SMOKERS CORNER
THE GREAT PARCEL FARCE
INTERNAL COMPASS
NO MEMORY FOR NAMES
EGG WITH MAGGOTS
TEENAGERS
SHOPPING
THE GREAT WASHING MYSTERY
BOSSES IN THE PUB
FIREPLACE FARCE
BUG BEARS - Things that drive me Absolutely Insane
Lunchtime Hassles
Clacky Keyboards
Clacky Shoes
The Dentist
Surly Shop Assistants
Ungentlemanly Gentlemen
Last Song on the Radio
Noisy Neighbours
I've never had any sense of smell at all. Not ever having had one, its not something I’ve ever missed. It has advantages and disadvantages; I can’t smell flowers or perfume, but neither can I smell other peoples bodily effluences (you know, when the husband/partner lets one off under the bed covers and sighs, “Woa, that’s a goodun.”). At school, whenever one of the boys let off Yet Another Stink Bomb in science class, it was always me the teachers came to get – I was the only person who could go into the ‘smelly’ classroom to open windows and retrieve bags for the next lesson.
One of the Definite Downsides of being unable to smell is that I changed every single ‘full’ nappy for all three of my sons because, my husband said, “I couldn’t smell it” (no, but I can see it).
Being anosmic, I have to be careful with household appliances. I’m careful with the iron because I can’t smell anything scorching, and never put anything too close to the fire. But I can’t be careful all the time, I simply don’t have the stamina. I’ve lost count of the number of times my sons have come home from school and said, “God, mom, can’t you smell the gas?” (duh!). Usually a burner on the cooker has blown out whilst I was cooking tea (I get bored in the kitchen and rarely stay in there for longer than necessary, hence the frequent blow outs). And I have, on at least five occasions, turned the gas on the oven and then completely forgot to light the flames … then I come back, discover raw food in the oven, think its blown out (you’d think the total lack of heat would give the game away, wouldn’t you), and light it. There’s nothing in life worse than a giant gas ball of fire coming at you from out of the oven, crackling through the air and across the room, burning off your eyebrows, your eyelashes and all facial hair in the process. I now have a gas cooker (I don’t like electric, although it would be infinitely safer – I obviously like to live dangerously) with an electric ignition. I turn on the gas, then stand there for a full five minutes with the ignition button depressed and manically clicking away, just to make Absolutely Sure it’s lit.
I blame my lack of culinary skills on anosmia (well, I have to blame it on something). I can’t smell anything cooking, its all fresh air to me. Burning? How would I know? In fact, I only know something is amiss when I see smoke curling out of the oven. How my three sons survived childhood on my cooking alone is a mystery. I used to put meals in front of them and they’d prod it and ask, “What is it? Is it edible?” “Of course it is,” I’d say gaily, “Carbon is good for you.” “In such huge quantities?” they’d drawl.
Because of a lack of a sense of smell, my palate is weak. I can’t taste things that everyone else can. As far as I’m concerned, sponge cakes are just air surrounded by a solid substance that tastes of nothing. Mild cheese - what’s the point of that? And garlic has no discernible flavour (really). In order for me to taste food, it has to be strong, like blue cheese and curries (especially takeaway curries - ah, the sacrifices we have to make for our disability!).
Smells that other people take for granted simply don’t exist for me. If I stood in a field of wild flowers and cow dung and breathed in, all I could smell was air. On car journeys in the countryside, my fellow passengers would suddenly start gasping and pulling faces, but I’d continue to smile at the passing scenery, not a care in the world.
I once bought my mother some flowers for Mothers Day. She sniffed and said they smelt lovely (all flowers smell lovely, don’t they?) Then she tilted them towards me (bear in mind that this is my own mother, who’s known me for the last 42 years and, not once in all those years, have I ever been able to smell anything, not a thing). “Here, smell for yourself,” she said. I rolled my eyes. “Oh,” she said (remembering), “Can’t you smell yet?” “No, mom,” I said, “Not yet. But any day now.”
