MAY

Monday 1

And off to Merry Hell.  Got our new router, which said ‘easy to install’ on the box.

'Easy' if you have a masters degree in advanced computer science, maybe, but definitely not for the technologically challenged.

As me and my partner can’t do anything 'challenging’ together (like decorating, mapreading or installing new computer hardware) without resorting to fisticuffs, Partner went upstairs with said router on his own.

He was quiet for hours.

Eventually I mustered up the courage to venture upstairs to see how it was going.

It wasn’t going at all.

We tried being Terribly Polite to each other (you know when you’re trying desperately hard not to argue and enunciating like a Shakespearean actor), but eventually I tipped him out the chair and ran through the ‘installation wizard’ myself.

Okay, computer now recognises the router (notice how I’ve taken complete credit for this?), but we no longer have access to the internet (absolutely not my fault).  We rang the support line and an incredibly patient man ran my Partner through the process.  I swear to God I’ve seen paint dry faster.  My Partner wanted to understand each and every step, running through options as he went, reading everything, questioning everything (whereas I tend to manically click buttons hoping something will work, which was why my Partner was on the phone to the helpline and not me). 

Like a sloth in slow motion (he is so going to kill me when he reads this), my Partner clicked buttons, unplugged cables, switched things on and off, while I’m in the background going “Oh!” and “Argh!” and “Snarlbuggerypoonuts!”

Finally, the internet works.  Relief!  And then my Partner asks, “How can we put security on it?”

I was lying on the floor crying by now.  I just wanted internet on my laptop, that was all.  Was that too much to ask?  Just a simple internet connection? 

It all got sorted in the end.  Only took us four long, arduous hours of hair pulling and wailing and hissing but it all works now.  And thank God for that!

Normality has returned (or as normal as it gets around here).

[Had Middle ‘Computer Guru’ Son witnessed our chronic lack of understanding he would have undoubtedly rolled his eyes, tutted a great deal and muttered, “Old people, tsk.”  Ah, the arrogance of the young, sigh.] 

Tuesday 2

Lunch at EAT (Good Food Company) which replaced the much loved Coffee Republic at the top of New Street.  Well, I say lunch, it was more a caffeine break, I certainly couldn’t afford to eat there (£2.30 for thoup?!).

I went inside to order and waited in a short queue by the bloke handing out the coffees.  When I got to the front and asked for my drinks, the bloke barked (literally barked in a foreign accent), “Haff you paid?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“I do no-thing until you pay!”

“Which queue do I wait in?” I asked, as there seemed to be several, but the bloke turned away to attend to his coffee granules, deliberately ignoring me.  Git.

I took one whole step sideways until I stood in front of a girl who was standing right next to the coffee man (whom I shall now and forever more refer to as Helmut the Horrible).  I gave the girl my order.  She took my money.  She shouted out the order to Helmut the Horrible, who barked, “Has she paid?”

I actually eyed the counter to gauge the possibility of me leaping over it and pinning Helmut to the floor (and choking him on his own coffee beans).  Given that I have difficulty getting on a bar stool, I figured this probably wasn’t the best option.   

I just wanted a couple of coffees, not the Spanish Inquisition!  Why is it so bloody difficult to get decent service anywhere in Birmingham these days?  Do companies deliberately hire stroppy, anti-social misfits with attitude problems?  Its not as if I storm in and slam my fist down on the counter, shouting, “Gimme two coffees and gimme them now, boy!”  I smile, I ask politely, I smile again.

Helmut slammed my mugs down on the counter in front of me - four inches of froth with a puddle of tepid liquid in the bottom.  I felt a surge of Falling Down syndrome, ready to scream “Right! That’s it! I’ve had enough!” whilst pulling a large rifle or a cattle prod or Something Really Heavy out of my handbag.

Give me a coffee and give it to me now, punk!

Lunch is so stressful these days!

The Art of Zen

Wednesday 3

Pub after work, yes!  The Green Man, whose meals I slated the other week but it’s a nice place for a drink. 

It was actually sunny and, as the bus went passed the pub, I saw my Partner sitting outside, all handsome like, with two pints in front of him (I could sense the envy oozing off all the sweaty commuters).

Kiss.  Fag.  Yak yak yakkety yak.  At one point I said to Partner, “There seems to be a lot of people standing around?”  I’d never seen people standing outside drinking before.

“It’s the sun,” he said, “They probably don’t want to miss it.”

The Green Man’s by the main road through Harborne High Street and we watched the rush hour traffic going by, glad we weren’t part of it for once.  A couple of fire engines went speeding passed.  We yakked in the sun.  It was lovely.

Then, just as we were finishing our drinks, a fireman came bursting out of the pub.  “It’s okay folks,” he said, “You can go back in now.”

Me and Partner looked at each other with “What!” expressions.

There had, apparently, been a fire in the kitchens bad enough to call out the emergency services.  As we walked round the back to the car park, we passed two fire engines parked at the kerbside, lights flashing.  In the car park were dozens of people standing around with their drinks while a couple of firemen guarded the doors.

