SEPTEMBER

Friday 1

No bosses at work today.  Anticipated pithering and pottering a great deal, maybe cleaning out my drawers (although after only a month there’s hardly anything in there).  Just a nice, easy day.

Ha!  More fool me.  I was bombarded with emails from my out-of-office bosses asking if I could do this, print that, send them documents, book this, sort out that, photocopy, scan, email.

I was rushing around the office and typing like a maniac all day.

Bloody great.

Just before I went home, I did something I’d been waiting all week to do.  We have flower displays in the office, and I’d spotted one that had a giant seed pod in it, a poppy-type thing.  As soon as I saw it I thought, that’s mine. 

They take the old displays away on Fridays, so at 4pm I wandered innocently over with a pair of scissors hidden up the sleeve of my jacket.  The display was in a corner, in front of a glass panel.  I reached up, snipped, and nonchalantly started sauntering back towards my desk.

I thought I’d been discrete.  I forgot there were people sitting behind the glass panel and, as I rounded the corner, I found several sets of eyes glaring at me, each pair wondering why I’d just hacked away at the flowers.  I stood there with an open pair of scissors in one hand and a seed pod in the other, and meekly cracked an innocent smile across my guilt-ridden face.

I just hope the bloody thing grows into something spectacular.

Saturday 2

Was going to go to the Kings Heath Garden Show today (oh yeah, we know how to live life on the edge), but it would Not Stop Raining!  Honestly, global warming?  I wish.  Suspect August 2006 will be the wettest month on record and, into September, it’s still cold, grey, damp and blowing a bloody gale.  My blooming garden has come to a standstill and started retreating. 

Ah, the joys of British weather.

So, stayed in (huddled underneath a blanket as I am so not putting the heating on at this time of year) reading.  Wailed miserably when we had to venture outside for 20 minutes to buy provisions.  Back to more reading.

The Daily Mail printed photographs of Prince William (so gorgeous!) on holiday with friends on a boat.  I looked at them and thought, I really don’t want to see these.  I felt almost voyeuristic.  He’s on holiday, leave him alone to enjoy himself. 

I don’t want to see photographs of famous people taken by some money-grabbing journalist hiding in a bush with a fifteen foot lense or zipping past Prince William’s holiday yacht, I really don’t.  All those women’s magazines with haggard looking celebrities on the front cover, not interested.  Nobody’s seen Tom Cruise’s baby yet – so what?  Some celebrity snapped wearing no makeup (horrors) – couldn’t care less.  Catherine Zeta Jones caught going to the shops in a dressing gown – yawn.

Give me the glam, give me the glitter, give me royalty and celebs dressed up to the nines looking perfect at public events.  That’s what I want to see, not Prince William pushing his girlfriend into the Mediterranean.  Everyone’s entitled to privacy.

Rant over.

Sunday 3

Woke up, leapt out of bed (okay, crawled, bleary eyed to the window then squinted at the daylight as I threw open – okay, dragged wearily – the curtains) and croaked, “Oh.  Sun.”

It’s stopped raining!  I’d forgotten what the world looked like without a wet sheen to it.

“Right, we’re off,” I yelled.

“Off where,” said Partner, who’d been up at the crack of dawn.

“Off to the garden show, of course,” I tutted.

“But it’s only 7am,” he said.

“Oh.” 

Sister said she’d be over at 11am.  As my sister doesn’t use the same time zone as the rest of the universe, we expected her some time around midday-ish.  Except (cue blare of trumpets) she was on time and found us unwashed, undressed and watching a planets programme on tv (yer gotta get yer education where ya can).  Rang dad who, rather hysterically, said he wasn’t ready yet.  10 minutes later he rang back to say he was waiting at the roadside for us to pick him up.

This is what it’s like organising a family event, it’s like rounding up traumatised sheep.

Anyway, picked up dad, who was bundled up like an Eskimo expecting a blizzard, and got to Kings Heath park.  I know it’s sad, but as soon as I caught sight of all the luvverly plants I went into hyper mode – want plants, need plants, must buy plants argh! 

Actually (try to restrain your excitement here) I wanted black bamboo.  They didn’t have any, obviously a dearth of black bamboo on the planet.  I wanted Angels Trumpets, despite the fact that I already have several (none of which, because of the monsoon weather, have the merest hint of a flower on them).  They didn’t have any of those either.  So I bought 100 bulbs instead, which had partner sighing heavily at the thought of digging up the lawn to lay them.

It didn’t rain.  Everyone was walking round, glancing up at the almost-blue sky, with confused looks on their faces. 

Walked bloody miles, visited every stall, bumped with annoying regularity into people pulling a veritable jungle of plants in plastic trailers, and picked at giant sunflower heads like starving vultures (the gardeners cut off the heads and put them on hedges for visitors to take).  Incidentally, my dad holds a competition every year - £10 for the tallest, £10 for the biggest head, so suspect (as he lost this year to Buster) he’s determined not to cough up next year and pocketed handfuls of seeds.