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Smokers Corner
Okay, I admit it, I’m a smoker. There are many disadvantages to this horrible, disgusting (apparently smelly) habit, but one of the advantages (apart from the fact that I genuinely enjoy it), is that it gets you away from your desk for 5-10 minutes every couple of hours. So, no matter what deadline you have to reach, how much work is piled up on your desk or however many demands people are making of you, you can always turn round and say, “Sorry, nicotine addiction, back in 5” – which is no bad thing! One of the first things you suss out at a new job (after “Where’s the loo’s” and “Where’s the coffee” – this before I gave up the caffeine addiction) is, “Okay, who smokes here?” There is always at least one person who suddenly smiles, leaps up with wild enthusiasm, and replies “Yo! Lets go!” And henceforth starts a lifelong friendship, headed up by mutual nicotine absorption.
I have never yet come across an office that is 100% smoker free. One of the last questions I ask at interview is, “I’m a smoker, is this a problem?” I always ask this because you can learn a lot from this simple question. And I always, always, get the same answer. “Oh we have a no smoking policy in the office,” (like, nobody has smoked in offices since the early 70’s). One place I went to for an interview said, “Mostly, our secretaries don’t go for cigarettes during the day because they’d feel guilty because there’s so much work to do. They have a smoke before they arrive in the morning, then wait til lunch” (like, I’d be climbing the walls by then!) Another place told me, “We don’t condone it, but if you must (emphasis on ‘must’) nip out for a quick cigarette, make sure you take the time off your lunch hour.” (gobsmacked! What about people with tiny bladders who consume copious amounts of tea/coffee all day and go to the toilet every 10-15 minutes, or those secretaries that spend at least 10 minutes in the ‘ladies’ doing up their makeup every morning and every afternoon and sometimes in between; do they take the time off their lunch hour? I think not!)
Of course, once the ‘powers that be’ recognise that you’re a smoker, you’ll find that every time you leave your desk for any length of time, they’ll assume you’re on a ‘fag break’. I once spent over an hour battling with a temperamental colour copier on another floor and came back to my desk not in the best of moods (virtually frothing at the mouth, in fact). My boss, ignoring my give-away twisted, puce-coloured expression, quipped, “That was a long fag break.” I spun round on him like something from The Exorcist and snarled, “I wasn’t on a fag break!. But now that you mention it … (growl seethe spit) … I think it might be a good idea right now.” He didn’t dare object.
I’ve stood in a lot of places for my nicotine addiction; car parks, basements, outside in the wind and the rain and the snow, even hanging out of a sixth floor window once when I couldn’t figure out how to get outside without a security key card (not advisable since smoke detectors in office buildings are very sensitive these days). They’re great places for making new friends you wouldn’t ordinarily get to meet (from cleaners to upper management), and the perfect place to catch up on gossip out of earshot of bosses.
’ve seen secretaries who appear in the designated smoking area, light up, inhale deeply, and scream “That bloody woman is SO getting on my bloody nerves!” at which point we all gather round to sympathise (hence, a happy secretary returns to the office - companies should pay us for this service!).
At one company, the ‘smoke’ area was in the car park downstairs, which was partly covered (by the building we worked in) and partly open. There were six of us, and we all got so excited ranting and raving about our jobs that we became quite loud … not realising that the windows to our office on the third floor were open and everyone could hear our every word - made for a very sheepish return to our desks, I can tell you.
At another place, also in the basement, all the smokers in the building had made a very cosy smoking area, complete with (old) computer chairs and a plastic crate for a table (upon which sat our ashtray, specially stolen from one of the upper market bars close by). Sometimes, when you’ve ‘nipped off’ for a quick fag, you can get quite engrossed in an interesting conversation and quite forget the time, dashing back some 15-20 minutes later. It may be a bad habit, but it’s a great way to meet people!
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The Great Parcel Farce
I order stuff off the internet because its easier for me that way (and I don’t like shopping). Normally, the orders come via ordinary post, but one came another route. The parcel delivery company came, there was no one in, so they left a note. My partner found the note when he got home from work and rang them. The conversation went something like this:
PARTNER: Hello, you’ve tried to deliver a parcel to [address].
PARCEL COMPANY: You weren’t in then for your parcel when they delivered it? (What, like we hid in the house, sniggering behind our hands, deliberately not taking delivery of it?)
