This is probably the most underrated movie ever. I believe (I haven't checked out the font of all knowledge that is Wiki), that it was due to be released the same time as Gladiator came out. Rather than go head to head, it was decided to go on limited release and straight-to-video. Usually reserved for truly appalling cinema. That, was a mistake.
This movie is based on the fabulous Michael Creighton's book The Eaters of the Dead, a re-working of the saga of Beowulf. The screenplay is fantastic, the acting superb. I bought it on vhs and then on dvd. I have seen it so many times and it never fails to delight and inspire. The attention to detail in presenting this story makes this a believable and engrossing tale.
Personally, I'm finding more difficult to make decisions, not less. I find this somewhat frustrating. Mind you, deciding not to do the laundry or the dishes, is not taking any time at all. Nor is, ignoring the pile of personal admin stuff. Yes, I still think it's ridiculous that admin makes up both of my part-time jobs and my basket of paperwork overfloweth.
However, I have completed one week of exercising. Today, I stepped up the pace a bit. I'm doing a Davina McColl workout. Damned near killed myself too. But I finished it. Okay, so I marched on the spot during the interval training, but I did all of the toning stuff with weights. I have to say the happy hormones are fantastic.
This morning, I achieved a long-term goal. Something I have always wanted to do and have never done. Ladies and Gentlemen, today I touched my toes. Yes, you read right. I bent over with straight knees and touched my toes. How cool is that? Okay, so it's marginally less exciting that Victoria Beckham's pregnancy, I will give you that. But as my gran had been known to say 'small things amuse small minds'.
Your turn, how's it going? Are you flagging yet, or still enjoying the new experience? C'mon, fess up.
I can't be arsed to do a proper blog post this morning. I've got to do a workout, go to acupuncture and then stare at my navel all weekend. But because I'm lazy and curious (not quite sure how these two character traits of mine manage to manifest themselves so well, given they pretty much cancel themselves out), I am going to share my one and only New Year's resolution.
I have decided that this year I am going to Do, more than I Think.
For I have come to the realisation that I suffer from analysis paralysis. I can spend the whole day thinking about what I want to do that day, and do nothing. Therefore, following the advice that it's better to change ONE thing, rather than to change lots of things and get nowhere. This is the thing I'm going to change.
I'm Doing people.
Which brings me to you, Ladies and Gentlemen. What is your New Years resolution? Come along. Share it with us. How's it going? Tell us all about it and we'll provide a bit of cheerleading when the couch comes a-calling.
Aparently, it takes 30 days to form a habit (I read somewhere, I can't remember exactly). So, if we get to 6 weeks, I reckon we'll be doing really, really well. We can have a Resolutions party, with cake and alcohol to celebrate our strong wills.
Forgive me, I'm still slightly over-excited. Let me set the scene: I'd finished thinking about what I wanted to do today, told Boy we were going shopping. The Ministry of Sound CD playing on full blast. It'd been awhile since I'd taken my pride and joy out for a blast. We needed to go get something edible in the house. As we are driving along, an Astin Martin Vanquish pulled out in front of me.
Tell me, do I lick the man or the car?
Now ladies and gentlemen, forgive me if I'm wrong...but that is just a totally awesome car on screen, in real life...it is just stunning. Both Boy and I were drooling and squealing.
We turned up the sounds loud. I took my pride and joy for a quick blast up the dual carriage way. By blast, I do mean blast. I was the asshole in the BMW doing a ton in the outside lane. My pride and joy, she is only a baby Beemer, but she is very quick and light on her heels. She flies. That feeling is just...joy.
Staples, the stationery emporium parted me with cash for a new printer and a pair of scissors (I know totally random).
Turn it up loud!
This track is blasting and I'm once again in the outside lane bombing down the A47 at *cough* miles per hour. I glance in my rear-view mirror and see this glide up behind me.
Oops. I think I came in my pants
Do bear in mind that I was not exactly standing still. I saw a gap and pulled into the slow lane. He just cruised on past, flashed his hazards and disappeared off into the horizon. I just knew the car was gorgeous, Boy knew it was Noble m400. Awesome. Just awesome.
If this is the start of things to come in 2011. Bring it on baby.
Our recent birthday gal Savannah, has been entertaining me with Someecards. I have to say, they have the right amount of bite and sarcasm. In any case, these manage to put their finger on how I feel at the moment.
Funnily enough, none of last year's resolutions happened. Which leads on nicely to this one:
So I heartily agree with this one:
Which will more likely that not, lead to this one:
Ladies and gentlemen, in true style, I am at home NYE. Boy and his friends have gone off, looking fabulous, for an all night party. I'll see them at some point tomorrow.
I had intended to do a lot of things. Instead I ended up at Ms Boxer's New Year party. We're partying like a Prince song and for every comment, Ms Boxer will be making a donation to a local charity of choice.
The vodka fountain is plugged in. There are games and nibbles.
Long-time readers may remember I used to work at the only Independent Department store in Norwich. It's been two years since I worked there and it's still my favourite place to shop. Firstly, because I get to see all the girls and catch up on the gossip and secondly, because I really do believe in supporting local business.
This department store has always been a family-run business and family remains at the heart of it. It's not unusual to find several family members working there, or people who've worked there for years calculated in double digits. The recession has hit the business hard, but I'm pleased to see it's still going strong.
When I ventured into the sales, that's where I went first. It's great to be served by someone I knew. Boy now has new bedroom furniture on order and while I was there, I bought a sofa. Now, I've had the futon for the past 10 years. It was a cheap alternative to a sofa bed and for the first 3 years it was comfortable. Futons aren't meant to be sat on regularly. The stuffing compacts into concrete. I got round that by draping a duvet over it. About 3 years ago, I'd had enough and bought a proper sofa bed. In chocolate leather, so the cat doesn't shred it to buggery. Obviously, with the sofa bed innards it was more expensive that it needed to be, but I wanted shot of the futon.
Boy was not happy. He liked the futon. He spent most of his time stretched out on it...his prefered position. So, I kept it. We moved house and I grumbled about the futon. He insisted. But then he started to relent when I brought the subject up. In the run up to the Festive Season, I saw lots of adverts for new sofas and began to covet one that has reclining seats. I looked one up on the internet...I put it to the back of my mind.
On Tuesday, I went shopping. The furniture section was quite busy. Shoppers looking to snag a bargain before the VAT increase on the 4th of January. While I waited, I sat on a very comfy sofa. It had a little lever on the side. I played with it. Suddenly, my feet were raised and I was lying back. I looked at the price and made the decision.
Yesterday, I got a call from their warehouse to say they would like to deliver the sofa in the morning between 8 and 12. Oh yeah, thought I, being of cynical nature and having previous experience of waiting in for such things and plumbers. I was dozing at about 8 o'clock this morning. I was aware of time, having prised my eyes apart to look at clock, but I figured it would be at least 11 before they showed. The phone rang. They were just dropping some furniture off down the road and they'd be 20 minutes.
I got dressed, woke the teenagers, put the kettle on and went outside for a smoke. Boy kept me company. I'd had two puffs and there they were. The delivery guys were cheerful and chatty. They put a mat down before they hauled the bits in. They explained how it all went together. They needn't have wasted their time, all I heard was 'blah, blah, blah', but they looked happy delivering their explanation, so I let them carry on. They made sure it fit where it was to go, they made sure everything was working, drank their tea and off they went.