Finally, completely knackered, we walked back to the car and came home.

Didn’t move for rest of day.

Okay, let me do something I don’t do very often.  Let me be brief and to the point. 

MONDAY 4: Oh my god it can’t be Monday already, when are they going to announce that Monday’s are going to be banned and called Sunday Part II instead?  The hamster wheel of working life cranks up again, but appears to have been given a good service over the pitifully short weekend and seems to be going faster than normal.

Or is it me slowing down into decrepit old age?

Probably the latter.

TUESDAY 5:  Okay, knackered already, only done one day at work.  But it’s about to get worse, much worse.  After a summer of silent roads and almost non-existent traffic, the kids go back to school.  Which makes my journey to work even longer, which means I have to get up earlier and catch the 7.30am bus.  So not only am I slumped on the crack-of-dawn bus with my forehead rattling against the window trying not to snore, my eardrums are battered by the constant honking of irate car horns.

See two crashes.

There’s a lot of anger out there.

WEDNESDAY 6: Have spent the last three days at work surfing the internet looking for cheap flights to the far east for my boss.  On the first day I tell him how much flights are, he says he’s seen them advertised for much cheaper, so I spend another day looking for the cheap ones (which leave at 3am and take 23 hours because they go via Glasgow and London and Paris before finally heading east – I kid you not).  On the third day I go up to boss and say, “Ask me anything about flights to the far east, go on, anything.”  I give him the lowest price I can – after much blood, sweat and tears -  muster from the internet and he says, “Oh, don’t book the ticket yet, I’m not sure if I’m going now.”

It’s testament to my professionalism that I simply smiled, said “Okay” and walked off without resorting to expletives, tears or violence.

THURSAY 7:  Lunch with mom and sis. We go to Pizza Hut and mom gets all excited because she’s never been there before and thinks it’s wonderful that you can just help yourself to anything you want from the buffet.

“You need to get out more, mom,” I tell her.

She then proceeds to tell us her exploits after joining a dating agency. 

She has a better social life than I have.

FRIDAY 8:  I luuuuuuuuuuurve Fridays, it’s my favourite day of the week.  The anticipation of finishing work and not having to get up the next day.  The anticipation of going home and cracking open a bottle of whisky whilst indulging in some serious vegging in front of the television.  The satisfaction of knowing you’ve ‘done it’, you’ve survived the week without running naked through Birmingham city centre screaming, “Argh! I can’t do this any more!  I’m quitting the rat race and going to live in a cardboard box in Cannon Hill Park!”

Oh yeah, Friday’s are brill.

SATURDAY 9:  Huge, massive, enormous lie in.  Don’t usually sleep in late, but had to force myself from a deep coma at 9.15 (unheard of).  Tonsils hurt.  Feel crap.  But bollocks to that, I’m a temp, if I don’t work I don’t get paid, so pull yourself together woman.  Show tonsils a blunt bread knife, tell them I’m more than willing to use it if I have to, and they retreat.

Cheered self up by spending 4 hours on the internet looking for a holiday abroad as we are so going on holiday this year (decorated last year, had major bathroom work done the year before).  First Choice, lastminute.com and Expedia are really the only sites worth looking at, but the most invaluable one, the one I recommend to you with all my heart and soul if you’re planning a holiday, is holidays uncovered.  Found some good deals, then looked at holidays uncovered to discover that the place was a dive hole.  Drifted round the world led by figures and reviews (and Google Earth, which is fab), finally settled on Rhodes.  In two weeks time.  Yes!

Did my favourite thing tonight.  I lay in a bubble bath, reading a book, sipping at a whisky and lemonade whilst in the kitchen Partner cooked my favourite meal, his infamous curry. 

Life really doesn't get much better than that.

SUNDAY 10:  So, hardly moved a muscle yesterday, time to catch up on the dreary chores today.  Joy.

Washed up, cleaned bathroom, showered, sorted chest of drawers so I finally have some knicker space, threw out 27 pairs of dodgy socks, organised jewellery so I can actually find it without hunting down the sides of the sofa for The Other Earring, and then started on the garden.

Cut, pulled, emptied, swept, bagged, chopped, picked seeds, ate tomatoes (of which we have tons).

4pm, knacked, and I mean knacked.  Ironed, ate, washed up (again? Jeez!) showered, flopped.

Which is why this is a brief blog, I barely have the strength left to breathe let alone type.

And tomorrow its starts all over again.

ARIZONA:  Okay, we haven’t decided quite how we’re going to get married yet, but we do know where we’re going on our honeymoon.  Arizona.  Partner will fulfil his dream of herding cattle with cowboys, and I’ll fulfil mine riding a Harley Davidson through the Grand Canyon.  It has to be done.  So, an appeal.  I know I have a few readers in Arizona, tell us where to go, what to see, where to stay (and maybe we’ll see you out there J).