We'd sat outside a burning pub, totally oblivious.

Obviously had eyes only for each other.

Guess what they are

Thursday 4

It was minus 4 degrees when I left the house this morning, bundled up in my ‘mid season’ coat having resisted the urge to put on a woolly scarf because the weather forecast said it was going to get warm.  They were right!  By lunchtime I was sweating buckets and dashed out (yes, to Primark!) to get some much needed summer wear.  [Actually, it was a Good Shopping Day - which happens roughly once every 10-15 years.  Things literally leapt off the rails into my arms, good stuff, stuff that fitted, stuff that actually looked good on me.  It was great.]

I left work wearing hardly anything but carrying enough clothing to fill a wardrobe.  Hauled several carrier bags, my coat and work bags onto the bus, which was a furnace.  The sun blasted through the windows.  My whole body literally throbbed with heat.  Even after I got off, I was still glowing like a crimson bulb in a red light district. 

I fell into the house and immediately kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, took off my blouse and trousers, and lay down flat on the living room floor, completely naked.

Partner was pleased.

West Midlands Travel complaint letter

Friday 5

Okay, sun still out, time to put away the winter clobber and wear something more in keeping with the weather.

Today, I decided, I was going to wear a skirt and sandals.

Except … I had legs a woolly mammoth would have been proud of.  I hastily shaved them in the shower, then noticed my toenails could do with a bit of chainsawing, so hacked away at them.  Then realised they looked pretty grim, having not seen the light of day since last August, so dabbed on some nail varnish, but then I couldn’t move until the varnish had dried so I sat on the sofa, waving my feet in the air, glaring at the clock and thinking, Bloody stupid time to paint your toenails!  And then, of course, I had to slap on some moisturiser - it went everywhere.  Didn’t have time to clear it up so left the house like an anaemic bloodbath and raced to catch the bus.

It turned out to be that kind of day.

Mid morning I went to the lift to wait for my smoking buddy, only a Big Boss was out there waiting for the down lift.  It came, my buddy didn’t, so I suddenly pretended I wanted to go up and pressed the button for the other lift.  The boss’s lift closed and I quickly pressed the down button.  The boss’s lift opened again.  “This lift doesn’t seem to be working,” he said, just as the other lift came to go up.  Not wanting to look like a complete knob in front of Big Boss or the impatient person standing in the up lift, I got in.  Went up one floor.  Got out.  Ran down the stairs.  Met buddy (who said, “Where’ve you been?”).  Went for fag.

Afterwards I did something Really Really Stoopid.

My absent boss rang me to say he wouldn’t be coming into the office for another couple of weeks yet and, when he did, it would be on a part time basis and he would no longer be doing any of the work I really enjoy (like presentations and seminars and stuff).  Oh!  Bit of a surprise.  Texted my Partner to tell him, adding, “Really depressed!”  Pressed buttons on my new mobile phone, got it all completely wrong and sent the text not to my Partner but …

… and get this …

… sent the text to the Employment Agency Woman!!!!!  Screamed.  Started texting an apology to say it wasn’t meant for her, when my mobile rang and the Agency woman was saying, “Oh I’m sorry to hear that, leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

What a plonk!

This is just SERIOUSLY weird

Sunday 7

There is a reason why my Partner won’t allow me in the kitchen unless I have a written dispensation signed by my mother, the Pope and the President of the United States.  And there is a reason why I feel exceptionally lucky to have found a man who (a) can cook, (b) is good at it, and (c) actually enjoys it!

I cannot cook.  I have no sense of smell and can’t smell cooking until I see the smoke pouring out the oven.  I don’t enjoy it, nothing ever turns out as it should, and after 20 years of serving my long-suffering offspring my burnt offerings I don’t want to do it any more.

Thank God for my Partner’s culinary skills (there speaks a grateful atheist).

However, today, bright spark (moi) thought I’d boil some eggs to use for sandwiches.  Rushed in from buying Yet More Plants, dropped eggs into saucepan, put them onto boil, went out into garden …

… and promptly forgot about them.

We were happily digging away when we heard this explosion from inside the house.  Partner and I looked at each other as it was quite a loud bang.

Some vague memory of eggs made me scream, “Oh bloody hell!” as I legged it into the house with Partner hot on my heels.

Yep, the eggs had exploded all over the kitchen (who knew eggs could make so much mess!) and I was left with one very black saucepan.

“See,” I gasped, “I can’t even boil an egg!”

“Get out,” my Partner laughed, pointing firmly at the door, “And stay out.”

No problem!

Monday 8

Ugh, Monday.  A grey Monday.  With rain.  And it’s cold.  And miserable.

I haul carcass out of bed, but brain remains resolutely on the pillow.  I try to stir it but it just flips me the bird, so I have to go to work without it (nobody will notice).

I hate boring days, they’re just so … boring.  No bosses, no work, no motivation.  I sit at my desk, staring blankly at the computer screen, muttering “Got any work?” to anyone who passes.  Nobody has.  The whole department is quiet.  I file a document.  I stare at the screen some more.  I go for a fag. 