PARTNER: No. We were at work.
PC: Have you got the card that they left?
PARTNER: [Gives details]
PC: Are you going to be in tomorrow?
PARTNER: No, we’re at work, but There’s someone here before 8am or after 4pm.
PC: So you want it delivered tomorrow then?
PARTNER: Yes, before 8am or after 4pm please.
PC: They’ll deliver between 7am and 7pm.
PARTNER: Right, so they might come again when we’re not in … again.
PC: Yes, they could. Do you have a neighbour they could leave it with?
PARTNER: No, they’re out at work. Can’t you tell them to deliver before 8am or after 4pm.
PC: No, they deliver between 7am and 7pm, we can’t specify a time.
PARTNER: So it’s a bit of a Catch 22 situation then, isn’t it. We’re never going to get this parcel, are we?
PC: We’re only obliged to deliver a parcel once, after that any other deliveries are of a ‘good will’ nature.
PARTNER: Good will, as in, you’ll deliver again when nobody’s in … again.
PC: Would you like it delivered to your local Post Office? There’s a 50p charge.
PARTNER: The post office shuts before we get home from work.
PC: I see.
PARTNER: Can I collect it myself?
PC: Yes, you can. Can I have your home telephone number in case there’s a problem with that?
PARTNER: Well, you can, but if you ring between 8am and 4pm there won’t be anyone here.
PC: Ah, you’re out all day, aren’t you.
PARTNER: Yes. Would you like my mobile number instead?
PC: Oh that’s a good idea.
PARTNER: [Gives number]. So, I can collect it tomorrow then?
PC: Yes. Unless we ring.
They didn’t ring, so my partner collected me from work the next day (a rare treat) and we drove around the back streets of Digbeth for 35 minutes trying to locate the parcel depot (this in itself was an event - see ‘Internal Compass’ below). Finally, we arrived, went into the office, gave our details, and watched a man walk across the yard out back and into a huge warehouse in search of our parcel. He was gone ages. “He can’t find it,” said my partner (who’s intuitive like that). “You don’t think they’ve delivered it, do you?” I asked. “How can they? We’re not in.”
It was now 6.50pm (we were absolutely starving), my son was home from work, so I rang him. “There isn’t a parcel there for me is there?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, “I found it in the back garden.” Great! We now faced a dilemma: do we wait for the man to wade through piles of parcels trying to locate ours and plod back across the yard so we could explain to him what had happened (i.e. the incompetence of the company he worked for), or did we save time and make a run for it. We made a run for it, sidling out of the office and running for the car feeling like criminals who had just pulled a heist.
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Internal Compass
It doesn’t matter where we are or where we’re going, my partner is convinced he has an internal compass which gives him almost a sixth sense of direction. He doesn’t need maps, he can just guess the way! And, whilst we get hopelessly lost and drive down roads we’ve driven down several times before (“Do you have a strong feeling of déjà vu,” I ask sarcastically), he gives a running commentary of his progress. It goes something like this:
“I’m sure I saw it down this road somewhere. Ah, here we are, a junction. I’ll just turn left here. Yes, this is it, its down here somewhere, definitely down here. Hang on, this island looks familiar, I’m sure I turned right here before. Yes, looks familiar, definitely along this road.”
It isn’t. “Okay, we’ll try up here. Yes, this looks more likely. This is definitely the place, its around here somewhere, I know it is. I’ll just turn left here.”
Waddaya know, we’re back where we started! “Okay, no need to panic, I know where we went wrong.” Notice the surreptitious insertion of ‘we’ here? “I should have turned right here before, not left. There you go, back on track again. Its just up here, I’m sure of it. Not long now, love. This is fun, isn’t it?” (big grin).
This can go on for an hour or more. He refuses to look at a map or an A-Z, and you can’t get annoyed with him because he’s just so cheerfully optimistic about it. Plus, we get to see sights and places you wouldn’t ordinarily get to see (most of the Midlands in fact).