Needless to say, I am writing this upstairs in my study. As soon as the delivery men had gone, the teenagers comandeered the new sofa and the x-box to play Call of Duty.
I see who's in charge in this household.
What became of the futon? I hear you ask. Well, Gee said she could use it for one of her lads. JD (her husband) came around yesterday and evicted it for me. So all in all, I'm a very happy bunny.
I realise that over the festive period, I may have become a tad insular. Yesterday, was the first day I'd been out since Friday. I spent a shit load of money and then scampered back home. The City was packed with people, most of whom were grumpy and pushy. I was very glad to get home.
There apparently is a world outside my front door. I hear it hum when I go into my garden for a crafty smoke. I see it on the news: filled with angst and dire happenings. Mostly, however I'm content to potter around in the warmth and cosiness that is my home.
Today, I will have a visitor from The Outside. I will actually have to construct coherent sentences, offer tea, coffee and munchies. I'm not sure I remember how to be sociable. Talking to teenagers isn't the same. They're happy with simple language forms; if I point them to the cupboard and fridge, they leave me pretty well enough alone.
A visitor means I have to find my kitchen underneath the dirty dishes and pans. Not to mention the empty bottles, of which there are but a few. I'll have to clear an area where we can sit without having to look at cat hairs, crumbs and shavings of tobacco and the remnants of Boy's scratch card.
As it's warmed up a bit, I really should turn off the heating and open all the doors and windows, get some fresh air in. Let the smells of roasted duck, burnt chestnuts and teenage feet dissipate.
I think I'd better start with me though. Nothing says 'I'm happy to see you' more than being clean and dressed.
I think I overdid it; the whole food shopping thing. Of course this doesn't apply to the alcohol, which won't go off.
I didn't bother to cook yesterday, I just grazed. Crackers with pate, soft cheese, salami, parma ham, more salami (I like salami). Chocolate and biscuits, oh and nuts. Honey roasted peanuts.
Waitrose ran out of full-fat Philadelphia, so I ended up buying the light shit. You'd think I'd learn, but no. I thought I must have some soft cheese, it'll be palatable. No, it wasn't. It tastes disgusting. It has an after taste that makes me want to shave my teeth. The day they start making low-fat/sugar/no calorie food that tastes good, I swear I'll eat it. Until then fat, sugar and calories are my friends. Being righteous and holier than thou 'oh no, I won't have sugar in my coffee, I have my sweetners'....is not worth it.
I like my food. You can tell that immediately by looking at the size of my backside. It's taken a long time to get these curves. While I do quite like the odd bit of junk food, I don't fantasize about crisps or chocolate. I do fantasize about bacon sandwiches though. Smoked back bacon. Proper bread. Piccalilli. Yum. I love cooking with cream. Double cream. Creme Fraiche isn't a bad substitute. Butter, never margarine. I got one of those hysterical health e-mails awhile ago (don't drink water out of a plastic bottle, it'll give you cancer), it said margarine was almost the same as plastic chemically and it's got no food value. Plus, it doesn't taste that good. Butter, now butter always tastes good. Especially on jacket potatoes. Or for frying mushrooms.
Fortunately, I have teenagers in the house. I'm happy to report that they are eating everything in sight, so hopefully I won't have to throw out the Philly. I do hate waste, but I hate eating that shit even more.
The question is: continue to graze, or cook something? Hmmm...I'll graze while I think about whether I can be arsed to cook.
The duck seems to have caused fun and games from the start.
I ordered said duck from my butcher in the beginning of December. I explained it was a duck for 2 and also ordered half a hundredweight of bacon and some steak. Christmas Eve, mid-morning (I'd finished work the day before and couldn't move any quicker), Boy, Best Friend, Mate #2 and I rock up to the butchers.
He'd forgotten my order. Personally, I didn't care. These things happen and I'd have found a way around it. But then he found me a duck in the freezer. This was not my duck. This was an emergency duck.
The emergency duck was a lot bigger than the duck I'd ordered. My butcher and I have a long-standing relationship. I tell him how many people I'm feeding, he factors in other variables: teenage appetites, hungry male company etc, and then he calculates how much to stick in the bag. This system works well. I've never cooked short using this method. But this emergency duck, was pushing the limits of my roasting pans.
Now my butcher said the emergency duck would defrost in the fridge in time. I believed him. I stopped believing him when I took emergency duck from the fridge and tried to remove it's innards (the innards were simmered within an inch of their lives to make sauce). At this point it was around about 11(ish. Very ish. Boy and I had started on the not-so-innocent smoothies when we unwrapped our pressies. No idea exactly what time it was). I cleaned the sink, put the plug in and attempted to drown the frozen, emergency duck in tepid water. The oven was already on, so I bunged in nibbles thoughtfully pre-prepared by our personal chef at Waitrose (if you think I'm playing with filo pastry, you've got another thing coming - disappointment). Boy and I nibbled our way through BBQ wings, filled filo baskets and ceddar and bacon rings, before I remembered the frozen, emergency duck. It was no longer frozen.
In my usual way I threw herbs and spices (and mango chutney) into a bowl, made a paste, covered the thawed, emergency duck, like it was sunscreen and the duck was going out in the mid-day mediterranean sun. Covered with foil and into the oven it went. In the meantime, Boy decided he wanted to play Oblivion. He's full of good ideas, my Boy is. So we adventured.
Two-thirds of the way through, Boy and I drained the duck fat off so I could roast some spuds. I had a brief experiment with roasting chesnuts which was a failure. One chestnut exploded. Burnt chesnut is not a pleasant smell, I know this. Especially combined with roasting emergency duck. It sounds like it would go, it didn't. Boy and I drank another batch of not-so-innocent smoothies.
Eventually, we put one of the Christmas dvds on: The Expendables. No, it had nothing to do with Christmas and everything to do with machismo, brotherhood and explosions. I nearly fancied Sly Stallone, but made do with Jason Statham. Om nom nom.
Speaking of which, the emergency duck was finally cooked. Probably a bit over-cooked in truth. Boy, piled his plate up high. Me, by that point, I wanted as little to do with that damn bird. He says it was tasty. He finished his plate. Teenagers. God love 'em. Metabolisms set to GO-GO-GO. We spent the rest of the evening playing Oblivion. I gave up and went to bed at around 9.30ish.
Not the most exciting of days, but it was exactly what we wanted to do, exactly how we wanted to do it. And that's all that matters.
Oh yeah, have you got any ideas what we can do with the rest of the emergency duck, because there seems to be an awful lot left.
...to get you in the Christmas mood. Although, I am pagan, my childhood has left me with a love of Christmas carols that is with me still. These are my favourites...
Gaudete by Steeleye Span is just fantastic. My friend Gee will whack me on the head because she thinks it and Steeleye Span are too cheesy by half. But I still love it to bits.
This is the most amazing version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen I found in my surfing today. Quite a few arrangements change the 'ye' to 'you', which irritates me beyond belief.
This is a fanvid. Ignore the Harry Potter references. What gets me about this carol is the eerie sense of urgency behind the carol.
And thanks to Savannah, this is the version which has stuck in my brain. Thanks for that sugar.
