February

Friday 3

Yep, just the one entry for this week because, basically, the last few days just ain't worth commenting on - take my word for it, its not been good.  But it will get better, because I'll make sure it does.

Waste my time over crap? Pah!

Anyway, onto more positive things.  Today, Small Son and his girlfriend checked into hospital ... to have their baby!  Excitement just isn't the word.  My granddaughter is about to enter the world!

I carried my mobile phone around with me all day.  It's a 'silent' office, but I had my phone on full blast.  This was one call I wasn't going to miss.  It came with me to the photocopier, to other floors, to the loo and clutched in my hand as I bought up pretty much the entire baby department in Tescos on New Street.

I was the fastest gun in the West (Midlands) when text messages came through, my arm a blur and my eyeballs like clackers on speed as I read it, deleted it and put the phone down in a fraction of a second.  Middle Son rang to say he'd got his exam results ... only a first!  Genius.  Excited and proud, me.  Things are definitely looking up.

I waited.  Small Son and girlfriend waited.

Still no news.

Saturday 4

Waited.  Tenterhooks.  Excited. 

Nothing all day.  Small Son is white and exhausted from anticipation, so tense he can't eat or sleep.  His girlfriend is a vision of serenity and calm.

I get a call at 10pm to say she's started.

A call at 3am to say she's 5cm dilated. 

A call at 4am to say its all over!  They have a daughter.  I'm a grandmother (at such a ridiculously young age!).

4.01am I'm sitting in the study texting half the planet with the news.

Absolutely amazing.

Sunday 5

Small Son comes round looking every inch like a man who's had 15 minutes sleep in the last 48 hours.  He shows me a phone photo of the baby - its a picture of a blanket with a vague eye-shape in one corner, but I can tell with grandma-type intuition that this is one seriously gorgeous child.

Small Son says the word 'daughter' and all my internal organs turn into pink blancmange.  I can't contain myself any longer.  I'm just so excited.  I start jumping up and down on the spot pumping my arms like some three year old who's just found a mountain of Christmas presents in July.  My voice is so high Celine Dion would be impressed.

"Want a lift back to the hospital?" I squeal at Small Son.  Before he has a chance to answer, I've bundled him and my partner into the car, screaming, "Lets go!"

How slow is 35mph when you're desperate to get somewhere?  Jeez, I thought we'd hit some kind of time vortex, I could have painted the passing scenery in intricate detail!

Raced into the hospital like a mad puppy, panting, "Where? Where?"  We reach the ward and I see his girlfriend, still a vision of calm serenity and looking nothing like a woman who's just had a baby.  I, however, am acting like a completely hysterical grandmother, hugging and kissing and trying not to let the pitch of my voice shatter windows and water glasses.

I see my grandchild for the first time.  My new-found granny intuition is right, this is the most beautiful baby that's every been born in the history of mankind, like a tiny porcelain doll.

A whole new chapter of life has begun. 

There are no words.

Monday 6

I’m a granny I’m a granny I’m a granny … !

Our office building currently has a mice problem.  We know this because there’s been a sudden increase in mouse bait boxes on the floor (which we keep tripping over), and because mice have been spotted in desk drawers, bins, and lurking suspiciously around piles of files during the day.  These ‘mice spottings’ are usually accompanied by a high pitched scream and secretaries washing out drawers with strong disinfectant. 

Head Secretary sent out an email last week saying that the ‘mice problem’ was being ‘resolved’ on Sunday - I had visions of some bloke in a hunting cap sitting with a shotgun on his lap, and expected to come into work this morning to find piles of dead rodents everywhere (fortunately not). 

As a joke I sent Head Secretary an email this morning with a couple of pictures: 

She emailed back, ‘Where did you get those from????’

I replied, ‘Took them this morning when I came in … (not really, they’re on the internet)’. 

She forwarded the pictures to the building managers saying, ‘Told you we had a mouse problem.”  Ten seconds later her phone rang and the building managers are screaming, “WHAT?!” 

Whatever helps pass the day, I say.

Tuesday 7

My nephew passed his car test recently and had satellite navigation installed in his car. 

“What voice do you have?” I asked, as there’s a choice between male and female (and a lot of people say ‘What’s a woman doing on sat nav? Since when has a woman ever known where she’s going?’ to which I reply, do we have to do everything). 

“Female,” my nephew said. 