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No Memory for Names
My family are afflicted with a genetic memory loss. My particular affliction is names, I cannot remember names to save my life. It’s a real pain; people come up to me in the street and I recognise their faces from somewhere, but do I know what they’re called? Despite the fact that they know the name of my spouse, my children and my parents? Not a chance. I ad lib, smiling and nodding a lot, and eventually prise myself away thinking, “Who was that?” The answer sometimes comes to me at 3 o’clock in the morning, when I sit bolt upright in bed gasping, “Jenny Jennison! Of course!”
Where this affliction really comes into its own, though, is in the working environment. This is why I hate telephones so much; you answer it, and someone on the other end babbles, “Hi, I’m Jemima Filsilkin, Daniel Rasputin’s secretary at Babbingscroft Aerospace Associated Limited , and I’d like to speak to Petrina Oskinrow.” While I’m scribbling down her name, I forget where she’s from and who she wants to speak to. It all gets terribly complicated. I send telephone messages to other people like “Someone called Jeremey/Jemini Fulskinworth/Farnswoth (?) from (sounds like) Bruttington Plane Place called,” and the recipient wanders over with a confused look on his face and says, “Who? From where?” I wing it at this point and blurt, “Well, that’s what it sounded like.” “But I don’t know anybody called that,” they say, and I reply, “Oh, it must have been for Peter then.” Oh so professional! I get phonecalls and emails for someone called Paul Simon, and for a split second my brain goes “Hmmm, that name sounds familiar,” before the brain eventually coughs up vital information and informs me that it’s the name of my boss.
I can barely remember the names of the people I work with, especially when I’ve only been there a short time (six months or so!). Its worse if they have a name that sounds like two forenames, like Peter Stevens or Paul Simon - it really throws me. I once shouted across the office, “Pete! Pete!” and wondered why the whole office turned to look at me except the person’s whose attention I wanted to attract. “PETE!” I screamed. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “His name’s Mike.”. Oh the embarrassment. I tried to be ‘clever’ after that. If I didn’t know somebody’s name, I’d sidle over and say, “Sorry, but how do you spell your surname?” And they’d look at me with that familiar What? look and say, “Smith? You don’t know how to spell Smith?” I now keep a floor plan (that I’ve usually made myself) of everyone’s names and where they sit, handy when my brain goes completely blank whenever the telephone rings.
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Egg with Maggots
When they were little, my sons used to boil ordinary eggs for Easter and decorate them. We’d keep them for a while and then I’d surreptitiously throw them away. Except for this one time when John was so proud of his egg he put it in an egg cup and placed it proudly on a shelf in the living room. Weeks went passed. Then, while playfighting, my son fell against the shelf and the egg toppled off. It broke. And inside were maggots. Now I may not have mentioned this before, but I am terrified and absolutely loathe maggots from the very depths of my soul - I can’t even walk anywhere near fishermen because they have plastic pots of the horrible things. Now, when I saw these maggots squirming out of this broken egg, I panicked. I screamed. I leapt onto the coffee table and screamed some more. My boys, seeing me behave in this peculiar way, joined in the panic and raced out of the house, not really knowing what was going on. Still screaming, I reached across from my perch on the coffee table and scrabbled for the phone. “DAD!” I yelled when he answered, “HELP!” My dad only lives across the road from me so he was there in less than 30 seconds, racing past the boys standing outside the house looking confused. Dad was carrying a massive garden knife and a heavy piece of wood. “WHAT?” he shouted at me, standing on the coffee table, “WHAT’S THE MATTER?” I couldn’t bring myself to look, and pointed vaguely in the direction of the maggots squirming on the floor. I won’t repeat what my dad said then, but he cleared the mess up and walked off home, shaking his head. We didn’t keep decorated eggs after that.
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Teenagers, and how to retain your sanity
There’s no answer, no solution. Its just something you have to grit your teeth and put up with, grasping onto the knowledge that One Day it will End (you hope). One minute they’re gorgeous children who love you, and your family’s like something from a clothes softener commercial. Next thing, they’re teenagers, hate you for no reason and wouldn’t speak to you if your clothes were on fire.
