NOVEMBER

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)].

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. 

I’m getting a lot of exercise though.

The Office Plan

You know you work in an office when …

Microsoft TV Dinner

Tuesday 14

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.”)

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.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

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.

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. 

Got on bus and started listening to Tubular Bells III.  Bit boring.  Very 70s.  Very electric guitar and Mike Oldfield playing all these different instruments just to show he could play them.  Then, just when I’d decided that it was definitely an e-bay product, track 8 started playing.

Oh my God, the memories!  Top of the Morning was what I used to listen to, years ago, over and over again.  My marriage was about to implode and I was lonely and miserable and unutterably sad, and this music just did it for me – I played it almost non-stop.  The emotions flooded back as I got off the bus and walked up the road. 

And then I rounded the corner into my road and saw my house, all lit-up and warm.  In the midst of my melancholia, Partner just happened to look out of a window and saw me, smiled, waved.

And I thought, look at me now.  Look how much things have changed.

I won’t be selling Tubular Bells III, as bad as it is.  I’ll keep it to remind me that everything turns out alright in the end.

Wednesday 22

Bloody music is in my head all the time, I’m emotionally exhausted! 

Dashed to Waterstones at lunch clutching my precious birthday tokens (yay!).  As a chronic bibliophile, I only allow myself through the hallowed doors of Waterstones twice a year or if I have a book voucher, so this was a serious event.

Hyperventilated in the midst of all those luverly luverly books.  Picked up Peter Kay, which I definitely wanted, then picked another book, then found a better book, then a better one, then I got all confused and wanted them all but forced myself not to go above the £20 voucher (such incredible restraint).  I eventually decided on (and get this) … Jordan’s biography!!!  Not something I’d normally consider buying with my own money, but felt frivolous with the freedom of a voucher.

[On the subject of books, I bought The Devil Wears Prada from Tescos on New Street too – I don’t consider Tescos to be a serious book buying exercise.  My boss said she’d read it and told me the storyline;  terrible, demanding, monster of a boss who makes secretary’s life a misery.  I said, “Oh, is it based at the legal firm where I worked?” J]

Got home and found partner in the bedroom putting the cover on our new fluffy duvet.  We lay on the bed yakking.  Not sure if it was the fluffiness of the duvet, if we were being extremely lazy, if we bored each other, or if we were just knackered, but we both fell asleep for a couple of hours.  Bit of a shock to wake up and realise it wasn’t morning (and that we were both weak with hunger).  Ate and went back to bed. 

The urge to hibernate at this time of year is obviously still strong.

Thursday 23

Do you know how long it took me to get home from work tonight?  20 minutes.  It normally takes the best part of an hour, but tonight, a mere 20 minutes.

Why?  Because the bus driver was a bloody psychopath, that’s why. 

I’ve never (ever!) been on a bus that’s skidded sideways because it was going that bloody fast.  Adrenaline coursed through my body.  I was sitting on the top deck at the front and actually lifted my feet up to brace myself, muttering ‘farkin’ hell’ quite a few times.  I didn’t blink for the entire journey because I didn’t want to miss the cause of my own death.

When I hurried to get off at my stop before we flew passed it, a woman stood in front of me by the door gripping desperately onto a pole.  She turned to me with wide eyes as we hurtled down the road, and said, “Berluddy ‘ell.”  I said, “I know!”  We both dared to look at the driver, but he was hidden in his dark cab, oblivious to the terror he was causing.

I may have got home fast, but it took me two hours to stop shaking, and I’m not joking, I was that scared.

I want to speak to the person in charge of customer services at Travel West Midlands, I want to tell them what it’s really like out there, how bloody awful the service and some of the drivers are.  I want them to join me on my daily journeys, and tell me if the interminable wait and the horror and the terror and the whole soul-destroying journey is acceptable.

Come on, Kerry Meredith, Customer Services Manager, email me and we’ll set a date.

Friday 24

It’s just one extreme to the other with these buses.  I could write a book!  For anyone who doesn’t catch buses, don’t for one instant think it’s simply a case of getting on a bus and getting off at your destination.  Oh no, there’s a lot more to it than that, it’s the bit in between that makes it oh so interesting.

So last night my bus travelled at roughly the velocity of a supersonic jet.

Tonight we entered the slowmo-zone.  Traffic.  Lots of it.  It started two minutes after I got on the bus and lasted for 90 minutes – an hour and a half to travel three miles inch … by … agonising … inch.

