MARCH

Wednesday 1

[Have you read the end of February?  Gotta keep up the continuity here.]

Tonight I’m the only passenger sitting upstairs at the front of the bus going home.  It quickly becomes obvious the driver is running a bit behind schedule because he’s doing at least 90mph down this straight road - you can judge by the strength of the G-force roughly how fast you’re going … most passengers usually look like this:

(even after they get off).

I’m pressed back into my seat as the world flashes past in a blur.  Then, up ahead, a car slowly pulls out of a side road.  The bus careers straight towards it.  The car pulls out some more so its now directly in our path.

I thought I hissed, “Oh shit!” under my breath, but the volume was closer to that used by nightclubbers when trying to talk to each other in front of 30 foot speakers on full blast.   Every passenger who wasn’t sitting at the front of the bus witnessing the impending catastrophe (that’s all of them) stared at me and ‘Not another nutter!’ floated through the atmosphere.

The bus driver didn’t make any attempt to brake.  Instead, he used evasive tactics.

The bus suddenly veered violently to the right.  It was now at a sharp 45 degree angle, still doing 90mph.  Passengers were thrown sideways and gasped out loud in alarm (‘Not another nutter’ evaporated in the surge of panic).  I threw my arm against the front window to brace myself and watched with wide eyes as the bus missed the front of the car by mere millimetres before veering violently to the left.  It wobbled to an upright position and continued its sonic missile journey down the road.

37 shaky passengers got off at the next stop. 

Wimps. 

It’s journeys like this that add to the general joy of commuting.

Thursday 2

It’s cold.  I'm talking leave-the-house-and-face-freezes-into-shocked-jeez-its-bloody-cold-expression type of cold.  I need to buy a new jumper for work since my home jumpers are not so much ‘bobbled’ as balls of fluff with arms.

Off I traipse at lunch to the top designer store in the city, Bhs.  Wander round for a while, my bored brain sighing a lot and asking the usual questions every time I consider an item of clothing:

• Would that look good on me?

• Do I really like the colour?

• Will eye-watering red go with anything?

• Will it fit?

• Is that a good price?

• Didn’t I buy one exactly like that not long ago? (so where is it then?)

• PUT DOWN THAT BLOUSE/SKIRT/KNICKER PACK AND STEP AWAY FROM THE RAIL!

• Look for jumpers, just jumpers, concentrate on jumpers!

• Oh God.

• I wish my mom was here.

• Just buy something, anything and let’s get out of here

• I can’t cope.

• Let’s leave (no, jumper, need jumper), just go (I need a bloody jumper).

• I give up, where’s the exit.

And people wonder why I hate shopping so much, it’s a nightmare of decisions with very little to show for the agony except a decided lack of purchases.  Its exhausting work, not buying anything.

But I’m determined to Buy A Jumper before hypothermia sets in.  I idly hold up blue ones, black ones, big ones, some so tight they’d barely fit a Barbi doll (size 14/16 my bum).  I’m feeling pretty miserable.  Really miserable.  And not just because I’m shopping either.  It’s more than that.

They’re playing James Blunt throughout the store!  Award winning musician of damn depressing songs.  Honestly, I could fall into a dribbling heap and pound my head against a mannequin just to ease the pain of his wailing.  Jeez, man, get a grip, have some fun, go out more or something.

But … perfect excuse to leave before I open up an artery.

I survive to not-shop another day.

Friday 3

My partner and I are both pretty work-stressed at the moment, so tense we could give the Thunderbirds puppets a run for their money for sheer stiffness.  Someone recommended Kalms tablets, so we thought What The Heck and bought some.

Oh!  My!  God!  Calming just isn’t the word, they’re the next best thing to smoking drugs (not that I’d know about that, but they do make you want to lean back and sigh, “Hey, man” a lot). 

Last night my partner and I were having a discussion about something we’d watched on the news and, despite the fact that he’s a Yakky Yorkshireman who likes nothing better than to loudly express his opinions, he turned to me and said, “You know, I can’t even be bothered to argue about it.”  I sighed, “Whatever.”  That’s how good they are.

Kalms, buy em, take em, feel really chilled.

Saturday 4

A couple of mates at work have been extraordinarily supportive lately, so I thought I’d get them a little something to say thank you.  My partner came with me to a gift shop and I started picking things up.

