Usually forgetting (or thinking you'd misplaced) such an important item, and a staple of any woman's handbag would cause utter panic.
I have on occasion emptied out the contents of my bag onto the floor, cash desk or end of checkout only to remember quite shame faced that it is infact on my bed/in the glove compartment/ ...actually lost.
I have done all three.
Today however, even if I had my purse, it would not have helped the situation.
I didn't have my purse because I was using my spare key's for Brian.
I had taken my actual keys and purse out of my handbag and left them on the telephone table while I searched for the shopping list.
I didn't even need my purse because Mama Dodd had given me her card to pick up some bits that she'd forgotten.
But I always take it most places, as a security blanket. (Except on Saturday night when I went out with Frank and his friends. I refused to cart around my bag and hadn't thought to pack a clutch bag. So I gave him my driving license and cash!)
In the hunt for the list, I had quite forgotten where I had placed my things.
I got in a huff.
I grabbed the spare keys and list and left the house.
Whilst on my way to the shop, list in hand, I thought to myself "Oh poo!" - Yes, that was the extent of my expletive.
"Oh poo! Frank still has my driving license."
This wasn't such a strange, non sequitur thought, rather it would be quite sensible given that I was driving. However, considering that I have never been asked to present my license in the four years I have been on the road, perhaps it was more fitting that I remembered my lack of license because the first item on my list was wine.
"Oh it's okay " I continued to think to myself (ah, the nonsensical ramblings of a car loner!), "You are twenty-two and a little bit, you won't be ID'd."
Famous last words.
True to sod's law, (I will congratulate the not-so-moronic person who wrote that law, because in most instances it happens to be undisputably correct) I was asked to present some proof of age.
Now, my younger sister of fifteen may, on occasion, look older than me, but I am pretty sure - infact almost adament that I look older than a mere eighteen years.
Apparently not.
The thing with this "Think 25 " policy (and I know from experience as a electronic point of sale operator aka. checkout staff) that the requirement to "Think 25" is only really necessary when faced with some spotty scrawny adolescent who couldn't possibly be 18. Well that was how I deployed that rule. I think some people just interrogate everyone who walks through their checkout on a drink, knife and glue mission.
The problem with uttering the dreaded words, "Have you got any ID?", is that often once they slip out, you release that the person isn't the age you thought, they're more like 40, but since you asked you now can't rescind them. Proof of age must be provided to satisfy.
Well, this was the last thing I needed. I even knew the girl who asked me for it.
She knew how old I was. We were in the same year at school.
I tried to remember if I had ever said anything mean, or let her leave the school toilets with paper stuck to her shoe and her skirt tucked into her knickers...
No, she was just spiteful.
She told me quite smugly, "I'll hold the shopping for you while you get some proof of your age, or bring someone back with you..."
"No thank you" I said politely but wanting to break my cucumber over her head, "I'll just pick up these bits from somewhere else".
So I did.
In Tesco's. Their wine was on much better offer. The wine cooler was colder and all they asked me was if I would like a bag. Well actually since you asked, yes please.
Monday, 26 September 2011
Saturday, 24 September 2011
...And then I wasn't hit by a satellite.
According to NASA, yesterday's satellite (the one plummeting out of orbit) was presumed to break up into twenty six pieces. This was the equipment that would withstand re-entry.
The NASA scientists had (yesterday morning on the 8.00 news) no idea where these twenty six pieces would land because of the satellites orbit. But if you were in Quebec or Scotland - you would be safe. Apparently.
They couldn't predict exactly where they would land but they had a 1:3200 chance of hitting a human. Thats more likely than winning the lottery. Or being hit by a bus. However the liklihood of you (specifically) being hit was 1:1 trillion.
Quite good odds really!
I won't lie to you all though, I did spend the duration of my drive to Ipswich looking at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of falling debris. I only found out this morning that it landed in the Pacfic Ocean... it was always going to really since water covers 70% of Earth's surface. Had I been smarter, I would have realised this sooner, without Frank telling me.
So I didn't get hit.
But a rabbit did.
By me.
Or rather by Brian.
Like the woman in "...And then it all went up in a puff of feathers." [July 2011] I was a mess.
I called Frank (hands free) through my uncontrollable sobs. The poor bloke thought I'd had an accident. When he realised that I'd only flattened a bunny, he laughed. Not that he's insensitive (of course not!), just relieved that I was actually perfectly alright - if just a little shaken.
My defence for hitting this poor fluffy creature square in the face:
- It was a contra flow on the A12
- I was sandwiched between two lorries (the one behind me was already right up my rear end ... Had he not read yesterday's blogging plea? Perhaps he thought he was exempt because the A12 doesn't constitute a motorway)
- There was no where to swerve
- The animal should have moved. True to form, they really do freeze in headlights.
I've sussed it though. These rabbits that like to dice with death by crossing busy A-roads have got a little plan. Like a suicide plan. By freezing, the driver gets a good look at their little innocent furry face before, wham! Your car bounces over a bump. They know, at least I think they do, that for the rest of the drive, the sensitve drama queen that I am, I would keep replaying that moment. Oh the guilt. Oh the shame.
I can't even bring myself to check the front of Brian for rabbit remnants. Maybe I'll ask Frank!
Perhaps these rabbits want enough people to be disturbed by these killings, so that we will all tell our friends. And our friends will tell their friends about the horrible feeling. About the guilt. About the sleepless nights ( just a small exaggeration!). And then we'll all swerve to avoid these little furry creatures.
The sacrifice of a few rabbits is but a small price to pay for the indefinite guarantee for all rabbits safety on the roads, even at the risk of injuring a few humans.
Or may be they're just aren't particularly clever.
That's what sets us apart. They may breed like ...rabbits, but we are more selective. Thus resulting in less stupidity, we know how to cross roads, and therefore have higher survival rates. And don't need to breed like rabbits to maintain our population.
So I'm sorry Mr and Mrs Rabbit that your son Peter didn't come home last night, but please teach your spawn road safety and I will endeavour to avoid you and your friends. Thank you. ( I will donate some carrots to compensate for your loss)
The NASA scientists had (yesterday morning on the 8.00 news) no idea where these twenty six pieces would land because of the satellites orbit. But if you were in Quebec or Scotland - you would be safe. Apparently.
They couldn't predict exactly where they would land but they had a 1:3200 chance of hitting a human. Thats more likely than winning the lottery. Or being hit by a bus. However the liklihood of you (specifically) being hit was 1:1 trillion.
Quite good odds really!
I won't lie to you all though, I did spend the duration of my drive to Ipswich looking at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of falling debris. I only found out this morning that it landed in the Pacfic Ocean... it was always going to really since water covers 70% of Earth's surface. Had I been smarter, I would have realised this sooner, without Frank telling me.
So I didn't get hit.
But a rabbit did.
By me.
Or rather by Brian.
Like the woman in "...And then it all went up in a puff of feathers." [July 2011] I was a mess.
I called Frank (hands free) through my uncontrollable sobs. The poor bloke thought I'd had an accident. When he realised that I'd only flattened a bunny, he laughed. Not that he's insensitive (of course not!), just relieved that I was actually perfectly alright - if just a little shaken.
My defence for hitting this poor fluffy creature square in the face:
- It was a contra flow on the A12
- I was sandwiched between two lorries (the one behind me was already right up my rear end ... Had he not read yesterday's blogging plea? Perhaps he thought he was exempt because the A12 doesn't constitute a motorway)
- There was no where to swerve
- The animal should have moved. True to form, they really do freeze in headlights.
I've sussed it though. These rabbits that like to dice with death by crossing busy A-roads have got a little plan. Like a suicide plan. By freezing, the driver gets a good look at their little innocent furry face before, wham! Your car bounces over a bump. They know, at least I think they do, that for the rest of the drive, the sensitve drama queen that I am, I would keep replaying that moment. Oh the guilt. Oh the shame.
I can't even bring myself to check the front of Brian for rabbit remnants. Maybe I'll ask Frank!
Perhaps these rabbits want enough people to be disturbed by these killings, so that we will all tell our friends. And our friends will tell their friends about the horrible feeling. About the guilt. About the sleepless nights ( just a small exaggeration!). And then we'll all swerve to avoid these little furry creatures.
The sacrifice of a few rabbits is but a small price to pay for the indefinite guarantee for all rabbits safety on the roads, even at the risk of injuring a few humans.
Or may be they're just aren't particularly clever.
That's what sets us apart. They may breed like ...rabbits, but we are more selective. Thus resulting in less stupidity, we know how to cross roads, and therefore have higher survival rates. And don't need to breed like rabbits to maintain our population.
So I'm sorry Mr and Mrs Rabbit that your son Peter didn't come home last night, but please teach your spawn road safety and I will endeavour to avoid you and your friends. Thank you. ( I will donate some carrots to compensate for your loss)
Thursday, 22 September 2011
...And then I found I could time-travel
Salutations from the 1940's.
Currently I find oneself sat on my bedspread.Quite comfortable in fact, one might say. And would you quite believe it if I told you, dearest friend, that my hair is in curlers?
Okay, so I'm quite clearly not time travelling. Just being a moron. But my hair is wrapped up. Don't ask and I shall explain.
I decided after a long day at work (and another face painting lesson witha skilled gentleman from the Tom Ford Beau-tettes) I am exhausted and what better way to reach maximum R&R than to wash your hair and wrap it round bits of foam with a scarf tied on top.
As mini Dodd so kindly put it,
"You've aged 20 years"
Personally , I think it's more than that, but a mere 20 years is far more flattering.
To be honest I have no idea how my mop will look in the morning, having never tried this particular 'curling' technique before. So I will be dragging myself from my bed much earlier than usual just to make sure I have plenty of time for damage control. I'm hoping for loose waves, modelled perfectly by Miss Keira Knightley in Pirates of the Caribbean. But I'll think it'll be more "electrocuted fuzz"...
I will also be dragging my tired and weary body from the comfort of my pillows and duvet so that I can pack my bag. Indeed friends, tomorrow is Friday. It took long enough arriving, and I can't wait to see Frank.
Just a quick plea while I'm here as it would be rude not to make full use of this broadcasting facility:
"Dear M25 users, 1) stop hitting the brakes and just step off the gas, 2)stay off the arse of the car infront and 3) get out of the middle lane. Follow these simple, simple rules or a crazy looking angry girl in a black (and battered) KA will hunt you down. Thank you"
I don't know how many drivers read this, and indeed I don't know how many of those spend Friday's on the UK motorway network- so as a precautionary measure Frank has been instructed to have a gin and tonic on ice ready for the moment I step in the door.