“Oh,” said I, “Does she say things like, ‘Erm, I think its left at the end of this road but I’m not really sure, try it and see where it takes us.  Don’t look at me like that!  Fine, then you navigate.” 

He was in bits.

Wednesday 8

Last night, going home on the bus, the traffic on one side of Broad Street was blocked because a double decker bus had crashed into the back of a single decker bus (the sight of which barely raises an eyebrow, I’m only surprised it doesn’t happen more often).  Two drivers were dodging traffic in the middle of the road manically taking photographs. 

Tonight, a car hit a bus just before it got to my stop.  The driver got out of his cabin and started taking photos.  IT WAS THE SAME DRIVER!!!!  He still had the dents from the previous crash on the front of his bus! 

Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

Thursday 9

As I waited (interminably) for my bus this morning, I noticed a huge flock of seagulls diving down onto an abandoned packet of chips at the side of the road - there were at least 50 of them, and very impressive (and ravenous) they were too. 

The bus (finally) arrived and, as it ambled through Harborne, I noticed an abandoned packet of chips at the side of the road (last night was obviously Chip Tossing Night).  Seagulls sat on roofs glaring down at the packet reproachfully.  Harborne is a very posh area of Birmingham and the seagulls obviously have very refined tastes - no high cholesterol grub for them, they probably prefer organically grown a la carte menus.

Friday 10

I've been working at 100 miles an hour plus all week, barely had a chance to draw breath.  Today, my boss dictated a PowerPoint presentation, at the end of which he said, “We’ll need some pictures putting in too.”

Yay, a bit of artistic flair.  I diligently slotted in some standard/boring jpegs (things like briefcases, stiff suited people and, oddly, colanders and pea pods!).

However, I couldn’t resist having a bit of fun.  The title of the presentation was ‘On the edge … ‘, so I put the Brummie Blogs secretary on the front page.  Another section was entitled, ‘The Final Frontier’.  A quick trawl of the internet and I slotted in a picture of the Starship Enterprise. 

They'll have to come out, of course, but I'll just see if anyone notices first.

Saturday 11

I have a minor but annoying medical problem which I saw my doctor about way back in October.  I have to wait weeks for each hospital appointment, and nothing seems to get done apart from a bit of prodding and poking (I've done that many dissected frog impersonations I now walk like John Wayne). 

Then I found out that one of my company perks is free membership to BUPA, so I rang the hospital and asked to be transferred from NHS to private treatment.

That was yesterday.

Today, at home, on a Saturday, the private consultant rang me.  He sorted out my duff prescription and said when I was ready for an appointment I should just ring and I’d get one straight away.

What a difference!

Sunday 12

Last night we had a few people round to ‘officially’ wet the baby’s head – my living room was crammed with relatives.  My ex-husband and his girlfriend (who I’d never met before) came too. Champagne was quaffed, the baby was passed around like a fluffy pink parcel, my mom (who doesn’t normally drink) was flushed and giggling like a schoolgirl at a pop concert, and then everyone left .

Except … my ex-husband and his girlfriend.  I thought it was odd when he arrived with a bag of beer as well as a bottle of champagne.  My plan had been to celebrate and then, when everyone went, my partner and I would settle down for one of his fabulous curries.  In the end, when we were almost passing out from hunger, we fed them too (not that we minded, I thought it was quite funny).

They eventually left at 11.50pm … which just goes to prove that once communication in a relationship is lost, it’s lost forever!

Monday 13

WARNING: GRANDMOTHER ALERT!

My granddaughter (still can’t get used to saying that) is BEAUTIFUL.  No, really, I’m not the least bit biased, she IS gorgeous and holding her just makes me go all gooey. 

She’s so great. 

Tuesday 14

After years of heaping praise upon and raving about my partner’s super fabulous splendid curry, he’s finally got round to doing a pictorial recipe (like his Christmas dinner). 

Click on the picture and prepare to be amazed.  Trust me, when you taste this curry, all other curries will pale in comparison forever more.

Let me know how you get on.

Wednesday 15

A mate at work said she’d never been into an Ann Summers shop, so at lunch we dashed over to the Pallasades and sauntered in as casually as we could (in our macs and dark glasses). 

Although I’ve been to Ann Summers parties (much drinking, much squealing, much asking of ‘does my bum/boobs/belly look big in this?’), I’d never been in their shop before.

What an eye opener!