My son is almost 18. He’s been in this ‘over-sensitive hormonal’ state for three years now. I’ve gone through it twice before with my other two sons, but even that didn’t prepare me for his incredible transformation from human to mutant from Hell. He’s exactly like ‘Kevin’ off ‘Harry Enfield’. Its not fun. He’ll ignore me, stomp off in huffs, slam his bedroom door, disappears until the early hours of the morning and doesn’t answer his mobile phone, and I’m expected to act like a ‘responsible’ adult and not retaliate! I’ve had some close shaves, I can tell you - I’ve even locked myself in my bedroom and buried my face in the duvet as I cursed and screamed and tried not to inflict physical violence on one of my offspring.
He thinks everyone should do everything for him (give him lifts, help him out financially when he’s blown all his wages on a second hand engine for his car), but shouldn’t be expected to do anything for anyone else in return. Wash up? I doubt he can remember where the sink is. Tidy his room? Yeah, mom, make me (very difficult to make someone do anything when they tower above you). And he’s so messy, I know where he’s been and what he’s done just by looking at the state of the house.
He no longer eats normal food, its all chips and pizzas and wouldn’t touch fruit or veg if his life depended on it. His clothes consist of four things; tracksuit bottoms, trendy trainers, a ‘hoodie’ and a baseball cap - he looks exactly like every other teenager (I’ve actually stopped the car when I thought I’d spotted my own son, but it wasn’t him).
And then, when he wants something, he’s all smiles and charm itself. Afterwards, he’s back to his normal sulky, surly self. Just when you think you can’t stand it a second longer and you’re about to race up the stairs to pack his bags and throw him out, he turns normal. Smiles. Talks. And you get a glimpse of what he’ll be like (tall, handsome, funny) when he finally emerges from this teenage hell.
More thoughts on teenagers
Feed Me Mommy
It still amazes me. Now that my offspring are man-sized and tower above me (I feel I’m living in an episode of Land of the Giants sometimes), I still can’t believe it happens. I leave the house at 7.50am each morning, work all day and get home around 6.15pm. Small son gets in around the same time, in fact, we sometimes walk through the front door together. And he always asks, even before I have time to take off my jacket, “Anything for tea?” Like, I just got there! Or middle son, if he’s home from university and has spent the day sprawled across his bed reading Harry Potter books, wanders downstairs when he hears me arrive home from work, and enquires, “What’s for tea?” At what stage do I stop being the Provider for all their needs?
Teenager underwear
We have a downstairs bathroom. Outside the bathroom door (get that, right outside the door) is the washing basket. Now there must be some sort of genetic disability, particularly with teenagers, that makes them physically incapable of picking up their clothes after a shower and Putting Them in the Washing Basket Right Outside the Door. It just never happens. You go in the bathroom and there’s all these clothes strewn across the floor. It used to be a big issue, I used to nag and moan and whinge about them picking them up. These days, I simply don’t have the stamina and simply kick them into the cupboard under the sink, where they remain, festering, until they run out of socks and underpants. Then, suddenly, the washing basket is overflowing with the rancid items. I refuse to touch them, I have my health to consider.
Fatal Mistake
Both my sons have made the same mistake. I used to do all the ironing (oh how I loved doing tons of ironing for the entire family each week). Then, when they got to about 15, they both did the same thing that was to change all our lives forever – they dared to criticise my ironing. “It still has creases in it,” they said, holding up the offending item. “You think you can do better?” I asked, “Go right ahead.” I have very little ironing these days. Middle son, who must look immaculate at all times, does his own. Small son, who gives new meaning to the words Bone Idle, just wears crinkled clothes – his peers think he’s making a fashion statement!
Bigger than me!
“Tidy your room!” I yell. “Or else what?” they ask, glaring down at me. It’s not like I can ground them (what could I do if they refuse to be grounded, rugby tackle them to the floor? Physically restrain them, little old me? I don’t think so.) I can’t withhold sweets any more, nor can I threaten to stop their pocket money, they have more spending money than I have! It’s a dilemma. Meanwhile, whilst I try to figure out a way, their rooms turn into pits from hell that require a Health Hazard warning on the door.
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Shopping
Excuse me, but what’s this ‘retail therapy’ all about? I know I’m a woman and I’m supposed to get all excited about shopping, but quite frankly, I can’t. I don’t understand it. Where’s the fun in being presented with an overwhelming array of choices amidst a ceaseless onslaught of Other Shoppers. Then, at the end, you have to hand over hard earned dosh for something that you won’t even like by the time you get it home. Its all a mystery to me. Give me internet shopping any day!