He's well trained now, having seen me arrive frazzled and frustrated often enough. When you don't see your girlfriend for two or three weeks the last thing you want it to have her cursing and spitting feathers when she arrives. Alcohol, it seems, has medatitve qualities and eventually shuts me up and knocks me out.
If indeed these hair curlers do have time travelling capabilities, I would happily walk into work tomorrow morning at 9am proudly sporting this ridiculous look, and poof! suddenly arrive fresh faced, calm and collected in Ipswich for 9.30pm. (30 minutes covers the time difference, and gives me time to remove these foamy worms from my head.)
N.B
Scientists, I'd love it if you could work on this for me please. Call it a favour!
Currently I find oneself sat on my bedspread.Quite comfortable in fact, one might say. And would you quite believe it if I told you, dearest friend, that my hair is in curlers?
Okay, so I'm quite clearly not time travelling. Just being a moron. But my hair is wrapped up. Don't ask and I shall explain.
I decided after a long day at work (and another face painting lesson witha skilled gentleman from the Tom Ford Beau-tettes) I am exhausted and what better way to reach maximum R&R than to wash your hair and wrap it round bits of foam with a scarf tied on top.
As mini Dodd so kindly put it,
"You've aged 20 years"
Personally , I think it's more than that, but a mere 20 years is far more flattering.
To be honest I have no idea how my mop will look in the morning, having never tried this particular 'curling' technique before. So I will be dragging myself from my bed much earlier than usual just to make sure I have plenty of time for damage control. I'm hoping for loose waves, modelled perfectly by Miss Keira Knightley in Pirates of the Caribbean. But I'll think it'll be more "electrocuted fuzz"...
I will also be dragging my tired and weary body from the comfort of my pillows and duvet so that I can pack my bag. Indeed friends, tomorrow is Friday. It took long enough arriving, and I can't wait to see Frank.
Just a quick plea while I'm here as it would be rude not to make full use of this broadcasting facility:
"Dear M25 users, 1) stop hitting the brakes and just step off the gas, 2)stay off the arse of the car infront and 3) get out of the middle lane. Follow these simple, simple rules or a crazy looking angry girl in a black (and battered) KA will hunt you down. Thank you"
I don't know how many drivers read this, and indeed I don't know how many of those spend Friday's on the UK motorway network- so as a precautionary measure Frank has been instructed to have a gin and tonic on ice ready for the moment I step in the door.
He's well trained now, having seen me arrive frazzled and frustrated often enough. When you don't see your girlfriend for two or three weeks the last thing you want it to have her cursing and spitting feathers when she arrives. Alcohol, it seems, has medatitve qualities and eventually shuts me up and knocks me out.
If indeed these hair curlers do have time travelling capabilities, I would happily walk into work tomorrow morning at 9am proudly sporting this ridiculous look, and poof! suddenly arrive fresh faced, calm and collected in Ipswich for 9.30pm. (30 minutes covers the time difference, and gives me time to remove these foamy worms from my head.)
N.B
Scientists, I'd love it if you could work on this for me please. Call it a favour!
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
...And then it was wasabi Wednesday.
What I learned today:
- One shot of coffee is more than enough in one mug.
- I don't like the Pain au Chocolat from the staff restaurant.
- My lovely red nail varnish (courtesy of last month's Elle) doesn't like keyboards.
- Filing nails doesn't make chipped nail varnish look better.
- I'm still terrible at typing on my iPhone.
- I've been doing my job for six months now and I'm still making silly mistakes, lik simple addition.
- I can't drink water and walk at the same time.
- I make a regualar habit of leaving things in the print room.
- I still have a bladder that desperately wants the bathroom every time they are closed them for cleaning.
- (If I drink less to avoid the above problem, I get a headache)
- It is 30 steps from my desk to the printer in the office.
- I love Tom Ford lipstick in 'Cherry Lush'.
- A man (who confessed he wasn't a trained make up artist) can apply my make up better than me.
- I love purple eye-shadow. It was the first colour I ever bought aged 12 and I still love it now.
- I think I can I apply it better now though.
- I like wasabi peas.
- I don't like wasabi peas at 10am after a peach yoghurt.
- I can't eat a whole bag of wasabi peas.
- I can, however, eat an entire bag of peanut M&M's.
- Be careful where you put your fingers after eating blue M&M's.
- Neutral trousers are fine, if you plan to only eat beige/white food (plain toast, plain rice cakes, ryvita, weetabix... cardboard)
- I can't wear neutral colours.
- One shot of coffee is more than enough in one mug.
- I don't like the Pain au Chocolat from the staff restaurant.
- My lovely red nail varnish (courtesy of last month's Elle) doesn't like keyboards.
- Filing nails doesn't make chipped nail varnish look better.
- I'm still terrible at typing on my iPhone.
- I've been doing my job for six months now and I'm still making silly mistakes, lik simple addition.
- I can't drink water and walk at the same time.
- I make a regualar habit of leaving things in the print room.
- I still have a bladder that desperately wants the bathroom every time they are closed them for cleaning.
- (If I drink less to avoid the above problem, I get a headache)
- It is 30 steps from my desk to the printer in the office.
- I love Tom Ford lipstick in 'Cherry Lush'.
- A man (who confessed he wasn't a trained make up artist) can apply my make up better than me.
- I love purple eye-shadow. It was the first colour I ever bought aged 12 and I still love it now.
- I think I can I apply it better now though.
- I like wasabi peas.
- I don't like wasabi peas at 10am after a peach yoghurt.
- I can't eat a whole bag of wasabi peas.
- I can, however, eat an entire bag of peanut M&M's.
- Be careful where you put your fingers after eating blue M&M's.
- Neutral trousers are fine, if you plan to only eat beige/white food (plain toast, plain rice cakes, ryvita, weetabix... cardboard)
- I can't wear neutral colours.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
...And then it was Tom Ford Tuesday.
For those of you who mistook this for the ageing welsh singer, read again.
Tom Ford is a designer. A top-notch one at that. With beautiful advertisements in Vogue. Oh the beauty. He designs clothes and has a line of fragrances. He launched a fabulous range of lipsticks last Autumn (another reason for a great season). They were hugely popular, in their gold and white casing - not too disimilar to the women's fragrances.
So, now you know a little of the background, you can hear the exciting stuff!
He's launching a full make up line.. postively expensive at £68.50 for four eyeshadows - but we ignore this fact, and concentrate instead on the Tom Ford beauty of it all.
And, the nature of my work in cosmetics means that we share a cosmetic brand. Which means, ( I can't hold my breath much longer) that the training which all the Tom Ford Beauty team have to have ...happens in our office.
And they request make up models. Not real models. But actual members of staff from the office. Actually really! I have watched my friends and cohorts disappear for a couple of hours to return with a perfectly dewy complexion ... and fabulous eyebrows.
Guess who shall be having her face painted with gloriously luxorious products tomorrow by the Tom Ford Beau-ettes?
Secretly I'm most excited about having my eyebrows properly shaped with pencil and shadow. I have longed for Julia Robert's brows for many moon's and fingers crossed, I shall learn the art of faking them!
Tom Ford is a designer. A top-notch one at that. With beautiful advertisements in Vogue. Oh the beauty. He designs clothes and has a line of fragrances. He launched a fabulous range of lipsticks last Autumn (another reason for a great season). They were hugely popular, in their gold and white casing - not too disimilar to the women's fragrances.
So, now you know a little of the background, you can hear the exciting stuff!
He's launching a full make up line.. postively expensive at £68.50 for four eyeshadows - but we ignore this fact, and concentrate instead on the Tom Ford beauty of it all.
And, the nature of my work in cosmetics means that we share a cosmetic brand. Which means, ( I can't hold my breath much longer) that the training which all the Tom Ford Beauty team have to have ...happens in our office.
And they request make up models. Not real models. But actual members of staff from the office. Actually really! I have watched my friends and cohorts disappear for a couple of hours to return with a perfectly dewy complexion ... and fabulous eyebrows.
Guess who shall be having her face painted with gloriously luxorious products tomorrow by the Tom Ford Beau-ettes?
Secretly I'm most excited about having my eyebrows properly shaped with pencil and shadow. I have longed for Julia Robert's brows for many moon's and fingers crossed, I shall learn the art of faking them!
Monday, 19 September 2011
...And then it was very much Autumn.
It is that time of year, my friends, my favourite season has descended upon the country.
Yesterday's downpour was an indication of the potentially soggy months to come, but the chill in the air at 5.30pm (this time is not so precise that it is only chilly at 5.30pm, obviously) makes me happy. Almost time for wrapping up in scarves, gloves and little woolly hats to sit outside and drink hot chocolate, or coffee... or push the boat out, combine the two and have a mocha with marshmellows!
The crisp autumn mornings are on their way. A bit of frost. Scraping the car in the morning. And to be honest, I can't wait. Frank's school looks beautiful in Autumn. Just as the leaves turn golden and red. And time to crack out the winter wardrobe. Trench coats, capes, leather boots. Yipee!
The saddest thing about this Autumn is that it took a 'special' event for me to notice it. An event, which in itself is quite disgusting, but very problematic.
So I had partially observed the season's change, but not enough to warrant a significant reaction, when I decided to walk my pooch - Charley Dog. After a failed attempt at having a motivational Monday morning, I needed to escape the house and get some fresh air when I finished work.
Charley Dog and I walked all over the place. She had a good sniff. A rummage in a hole. Chased a squirrel. Casual dog sort of things.
Then we walked through a wooded area. The mutt began to slow, and I grew increasingly frustrated (the result of the Monday Blues). I let her wander and mooch and I whipped out the new gadget to make a phonecall.
Frank's mobile clicks straight to voicemail. Limited coverage in Ipswich, don't you know. I leave a brief message, moaning about Monday's and the like. I hang up and turn around to see pooch squatting.
Delightful, but she has to go. I don't stalk up on her too quick, give her some privacy.
Only I leave it a little too long, and before I can get there, she's walked off the mark and left me scouring the crisp autumnal leaves for a suspicious looking... well you know.
The problem with autumn walks, is that you have to be quick on the scoop up otherwise other people on leisurely walks look at you like you are slightly deranged person peering curiously at fallen leaves.
Honestly, if I didn't spend 15 minutes trying to locate it (I did) then someone would have walked in it and trodden it through the house,then you hear the yells of obscenities, and a cacophony of... "why can't those [insert choice phrase] dog owners pick up their dogs [insert another choice word]?" and children crying (it's more often the children who kick through the leaves, but I've been known to have a good 'scuff.)