They’re moving furniture into the building (all these burly men with strange accents).  To protect the inside of the lifts they’ve put up padding.  It’s weird, like entering a padded cell.  Because I was totally bereft of brain cells and almost catatonic with boredom, I couldn’t resist doing my own impersonation of One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, banging my head against the wall, flailing my arms, screaming “I didn’t do it, let me out!”

Just another day in the office

My smoking buddy laughs nervously and stops coming with me on fag breaks, so I resort to welcoming people into the lift with the words, “Welcome to the padded cell.”

I resist the urge to start flailing.

Tuesday 9

Never have I been ill so often as when I started working in my ‘sick office’.  If someone coughs or sneezes at my place, people recoil (some run around shouting, “Hit the deck, there’s another virus on the loose!” … usually it’s me). 

I swear the company is putting chemicals in the Totally Naff air conditioning unit to ‘keep us all quiet’ (mob control).  Or else the place is so overrun with mice we’re actually breathing in mice droppings filtering down from the ceiling (yuk).

Whatever it is, it’s making me ill.  Again!

Got home last night (after probably The Most Boring Day in History) and promptly fell asleep at 7pm.  12 hours later I wake up.  In the intervening period, my skull has been stuffed full of sawdust and my throat rigorously sandblasted. 

I dragged the body out of bed this morning but it’s like moving a dead weight.  I have the energy level of a tranquilised sloth.

No work today then.  Instead, I slump all over the house until my Partner comes home (early, bless) from work, and then I slump all over him.

Wednesday 10

Sick.  Sick.  Bored.  Sick.

Cabin fever!

Partner came home from work, bundled my sad carcass into the car, and took me to a rather nice pub that we used to frequent then forgot about.  Black Horse, Illey - middle of the country place.

Looks like this:

Go there, its nice, does fab food and has The Most Gorgeous Barman behind the counter.

Will definitely be going back ... for the food, of course.

Thursday 11

Relations with 'the people next door' have always been a bit strained.  The bloke was an stroppy alcoholic who played loud music day and night, the woman was eye-wateringly timid.  Small Son started going out with their daughter so we tried to keep things amicable, but they were really difficult to get on with.  They were 'odd' and uncommunicative.  The alcoholic left about 18 months ago, and things quietened down.

Then the girlfriend got pregnant, Small Son moved in with them, and I now have a gorgeous granddaughter ...

... who I'm not allowed to see!

Out of the blue, the girlfriend decided she no longer wishes to bring my granddaughter round to see me (this has been going on for a few weeks now, I've hardly seen my granddaughter since she was born).  No reason, she just doesn't want to.  And she won't let Small Son bring the baby round either!  And nobody else from my family can see her (if members of my family go round, they're kept standing on the doorstep, the baby briefly brought to the door for a viewing).

I couldn't understand it.  I thought maybe it was because she's so shy, but I've always tried to make her feel relaxed and comfortable.  My whole family are friendly and welcoming.

Today, I found out the real reason.  Today, Small Son informs me that the mother - the other grandmother - no longer wants me in her house, right next door!  They won't come here, and I can't go there.  Why?  It's extraordinary.  The mother has suddenly decided she won't let me see my granddaughter until I take down fence panelling at the top of my driveway (which we put there after they hacked up 16 foot of my hedge when we were out -  see here for full story).  She wants to drive across my property and park her car in her garden.  No compromise, no discussion, no argument with the other neighbour's fencing arrangement, just do it or I won't see my granddaughter. 

Small Son is stuck in the middle - he lives there and just wants to keep the peace. 

I'm so utterly flabbergasted they're holding a baby to ransom I don't know what to do for the best. 

It's very upsetting.

Sunday 21 - Last weekend I was unceremoniously stripped of all grandparent duties (sods), this weekend I went into hospital - honestly, the joy just never ends!  Consequently, I've been a bit busy, but I'm now collecting up the remains of my humour with a dustpan and brush and Brummie Blogs will Resume Normal Service a.s.a.p.  Brace yerselves, its gonna be BIG!

WATCH THIS SPACE!

You better believe it

                                                         


And thanks to everyone who's been in touch about the baby thing, I have some very kind readers

I’m back!  A bit haggard, definitely a little frayed around the edges, but back.

God, the last couple of weeks have been crap.  In fact, this whole year has been annus horriblis.  The one thing I can normally depend on to get me through life’s shitty bits is my sense of humour, and guess what, the little bugger only went and did a bunk!  It ran off screaming, “F**k this for a game of soldiers, I’m outta here, man.”

Anyway, I chased it down, hurled its wriggling mass into a box, shook it a bit, and put it back.  It’s sitting there now, my humour, trembling like a whippet and twitching a lot.  I’ve given it a blanket, a couple of Kalms tablets and a litre bottle of whisky.  I think it might make it.

If it goes again, so will I.  Sanity is so hard to keep hold of sometimes.

