IF YOU BUY ONLY ONE
BOOK THIS YEAR, LET IT BE THIS ONE (the
funniest book ever written in the history of mankind... really).
Excerpt If you buy only one book this year you're clearly
not trying hard enough - go to Waterstones immediately and spend vast
fortunes ... well, what are you waiting for, GO!
Have you read
this? Are you sure?[Supposed to take you to the end of last month's blog
but doesn't seem to work for me, does it work for you? Oh, just me
then ... again!]
Wednesday 1
I've decided that drastic action
needs to be taken in order to survive the daily agony of Waiting At Bus
Stops In Winter. I can’t take it any more! I can’t! I can’t!
So I’ve devised a cunning plan.
Well, actually, two.
1. Leave work, get to bus stop, CATCH THE
FIRST BUS THAT TURNS UP REGARDLESS OF DESTINATION AND JUST GET THE HELL
OUT OF TOWN.
Or
2. Organise 'Winter Survival' at the bus
stop. This would involve all waiting passengers huddling together for
warmth against the cold and the howling winds, just like penguins. This
might come as a bit of a shock to fellow commuters when I wrap myself
around them screaming, “Body heat! Need body heat!” but I’m sure they’d
get used to it after a while. I quite like this idea as there are a
couple of snazzy looking blokes at the bus stop most nights – hmm,
there’s a couple of ugly ones too, we’ll just stick them on the
outside.
I thought I might also get one
of those snow suits that explorers wear on their way to the Arctic, and
maybe an inflatable igloo (note to self: must watch Ray Mear’s Survival
Course on the History Channel to learn how to light a fire using a bus
pass and a pair of reading glasses).
Me walking home
As Gloria Gaynor sang, I will
survive.
I hope.
Thursday 2
Did a PowerPoint presentation
for my boss yesterday, put loads of snazzy clipart and whizzy bits in it
and was quite pleased with the results. My boss said the 'audience' had
commented on how good they were … oooooooooooh, get me. Even the Chief
Executive Officer of the company liked them (so take me off this temping
assignment and give me a proper job then!)
Anyway, sitting at my desk
today, minding my own, when the CEO came over to me. This isn’t unusual
as, unlike my last job (where the ‘them and us’ policy meant ‘them’
didn’t talk to ‘us’ if they could possibly help it), this company treats
people like human beans, which is nice.
So the CEO comes over to me and
says, “Was it you who did those slides yesterday?” and I nodded and
smiled and she said, “They were really impressive, very good indeed.”
And I was all blasé and casual about it, but really I wanted to stand up
and shout, “Hey! Can you all hear this? The CEO is praising me, can
someone take notes? Does anyone have a videocam?”
I gave away some trade secrets
about washouts and ‘send behind text’, and then the CEO wandered off
without saying anything like, “We must give you a permanent job,
you’re too valuable to the company” or “You’re brilliant, here, have
this massive pay rise.”
Ah well, can’t have everything,
I suppose. Suspect I'll still be here come retirement age,
croaking, "Gissa job. Go on, gissa job."
Friday 3
From the upstairs back window of
my house I can see into Birmingham city centre (so near, and yet so
bloody far when sitting on the top deck of a bus, assuming the bloody
thing actually turned up in the first place). I can see the
clock tower at The University of Birmingham (where I used to work),
the building works at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital (massive
cranes), and some of the
taller buildings in the city.
I can also see Mars (the planet)
most nights. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling people for the
last couple of months. It’s really red and bright in the sky, you can’t
miss it, it’s very impressive. As soon as it gets dark, there it is.
Clearly red. Clearly Mars. Sitting just above the horizon, just right
of the big tree in the next street.
I glance at it most nights,
thinking, “Oooh, Mars, innit red, innit bright.” S’been there for
weeks, now.
And then it vaguely occurred to
me that Mars doesn't actually move along with the rest of the
constellations. It just sits there, on the horizon, night after night,
motionless.
Hmmm, strange, thought the
single brain cell that still functions. Maybe it was an incoming
asteroid of Armageddon proportions and I should perhaps tell someone.