As I sit here blogging this morning, the roof-tops are hidden under a couple of inches of snow, my garden is all white and I'm cosy and warm.
Yesterday, I spent preparing slowly for the night ahead. I took my preparations at a leisurely pace. I did my nails while watching Criminal Minds. I timed my preparations with military precision. Down to when I ran my bath, getting my clothes laid out on the bed, laying out the make-up to put on. My timing was impeccable. I had two minutes after I was ready before the taxi arrived. And that's when the fun began.
I had a smoke in the garden an hour before hand. There was only the sprinkling of snow from the night before. When I poked my head out the front door to see if the taxi was there, there was two inches. In that hour, the arctic conditions hit. My taxi driver, a real sweetheart, said the taxi firm were suspending service from 8 pm. The drivers were not risking going out and about. I had booked that morning, and I got him to call into base to confirm that they would be able to pick me up again. As I told the driver, I had come unprepared for an overnight stay. No toothbrush, no clean undies. He laughed. They gave me instructions to ring in at 11 pm to check they were still running. They assured me they would honour the booking. Yes, I did have my credit card, I could have booked a room for the night. But frankly, I was craving my bed. Plus, having breakfast in full evening gear in a hotel dining room the morning after, seems a bit sleazy, especially if there was nothing to feel sleazy about.
Given the twenty minute journey took forty-five minutes, and I was technically late, I was pleased to see there were only a few others already there. My Financial Services company knows how to throw a good party, let me tell you. I was greeted with champagne at the door, the room was fantastic. I'm really pleased I made the effort. People took the 'black tie' seriously, and dressed up to the nines. Everyone looked fantastic. I think their hiring policy must be biased to the attractive.
There are about 50+ people who work in the company. One of the people I work for keeps telling me he's in his 70s and I'm still waiting for proof. Until I see it in black and white, I'm sticking to my guns that he's in his late 50s. The youngest member of staff is 16. I'm still getting used to the very corporate environment, but it has such heart. I never expected the kindness I've found there. People genuinely care, from the top down. The directors lead by example. Anyway, if I was looking for office romance, I won't be finding it there. I think there are only 3 other single people there and the rest seem genuinely happy in coupledom.
The evening went according to plan. Though, I would have happily strangled the DJ, who seemed to have borrowed the Christmas CDs from my department store. Yes, Slade still makes me grind my teeth. Secret Santa was a success. The person who ended up with my gift was actually sitting on my table. His wife eyed up the bottle of Cava with approval, so I am imagining them sharing that over the season. I'm hoping in big bubble bath, surrounded by candles. What can I say? I'm a romantic. I got a fabulous pamper set from the Body Shop. I can't wait to use the goodies. No, I haven't found out who bought that for me. I will make enquiries on Thursday. They definitely need a hug.
We were all given £25 vouchers for the three casino tables set up in the corner. Roulette, black jack and poker. The person with the most amount of money at the end of the night could win a 7 night holiday. By that point, I was fading. I rang the taxi firm and they agreed to come pick me up early. It was good being out and glammed up, but in truth, I'd had enough. I wanted my bed.
When I left, the DJ had changed to playing good dance music and the admin girls were shaking their funky stuff on the dance floor. The taxi driver spent the journey whinging about clients and the road conditions.
We did not end up going round any roundabouts sideways, or stopping abruptly in the back of someone else's car. Nor did I end up on my arse in my heels. So, thank you for your prayers on my behalf. Unfortunately, there's more bad weather forecast, which means tonight's shenanigans has to be postponed. I'm just not happy taking my car out in this. I know I'm a wimp, but I'd really rather not.
Tonight, I will therefore be tucked up cosy and warm at home. I may just celebrate being cosy and warm with a handy bottle of cider or glass of wine.
I wonder why it is, when they predict the weather, they only get the crap forecasts right?
It rained pretty much all day yesterday, and then around 4 pm the temperature dropped. The rain turned lumpy and all that lovely water on the roads and pavements froze.
Given my luck, I knew I was in my walking boots, just as well really. Walking through fresh snow is a doddle. I did get quite a few funny looks when I got to the pub: woolly hat, long coat, boots and staff. Hey, I didn't fall over. I had a great time. I don't think I embarrassed myself. No declarations of undying love, no inappropriate affection. Though I think I did go on a bit about a hideous phonecall about an elderly client and the problems with her corns. After a conversation with a couple of smokers from another office party: two people from their team, well in their cups disappeared together. I went back to our table and complained. There's not even a sniff of any romantic work scandal going on. No salacious goings on, going on. Humpf.
All in all, it was a very pleasant evening. I do like the people I work with and for.
The walk home was not fun. The pavements were glass. But I made it home in one piece. I did laugh when we came across a group of people sliding in the road (they were doing it on purpose). They can't have been more than 20 years old in t-shirts and canvas shoes. One guy slid about 20 feet with a can of beer in his hand. I was impressed, he didn't spill a drop.
Tonight, I've decided to go by taxi. I was hoping to drive, but I really don't like the look of the roads this morning. It also means I can have a drink or two. Tonight, is a 'best foot forward' event. I will be in full evening attire, complete with heels. I like dressing up and being a girlie. Everyone else will bring their husbands/partners etc. I think there are only 3 of us single people in the whole company. And no, there's no salacious goings on either. Ah well.
I have a favour to ask: please say a prayer to whichever deity you worship, I don't fall over.
It's 7.39 am and it's still dark outside. Perhaps the sun forgot to set his alarm today? Maybe he hit snooze? Unfortunately, I can't wait for him.
I'm drinking my coffee and gathering my energy and courage.
For I am about to have 4 days of festivities. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am about to be sociable. Did I hear someone gasp? You might well. I'm not sure I'm capable of this. But I'm game, I'm willing to give it a go.
Let me give you a glimpse.
Tonight, is the Christmas Dinner for the Alternative Healthcare Practice. Fortunately, it's being held in a pub within walking distance of my home. Unfortunately, today's weather forecast is predicting the arrival of the Arctic temperatures. All plans of my going out in heels and skimpy clothing have been cancelled. I know I'll be fine once I get to the pub, but I have to survive the walk. No, I'm not suggesting I'll drop dead of cold, I'm suggesting if I make the walk in heels and icy conditions, chances are I'll end up bashing my head open after a failed triple toe-loop crossing the road.
Tomorrow night, is the Christmas Do for my Financial Services place of work. Unfortunately, that is being held in a manor now hotel, across the city. I will be driving to that, if I possibly can. Firstly, I don't know these people well enough to get drunk in front of them. I prefer to make a complete tit of myself with people I know and who will forgive me my declarations of undying love...and won't take them seriously.
Saturday night, I've been invited out with Lord Noel and Lady Jacqui. I need to pick Lord Noel's brains and any excuse to see the fabulous couple, is always a good one. I'm told we'll be hitting their local. They won't mind if I make a tit of myself, fortunately. And I get to sleep over, which is just as well. Needless to say, they have more stamina than I. Last time, I gave up all pretense and crawled into bed by 3 am.
Sunday afternoon, Dave will be calling on me. We will be availing ourselves of the delights of a very local pub.
It's all do-able people. I just need to pace myself, take things easy, line my stomach well before any alcohol. I have will power. I can have a good time without reaching for my mobile phone.