“What about this?” I said, holding a small teddy, “They could keep it on their desks at work.”

“A 45 Magnum seems to be what you lot need on your desks at work,” he drawled.

We had to leave the shop because I couldn’t stop laughing. 

I got chocolates instead.

Monday 6

Lunch with my sister (who was on time!).  Left my office building and, without presenting any choices, pushed her into Café Uno on Colmore Row.  They used to do a fabulous all-day breakfast, sadly no more.  Instead, Italian food served by waiters who couldn’t have been more Italian if they’d tried - heavy accents, dark goatee beards and a definite twinkle in their eyes.  Very nice. 

We yakked, glanced at menu, yakked some more.  A heavily accented waitress (fortunately bereft of goatee beard) asked if we’d decided yet.  I pointed vaguely at something on the list, my sister said, “Yes, I’ll have the same too.”  Then she suddenly snatched back the menu and said, “No, wait a minute, let me just have a look, I might fancy something different.” 

Time was suspended.  I stared at the wallpaper, the waitress stared at the ceiling, my sister stared perpetually at the menu.  “Yes,” she eventually said, “I’ll have the same.”  See, choices just complicate things!

Potatoe gnocchi in a spicy tomatoe sauce (ooh, get me, I sound just like Michael Winner!) sounded good, but arrived on a small plate - mean menu for mega money, I thought.  Until I started eating it.  There were about 30 tiny dumplings slightly larger than marbles.  A micro meal like that will never fill me up.  I thought. 

Halfway through I realised that potatoe dumplings must swell to ten times their normal size when consumed, I was stuffed almost to bursting point.

Waddled back to office afterwards, forced my swollen torso into my seat, resisted the urge to slump and sleep.

Tuesday 7

Spent that long on the bus getting into work this morning all the suction-packed passengers were on the verge of swapping mobile numbers and arranging a reunion at the weekend. 

Get the bloody single-manned cars off the roads so a 4 mile trip into the city doesn’t entail the same amount of time it takes to drive to the seaside.  And back.

Sometimes I spend so long on the bus I feel the journey should be split with a break in the middle, like they do on long-distance coach trips.  Passengers could get off, stretch their legs, have a fag and a bit of fresh air before clambering back on board to continue the endless journey into work.

West Midlands Travel, take note – passenger cafes along bus routes is definitely the way to go!

Wednesday 8

Oh the joys, the JOYS, of natural medicine.  I'm talking Kalms tablets here, surely the most underestimated miracle of the modern world.  "Natural," I thought, "Yeah, like they're gonna work (not)!"  Oh cynical me, oh me of little faith, oh me on the verge of a revelation.

Half an hour, that's how long they take to work, a whole thirty minutes.  And then life turns pastel coloured and beautiful, birds start to sing and suddenly everything is alright the world again.  Absolutely bloody amazing.

Kalms have stopped me handing in my notice at work and given a whole new meaning to the word 'chilled'.  I swear, if aliens landed next to my desk at 3pm on a Monday afternoon, I'd barely bat an eyelid.

Kalms.  Does exactly what it says on the bottle. 

Thursday 9

Today I was involved in a drugs raid.  How exciting!

I’m in a semi-coma on the top deck of the bus going home.  There’s two teenagers sitting at the front playing music a bit loud on their mobile phones.  This appears to annoy the woman sitting in front of me, who keeps fidgeting and turning round to look at all the other passengers as if to say Isn’t anyone going to say anything?  I’m on Kalms, woman, I don’t care.  She suddenly gets up and storms over to one of the teenagers, saying, “Could you turn that down, please, I’ve had a hard day at work!” (definitely a candidate for Kalms, methinks).  The woman stomps back to her seat and, glaring at the ‘passive’ passengers, catches my eye.  “Didn’t you think it was loud?” she asked.  I shrug, “I’m not bovvered.”

But that wasn’t the exciting bit (!).

Shortly after the agitated woman incident, and apparently for no reason, the bus driver starts ranting really loudly in his cabin.  As this sort of thing happens quite a lot (and, of course, I’m on Kalms - have I mentioned that?) I didn’t pay much attention.  Then the bus stops and the driver comes stomping heavily up the stairs, bellowing about somebody smoking.  “We don’t tolerate smoking on our buses!” he roared, “There’s a penalty of £1,000 for smoking on buses!  I won’t have smoking of drugs on my bus!”

