APRIL

Saturday 1

Fastfingers (the Brummie Blog writer) is no longer available.  She's run off with the mad Yorkshireman in a camper van, last seen disappearing into the sunset/rainstorm screaming, "FREEDOM!".

Incidentally, you may think you've been reading the real-life blog of a city centre secretary these last three years, but I'm actually a labourer from Clackton, complete with tattoos, piercings and a beer gut the size of a small burial mound. 

Just thought you'd like to know.

Sunday 2

Well of course it was a joke, it was April Fool’s day, what did you expect? 

This is what I really look like:

No really, no joke!

Bit of excitement on the home front today.  There I was, happily tapping away on my laptop and watching the birds fly backwards in the gale force wind outside the front window, when suddenly a policeman pops up out of nowhere.  I rush to the door to find out why he’s lurking in my driveway, and he asks if I’ve seen any strange people recently. Was he kidding?  Most people I know are strange, some more than others (yep, that’ll be you, Partner).

Some ‘youths’ had apparently escaped custody.  I had a police dog sniffing for them in my back garden.  “Lovely dog,” I told the officer.  “He’s not been well,” I was told, “He’s just been sick.”  The dog looked positively depressed and not at all keen about searching my garden for abscondees in the wind and the rain.

Three more policemen came and looked at my back garden, which I didn’t mind at all (men in uniform, pant pant), but they didn’t find who they were looking for.

Our bit parts in The Bill ended and life returned to normal (or as normal as it gets when you're checking the back garden every 10 minutes to see if there are any scar-ridden, blood-crazed criminals out there).

There's also a bit of a 'thang' going on with Keira at the bottom of the page if you care to wander on down there, Brummie Blogs' own little soap opera.  No expense spared on this blog.

I know, I must get out more.
 

Monday 3

A word about office clothes (try to control your excitement).  Or, more specifically, my office clothes (not dissimilar to those above!).

I’m not a big follower of fashion, as you’d tell instantly if you saw me (still wearing the furry pin stripe suit, the slightly shiny trousers, the shoes that only get cleaned when Partner does them, and the baggy socks).  I try to believe I look decadently dishevelled, that I’m tall and good looking enough to ‘carry it off’, but really I just look scruffy.

I have two decent shirts in my wardrobe, so on Mondays and Tuesdays I look … passable.  Yes I’ve tried buying more shirts to cover the whole week, but I’m tall and shirts on hangers look fine but, when worn, only come down as far as my navel, which isn’t comfortable, so I don’t wear them, I just ‘collect’ them.

By Wednesday I open my wardrobe and think, “Oh God.”  Wednesday is when I usually dash out at lunch time to buy Yet Another Shirt That Won’t Fit Properly, and is also the day I turn up for work wearing:

• The polo neck jumper that’s so old all the polo’s gone out of it (I’ve considered holding the neck part up with elastic bands, but fear my head might fall off during the course of the day);
• The t-shirt that’s always (because I don’t think about it when I get dressed) worn with the bra that makes me look as if I have three nipples; or
• A ‘short’ shirt, usually (see above) worn with too-big-around-the-waist trousers, so you can actually see my navel peeping out like some benevolent eyeball.

I need people like Trinny & Suzanna (or Ben!) to send me packages full of clothes with notes reading: ‘Saw this in Paris, would look great on you.’  I need someone to hold my hand during deadly-dull shopping trips who will slap me every time I pick up Yet Another Shirt That Won’t Fit Properly, thrust decent stuff into my arms and force me into the changing rooms to try things on.

Enthusiastic applicants, please form an orderly queue (oh, and if you’re in Paris/New York/Rome/London and have the urge to send me packages, email me for my size and address.)

Tuesday 4

While my boss is off recovering from his heart attack, I’ve been delegating his work and fielding phonecalls from clients.  So far so good.  My ‘efficiency’ has (amazingly) been noted (though not in my office).

Then there’s the boss on another floor who is dealing with one solitary matter and sends me an email reading, “Can I have so-and-so-file as soon as you get in.”  I did a word search but couldn’t find ‘please’.  Left the file on his desk as soon as I got in at 8.30am.  Did a ‘find’ of my emails several times during the day, but didn’t come across one that said Thanks.

Later, an email is sent out to various people from said boss about the ‘suspiciously thin’ file I gave him.  Suspicious?  In what way?  Was he implying that I was shredding/burning/eating papers instead of filing them?  Selling work papers on ebay?  Using the filing as my own personal confetti maker?

I sent one back saying all documentation on the file was up to date.  I wanted to put a lot more, but resisted (round of applause and a huge pay rise for that woman).

Later: ‘Can I have the note that [my boss] did on blah-blah’.  I replied, ‘Not sure what note you mean, could you clarify?’  He replied, ‘The note that [my boss] did on blah-blah.’  So, basically the same email! 

I predict he’ll go far.

Wednesday 5

Lunch with a group of girlies who I used to sit with in the office.

What a breath of fresh air!  Normal people, not a single mean bone in their bodies, and so bloody funny!  I laughed almost continuously for an hour.  I sat there thinking “This is how it’s supposed to be.”

It’s not until you see normal again that you realise how abnormal things have become.

I like my job, I’m extremely good at it, and my bosses are great. 

But really, is that alone worth the endurance test of coming to work every day?  As Sebastien-Roch Nicolas de Chamfort (!) said, "The most wasted day is that in which we have not laughed."  And there ain’t much to laugh about in my office right now.