Monday 11

Was woken up at 11.30p last night by Middle Son calling me from his month-long trip around Europe.

“I’m in Paris,” he said.

“Uh hu,” I croaked.

“Just spent two solid days travelling up from Croatia.”  He sounded totally knackered.  “I don’t know where the campsite is.”

“Oh.”

“I might have to sleep on the street.”

I was awake then, wide awake.  No child of mine is sleeping on the street, especially not in a foreign country.

“I’ll call you back,” I told him, leaping out of bed and racing into the study.

Turned on the computer and searched Google for a campsite in Paris.  My bleary eyes scoured endless websites, most of them in French, but I eventually found one.  Rang MS back and told him where it was.

“How do I get there?” he asked. 

My fingers skipped over the keyboard.  I opened 127 separate windows – my taskbar was like confetti.  Paris metro, directions, maps, backpackers reviews.  Noticed the metro stopped running at midnight.  Glanced at clock.  11.45pm.  Argh!  No pressure then.

“You have to get on the blah-blah line to blah-blah,” I eventually gasped down the phone.

“Where’s that?”

“Isn’t there a map in the metro station?”  I was starting to panic now.

“Yes, but I can’t make it out.”  I’ve never heard anyone sound so tired. 

There were long, long minutes while I opened up another 75 websites trying to find out where he was and where he should go.  Suddenly he said, “Oh, hang on, I think I’ve found the train to blah-blah.”

Thank God!

“Call me back when you get off,” I said, slumping in my chair and staring at the 59 detailed maps of Paris splayed on the computer screen like a deck of cards, “I’ll direct you to the campsite.”

I waited.  15 minutes.  20 minutes.  He rang back and I told him to turn left down this road, right down that one, should be straight ahead.  My pronunciation of French street names was appalling, but I got him heading in the right direction.

 “I’ll call you back when I get there,” he finally said.

I staggered back to my bed, lay down, fell straight into a coma.  It was 12.30.  At 12.45 the phone woke me up again.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Oh good.”

I felt like a zombie when the alarm clock went off this morning.  I’m one of those people who need at least 18 hours sleep to feel even vaguely human.

And, to top it all, because of all the gardening yesterday, every single muscle in my body is as stiff as buggery. 

Staggered into work like a disjointed marionette.

Tuesday 12

Top of the world, ma

Sneaking off for a cigarette this morning, I stood with the building manager in the lift.  As my mouth often speaks of its own accord without any interaction from my brain (its preferred method), I casually asked, “Is there a garden on the roof or anything?”  As you do.

“No garden,” said the building manager, “But there is a roof.”

Ah, that accounts for the fact we don’t get wet when it rains then.

“Be nice to go up and take a look,” said the mouth.

“I’ll take you up there sometime,” said the BM.

“Great.”  And off I went for my cigarette.

When I came back, the BM was standing by the lifts.  “Do you want to go up?” he asked.

As we were in the basement I thought the question a bit odd, so just nodded.

“I’ll take you up now,” he said, and the penny dropped.

Ooooooh, a bit of excitement.

The BM took a huge bunch of keys from his pocket and up we went to the top floor, then up some stairs to … The Roof!

I expected to see daylight when he opened the door at the top of the stairs, but it was pitch black.  The BM turned lights on and I was given a hard hat to wear for health and safety reasons.

Yo!  Get me!  PA in a hard hat!  I looked exactly like this …

Ooooh, look, the roof.

Or maybe this …

Okay, getting carried away now

Actually, apart from looking rather splendid in my hard hat, turns out I actually needed it because I promptly pounded my head on the incredibly low ceiling.  Tried not to let the building manager know I’d just split my skull and simply smiled as I watched the stars dance in front of my eyes.

It was only as we were staggering underneath this low ceiling towards a door on the far side that it actually occurred to me that nobody knew I was there.  I was in the roof, with a man I’d only met a couple of times before, wearing a hard hat and about to walk through a door that led to who knows where (maybe a room full of dopey secretaries from decades passed).

I was just building up into a nice little panic when he opened the door and Then There Was Sunlight.

Phew, relief.

The view (such as it was, surrounded by ventilation shafts) was okay if you like looking at the rooftops of other buildings.  I guess I’d kind of imagined me standing at the edge like Kate Winslett in Titanic, only without Leonardo De Caprio, staring out over a vast city centre.  But it was more like standing in the middle of a windy factory.

“There is a view,” said the building manager, “On top of that ventilation shaft over there.”

I got all excited as I spotted some ladders up the side of said ventilation shaft.

“But I’d have to harness you up for health and safety reasons.”

Ah.  And also, oh.  Time to leave, methinks.

I took a final look over the edge and could see the windows of the floor where I work.  And there, looking out of one of the windows, was my boss.  Staring up at me.  Slightly open mouthed.  Obviously thinking, what the hell is my PA doing up there?

Yep, definitely time to go. 

Interesting diversion to the day, though.

(My boss never asked me what I was doing up there.)