Or (excitement) it could be a UFO, broken down and just hanging there
inside its anti-gravity shield thingy.
And then I glanced out of the
back window this morning and saw it. The red light. Just visible in
the distance, above the horizon. Because its winter and all the leaves
have fallen off, I could see through the tree in the next
street. Mars wasn’t alone. It had a friend. A twin red light.
There were two of them!
The single brain cell that still
functions started laughing.
They’re only the lights on one
of the massive cranes at the QE hospital, not Mars at all!
Idiot.
[Slinks off, embarrassed]
JUST DISCOVERED: Exceptionally well written
blog - check it out.
And this - is that
man drop dead gorgeous or what?
ARGH! JUST FOUND
THIS: Can it be? Surely not! That's
my idea! WAH!
Saturday 4
Today,
my Partner went to pick up my Ex-husband (!), who was hiring a 7.5tonne
truck in order to bring Big Son down from Yorkshire to Birmingham (yay).
Ex-husband had clearly planned to sign and pay for said truck, then
catch the bus home whilst Partner travelled up the motorway, loaded up
Big Son’s belongings (including girlfriend), and drove everything back.
Ha.
Little did he know.
After
Ex had signed and paid and was turning towards his bus stop, Partner (a
manager of men) said to him, “What are you going to do all day, just sit
around and do nothing?” Before Ex had a chance to reply, Partner added,
“You might as well come and help us.” And he bundled a rather startled
Ex into the truck. [I killed myself laughing when I heard this, I'd
love to have seen his face].
So
Partner and Ex spent the day together (!!), with Partner (manager of
men) giving the others encouraging words like, “Come on, get the bloody
truck loaded, I want to get home tonight!”
He said
he’s never seen three people so unaccustomed to hard work. He also said
he’s never heard three people whinge so much.
So Big
Son and Girlfriend are back in Brum and staying at Ex’s house. I’m
really really pleased about this, it means I’ll get to see them more.
Offspring may grow up and leave to do their own thang, but you never
stop missing them.
Meanwhile, back at my house, I utilised my ‘free’ time writing up a
couple of chapters of Da Brummie
Code. Spent hours typing and honing and researching. I worked
really hard on it.
And
then I promptly lost the lot! Absolutely no idea how this happened. I
closed down the computer to go and do some housework and stuff, and when
I came back I couldn’t find it. Searched everywhere. I know the
importance of saving work as you go (I’ve lost work before and you only
experience the horror of that once to develop an obsessive CTRL+S
twitch). I’d downloaded the file off an email, but couldn’t actually
remember naming and saving it to the hard drive. I trawled the temp
folders but it wasn’t there. I searched relentlessly, but couldn’t find
it.
Nearly
a whole day’s work lost.
I was
gutted.
Sunday 5
Got up
early to continue search for lost file. No luck. It's like it
never existed.
Noticed
the cupboards are
bare so we went shopping. At Morrisons, as we like to tart up the
boredom aspect of the dreaded deed every now and again by venturing
further afield. Partner has recently been bringing tiny tins of stuffed
olives back from his Friday Drinkypoos With The Lads, and we’d developed
quite a taste for them, so thought we’d buy some.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeell, we couldn’t resist playing up in the supermarket
(again, something we do to curb the boredom). We kept shouting to each
other in really posh voices (well, as posh as we get), “Can you see the
stuffed olives, darling?” “No, darling, we really need to get the
stuffed olives.”
We
couldn’t find them and by the time we reached the checkouts (shuffling
miserably and muttering about our boredom levels), we realised we simply
couldn’t leave without them.
“Must
have olives!” Partner declared to all and sundry, and off he trotted.
After
I’d read several magazines and inspected the contents of everyone else’s
trolley, Partner came hurrying down the supermarket, olive jar held
high, shrieking, “I’ve got the olives, darling.”
And all
was well with the world.
Monday 6
Decided
I might try a bit of hypnotherapy to help me give up smoking and,
because funds are a bit tight, thought I might see if there was anything
‘cheap’ on the internet (Alan Carr’s session being over £100 doncha
know).