At the front it just looks like a normal (boring) lingerie shop.  But, as you disappear further back, the products get more and more … (searches for suitable word) … lurid.  The back of the shop was where all the crowds were: women in suits, men looking as casual as if they were in B&Q as they handled the ‘merchandise’, and us, gaping in amazement at the selection of … (how to describe without having my sons shriek “MOM!” at me!) … ‘self gratification aids’.

We both picked the same one up.  I swear you could have used it to build your biceps it was that heavy.  My mate looked at me and said, “Your arm would ache after a bit, wouldn’t it!”  I said you’d probably need assistance manoeuvring it!  And it was £48.50!  For that much I’d expect a winch to be thrown in for free.

The ‘real thing’ is so much cheaper (and better), and isn’t apt to wake the neighbours … often.

J

Thursday 16

I had an appointment in Kings Heath this afternoon to ‘talk to somebody’ about the incident at work a couple of weeks ago (which decimated my sense of humour, and I bloody miss it!).  The appointment was for 5.30.

Because I’m not familiar with Kings Heath and wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get there on the bus, I left work at 4pm.  Finally found the right stop in town and got on a bus which can only be described as ‘antiquated’ – every time we hit a pothole or bump in the road I thought it was going to rattle to pieces. 

Sat peering out of the window at the ‘back end’ of the city, wondering where I was, where I was going and if I was there yet.

Arrived 4.45pm.

Okay, too early, even by my standards (I hate being late).  So, wandered up through the High Street window shopping, strolled around the market and had a coffee (in a ‘mug’ roughly the size of a thimble).  Read the Birmingham Evening Mail looking for a job with a company that maybe knows how to deal effectively with ‘incidents’, then wandered back down the road.

Turned up on the doorstep at 5.15pm.  The ‘therapist’ was not amused.  “You’re too early!” she said (good start, eh, being bollocked by your therapist!).  “Yes, I have a problem with punctuality,” I told her, “Perhaps you could help me with that?”

She didn’t laugh.  But she was actually quite good.  Turns out I’m 'traumatised' (and have lost 14lbs since this started, so not all bad!) not only because of the incident itself, which was bloody awful and lasted a week and a day, but because my company dismissed it.

So … action is required before the sense of humour can be returned to full working order.

Friday 17

A booked day off work to catch up on stuff at home (and to finish polishing up the Brummie Blogs website, which is now all live … finally!!!).

Rang after a couple of job vacancies, then thought, wait a minute, I actually like my job and my bosses.  If I’m prepared to leave anyway, why not go out fighting?  I hate making a fuss, but MAKE A FUSS.  I hate attention, but GET THEM TO TAKE IT SERIOUSLY. 

THEN hand in my notice!

[Any companies out there who need a really good secretary with a sense of humour, get in touch!].

Saturday 18

Time for some time out.  My partner and I go to Stourport – a nice walk along a riverside and maybe a pub lunch somewhere pretty was just what we needed.

I haven’t been to Stourport since my motorbiking days.  Admittedly, that’s been a while, and it is ‘out of season’, but the place was … well, it looked a bit grubby.  Walked round for a while, decidedly unimpressed, then jumped back in the car and went to Bewdley.

MUCH better.  A Georgian town with a bit of interest and picturesque scenery.  We wandered hand in hand alongside the river, then went in search of a pub for lunch.

Now, okay, it is an old town (and, living in the city, we’re used to a ‘certain standard’) but we couldn’t find a pub we liked – we walked in and out of three places wondering if maybe it was a Rovers Return theme area.

We stood outside one pub which seemed okay on the outside, but then the door opened and we heard all the gaming machines and SkySports inside.  In a split second we both said “No!” and spun on our heels like it was choreographed.

We went to the ‘chippie’ instead, and sat at the riverbank, eating and talking in the sunshine, feeding chips to the swans and swarms of birds who entertained us with their incredibly mid-flight manoeuvring.

A really really nice day.

Sunday 19

Okay, nice day over, now get on with the washing and the ironing and the cleaning we didn’t get round to doing yesterday because we were out gallivanting and enjoying ourselves (tsk).

Monday 20

So there I am, at lunchtime, just walking up Union Street between WHSmith and Sainsbury’s, on my own, thinking about doing a Shirley Valentine (“If I didn’t go back, who would miss me?”) as I force myself back to the office, when suddenly …

I’m clobbered on the back of the head.  Really hard!