My problem is I can’t ‘imagine’ what an item of clothing looks like unless its being worn. On the hanger, it just looks like a limp, shapeless piece of material. When I try it on it still looks like a limp, shapeless piece of material. I’ve been known to stop total strangers in the streets and gasp, “That’s a gorgeous skirt, its just what I’m looking for, where did you get it from?” I figure they’ll be flattered to be complimented on their fashion sense. The answer is usally, “Oh, this old thing? I’ve had it years,” or, if they’re a bit ‘haughty’, “I got it from a tiny designer shop in Rome.”
As for food shopping, could there be anything more boring! I can do a week’s shopping for four people in a huge supermarket in under half an hour, including waiting in the queue at the checkout - it’s a case of “run with the trolley and lob the stuff in … No! Don’t stop, don’t pause, lets go!” Leaving time to do something more interesting.
The Great Washing Mystery
Some odd things go on in my washing basket. Despite the fact that my 17 year old son wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of shorts, a pair of shorts is in the washing basket every time I open it. I’ve washed and put them back in his room, and the next time I open the basket, there they are! I question him, “Why do you keep putting these shorts in the washing?” but he denies ever having seen them before. Sometimes I just take them out of the washing basket and put them in the back of his drawer. I come downstairs, open the washing basket, AND THERE THEY ARE! I think I might have to burn them just to get rid of the damn things.
And socks. There’s a major sock problem in our house that has been going on for years. My partner moved in with me and couldn’t believe the enormity of the Sock Problem. He now keeps his socks separate, in a basket in the bedroom, not letting anyone near them and certainly not putting them in the family washing basket. If he does, they disappear. Either someone else takes them (which starts up a massive argument about “You’re wearing my socks!”), or they do, simply, just disappear into thin air, never to be seem again. I have a carrier bag in the kitchen for the odd socks that come out of the washing machine, planning to pair them up when the other sock turns up. Only the other sock NEVER turns up, and I’m left with a carrier bag containing about 40 odd socks. WHERE DO THEY ALL GO?
Bosses in the Pub
I’m a conscientious secretary so I like to get work done in time for deadlines (including the deadline for me going home). Not all bosses are this conscientious. I can have my arm twisted up my back to finish work after normal working hours if its Absolutely Necessary, but I adamantly refuse to work over if the boss has been in the pub for a two or three hour lunch break. In fact, I have been know to ring said bosses in the pub and hiss, “If you want this report out today, you better get back here.” Usually they come trundling back, muttering and grumbling, and the work gets done. If, however, the boss returns to the office with a smile and a burp two hours after I’ve called, I usually tell him where the unfinished report is before putting on my coat and going home on time.
The Fireplace Farce
Up until about two years ago, we had one of those very 70’s stone fireplaces in our living room. It was ugly. It was also stained above the gas fire, and every now and again we’d attack it with a wire brush to clean it off, but it always came back. We didn’t know at the time that the ‘stain’ was a ‘very bad sign’.
We kept feeling tired every winter. We blamed the lack of sunlight, and because to keep warm we had the gas fire on all night (and you always get tired when you’re warm). Also the fact that we had stressful jobs and were, basically, getting old. Then my middle son, who spent a lot of time in his own room (surrounded by state-of-the-art technology), made a rare appearance without the aid of food or his need for the toilet, and sat and watched a film with us in the living room. It was a long film. It was a cold night just after Christmas and we had the gas fire on full. My son got up in the break and went to the toilet. There, he collapsed. Unconscious and falling from a great height, his head went through the toilet window.
He eventually came back into the room. “I’ve just fainted,” he said, looking very pale. I thought he was joking at first (he has that dry sense of humour), but then immediately suspected the gas fire. I turned it off and threw open all the windows. The next day, with teeth chattering and fingers blue from the cold, I called Transco to have it checked. The gas man entered the house, saw the brown stain on the stone fireplace, and shook his head. He tested the gas fire and immediately condemned it as dangerous. We told him about my son passing out and he said we were very lucky it hadn’t been worse - we were slowly being poisoned every night. It had been like that for years!