Read three pages of a book, looked out the window, the scenery hadn’t changed.  We pulled up outside someone’s house and I managed to watch almost a whole programme of Deal or No Deal on their tv.

Snails raced passed.  Small children who had just learned to walk raced passed.  An old man with a wooden leg dragging a chest full of heavy metal raced passed (not really, I made that bit up).

I started to slip into a catatonic state.  I actually fell asleep (woke up, looked out of window, scenery hadn’t changed).  Texted my partner: ‘I’ve lost the will to live.’  He rang me offering to pick me up, but the traffic was so bad it wasn’t worth it.

Finally crawled into Selly Oak, which is nowhere near where I live.  Partner rang again.  “Get off the bus,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m in Selly Oak and I can see your bus.”

“How do you know it’s my bus?” I asked.

“Because it’s the only bus I’ve seen for 20 minutes.”

So I got off, and there he was, my hero, my saviour, waiting for me in his car.

He whisked me off to a country pub where I had a bit of a rant about public transport and Birmingham gridlocks, and tried not to fall asleep in my food.

Saturday 25

It’s a bit like a soap opera, but it goes something like this.

Grandchild born, I’m thrilled, all is well.  Then the other grandmother (who lives right next door, where my son and girlfriend live) suddenly decided, completely out of the blue, that I wasn’t welcome in her house unless I took down the fence we’d put up to fill the 16 foot gap her husband had left pulling up our privet hedge so she could drive her car across our driveway into her wedge shaped garden.

Following so far?

Girlfriend immediately decides that she doesn’t want to come round to my house any more (like she’s been doing for the last few years) because, completely out of the blue, she’s decided she doesn’t like my partner, no idea why.  She won’t even let Small Son bring my granddaughter round whether my partner is here or not – I’ve spent hours sitting in the house when my Partner is in Yorkshire for the day waiting for a visit, but they never come.

Bit of a Catch 22 situation, isn’t it.  I can’t go there, granddaughter doesn’t come here, Small Son stuck in the middle not quite sure what to do because he lives with them and doesn't want to make things any worse than they already are (and he has tried, but the girlfriend just goes into silent mode and refuses to speak to him).

I’ve tried to stay positive and friendly and not let it get to me.  I've tried reasoning with the girlfriend and her dozy mother, but they won’t talk – the girlfriend walks out, the mother just grins and says there’s nothing she can do.  I’ve tried going round to work it out, but I’m left standing on the doorstep.   I’ve sent gifts and flowers and texts asking if she wants to come baby shopping or do lunch or wants to come round for a cup of tea, and received no response.  I hear my granddaughter singing in the house next door, and I sit and cry because I miss and love her so much. 

It's reached the stage where I want to go round and slap the girlfriend, and on the few occasions I've seen the other grandmother (rushing to her car in the morning to avoid me) I've actually felt physically violent.  Its like I'm banging my head against a wall, and just as painful.

Small Son came round the other night and said his girlfriend would allow my granddaughter to come round for the first time in weeks if my partner left the house.  As my partner was in his dressing gown, was knackered after a rough day at work, and because it was bloody freezing outside, I told him to tell her to get stuffed, I wasn’t being dictated to by an 18 year old.  Yeah, okay, I lost patience, but it’s been 10 months and I’ve only seen my granddaughter a few times since she was born, I’m allowed to lose it every now and again.  Small Son didn’t tell her what I’d said.

Now, in a last ditch attempt to get something sorted out, I’ve written the girlfriend a letter.  The question is, should I give it to her?

Sunday 26

Well blow me, a development in the granddaughter saga!  Small Son brought her round today – I’ll try not to go on about how cute and gorgeous and clever she is… but she is.  He said his girlfriend nearly came round too, a first for MONTHS.

Only problem was that my partner had to leave the house (!).  Not happy about this.  I told them he was going out anyway, just so it didn’t seem as if we were relenting to her demands, but he had to stow away at my dad’s house for an hour.  It won’t be happening again, I’m not sending my man out of his own house on the whim of some teenager.

But at least I got to see my granddaughter, which was brilliant.  And I didn’t give the girlfriend the letter as it didn’t seem appropriate.  But I still have it.  [Thanks for everyone who commented on this, good to get a different perspective].

Suspect this won’t be over for a long time yet, if ever.

Monday 27

On Saturday morning I declared that we go shopping up town for crimbo pressies.  The blood drained from Partner’s face.  Barely able to speak from shock, he uttered a few tiny words of protest, then suddenly found himself driving to the train station.  No escape now, buddy, s’gotta be done.