Oooh, somebody smoking drugs, that perked my interest (I wondered why I had the urge to make flower chains and sing All the leaves are brown).

Next thing, four huge, burly policeman come plodding (no pun intended) up the stairs.  Had I known men in uniform were coming I would have put on a bit of lippy.

“Who’s smoking the drugs?” one of the policeman asked.  I was a bit miffed, actually, because they walked straight passed me, I wasn’t considered a suspect at all.  Okay, I’m (a young) forty-something sitting there in my eat-your-heart-out-Keaneau-Reeves coat with reading glasses on the end of my nose looking at the Birmingham Evening Mail (who, incidentally, haven’t published an article about Brummie Blogs yet!), but I could easily have had a joint/spliff hidden about my person.  A quick frisk wouldn’t have gone amiss.  Ageists! 

They approached a young chap near the back seats.  “Are you smoking drugs on the bus?” the policeman asked.  The young man’s eyeballs nearly popped out of his head.  He threw up his hands, furiously shaking his head.  The policemen walked passed.

They took off a couple of youngsters who honestly looked about 12 (but then, the policemen didn’t look much older to me).  The bus driver stood with them on the pavement for a long time, still ranting about fines and smoking and 'making a stand about this kind of thing'.  When he finally got back in his cabin, he slammed the door and yelled, “Let that be a lesson to all of you.”

As ‘all of us’ consisted mostly of knackered office workers just trying to get home, we all nodded our heads sagely and consider giving up the nicotine/cocaine habits (but they’ll never take away my Kalms, never!)

Friday 10

Last weekend my partner and I diligently sowed 80 sets of seeds (yep, you read it right, 80).  Our plan is to (a) save money by growing everything from seeds instead of spending vast fortunes in garden centres, and (b) grow everything – tomatoes, carrots, sprouts, gourds (not sure why), pumpkins (again, not quite sure why). 

We’re going to have to dig up most of the garden, it’ll be just like The Good Life:

From this:

The garden of today

To something like this:

The garden of tomorrow

Now when we get home from work, we both dash up to the spare room (which is specially heated for the seedlings – maybe not that cost effective after all) to check on their progress.  How sad is that!

Fun, though.

[All tips on vegetable growing gratefully accepted]

Saturday 11

I was “tagged” by Arbroath – no, not a new way to keep wayward secretaries in check, but a rather interesting q&a session.

What were you doing ten years ago?

God, ten years ago?  Let me think, do the memory cells actually go back that far?  I was married (the expiry date had kicked in yet, though it wasn’t far off).  My boys were 15, 11 and 10 so I guess I was having a lot of fun with them and the dog.  Working part-time somewhere, can’t remember where – Birmingham Assay Office?  University of Birmingham student shop?  Or was it that company on the Hagley Road, Welconstruct, data inputting, day in, day out (yawn).

What were you doing one year ago?

Ah, easier.  Doing pretty much what I’m doing now.  The boys were gone (wah!), I was working in the city centre (and enjoying it, then), had been with my partner for five years (fabulous man) and generally living life to the full.

Actually, last year is detailed in Brummie Blogs 2005, so I don’t have to think any more.

Five snacks you enjoy:

1. Double Decker (a hunky chocolate bar)
2. Nuts (any nuts)
3. Coke (does that count as a snack? Certainly wakes me up at 3 o’clock in the afternoon when I’ve run out of enthusiasm, energy and hope)
4. Worcester sauce flavoured French Fries
5. Ferrero Rocher chocolates

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:

1. Bat out of Hell (Meatloaf)
2. Don’t worry, be happy
3. My Man (Striesand)
4. Dirty (Bodyrockers, yay)
5. Had a Bad Day (Daniel Powter – brilliant album)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

1. Give up work
2. Buy a remote cottage in the country and stock it with labradors
3. Put deposits on houses for all three sons
4. Go on a trip around the world
5. Hire a personal shopper (maybe Trinny & Suzanna)

Five things you like doing:

1. Writing
2. Computers
3. Reading
4. Watching DVDs
5. Spending time with my partner and sons (and granddaughter)
6. Gardening

Yes, I know that’s six, cut me some slack, it was tough choice

Five things you would never wear again:

1. Heels
2. Bikinis
3. Mini skirts
4. Big pointy collars
5. Those folding plastic caps your mom made you wear when it rained

Five favourite toys:

1. Hee hee
2. Ma computers
3. Ma MP3 player
4. Ma DVD player
5. Ma X-files torch that lights up the entire world

You're it!