In slow motion, I screamed and clutched at my handbag.  I was being mugged!  They were going to be so disappointed when they saw the contents of my bag.

And then, as I was screaming, I turned my head, expecting to see a man in a burglar mask and stripey jumper wielding a soft cosh.  Instead, I saw flapping feathers in my fanned out hair.

I’d been hit by a (bloody fat) pigeon.

It flew off, leaving me standing there with punk hair and 175 shoppers all staring at me, most of whom probably hadn’t seen the bird, just heard me, screaming, for no apparent reason.

At least the damn thing didn’t poo on me. 

Tuesday 21

Oooh, a posh appointment with a private consultant, get me. 

A very bossy woman the size of a small child bustled me around a grand house, weighing me (argh! oh, actually that’s not too bad, work stress certainly has advantages) and measuring me (“Duck down,” she demanded, “And push measure up with your head.”).

Consultant, lovely man, chatted about the weather and politics and rang a colleague at the hospital to ask in detail about my ‘diagnosis’.  Stark contrast to NHS treatment, where a registrar who doesn’t look old enough to have even seen a naked woman tells you to open wide, take these tablets and “Next!”.

Another prescription (this time with quantities on it) and the consultant’s home telephone number if I ever needed to discuss any of my treatment.

Private medical insurance, love it.

Wednesday 22

TODAY IS THE DAY I TALK TO A BIRMINGHAM EVENING MAIL REPORTER ABOUT BRUMMIE BLOGS!

Nervous? Me?  Oh yeah.

A place and time had been arranged.  I told the reporter he’d be able to recognise me as I’d be wearing a mac with the collar turned up, sunglasses and a trilby.  He emailed back saying he’d be wearing a red tie and white shirt (so that’s half the men in Birmingham, then), adding, “All a bit John le Carre, I feel … “ 

I was so busy at work that morning I didn’t really have time to think/worry/panic about it.  At 12.55, I sat back in my chair and the brain started screaming, “You’re doing an interview with a newspaper reporter in five minutes!”  I stiffened.  The brain screamed, “Do you want to throw up?”  Did I have time?  “Toilet?”  I’d probably stay there.  “What about your appearance, did you think about that?”  Er, no, actually (I hastily dabbed at my smudged makeup and pulled up my socks).  “Have you even thought about what you’re going to say?”  Oh shut up!

A quick glance in a mirror the size of a postage stamp confirmed that, yes, I was having a Bad Hair Day!

Bugger.

Strutted to the coffee shop with a complete lack of coordination, entered, searched the crowds for man with red tie, spotted him (lurking in a corner, very reporterish), and noted with some relief that he was sitting in the ‘smokers area’.

Coffee, fag, questions, fag, more questions, another fag.  It was quite interesting.  The reporter looked just like my brother, which was comforting (“Don’t say anything litigious!” the brain kept saying, “Or anything liable to lose you your job, family or friends,” – so that was pretty much any conversation out of the question). 

The reporter asked me if I ever had a day or a week when nothing happened to blog about, I said the difficulty was choosing which bit to highlight.  He said I must lead a very eventful life, I said didn’t most people, he said no, I said oh (just me then!).  He asked if I made up the character I wrote about, which hadn’t occurred to me before (so from now on I’ll be depicting myself as a posh bird with proper vowels and a designer wardrobe, darlinks).

He asked if everything I wrote about was true – the lunches with my mom and sister, the falling down in the middle of a coffee shop (“It was here!” I told him), the angst of public transport.  I told him I didn’t have to make it up, I simply noted it.  He asked if I ever ‘embellished’ to make it more interesting, I said I didn’t have to.  He asked for a photograph, I refused (I later emailed him a picture of Catherine Zeta Jones).

And then, painlessly, it was all over and we walked out together (me warning him about the Infamous Step in the middle of the shop which I swear is there purely to entertain the staff). 

The reporter and I parted.  I walked back to work the long way, glancing over my shoulder every 30 seconds to see if I was being followed and looking for  photographers lurking in doorways.  Very John le Carre!

Thursday 23

An early morning dentist appointment (joy).  Arrive and sit in empty waiting room.  The waiting room fills with people who don’t have to wait at all and are taken straight through to one of the dentists. 