But if I pick it up (and take a stupidly long time doing so, because autumn means you have to search for the present)... I still get looked at.
It's a lose/lose situation.
Charley Dog, grow some opposable thumbs and pick up your own in future.
Yesterday's downpour was an indication of the potentially soggy months to come, but the chill in the air at 5.30pm (this time is not so precise that it is only chilly at 5.30pm, obviously) makes me happy. Almost time for wrapping up in scarves, gloves and little woolly hats to sit outside and drink hot chocolate, or coffee... or push the boat out, combine the two and have a mocha with marshmellows!
The crisp autumn mornings are on their way. A bit of frost. Scraping the car in the morning. And to be honest, I can't wait. Frank's school looks beautiful in Autumn. Just as the leaves turn golden and red. And time to crack out the winter wardrobe. Trench coats, capes, leather boots. Yipee!
The saddest thing about this Autumn is that it took a 'special' event for me to notice it. An event, which in itself is quite disgusting, but very problematic.
So I had partially observed the season's change, but not enough to warrant a significant reaction, when I decided to walk my pooch - Charley Dog. After a failed attempt at having a motivational Monday morning, I needed to escape the house and get some fresh air when I finished work.
Charley Dog and I walked all over the place. She had a good sniff. A rummage in a hole. Chased a squirrel. Casual dog sort of things.
Then we walked through a wooded area. The mutt began to slow, and I grew increasingly frustrated (the result of the Monday Blues). I let her wander and mooch and I whipped out the new gadget to make a phonecall.
Frank's mobile clicks straight to voicemail. Limited coverage in Ipswich, don't you know. I leave a brief message, moaning about Monday's and the like. I hang up and turn around to see pooch squatting.
Delightful, but she has to go. I don't stalk up on her too quick, give her some privacy.
Only I leave it a little too long, and before I can get there, she's walked off the mark and left me scouring the crisp autumnal leaves for a suspicious looking... well you know.
The problem with autumn walks, is that you have to be quick on the scoop up otherwise other people on leisurely walks look at you like you are slightly deranged person peering curiously at fallen leaves.
Honestly, if I didn't spend 15 minutes trying to locate it (I did) then someone would have walked in it and trodden it through the house,then you hear the yells of obscenities, and a cacophony of... "why can't those [insert choice phrase] dog owners pick up their dogs [insert another choice word]?" and children crying (it's more often the children who kick through the leaves, but I've been known to have a good 'scuff.)
But if I pick it up (and take a stupidly long time doing so, because autumn means you have to search for the present)... I still get looked at.
It's a lose/lose situation.
Charley Dog, grow some opposable thumbs and pick up your own in future.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
...And then another week flew by.
What with my body revolting against me again, attending motivational training sessions, joining Team iPhone, jump-starting Papa Dodd's American truck in a monsoon and catching up with 'Dowton Abbey' ... I can't say I'm entirely sure what happened here.
Monday seems so long ago and there it is peering round the corner again. But oh no my friend (or foe), you shall no longer wear me down on those dreary mornings.
Mind over matter and after Friday's refreshing course I will not be beaten.
There are new goals to strive for, and shockingly ... completely unrelated to shoes. And I've even managed to stay off the caffeine this week. Completely. The wine was necessary by Friday night though - its tough to give up coffee and alcohol.
I don't wish to cause a conflict but I am now a converted iPhone user.
Now don't get me wrong, I happily plodded along with my Blackberry (and I loved it) - infact it was quite hard to make the decision, but I think subconsciously I knew that about a year into my new Blackberry contract there would be a blog, "...And then I wished I had an iPhone"...
So I made the decision (surprisingly quickly for a 'die hard berry fan') and have a shiny new gadget in my hand!
Now why didn't I have one of these sooner?
The jump-start? A laugh and a 'arf. Papa Dodd thought he might successfully kick start his whopping V8 monster engine with a solar panel. Funny things about solar panels is that they require sunlight to function... there isn't much of that in the the middle of a thunderstorm, when the sky is black and you've just experienced a heavy hail storm.
So Papa Dodd sat in his car, I sat in mine and had a telephone conversation side by side through two car doors. A bizarre experience since usually you can't see the person on the other end, but I entreat you all to try it.
Then I had a cheeky game of 'Angry Birds', better late than never. And I had to pass duration of the rainstorm somehow. I had inpractically worn flip flops and a white tee shirt and Papa Dodd wasn't up for getting wet. And neither was I!
Good thing is, I may have failed at my first level of the bird game but I can jump start a car ... If you supply jump leads because I currently do not own any. And I don't intend to. I got my hands covered in grease, so I think I might just play the distressed damsal card if ever I need a handy start up.
Apparently Monday is almost here, so I'd better start preparing my new positive mental attitude, it's all about self affirmation ( according to Friday's course). So here goes, wish me luck!
Monday seems so long ago and there it is peering round the corner again. But oh no my friend (or foe), you shall no longer wear me down on those dreary mornings.
Mind over matter and after Friday's refreshing course I will not be beaten.
There are new goals to strive for, and shockingly ... completely unrelated to shoes. And I've even managed to stay off the caffeine this week. Completely. The wine was necessary by Friday night though - its tough to give up coffee and alcohol.
I don't wish to cause a conflict but I am now a converted iPhone user.
Now don't get me wrong, I happily plodded along with my Blackberry (and I loved it) - infact it was quite hard to make the decision, but I think subconsciously I knew that about a year into my new Blackberry contract there would be a blog, "...And then I wished I had an iPhone"...
So I made the decision (surprisingly quickly for a 'die hard berry fan') and have a shiny new gadget in my hand!
Now why didn't I have one of these sooner?
The jump-start? A laugh and a 'arf. Papa Dodd thought he might successfully kick start his whopping V8 monster engine with a solar panel. Funny things about solar panels is that they require sunlight to function... there isn't much of that in the the middle of a thunderstorm, when the sky is black and you've just experienced a heavy hail storm.
So Papa Dodd sat in his car, I sat in mine and had a telephone conversation side by side through two car doors. A bizarre experience since usually you can't see the person on the other end, but I entreat you all to try it.
Then I had a cheeky game of 'Angry Birds', better late than never. And I had to pass duration of the rainstorm somehow. I had inpractically worn flip flops and a white tee shirt and Papa Dodd wasn't up for getting wet. And neither was I!
Good thing is, I may have failed at my first level of the bird game but I can jump start a car ... If you supply jump leads because I currently do not own any. And I don't intend to. I got my hands covered in grease, so I think I might just play the distressed damsal card if ever I need a handy start up.
Apparently Monday is almost here, so I'd better start preparing my new positive mental attitude, it's all about self affirmation ( according to Friday's course). So here goes, wish me luck!
Monday, 12 September 2011
...And then there was a hot water bottle.
I haven't fogotten about you all. Although, I'm sure it appears that way.
There have been a great many projects demanding my attention, and for someone so good at multi-tasking -it appears I have failed.
There will be an update shortly. Hold your breath for a substantial one.
Grab a cup of coffee (tea if you prefer) and meet me here the same time tomorrow.
I bid you Adieu, as I snuggle down with a gloopy and luke warm hot water bottle, and leg warmers.
Until tomorrow.
N.B shutting the windows keeps the gale force winds (hurrincane remnants) out, but it doesn't half make this here little room quite a stuffy place to sit.
There have been a great many projects demanding my attention, and for someone so good at multi-tasking -it appears I have failed.
There will be an update shortly. Hold your breath for a substantial one.
Grab a cup of coffee (tea if you prefer) and meet me here the same time tomorrow.
I bid you Adieu, as I snuggle down with a gloopy and luke warm hot water bottle, and leg warmers.
Until tomorrow.
N.B shutting the windows keeps the gale force winds (hurrincane remnants) out, but it doesn't half make this here little room quite a stuffy place to sit.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
...And then there was a glass of red
So here I am. Reclining on the couch after a hard day in the office.
Odd for a girl who swore she'd never be office bound.
As a student when I had a lot more time on my hands (comparartively of course, because actually students are pretty busy dontcha know?) I never fully appreciated the moment suspended so delicately in wine.
It was always drink because I can, but now? It's so completely different, it's relaxing and I deserve it. The whole glass. Or two. Sometimes if I feel reckless I make it three... and on Friday's? Wow, well how about an entire bottle...
Or I could really push the boat out and drink a few more glasses on a 'school' night. Then I really would be a student again!
Perhaps it's best that I left the bottle alone. I dont think the office is ready for this hangover.
Odd for a girl who swore she'd never be office bound.
As a student when I had a lot more time on my hands (comparartively of course, because actually students are pretty busy dontcha know?) I never fully appreciated the moment suspended so delicately in wine.
It was always drink because I can, but now? It's so completely different, it's relaxing and I deserve it. The whole glass. Or two. Sometimes if I feel reckless I make it three... and on Friday's? Wow, well how about an entire bottle...
Or I could really push the boat out and drink a few more glasses on a 'school' night. Then I really would be a student again!
Perhaps it's best that I left the bottle alone. I dont think the office is ready for this hangover.
Friday, 26 August 2011
...And then it was time to prepare for the last 2011 Bank Holiday.
"Ah, and how will you spend yours?" I hear you cry.
"I'm going to London with Frank" I will respond
"How lovely, where are you staying?", your retort may be... or else "What will will do you do?"
I know the answer to the first question but sadly not to the second.
I have booked a lovely room at a surprise hotel - oh that's the other thing, Frank doesn't know where we're going. He knows which tube station to meet me at, and that's... well that's about it.
And unless I plan something lush and fun to do, we shall just spend two days in our hotel room looking at each other and twiddling our thumbs.
(Quite obviously this is not the case, but I do need some ideas and sharpish!)
I have the standard things in mind, places to visit and the like, but I want something special. I shall now speak in hushed tones in order to keep this secret from Frank...
I can't get us in to afternoon tea anywhere. It's all booked. So if some delightfully well-connected reader would like to pull some strings so that my chap and I may enjoy a lovely pot of tea and crustless cucumber sandwiches, well then good golly - that would be wonderful!
But Frank likes other things too, so it's not too much of a lost cause if we don't.
It all has to happen on a small amount of pennies though. I forgot that I have to pay lots of train fares this weekend. I also forgot about my lovely phone bill. Oh phone company, you shall remain nameless, but thank you so much for charging me a measly £90. So generous.
My Mastercard has taken a bit of a battering too, what with car insurance and other pretty things. I even stuck a bright yellow post-it note to it. "IS IT AN EMERGENCY?" but even the shame of removing the sticky paper would not prevent me from sliding it into the chip'n'pin reader....