1. Ben (Simian Exists)
2. Sane Scientist
3. Pat (Pat’s Past Imperfect)
4. Shades of Grey
5. My partner

Oh, and for your weekend enjoyment, here’s some snazzy links:

Miss Cellania – a blog with some splendid links (check out the MacDonalds sign link)

The effects of drugs on spiders (young bus passengers take note – and watch out for mad drivers, too)

Sychronised goldfish – absolutely amazing

Cannot find server – give it a whack

I know EXACTLY how it feels

I think most (if not all!) of these links come from Abroath's site (mate, if you want me to stop doing this just let me know :-)  If you don't read Arbroath's site on a daily basis, go look now, its brilliant.

[Oooooh, my links have gone all pale blue, is this something I should worry about?  Nah, just keep taking the tablets, girl]

Monday 13

What’s with the crappy weather?  March 13 and it’s like the depths of winter – grey, drizzly, sleeting, hailing, snowing, and bloody cold.  Okay, the days are getting longer, but this only highlights the fact that the weather is appalling.  I’ve been wearing my Keanau-Reeves winter coat for so long now it’s almost threadbare from use.

I have 80 seedlings waiting to be transplanted, but I can’t dig up the garden because it won’t stop raining and the ground’s frozen solid anyway, and the greenhouse is full of over-wintered plants.  So I’m going to have to put EIGHTY seedlings into EIGHTY separate pots and leave them on EVERY windowledge in the house – there’ll be 6ft sweetcorn in the living room, acres of coriander in the bedroom, and giant pumpkins in the hallway screaming “Feed me, Seymour!”

That’ll teach me to sow seeds early.

Incidentally, on seed packets it says, “Sow in garden six weeks after the last frost.”  HOW do I know when the ‘last’ frost is?  It’s not announced on the news (“The BBC announces the last frost will be on Wednesday.”)  Alan Titchmarsh doesn’t interrupt programmes to tell you that your seedlings are now safe to plant outdoors.  A huge voice doesn’t boom down from the skies, “Okay, that’s it, no more frost now, honest.”

Jack’s out there, like a gardener’s version of Freddy Kruger, chuckling away to himself and thinking Eh, you think that was the last frost do you? Well, missy I can still make you chip the glacier off your windscreen every morning, and what’s that you’re planting? Coriander? It’ll be black by morning, my lovely.

[On the subject of coriander, we’re growing it because my Partner, for reasons unknown, is obsessed with the stuff.  Every time he goes into a shop – for bread, fags, alcohol – he leaves clutching coriander of one type or another with a huge, satisfied smile on his face.  Cheese on toast has coriander in it.  I swear he boils eggs in it (green eggs aren’t natural, are they?  Unless, of course, you’re a cat with a hat with a spare bit of ham).  If my Partner doesn’t have a massive supply coriander in the house he just stands in the kitchen, silent, motionless, not knowing what to do.]

Tuesday 14

Our weekly pint of Stella at our favourite cosy pub.  Only the pub is empty, there’s just us and this rather distinguished looking bloke in a long black coat (pant pant) who always stands at a tall table with a book and a pint.  We sit down.  The man comes to stand at the table next to us.  We finish our pint and leave.  THE MAN FOLLOWS US OUT.

“He’s an off-duty police officer,” I whisper to my Partner as we get into the car, “He’s going to pull us over and breathalyse you.”

“But I’ve only had one pint,” my Partner wails.

The man gets into his car, which is right next to ours (coincidence?).  We start up our engine.  So does he.  We reverse out of the parking space.  So does he.  We pull out of the car park, and his car is right behind us.  We turn left.  So does he.  We drive down the road, he follows.

“He’s a stalker!” I gasp.  “He’s trailing us!”

“Worry not, femme-type,” Partner says, “I can lose him.”  [Click this and read on.]