Wednesday 13

Heatwave and gridlock in the city, NOT a good combination.  The bus going home was just diabolical.  Not only was the outside temperature well into the 70s, but the heating system on the bus was stuck on, yep, hot.  I can’t begin to describe what it was like boarding this searing oven on wheels, it actually felt like wading through hot treacle the air was that humid.

Sat upstairs, kept very still, but still sweated buckets.  Tried to read my book but swear my eyeballs had melted.

Around me, my fellow passengers got more and more irate as the bus stood motionless in traffic with the sun blazing through the windows.  There was some muttering, a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting, and a few loud hisses of ‘For farks sake!’ 

And then a toddler downstairs decided that now was the time to throw a major strop.  I felt sorry for the poor bugger, I really did, but it (whatever it was, a horror movie actor by the sound of it) would not stop screaming.  Constantly.  I’ve never heard so many hissed expletives on the top deck.  Eventually a man, clearly driven to the edge of insanity by the wailing, yelled, “STICK A DUMMY IN ITS MOUTH OR SUMMAT, WILL YA?”

The atmosphere was palpable – the same kind of atmosphere you encounter on Christmas Eve when people beat each other over the head with umbrellas for the last overpriced giftbox on the shelf.  I just read my book, constantly nudged by the bloke sitting next to me until I was on the verge of hissing a few curses of my own.

God it was hot.  The heat poured out of the broken ventilators, the sun seared through the windows.  Sweat trickled down my face and back, and my whole body just throbbed with discomfort.  And still the toddler screamed.  And screamed.

And screamed.

It’s a form of torture listening to other people’s children having an epi.  I totally sympathised with the mother - been there, done that - but honestly, what is any parent doing bringing a toddler onto a rush hour bus full of work-weary commuters?

When I eventually fell off the bus and gasped at fresh air, some 90 minutes later, I could still hear the screaming in my head.  I was soaked from head to foot and had lost about 3 pounds in weight.

I didn’t bother with a glass when I got home, I just put my head under the tap and stayed there for a very long time.

Commuting … love it.

Thursday 14

Excitement!!!!!

Had an email today from a magazine that’s doing an article on people writing blogs about work, and they want to feature Brummie Blogs.

Yes!  Fame and fortune here I come, yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Obviously, I couldn’t tell anyone at work this fabulous news, so I raced outside the building to ring my partner on the mobile.

“You’ll never guess what?” I screeched into my phone.

“What?”

“Someone wants to write about Brummie Blogs!”

“What?”

“Someone wants to write about Brummie Blogs!”

“Sorry, love, I can’t hear you.”

“SOMEONE WANTS TO WRITE ABOUT BRUMMIE BLOGS!”

“Someone wants to what?”

I tell ya, half of Birmingham could hear me and were walking passed giving me very strange looks as I yelled, “Get a new phone, the one you’ve got is crap!”

“No, can’t hear you, speak a bit louder.”

“GET. A. NEW. BLOODY. PHONE.”

“Get a what?”

Regardless of the fact that most of Birmingham city centre now had their ears trained on me and I was about to announce to all and sundry that I was Fastfingers (cue theme song), writer of Brummie Blogs, I hollered, “A MAGAZINE WANTS TO DO AN ARTICLE ABOUT BRUMMIE BLOGS.  COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE!”

“Who wants to do what?”

“COSMOPOLITAN!”

“What?”

“COS … MO … POL … I … TAN!!!!”

“I think I need a new phone,” he said.

Thinks! 

I hung up, deflated.  Later, Partner rang me at my desk from his office phone.  “What did you want to tell me?” he said.

As I sit next to my boss in an open plan office (which at that point was so silent I could hear my own thought currents, such as they are) I could hardly say, “Oh, you know that website I’ve got where I write about the people I work with, well Cosmopolitan magazine want to do an article about it.”

Told him when I got home, by which point (having remembered the same excitement with the Birmingham Evening Mail, who never did run an article) the enthusiasm had gone.

I don’t think I’ll be buying that cottage in the country any time soon.

Friday 15

Something miraculous happened today.  I kid you not, something Truly Amazing occurred this morning.  I don’t think it’s ever happened before, ever, in the history of mankind.

Just as I got to the bottom of my road, the bus drove passed, as it’s apt to do from time to time (when I’m 5.3 seconds late).  Great, I thought and started to go through my usual repertoire of curses.

I caught the eye of the driver as he went by.  He clearly saw my mouth hanging wide, my eyes as wide as dinner plates, and my outstretched arms (the Just Missed The Bloody Bus look).  Sometimes the drivers look at you as the go passed and smile.  Or laugh.

But what's this?  The bus is slowing down.  It stops right in front of me. 

The driver actually recognised that I catch the same bus every day and stopped to let me on.

Like, that never happens!

I was an explosion of gratitude as I leapt on board.  All the passengers glared at me as if wondering, “What’s so special about her then!” Birmingham bus drivers never stop for passengers, their main tactic seems to be how many passengers they can avoid.