So, back to blogging …..

Friday 12

After a great deal of thought, I sent The Girlfriend a text message as I thought this was probably the least confrontational thing to do.  I kept it as light and breezy as possible.

“Hi [Girlfriend].  [Small Son] tells me I can’t see [Granddaughter] unless I take down my fence panels.  I think we should probably talk about this, you, your mom, or both of you.  Let me know what you think.”

Absolutely no reply.

How do you even begin to deal with people like this?

Saturday 13

After much angst, I have decided to step away from the grandchild situation and let it run its course.  In fact, I’ve stepped so far back you can only view me through binoculars, I am a black blob on the horizon, bouncing up and down shrieking, “I’m not interfering!  I’m not getting involved in some convoluted family feud!” 

I’m going to stay calm and composed, retain a dignified silence in the hope that they might, eventually, see sense.  It’s not a very big hope, but I’m nurturing it anyway.

I did, however, say to Small Son when he came round today, “When your brothers have children, if you ever dare say I spoil them more than I spoil yours, I will beat the shit out of you.”

He nodded.

Being a grandmother has, therefore, been a very brief experience. 

I feel like I’ve had my arm cut off.

Sunday 14

Partner tires of my wailing and chest beating and bundles me into the car.  “C’mon,” he announced, “Let’s get the hell out of here and go out and enjoy ourselves for a change.”

We both glare furiously at the fence panels as we reverse the car off our driveway.

We thought we’d go to the Malvern Show, until we found but it was £13 a head entrance fee (expensive garden centre!).  Instead I suggest a Flea Market at Stow in the Wold in the Cotswolds which I saw advertised on the internet, which sounds quite nice, so off we toddled.

And off.

And off.

My partner, as always, used his built-in He-Man compass to guess the way, but when the scenery started to become familiar because we kept passing the same bits, he finally admitted defeat and flicked through the map book (yes, we do have one, he just prefers not to look at it - rather like having a headache and waiting to see how bad it gets before taking an aspirin).  Up a road.  Wrong way.  Down a road.  Possibility.  Nice drive though, and some of the houses are just mind-bogglingly gorgeous.

We’d bought the Daily Mail newspaper before we set off.  Inside was a free CD - Learn Spanish the Easy Way.  “Let’s put it on,” Partner suddenly said.  What?  He slotted it in.  It was dire.  With astonishingly bad acting, we hear a woman on the phone to her boss, who wants her to go on company business to Spain, only guess what, she doesn’t speak the lingo … cue Spanish man meeting her at the airport with tons of Spanish phrases while she giggles relentlessly.  Honestly, clubbing myself over the head with a brick would have been less painful.  But there was Partner, diligently repeating all the phrases and looking rather chuffed with himself. 

Driving.  Through the glorious Cotswolds countryside.  With some dopy tart shrieking “Buenos noches” and my Partner bellowing “No me molesta” (“I’ll flipping molesta you in a minute,” I groaned) 

It wasn’t until I howled for the millionth time and threw my head back in chronic boredom (almost concussing myself on the headrest in the process) that Partner relented and turned it off.  He muttered “Por que?” for the rest of the day. 

Two and a half hours after setting off, we finally arrived at Stow on the Wold. 

Posh place. We asked a bloke if we had to pay for parking and he looked shocked by my Partner’s Yorkshire accent – his expression was one you’d normally associate with alien invasion.  The bloke answered, only he was that posh we couldn’t understand him, so we left the car to it’s own devices and walked off in search of bargains.

We expected to see a typical outdoor market with stripy tarpaulins and thousands of people buying home made jam and farming equipment.  I was itching to buy plants and bric-a-brac and all sorts of shiny stuff.  But there was nothing in the main square.

We looked for signs.  There was one stuck on a lamp post.  “Flea Market”.  It pointed down a tiny side street.  At the end of the street, a church.  And, inside the church, the ‘flea market’.

It was five stalls.  No, really, five.  The church hall was no bigger than my living room.  It was a jumble sale and it was clear the people behind the stalls had been doing it for decades, trying to flog ancient items that had gathered dust like a heavy shroud year after year after year.  Mottled candles, ancient notepaper, a few old pictures and - yes - home made preserves.

I sniggered all the way round (which took all of four minutes), and then we hastily bought some marmalade and giggled our way outside again.

Not quite what we’d expected, but the trip cheered us up no end.

Which was just what we needed.

Tuesday 16

Go to see consultant about my ‘medical condition’ which is driving me round the bloody bend (if I were a man I’d have been rushed to hospital for a transfusion months ago).  After I’d whinged and whined and moaned a great deal, he said, “What are you doing on Saturday?”  I was a bit flummoxed, thinking he was a too old for me and certainly not my type at all, but then he added he was admitting me to hospital.

“Fine,” I said,  “Do whatever you have to, just make it better!”

He promised he would.

Private medical insurance - get it, its good.

Wednesday 17

A mate at work sent me a lunch appointment for drinkies.  Location was listed as FAFH.