But then, Erma Bombeck said, "If you can laugh at it, you can live with it."  And I can certainly laugh at it (because eye-watering arrogance is so absurd to us mere mortals).

Abraham Lincoln echoes my own sentiments: "Were it not for my little jokes, I could not bear the burdens of this office."  Me neither, mate.

I guess I’ll just have to depend on good old karma - “What goes around comes around.”  For now.

[I’ve so far resisted the urge to write about the ‘incident’ at work a couple of months ago and what happened afterwards, but I will … watch this space and be astounded, I certainly was]. 

Thursday 6

Anyway, let’s not ponder on the negative side of life, onto other things.  Like survival.

Yep, bus drivers.  Or, as I like to affectionately refer to then, homicidal maniacs.

Our driver tonight is a 12 year old with a complexion like dough who’s hobbies clearly include car racing with his mates through shopping areas and evasive manoeuvring (presumably from pursuing police cars).  He drives a double decker bus like a souped-up Metro.  I sat at the front up top so I had a clear view of the road ahead – I don’t know why I do this, surely ignorance is bliss, but I continue to torture myself with visions of my own near death experiences.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand round the first corner on two wheels.  Eight out of ten for alerting the passengers straight away rather than lulling us into a false sense of security first.  There was a large group of rowdy teenagers on the top deck who instantly fell silent.  The prayers began.

Zooooooooooom down the first straight road, the world on fast forward, and SLAM on the brakes.  Sixty seven passengers rocked in their seats like metronomes aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we’re off again, zig-zagging through gaps in the traffic that a motorbike would wince at, lurching from one side to the other and SLAM on the brakes, leap on the accelerator, see how fast you can go round this corner without actually tipping the bus over. 

I went through my usual repertoire of Oh My God!, Bloody Hell! and Jeeee-sus! along with the cringing and the seat sliding and the sharp intakes of breath.  I eventually hit upon a phrase I’ve never used before.  It included the F word (tsk).  I wondered if I had time to call up my loved ones and say my last goodbyes, that’s how bad it was.  The bus seemed to defy gravity and all the laws of natural physics.

The journey home usually takes an hour, this one took 30 minutes, but it seemed a lot longer.  As the bus touched warp speed, I stood by the doors waiting to get off.  “This one, mate,” I said.  No response from the pasty faced driver, who all but had his tongue out over the steering wheel.  “This one!” I yelled above the screaming engine. 

The driver glanced at me, which was alarming as we were doing around 60mph and surely the road ahead should be watched at that speed.

“I WANT TO GET OFF!” I cried.

The driver (still looking at me and not the road!) slammed on his brakes.  I hung onto the pole for dear life as all my ‘accessories’ (bags, scarf, necklace, last shreds of hope) angled at 45 degrees like magnets attracted by the road ahead.  The doors opened while the bus was still breaking the speed limit.  I waited until it had stopped (always best) before turning to give the driver a scowling glare, which he didn’t see because he was jittering behind the wheel like a boy racer at traffic lights.

Sixty seven terrified faces whizzed passed me as the bus tore off down the road.

Fun times with Travel West Midlands!

[To be fair, I’ve come across a couple of blogs written from the bus drivers point of view which make interesting reading … pretty obvious they don’t drive in Birmingham or every blog entry would read Killed another passenger today – one down, 7,965 to go!  Here and here]

Friday 7

Went for a job interview today.  Seemed like a nice place.  “Typing test?” the said.  Yeah, okay.

Small room, rickety document stand that should have been buried years ago, and (horror of horrors) a clacky keyboard.

“Just do this spelling test,” they told me, “And then a five minute typing test.  We’ll be back in five minutes.”

So tick, tick, tick on the spelling test and I turned to the computer.  I’m long-sighted and the screen was roughly six inches from my face so I pretty much typed blind.  The spacebar was ‘temperamental’ and had to be walloped with considerable force – I’d done half a page of one continuous word before I noticed this.  Start again. 

Nearly finished when the interviewer returned.  “Ah,” she said.

“What?” said I.

“Typing test hasn’t started yet,” she told me, “I have to time you for five minutes.”

Sigh.

“Just delete what you’ve done and we’ll start again.” 

“Or,” I said with a grin, “I could just cut it and paste it all back when you leave the room.”

“But you won’t,” she said.

I didn’t.

Clackety clackety clackety bloody space bar clackety clackety.  Copy typing something about the evolution of man, how he doesn’t have stripes like a tiger, doesn’t have teeth like a lion or the skin of a rhinoceros.  I was keen to find out how it ended.

And then it was over.  Lots of smiling and cheeriness and “We’ll let you know by Monday.”

So endeth the interview.

Now all I have to decide is if I want it or not (assuming they’ll want me after seeing five whole paragraphs without a single space in it).

Sunday 9

Small Son and his girlfriend brought my granddaughter for a visit.  It’s very odd being a grandmother.  I’m doing all the things I swore I’d never do because I’m not really a ‘baby person’.  I don’t coo over them in the street, I don’t race across the office to view newly arrived ones, I never say, “Oh isn’t he/she/it lovely” because usually they’re not.

Except this one.  Totally gorgeous, undoubtedly brilliant - “Look at her,” I keep saying, “She’s going to be very clever/very pretty/very tall.”  Nobody warned me this would happen.  It must be embedded in the primitive regions of the brain – grandchild alert, cue massive surge of maternal instinct. 