I gleefully settled down for my long (endless, agonisingly slow) journey into work with my MP3 player.  I listen to a bit of local radio, then switch to Daniel Powter.  As I hit the city centre I change to Bodyrockers to fire me from my coma, and strut across Victoria Square, resisting the urge to dance outside my building.

But today (because it’s Friday, because the bus had stopped for me and because I was in a jolly good mood) I relented in the lift and started doing my Suzi Quatro impersonation, complete with air guitar.  I like the way you move boom boom boom.  The lift doors opened on another floor, and a man got in.  I stood, all innocent with my hair in disarray, as boom boom boom reverberated in my ears.  The man looked at me strangely.  He’d obviously heard the lift rocking in rhythm to my mad headbanging all up the lift shaft. 

Am I bovvered?

Not.

Headbanged my way into the toilet, headbanged into the loo, headbanged in front of the mirror, mouthed a few words (think strangled cat with tonsillitis).  Loo door opened behind me just as I was in mid headbang.  Colleague stepped out as my flaying hair settled across my face.  Boom boom boom but you’re not a cheap tart.

Bovvered?

Not.

Whatever helps get you through the day, I say.

Saturday 17

Having scoured every shop in Birmingham city centre at lunchtime looking for a swimsuit for our holiday, eventually had to admit defeat. 

There was no escaping the inevitable.  We would have to go to (dah dah DAH!) Merry Hell!

My partner winced when I told him, holding back the tears.  But off we went.  And headed straight to MacDonalds because I’d decided to go on a bit of a pre-holiday diet which, as always, triggered the irresistible desire for junk food.  The diet demanded pick-and-mix sweeties afterwards.

Found a swimsuit, though whether it would fit me after eating my own bodyweight in dense carbohydrates is debatable.

I’m hoping I’ll look like this …

But after the diet I’ll probably look like this …

Anything would be an improvement on my beachwear at Barmouth recently …

(That’s a bum bag round my waist, incidentally, not my bum).

Where's all my comments?  Is everyone on holiday?  Has commenting been outlawed?  LEAVE ME A COMMENT wah-stomp-sulk.

Monday 18

I’ve been doing a bit of clothes shopping lately.  In cheap shops.  Which means no changing rooms to try things on.  Consequently, I’ve collected quite a few items that ‘need taking back’ because they don't fit.

Heavy sigh.

I hate taking things back, I don’t know why.  I feel inordinately guilty, like I’m committing some terrible crime.  But I Must Do The Deed.

First shop, the top designer store and rugby-scrum that is Primark.  Okay, so the items were only a few quid each, but a few ‘few quids’ equates to quite a few quid.

Waited in normal checkout queue.  “I’m returning these,” I cheerfully said to the assistant.

“Upstairs,” she said, “At customer services.”

So went upstairs and waited in another queue.

“I’d like to return these 3 items,” I cheerfully said to the assistant.

“’Ave you got yer receipt?” she drawled.  Every pour in her body oozed with excruciating boredom.

“I haven’t actually got – “

“You need yer receipt,” she drawled, sighing heavily to accentuate the extent of her boredom.

“I couldn’t find it, but they’ve got the Primark labels still – “

“I’ll need to speak to the manija.”

The manager came over.  Funny looking bloke.  One eye looked at me whilst the other eyeball peered off into the middle distance somewhere.  “You need a receipt to get a refund!” he barked, rather aggressively.

“Yes, the girl just told me.  It doesn’t matter, I just thought – “

“It’s a new policy!” he roared, obviously having worked himself into a high state of adrenaline to deal with a Difficult Customer.  “We can’t do refunds unless you have a receipt!”

“No, I understand, it’s fine.”

“From 12 July we’re not allowed to give refunds unless the customer brings a receipt!”

“I get it!” I roared back, throwing the items back into the bag.

“What’s wrong with them anyway?” the manager snapped, obviously not letting me get away until he’d had a damn good argument with someone.

“These two don’t fit, and this teeshirt has a hole in it.”

“We can refund for the teeshirt because it’s faulty,” he said.

“Oh, good.”

“But we can’t refund the other items because you don’t have a receipt.”

“I know!”

‘Kin ‘ell.

Next stop, BHS because the swimming costumer I’d bought from (dah dah DAH) Merry Hell had loose stitching and was likely to fall apart at the first hint of seawater (“Keep it,” Partner raved excitedly).  They were a bit friendlier at the customer service counter.  The woman immediately offered to refund my bank card.  Except … I didn’t have my bank card because we went shopping yesterday and rather than take my purse in my bag I’d given the card to my Partner to carry.  He still had it.

Bugger.

She gave me vouchers instead, which was fine … if she’d offered me ice cubes in exchange I would have taken those, just to escape the whole Returning Items palaver. 

Next time I’ll just burn stuff that needs returning.