FAFH?

“What’s that mean then?” I rang to ask her.

“Far Away From Here,” she cried.

So, not just me then. 

The atmosphere in our office is beyond diabolical now - management aren’t speaking to the secretaries/plebs so nobody knows what’s going on, bosses are leaving and we don’t know why, and the department’s about to be moved around Yet Again.  Definitely not a good environment to work in.

It’s pants, actually.

Why the hell am I doing this?  [And, from the far far distance, a eerie voice cries, “Poverty!  That’s why you do it, you daft bat!  Because the alternative is poverty.”  Ah, yes, that’s it.  Except … poverty is becoming more appealing by the day.]

Must think positive, must think positive …

Thursday 18

I blame it on the pressure I’ve been under lately, it’s certainly not a thing I’d normally do – in fact, it’s never happened before.

Went out with a mate at lunch to wander around the shops.  My mate wanted to drool over some boots she’d seen and I just tagged along.

So we’re in this shoe shop.  She’s drooling, I’m feigning interest because I hate shopping.

And then it happened.

It was almost like a stage light going on.  From across the other side of the crowded shop I saw these shoes.  Not the normal, sensible shoes I buy for work because I have a chronic aversion to any form of tottering, these had heels, proper heels.

Okay, they were black, but they were glittery black, entirely covered in the stuff you find on Christmas cards that ends up all over your face.

Glittery shoes with heels.

I couldn’t help myself.  Another 7 days until pay day.  I’m utterly broke.  I have nil dosh and certainly never any spare cash to splurge on mad indulgences.  Yet I still pick them up, turn them this way and that, marvelling at their shinyness.  I utter words I never thought I’d utter in a shoe shop.  “Ooooooh,” I gasped, a far away (some would say insane) look in my eyes, “Aren’t these the most gorgeous shoes you’ve ever seen in your life?”

I’m not a shoe person.  I have two black, flat-heeled pairs from Clarkes for work and a boring black pair for going out.  My shoe cupboard is laughably bereft.  It’s never bothered me.  Shoes are just things to stop your feet being ripped to shreds.

But here was the holy grail of shoes.  I wanted them.  I needed them. 

I bought them!

Met Partner in pub after work.  I sat him down.  I took out the box and laid it like an unexploded bomb on the table between us.  I breathed, “Look at these,” and took them out with enormous reverence.

“What do you think?” I asked excitedly.

“They’re very … shiny,” he said.

“I know,” I grinned, touching them, “Aren’t they fabulous?”

I’m now the proud owner of a pair of utterly girly, completely impractical pair of shiny, high-heeled shoes that look like black fruit pastels.

It just SO not ME!

Friday 19

No, I didn’t wear the shoes for work (toppling secretaries is so frowned upon).  I just stared at them for most of the night.  I think I might be in the midst of a bit of a nervous breakdown, if only I had the time.

Lunch with a girlfriend.  A migraine developed on my way to the coffee shop (that’d be the nervous breakdown trying to break free).  I popped two pink tablets and tried, in my semi-blind state, not to get mown down by city centre traffic.

Fortunately, because all I could see was this shimmering Aztec zig-zag across my eyeballs, my friend spotted me (I certainly couldn’t see her) and immediately started yakking.  I didn’t understand a single word she said (shrinking blood vessels cause the brain to shut down, and lets face it, it didn't have far to go) so I just nodded and smiled a lot.

The tablets kicked in after about 20 minutes.  I began to understand what she was saying, but just wanted to crawl under the table and go to sleep.

I was a zombie at work all afternoon. 

Saturday 20

To add to the general joy-fest that is my life lately, today I went to a private hospital for private treatment.  Get me! 

Hospitals have a different time zone to the rest of the planet, don’t they.  You walk in and everything just stops, like hitting a wall.  Nothing is rushed, nothing is hurried, time just seems to hang like a lead balloon. 

I was taken to a private room.  They took my blood, gave me some startlingly horrid stockings to wear, and said I was first on the list to “go down”.

Great.

After sending my Partner home (“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he wailed.  “Hey,” I told him, “If I had the choice, I’d leave.”), I read three hefty newspapers and sighed a lot.  I fell asleep, woke up, read a bit of book, fell asleep again. 

Then I wandered in my snazzy open-backed gown up to the nurses station and asked if there was anywhere I could go for a cigarette.  They looked at me like I’d just told them the world was about to end.  There wasn’t.

Oh.

Shuffled back to room.  Read through the newspapers again.  Slept again.  Tried not to think about cigarettes and thought constantly about cigarettes.  I didn’t feel nervous, I was just desperate for a fag.

Then a nurse arrives, leads me down the corridor in my snazzy gown into a lift.  Down another corridor into a room ominously filled with surgical equipment (you’d think they’d hide it, wouldn’t you, and put up posters of smiley faces instead).  In the middle of the room was a bed.  I jumped onto it and lie there, staring at the ceiling for what seemed like eons.  The anaesthetist suddenly bursts into the room like a hyperactive puppy, slaps my hand around a bit, then sticks in a needle.