I want to impart all my mothering skills in one fell swoop, I have no control over this. “Are you keeping her warm enough?  Do you think she should wear a jumper?  How much does she weigh/how much milk is she drinking now/does she sleep all night?”  Small Son and his girlfriend are very patient, I think they find it amusing, so far. 

Middle Son went round to see his niece for the first time today when he came home from uni for Easter.  When he came back I gushed, “Isn’t she just the most gorgeous thing ever.”

He replied, “She is marginally cute.”

Marginally cute!  I was mortified. 

I guess it’s a different experience for uncles.

Monday 10

It happened about 11am.  The word just pinged into my head and, once it was there, there was no getting rid of it.  The more I thought about it the more I wanted it, needed it.

It was impossible to resist.  Nothing else would suffice.  Action was required.

So, at lunchtime, I raced from the building like a woman possessed.  I was on a mission.  I knew where I had to go, what I had to do.  The urge was strong.  I was blinkered, heading straight towards my goal, dodging through the crowds that tried to stand in my way.

Nothing could stop me.

I waited in a queue.  Eventually, I approached the counter, pennies clutched tight in my little hand.  “Do you still do the 99p ones?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the man behind the counter, “We do.”

Relief swept over me.  The man added, “But for £1.19 you can get a double cheeseburger.”

Yes!

I snatched the brown paper bag and ran back to the office, sat at my desk, took out my lunch.

Never had a MacDonalds tasted so good.

Sometimes you have to Just Do It!

Tuesday 11

So, after yesterday’s magnificent fall from grace, a more restrained lunch today.

Nearest pub.  Oh yeah, I know how to live.  Anyway, my excuse is that I have something to almost-celebrate – I got a second interview for a job I went for last week (word on the grapevine is they really liked me, and why wouldn’t they).

Bennetts was pretty full, the only seats available were bar stools.  Now, I’m quite tall, but I consider my legs to be short – I am the human version of a Labrador (but without the fur … and the wet nose … and the - ). 

My friend leapt up onto her stool with ease, I struggled like a pensioner attempting the north face of the Eiger.  Tried to hook one buttock up, failed, tried the other buttock, failed, tried to stand on the footbar, nearly broke my bloody neck. 

In the end, desperate to get onto the bloody thing before I drew any more attention, I took a running jump at it and, voila, I’m up there.

Yak yak sip drag yak yak sip drag.  Lunch hour over, and so soon, so much left to talk about and so little time.

My friend leapt off her stool a veritable athlete.  I shuffled to the edge, my feet hanging over the edge a good metre from the floor.

I was suddenly afraid to jump.  I froze, my buttocks clenching for full seat security.

“Help,” I mouthed at my friend.

She helped me off like a child being lifted off a wall.  Oh the embarrassment.

I shuffled, hunched like the decrepit old cow I was, back to the office, muttering about my loose teeth and dodgy hip.

Wednesday 12

Willpower totally out of control now.  Lunch with a couple of mates.  Having worked like a maniac all morning I was starving and suggested we go to the ‘chip bar’ (B1 on Newhall Street).  I’d just have a spring roll, definitely nothing else.

“Spring roll,” I told the assistant.  And then, without any warning whatsoever and certainly without permission, my mouth muttered, “And chips.”

What?

My brain was screaming for me to cancel the chips whilst my mouth remained resolutely pursed.  Until it came to eat them, of course.

Staggered back to office, all three of us full to almost bursting point.

Won’t need to eat again for days.

[Went for our weekly pint of Stella after work.  We’ve been doing this for years at our favourite pub, which is traditional, cosy and welcoming.  Tonight, horror or horrors, news that they’re closing for a change of management and, worse, refurbishment on Friday!  They’re taking it away from us.  WAH!  Might start a Save Our Stella petition.]

Thursday 13

Hol-i-day.  Cel-e-bra-ate.  Oh yeah.

Slept in.  Got up.  Pottered.  Laptopped.  Barely moved. 

Got dressed.  Slobbed some more.  Mom and sis came and went (“Do you want to come shopping in town with us?” they trilled excitedly, as if I might actually want to – do they not know me at all?).  Slobbed.  Laptopped. 

Middle Son chatted about the search for large scale anisotropy and measuring the arrival direction of cosmic rays (he’s almost finished his masters degree in physics).  By the time he finished explaining his research and report, my eyebrows were knotted into a furry ball above my nose and my brain had imploded.  Ask me anything about quarks and I’ll be able to tell you Absolutely Nothing (except there’s three of them in a neutron <<<<<<< oooooh, get me!).

Slobbed/recovered.

Lurve holidays.

This is just because …

… I like it.

Friday 14

At last, a break in the weather!  The sun came out!  And on a bank holiday too!

GARDEN TIME!

Raced to nursery in Bournville.  Partner lethargically dragged trolley around after me while I went into overdrive:  “We’ll get one of these plastic greenhouses to use as a cold frame to transfer the seedlings before planting in the garden and we’ll need some fertilizer and oh look at these violas aren’t they lovely lets get one of those and oh! strawberries must have those and oooh seeds and oooh pots.”

Partner was in a mild state of catatonia by the time we reached the pay tills.  “I’ll take three bags of compost for a tenner,” I told the assistant.

“We have a special offer on today,” she said. 