...when whinging about how appalling the weather...do not read other peoples' blogs.
Grab a cup of coffee/tea/vodka, pull up a chair and prepare to be whinged at. You have to understand, I feel entitled to whinge about how awful the weather is at the moment. Here in Norfolk, we've had more snow and icy temperatures. It's been as low as -3.5'C, the warm day in the beginning of the week was -1.5'C. The snow from last week (and the week before) is still hanging around. The melt soon iced over, it turned the road outside mine into glass. Wednesday night, as I smoked in the garden, it started snowing again. My garden looked like it had a bad case of dandruff. I knew I was back on the bus for work the next day.
Oh boy was I glad I didn't drive it. I nearly busted my arse three times taking the wheelie bin out (and I was in walking boots). As I walked to the bus stop (bobbly hat, long coat, staff) I stopped on the corner and watched a guy in a small car, try to stop before the junction. As he kept coming towards me, I realised I really should move just in case he couldn't stop. And no he didn't. Not until he sat in the junction facing the way he travelled down. If I were him, I'd have taken my guardian angel out for a pint and a curry that night. He'd have been in severe do-do if there was any on-coming traffic at that point. He was one lucky bugger.
The day before, I felt confident to drive in. Unfortunately, the paths around work and the parking lot that separates the two buildings that house the Financial Service company were like a skating rink. And I'd forgotten my ice-skates. By the time I'd crossed over the car park a couple of times, I felt there were a panel of judges holding up score cards, marking me out of 10.
I am not enjoying this Winter. The snow and ice have got old and it's only fecking December damnit. I've got another 3 months of this...or should I say, you've got another 3 months of me whinging.
Then I read Macy's experience of the weather in Scotland, and Pearl from over the water and then I realised if I had to live with weather like that every year, it wouldn't be a question of if I immigrate, cause I'd already be sitting on a sandy beach, drinking a Carib.
Inside Man, I suspect the pedantic will argue is more Thriller than Cop Movie. However, it's about a couple of hostage negotiators, the fabulous Denzel and Chiwetel, trying to save hostages in a bank from Clive and having to deal with the shark-like Jodie along the way.
It has a fabulous cast, the dialogue is sharp, you know there's a twist in the tale and you can't wait for the reveal. Plus, the music is fantastic.
I am not what you would call trendy. I choose comfort over style any time. If I had my way, I'd go to work in jeans and trainers. If it's cold, I layer up starting with my M&S thermal underwear. Nor do I watch soaps, reality tv or anything vaguely 'now'. My conversation in an office is limited. I refuse point blank to spend my hard earned cash on fashion, celebrity or even women's magazines.
Am I interested in what Katie Price did next? No, not really. Do I care which X-Factor star is trying to cop off with Simon Powell? If I say I couldn't give a flying fuck, it would indicate too much emotion on my part.
And yet...
I can't wait to get to the doctor/dentist/orthodontist's waiting rooms. I always arrive early. Not because I'm a punctual person (I'm not. I operate on Pagan time, which means I'm always late), but because I love to read the magazines I publicly revile. Hello and OK draw me like a slice of double chocolate cake, seduces an anorexic.
The older these magazines, the better. I've found myself happily reading about Peter and Katie's fairy tale romance in a waiting room this year, the grumbling when I was called in for my consultation, was audible and expletive-ridden. I don't know why Angelina being reviled for seducing Brad pulls me in.
I pour over pictures of minor celebrities, major A-Listers and members of the upper echelons of British society, decked out in their best formal-wear as they 'lounge' around their humble weekend pad that is the size of my house X 4. I tut over Camilla's choice of dress to an opening event. Openly mock the stylist who convinced the Queen that the apricot suit and matching hat really worked for her. The recovering alcoholic rock-star in his mid-forties with his new soulmate, who has 2 years on his oldest child from his previous soulmate, is not above my bitchiness.
The article in Cosmo on the top 10 tips to have the best orgasms with him, her or them, gets read from beginning to end. As does the 'How to have a perfect Christmas' in the 2003 edition of Woman and Home. I've shaken my head at the 75 year old woman who has been having an affair with the same married man for the last 35 years. I've been suitably horrified for poor 19 year old Chardonnay whose 17 year old rat-bag husband ran off with her mum (aged 30) in Take-A-Break. The best 10 minute exercise to get my body ready for the summer. The latest fad diet: no carb, no proteins, food combining, starvation and upchucking as the best ways to loose weight for the LBD for the Christmas party. Serious debates about plastic surgery, size 0, curvy women, skinny women, real women choose botox. I can't get enough of it.
I realise that I can do this because of one fundemental fact: this is environmentally friendly trash. It's all recycled. It doesn't matter if I don't buy the newest copy of Elle, because the content will be pretty much the same in 5 years time. It'll still be filled with cosmetic ads, the latest anti-aging product from Olay, and articles on how to attract the right bloke, keep the right bloke, get over the wrong bloke and carry on without a bloke.
It doesn't stop me getting to the waiting room early and reaching for the copy though.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is snowing again. The sky has been regurgitating the white stuff since Tuesday. Today, however, the snow looks here to stay.
Snow is not my natural element. Growing up in Trinidad where it got a bit chilly at 26'C, has made my living in a cold climate a bit of a challenge. I like to be warm. Being warm makes me happy. When people come over to my house to be fed, watered and entertained, they tend to have to strip their layers (no it's not a ploy, you have such suspicious minds. Would I do such a thing on purpose?) and complain about the heat. My house is heated to tropical temperatures. I like to wake up in the morning and not see my breath, or have to scrape the ice off the inside of the windows.
When I first moved to Norfolk to work for my dad in his pub, the locals regaled me with tales of the Winter of '86: 10 foot snow drifts, customers skiing to the pub for their fix of Adnams. I bought thick tights, thermal vests, a good winter coat and waited for the snow. I waited for two years before I experienced a decent, settled snow. Mostly, winters in Norfolk tend to be cold, grey and occasionally frosty. Sometimes it snows, mostly it doesn't. Until the last couple of years.
Last winter, it snowed four times; heavily enough to hang around for weeks at a time. The trouble is no one can ever tell whether it'll be a harsh or mild winter until it happens round these parts. Yes, I can buy winter tyres, but I don't know about you, there's more I'd like to spend £450, on the off chance we might be snowed in.
This winter seems a might enthusiastic. This is the earliest wide spread snow in 17 years. Now 17 years ago, I wasn't taking too much notice of the weather. I was hugely pregnant and waiting impatiently for Boy to evacuate his nice warm abode and come and meet me. Anyway, you'd think being snowed in the City, would be less of a problem than being snowed out in the countryside. You'd be wrong.
The part of the City where I live, is gently undulating. There are quite steep hills upon which row on row of Victorian terraces perch. These hills aren't very high at all, those of you who live in proper hilly areas are probably mopping your keyboards by now. Hope you haven't choked on your pastry darling. The problem with this arrangement is two-fold. Firstly, parking. The roads to get to my house only allow single lane traffic, due to the cars parked either side. Secondly, because they are tertiary roads and narrow, they don't get gritted. Do you begin to see the potential for problems? Sliding towards a parked car is an interesting experience. Let me tell you, when my heart beats that fast, normally it's usually due to firemen or Robert Downey Jr. I would rather make those noises under different circumstances.