Oh you reckless spender, why can't you save more!
I have very few pennies to my name.
In fact so few, that I'm poorer now than when I was a student.
Frank - would you mind if we just sat in Hyde Park in the bank holiday rain and searched for scraps of food in restaurant bins.
I hear you can create some rather delightful gourmet dinners.
So ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the last of the long weekends, the nights are drawing in and its almost time to bring out the winter woolies.
Hoo-jolly-ray!
"I'm going to London with Frank" I will respond
"How lovely, where are you staying?", your retort may be... or else "What will will do you do?"
I know the answer to the first question but sadly not to the second.
I have booked a lovely room at a surprise hotel - oh that's the other thing, Frank doesn't know where we're going. He knows which tube station to meet me at, and that's... well that's about it.
And unless I plan something lush and fun to do, we shall just spend two days in our hotel room looking at each other and twiddling our thumbs.
(Quite obviously this is not the case, but I do need some ideas and sharpish!)
I have the standard things in mind, places to visit and the like, but I want something special. I shall now speak in hushed tones in order to keep this secret from Frank...
I can't get us in to afternoon tea anywhere. It's all booked. So if some delightfully well-connected reader would like to pull some strings so that my chap and I may enjoy a lovely pot of tea and crustless cucumber sandwiches, well then good golly - that would be wonderful!
But Frank likes other things too, so it's not too much of a lost cause if we don't.
It all has to happen on a small amount of pennies though. I forgot that I have to pay lots of train fares this weekend. I also forgot about my lovely phone bill. Oh phone company, you shall remain nameless, but thank you so much for charging me a measly £90. So generous.
My Mastercard has taken a bit of a battering too, what with car insurance and other pretty things. I even stuck a bright yellow post-it note to it. "IS IT AN EMERGENCY?" but even the shame of removing the sticky paper would not prevent me from sliding it into the chip'n'pin reader....
Oh you reckless spender, why can't you save more!
I have very few pennies to my name.
In fact so few, that I'm poorer now than when I was a student.
Frank - would you mind if we just sat in Hyde Park in the bank holiday rain and searched for scraps of food in restaurant bins.
I hear you can create some rather delightful gourmet dinners.
So ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the last of the long weekends, the nights are drawing in and its almost time to bring out the winter woolies.
Hoo-jolly-ray!
Friday, 19 August 2011
...And then Frank took me to Essex
For the first time in our relationship Frank is driving me home for a weekend in Essex.
Finally, after many moans, blogs and rants I have a date for friday night.
The inbetweeners at the cinema? Dinner in a very nice restuarant? Or a film and takeaway on the sofa?
Of course not. True to form and my ongoing passionate affair with the M25, we are sat in Franks peugot with The Wombats for additional company.
We have taken a break from our stop-start traffic jam and had a frappuccino at South Mimms services. A wee and coffee always calms you when 2 of 3 lanes are closed, everyone knows this! Including those sad and distressed faces that littered the airport style services.
I treated myself and offered Frank a starbucks too. I am no stranger to this coffee company or its soothing effects.
"C'mon I'll buy you a coffee" I said to the slightly disgruntled Frank - we were meant to have arrived an hour and a half ago.
"No thank you, I'll have a milkshake".
So he queued at a famous fried chicken fast food chain.
Ladies and gentlemen, never purchase a "krush'em". They are not worth your hard earned £2 pieces!
Frank was mightily impressed.
I'm quite enjoying my tall skinny coffee frappuccino in the comfort of the peugot.
And yes, I have been sharing it with Frank.
You have to keep your driver sweet.
So it appears the traffic has picked up and I've put my fruity smartphone to the test....
Well done blackberry!!
N.B
If we're still here at midnight, I'll hunt down some flares and flag down some help!
Enjoy your friday evenings!
Sunday, 14 August 2011
...And then it was a quiet sunday afternoon.
What a delightful afternoon.
The sun is warming my toes as I write this.
Whilst being warmed, I'm also online window shopping.
Obviously, I'm meant to be doing other things. I have e.mails to send and other sensible things. But instead I have shopped.
Oh and the things I have seen.
If money were no object.
Christian Louboutin.
Jimmy Choo.
Manolo Blahnik.
Christian Dior.
I looked at handbags and the Mulberry which I have been admiring ever since I decided I would treat myself to a graduation present. Well, the sad thing is Graduation was a year ago. And still no bag.
I have Brian, but as loveable as he his, he's pretty useless. Sure, he has wheels and helps me get around... But he isn't quite the beautiful accessory that shoes and handbags are.
Oh dear, listen to me, Miss Materialistic. I promise its not always this way.
Its a monthly thing.
I buy Vogue and ... well, my brain gets carried away. It makes me want all these beautiful things.
I don't think that it helps that I have the 'Sex and the City' movie on.
On busy days I can avoid all these materialistic urges and my list of "When I get paid I will buy this...." but on quiet sunday afternoons when you haven't made plans?
The quiet just doesn't cover it up....
Thank god my mastercard is upstairs, and right now I'm just too lazy to move. It's all probably a good thing. My shrinking bank balance won't cry with pain.
The sun is warming my toes as I write this.
Whilst being warmed, I'm also online window shopping.
Obviously, I'm meant to be doing other things. I have e.mails to send and other sensible things. But instead I have shopped.
Oh and the things I have seen.
If money were no object.
Christian Louboutin.
Jimmy Choo.
Manolo Blahnik.
Christian Dior.
I looked at handbags and the Mulberry which I have been admiring ever since I decided I would treat myself to a graduation present. Well, the sad thing is Graduation was a year ago. And still no bag.
I have Brian, but as loveable as he his, he's pretty useless. Sure, he has wheels and helps me get around... But he isn't quite the beautiful accessory that shoes and handbags are.
Oh dear, listen to me, Miss Materialistic. I promise its not always this way.
Its a monthly thing.
I buy Vogue and ... well, my brain gets carried away. It makes me want all these beautiful things.
I don't think that it helps that I have the 'Sex and the City' movie on.
On busy days I can avoid all these materialistic urges and my list of "When I get paid I will buy this...." but on quiet sunday afternoons when you haven't made plans?
The quiet just doesn't cover it up....
Thank god my mastercard is upstairs, and right now I'm just too lazy to move. It's all probably a good thing. My shrinking bank balance won't cry with pain.
Monday, 8 August 2011
...And then two weeks had passed. Again.
"Golly Gosh, two weeks!" I hear you cry.
Yes, Yes I am afraid dear people that I have left you to your own devices for two whole weeks (it might be more, but two is a nice easy number). I have left you to read other things, to delve into the inner most workings of another human being. But... you have returned.
For this, I thank you.
I have returned to reality (a soft landing with a minor bump - but no cuts or grazes). To say that the last fortnight has been a bit manic,would be a substantial understatement. "A bit manic" does not justify one's lack of commitment and complete disappearance. Even my friends did not see me, many thought I might have mysteriously fallen down a rabbit hole. I was caught up in a drama of sorts. . However, I am back, raring to go, and with a new respect for words, their strength and subjectivity.
I have had a little holiday in the meantime and a visit to Clapham, but in the reverse order. I drank myself silly in the sunshine with friends at an assortment of establishments, and decided it was high time for a summer holiday and found myself curled up in a chilly tent whilst everyone around me was jumping onto a surf board.
Clapham, for once, was a sad and sobering place. Sobering for the fact that Carrie was moving out of her very lovely top floor apartment to a house in Balham. Of course in order to pack and move one's life possessions, one must be in possession of their brain.
Unfortunatley mine was laying at the bottom of a bird cage, shrivelled and craving water, diet coke, gin.....liquid of some kind. I opted for the safer H20 option. Followed later by the cold and sugary goodness of a pint of Diet Coke. Like Carrie moving in to another place with old friends, the ninja hangover joined and cohabited in my tiny, hurting brain with the small pain hiding at the back. Together they wreaked havoc.
We hadn't consumed a lot of alcohol. At least, I hadn't. I had gone to "The Falcon" at Clapham North, with the best intentions. A pint of lime and soda between every slightly alcoholic drink would build the defence against the tiny ruthless japanese attacker that hunts me down about 3 o'clock the following afternoon. Alas, my plan did not suceed. On one (of many) trips to the crowded bar I had forgotten to ask for my 80p worth of hangover cure, and the rest they say is history. It takes a long time to build a habit, but a moment to destroy it. I found out the hard way.
Anyway I'm sure the soda tap went quite unused for the rest of the evening. Our companions, Carrie's assortment of friends (Charlotte included of course) who had joined her for birthday merriment took advantage of the celebrations and laced poor Carrie with multiple glasses of wine. Then, there a sambuca shot shot was purchased. However, I don't think it made it too her because I'm sure it was at this point in the evening that she slid slowly off the bench into a small Carrie shaped heap on the floor. A little while later we escorted her home.
Now I lack any sort of scientific evidental proof that in the process of sleeping on the floor on a drunkenly engineered bed made of sofa cushions and IKEA blankets, her hangover dripped out her ears and into mine. Many would deem this impossible. However, it did set up camp and Carrie was feeling quite sprightly whilst my health deteriorated rapidly.
I didn't think I even drank enough to warrant a poorly head. Well, think or not, it was there. And it hurt all the way home.
The girl moving into Carrie's very empty room, made it very apparent that she wanted somewhere to live. We packed the last item into a pillowcase at just after 12 noon. Then went for breakfast/lunch/brunch. (If ever you get the chance, you must try 'Bread Etc'. I won't ruin the surprise, just go. Be prepared to queue and don't eat anything before. Whatever will I do when she lives in Balham - aaah, fear not, "The Nightingale".)
With the room only freshly emptied of every trace of her existance, the new girl wanted Carrie's keys at 2 o'clock. Now, I thought this all a little insenstitive and too much like grave jumping. I wanted to remain in the cold shell, and mourn Carrie's life there. All the times I had lost make up to the depths of her floor and the piles of stuff. All the times I had left half drunk glasses before leaving for nights out, only to find the smell of wine/rum/punch positively revolting the following morning. Many a night I have shared with Carrie in her bed, unconcious with the fumes of unknown beverages and the grime of London on my feet. Oh those happy, happy times - only to be masked by some other randomer's excursions and adventures. I wanted Carrie to sign her name on the wall, a lasting memory of the previous tennant. But as Miss O'Riley put it so eloquently, " London has no sentimentality."
Many might argue this fact, but in this instance, I nodded solemly.