My excitement reached an immeasurable pitch, I was almost vibrating with anticipation.  What kind of offer?  Cheap plants?  Free seeds?  Everything was free?

Like grandchildren (and decadent lunches), I have no control in garden centres (or book shops).

“Buy one bag of compost for £3.99, get another free,” the assistant said.

A heavy, confused silence descended.  I looked at my Partner, he looked at me.  “Does that work out cheaper?” I stammered.  He couldn’t figure it out either.

I looked at the assistant.  She looked at my partner.  My partner – utterly bored with the whole thing now – looked at the doors imagining escape.

Finally I decided I couldn’t miss out on a potential bargain even if I didn’t understand it, and slammed my money down on the counter.  “I’ll take four!” I cried.

The car almost sank to the ground when we lobbed them into the boot.

Rushed home, changed into garden gear (long skirt, straw hat, girly gardening gloves – ‘mad old biddy in a hat’ my Partner kept muttering), hummed We plough the fields and scat-ter.

Weeded, pruned, repotted, planted, pointed at bits of the garden and said, “Can you dig there?” rather a lot (fortunately had two hunky men to do my bidding).

Like plumping up a cushion or starting up a rusty engine, my garden is now well and truly awake.

[Took Middle Son for meal at The Green Man in Harborne after all that toil (incidentally, it took me a whole 20 minutes to get ready and then I had to wait around in all my finery for the men to finish pampering themselves!).  Nice enough place, but the meal was dire – pie pastry like concrete, packet mash and congealed gravy, all of which had sat around for a very long time.  Nothing like as nice as the pub they’re taking away from us!]

Saturday 15

A wonderful thing happened when I was in the bath on Thursday night (behave!).  I was thinking about my job which, as you might have guessed from recent entries, I'm not enjoying too much at the moment.

Suddenly, whilst contemplating the water and feeling pretty chilled, I had a brainwave, a spark of what can only be described as pure genius.  It was one of those Oh My God! moments.  Everything suddenly clicked into place.  It was ridiculously simple, as all brilliant ideas are.

Yesterday I emailed the Big Boss with my proposal, not expecting a reply because it was a bank holiday.  He responded within minutes.

He's considering it!

I've turned it around.  I've taken a problem and used it to my advantage.

As Kelly LeBrock said in Weird Science, “I’m so bloody clever.” (She also said … )

Sunday 16

More gardening!  I decided to sow some Petunia seeds and enthusiastically opened the packets.  I was so surprised by what I found in them I took it over to my dad’s house to show him – he couldn’t see anything either. 

Inside the packet was a tiny glass phial about the length of a matchstick and not much thicker than cooked spaghetti.  And inside the phial was what can only be described at minute particles – I’ve seen bigger bacteria. 

Directions said to gently press the seeds into the soil, but didn’t actually explain how to get the bacteria out of the phial.  They were so small they stuck to the glass, even when tipped upside-down and flicked like you would a hypodermic needle to get the air out.  I tried dripping water into it but the phial was too small.  I considered blowing them out but having my face sprayed with miniscule seeds didn’t really appeal. 

In the end I used centrifugal force, ie furiously swung the phials round in the general direction of the pots.  Not sure if any actually hit the soil as they were too bloody small to see, but suspect I may soon have Petunias growing all over the greenhouse while the pots remain barren.

Tip for gardeners – buy Petunia plants, save yourself the hassle of rattling the glass out of your greenhouse with your screams of frustration.

[Still on the subject of gardening, I pondered a little whilst I sat on the bench watching my Partner digging a new bed (as you do).  I began to doubt the Adam and Eve story.  I don’t think ‘God’ created Adam first at all, I think he made Eve first.  And then when Eve wailed that she was hungry and ‘God’ said to her Thou must ploughest the soil and planteth seeds or something along those lines, Eve put up her hand and screeched, “Dig?  Are you kidding me?  I’ve just had my nails done and, excuse me mister, I don’t dig.”  And so ‘God’ created Adam to do all Eve’s heavy/dirty work.  That’s what men were created for, isn’t it?  (Running for the hills as you read this, Partner J).

To prove this point, I said to my Partner, “I’d like a bat box.”  (Yep, you read that right, a bat box).  Out came all his manly power tools and, after covering the entire garden in a fine layer of sawdust, he presented me with this …

… a bat box.]

Monday 17

As we’re planning to cycle all the way to London via the Grand Union Canal (agreed when I’d obviously lost my sanity or had had way too much to drink), we thought we’d haul the bikes out the shed and go for a practice ride to get in training.  “Local park,” I whimpered.  “Town,” said Partner, rather too eagerly for my liking.

So off we toddled, down the canal into the city centre.  Along the way, as we were riding side by side, I put my hand on Partner’s arm and stopped peddling.  I do this a lot.  I do it until Partner tells me to bloody stop it.  I’m not idle, I’m just ‘conserving energy’.  Today, when I did it, Partner whinged that it held him back.  I disputed this.  “Do it to me,” I said, to prove my point.

I was behind him when I said this and peddled faster to come up alongside him, which means I was going faster than he was when he suddenly grabbed hold of my arm like a man would grasp hold of a cliff edge he was falling off.

What happened next was all in slow motion.  Our handlebars collided.  My bike veered violently to the right, which was where the canal was, all green and wet looking.  I felt my eyeballs protruding as a voice in my head screamed I’m-going-to-fall-in-the-water! 