Walking around in the snow is not a pleasant experience either. Especially if it's had 24 hours to sit around. It means it's melted a bit and frozen overnight and if there's more snow...oh goody. I look like a right knob when I go out and about in the snow. I have a woolly hat, long wool coat, gloves, scarf, stout walking boots and a staff. I am the silliest upright woman on the street. I would rather be upright, than be sprawled in the dirty snow. I'm a single woman, and I don't care about fashion when it comes to not bruising, spraining or breaking things in my body. It just tends to mean people walk a little ahead of me when we go out. I can live with it.
So yes, this Global Warming. I'm unimpressed. I would have looked forward to the UK becoming more Mediterranean. I have lots of summer clothes I'd like to wear. I look so much better with a slight tan. More summer afternoons sunbathing in my garden would be welcome. But this....snow and cold business...it just doesn't work for me.
So, the Government want to make tobacco packets plain. Apparently, it will make it less 'sexy', less attractive to smokers and wannabe smokers. Really? Funnily enough, I don't smoke because of the cool factor. I don't think smoking makes me sexy. Really. I don't smoke the brand of rolling tobacco I do, because of the packaging. I wouldn't care if it was white or if they made the pouches pink and sparkly.
I'm so damned tired of the constant nagging. Believe me when I say, I understand the hazards. I've seen the effects first hand. And if watching my dad die from lung cancer didn't make me stop immediately, then forcing tobacco companies to change their packaging to plain, really isn't going to make the damnedest bit of difference to my smoking habits. I'm tired of being tutted at, lectured and made to feel like a social pariah. I will stop when I'm ready and nagging me is only going to make me roll and light up another one.
You see, here's the thing: I'm an adult. It means I get to make decisions for myself. Good, bad and indifferent.
I'm getting heartily fed up of scaremongering in the media. I had a look on-line and unfortunately I can't find these ads, you'll have to take it on faith they exist. Apparently, there are germs that live on the top of hand wash dispensers. Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen. This is Bad. The company involved is busy marketing one of these motion-sensitive dispensers for the home.
For anyone who got bullied into buying one of those, to you I say PT Barnum was right. Sucker!
Let's look at this logically. The product is sold as an anti-bacterial hand wash and claims to kill 99.9% of all germs. So when do you touch the pump of the hand wash? Oh, just before you wash your hands. Hopefully, when you wash your hands you'll do a good enough job to get rid of those 99.9% germs. Where exactly does this need for a hands-free dispenser come from?
Last night, I sat with my jaw open watching an ad for a stain and anti-bacterial clothes detergent. Not only do I need an anti-bacterial surface cleanser, but now I have to wash my clothes with anti-bacterial soap powder. Great.
Where does this fear come from? How the hell did the human race survive this long in this wilderness of germs? I mean, how did I make it to adulthood washing my hands with a scummy soap bar (when I bothered to wash my hands at all)? Did I tell you I grew up with four dogs and a cat that used to sit hopefully next to my mother on the counter as she prepared food (the cat, not the dogs. They used to sit round her feet)? I played in a drain where people threw their trash. I drank water from a hosepipe. I used to share food with the dogs and let me tell you, labradors are known for showing their gratitude with lots of tongue. How did I survive?
Now, don't get me wrong, I can be sarky about this because I don't have a compromised immune system. But people with compromised immune systems do not make up the majority of the populace. Most of us walking around, are relatively hail and hearty. It's normal to get a cold. To sometimes not feel well. What isn't normal is this whole 'I need to keep going' business. If you're ill, be mean, keep it to yourself. Don't carry on as normal, don't go into work and share it with everyone. This, I saw first hand. One person comes into work with a bug and next minute you know, everyone's pretty much got it. Employers, take note: instead of having one person off ill, you have a room full of sick people and how productive are they? Really? Not very. They're too busy mustering the energy to remain upright. I guarantee you, the mistakes they've made those 5 days they came in ill, would have been best avoided by having a couple of days off in bed.
Perhaps the marketing people have got it all wrong. They should be selling the germ warfare stuff to the workplace.
Oh look, this has been a post in two rants. It's a Buy One Get One Free special offer. You lucky, lucky people. Have a good week. Try not to kill anyone.
Don't you just hate it when you go to a film now and the ending sets it up for another one? Especially if you're already regretting the cost of the ticket and the loss of 1 and a half hours of your life. There are some really awful sequels around. Really awful. But for me, this one is the biggest stinker of them all.
I loved Highlander. It was a fantastic film. Highlander 2...well, it killed it for me. So much so that I have never been able to look at the first without cringing.
I don't blame him really. It is my fault. After a long talk about the state of our finances, we resigned to tighten our belts and be sensible when it comes to money. We both sounded terribly grown up.
Which is why he isn't talking to me.
You see, I'm still nesting.
This week it's not been plants. No trips to Nottcutts this weekend. This week it's been about dressing the table. For a few years now I've been looking for decent crockery and cutlery. Yes, we have a couple of sets. I started buying Habitat's Blue Loft. Unfortunately, I ran out of money before I could buy the complete set and then when I did have the money, they discontinued the line. Bastards.
I like stoneware. None of that delicate bone china business. I like my tableware to inflict damage if I was inclined to have a marital. That's what I tell people; the truth of the matter is I'm clumsy when washing dishes. If I had anything delicate, it would end up looking like a jigsaw puzzle at the bottom of the sink. Or chipped to buggery. At least with stoneware, it can take a bit of abuse.
Imperial Blue has been on my lust list for some time now. I love the weight and texture. Denby, is a fantastic brand; hard wearing and stylish. Plus, I can add to the collection as and when needed. One never knows when one must have a divided dish. I like the idea of saying to people 'if you want to buy me something, get me a tea set.' Or a tea pot. Or a small jug.
Obviously, we have cutlery. We haven't been eating with our fingers all these years. After a particularly drunken celebration at a pizza restaurant, I became the proud owner of a set of cutlery and a large pepper grinder. Don't ask. The problem with this, apart from the obvious felony committed, was I liked that set above all else. That, and the pizza restaurant changed their cutlery. I have been on the look out for 4 years for a set like it. To no avail. Last weekend, I thought I found it. I just wasn't prepared to take the risk paying that amount of money for something I hadn't seen and stroked before purchase.
Today, I popped into the department store where I used to work. I strolled around the cutlery section...and there it was. It was not the cutlery brand I was considering. It was Robert Welsh's Stanton Satin. I picked it up and fondled. The curves fit neatly into my hands. It's heavy and very well balanced. The satin finish means it'll cope with abuse during washing up and I won't have to be precious about it.
My mother was of a mind that the good stuff should be used every day. No point just breaking it out for a special occasion. Having said that, she did have her Wedgwood, her wedding china, for special occasions, but for every day stuff she used the antique bone china from her childhood.
I know I shouldn't have. But I'm not sorry. Je ne regrette rein.
Update: I read the small print (with difficulty, my arms seem to be shrinking in my old age) on the purloined set of cutlery. It's the same cutlery I bought today. It is the cutlery set I wanted! I shit you not.