The gas fire was now out of use. We were freezing! I rang my insurance company and they promptly replaced the toilet window. It was now snowing outside and my house felt like a freezer. We took the convector heater out of my small son’s room to keep warm (small son usually out and about), but didn’t realise the heater was supposed to stand on legs (which had fallen off in the pit my son likes to call his room!). My partner and I were in the kitchen washing up. My partner had a cold, I have no sense of smell. I turned to the living room and saw all this smoke. I screamed. The heater had burned through the rug straight through to the carpet. I rang my insurance company again. They provided us with a brand new carpet and rug, both better than the ones we had before (which was nice).
But it didn’t end there. We scoured far and wide for a gas fire that would (a) fit the space in the stone fireplace, and (b) fit into our limited budget. We went to big DIY stores, specialised gas fire factories in the middle of nowhere, big gas shops and little gas shops that had a choice of three fires. Much measuring (and many cold weeks) later, we finally bought a fire we hoped would fit that didn’t cost us our souls, and took it home. It didn’t fit. We removed the paving stone hearth and called a man to fit it in. He refused to do it. The hearth, apparently, had to be a certain height.
By now, we were more than fed up of sitting in the living room huddled in double duvets. The decision was made to remove the stone fireplace and build a new one. I sobbed at the expense. The men-types began demolishing the stones with wild enthusiasm. Then we made a discovery that made my blood freeze even more. Behind the stones there was nothing guiding fumes from the gas fire up the chimney, it simply deposited the fumes behind the ‘decorative’ stonework. And the stonework was loose and cracked in places, which meant the fumes leaked into the room. Whoever had built it obviously had no idea what they were doing!
There was more. I took a day off work to complete the demolition and, once all the decorative stonework had been removed, I realised (rather quickly) that there was nothing holding up the chimney breast! Bricks above the fire hole dropped out and smashed at my feet. I was on my own at the time and, terrified that it was all going to come tumbling down and I’d be left with a pile of rubble instead of a home, I rang my dad (who lives close by). He came over to look at it, tutted a bit, then said it was okay as long as we didn’t bother it too much. Another brick crashed to the floor as he was saying it. I tip-toed around the house until my partner came home from work. I pointed at the hazardous chimney breast and he evacuated the house, drove straight to the nearest DIY shop and bought man-type things to stop the house collapsing.
It took another two weeks for my partner to rebuild and carefully plaster around the hole that used to be our fireplace and for the new fireplace to arrive (on special offer at Argos). Finally, two months after it was condemned, we had heat again. And we don’t feel tired any more … we’re not suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning any more (which is nice).
I’d urge you all to get your gas fires checked regularly … in fact, do it now.
BUG BEARS
There are some things in life that simply drive me insane. These are some of them:
Lunchtime Hassle:
Why do mothers with young children wielding pushchairs find it necessary to come shopping in the city centre AT LUNCHTIME when the ‘workers’ are rushing round trying to get all their errands and shopping done in an hour. And why do they find it necessary to congregate in groups so they totally block off the entire pavement.
And why, when you’re in a mad rush to get back to the office at lunchtime do the people right in front of you come to a dead stop with Absolutely No Warning and No Reason. And THEN, once you’ve almost collided with them, do they stand there yakking, totally oblivious to the pedestrian carnage they cause in their wake.
Clacky Keyboards
In my job as secretary, as far as I’m concerned, the keyboard is the most important tool I use. And, because I type fast (80 words per minute … will wait while you all gasp and take in this phenomenal information), I hate/loathe/detests keyboard that make that awful, sharp, loud CLACK sound every time you depress a key. Can you imagine how 80 words per minute sounds on a clacky keyboard … clackclackclackclackCLACKclackclackclackclackclackclackclackCLACKclackclackclackclackclackclackCLACKclackclackclackclackclackclackclackCLACKclackclackclackclackclack .. all day. Its enough to drive you insane. It puts me off my typing, and I figure if its driving me slowly round the bend, it must have the same effect on the people around me, and that puts me off even more until I end up typing at around 10 words per minute. So I’m fussy about my keyboards. I have been known to wander around an entire office, typing The Rain In Spain on every keyboard I come across, until I find the quietest. And, when I’ve found the quietest, I nag the person who owns it into giving it to me - I don’t give up until its mine. If this fails, I bring in my ultra-silent membrane keyboard from home - cost me an absolute fortune but I can type in utter silence … bliss.