I spent Sunday afternoon on the sofa in my very quiet home, sleeping. I should have been packing. But like most (and I make a severe generalisation) women I hate packing. I hate that I have to have a vast selection of outfits. What if I get to my destination and suddenly realise that "oh poo, I wish I had packed my scarlet sequinned strapless dress." I don't have a scarlet sequinned strapless dress and if you're focussing on that obscene concoction then you have quite clearly missed the point.
I had not bought anything for my holiday. No new bikini. No new flip flops and not even a new pair of sunglasses. Even the suntan that I (eventually) packed had been gathering dust at the back of the bathroom cabinet.
Now a new bikini or any of the aforementioned items were really not important. I (and Frank) were going to be joining my family at our caravan that they had towed and pitched on a site in Croyde, North Devon. The neighbouring site was called 'Surfers Paradise'and there I rest my case. I was told I would just be living in a wetsuit. We've all seen the extent of my fitness and I'll admit now quite shamefully that I don't like getting my face wet, (with the exception of showering) and the concept of standing, or attempting to, on a piece of fibreglass (?) as it flies through the water, did not appeal to me at all. My little (surf obsessed) sister was utterly disgusted. Even Frank donned a wetsuit and ran into the waves, while I lay on the beach trying to catch the few summer rays and completely engrossed in one of many books I had purchased only a few weeks ago. Oh how wonderful to have the the time to read and not worry about all those other idle things one should be doing instead....
In my haste to pack, because I'd left it so late, I forgot to cover every eventuality. I had packed shorts, three 'vintage' (not in the trendy use of the term, more like - these are old because I haven't bought any more) bikinis, t-shirts in every colour, for every combination.
I think secretly, I had hoped that my geography was wrong, and that Devon's climate actually resembled that of the Caribbean. Having studied there for three years, this was most unlikely. Perhaps Frank was included in some practical joke and actually we were going to be driving to the aiport and flying to the tropics.
So I didn't pack thermals, wellies, waterproof jackets, blankets, woolly socks, jumpers and coats. Last week I would have paid a lot of money for these on the black market. When you live in a house with central heating, and work in air conditioned office, and drive a temperature controlled car - you forget how cold it is a night. Especially when the wind rushes up off the sea and whips itself into a frenzy.
Poor Frank. I think I spent most of the evenings wearing his clothes. My bikinis made it to the beach once, my shorts left my suitcase twice - quickly replaced by a pair of jeans that were packed last minute, and my poor pasty white body saw the sun once. I'm sure to some of the small children building sandcastles I looked like a ghost in a huge floppy hat. ( I was protecting my newly coloured hair from turning ginger in the sunshine - or what there was of it!)
I really should refrain from berating my holiday, I sound so unappreciative. It wasn't all bad. We ate a lot of BBQ'd food. If I eat another prawn, I might look like one. Drank copious amounts of wine, apparently my liver had given up punishing me. And played one too many board games. Obviously they're much more fun when played with other slightly tipsy adults.
The highlight of my very brief holiday in the west country was saturday night. Now, I have never been one to sleep all that well in a tent. I like beds. I like heating. I like being able to shower in the morning without having to walk across a field. But I can put up with a tent for a little bit. And put up with it, I did. I may have moaned about being cold, but I did not once whinge about the tent. (My sister and Frank might suggest otherwise).
But Saturday night, oh saturday you feisty little weather witch! The wind wanted to pull Frank's green and purple tent out of the ground, with us inside. Had it not been for Frank's expert pitching skills, I'm sure we would have been whipped up like Dorothy's house in "The Wizard of Oz".
We spent the night camping through a hurricane, or the dregs of one at least. Never in my life have I heard such ferocity. Such power. And so much bloomin' noise.
Actually, I was quite frightened. I burrowed beneath the duvet (yes duvet, no sleeping bags for me) and stuck my fingers in my ears. But it was to no avail. If Frank had heard it, he made no indication other than his initial "It's actually quite soothing", before falling asleep. Git.
I think I was awake for most of the night. We woke on sunday morning (the last day of our holiday) to bright blue skies and singing birds.
There was no trace of the hurricane other than in the the bleary sleep deprived eyes of those residents who were not knocked unconcious by the potent west country ciders.
We packed our tent, bid farewell to my family ( who are remaining in this beachy haven for another week, and if they return with caribbean tans I might weep and hang myself, cocoon-like from a tree in a sleeping bag) and drove home in the pouring rain.
Naturally I welcomed my home, the big sofa and my lovely comfy bed. And a bathroom at the end of a corridor. With hot water and no screaming children. Hoorah.
I returned to work this morning and already it feels as though I never went away. Oh and I'm broke.
Maybe the further away you go, the longer it takes to return to reality.
Frank - we're going to Oz next year! Better start popping those pounds in a piggy bank, eh?
Yes, Yes I am afraid dear people that I have left you to your own devices for two whole weeks (it might be more, but two is a nice easy number). I have left you to read other things, to delve into the inner most workings of another human being. But... you have returned.
For this, I thank you.
I have returned to reality (a soft landing with a minor bump - but no cuts or grazes). To say that the last fortnight has been a bit manic,would be a substantial understatement. "A bit manic" does not justify one's lack of commitment and complete disappearance. Even my friends did not see me, many thought I might have mysteriously fallen down a rabbit hole. I was caught up in a drama of sorts. . However, I am back, raring to go, and with a new respect for words, their strength and subjectivity.
I have had a little holiday in the meantime and a visit to Clapham, but in the reverse order. I drank myself silly in the sunshine with friends at an assortment of establishments, and decided it was high time for a summer holiday and found myself curled up in a chilly tent whilst everyone around me was jumping onto a surf board.
Clapham, for once, was a sad and sobering place. Sobering for the fact that Carrie was moving out of her very lovely top floor apartment to a house in Balham. Of course in order to pack and move one's life possessions, one must be in possession of their brain.
Unfortunatley mine was laying at the bottom of a bird cage, shrivelled and craving water, diet coke, gin.....liquid of some kind. I opted for the safer H20 option. Followed later by the cold and sugary goodness of a pint of Diet Coke. Like Carrie moving in to another place with old friends, the ninja hangover joined and cohabited in my tiny, hurting brain with the small pain hiding at the back. Together they wreaked havoc.
We hadn't consumed a lot of alcohol. At least, I hadn't. I had gone to "The Falcon" at Clapham North, with the best intentions. A pint of lime and soda between every slightly alcoholic drink would build the defence against the tiny ruthless japanese attacker that hunts me down about 3 o'clock the following afternoon. Alas, my plan did not suceed. On one (of many) trips to the crowded bar I had forgotten to ask for my 80p worth of hangover cure, and the rest they say is history. It takes a long time to build a habit, but a moment to destroy it. I found out the hard way.
Anyway I'm sure the soda tap went quite unused for the rest of the evening. Our companions, Carrie's assortment of friends (Charlotte included of course) who had joined her for birthday merriment took advantage of the celebrations and laced poor Carrie with multiple glasses of wine. Then, there a sambuca shot shot was purchased. However, I don't think it made it too her because I'm sure it was at this point in the evening that she slid slowly off the bench into a small Carrie shaped heap on the floor. A little while later we escorted her home.
Now I lack any sort of scientific evidental proof that in the process of sleeping on the floor on a drunkenly engineered bed made of sofa cushions and IKEA blankets, her hangover dripped out her ears and into mine. Many would deem this impossible. However, it did set up camp and Carrie was feeling quite sprightly whilst my health deteriorated rapidly.
I didn't think I even drank enough to warrant a poorly head. Well, think or not, it was there. And it hurt all the way home.
The girl moving into Carrie's very empty room, made it very apparent that she wanted somewhere to live. We packed the last item into a pillowcase at just after 12 noon. Then went for breakfast/lunch/brunch. (If ever you get the chance, you must try 'Bread Etc'. I won't ruin the surprise, just go. Be prepared to queue and don't eat anything before. Whatever will I do when she lives in Balham - aaah, fear not, "The Nightingale".)
With the room only freshly emptied of every trace of her existance, the new girl wanted Carrie's keys at 2 o'clock. Now, I thought this all a little insenstitive and too much like grave jumping. I wanted to remain in the cold shell, and mourn Carrie's life there. All the times I had lost make up to the depths of her floor and the piles of stuff. All the times I had left half drunk glasses before leaving for nights out, only to find the smell of wine/rum/punch positively revolting the following morning. Many a night I have shared with Carrie in her bed, unconcious with the fumes of unknown beverages and the grime of London on my feet. Oh those happy, happy times - only to be masked by some other randomer's excursions and adventures. I wanted Carrie to sign her name on the wall, a lasting memory of the previous tennant. But as Miss O'Riley put it so eloquently, " London has no sentimentality."
Many might argue this fact, but in this instance, I nodded solemly.
I spent Sunday afternoon on the sofa in my very quiet home, sleeping. I should have been packing. But like most (and I make a severe generalisation) women I hate packing. I hate that I have to have a vast selection of outfits. What if I get to my destination and suddenly realise that "oh poo, I wish I had packed my scarlet sequinned strapless dress." I don't have a scarlet sequinned strapless dress and if you're focussing on that obscene concoction then you have quite clearly missed the point.
I had not bought anything for my holiday. No new bikini. No new flip flops and not even a new pair of sunglasses. Even the suntan that I (eventually) packed had been gathering dust at the back of the bathroom cabinet.
Now a new bikini or any of the aforementioned items were really not important. I (and Frank) were going to be joining my family at our caravan that they had towed and pitched on a site in Croyde, North Devon. The neighbouring site was called 'Surfers Paradise'and there I rest my case. I was told I would just be living in a wetsuit. We've all seen the extent of my fitness and I'll admit now quite shamefully that I don't like getting my face wet, (with the exception of showering) and the concept of standing, or attempting to, on a piece of fibreglass (?) as it flies through the water, did not appeal to me at all. My little (surf obsessed) sister was utterly disgusted. Even Frank donned a wetsuit and ran into the waves, while I lay on the beach trying to catch the few summer rays and completely engrossed in one of many books I had purchased only a few weeks ago. Oh how wonderful to have the the time to read and not worry about all those other idle things one should be doing instead....
In my haste to pack, because I'd left it so late, I forgot to cover every eventuality. I had packed shorts, three 'vintage' (not in the trendy use of the term, more like - these are old because I haven't bought any more) bikinis, t-shirts in every colour, for every combination.
I think secretly, I had hoped that my geography was wrong, and that Devon's climate actually resembled that of the Caribbean. Having studied there for three years, this was most unlikely. Perhaps Frank was included in some practical joke and actually we were going to be driving to the aiport and flying to the tropics.