The fabulous Ms Scarlet has tagged me for a meme. She wants to know what are the ingredients for my secret recipe for my perfect man. I had to leave this one and think about it all day. I finally came up with this:
Must not be a bright and chirpy morning person, but must not be grumpier than me. In other words, will bugger off and leave me to wake up in peace
Must know how to make a cup of coffee to my exact specifications. And deliver it with a smile
Must think pink, fluffy dressing gowns, worn with silver, woolly booties are the sexiest thing ever
Must like chocolates with cream centres, leaving me the nutty ones. On a similar note, must think buying olives, sun dried tomatoes and anchovies as gifts are normal
Must like red wine, for drinking, or cooking, or drinking with
If he must have an interest in competitive sports, must adhere to strict gender role and not insist on boring me with a) the details or b) the events, either live or televised
He does not need an orienteering course but doesn't mind getting lost occasionally
Must be a more than competent driver of a vehicle that is lustworthy (and doesn't mind getting lost occasionally)
Will have interesting hobbies that include etchings, but not require a 3 day lecture or an instruction manual (or props). This does not include bottle cap, assembling flat pack furniture, stamp collecting or trainspotting
Must have a music collection that complements mine. Celine Dion fans, need not apply
Must not think it odd when I curl up in bed with nothing than a good book for an afternoon (delivering coffee and/or red wine a bonus)
Must think dirty dishes are the scourge and downfall of civilisation and it is his civic duty to keep the sink clear at all times (laundry basket, double points)
Most importantly, must believe that 'weird' is normal and 'normal' is weird.
Please adjust the meme for your sexual preferences. Let me know if/when you've memed.
An addendum: should any readers meet these requirements, please apply in writing, with a recent photo, supply good references and prepare for a panel interview. Opening date May 2011. Thank you.
It's hard to miss from decorations in the shops and beginning of the relentless adverts on the telly, once again we're hurtling towards that time of year again. Yes, ladies and gentlemen in 6 weeks time it will be Christmas.
The season of madness and mayhem. I lose Norwich city centre to hoardes of stressed people. Grumpy children dragged behind desperately stressed parents. People buying presents neither wanted or needed, with money they don't have. Planning for a Christmas meal with family that won't appreciate the effort, being forced into close proximity with people they'd rather not spend time with. They're tired from the work they're holding on to, or from the work they're looking for so desperately. All with the concept of the 'perfect Christmas' being shoved down their throats.
So much for the season of good will. Bah humbug, I say.
Yes, my two years in retail has generated a severe level of loathing for Christmas songs, bordering on homicidal rage. Two years on, I still want to shove the CDs down Nobby's throat. I am desperate to apply a swathe of duct tape over Bing, and Goddess help the idiot who starts with Mistletoe and Wine. If you think my violence is a little over the top, try spending 12 weeks of your life listening to the same 2 Christmas CDs over the tannoy in a department store. I'm sure there's a clause in the Geneva Convention about such torture.
Needless to say, the main topic in the AHCP (Alternative Healthcare Practice) has been the onslaught of this festive time of year. Safe behind my desk, drinking coffee I've been able to talk to other people who are also bemused by this annual train wreck.
It's my first Christmas without my dad. Boy will be with his dad. I will be spending the season on my own. I used to feel that Christmas was the World's way of grinding my nose into the fact that I'm a single parent far away from my family. Please note the past tense.
The Great Ursus and his lovely and I talked about celebrating the Winter Solstice round theirs. On the 21st of December, we'll all rock up, bearing dishes prepared earlier, pile around the table, drinking, eating and being merry to celebrate the Longest Night. I'm already looking forward to it.
Boy and I, in recognition of our skinthood have decided on a competition. Rather than buy each other Stuff, we are going to find the most outrageous present for under £5.00 for each other. The more camp and tacky, the better. You should have seen Boy's face when I suggested it - he cracked up and mischief lurked in his dark eyes. We are going to have fun.
Sensodyne adverts have to be the World's most boring adverts. Ever.
Actors pretend to be 'real' people and deliver their scripts in the same straight delivery bordering on monotone.
The ad begins with said boring person bemoaning the agony of sensitive teeth. How it turned them into social pariahs unable to drink and eat the hot and cold food that normal people take for granted. Sensodyne, it turns out, saved them from a life-time of drinking with straws, saved their love-life as they were now able to eat Italian ice-cream, ice cubes and frozen vodka from the belly button of George Clooney (it's not my fantasy, who am I to judge?).
I've always been mildly irritated by these ads. Until now.
After the last adjustment of my braces, I have sensitive teeth. Yes, it's me now wincing when I drink cold things. It's not a lot of fun I have to say. So I bought a small tube of this wonder toothpaste.
Thank you all for remembering the ones you have lost with me and each other.
I didn't reply to each comment, because this wasn't about me.
Blogging for me is about communication, connection and community. No post has been a better example of all three. Together we shared and mourned. I hope you were able to take some comfort away from acknowledging your grief, as I was able.
I will put word verification back on in an effort to keep the spammers at bay. But do feel free to leave a comment on the Samhain post, if you wish.
Every year on this blog, I celebrate the Pagan festival of Samhain by noting the names of those who have gone on.
This year, my father passed away, so it is a particularly poignant day for me. Please join me by writing the name of those you love who are no longer here.
I have been a witness to the deaths of three of my parents. Death itself holds no fear for me. Dying is the hard part. For everyone involved. It's hard to say the final goodbye, to know that I'll never be able to pick up the phone and talk to them, never be able to have a cuddle, or share a joke with them ever again. Living remains the far greater challenge.
Whatever your spiritual flavour, or even if you have none. Leave their names and if you wish, their relationship to you. Today, is about remembering. The dead will never be forgotten as long as the living still speak their names.
I dedicate this post to Henry.
I miss you every day, Henry. I wish more than anything else that we had more time.
Update: I'm going to have an early night. Please feel free to write your names tonight, and in the coming week. I'll put the word verification back on next weekend.
A few weeks ago I told you I abandoned my desire to be a more eco-friendly gardener for slug pellets, weedkiller and weed'n'feed. The day after I put down the slug pellets, there were tiny invertibrate corpses rotting on my garden beds. I have been trying very hard not to feel guilty about it, but frankly, there were a helluva lot of dead snails and slugs. No wonder they were reducing my pride and joys to mere sticks. I haven't put any more down. Truthfully, as much as I did rejoice to see the murder and mayhem around me, I'm loathe to decrease their numbers further. After all, what will the toads and frogs eat?
The pond area looks fab. The pond itself has definitely benefitted from the clean-up and new plants. It's so clear, I can actually see the bottom. The frogs are still unimpressed, despite my getting them some more cover, in the shape of a floating plant and varigated mint. Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them. There wasn't even a Prince Charming in that lot. Let me tell you, frogs are cold on the lips this time of year.
My lawn, instead of being many shades of green, thanks to the 5 or 6 different species of grass and moss, is now a patchwork of green grass, bare earth and dead brown moss. I'm scratching my head here people. How is this supposed to be an improvement? I suppose, if I feel energetic at some point, I should rake it. Would you care to put money on the likelihood of that happening?
I went to see my IFA (Independent Financial Advisor, otherwise known as Wednesday to Friday Boss). It was slightly harrowing. He was obviously feeling a bit paternal. I got a lecture. He stopped short of waving a large pair of scissors and demanding my credit card. I got the picture. No more retail therapy. No more buying house plants. No more Nottcutts.