“How are you feeling?” he asks conversationally.

“I’m lying on an operating table about to be wheeled into theatre to have terrible things done to my internal organs,” I told him, “How do you think I feel?”

And then the world disappeared.  I quite liked that bit.

I woke to the sound of snoring and thought I was at home.  When I opened my eyes I was quite surprised to see a man I didn’t recognise.  Luckily, he was in his own bed, opposite me, snoring away like a goodun.  We both had extremely bored looking nurses sitting next to us, waiting for us to come round.  I hoped I hadn’t, in my unconscious state, lashed out, dribbled, screamed or been abusive.

I’m wheeled back to my room. 

“Any pain?” I’m asked. 

“No, can I go now?”

“You’ll have to wait for the consultant.”

I waited.  I read my book.  I slept.  A nurse wandered in with medication.  “Any pain?” she asked.  “No,” I said.  “Oh, well take these tablets anyway.”  They could have been anything – laxatives, Viagra, Ecstasy – but I swallowed them and waited.

And waited.

And then my Partner arrived to take me home, joy of joys.  It was like the sun coming out.  He looked strangely relieved to find me still alive (at least I think it was relief … only kidding!).

It was nearly over.

We waited.  We sighed a lot.  We wondered if maybe the consultant had left the hospital to go for lunch or maybe fit in a short break to some foreign city or something.  Eventually he turned up and muttered some words I didn’t much like the sound of …

… and then he discharged me.

I was dressed and ready in 35.7 seconds.  I raced to the nurses station.  They sent me back to my room for ‘questioning’.  A nurse turned up, went through a questionnaire so incredibly slowly I swear I could have written a novel in the same amount of time, and then I was free!

Free!

Arrived at the hospital at 7am, escaped at 3.30pm.  That’s eight and a half hours without a cigarette, I was almost hallucinating.  If I had any pain I wouldn’t have felt it through the screaming desperation for nicotine. 

I lit up in the car and the world slid back into focus once more.  Went home, fell across sofa in an untidy heap, slept.  I slept through my mother and sister visiting with flowers (no mean feat!).  I slept until the early hours of the evening, then I went to bed.

Longest and slowest day in history.

Sunday 21

And … sssssssssleep.  One minute I’m reading a book, the next minute I’m in a coma.  Talking one minute, snoring the next.  Luxuriating in bath, then almost drowning in my sleep.

The anaesthesia keeps clobbering me like a baseball bat in the back of the head, my consciousness running off like a disobedient child.

It also rains.  All Day.  But I have seeds to plant before it’s too late.  Need to sow them straight onto the bed we’ve prepared.

Need to do it today.

So, in the absence of a break in the monsoon, I pull on my wellies and venture into the garden clutching an umbrella.

There we were, on a Sunday afternoon, me leaning against the shed trying to stay awake, scattering seed in the pouring rain, whilst Partner shovels soggy compost on top of them, shouting “You’re in the bloody way!” above the howling wind.

Gardening is such a relaxing pastime.

The seeds will never germinate after being battered by chunks of compost roughly the weight of house bricks and then drowned in a flood.

But I live in hope.

There’s always hope.

Later, as the thunder roared and the lightning flashed, I went into the garden to check on the survival rate of the plants.  My garden is a swamp and in danger of mudsliding into a huge pile against the bottom fence.  The runner beans are like skinny children clinging desperately onto the poles, the sprouts like ships’ sails cast adrift, and the pea shoots have given up the ghost and crawled back into the soil.

Felt like Bathsheba in Far From the Madding Crowd trying to save her crops in a storm.

As if the weather wasn’t bad enough, as I plodded down the garden I encountered a scene from Slither (which I will never watch or I’ll never venture outside again).  My garden is Slug Central, apparently.  There were dozens of the little buggers everywhere, all squelchy and horrible.  As I was in danger of freezing to death or drowning, I couldn’t be bothered to toss down slug pellets.  Instead I flicked them over the fence into the neighbour's garden.  That neighbour, where they’re holding my grandchild for ransom.

Pathetic, I know, but its these little indulgences that make life bearable.

Monday 22

I go to work.  I don’t know why.  I don’t have pain but the anaesthetic is still knitting jumpers with my consciousness.

I just … do.

Tuesday 23

The secretaries in our department all get an invitation to free drinkies and nibblies at the Red Bar & Lounge, primarily because the bar want to supply the food for our company meetings - had they done their homework properly they’d have realised our secretaries don’t have anything to do with ordering food.  But hey ho, a free drink is a free drink.

Me and a mate walked down Temple Street after work looking for the place, eventually locating a metal door that looked like it led into a warehouse.  Tentatively opened it and saw a narrow staircase going down towards a red glowing room - it was like a descent into hell.  Hmmm, a basement place = no windows = mild case of claustrophobia/panic/hysteria. 

