t look like slippers’ and got a pair with poo on them! Catchphrase 2 was, “Ah mom! You’ve got poo on your slippers.”
Perfected the art of ‘multi-tasking’ … ate (too much), drank (too much), held several conversations simultaneously, watched tv and surfed the net (with my new wireless network card in my laptop) all at the same time. Woke up every morning groaning, “I’m definitely not drinking today” quickly followed by, “I’m definitely going on a diet … tomorrow”.
Saturday night we caught the second part of The Office Christmas Special. I have to admit that, when Dawn came back into the office and kissed Tim, I totally sobbed my eyes out (which amuses the men-types no end, they give me such stick for being a feeble female who cries at the tv). It was great. I loved it. I don’t care how much it costs, I want that video
On Sunday we woke up and discovered we had no bread, milk and other essential items so, feeling that we’d done enough, my partner and I wrote out a list for Small Son to go shopping in his car (a first). “What?” he cried, utterly astonished, “Me? Shop?” Bartering took place … chocolates? (he’d eat them anyway) money? (I had none left) a bit of emotional blackmail (“We’re ill” cough cough). We finally agreed that I, with the aid of thick rubber gloves and possibly a gas mask, would do all his washing.
I talked him through the shopping list: “Eggs bottom of first aisle in shop on left, milk second aisle on right.” “Four toilet rolls?” he queried, “What, four packs?” Fearing he might borrow a truck from a friend in order to bring home the six items on the shopping list, I went through it again: “One box of 12 eggs, not 12 boxes of eggs. Four pints of milk not four bottles.” My partner and I lounged like teenagers on the sofa whilst he hauled in the shopping … it was bloody great.
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