The Palais de Roses is an interesting place to be. You know from your visits here that I have a plethora of new house plants and The Cat and The Boy and a bunch of frogs I've kissed and refused to turn into Princes. Yes, I know Boy is now much taller than me and he's looking forward to his 17th birthday and driving lessons, but he's still The Boy to me, and I suspect he always will be.
But The Boy comes with added extras: friends.
There's his best friend, who quite frankly for all intents and purposes lives here. My couch is his bed most nights. He's so at home here, he puts away the groceries, does my dishes and doesn't mind being roped into gardening duties.
It's not unusual for me to go to bed and there are 2 teenagers stretched out on the floor killing things enthusiastically on the XBox. When I stagger down in the morning looking for my dose of Eine, there can be 4 or 5 bodies snoring gently in my front room.
It's not unusual when I cook, for me to prepare enough food for a few days. Or at least there was when I went to bed. In the morning, the pot is empty. Apparently, they like my cooking. Now when I do the shopping I make sure I get enough snacks in to feed a small army. Let me tell you, 3 or 4 teenagers eat enough for a small army. I'd go as far as to say a Plague of Locusts is nothing compared with a couple of hungry teenagers. They'll go through everything immediately edible and if it's not, they'll get the pots and pans out.
I like da yoof of today. They are lively and fun. They are apologetic if they've got too excited whilst killing things on the XBox and then face the grumpiness of me at 4 am. They'll cheerfully clear off, if I tell them I need some space and come back when I'm sociable. They ask me how my day has been, and tell me all about theirs and the latest encounters with chavs. We have indepth conversations on the meaning of life. I find them generous and caring, behind all the teenager speak. They'll spend hours on the phone with each other. They are loyal to a fault.
These are precious days.
In a few years, these teenagers will be adults. They'll be going off to university, getting jobs, travelling round the world, getting married, having children. That they choose to spend their time here on my living room floor, is just amazing. They fill my house with laughter and fun. I hope in the years to come that that we won't lose track of each other. That they'll continue to visit. Hopefully, with partners and then children.
My teenagers have long memories. When I announced I was off to B&Q to get a replacement bulb for the shaving light for the downstairs bathroom, there was much rolling of eyes. I think bets were placed because when I came back with yet more plants and pots, money changed hands and there was much muttering.
The Streptocarpus, which quite frankly sounds like a condition requiring antibiotics, and the Calathea haven't survived my ministrations. On the other hand, the orchids, the african violets, ivy etc. seem to be doing very well. They haven't died off yet. It's a fine balance to be had, watering. It seems I have two modes: desert and tropical downpour; and for some reason some plants just don't like that. Fussy buggers.
Despite that, I'm very pleased with my mini-home jungle. Boy, is bitching that having a shower in the morning requires a cutlass and pith helmet. I don't know what's wrong with the teenager; here I am providing him with cheap adventures. After all, flights to the Amazon aren't cheap and there are the mosquitoes to contend with out there.
Todays purchase was a large devil's ivy for my bedroom (as well as some smaller ones and some half-priced orchids). I've a mind to wrap some fairy lights around it too. It's all very odd, but I'm going with it. Even if my credit card is shivering in the corner of a darkened room, whimpering and rocking. Poor thing.
Before I let myself loose on the weekend, I thought given the hideous amount of money I've spent on my garden and house plants (and accessories), I really ought to get out there and be productive (yeah I know, what's that about?).
First, I dealt with my greenery indoors. Jeez, what is it with houseplants? They're so bloody fussy. I've got one bitching I've over-watered it. It's curling up it's leaves and makes drowning noises every time I walk past it. I've got another bitching I'm not watering it enough. Ungrateful bastard, started gurgling when I watered it and moaned it's not a pond plant. Honestly, damn thing insisted the water level should not be up to the top of the planter. I had to empty it out again. Huh. Watering them apparently isn't good enough either. The orchids and foliage plants moaned their leaves were too dry. Please could I mist them? Bloody hell. Who do they think I am? Their bloody slave? And then, and then, (get this) they whinged about needed a change of view. Mug that I am, I had to turn them round. Ungrateful wretches, see if I re-home any more of these bloody strays.
That shenanigans left me in a grumpy mood. So out I go into my garden. Long term readers will know what my garden means to me. It's my Happy Place. Unfortunately, all the local snails and slugs also agree. Those nasty little invertebrates seem to think my only reason for existence is to feed them. The slimy buggers have done their best to reduce my spring planting to twigs. So much for my winter flowering pansies and rose-coloured bellis. Humpf. If they can't eat the leaves, they're eating the flowers. Well, I fixed them. Like a demented Tinkerbell I floated through my garden sprinkling blue fairy pellets to ruin their dinner. Hah! Take that; you pretties-munchers. Bwhahahahaha!
What passes for my lawn, which is actually a collection of different grasses and moss (lots of bloody moss, there's more moss than grass), it needs to have the last dose of weed'n'feed. I've been glued to the weather reports for 3 dry days for the month since I've been back from Trinidad. Yesterday was the first dry day forecasted. Unfortunately, due to the fact I have to work for a living (yeah, I know, commiserate with me) I couldn't get into the garden til the evening, at which point I didn't want to. This morning I go to do my sprinkly business and then, three quarters of the way through, I bloody well run out of weed'n'feed.
Oh come on.
You know what this means don't you? It means another trip to the damned garden centre. It means having to find the will-power to walk past all the pretties. Given I'm struggling with 'no' at the moment and my poor credit card is huddled in the corner rocking, crying and muttering to itself, I really don't hold out any hope of making it through with just the one item.
What can I say? I'm deeply unimpressed by this working for a living lark.
It means I have to get up in the morning! Not only that, but there are two 6.30s in my day! Appalling. I mean fancy having to be up, and thanks to the change of seasons, before the sun? No more sleeping in, rolling out of bed at 9, maybe 10 o'clock. No more wandering around in my pink fluffy dressing gown and getting clean and dressed a few hours later. No more casual surfing on my favourite blogs and waiting to see what response my comments get. No more staring at my navel, Facebook, the garden, the Cat and my To Do List.
They expect me to turn up on time! What is it with these employers who expect people they've paid (reasonable) money and expect me to arrive at the same time every morning? Unreasonable. Everyone knows my time keeping is hampered by my West Indian heritage and my Pagan beliefs. I arrange all of my social activities with an 'ish' attached to the time agreed. Depending on my level of organisation that day, that 'ish' could be up to half an hour. Also, also, get this...they expect me to stay all day. Bitch please. Why would I want to be in one place that isn't my bed, for the whole day?
Not only that, they insist I be smartly dressed. Now I'm not opposed to dressing up, as well you, my loyal readers will know. But I'm a woman of extremes. I'm either comfortable in jeans and trainers or dressed by Karen Millen. My employers expect me to wear skirts, trousers and proper shoes. My less-than-sociable habit of having the odd unwashed day has had to be relegated to the weekends.
That leads me to my other major complaint about working Monday to Friday, 9 to 5.30. How the hell am I supposed to fit in my other necessary appointments? Like getting my hair done and the essential wax? Not to mention coffees in my favourite deli, 103. When am I going to be able to fit in going to the cinema in the afternoon with the Great Ursus and his Lovely? There goes our leisurly lunches in the Turkish cafe. Not to mention being able to call in and annoy Dave...he gets busier at the weekends seeing his new grandbaby and saving souls. It means if I want to do Yoga or a martial art I have to do it after work.