My Partner’s hand was still on my arm and, even as he crashed to the ground, he forcefully tugged me back from the edge.  He saved me!  He then obligingly fanned out face down on the towpath like a starfish so that I could fall on top of him.  My hero! 

We leapt to our feet, comparing scars.  My Partner was a mass of wounds topped with a face, I had fared rather better thanks to his considerate cushioning.  We continued to cycle into the city, my Partner leaving a trail of blood in his wake. 

The Mailbox

On Colmore Row we went into Starbucks (not quite sure why), and my Partner asked for their first aid kit (because he’s like that).  Two smitten girls took him behind the counter and let him clean up (so if you find your Starbucks mug splattered with red, you’ll know why).

On the way back we (ie Partner) thought we’d check out a shortcut so we could avoid coming off the canal to cross a dual carriageway and a hectic crossroads to get back on the canal again. 

And so it was that we found ourselves on deserted wasteland, completely alone in the undergrowth, as far removed from civilization as its possible to get in the middle of a massive city.  I was all for turning back but my Partner – whose sense of adventure and optimism is far too acute – decided to push ahead, across acres of broken glass and passed sinister looking graffiti on crumbling walls.  I kept looking back expecting a pack of wolves or a teenage gang with machetes to come chasing after us.  Every horror film I’ve ever watched came back to haunt me.

At the end of our scramble across the rubble, we came to the main road, on the other side of which was the canal that would take us home.  Only one problem.  There was a high, metal fence between us and it.  My Partner walked backwards and forwards, trying to find a gap we could squeeze through.  There wasn’t one.  So he hit upon a plan.

“We’ll climb up that billboard,” he said.

“What?” said I, “Drag our bikes up that bloody great billboard and over that bloody great fence?”

He nodded, smiling.  Smiling!

He clambered up the billboard onto a platform five feet above.  “Pass the bikes up,” he said.

Oh yeah, sure, no problem, I may look like a mere woman but underneath this soft exterior lurks a body of Swarzenneggery proportions.  Just as I was opening my mouth to express a few choice words, I became acutely aware that I was standing there, all alone, in the middle of nowhere, with my man five feet above me, surrounded by 75,000 rats (not to mention the wolves and screaming gang racing up behind me).  You better believe I lifted those bikes five feet above my head, clambered up onto the billboard and risked life and limb scrambling over the metal fence.  Surely a woman of forty thirty-seven should not be expected to do these kinds of things?

By  the time we got home, 4 hours and 20 miles later, we were both stiffening up from exertion.  I waddled to the bathroom like Frankenstein with constipation and winced as my shredded flesh hit the water.  My Partner took a bath and almost screamed the house down – I suggested he add salt as an antiseptic to clean his wounds, he told me in no uncertain terms what I could do with this idea.

We’re now sitting here, rigid, our muscles screaming, our wounds smarting, barely able to turn our heads to look at each other, wondering if the London trip is such a good idea after all.

[P.S. I have four bright red finger marks/bruises on my arm from the force of my Partner pulling me away from the canal.  I jokingly said I’d sue him for assault, he not-jokingly said he’d let me fall in next time.]

Tuesday 18

Hol-i-day.  Yay. 

Six whole days off work and we are seriously chilled.  We’re out in the garden, pottering away, when I suddenly glance at the kitchen clock and scream, “Bloody hell!  I’m supposed to be at this second interview in an hour.”

There followed a frantic dive in the shower and a quick change into a suit.  Makeup is hastily applied before I sprint off down the road to the bus stop. 

At 1.30 in the afternoon, it takes the bus a whole 20 minutes to get into the city centre.  As a regular rush-hour commuter, I’m stunned by the complete lack of traffic and sit there with my mouth open for most of the way.

Arrive at offices, avidly read the newspapers in reception (six days without a newspaper and I have severe withdrawal symptoms), chat to receptionist (who smiles, a good sign), and then I’m taken into a meeting room by two potential bosses. 

I must admit, I’m pretty good at interviews because, basically, I don’t care.  Convince me I want this job is my attitude.  

“How do you ensure an approaching deadline is met?” they ask.

“I work faster,” I tell them.

“Why do you want to leave your present company?” they want to know.

Because the atmosphere in my department needs a machete to cut through it?  Because eye-watering arrogance can get very tedius after a while?  Because it’s all gone very Lord of the Flies?  “I need a new challenge,” I tell them.

“Do you have any questions?”

“I have a list,” I said, opening my bag, “Brace yourself.”  I held the list out at arm’s length because I couldn’t be bothered to put my reading glasses on.  “Are the computers up to scratch and, more importantly, does the boss has a sense of humour?” 

They laughed.  Another good sign. 

Afterwards, I was led out to reception, chatted to the receptionist some more, and left.

They’ll let me know by the end of the week.

Wednesday 19

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, back to work.  Sigh.

I shuffle to my desk dragging my feet like an insolent child.  Having had six whole days away, my desk is awash with work, there are hundreds of emails to read through, and the computer network is so slow I’ve seen paint dry faster.

But wait, what’s this?  A spark of enthusiasm?  Surely not!  I find myself deciding that today is the day I’m going to see the surface of my desk again.

I’m like a woman possessed.  I file, type, print, file some more, make new files, delegate my absent boss’s work like a fiend, type, file, pile, print.  I’m up and down like a piston, a veritable blur of activity.  The sugar rush from the mountains of chocolate everyone’s brought in helps enormously.