Tuesday 19

Buzzin’ from the buzzes

Waited 20 minutes for the bus this morning.  When it finally came it was already packed to the rafters.  Squeezed on board, sat next to one of those blokes who likes to sit with his legs wide open like some enormous cranefly.  The effort of keeping my legs tight together so they wouldn’t touch his made them tremble.  He kept looking at my juddering knees, I kept thinking, Shut your bloody legs!

Half way into the city, the bus stopped.  The engine died, started up again, revved a bit and then died again.  Some people started getting off, but I stayed put (because I’m idle).  Half the passengers had now ‘disembarked’ and I was just about to stir myself when the driver shouted, “It’s okay now.”  So it pays to be idle sometimes.  Bus pulled away with half the passengers standing, open mouthed, at the bus stop (hee hee).

I wasn’t hee-heeing when I realised that the dodgy engine was only working because the driver was keeping his foot down hard on the accelerator (or else it was stuck and he didn’t want to admit it).  We bombed down roads going faster and faster, the G-force pretty much like a plane taking off.  It didn’t stop at bus stops, it didn’t stop for anything, it just shot into the city like an Exocet missile.  I drew so many sharp intakes of breath I hyperventilated. 

Whole journey took an astonishing 25 minutes – but it seemed a lot longer.

Then …

Coming home I waited 30 minutes for my bus to turn up.  Every other Birmingham city centre bus pulled up, except mine.  Small crowds would form around the bus stop, then clamber on board their buses, leaving me standing there all on my own until the next crowd formed, and went.  I’m sure some people thought I was standing there just for the hell of it.

I just want to Get Home at the end of the day.  I’ve done my day’s work, I’ve put in the hours, now it’s my free time and I just want to go home (wah!).  Is that too much to ask?  Apparently so.  The minutes tick by like hours and my feet ache, my back aches.  I start to wonder about buying one of those fold up camping chairs for just such occasions.  I even consider using the pushbike to come to work (shock horror).  Or maybe hire a sports coach to rush over with a wet sponge and give me a shoulder massage whilst saying encouraging things like, “You can do it, just hang in there you’re doing fine.”

There is nothing in life more boring than waiting for a bus.

By the time the bloody thing did come, it was Major Rush Hour and nothing was moving.  So I sat in traffic for an hour.

By the time I got off I was a seething mass of fury.  Normally the commute is done on autopilot – get on the bus, read/sleep/do an Open University course, get off the bus, trudge to and from work with thousands of other city workers. 

But sometimes it just gets to you.  Sometimes you think you can’t take One More Minute of this wasted, empty time.

Fell into house frothing at mouth and ranted for a good 20 minutes whilst Partner pressed himself back into the sofa.

Might buy a scooter.

Wednesday 20

Whenever I leave the building for a cigarette I’m usually accosted by lost souls asking for directions.  Today, something a bit different.

A woman came up to me.  “My husband needs a flu jab,” she said, pointing at the husband standing behind her looking all meek and a bit terrified.

Yes, and … ?  I just looked at her.  She didn’t appear to be a fruit loop, was quite smartly dressed, in fact – smarter than me if truth be told (must get a new non-furry pin-stripe suit).

“Is there somewhere round here where he can get it?” she asked.

I squinted my eyes at her (they were stinging from the cigarette smoke anyway).  Why would I, standing outside smoking a fag wearing my (non-medical) company badge know anything about flu jabs?

“There’s supposed to be somewhere round here that does flu jabs,” she said.

“Where about round here?” I asked, thinking maybe the name of a road might be a good start.

“Birmingham,” she said.

There was a long pause.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

“You could try Boots the Chemist,” I added, trying, as always, to be helpful.  “They have a drop-in centre.”

She asked for directions.  I gave them.  As a non-Brummie unfamiliar with the landmarks, she didn’t understand them.  I gave them again.  As my cigarette was long finished, I eventually threw out an arm, said, “Go down there,” and promptly left her to it.

Then, when I next went for a cigarette, it was blowing a gale.  There’s a horse chestnut tree outside the building and all the chestnuts were falling off it onto unsuspecting pedestrians (quite amusing to watch, actually).  A woman approached me.  Now there was no mistaking it, she was definitely a fruit loop.

“What are those?” she barked, pointing at all the chestnuts on the floor.

“Chestnuts,” I said.

“What?”

“Chestnuts.”

“Chewnies?” she said, scrunching up her face.

“CHESTNUTS!”  I nearly pointed at her chest, then at her head, but refrained.

“Why are they on the floor?” she snapped, saying it like it was entirely my fault.

“Because its … “  There was the discernible sound of my patience hitting the floor and running off, so I tossed my cigarette away and walked off.  I’d have been there all day otherwise.

Never a dull moment.

Thursday 21

Lunch with mom and sis, which is always entertaining.

Found them both standing by the Iron Man, looking up at it with their mouths open.  I sneaked up behind and said, “And this represents a builder who forgot to bring his spirit level with him.” 