So I didn't pack thermals, wellies, waterproof jackets, blankets, woolly socks, jumpers and coats. Last week I would have paid a lot of money for these on the black market. When you live in a house with central heating, and work in air conditioned office, and drive a temperature controlled car - you forget how cold it is a night. Especially when the wind rushes up off the sea and whips itself into a frenzy.
Poor Frank. I think I spent most of the evenings wearing his clothes. My bikinis made it to the beach once, my shorts left my suitcase twice - quickly replaced by a pair of jeans that were packed last minute, and my poor pasty white body saw the sun once. I'm sure to some of the small children building sandcastles I looked like a ghost in a huge floppy hat. ( I was protecting my newly coloured hair from turning ginger in the sunshine - or what there was of it!)
I really should refrain from berating my holiday, I sound so unappreciative. It wasn't all bad. We ate a lot of BBQ'd food. If I eat another prawn, I might look like one. Drank copious amounts of wine, apparently my liver had given up punishing me. And played one too many board games. Obviously they're much more fun when played with other slightly tipsy adults.
The highlight of my very brief holiday in the west country was saturday night. Now, I have never been one to sleep all that well in a tent. I like beds. I like heating. I like being able to shower in the morning without having to walk across a field. But I can put up with a tent for a little bit. And put up with it, I did. I may have moaned about being cold, but I did not once whinge about the tent. (My sister and Frank might suggest otherwise).
But Saturday night, oh saturday you feisty little weather witch! The wind wanted to pull Frank's green and purple tent out of the ground, with us inside. Had it not been for Frank's expert pitching skills, I'm sure we would have been whipped up like Dorothy's house in "The Wizard of Oz".
We spent the night camping through a hurricane, or the dregs of one at least. Never in my life have I heard such ferocity. Such power. And so much bloomin' noise.
Actually, I was quite frightened. I burrowed beneath the duvet (yes duvet, no sleeping bags for me) and stuck my fingers in my ears. But it was to no avail. If Frank had heard it, he made no indication other than his initial "It's actually quite soothing", before falling asleep. Git.
I think I was awake for most of the night. We woke on sunday morning (the last day of our holiday) to bright blue skies and singing birds.
There was no trace of the hurricane other than in the the bleary sleep deprived eyes of those residents who were not knocked unconcious by the potent west country ciders.
We packed our tent, bid farewell to my family ( who are remaining in this beachy haven for another week, and if they return with caribbean tans I might weep and hang myself, cocoon-like from a tree in a sleeping bag) and drove home in the pouring rain.
Naturally I welcomed my home, the big sofa and my lovely comfy bed. And a bathroom at the end of a corridor. With hot water and no screaming children. Hoorah.
I returned to work this morning and already it feels as though I never went away. Oh and I'm broke.
Maybe the further away you go, the longer it takes to return to reality.
Frank - we're going to Oz next year! Better start popping those pounds in a piggy bank, eh?
Saturday, 30 July 2011
...And then it was payday.
And so, her barren bank account has pennies again.
Or so she thought.
Once she pays out her rent (which she happily hands over), the car insurance (which she is less than happy about), her credit card bill (should she chop that up again?) and the money she owed Frank (for christmas flights to Berlin)... there aren't that many pennies left.
Certainly not enough to purchase all the beautiful items she has been coveting in this month's Vogue. Really she should stop buying it, but it's a little taste of heaven once a month. A little look at the dark side, those things she might be able to touch but never wear.
Save, her Father says to her. He has been saying this since she had her first money box.
Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, says her Grandfather.
Fancy lunch? says her best friend.
Oh my god - you have to have those shoes, says the other.
It's no wonder I never have pennies she moans.
Her Papa says that the more you earn the more you spend. He gives it a special name. She just calls it greed. The more you have, the more you want.
(Of everything in fact... except maybe ice-cream, although Frank may disagree. Never too much ice-cream)
If I had nothing, she mused, would I crave anything? I don't think I would realise what I was missing.
Perhaps I should sell everything, give my pennies away and move somewhere simple!
But if I sell everything, would I keep anything? Does the box of momentos in the attic mean anything to anyone else? Do they have a value? Would anyone buy them?
Perhaps I should get famous, she said to the Dog who was staring at her blankly. If I was famous then someone, somewhere would buy something I touched. Well, then if everyone did that, then I would have sold all my things and more. Like the pavement outside my house. Then I would make lots of money. I could get rid of all my things and then give all my money away too... after I had bought a ticket to somewhere simple of course.
Her sister overheard her talking to the Dogand chipped in with, but if you had once had everything and then gave it all away, you would know what you were missing. How do you know if you'd be happy then?
Oh and what a question it is...
Or so she thought.
Once she pays out her rent (which she happily hands over), the car insurance (which she is less than happy about), her credit card bill (should she chop that up again?) and the money she owed Frank (for christmas flights to Berlin)... there aren't that many pennies left.
Certainly not enough to purchase all the beautiful items she has been coveting in this month's Vogue. Really she should stop buying it, but it's a little taste of heaven once a month. A little look at the dark side, those things she might be able to touch but never wear.
Save, her Father says to her. He has been saying this since she had her first money box.
Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, says her Grandfather.
Fancy lunch? says her best friend.
Oh my god - you have to have those shoes, says the other.
It's no wonder I never have pennies she moans.
Her Papa says that the more you earn the more you spend. He gives it a special name. She just calls it greed. The more you have, the more you want.
(Of everything in fact... except maybe ice-cream, although Frank may disagree. Never too much ice-cream)
If I had nothing, she mused, would I crave anything? I don't think I would realise what I was missing.
Perhaps I should sell everything, give my pennies away and move somewhere simple!
But if I sell everything, would I keep anything? Does the box of momentos in the attic mean anything to anyone else? Do they have a value? Would anyone buy them?
Perhaps I should get famous, she said to the Dog who was staring at her blankly. If I was famous then someone, somewhere would buy something I touched. Well, then if everyone did that, then I would have sold all my things and more. Like the pavement outside my house. Then I would make lots of money. I could get rid of all my things and then give all my money away too... after I had bought a ticket to somewhere simple of course.
Her sister overheard her talking to the Dogand chipped in with, but if you had once had everything and then gave it all away, you would know what you were missing. How do you know if you'd be happy then?
Oh and what a question it is...
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
... And then I learnt the hard way.
Do not cut fresh red chillis and touch your nose (even after washing your hands) apparently chilli oil is remarkably hard to get rid of and now my nostrils are on fire!
Ice cubes please.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
...And then I made a purse.
Apparently I'm too poor to buy one.
Actually I blame Frank.
I spent the whole afternoon trying to recreate something I pictured in my head for the briefest of moments.
There appears a communication error between my brain and my hands.
The little purse looks nothing like I imagined it to, and looks awful with the new handbag.
Ahhh, the handbag. My worst (or best, depending how you look at it) impulse buy in a long time. The problem with Sevenoaks, Frank's temporary home, is that it has lots of little boutique shops. The second problem with Sevenoaks is it has traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. And the third is that the cute boutique shops are right next to the lights and crossings.
So naturally, whilst waiting for a group of yummy mummies to cross with their troop of pushchairs, a very pink clutch handbag caught my eye.
The honk of a car horn brought me round, and I left the bag in the window. Unfortunately for Frank, who I hadn't seen for three weeks, the handbag was the first thing I spoke about.
Naturally I dragged Frank back to the shop and used up the last of my birthday money and a donation from him to make the bag my own.
Of course it matches nothing I own. Oh well.
But my purse doesn't fit. My lovely tan "I'm-made-for-a-big-bag" sort of purse doesn't fit. So, I decided to make one.
What is more ridiculous is that I partly decided to do it because I didn't want to drive to town and pay to park. So... I spent the afternoon sewing and stitching the monstrosity that has now been destined to a life in the bin. I don't even want to associate myself with it.
oh dear.
So Frank has a share in a pink clutch bag, I have a home-made purse I hate (and a very clean car) and because Mumma Dodd is sofa bound (the bucking bronco incident) I have renewed and refreshed (not that I really needed to) by love for Miss Carrie Bradshaw.
Oh what a sunday.
Actually I blame Frank.
I spent the whole afternoon trying to recreate something I pictured in my head for the briefest of moments.
There appears a communication error between my brain and my hands.
The little purse looks nothing like I imagined it to, and looks awful with the new handbag.
Ahhh, the handbag. My worst (or best, depending how you look at it) impulse buy in a long time. The problem with Sevenoaks, Frank's temporary home, is that it has lots of little boutique shops. The second problem with Sevenoaks is it has traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. And the third is that the cute boutique shops are right next to the lights and crossings.
So naturally, whilst waiting for a group of yummy mummies to cross with their troop of pushchairs, a very pink clutch handbag caught my eye.
The honk of a car horn brought me round, and I left the bag in the window. Unfortunately for Frank, who I hadn't seen for three weeks, the handbag was the first thing I spoke about.
Naturally I dragged Frank back to the shop and used up the last of my birthday money and a donation from him to make the bag my own.
Of course it matches nothing I own. Oh well.
But my purse doesn't fit. My lovely tan "I'm-made-for-a-big-bag" sort of purse doesn't fit. So, I decided to make one.
What is more ridiculous is that I partly decided to do it because I didn't want to drive to town and pay to park. So... I spent the afternoon sewing and stitching the monstrosity that has now been destined to a life in the bin. I don't even want to associate myself with it.
oh dear.
So Frank has a share in a pink clutch bag, I have a home-made purse I hate (and a very clean car) and because Mumma Dodd is sofa bound (the bucking bronco incident) I have renewed and refreshed (not that I really needed to) by love for Miss Carrie Bradshaw.
Oh what a sunday.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
...And then it all went up in a puff of feathers.
I'd not seen a pigeon explode on impact until this evening on the A3. It was an unfortunate incident, however I blame the stupid bird for flying across the path of a speeding Honda Jazz at roughly 70mph. The driver (female) looked incredibly shaken and distressed as I overtook. I, the heartless creature I am, tried to stifle the giggles. Any one overtaking me, would have thought me a crazy woman. Upon looking in the rearview mirror after pulling infront of the pigeon-killer, I saw the birds headless carcuss mushed up against the grill.
I shouldn't laugh really, the pigeons can't help being brainless (or in this case headless) and I wouldn't like to be the woman peeling the pigeon from the front of her car. What a nice surprise she'll have had when she reached her destination. A balding dead pigeon.