At the end of the day I’m knackered.

But my desk is empty.

I worry that I’m inordinately pleased about this.

Thursday 20

I get in touch with my employment agency.  “Salary hasn’t been mentioned at these interviews?” I tell her.

She gives me a figure.  “Oh,” I say, all my plans of upgrading my standard of living crushed.

Later, my agent gets in touch with me.  Its very hard to hold a conversation about ‘another job’ in an open plan office, so I try to make it sound like I’m talking about something else, which throws the agent and there are long pauses while she tries to break the code and understand what I’m saying.

“They really liked you,” she says.  That’s good.  “They were really impressed with your skills and experience,” she says.  Good.  “They particularly liked the way you presented yourself,” she says.  So lounging nonchalantly and interrogating them is clearly the way to go then.  “But they’ve gone with someone else.”  Oh.  “Someone who’s actually done that type of work before.”  Ah.

I’m surprised at my distinct lack of disappointment.  I’m almost relieved.  I’m definitely confused.

And then I realised why.  I actually like my job (and how many people can say that?).  I like my bosses, I like the variety of work, and I like most of the people I work with.  The fact that the management are about as effective as a chocolate fireguard and that some people need a damn good thrashing is, really, immaterial.

I think fate is telling me to stop bloody whinging and get on with the job.

I think fate is right.

Friday 21

Friday!  And so soon!  I could easily get used to a three day working week.

To celebrate, three of us dash to the chip restaurant down the road at lunchtime.  My fellow lunchers go for burgers and salad, I decide to go for something ‘light’, two scallops and a battered sausage.  I’m handed a heavy plate of fried brown lumps which doesn’t look at all appealing.  My heart recoils.  My cholesterol levels rise just looking at it.

Despite the fact that I never diet, even I know that this meal is wrong in so many ways.  I prise off the batter off to reveal two slivers of potato roughly the thickness of paper, and a very sad looking sausage.  The batter remains on my plate like exploded carcasses.

I have a diet Coke to wash it all down.

Saturday 22

My mother rang this morning, which is a rare occurrence because she doesn’t like using the phone much. 

“Oooh,” she said when I answered, “I was on the bus the other day and I saw you and [Partner] coming out of Sommerfield.  You shouldn’t have to shop in Sommerfield,” she gasped in horror.

“We like Sommerfield,” I said, surprised as my mom isn’t usually ‘snobby’ about these things, although she’s always jumping on the bus to go to Tescos in Five Ways.

“And when I saw you I thought, I must phone them up and tell them to go to Tesco or Sainsbury’s instead,” she continued, “They’re much better supermarkets.”

“Much more expensive,” I said.

“But they have special offers on all the time.”

“So does Sommerfield.”

“But I think you might actually like shopping if you went to Tescos or Sainsbury’s,” she said.

“We hate shopping no matter where we go, mom.  We’re just as bored in Asda as we are in Sommerfield.”

“But have you ever been to Tescos in Five Ways?” she said reverently.

“I’ve tried them all, mom.”

“Then you know what it’s like, then?”

“Yeah, which is why we don’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s enormous.  We walk in and think, Oh God this is going to take bloody ages.”

“But its so nice,” she insisted.

“Mom, it’s a supermarket!  We don’t want choices, we just want to get it over and done with in the shortest time possible.  We do it local, we do it cheap, we do it in Sommerfield.”

“What about Sainsburys?” she said.

“Mom,” I said, “We use the local butcher and the local greengrocer and, as we’re heading back to the car, we nip into Sommerfield for everything else.  It all takes less than an hour.  The thought of spending half a day in Sainsburys trying to decide between 59 types of  pasta and 175 brands of toilet roll fills me with utter dread.  I would rather stick pins in my eyes and set myself on fire whilst jumping off a cliff.”

“Oh,” she said, desperately disappointed.  “Don’t you like any kind of shopping?” 

You’d think that, after forty thirty-seven years of screaming I hate shopping my own mother would have caught on by now, wouldn’t you?

“Waterstones,” I said, “I like shopping in Waterstones.”

My mother caught her breath.  I could feel her excitement down the telephone line.  “Ooooh,” she said, “Tesco sell books!”

Honestly, I’ve had easier discussions with Jehovahs Witnesses trying to convert me, a staunch atheist.  Tescos should hire my mother to do their advertising – she could appear on television commercials, all wide-eyed and excited, gasping, “Tescos is nice, I love Tescos.”

But I still wouldn’t go.

Monday 24

Sometimes me and my Partner get home from Yet Another Thrilling Day At Work completely knackered.  We just want to Make Like Broccoli in front of the tv, but there’s usually nothing on worth watching.  Hence our enormous collection of films.

We’re watching the entire series of Taken at the moment, about mind-reading aliens.  The last couple of nights we’ve sat there next to each other saying, “Can you tell what I’m thinking?  Try and guess what I’m thinking?”

Last night we found ourselves using our hands to try and ‘pull’ thoughts out of each others heads, and it suddenly occurred to me this was not normal behaviour.

“Do you remember when we watched all four series of 24?” I said, “And we thought we were being followed by that bloke from the pub?”

“Yes,” said partner, still determinedly waving his fingers above my head.

“Well, now we’re believe we’re telepathic.  I think we should stop watching these programmes.”

“But,” he gasped, horrified, “We’ve got 13 series of the X-Files to watch yet.”