It's ridiculous. It really is. My employers want me to be pleasant. Both to their clients and to my colleagues. If you work, do tell me how you've mastered this art. I'm genuinely interested. I'm pushed to be civil to Boy and to the Cat before mid-day. I'm not a morning person. I come with a health warning before my first cup of coffee. No one wants to be around me until at least 11 o'clock. Why do you think Boy goes to school? I'm not even polite to the milk man for Heaven's sake! Jeez.
And then, to top it all off, they want me to work. As if the sacrifices I've laid out above, aren't enough. Being graced with my presence isn't enough for them. Oh no, they want me to do stuff. Imagine that? Answer the phone, sort out problems, find things, do filing, the list goes on. Ungrateful bastards.
I have to do all of this for a pay check?! Really? Humpf.
You may or may not remember that every year on here, I celebrate Samhain by writing the names of those I love who have passed on.
The theme this year seems to be predominantly one of loss.
Yesterday, I learnt of the sad passing of Infomaniac Bitch, Piggy. He was much loved and will be sorely missed.
I invite you to join me in remembering those we love, who have gone before. I will take off the word verification and allow Anonymous comments. Please leave the name of the person you would like to remember, it really is up to you how little or how much you want to write. If you want to write a little something about them, your relationship or a favourite memory, please do.
Join me on the 31st of October in remembering those we have love and lost. Let us remember together, grieve and heal each other.
This post from the most fabulous Savannah started me thinking about quirks; my own in particular. When you walk into the Palais de Roses, you'd be forgiven for thinking I'm a lazy, good for nothing shite. There are piles of unopened post by my front door. It's generally messy. There are usually piles of unwashed dishes stacked in my kitchen. Housework is one of those things that I get around to eventually; and eventually hasn't quite happened yet.
However, there are somethings which I have to do, or have to have or Life suddenly becomes unbearable. Things that drive me nuts. I realise I'm not so lazy, laid back or accepting. I am prepared to go to war for these things.
I must have my smoking tin organised. The papers have to be a particular thickness, the brand of tobacco can not change and the filters must be the extra-slim. Additionally, I must have a particular brand of match to poke the tobacco down and I can't use anything other than the Poppell click brand of lighters (I prefer their blue and dark green lighters).
I must have one good cup of coffee to start my day. No suprise to you, I'm sure. I can cope with all the instant crap in the world, but if my day doesn't start with that first cup of ground, filtered coffee I might as well go back to bed.
Toilet paper must be positioned on the roll holder so the paper drapes over. I have been known to go to other peoples' houses and re-position their loo rolls for them. No, it's not negotiable. Yes, I do recognise peoples' rights to be wrong and misguided, but no, that's the only proper position for a loo roll.
I can't abide newspapers, books or miscellaneous items on sofas, chairs or futons. I collect them and put them on the floor or nearby table. Drives me nuts. Don't ask me why, I have no idea. I don't have a problem with a messy floor, I do with a messy couch.
I will straighten pictures hanging on the wall.
I am especially fussy about stationery. I will not write with anything other than a purple pilot V5 pen in my Moleskine journal. I will take into places of work, my own pens, mechanical pencils and eraser and God help the person that tries to walk off them. I nearly committed violence yesterday when I realised one of my clients walked off with a pen. Black ink for work, blue for personal correspondence.
I will only wear silver jewellry. I always wear my new moon. I will take it off for massages, but that's it. I don't wear a watch and don't like bracelts, they always feel like handcuffs to me. I wear one silver ring on my 'status' finger, even though I am neither married nor engaged. It confuses the hell out of people and I have no problem with that.
When I read books, I don't fold down corners to mark my place or bend the spine. I won't lend my books to people who do. Most of my books look like I've never read them, when in fact I've read and re-read them. I will only let go of text books or books that are so awful that I've never finished them, or would never read them again. Probably why I have 5 book shelves, double stacked in places. I'm still in mourning for the books I had to leave behind in Trinidad, I just didn't have any room for them. No doubt, Amazon will be getting another large order from me soon. When I find an author I like, I will buy up their entire list, credit card allowing. I have to read series in order from the first one. I don't borrow books from the library because I like to have the books sitting on my shelves waiting for me. Yes, it means I occasionally get caught with a complete dog, but I'm still not willing to change, even with my credit card moaning pathetically.
In my study, I have three corkboards upon which I pin lyrics from songs, poems, quotes, cards and mementos from good times: train and plane tickets, posters etc. They are pinned with ladybird pushpins (thumb tacks for you over the water). I can't not have the ladybirds. Every Samhain (31st of October), I strip the boards, put all of the bits and pieces away in a box file and start again.
I paused in my writing, to go over and edit. I'm going to stop now. I think I understand now why I'm single.
Now, I'm not one for competitions. Firstly, I'm not terribly competitive. If you want to dash across that field, go ahead by all means. No, I don't care how far you can throw that stick. Excuse me? You want me to run? Secondly, I'm not much of a gambler. I did do the Trinidad National Lottery when there was an oportunity to win $13 million TT, and spent a pleasant afternoon spending the imaginary money, but wasn't terribly suprised when I didn't win. I don't even bother to do the Lottery in the UK. Quite frankly, I have more chance that Robert Downey Jr will walk into my local cafe, catch sight of me and fall madly in love. And let's be honest, that ain't never gonna happen. Blog competitions, I tend to pass on. Mostly because MJ is really scary when she wants to win something and I'm really not woman enough to take her on.
However, on the 22nd of July. XL changed my mind. He was offering an Oscar Wilde action figure. I thought 'bugger it' and entered. Of course there was the inevitable cat fight and I'm not sure Savannah has forgiven me. Ladies and Gentlemen, I won! No, really. I won. How excited was I?! I had to explain to my brother's family why I was jumping up and down and squealing like a teenage girl. They still thought I was bonkers. I don't think that has anything to do with my winning Oscar though.
XL posted the winner on the 28th of July. You may remember that I was in Trinidad at that time, caring for my father. Bless him, XL offered to post it out to me, which would have meant I'd never have got him. XL and I had a brief flurry of e-mails. I asked him to hold on to Oscar until I made it back to the Cold and Grim. Pretty much as soon as I landed in London Gatwick, XL was asking if he could post Oscar over.
Last week Monday, I got a note from Royal Mail telling me they were holding a parcel for me. Queue much girlie squealing. But, I was going to London to visit a friend on Tuesday and I knew I couldn't get to the post office for a couple of days. My night out in London turned into a few days as my friend and I got hideously drunk (my liver has written a letter of complaint to my MP) and staying on seemed like a good idea at the time. I finally staggered back to Norwich Friday night. Second thing, Saturday morning I went and picked up Oscar.
He was lovingly packaged, along with a really sweet note from Lola, RJ and XL. I was especially touched to find, Oscar hadn't got bored and munched the box of chocolates. XL had kindly included some postcards for Oscar to write home, which he declined to do.
Since then, Oscar has been regalling me with his famous quotes, the most applicable to me being:
'I can resist anything but temptation'.
The one that had me in stitches was: Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.
Many thanks to XL for Oscar, he looks quite content next to my laptop.