We drive a bit faster.  The other car keeps up.  I’m peering in the side mirror hissing, “He’s still there!” 

My Partner goes straight across a traffic island (not over it, obviously), the other car does too! 

“He’s a homicidal maniac, following us home so he can steal our seedlings!” I hiss.

We go faster, the other car is like a magnet on our tail.  My Partner looks in the rear view mirror that often he’s like a nodding dog.  We overtake a bus.  So does the other car.  We can’t lose him.

We turn left, we turn right, we pull up at a junction, the other car gets closer, closer, pulls up RIGHT NEXT TO US!  I hold my breath, expecting the man in the long black coat to leap out with a gun or something.

We both look, wide-eyed, over at the driver.  It’s not the man in the long black coat.  It’s a woman.  Different car.

“Ah,” I say.

“Hmmm,” says my Partner.

“I think,” I announce, as we pull up in front of our house, “That we should maybe stop watching those 24 DVDs for a while.”

[Okay, you can turn the music off now.]

Wednesday 15

I was walking up Edmund Street this morning when a car drove passed.  Not odd, you might think, except I was at the top of Edmund Street, which has a one way system, and the car was going the wrong way.  Oncoming cars were bibbing at it but the driver - who looked like this …

- was obviously confused/terrified/stupid and awkwardly manoeuvred around them until it got to the crossroads at the top Colmore Row.   Left was one way, straight across was one way, but it was safe to go right. 

I stood and watched, as did several other people (you gotta get your entertainment where you can).  The driver edged left.  A bus halted its path, the driver giving clear signals that the car should turn right. 

By now there was a small crowd gathered.  The car wheels turned right.  Then it suddenly shot off like a heat seeking missile straight down Bennetts Hill.  Which is one way.

And not the way the car was going.

Very amusing. 

Visitors to Birmingham, take note – always follow the flow of traffic and not try to fight against it.

[I’ll admit, I did once ride my motorbike the wrong way down a road in some far-off place like Bristol or something.  All these cars were coming towards me, frantically blasting their horns.  I remember thinking, Tsk, have they never seen a woman on a motorbike before?]

Thursday  16

I had a phonecall for my boss today from someone in Leeds (where they talk funny, says she who pronounces “go” as “goo” and “pint” as “point”).  The caller explained that another boss wasn’t at work because she “has a dead ankle.”  I muttered some sympathy about how painful that was, and sent my boss an email.

A short while later my boss emails back.  Two words.  “Deceased uncle!”

Well I can’t be expected to get it right all the time.

Lunch with my mother and sister.  I meet them in the reception/waiting area of my building.  They’re wrapped up like Arctic explorers and looking very comfortable embedded in the sofa.  So comfortable, in fact, they don’t move when I arrive and I eventually have to say, “C’mon, lets go!” before they stir themselves.

There’s a brief discussion outside about where to go while I keep glancing at my watch.  We eventually agree on The Old Joint Stock and approach the bar.  It’s not busy, but we wait that long to get served we considered throwing lemon slices at the barmaid to get her attention.  When she eventually saunters over, she’s clearly so bored of her job she is apathy incarnate.  This wasn’t helped by the fact that the three dithery women in front of her couldn’t decide what to order off the menu.

“We’ll just have sandwiches,” says mom.

I order a beef sandwich.  “Which one do you want?” I ask my mom.

Silence.

“Sis?  Which one?”

More silence.  I smile limply at the barmaid.  She shifts impatiently from one foot to the other.

“A mint burger,” mom suddenly declares.

“Not a sandwich then?” I say.

“I’ll have one too,” says Sis.

“Why don’t you have the burger?” says mom.

“Because I’ve just ordered a sandwich and the barmaid – “ I give her an embarrassed grin, she gives me a raised eyebrow, “ - will throw a fit if I change the order.”

“No, I won’t,” the barmaid drawls, oozing apathy from every pore of her body, “Order what you want.” I expect her to add, “I’m not bovvered, do I look bovvered?  Are you saying I’m bovvered?  I’m not bovvered.”

I order the burger.  Then we pither over where to sit, but eventually decide on a table in the corner.  Our meals arrive.  Mom picks her burger up, I eat mine with a knife and fork (if in doubt, use cutlery), while Sis slices hers into neat quarters.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” mom says to me, as I sit there in my oversized jacket and baggy trousers, “Have you been on a diet?”