Suspect all those conspiracy theories will really tip us over the edge!

Tuesday 25

So, according to all the headlines today, the political parties spent huge amounts of money on their last campaign.  And we’re surprised because … ?

What I did find surprising, however, was the news that the male candidates (Howard and Kennedy) used makeup, quite a lot of it by all accounts.  Maybe its me, but my confidence isn’t inspired by a man who uses makeup, its just … well, its not manly is it!  (“And the leader of the party is wearing a rather fetching shade of blush today, accentuated by good use of eyeliner.”)

Another shocker … Cherie Blair actually paid thousands of pounds to have her hair look like that! 

She’d have been better off spending the money on turning her mouth the right way round.

I don’t know much about political campaigns, but stupid stunts like hiring Star Trek costumes (and importing groundhog costumes from America!) does seem like an extreme waste of money.  I think for the next campaign they should each be given fifty quid and told to get on with it.

Wednesday 26

Yesterday I went along the corridor between The Pallasades and The Bull Ring Shopping Centre, into the Evolution gift shop (which has all these lovely, lovely things but a really naff website).  I’d just walked in when the assistant made a strange noise.  I turned to look at her and her face was all scrunched up and she was staring straight at me.  What had I done?

“Oh!” she said again, scrunching her face up even more.

I checked my person … yes, I was definitely wearing clothes, maybe my makeup had slipped down my face or a pigeon had pooed on my head or something.  Maybe she just didn’t like me and didn’t want me in her shop.

While I was pondering all these little paranoia’s, people from outside the shop suddenly came rushing in en masse, all with the same scrunched up expressions and fanning their hands in front of their faces.

What the hell was going on?

I must admit, I felt a little alarmed.  People all around me seemed to be in a mild state of panic and I hadn’t a clue why.  Then someone said, “Oh my God, that stinks!  Someone’s let off a stink bomb!” 

Phew, relief … for me anyway, clearly not for the crowds around me.

“Isn’t the smell terrible?” a woman said to me.

I never know how to respond when asked this question.  Do I simply say I have a cold and can’t smell anything, or do I go into details about having congenital anosmia and wouldn’t know what a smell smelt like if it jumped and and … well, bit me on the nose.  And do I stand there acting normal, or do I pretend and make faces like everyone else so I don’t look like the odd one out?

I couldn’t decide, so picked my item and pushed my way through the murmuring crowds to the counter.

“Horrible, isn’t it,” the assistant said.

“What?” I snapped, thinking she was terribly rude, “My item is horrible?”

“No,” she said, “The smell.  Isn’t it horrible.”

“Hmmm,” I replied.

“It really stinks, doesn’t it,” she said.

“Hmmm,” I replied.

“Have you ever smelt anything so disgusting?”

“No,” I said, truthfully, “I haven’t.”  Smelt anything.  Ever.  Disgusting or not.

Purchase in hand, I wandered off back down the corridor to The Pallasades, not a care in the world, as all around me people were all but heaving into their handbags.

Sometimes there are definite benefits to having no sense of smell.

Thursday 27

A grown up lunch at Café Uno, where they do a magnificent potato gnocci.

Arrived 1.05 and were shown to our seats.  Place not particularly busy.  We sat.  We waited.  And waited.  At 1.20 we had to go up to the bar to ask if there was any chance of getting a drink before we all turned to dust.  A flustered waitress rushed over to our table, and seemed even more flustered when we not only ordered drinks but also placed our order for food too (since we’d had enough time to peruse the menu several times).

1.30, our drinks arrived.  1.40 we’re getting anxious as we were only on a standard one hour lunch break and were expected back at the office at some point that afternoon.

I got up to chase our meals.  Two extremely flustered waitresses were already explaining to one customer (who had arrived before us) that her meals would be at least another 15 minutes.  I butted in and asked about our meals too, and I swear the looks these two waitresses gave me would have made Conan the Barbarian wince.  “Could I just serve these meals!” one of them snapped at me.  I glared back, pointing pointedly at my watch, and snarled, “We have to leave by 2pm.”  Another evil look and they brushed passed me to serve other people.

I stomped back to our table and said we wouldn’t have time to eat it, I wasn’t staying and I certainly wasn’t paying for the drinks (yes, I can get that snotty sometimes, but I so hate bad service).  The group that had to wait another 15 minutes for their meals promptly left.  Just as I was lobbing my cigarettes into my bag and working myself into a right strop, our meals arrived.

We had to eat them quite quickly and asked for a bill as soon as we finished.  They brought it over immediately, and collected the money as soon as it hit the tray (while our plates remained, untouched, on the table).

This isn’t rocket science.  There are just three things a city centre restaurant should remember:

1.   It’s gonna be busy at lunchtime - get more staff

2.   Most people are on a one hour lunch break, they don’t have time to sit there idly passing the time of day whilst you try to figure out what it is you’re supposed to be doing.

3.   If you talk to your customers like they’re really spoiling your day, you might as well close up shop, it ain’t gonna work.

Friday 28

Oooooh, another booked day off work to give us a nice long bank holiday weekend.  And what did we do?  We slobbed.  Oh how we slobbed.  There is nothing more luxurious in life than to have the time to do Absolutely Nothing.

We did, however, manage to venture out into the freezing, wind-swept garden.  “A path to the greenhouse would be nice,” I said to Partner, “Then I wouldn’t have to put my wellies on to traipse across the muddy lawn all the time.”