So the weekend finished with the bird explosion, the most exciting event to have happened in the past 56 hours ( I must include my Friday night, because my weekend starts at 5.01pm)
I find that my weekends are primarily for relaxing, catching up with friends and doing all those activities in the week that you have no time for (or more likely, can't be bothered to do). But this weekend was another weekend without Frank, and Miss Hendo and Miss USA were missing too. Unfortunatley for me, they had decided to book annual leave at the same time. Needless to say it has been a rather uneventful and quite week in the office followed by an equally quiet weekend.
On saturday morning, Mumma (now an invalid due to a intoxicated incident with a bucking bronco) lounged on the sofa with an ice pack, catching up on a television box set that she missed when it premiered.
Now I will be the first to argue that Sex and the City shall never lose its place in the heart of many women, each of them hoping their lives might be a little more like those of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. Or if not like them, then at least worthy of an internationally acclaimed series.
After watching any episode of this brilliant programme that has a cult like following, I pretend that I lunch with friends all the time, that I live in a beautiful brownstone and have an incredible shoe collection. Of course none of this is even remotely true or even likely to blossom into future reality, but I pretend nonetheless. So on saturday afternoon, spurred by desire for new reading material and a little escapism from the mundaneness of the week - I slipped my feet into my favourite pair of heels, put on my new trench coat (for a little of that classic chic-ness) and my film star sunglasses (a gift from Frank to complete the look) and drove into the city, parked and wandered through the throng of saturday shoppers to the quiet escape of Waterstones. Now this is not something that any of the SATC girls would consider (with maybe the exception of Charlotte) but I felt I looked the part, regardless of my selected activity.
So call me an oddball, I really don't mind - or choose another carefully selected endearing term for 'weirdo', but I love bookshops and libraries. I prefer the shops because they have a particular smell, and all the pages are crisp (See? Strange girl) I spent two and a half hours perusing the shelves in the basement of my favourite bookshop. It has comfy chairs and low lighting and it's so unbelievably quiet. Nobody makes a sound. Even the cash registers don't beep. Its odd really, to find somewhere so peaceful amidst the hubub of the high street, and people respect the tranquility. Never have I heard a rowdy bunch of shoppers enter the store, and if they have I believe they were escorted quickly from the premises.
I intended to purchase only three books with the remainder of my birthday pennies from the parents. But the problem with the "three for two" offer is that you want to make sure that you are buying the best three books possible.
I kept picking books up , reading the back, putting them down. Selecting another, reading the first chapter and then returning it to the pile. It was this indecisiveness that resulted in my careful selection of not three, but six books.
You see, you can't select four or five in this instance because the third and sixth book are free - it would be rude to leave the shop without the literary work of some potentially unknown author when you aren't being charged for it.
I felt like quite the educated young lady, until I reached the 'classics' shelf and realised how few I had read. I will not disclose the actual figure for fear of it ruining any predetermined ideas about my education and knowledge. I shall make it known however, that not once did I pick up one of those "chick flick" books. They have the brightly decorated covers that scream "fun" and "simple". I love them (on occasion, when my brain is addled and requires easy words to mull over) but I felt that that nearly three hours of perusing and careful selection would be wasted if I left with an array of simple reading.
I paid for my six books, and refused the offer of a Mr Men bookmark. Apologies Roger Hargreaves, I would rather not have Mr Bump looking at me as I read. No hard feelings of course.
I wondered what else I might do to fill my solitary afternoon. There were no museums and no art gallery to wander around to expand my capacity for knowledge and culture. So I went to Starbucks. When in doubt a double shot, extra hot, tall skinny cappuccino with a shot of irish cream syrup always sorts me out.
So I sat at the window of this coffee franchise (which doesn't smell like ground and roasted coffee beans and more like stale air conditioning) and watched the world go by. Soon the coffee was gone, and I wished I had bought a muffin to silence the grumbling from my tummy. But no. I refused the option of additional extras because Starbucks have now printed the calorie content of all their beverages on the menu board. Now, I am no calorie counter, but when someone shows you how much 'stuff' is in your drink, you begin to feel a little self concious when you order cake too!
Naturally my parents were shocked by the amount of pennies spent, when I'd only intended to buy one book (alas the well considered marketing strategy of book offers and impulse purchases). So much money for words!
So now I have five books to read (sadly I am a quick reader and the stack of books was just too tempting. You must all read "When God was a Rabbit" - and no, I am not blaspheming). However I feel these five books will provide great comfort when the delayed shock of bird manslaughter sets in.
And because it is such a great way to spend a quiet rainy afternoon, I shall never buy a Kindle.
N.B Isn't it odd that a word to describe the unlawful killing of another being without malicious intent, contains such a happy word? Man's-laughter ... makes a mockery of the justice system don't you think?
I shouldn't laugh really, the pigeons can't help being brainless (or in this case headless) and I wouldn't like to be the woman peeling the pigeon from the front of her car. What a nice surprise she'll have had when she reached her destination. A balding dead pigeon.
So the weekend finished with the bird explosion, the most exciting event to have happened in the past 56 hours ( I must include my Friday night, because my weekend starts at 5.01pm)
I find that my weekends are primarily for relaxing, catching up with friends and doing all those activities in the week that you have no time for (or more likely, can't be bothered to do). But this weekend was another weekend without Frank, and Miss Hendo and Miss USA were missing too. Unfortunatley for me, they had decided to book annual leave at the same time. Needless to say it has been a rather uneventful and quite week in the office followed by an equally quiet weekend.
On saturday morning, Mumma (now an invalid due to a intoxicated incident with a bucking bronco) lounged on the sofa with an ice pack, catching up on a television box set that she missed when it premiered.
Now I will be the first to argue that Sex and the City shall never lose its place in the heart of many women, each of them hoping their lives might be a little more like those of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. Or if not like them, then at least worthy of an internationally acclaimed series.
After watching any episode of this brilliant programme that has a cult like following, I pretend that I lunch with friends all the time, that I live in a beautiful brownstone and have an incredible shoe collection. Of course none of this is even remotely true or even likely to blossom into future reality, but I pretend nonetheless. So on saturday afternoon, spurred by desire for new reading material and a little escapism from the mundaneness of the week - I slipped my feet into my favourite pair of heels, put on my new trench coat (for a little of that classic chic-ness) and my film star sunglasses (a gift from Frank to complete the look) and drove into the city, parked and wandered through the throng of saturday shoppers to the quiet escape of Waterstones. Now this is not something that any of the SATC girls would consider (with maybe the exception of Charlotte) but I felt I looked the part, regardless of my selected activity.
So call me an oddball, I really don't mind - or choose another carefully selected endearing term for 'weirdo', but I love bookshops and libraries. I prefer the shops because they have a particular smell, and all the pages are crisp (See? Strange girl) I spent two and a half hours perusing the shelves in the basement of my favourite bookshop. It has comfy chairs and low lighting and it's so unbelievably quiet. Nobody makes a sound. Even the cash registers don't beep. Its odd really, to find somewhere so peaceful amidst the hubub of the high street, and people respect the tranquility. Never have I heard a rowdy bunch of shoppers enter the store, and if they have I believe they were escorted quickly from the premises.
I intended to purchase only three books with the remainder of my birthday pennies from the parents. But the problem with the "three for two" offer is that you want to make sure that you are buying the best three books possible.
I kept picking books up , reading the back, putting them down. Selecting another, reading the first chapter and then returning it to the pile. It was this indecisiveness that resulted in my careful selection of not three, but six books.
You see, you can't select four or five in this instance because the third and sixth book are free - it would be rude to leave the shop without the literary work of some potentially unknown author when you aren't being charged for it.
I felt like quite the educated young lady, until I reached the 'classics' shelf and realised how few I had read. I will not disclose the actual figure for fear of it ruining any predetermined ideas about my education and knowledge. I shall make it known however, that not once did I pick up one of those "chick flick" books. They have the brightly decorated covers that scream "fun" and "simple". I love them (on occasion, when my brain is addled and requires easy words to mull over) but I felt that that nearly three hours of perusing and careful selection would be wasted if I left with an array of simple reading.
I paid for my six books, and refused the offer of a Mr Men bookmark. Apologies Roger Hargreaves, I would rather not have Mr Bump looking at me as I read. No hard feelings of course.
I wondered what else I might do to fill my solitary afternoon. There were no museums and no art gallery to wander around to expand my capacity for knowledge and culture. So I went to Starbucks. When in doubt a double shot, extra hot, tall skinny cappuccino with a shot of irish cream syrup always sorts me out.
So I sat at the window of this coffee franchise (which doesn't smell like ground and roasted coffee beans and more like stale air conditioning) and watched the world go by. Soon the coffee was gone, and I wished I had bought a muffin to silence the grumbling from my tummy. But no. I refused the option of additional extras because Starbucks have now printed the calorie content of all their beverages on the menu board. Now, I am no calorie counter, but when someone shows you how much 'stuff' is in your drink, you begin to feel a little self concious when you order cake too!
Naturally my parents were shocked by the amount of pennies spent, when I'd only intended to buy one book (alas the well considered marketing strategy of book offers and impulse purchases). So much money for words!
So now I have five books to read (sadly I am a quick reader and the stack of books was just too tempting. You must all read "When God was a Rabbit" - and no, I am not blaspheming). However I feel these five books will provide great comfort when the delayed shock of bird manslaughter sets in.
And because it is such a great way to spend a quiet rainy afternoon, I shall never buy a Kindle.
N.B Isn't it odd that a word to describe the unlawful killing of another being without malicious intent, contains such a happy word? Man's-laughter ... makes a mockery of the justice system don't you think?
Saturday, 16 July 2011
...And then it was a totally amazing Friday night.
Or not.
It turns out that I forgot to make any plans. I got this week, next week and last week nicely muddled. Very well done!
But rather than spend the night infront of awful british television waiting for sleep to consume me, I decided to embrace some physical activity and... move my room around.
Oh what a enthralling Friday evening.
However, laugh all you like - I shall have no hangover in the morning and I found a pair of earrings I thought I'd lost months ago. Would you believe it?
So while the parents were dressing themselves up in a long dress and penguin suit ready for a night out with a free bar, I ate shop bought pizza from a famous restaurant chain... the fast pizza place. (Its never as good without the doughballs. And I've got quite used to the missing chunk in the middle and replaced with green leaves.) Mine was burnt this evening and came with onion rings and bahjis.
Don't ask. I let the smallest Dodd cook.
Never again.
I thought I would tidy at the same time as reshuffling furniture, y'know be ruthless and throw out things I havent needed or touched in a year.
Realistically I've just found new homes for everything. I can't even claim that there will be logic involved in my tidying, the smallest Dodd was involved and I was drinking gin. After all it is a Friday. I just haven't treated it like one. What a waste.