Oooh, he did whinge.  Town was heaving, it was so busy that thousands of people (including us) had to shuffle up New Street.  There wasn’t an inch of space anywhere, and you couldn’t get in some of the shops because there were so many people in them (some at the back clearly looking a bit worried about their chances of survival).  I tell ya, if you don’t suffer from claustrophobia when you start, you certainly do by the time you finish.

Partner went into Next and bought vouchers, declaring that he was finished and could we go home now. 

Nope.

By sheer willpower and teeth gritting determination, I amassed a satisfying amount of carrier bags.  Then we treated ourselves to a mulled wine in the German market (where a man holding his Gluhwein mug was heard to gasp, “I can buy 8 cans of Stella for that much!”).  Partner spilled his into a carrier bag, saying “It’ll make the presents smell festive” as he mopped it up with a hanky.  Then we shuffled back down New Street and, much to my partner’s relief, caught the train home.

We shopped in Birmingham city centre on a Saturday near to Christmas, and lived to tell the tale!

Tuesday 28

The Crimbo festivities at work have started (yay!) – including the process to take me on permanently (double-yay!). 

Someone (okay, me) has organised a girly gathering at the German market on Friday … it’s called Girls Go Mad because (blare of trumpets) we’ll be going down the helter skelter at the top of New Street.

Everyone readily agreed to this … at first.  Then they realised that the innocent looking helter skelter was actually four floors high, and they started chickening out.

Oh no.  I wasn’t having that.  So I sent them all an email:

“There are rumours that some people are considering opting out of the Helter Skelter experience on Friday.  Please be aware that this is a mandatory event and there is no ‘opt out’ clause unless:

• * You have written dispensation from the Pope
• * You have a doctors note (limbs in cast only)
• * Your screaming attracts a lot of attention

I shall be liberally coated in Vaseline to ensure my eventual exit off said skelter.  I will also be carrying a shoe horn, a crowbar and a small parachute for emergencies.

The 12 year old inside you (or is that just me?) insists that you try the helter skelter experience.  And don’t forget the Sunscreen Song: “do something every day that scares you” … this’ll cover your daily scares for at least the next three months, so that’s one less thing to worry about isn’t it.

P.S. If its persisting with rain on Friday we’ll reschedule – although a slide down a wet and slippery helter skelter at roughly the speed of a spaceship on re-entry might be quite interesting.”

Wednesday 29

Christmas festivities Part II.  Someone sent out an email inviting everyone to a skating session in Centenary Square after work. 

As I’ve never skated in my life, I replied: “Might pass on this unless you have two hunky men (preferably in uniform) to support me … splayed on the floor like a pained starfish is not a good look for a woman of my age.”

The organiser replied, “Come on, might be fun.”

Me: “Shattered hips and concussion isn’t my idea of fun.”

Organiser: “I will see if I can get a Blond Bond look alike to hold us all up.”

Me: “Keep me posted on the Daniel Craig lookalike and might reconsider.”

It’s just non-stop excitement round my place. 

BIG NEWS:  Today I received a text message from Girlfriend asking about Christmas presents for Small Son.  I was gobsmacked.  Things are definitely looking up if she’s started communicating.  I replied, inviting her to lunch in the German market with granddaughter, and she said, “Yeah, okay.” 

I’ve started daydreaming about having a normal family that come to visit on Sundays, all jolly and happy, but really I think Girlfriend is just after a decent crimbo pressie.  (“What shall I get Girlfriend for Christmas?” I asked Small Son.  “She doesn’t deserve anything after being such a bitch to you,” he replied, which isn’t terribly helpful on the pressie front).

Thursday 30

Festive Fun in the Office

Do this in Word … type 'the', highlight it, go to autocorrect, type in ‘bugger!’, save and close.  Then when boss comes and leans over your shoulder dictating directly, every time you type ‘the’ it’ll change to ‘bugger!’  Swear blind to boss you don't know why this is happening.

I’ve done the autocorrect on someone else’s computer when they were away from their desk, forgot about it, then realised there were an awful lot of people round this person’s desk all trying to figure out why it wasn’t working properly.  I sauntered over and casually said, "Oh yeah, that happened to me," and fixed it before they found out who the culprit was (phew).

A post-it note underneath someone’s mouse is my particular favourite, they NEVER think to check the ball. 

And talking of balls, did you know you can tell the sex of a mouse by looking underneath?  If it’s got four plastic blobs holding it together it’s a male, two blobs is female …not a lot of people know that.

CLICK THIS >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DECEMBER

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