“No,” I tell her.

“How have you lost so much weight then?”

“Stress at work,” I say, “I wouldn’t recommend it.  I could do with losing a bit more, though,” I add, “I might go back after lunch and start an argument with my boss or something.”

We eat.  We drink our Coke.  I need to get back to the office.  Mom pithers over doing her coat up, arranging her scarf, finishing off her drink.  By this time me and Sis are halfway across the pub.  Sis turns back as mom is in mid gulp and says, “Just leave the vodka alone, mother!”  Every face in the pub turns to stare at us.  Mom just rolls her eyes.  I can barely breathe for laughing.  We exit.

Friday 17

A pizza lunch for a mate who’s leaving the company (sniff).  A group of us turn up at the Pizza Hut on New Street and approach the counter.

“I’ve booked a table for 20 people,” says my mate.

The assistant looks confused and calls a manager over.  “They claim to have booked a table,” she tells him.

We all let out a heavy sigh.

“You booked a table?” says the manager.

“Yes,” we all say.

“We don’t have a booking for 20 people.”

Another heavy sigh.

“Are you sure you booked it here?” asks the manager, “Only we don’t normally take bookings.”

Our crowd starts muttering about incompetent staff, with a bit of eyeball rolling thrown in for good measure.

“I’ll try and fit you in,” says the manager, and we all tut loudly.

10 minutes later the manager has ‘managed’ to push two tables together, and we sit down.  A waitress ambles over for our order.  “We’re all having the pizza buffet,” we tell her, “With the pasta and salad – “

“Oooh I love the pasta here,” someone says.

“I am going to have so much pizza,” cries someone else.

“All you can eat for £5.49,” gasps another.

“And what would you like to drink with that?” drones the waitress.

15 diet cokes are ordered.

Halfway through our pizza fest, another secretary from our office turns up.  “Pizza Hut have been calling for the last twenty minutes,” she declares.  “They say they can’t hold the table for 20 you booked for much longer.”

Damn silly having two Pizza Huts on New Street if you ask me.

Saturday 18

It’s been weeks since I was interviewed by a reporter from the Birmingham Evening Mail, and I’m still waiting to be ‘discovered’ and have fame and fortune thrust upon me.  I’ve planned my escape from corporate slavery in intricate detail, and thought long and hard about what to wear for my interview with Parkinson. 

But … nothing.  No article has appeared.  My phone isn’t ringing off the hook with publishers offering lucrative deals, and I’m not yet ensconced in my study happily churning out best selling novels all day every day.

Very disappointing.

So, if you want to get in touch with the Birmingham Evening Mail and demand that Brummie Blogs appears on their esteemed pages, the reporter’s details are on my profile page comments.

Go get him!

UPDATE

It has been decided.  A committee was formed (me) with a sub-committee to provide refreshments (Partner).

Negotiations were long and hard (Embodiment of Darlingness?). Proposals were made (Talula?), suggestions discussed (The Disillusioned One?), propositions thrashed out (Corporate Slave?).  Names were put forward (She Who Can’t Cook?) and beaten to death (Bugger This for a Game of Soldiers? … we were getting pretty desperate by then, clearly).

But finally, after arduous minutes of tense debate and a swift move from caffeine to alcohol, it was decided.

From now on I shall be known not as "Me!" but as:

Monday 20

20 Things to do at a Really Boring Company Meeting (thought up whilst attending a really Boring Company Meeting):

1.       Stare at the ceiling and say "What is that?" and when everyone looks up make a run for it

2.       Start crying like a three year old

3.       Shout, "This is SO boring!"

4.       Fall on the floor screaming, "I WANT MY MOM!"

5.       Flick elastic bands at the speaker

6.       Flick elastic bands at everyone else

7.       Tell the speaker, "Hurry up, I'm leaving at 5 whether you've finished or not."

8.       Read a book, say, “Shush! I just got to a really interesting bit!” every now and again

9.       Listen to your mp3 player, start singing along, loudly and out of key

10.   Put your head on lap of person sitting next to you and fall asleep, snoring noisily

11.   Say, “Do you have proof of that?” after every point the speaker makes

12.   Repeat everything the speaker says in a funny voice

13.   Shout “Look what I can do!” and do a handstand up the wall, then cartwheel across the presentation area and out the exit door

14.   Start smoking - they’ll be aghast and throw you out, then you can go home

15.   Start smoking - until the fire sprinklers start, then laugh hysterically as everyone gets wet

16.   Start smoking - until the fire alarm goes off, then jump up and down excitedly screaming, “When are the firemen coming? When are the firemen coming?”