Half way down the stairs was a wall with a window in it overlooking the bar.  I peered through it.  Instead of the standing crowds of gossiping women sipping wine and chomping through nibbly bits as we’d (foolishly) imagined, they were all sitting down at a long table holding ‘corporate packs’.  Very formal.

“Oh,” said my mate.

“Ah,” said I.

Without another word, we turned on our heels and made a brisk bid for freedom.  We headed instead for the nearest pub - good old Bennetts.  True, we had to pay for our own drinks (and a bowl of chips to stave off starvation), but at least we didn’t have to sit there, trapped, listening to corporate claptrap.

We get enough of that during the day.

Wednesday 24

Middle Son – he who is doing a masters degree in astrophysics at university – has his very last exam today.  He will never have to study again.  He will never have to stress or read books until the early hours of the morning or write another essay ever.

I’m almost as excited as he is.

At midday I phone him to congratulate him.  He’s in a pub.

He’s drunk!

“Go get bladdered,” I tell him, “You bloody deserve it.”

He does.

Well done!  Dead proud of ya, son.

Thursday 25

Pay day.  Good.  Not that I ever interact with it.

My bank have been sending me letters over the last few weeks reading, “We really need to see you.”  As it doesn’t mention anything horrible like suspension of my sorry account or an overdraft running into three figures, I ignore them.  They ring me at work.  They tell me they can save me money.  I make an appointment.

Which was today.

My finances are like a finely tuned engine.  I know (because I have to) where every single penny is going.  I don’t overspend and I don’t have credit (my motto being ‘if you ain’t got the cash, you can’t have it’ – consequently, I have nothing … except a shiny pair of shoes).

Anyway, they promise to save me money so I turn up for the meeting.  With a young bloke.  Who does not stop yakking.

Honestly, I can think of better ways to spend my lunch break that listening to some young whippersnapper telling me about his house buying empire.

He looks at my account.  I keep a straight face while he tries not to laugh.  There’s not a single personal expenditure on it.

Go on then, I dare him, save me money.

He then goes off into some spiel about a new credit card (“Don’t want it”), their rate for loans (“Don’t need one”) and the savings I could make on my mortgage. 

“You can save on my mortgage?” I gasp.  “Show me.”

He gets out a calculator.  I wait for his verdict.  When you have finite funds you make sure you have the best deals on the planet, trust me on this.  No stone is left unturned in the quest for a few extra quid.  His final figure is more than I’m already paying, just as I knew it would be.  We both start to lose interest.

How about a new account? he asks.  For a monthly fee (!) I could get free holiday insurance (assuming I could afford a holiday), cheap car cover (I don’t have a car) and a high interest rate (high interest on an empty account still works out at nothing).

Eventually, when we both realise we’re wasting our time, I leave.

Friday 26

Imagine this.  In January I was verbally attacked at work over a period of time which left me deeply distressed.  My management did nothing except tell me I’d imagined it.  I insisted my desk was moved away from this group, which it eventually was.

Now we’re having a department move-around.   Our bosses have been emailed the details, but the secretaries haven’t been told as, in the great corporate hierarchy, we are primeval sludge.  But we all have access to our boss’s emails. 

We’ve all seen the floor plans.

They’re only moving me back to the same bloody group!

I’m thinking of having a plaque made for the entrance to our building, something along the lines of ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’ or perhaps ‘Leave humanity at the door and brace yerself.’

I give up, I really do.

You must watch this (SO funny!)

A site to encourage your paranoia (watch video half way down page, s'amazing!)

Click pic to make your own road signs

Thanks to Arbroath for these - I'm always nicking stuff off him

I would like to say a huge thank you (bit like an Oscar speech, eh?) to my Partner, who is without doubt the nicest, most honest and down to earth person on the planet.  He's my rock.  When everything around me was falling to pieces (a bit like film set in a storm), he was there offering hugs and a shoulder to cry on every single time.  He has been infinitely patient with my wailing and whinging, and never failed to pick me up with his smile and his (sometimes truly awful) jokes.  He's been both outraged and concerned on my behalf and, basically, he's brill.  So a round of applause in appreciation of my fabulous Partner ... you're the best, mate.

Saturday 27

As a birthday treat for my dad, my sister and I took him and his wife to Halfpenny Green Vineyard as he’s big on growing vines.  The plan was to meet at dad’s house, and then travel in convoy in three different cars.

Yeah, like that was ever going to work!

We lost my sister within two minutes … two minutes (is this a record?)  We pulled over to wait for her, assuming that, as she was the only one who knew where this vineyard was, she would lead the way.  She didn’t, she pulled up behind us, so we headed off with only a vague directions.

Piss up and brewery spring to mind.

Twenty minutes later, dad was still with us, but sis had long gone.  We zigzagged through Stourbridge and backtracked a lot.  Still no sign of sis.

An hour later, we finally spotted her on the same road as us, except she was going in the opposite direction (of course she was!) 