Anyway,
found a site that did all types of hypnotherapy that you could download
from your computer: stress management, weight loss, corporate
confidence, stuff like that. Started reading the testimonials, and came
across this one from someone who’d obviously had trouble sleeping, which
is rather alarming (you’ll see why):
“The
downloads have helped me to focus on the task at hand, and as I am nice
and relaxed after listening to them I find it has really helped with
getting off to sleep, whether it be at home, in a hotel room or in the
flight deck bunk of a Boeing 747-400. (The flight deck being my work
place!) David Abraham Airline Pilot , Virgin UK”
Never flying Virgin again!
Tuesday 7
They’ve put up signs all over the city centre. They read:
“I’m
worried about becoming a victim of crime … CRIME HAS DROPPED IN THE WEST
MIDLANDS.”
I find
them rather worrying. It’s a bit too
Orwellian
for my liking. Next they’ll be putting up signs that read, “Council tax
isn’t as high as you think,” or “You are feeling very happy.”
Perhaps
I should approach Birmingham City Council for some auto-suggestive
therapy for my smoking.
Wednesday 8
A day
from hell. Really. The worst.
First
off, I had a headache roughly the size of the African continent and felt
pretty rough (if a flu bug thinks it getting anywhere near me
it’s got another thing coming, snarl). Mid morning, my sister rang,
upset about something, which upset me. Then Partner rang and said he’d
had a huge row with his boss (again!) and was thinking of leaving
(again), and that threw me a bit. Then I couldn’t get a difficult
meeting together, it was like piecing gene cells blindfolded in a gale.
And basically I lost the plot somewhere around midday.
1pm
there was an employee meeting, so no chance of a break at lunch.
‘Informal and friendly sharing of views and opinions’ we were told.
Bollocks was it. It couldn’t have been more formal, and I don’t do
formal. We all sat round a boardroom table as boring, repetitive and
unnecessarily long-winded questions were flashed up on screen, about 150
of them! I slipped into a semi-coma 10 minutes in and, basically,
couldn’t muster the enthusiasm or the energy to speak at all. I’m only
surprised I didn’t start snoring.
After 3
hours of this excruciating torture, it ended, thank god. As I got up
from my seat, the woman leading the meeting literally pounced on me in
front of everyone and said, “Can I just ask why you didn’t
participate?” I was beyond thinking at that point and just muttered
something about not being in the mood, but it was the last straw. I
raced out of the room and went for a fag and a sob (going 3 hours
without a cigarette didn’t help matters either).
So
yeah, a pretty shite day.
Went
home and considered the benefits of unemployment.
Thursday 9
Headache gone, sister recovered, Partner still employed, difficult
meeting slotted into place like a jigsaw, and life sort of bobbed up to
the surface and continued as normal, which is just how I like it.
Made sure it stayed that way by yakking my face off all day, to the
surprise of the people who'd been in the meeting yesterday who thought I
was mute.
Found
this on
Arbroath’s website, which absolutely cracked me up. It’s about
students going abroad in their gap year and the messages/texts they send
home. These are two of my favourites:
I
am the most shit chalet girl ever. The idiot I was working with left
me as I'm apparently too laid back, so have had to cook for 12 people
all by myself, which has been a disaster, and this gap-year malarkey
has made any brain cells I did have completely disappear, so I made a
cake using olive oil, which tasted more like Mediterranean salad and
which I left in the oven too long, so I had to cut about 5cm off the
edge, which made it more of a cupcake, gave everyone red wine diluted
with white wine instead of kir, which was undrinkable, and then forgot
to put any baking powder in my scones so they burned in the oven and
looked more like little piles of poo. Then I had to remake my mince
pies as they all stuck in the pan (yes, you have to grease the little
bastards), which was a bugger.