Mom immediately pulled something out of a plastic bag.  Before she had a chance hand it to me, sis snatched it and tossed it across the pavement – it skidded to a stop in front of a passer-by, who meekly picked it up and handed it back (looking at us like we might explode at any minute).  “Never mind that,” sis said, “Here’s the important thing.”  And she pulled out a huge bag of Cadbury’s Mishape chocolates.

Headed towards Pizza Hut just to see mom get all hyper-excited again, but sis pulled us into a French restaurant, Chez Jules (for lunch? How terribly decadent darlinks)  Didn’t even know it was there.  The wooden benches were a bit difficult to sit at (we all did ungainly contortionist acts to get onto our seats) but the waiters had The Most Fantastic French accents, almost too thick to understand.  Mom and sis kept saying “Pardon” when he was explaining the menu, but suspect it was a ploy to keep him at our table for longer.

Yak yak yak yummy yak yak yak yummy.

It cost about what I spend on lunches for a whole week, but sometimes you just gotta do it.  Opened up bag of chocs when I waddled, stuffed to the gills, back to the office.  I’ve never had so many people round my desk!  I so popular!

Friday 22

Ate so much bacon yesterday (and for each slice of bacon consumed you have to drink at least 2 litres of water to counteract the salt content) – looked like a huge water balloon last night, actually squelched when I moved.  Today I ate own body weight in strawberries from the farmer’s market in New Street – this will inevitably lead to much expelling of air on the bus home tonight, and serves them right too, the heathens.

Had a bit of a look on the internet at our holiday destination in Rhodes.  Was looking at a main square, all very Greek, very historic and pretty.  And then … this (scroll round and you’ll see what I mean).  They’re everywhere!  There is no escaping them!

The evolutionary stages of the city centre worker

A: Get up at some obscene hour, barely human.
B: Have shower and sense humanity lurking somewhere deep inside
C: Dressed and fed – have a bit of a scratch and a burp/fart
D: Okay, on way to bus stop, pull yerself together, try to look normal (ha!)
E: Get off in city – and I appear to have turned into a hairy man!
Finally, transformed into city slicker ready for work.

Process reverts on way home.

OR

The various stages of the evolution of mankind, as seen in Birmingham city centre most days, especially A.

(Funny how B and C have modestly covered their private parts, obviously the look-at-my-willy gene skipped a couple of generations.).

Your name in Russian http://www.callme.nm.ru/ (just type your name in the box and click).

Don't forget, I'm on holiday as from Wednesday so no blog until, ooooh, probably a week Friday. 

Saturday 23

Babysat my niece today, midday until 10.30pm whilst my sister went to work to deliver babies.  Thought it would be a doddle … I mean, how difficult can it be to look after an 8 year old?

Totally forgot what it was like to have small people around.  Its not as if you can sit them down with a book for a couple of hours while you read the paper, its full-on movement all the time.  And girlie stuff, so not used to girlie stuff.  Did some girlie drawing, Partner thrashed her at chess (cue girlie tantrum) and watched a girlie video (The Princess Diaries, so blood-curdlingly sweet I could actually feel myself putting weight on as I watched it).  My Partner, overcome with girlishness half way through the film, opted to go to bed rather than endure any more.

Sis came to collect her at 10.30.  Sis was wide awake and buzzing, actually wanted a conversation.  I just pointed and waved, then collapsed into bed.

Sunday 24

Witnessed the worst customer service ever.

Decided to have a KFC bucket for tea/dinner as we were too idle/knackered to cook.  Waited in queue at the Northfield KFC.  Two young girls were serving, one of them ranting and raving about the customers, how terrible and awful and demanding we were.  A woman in the queue turned to us and said, “Can you believe she’s slagging off the customers in front of the customers?”  We both shook our heads, tutted and rolled our eyes a bit, but really it was rather amusing – a bit like a really bad soap opera.

The woman ahead of us reached the counter, placed her order, then said to the two young thangs behind the counter, “I think it’s terrible that you slag off the customers in front of the customers.  It’s not at all professional.  It’s a terrible service and I’m never coming back here again.”

The girls’ response?  They both glared at her for a whole second.  Then one raised a hand in a wave and said, “Bye then.”  Even I – hardened by years of appalling city centre service – was stunned.  The woman stomped off.  The girls continued slagging off customers with renewed vigour.

You can’t get good customer service for love nor money these days.

Monday 25

Okay, today is Get Euros day.

I thought it would be easy.  After all, we are part of the Common Market now, how hard can it be to exchange £s for Euros?

Went out at lunch clutching my wad of pound notes.  Went to the travel shop where I normally exchange them but, as we haven’t been on holiday for two years, I didn’t realise it was no longer there.

A bit flummoxed, I raced into my bank, waited in 15 minute queue to be told they didn't exchange currency.  Went to Nat West across the road, waited in 10 minute queue then overheard them telling a customer that they charged £8.  Raced across to another bank, but the queue in there was MASSIVE, so gave up because I was knackered and sweaty and had lost the will to live. 