We did, eventually, all manage to arrive at the vineyard.  It was raining so we shuffled into the café to wait for the weather to improve.  Coffee and clotted cream scones were ordered.  The coffee came but the scones didn’t.  We waited and chatted and waited some more and then, one by one, we began to lose the will to live.  A woman at the next table complained that she’d waited over an hour for baked spud and chilli.  “They’re making everything from scratch,” I joked, “Including our scones.”

I wasn’t wrong!  45 minutes later, our hot, freshly baked scones arrived.  Nice, but I think we were passed the point of hunger by that stage (and bloody parched since our coffee had long since been quaffed).  Here’s a little tip for the cook in the kitchen – anticipate customer demand and cook in bulk, not single portions!

My Partner, clearly of the view that six ‘cream coffees’ wouldn’t cost that much, offered to pay.  He approached the till with a cheery smile, and walked away afterwards looking like he’d just had his soul removed with a rusty screwdriver.

A quick shufty around the gift shop, and then out to admire the vineyards.

A vine.  A vine.  Another vine.  And another one.  Honestly, once you’ve seen one vine you’ve pretty much seen them all.  But hark, what’s this.  They sell plants.  Oh yeah!  I was like an Olympic sprinter, pushing people out of the way and screaming, “Plants!  Must have plants!”

‘This plant eats slugs’ one claimed.  “How many can we fit in the car?” I asked my Partner.  He was still clutching his wallet and looking worryingly pale.  “One,” he gasped, “Just one.”

I got two, but suspect they will barely make a dent in the thriving population currently chomping their way through my garden.

None of us had the stamina to follow each other home again, so we set off on our separate ways.

All in all, very nice day.

Sunday 28

It’s definitely a sign of (impending) middle age that the first thing I do when I get up in the morning is go out into the garden to see how much the plants have grown overnight.  This morning (at ‘stupid o’clock’) I was out there and, unknown to me, my Partner took a photo of ‘the mad old biddy in a dressing gown’.  And here it is, a picture of me!

That white table and chairs needed a post-winter clean.  I was going to wash it down with hot soapy water, but Partner held up his hand and said, “No!  I’ll do it!” in a really commanding manner which impressed me no end.  I sat down to watch.  No hot soapy water for He-Man Master of the Garden Furniture.  Instead, he hauled out the jet spray.  It was Power Tool Time (sigh).

Mucky water went everywhere, up the walls, the windows, the doors, through the hedge and into the neighbours garden.  The spray caught a pot I’d just sown some seeds in, and muddy compost (complete with seeds) was sprayed up the fence like some modern –art painting.

The table came up quite clean, but the garden was a dripping swamp.

Now in a power tool frenzy, Partner then started up the industrial size strimmer – and promptly turned a thriving bush into a stunned stick.  It was only after he mowed the lawn like a racing driver and put his foot through my greenhouse that I demanded he bloody well sit down before I throttled him with a variegated ivy.

Peace and quiet reigned once more.

Until the mega hedge-trimmer came out.

Monday 29 (BANK HOLIDAY)

Middle Son rang me last night.  His dad had told him about the granddaughter situation (I didn't want to bother him with it while he was doing his exams).  He said, “Mom, you’ve had a lot to cope with this year, you must feel like everything's coming at you at once.  But I just want you to know that none of it is your fault.  You’re a strong woman and you don’t deserve to be treated like this, at work or at home.”

I was so touched. 

I must have done something right to have raised such a considerate son.

Now if the other one could just get his finger out ... !

Tuesday 30

I asked Head Secretary if I could perhaps sit on the edge of the group who had ‘attacked’ me a few months ago instead of in the middle again, out of the ‘line of fire’ so to speak.

Far from showing even the tiniest bit of sensitivity, she was exasperated that I was questioning the new seating arrangements at all (me, a mere secretary, daring to question the floor plans that had been approved by the big bosses).   

“I can’t have secretaries dictating where they will or won’t sit!” she shrieked.

Have you ever had a moment of blinding clarity where you thought, hang on a minute, this isn’t right, not right at all?  And then something just clicks as the brain nudges you and says, er, what the hell are you doing standing there being spoken to like an unruly child!

I looked at her and thought, enough.

Just that.  Enough.

“Life’s too short,” I told her.  “The end of tether has most definitely been reached.”

And it has.  Long surpassed, in fact.  Who chooses to work in such a poisonous office?

They may have (temporarily) taken away my sense of humour, but they’ll never take away my soul - my sanity, maybe, but my soul, never. 

This has to end.

Wednesday 31

Today, I did it! 

I really did it.

I’ve been pondering and considering and wondering about it for months.  Should I, shouldn’t I?  Waiting it out in the hope things might get better, except they haven’t, they’ve got infinitely worse.  Going to work every day was an endurance test.  It was, quite literally, making me ill.

So I did it.  Today, I handed Head Secretary a letter.  I said to her, “Enough,” and walked off.

I’ve given my notice of resignation.

The sense of relief is just ENORMOUS!  I feel released.

There is absolutely no doubt I’ve done the right thing. 

My only regret is that I didn't do it a long time ago.

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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