Dad, you keep
complaining about my spending but the longer you fail to get this
problem sorted out, the more money will get spent. Beijing is an
expensive place to piss about going to banks all day, plus its 39
degrees outside, which makes me annoyed the minute I step out of the
hotel. Seriously, I don't know how much longer I can last . . . I'm
fucking fed up with this, stop sending me sarcastic emails and telling
me "it doesn't add up". I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. Just go down to HSBC and
don't leave until you're convinced that something has taken place
which will enable me to come home . . . I don't care if you have to
use all your savings to pay off my overdraft, or if you have to sell
your car, PLEASE JUST GET ME HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I feel
I got off quite lightly when Middle Son went travelling, with just a
midnight phonecall from Paris
saying he was lost and could I search the internet for the nearest
campsite, and a couple of texts asking (very nicely) for some money.
Friday 10
Friday!
Friday! Friday!
Friday
is a bit like having Christmas day once a week, that sense of
achievement at having survived, that feeling of Going Home And Doing
Absolutely Nothing. Even the elusive bus situation doesn’t bother me on
Friday.
Stood
at bus stop tonight. There was already a bloke waiting there. After 10
minutes he started pacing up and down the pavement, tutting every time a
bus came. I knew which bus he was waiting for, the same one as me.
Eventually the bloke came up to me and said, “Does the number xy still
run?”
I was
right. It was my bus. “Yes,” I told him, “But sometimes its seems as
if it doesn’t.”
“What
time is it due?”
“Your
guess is as good as mine, mate.”
“I’ve
been waiting for 20 minutes,” he wailed.
Only 20
minutes? Pah. Lightweight. “I’ve stood here waiting for up to an
hour,” I told him, which went down well.
“Every
single number on that bus sign,” the bloke ranted, pointing up at the
bus sign, “Has been and gone, except the number xy.”
“I
know.”
“There’s been three number 00s, four number 01s and the
number 02 seems to come every couple of minutes.” I thought he was
going to burst a blood vessel.
“You
don’t have to tell me, mate,” I drawled, “I do this every single day.”
Our bus
came about 10 minutes later. It pulled up at the bus stop and promptly
turned off the engine. There was some altercation with a bus passenger
(some teenager with a mouth like a cess pit) not paying his fare, so
the driver made everyone get off..
The
bloke walked off in a huff. I continued to stand there like the
professional commuter that I am.
I got
home eventually. I always do. Eventually.
Saturday 11
Still
sulking about The Lost File from last Saturday. Losing work (especially
so much of it) is like losing keys or money – you know
it’s in the house somewhere, but you don’t know where. So dug deeper
into hidden files, temp files, system files. I was like a fevered
detective, I went so deep into Windows I thought I might never escape.
It had to be in there somewhere, and I was determined to find
it. I ventured into places even programmers would fear to
tread.
And
guess what, I did it! I found it! My work!
Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssss!
[Da
Brummie Code Part 7 and 8 coming soon to a computer screen near you
- s'good, honest, there's a crushed Volvo in it (worth reading just for
that, says the ex-biker phnar phnar)].
Sunday 12
Went into town to watch the turning on of the
Christmas lights last night. Dashed into HMV first (before they closed)
because, after much pithering and dithering about the expense of buying
Season 5 of
24, we decided we simply couldn’t wait a moment longer. I wonder
(vaguely) how sad it is that the purchase of a DVD can cause such
unmitigated excitement.
Then, clutching our little box
of joy, we set off towards the big event at
Millennium Point.
I
wasn’t entirely sure where Millennium Point was - someone said it was
behind Marks and Spencers, so we headed there.
It was bloody miles away,
nowhere near the city centre at all. I wasn't impressed. The
stage and a few fairground rides were in the car park of the shopping
centre, not a patch on Centenary Square where they used to hold these
types of events (where you could actually see the lights going on … at
Millennium Point, everyone must have had to turn around and raise a hand
to their eyebrows to peer into the distance for a faint light on the
horizon).
We didn’t stay that long,
anyway. Once I’d seen Elliot “can you take 3 steps back” Webb and
Caroline “we’ve lost a child wearing a pink parka” Martin from
BRMB’s Breakfast Show and Sportacus from
Lazy Town (the most surreal children’s programme on tv) we wandered
back into the city to watch the lights come on.
Partner, who knows how to treat
a woman Yorkshire-stye, took me for a meal … at MacDonalds. Tipped
whisky from our flasks into our Cokes and kind of staggered through
heaving crowds of hyperactive teenagers up New Street, waiting for the
lights to come on.