Partner immediately produced a tape measure which (oddly) he had about his person.  He gave detailed instructions on how I was to hold one end of the tape while he took manly measurements, then he used a calculator to work it all out.  “We need 12 paving slabs,” he finally declared, all manly like.

“12?” I scoffed, “Surely not that many.”

“12,” he said again, practically beating his chest.

I grabbed hold of a broom handle, measured the length of a slab we had, and did a girly measurement across the lawn to the greenhouse.  “Eight,” I said, “We need 8 paving slabs.”

Partner was outraged.   I couldn’t stop laughing.  All that time and effort and seriousness, and he’d worked it out wrong!  He adamantly refused to admit he was wrong, and his indignation was hysterical. 

Off we went to the paving stone place around the corner, me still giggling so much I nearly made myself sick.  We approached the counter, me sniggering, Partner adamant that his calculations were correct.

“We’d like 12 paving slabs,” he announced.

“Eight,” I butted in, wiping my eyes.

“What size slabs?” said the man behind the counter, who had clearly seen these type of domestic scenes before.

“Two foot,” said Partner, as I said, “Three foot.”

Ah.

We went for the two foot ones in the end, primarily, I suspect, so that Partner could say his measurements and calculations were correct. 

Which he did.  Often.  Accompanied by a manly grin of triumph.

Hasn’t occurred to him yet that he’s going to have to lay 12 heavy concrete slabs instead of 8.

Saturday 29

We went out last night.  Yes, I know, we actually went out for a night on the town!  Chinese Quarter for a meal.  I got all dressed up and wore heels.   I never wear heels, but when you’re going out you simply have to wear heels.

So, we caught the bus.  Easiest.  Cheapest.  Most time consuming and, as it happened, the most painful.  Got off at Broad Street to walk the rest of the way. 

Didn’t realise the Chinese Quarter was quite so bloody far … tottered across Victoria Square, down to the Casino place, across some massive dual carriageway, left behind the Bull Ring and down a few streets looking for the place someone had recommended.  The Big Wok.  Nice enough place, but not quite good enough for my heels, so we went next door, to Chung Yin’s.  Had a great time and a great meal.

We were out on the streets and ready to go home again by 9 (lightweights).

I expected a taxi.

I didn’t get one.

“It’ll be nice to walk back to the bus stop,” said my Yorkshireman, “We can stroll along holding hands.”

He wasn’t being romantic, he was being tight.  The sod.  I should have put my foot down, but my foot already had enough to cope with.

Every step was agony.  I didn’t want to suffer alone, so I made my Partner suffer with me.  I’m not prone to moaning, but I let him have it with both barrels.  I was not a happy bunny, and every painful step I took brought with it a new onslaught of unrestrained whingeing.

“Isn’t this nice,” Partner kept saying.

“Eff off.”

“See, we’re nearly there now.”

“Eff off!”

“Didn’t take us long at all, did it.”

“Not for you, maybe!” I snarled, as I hobbled across a bridge by the Mailbox, “But I’m walking on stilts with blisters the size of my head!”

What seemed like hours later, we got to the bottom of Broad Street and I collapsed on the seat at the bus stop with my feet throbbing like buggers.  Partner seemed to catch onto the fact that I was Most Definitely Not Happy right about then.  We sat in silence, waiting for the bus.  Waiting and waiting and waiting.  Suddenly, a security man came over and said, “Are you waiting for a bus?”

I nearly replied, “No I’m effing waiting to have my effing feet removed with an effing rusty saw.” But didn’t.  The security bloke informed us that buses still weren’t running up Broad Street after 9pm and we’d have to walk up the road another half a mile or so.

Oh g-reat.

I was a seething mass of hissing agony as we made our way through the drunken crowds.  Eventually my Partner said, “Why didn’t you just wear comfortable shoes?”

That is so not the right thing to say to a woman in pain.  I turned on him and hissed, “Because you were taking me out!  When women go out, they get dressed up and wear heels.  Had I known we’d be effing marching across most of effing Birmingham I’d have worn my effing hiking boots!”

He’s a man, he didn’t understand, he just knew he had a Women on the Edge literally hanging off his arm and wincing a lot.

Got home, threw bloodied shoes in bin, snarled, “Next time we take taxis.  Next time there will be absolutely no walking involved whatsoever.”

Partner was wise enough to nod in agreement, but I suspect that ‘next time’ will entail our usual takeaway and a DVD.  And that suits me just fine.

Going out is very overrated.

Sunday 30

We were having trouble with our broadband connection and, basically, felt as if we’d had both our arms cut off – I simply cannot live without the internet!  I rang my provider and they told me my modem was working fine.

“How do you know?” I asked (as I’m often prone to complete idiocy).

“I can see your modem from here,” said the helpline.

“Can you?” I gasped, amazed, “If I’d have known I would have tidied the place up a bit.”

It took him a while to stop laughing.

After much angst we figured out that it was the network connection D-router thingy that was dodgy.  So, now we have The Mother Computer upstairs working fine, but I can’t access the internet from the laptop downstairs.

Bummer.

[Update: I laptopped – minus any internet connection, which is like trying to watch tv without electricity – for almost a whole hour before I hauled my ass upstairs, logged onto PC World, and ordered a replacement.  Problem solved but, horror of complete horrors, we’re going to have to go to Merry Hell Shopping Centre to collect it!]

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