17.   Sit at the back and whistle like a descending bomb, then make a huge explosive noise.  Wait, and repeat.

18.   Start combing the hair of the person sitting in front of you, say things like, “You should try some anti-dandruff shampoo, dear.”

19.   Say to the person sitting behind you, “Could you just rub my back?  Left a bit.  A bit more.  OH THAT’S THE SPOT, GO ON, RUB IT HARD, OH YEAH BABY.”

20.   Avoid going at all if possible

At our fun packed department meeting today, when we were asked to get into groups and discuss the symbiosis of a doughnut (how dough can feel as ‘valued’ as the jam!), I left.  Life’s too short.

Tuesday 21

How sad is it that you check the Philpotts menu every single day for months and then, when the to-die-for cream of tomato soup finally gets listed, you don’t have the money to buy it.

On the subject of food, my Partner made a pudding at the weekend.  He is an absolutely fabulous cook, but he can’t do puddings to save his life.  You could build walls with his rice pudding.

On Saturday he declared, “You know, I right fancy a treacle pudding.”

“We don’t have any,” I told him. 

“I’ll make one,” he said, and promptly disappeared into the kitchen.

Much banging of implements followed.  And then the hissing of the pressure cooker.  Partner returned to the living room a satisfied man.

“How long is it going to take?” I asked him.

“Oh, about an hour?”

An hour?  In a pressure cooker?  Just how big was this pudding?

“You’ll right enjoy it,” he assured me.

An hour later, the treacle pudding was released.  “You know,” my Partner shouted from the kitchen, to the accompaniment of what sounded like clay being dropped from a great height, “Up in Yorkshire, we like our treacle pudding ‘heavy’.”

Oh God.

“Yes, we do it different up there,” he continued, “We prefer it ‘stodgy’.”

He handed it to me.  My muscles braced against the weight of the bowl.  The pudding looked like a solidified lump of yellow concrete.  I pressed my spoon against it.  It didn’t give.  It was so dense I couldn’t even slice into it.  I eventually managed to wrestle a piece away and forced it into my mouth.

“What do you think?” my Partner asked.

My teeth were welded together with the sweet, sticky, cloying, denseness of it.  “Hmmmmumumum,” was all I could manage. 

Which was probably a good thing.

I’ll be stocking up on tinned treacle pudding at the earliest opportunity.

Wednesday 22

Poverty sucks.  Two more days before pay day and we don’t have a bean to rub between us.

We could only manage to go t’pub last night for our weekly pint of Stella because I just happened to check my bank account and found a whole £10 that wasn’t allocated to anything.  At last, a break!  Stella never tastes as nice as when you have to scrimp for it.

The tall distinguished looking gentleman in a long coat was there again.  My partner kept humming the theme tune to Mission Impossible and only stopped when I prodded him hard in the ribs.

When we left, we kept glancing over our shoulder to see if he was behind us.  My Partner whispered, “I’ll take a different route home so he can’t follow us.”

But he didn’t.

Quite disappointing really.

Friday 24

I’ve been so totally bombed at work the last few weeks I’ve barely had time to draw breath – it’s like working on fast forward, desperately searching for the light at the end of the tunnel (which turns out to be some bugger with a torch bringing more work boom boom). 

Today, one secretary was off sick so I covered for her (multi-tasking to within an inch of my life whilst fielding off requests for stationery and typing up an onslaught of dictations), another secretary has handed in her notice (and let’s face it, once you’ve done that you really don’t care any more, do you), and my boss on overdrive, a veritable blur of activity.

On top of that the atmosphere in my office is just dire lately, a cross between a really bad soap opera and an episode of The Twilight Zone.  Oh, and I had a headache roughly the size of Alaska which threatened to pop my eyeballs out.