We sat. And sipped. And
waited. I expected a sudden eruption of brightly coloured lights, but
they came on one by one, in no particular order. All very
disappointing, really. But, buoyed by whisky and coke, we didn’t care,
and snogged a bit at our lonely bus stop. It didn’t seem to matter that
the bus didn’t come for ages, either, because the person I rush home for
was with me [sick bags available upon request].
Burst into house, slotted in the
first 24 DVD, and sighed in delighted anticipation.
Some Jack Bauer
miscellanea
Once,
someone tried to tell Jack Bauer a ‘knock knock’ joke. Jack Bauer
found out who was there, who they worked for, and where the goddamn
bomb was.
If
everyone on ‘24’ followed Jack Bauer’s instructions, it would be
called ‘12’.
It’s
no use crying over spilt milk … unless that was Jack Bauer’s milk. Oh
you are so screwed.
There
is the right way, the wrong way, and the Jack Bauer way, which is
basically the right way but faster and with more deaths.
Jack Bauer once killed so many
terrorists that, at one point, the #5 CIA Most Wanted fugitive was an
18 year old teenager in Malaysia who downloaded the movie Dodgeball.
If Jack Bauer were a woman
Honestly, could you even begin to imagine if Jack Bauer were a hormonal
woman?
Scenario
1: Jack Bauer walks across CTU office, scowling. Chloe walks
passed and says, "Hi Jack, how you doing?" Jack pulls out gun and
shoots her, screaming, "For
God's
sake, can't you people just leave me alone! I'm having a farking bad
day here!"
Scenario 2: Jack Bauer chases after baddies into a warehouse,
where they turn and start shooting at him. Jack falls to his knees,
sobbing uncontrollably, crying, "I just want to know where the bomb is, is
that too much to ask sniff?"
Psssst: I'm trying
to compile a CD for Secretaries in time for the Christmas rush, but only
have three tracks so far -
Working 9 to5
(Dolly Parton), The Typewriter (Leroy Anderson) and We Gotta Get Outta
This Place (The Animals) ... need suggestions :-)
Monday 13
The bus survival is going quite
well. I jump on the first bus that turns up regardless of destination
and walk the rest of the way home (joy).
But I am encountering a tiny
flaw with this plan. Sometimes, after a hard day at work, when the
brain cells aren’t functioning at full capacity (when are they ever), I
get on the bus and promptly forget which one I’m on.
Consequently, I’ve stayed on
buses where I should have got off and have to walk miles in the
wind and the rain in the dark.
Or (more annoyingly) I sometimes
get off the bus that would have taken me almost to the front door.
Went out to do some Christmas
shopping at lunch as I’d had a bit of a panic attack when I realised
there were only 5 weeks left for The Big Day and I had a total of one
present. (My boss, who clearly has the shopping gene that I so sorely
lack, has done all of hers, and wrapped them, but
adamantly refuses to do mine tsk).
It was absolutely bucketing
down with rain and I bravely ran the gauntlet of New Street, taking my
life in my hands as I avoided Other Peoples Umbrellas. After three
minutes of dodging and prodding and lots of head stabbing, I’d had
enough and leapt into Accessorize to buy a hat. Much better.
Bhs. Works. Even stood outside
Waterstones considering going inside (fatal for a bibliophile) but
resisted magnificently.
“Did you get any pressies?” my
boss asked when I got back.
“No,” I said (dripping all over
my desk), “But I got a hat.”
She gave me one of those looks
that people often adopt when they’re trying to figure out what’s wrong
with me. I’m used to it.
[Asked partner what he thought
of new hat. In his best John Wayne impression, he said, “Well hello
there, pilgrim.” Pliered off the buckle.]
Wednesday 15
Left brolly at work last night
and, as it was still bucketing monsoon-style with a gale force
wind thrown in for good measure, I plonked my new hat on my head to
brave the elements. As it was cold I wore my black shawl over my black
mac, and my long boots with heels.
I strutted through town feeling
pretty groovy, a true city slicker. I was going for the female
gangster/sultry Lauren Bacall/smart goth look.