I think I might blame it on my lack of fun pennies to spend, all because of stupid Brian. I will admit to my naivity and say that I thought my car would only cost about £150 for MOT and service, and I think I just expected my insurance to be the same as last year.
Actually its not. According to the insurance companies I am a boy. Even though I am female (obviously) because I am twenty-two I must drive like a twenty-two year old male. My premium reflects this.
I will also admit that I am no pro at reversing, but I'm not worth £892 of bad reversing. Don't even do it that much. Always try to move forward....
So what a night.
I ate burnt pizza, dragged bookshelves across my carpet and scuffed the wall (sssh, no one will ever know because I strategically placed a picture!) and compared the meerkat dot com for cheap car insurance.
I need to get a life!
It turns out that I forgot to make any plans. I got this week, next week and last week nicely muddled. Very well done!
But rather than spend the night infront of awful british television waiting for sleep to consume me, I decided to embrace some physical activity and... move my room around.
Oh what a enthralling Friday evening.
However, laugh all you like - I shall have no hangover in the morning and I found a pair of earrings I thought I'd lost months ago. Would you believe it?
So while the parents were dressing themselves up in a long dress and penguin suit ready for a night out with a free bar, I ate shop bought pizza from a famous restaurant chain... the fast pizza place. (Its never as good without the doughballs. And I've got quite used to the missing chunk in the middle and replaced with green leaves.) Mine was burnt this evening and came with onion rings and bahjis.
Don't ask. I let the smallest Dodd cook.
Never again.
I thought I would tidy at the same time as reshuffling furniture, y'know be ruthless and throw out things I havent needed or touched in a year.
Realistically I've just found new homes for everything. I can't even claim that there will be logic involved in my tidying, the smallest Dodd was involved and I was drinking gin. After all it is a Friday. I just haven't treated it like one. What a waste.
I think I might blame it on my lack of fun pennies to spend, all because of stupid Brian. I will admit to my naivity and say that I thought my car would only cost about £150 for MOT and service, and I think I just expected my insurance to be the same as last year.
Actually its not. According to the insurance companies I am a boy. Even though I am female (obviously) because I am twenty-two I must drive like a twenty-two year old male. My premium reflects this.
I will also admit that I am no pro at reversing, but I'm not worth £892 of bad reversing. Don't even do it that much. Always try to move forward....
So what a night.
I ate burnt pizza, dragged bookshelves across my carpet and scuffed the wall (sssh, no one will ever know because I strategically placed a picture!) and compared the meerkat dot com for cheap car insurance.
I need to get a life!
Thursday, 7 July 2011
...And then I lost my policeman virginity.
No. Not like that.
And no, I didn’t spend the evening in a cell either.
I have lost my lovely v-plates to the threat of a delicious brown envelope crashing through the postbox.
Smile and say ‘cheese’?
Yes that’s right, there might be three points and a £60 fine on their way to me as we ‘speak’. I am quite the angry person, and it’s just in time for my insurance renewal.
Where does this £60 go, eh? I know I’m not the only one who drives a little over 35mph in a 30-zone, so there must be a very nice pot on the desk of some office in London, waiting for the Policeman’s Ball when it’s given out as a prize to the Officer who scored the most speed traps.
There wasn’t even a chance to be pulled over and bat my eyelashes “Oh gosh Officer, I am ever so sorry.”
It was a mobile unit.
They were too ashamed to even show their faces. It’s okay chaps, I know that you speed too!
Those mobile trucks must be thug/idiot/driver proof to stop people like me going back, pulling up, getting out and knocking on the door. Obviously I was going to be much calmer that your average speeder. But by the time I’d planned what I might say I’d already gone sailing up the other side of the hill. Nearly jumped a red too – what a laugh!
I’m just praying for an empty doormat next week. Otherwise…I’ll be £60 less rich, £60 less close to my Mulberry handbag and you know that every insurance company will double my quote, just because they can.
If I was only a 2 mph over the ‘allowed limit’ I shall cry. A lot.
And to think that I avoided the motorway to save petrol money! PAH!
Monday, 4 July 2011
...And then I should've listened to my instincts.
It appears that I have a complete inability to listen to my gut.
I don't know when I'm full, so I keep eating until I am a proud Mumma of a glorious food baby. I complain. I moan. I decide to exercise to boost my metabolism, which makes me hungrier, so I eat more. And the circle begins.
I know that purchasing cinema sweeties is a bad idea...but I do it anyway. And spend £6, that's right - the cost of a cinema ticket on a small coke and pic'n'mix jazzles (the white buttons with sprinkles). I only had one type of sweetie (oh and chocolate raisins, that were actually peanuts in the wrong contained. Vue - I am glad I don't have allergies) so they should give me some sort of discount, it was hardly a mix. Pah! ... Should've bought your own sweeties, I hear you cry. Yes. Yes I should.
I know that there are better fitting dresses out there, but I purchase an 'okay' one anyway, only to drive back to return it the following day. (Along with an array of other items, that were solely impulse buys and should never have left the store - thank god for refunds) I know that parking in a 30 minutes free parking zone is a risk, but I do it anyway. Only to run back to my car, because every store had a queue, to see the traffic warden scouting the car park waching the clock so they can slap a ticket on your windscreen as soon as your time is up. I think I had seconds to spare. I'm getting good at cutting it fine, if that is of course an admirable trait to have. My gut says no.
I also didn't listen to the little voice who told me to change out of white jeans (which did not belong to me) before I began to serve up a lasagne. I was so preoccupied with the 'perfect' serving, and not splashing myself that I didn't see the crispy cheese stringing along and the dollop of meat sauce land on my foot.
But I felt it.
I have a blister on my foot. It's huge. From a lasagne. I can't even pop it because then I can't wear shoes.And if I can't wear shoes? ...Lets not consider this. Havaiana's would not be appreciated in the office. So I am stuck with an unsightly postule of my foot.
Perhaps next time I might wear steel toe capped boots?
If I suggest it to myself, I probably won't listen.
I think I have what can be called a minor split personality defect, not enough to be deemed dangerous or medically unstable, but enough to cause seemingly insignifcant problems, which snowball into catastrophic proportions.
Not that my burn fits this classification, nor the returning of goods or even the expensive sweeties.
However we could play the game of consequences and my purchasing of expensive sweeties results in my lack of change in the purse, which means that I am unable to pay my parking fee, which means Brian and I would be stuck in the carpark, there would be a parking officer and a clamp involved and because I had already bought a serious amount of ill-fitting clothes, there would be no money to pay for the removal. Therefore he would be towed and taken to a scrap heap. And where would I be?
Still in the carpark. Car- less. With a student overdraft, loan and no money to buy a replacement. And Frank would never see me.
See? So maybe I should start paying attention to that little voice.
It sounds spookily like Mumma Dodd (or Papa Dodd if it involves pennies) and they're always right. Or in the unlikely instance that one of them is wrong, then the other one won't be. And if in the unlikelier event that they're both wrong, then there probably wasn't a right answer anyay.
So now it's time to pay attention to those (sometimes conflicting) opinions, perhaps I'll be more productive because I'll spend less time recitifying the things that could've been done right in the first place.
And so it appears that I have reached a life changing observation...
But an observation is merely bearing witness to something, so it doesn't neceassarily affect how I move forward. Gut, what do you think?
N.B
I am almost certain that addressing your internal organs is a secondary sign of insanity.
I don't know when I'm full, so I keep eating until I am a proud Mumma of a glorious food baby. I complain. I moan. I decide to exercise to boost my metabolism, which makes me hungrier, so I eat more. And the circle begins.
I know that purchasing cinema sweeties is a bad idea...but I do it anyway. And spend £6, that's right - the cost of a cinema ticket on a small coke and pic'n'mix jazzles (the white buttons with sprinkles). I only had one type of sweetie (oh and chocolate raisins, that were actually peanuts in the wrong contained. Vue - I am glad I don't have allergies) so they should give me some sort of discount, it was hardly a mix. Pah! ... Should've bought your own sweeties, I hear you cry. Yes. Yes I should.
I know that there are better fitting dresses out there, but I purchase an 'okay' one anyway, only to drive back to return it the following day. (Along with an array of other items, that were solely impulse buys and should never have left the store - thank god for refunds) I know that parking in a 30 minutes free parking zone is a risk, but I do it anyway. Only to run back to my car, because every store had a queue, to see the traffic warden scouting the car park waching the clock so they can slap a ticket on your windscreen as soon as your time is up. I think I had seconds to spare. I'm getting good at cutting it fine, if that is of course an admirable trait to have. My gut says no.
I also didn't listen to the little voice who told me to change out of white jeans (which did not belong to me) before I began to serve up a lasagne. I was so preoccupied with the 'perfect' serving, and not splashing myself that I didn't see the crispy cheese stringing along and the dollop of meat sauce land on my foot.
But I felt it.
I have a blister on my foot. It's huge. From a lasagne. I can't even pop it because then I can't wear shoes.And if I can't wear shoes? ...Lets not consider this. Havaiana's would not be appreciated in the office. So I am stuck with an unsightly postule of my foot.
Perhaps next time I might wear steel toe capped boots?
If I suggest it to myself, I probably won't listen.
I think I have what can be called a minor split personality defect, not enough to be deemed dangerous or medically unstable, but enough to cause seemingly insignifcant problems, which snowball into catastrophic proportions.
Not that my burn fits this classification, nor the returning of goods or even the expensive sweeties.
However we could play the game of consequences and my purchasing of expensive sweeties results in my lack of change in the purse, which means that I am unable to pay my parking fee, which means Brian and I would be stuck in the carpark, there would be a parking officer and a clamp involved and because I had already bought a serious amount of ill-fitting clothes, there would be no money to pay for the removal. Therefore he would be towed and taken to a scrap heap. And where would I be?
Still in the carpark. Car- less. With a student overdraft, loan and no money to buy a replacement. And Frank would never see me.
See? So maybe I should start paying attention to that little voice.
It sounds spookily like Mumma Dodd (or Papa Dodd if it involves pennies) and they're always right. Or in the unlikely instance that one of them is wrong, then the other one won't be. And if in the unlikelier event that they're both wrong, then there probably wasn't a right answer anyay.
So now it's time to pay attention to those (sometimes conflicting) opinions, perhaps I'll be more productive because I'll spend less time recitifying the things that could've been done right in the first place.
And so it appears that I have reached a life changing observation...
But an observation is merely bearing witness to something, so it doesn't neceassarily affect how I move forward. Gut, what do you think?
N.B
I am almost certain that addressing your internal organs is a secondary sign of insanity.
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