Just another exciting day at work, really.

Came home tonight and, in between popping the chill pills and cracking open a bottle of whisky, I said to my Partner, “Enough!  We sell the house, buy a camper van and travel the world.”

He wasn’t keen.

He’s gonna be real surprised when he comes home from work one day (soon) to find strangers living in our house and a camper van parked outside with me behind the wheel screaming, “C’mon, we’re outta here, dude.”

Sigh.

Saturday 25

Recovery period.  And time to pot up the seedlings.

Honestly, after a hectic week at work, is there anything more soothing, more peaceful, more relaxing than potting up 80 seedlings in the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden?  MP3 player in my top pocket, rain running down the glass, and a satisfying amount of pots on shelves.

Bliss.

[And is there anything more stoopid than diligently writing out markers for every single pot using pen that isn't waterproof!!!  I now have 80 well-watered pots with 80 blank labels!]

Sunday 26

My boss's wife rings me at home to tell me that my boss is in hospital.  He's had a heart attack, fortunately a mild one.  Such a lovely man.  Working so hard lately even I struggled to keep up with him, and that's saying something.

Stress, ain't worth it.  I'm dumping all stress from this moment on.

Monday 27

Felt crap all weekend, and then I get the call about my boss.  I think I’ve exceeded my stress quota recently, by miles, and the body seemed to say, “Okay, that’s enough now!” Flop.

Ill.

The tonsils swell to ten times their original size and I feel dreadful.  But my boss’s work needs sorting and I'm the only one who knows how to do it, so I haul myself into work sounding like Marlon Brando.  I clear my boss’s desk, delegate work, change e- and voice-mail messages, and respond to a barrage of concerned calls and emails (he's very well liked and is, thankfully, recovering well).

Then I go home.

I am most definitely not a happy bunny.

Tuesday 28

What to say about today.  I slept.  I gargled with salt water at regular intervals (God knows what the neighbours must have thought: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghaaaaaaaaaaaaargh).  I sucked lozengers from the health food shop that says on the box, “Do not take if allergic to tree resin” (like you’d know!).  And slept some more. 

Being ill is so terribly, terribly boring.

So, have a look at this instead (just in case you didn’t know, click on the pic and then click on the arrow thingy bottom right to make it bigger). 

No.1 is my personal choice (old couple?! pah)

No.2 is a bit like those illustrations in the Karma Sutra, just plain uncomfortable and impossible to sustain for any length of time.

No.3 is the “Who’s turn is it to get up and make coffee?” position.

No.4 is the woman trying to convince him that its his turn.

No.5 is the man insisting on his own personal space (“You stay right there and don’t cramp my style, babes.”)

No.6 is the morning after a really heavy night (post close encounters of the porcelain kind).

No.7 is avoiding the damp area (cough cough).

No.8 is the ‘I think its time we separated’ position.

No.9 is ‘the divorce papers are in the post’ (commonly known as the ‘Touch me and you die’ position).

No.10 is the man checking if the sheets need changing while the woman considers painting her toenails - its definitely over.

Wednesday 29

Slept.  Gargled.  Sucked on tree resin.  Sighed a lot.  Pondered the meaning of life a bit.  Slept some more.

So while I sit here, hot, cold, trying not to swallow and hoping that I will, eventually, be able to move my tongue again, ‘ave yerself a look at this (click on FF+G!).  Warning: contains naked breasts, but the ‘realism’ is hysterical.  Please send all complaints to the manager of my sick office for causing me to be this bored.

Thursday 30

And … back to work.

A strange sight on the bus coming home tonight.  A couple were sitting together.  Not odd, you may think, passengers do this all the time, some even speak to each other occasionally.  No, the strange thing was that he was sitting, and she had her head in his lap!

Now I’m pretty liberal, but really, this isn’t the sort of thing you want to see after a hard day at the office.  As I walked passed I noticed the man was wriggling his legs and muttering things to the back of her head.

Honestly!

I sat down.  The woman raised her head.  Relief!  No.  She stood up.  She went and sat next to the man sitting in the seat in front.  Some muttering occurred, and then her head disappeared onto his lap.

What was this, some new service from West Midlands Travel?  Was she going to work herself round the whole bus?

I almost tutted in disgust.

And then the woman stood up