What on earth made me think I
could ever pull that off! Honestly, I have the fashion
sense of a blind amoeba.
Wasn’t until I strutted home
that night and looked in the full length mirror in the hallway that I
saw the full, horrifying truth. Far from looking like a rather
suave office type of the upper calibre, I actually looked like a very
tall witch.
Ah well, I can’t get it right all the time … or
ever, in fact.
Thursday 16
Casino
Royale. Yawn. Yet another Bond movie. Yawn. A man movie with
lots of gadgets and car chases and sickeningly gorgeous women wearing
not a lot.
But wait! What’s this? The new
Bond-bloke doing an interview on tv. Oh! My! God!
I was perched on the edge of the
sofa, pointing frantically at the tv set, barely able to speak.
Is Daniel Craig the most
gorgeous man on the planet, or wot?
Those eyes. That mouth.
I’m hooked. Never watched a James Bond movie in my life, but I’ll go
and see this one, just for the scene where Daniel Craig [swoon] walks
out of the sea [flop] all bare chested with that sexy pout [dribble].
His picture was on the front
page of
The Guardian today. The Guardian was on a work colleague’s desk and
I skidded to an abrupt halt as I walked passed and snatched up the
paper. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” I panted. Work colleague agreed. And so
did another one. And another one. It took mere seconds for a group of
femmes to form around The Guardian, all drooling and hyperventilating.
S’gonna be a hit.
[My Partner (suspect a bit
peeved) said, “If he’s your ‘type’ how come I look nothing like him?”
To which I diplomatically reply, “You’re a real live man-type of the Tom
Selleck/Bruce Willis/John Wayne variety, Daniel Craig [flop] is just
something nice to look at. Do you mind if I put this life-size poster
up in the bedroom?”]
Friday 17
Funny how, just as you’re losing
the will to work on Friday afternoon, there’s a sudden rush on around 3
o’clock. I call it the Frantic Friday Syndrome (also known as F**k!
Friday!). Happens in every single office I’ve ever worked in.
Anyway, survived that and
cartwheeled in glee to the bus stop. Amazingly, my proper bus turned up
(yay! no marathon walk at the other end!). It was packed and steamy and
uncomfortable, but I didn’t care, I was going home.
At Harborne, the bus suddenly
turned off the engine and the lights went off. “Last stop!” the driver
yelled.
What? When, in the history of
commuting, has the route ever finished in the middle of Harborne?
250 people mumbled their way off
the bus and stood on the pavement in a mass of misery, joining the
hoards of people already waiting there.
And it was raining.
Buses drove passed but didn’t
stop – inside, a multitude of pained faces were pressed up against the
steamed up windows
I tell ya, every day is a journey of adventure.
Got home an hour and 15 minutes after I left the
office. Tore off the witch outfit, cracked the
seal on a bottle, and made like broccoli in front of the tv.
Bliss.
Saturday 18
It’s
my birthday tomorrow (ARGH! No, really,
ARGH!). I'm struggling
to keep the hysteria and the uncontrollable sobbing in check. I’ve
booked Monday off work to recover from the excesses that will inevitably
happen as I endeavour to drown my sorrows.
Its not so much birthdays per se
that bother me, it’s another notch on the age that’s upsetting. Inside,
I’m still 19 (I said this to Partner the other day, and he said he still
felt 21. I looked at him and said, “I’d have put your mental age closer
to 12, actually.”)
Last year’s birthday photo …
Catherine Zeta Jones
This year’s birthday photo …
You know you’re getting old
when …
You're asleep, but others worry that you're dead.
You
have a party and the neighbors don't even realize it.
Your
back goes out more than you do.
You
quit trying to hold your stomach in, no matter who walks into the room.
Your
arms are almost too short to read the newspaper.
You
sing along with the elevator music.
You
consider coffee whisky one of the most important things in life.
You no
longer think of speed limits as a challenge.
People
call at 9 pm and ask, "Did I wake you?"
You
know what the word equity means.
You
can't remember the last time you lay on the floor to watch television.