Clacky Shoes
Same as keyboards … clackclackclack on the pavement, down hallways, up stairs, echoing around buildings. The noise of other people clacking away in their plastic high heels drives me crazy. And I’ve never understood why it is that the biggest women wear the tiniest, most ridiculous looking shoes so they totter along as if they’re on a tight rope? Or why young girls, too keen to keep up with the latest fashion, walk like stilted robots wearing shoes that are all too clearly uncomfortable (doesn’t make them at all attractive to watch as they hobble down the road).
The Dentist
I always get the giggles when I go to the dentist, partly from nerves, mostly from the absurdity of the situation. Why, when the dentist has both hands in your mouth working on a back tooth, does he pick that particular moment to ask you questions about holidays/work. Like you can answer!
And there’s absolutely no way you can swill your mouth and spit out the pink water with any degree of dignity.
And its downright embarrassing to have bits of your plaque flying all over the place when your teeth are cleaned (which can often be more painful than anything else they do to you at the dentist).
Shop Assistants
I hate surly shop assistants who are too busy in conversation with another shop assistant to serve you, or serve you as if its Really Putting Them Out. I mean, what else are they there for?
Ungentlemanly Gentlemen
I live with the Perfect Gentleman, who always opens doors for me and lets me walk through first. I’ve seen people’s eyes widen when he opens the car door for me (at a motorway station, we heard the woman in the next car say to her husband, “Why don’t you ever do that for me?” which made us laugh). I’m now used to this kind of behaviour, in fact, I expect it. So I’m indignant when, in a lift, the man walks out first, or a man in front doesn’t hold the door open for me; particularly if they’re wearing a suit … they should know better (I don’t care that I’m just the lowly secretary, my man at home does it for me why can’t they?). Bring back gentlemanly behaviour, I say.
The last song on the radio in the morning
Whatever’s playing on the radio before I leave the house for work in the morning is the one that stays in my head for the rest of the day. Its so annoying, especially if it’s a song you can’t stand and the same line, the same words, the same few notes play over and over in your head like some form of interminable mental torture. I watch breakfast tv now (and have the vision of Eamon Holmes in my head all day, which I’m not sure is an improvement - sorry Eamon.)
Biggest Bug Bear of All - Noisy Neighbours
I like where I live. It’s a pretty, quiet area almost on the outskirts of the city. I have a large back garden and I’ve spent many a summer out there reading books and listening to the bird song in the trees all around. About five years ago, we had new neighbours, and the very first day they arrived they flung open all their windows and turned up the volume on their supersonic stereo system. Reggae! I hate reggae.
We asked them to turn it down and they seemed reasonable people, but gradually the volume would increase again until it pounded through the walls into my house and vibrated the floorboards. I don’t think they could help themselves, I’ve often wondered if they all suffer a genetic defect in their hearing.
It continued for years! In summer, it became a complete nightmare. My nerves were in shreds if I heard their music start up because I never knew when it would stop, and I would literally start to shake. At weekends, it could play all day Saturday and all day Sunday. During football season, he was out there in his deckchair surrounded by cans with the radio on so loud you could literally hear it streets away - and the drunker he got, the louder it became. I didn’t venture into my own garden any more, especially not to read a book (impossible to concentrate above the crescendo).
Eventually, after years of endless requests and shouting matches across the garden fence to keep the noise down (never argue with a neighbour who’s had a few drinks!), I became desperate and resorted to sending them a letter by recorded delivery, explaining how their loud music upset me. It had the desired effect, mostly, I suspect, because they don’t intentionally mean to do it, they’re just used to playing loud music - to them it must be normal.
Now, things are much better. If we go out into our garden, they immediately turn the volume down on their music. Its still loud sometimes, but not all the time and I can just about cope with it.
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