I sit.  And wait.  15 minutes.  25 minutes.  People arrive and leave again.  At 30 minutes I move seats so the receptionist can spot that I’m still there (all but waving and hissing, “Yo! I’m still here!”).  After 40 minutes I approach the desk and say, “I do have to turn up for work at some point this morning.”  I’m given the evil eye and told I’ll be next.

I flick through ancient magazines, stare at the wallpaper and contemplate talking to a potted plant on its last legs.  Finally, I’m called through to the treatment room.  I throw myself onto the chair, the dentist taps a couple of teeth, lethargically drags a polisher across them while an assistant tries to suck out my tonsils, and then it’s all over.

Three minutes.

FIFTEEN BLOODY QUID!!!!!

Friday 24

Woke up to a glorious landscape of snow and knew that the journey to work was going to be hell on wheels.  I wasn’t wrong.  Other Birmingham boroughs get gritters, my area (small, out of the way, usually forgotten) probably got couple of council workers to walk backwards down roads with a packet of Saxa salt each.

Left house at 7.10, arrived at work 8.45 frozen to the core of my soul.

After work, I went to my GPs to collect the prescription my consultant gave me on Tuesday to replace the duff prescription I was given last month.

“What prescription?” the receptionist asked (what is this, some kind of receptionist conspiracy?).

“The one I brought in Wednesday morning,” I said.

“We don’t have a record of any prescription for you.”

“It was written out by my consultant for my doctor to prescribe.”

“We don’t have anything for you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you find out?” 

The receptionist stared at her computer screen for about a day and a half then drawled, “Oh, we had a letter in January saying you’ve been prescribed medication.”

“But I wasn’t.  The prescription didn’t have any quantities on it.  This is a new prescription.  That I brought in on Wednesday.”

“Just a minute.”

I stood there, pondering the meaning of life, the universe and all that.  I stared at the wallpaper and a potted plant with a feeling of de ja vu.  I inspected my fingernails and wondered what to have for tea.  And then the receptionist said, “Oh, here we are, found it.  A prescription from your consultant.  It’s been overlooked.  I’ll have to talk to the doctor about it.  Take a seat.”

I sat next to the potted plant and watched people arriving to collect prescriptions that weren’t there and listened to the same conversation I’d just had over and over.  I sent a text to my partner, “At docs, I may be some time.”  He comes up to wait with me (we wanna be togevva).

People in the waiting area complain that they’ve been waiting more than an hour.  The receptionist tells them the computer only booked them in 10 minutes ago.  Suspect their system may be a little crap.

Take hard-won prescription to chemist.  It’s £6.50.  Per item.

Go home and open up a bottle of whisky which is cheaper than the medication and probably a lot more effective!

Monday 27

Excitement!  Somewhere new to go for a girlie lunch.  The Mug and Bean, on the ramp from The Pallasades to the Bull Ring Shopping Centre (which I never knew existed!).

The three of us walk in.  Seems like a nice place, almost bar-like.  We approach the counter and our heart rates suddenly increased dramatically.  We start talking to each in high pitched voices – I’m surprised they didn’t throw us out we were that excited.

The Mug and Bean have massive gateaux’s the size of car wheels!  Seriously.  It was like entering the Land of the Giants.

We ordered a slice each.  When they were placed in front of us (on dinner plates), we couldn’t stop laughing at the sheer magnitude of it.  Instead of the slivers we’d been expecting, we got film set props of ginormous proportions!  We peered over the top at each other, our eyeballs wide with glee.

Of course, there was too much, even for us cake connoisseurs.  The others abandoned theirs half way through, but I (being a bit of a meanie) asked for mine to be put in a doggy bag and hauled it back to the office. 

Stared at it all afternoon, nibbled a bit even though I could feel my teeth rotting, then admitted defeat and chucked it.

After consuming half my body weight of confectionary, I didn’t need to eat for the rest of the day.

We’ll definitely be going back there!

Tuesday 28

So, finally got a proper appointment to ‘make a fuss’ about the ‘incident’ at work a few weeks ago, which I thought was pretty serious (a view clearly not shared by my supervisor).

As Patrick McGoohan said in The Prisoner, “I am not a number, I am a [wo]man.”

The exception being if you work for a large corporation, apparently.

people have been here (spooky!)

DISCLAIMER: This is a personal weblog.  The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer(s), work colleagues or family.  My experiences are written purely from my point of view and are intended to be a humorous depiction of my somewhat chaotic life.  No malice is intended in any way, it's not in my nature. The names of real people and companies have not been used.
 

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