You
talk about "good grass" and you're referring to someone's lawn.
Kissing your partner is accompanied by the sound of clashing spectacles.
You and your teeth don't sleep together.
Your try to straighten out the wrinkles in your socks and discover you aren't wearing any.
At the breakfast table you hear snap, crackle, pop and you're not eating cereal.
It takes two tries to get up from the couch.
When your idea of a night out is sitting on the patio.
When happy hour is a nap.
When you're on vacation and your energy runs out before your money does..
When you say something to your kids that your mother said to you and you always hated it.
When all you want for your birthday is to not be reminded of your age.
Your idea of weight lifting is standing up.
It takes longer to rest than it did to get tired.
Your memory is shorter and your complaining lasts longer.
You sit in a rocking chair and can't get it going.
Getting "lucky" means you found your car in the parking lot.
The twinkle in your eye is merely a reflection from the sun on your bifocals.
It takes twice as long to look half as good.
Everything hurts, and what doesn't hurt doesn't work.
You sink your teeth into a steak - and they stay there.
You give up all your bad habits and still don't feel good.
You have more patience, but it is actually that you just don't care anymore.
You finally get your head together and your body starts falling apart.
You wonder how you could be over the hill when you don't even remember being on top of it.
You feel like the morning after and haven’t been anywhere.
Your children begin to look middle aged.
You finally reach the top of the ladder and find its leaning against the wrong wall.
You turn out the lights for economic rather than romantic reasons.
Your knees buckle but your belt won’t.
Your pacemaker makes the garage door goes up when you see a pretty girl.
UPDATE: Mummybeans came this afternoon
with birthday pressies (a whale poster, a bug poster, a bar of
chocolate, a book she'd just read and a card containing what sounds like
basmati rice - gene-wise I don't stand a chance really, do I). I
told her I'd had my will done and we started chatting about all things
deceased.
"How do you want to be buried?" Partner asked her.
"Ooh, I don't know," she said. "I hadn't
thought about it. Surprise me."
"Okay," Partner replied, when I was already
killing myself laughing, "We'll bury you at sea,
that'll surprise you, won't it."
Sunday 19
And so the pain begins. I make an effort to
look my best in my rapidly declining years and put on makeup (which I
don't often do on weekends, preferring the natural can't-be-bothered
look). When I peer in the mirror to paint my eyes without blinding
myself, I actually look older than I did yesterday! The crying
starts.
My dad and sister come bearing gifts, but nothing
from offspring. I wail about giving them the best years of my life
and this is how they repay me (sniff). Big Son never remembers.
Middle Son has, I know, put something in the post but it hadn't arrived
(sniff). Small Son, he who lives right next door, has clearly
forgotten. I send him a text message - "Old Chinese proverb: if
you want to live a long and happy life never but never forget your
mothers birthday." He comes round later with flowers and a card.
The most worrying present was from my boss.
She bought me a little bowling game called Tenpin To Go. As I'm still a
temp at the mo, I'm hoping this isn't a subtle pun.
Lunch at
The
Innkeepers Lodge in Quinton, which was absolutely packed but we
stayed anyway, eating our own bodyweight. The drinking continued
at home whilst slobbing wonderfully in front of the tv yakking our faces
off (Middle Son is always horrified that we don't watch films straight
through, we keep pausing for loo breaks, drink breaks, yak breaks ... it
can take us hours).
All in all, rather a nice day.
Apart from the trauma of being older.
Monday 20
Recovery. I take the day off work to Do My
Own Thing - sitting in front of the fire with my laptop, not even
bothering to get dressed. And Middle Son's present arrives (thanks
MS :-).
I could seriously get used to a lifestyle like
this, I'm so cut out to be a slob.
It's done!
Chapter 7. Rivetting stuff.
Index here if you're new to
the frantic race around Birmingham city centre looking for clues.
Publishers and film producers with eye-watering contracts can contact me
here.
Tuesday 21
I had a ‘moment’ tonight coming
home from work (and nothing to do with the buses either). It was a BIG
moment. I put some new music on my MP3 player yesterday, some old CDs I
wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep or sell on e-bay.