Whinged to someone in the office after lunch and they said, "Why didn't you try the post office?"  Which is a stones throw away from where I work!  Sloped off during afternoon, took me 3 whole minutes. 

Looks like monopoly money.

Wednesday 27

Up at 6.30am, work.  Seemed like a normal day.  Excitement began to set in around midday.  Panic set in about 12.05 when I realised how much I had to organise before I left.  But I did it … I think.

Home.  Tossed last minute items into suitcase, including Pinky and Yellowbelly, don’t ask me why.

Taxi came at 5.30.  We anticipated the heavy traffic through the city to the airport.  We didn’t anticipate an accident somewhere which brought Birmingham roads to a standstill.  We sat in traffic.  We smiled.  Plenty of time we kept saying. 

Time ticked away rather faster than we would have liked whilst our taxi remained motionless.

And then the taxi driver started turning off his engine as we inched forward.  “Engine’s overheating,” he finally said.

G-reat, we’re stuck in a gridlock in a car that’s about to explode.

The driver eventually turned into a side road and blasted his way through the traffic, honking his horn furiously.  When you’re on the roads and a taxi cuts you up you think Little Sod.  When you’re in the taxi and have a flight to catch, you think Yeah Go For It.

The driver suddenly starts waving frantically out of the window.  He pulls over.  We’re not smiling now, something is definitely up.  The driver stops a passing black cab and suddenly we’re being bundled into that before our original taxi blows up.

“To the airport!” we cried to our new driver.

We finally managed to get to the airport, although there was a moment when I thought we’d end up walking down the dual carriageway dragging our luggage in tow.

There was a queue in the airport which we’d never encountered before, for security purposes.  We waited in it for half an hour before reaching a sign that said, “No smoking beyond this point’.  WHAT?  But there was a bar inside where you could smoke and wait for your flight to take off.  Obviously a mistake.  We passed through the barriers, handing over our cigarette lighters like they were illegal contraband.

Ha!  ‘Passed’ through the barriers makes it sound easy.  It wasn’t.  At least not for me.  Struggled to take off shoes, forgot to take off jacket and beeped as I walked through the metal detector.  Pretty much panicked, and when I’m nervous I make jokes – as I was frisked you have no idea how much restraint I exerted trying not to say, “Oh it must be the Kalashnikov in my inside pocket.”  Close call.

Then they wanted me to take my laptop out of its carrying case.  It’s a multi pocket carrying case and I couldn’t actually find the laptop for ages (whilst the queue behind me built up, all rolling their eyes and tutting loudly).  Finally found it, and put my hand luggage through the machine.  Wouldn’t ya just bloody know it, it beeped.  I mean, just how difficult can it be to get through airport security? 

The security guard asked me to unpack my bag.  Oh the embarrassment.  Pinky and Yellowbelly were in there, along with a rather large plastic bag of assorted … erm … ‘ladies requirements’.  The security guard peered in the bag and looked at me as if to say ‘bad timing, eh?’ Story of my life, mate.’

Finally passed through security, shuffling along in my not-quite-on shoes and forcing items back into my bag – how the hell did I manage to get all that stuff in there in the first place?  Couldn’t find Partner.  Just stood there, a bit stunned and traumatised, until he found me.

Went into waiting area.  It had changed since we last used it (which admittedly was two years ago).  Birmingham International Airport looked kind of sad.  It was dark and dismal with hundreds of chairs piled up on one side where a fast food shop and the place where you could have a drink and a smoke used to be. 

The smoking area was gone!  I was gutted.  Two hours wait followed by a 4 hour flight without a cigarette!  I’d never make it.  Asked a barmaid if there was anywhere to smoke, she said everyone asked but there were no provisions for us smokers, we’re a discriminated breed (where is the Fag Discrimination Act when you need it). 

“Slip her some money to take us outside,” I said to Partner (well, not so much said as hissed in desperation).  He wouldn’t.  We bought a lighter at WHSmith and were fiercely told, “You know you can’t use that anywhere in the airport, don’t you?”  Bloody yes!

I’m surprised there weren’t several cases of cigarette rage, everyone was complaining about it.

“What do you think would happen if I just lit up a cigarette?” Partner asked.

“There’s armed policemen walking around,” I told him, gaspingly, “You’d be surrounded in seconds.”

So we just sat.  And ate a dull sandwich (where was MacDonalds?  MacDonalds are everywhere, what is the world coming to when there isn’t a MacDonalds at a major airport?).  We sighed a lot.  Then we moved into a queue to board the plane, sighing a bit more.

There were a rowdy group behind us in the queue, including some whiney shrieky children.  “What row you in?” one of the group shouted over to another.  “Row 25,” was the reply.  We were in row 15 and “Phew!” fell out of my mouth quite loudly – the people in front of us laughed.

Actually, there were several small children on the flight.  Memories of commuting home from work on the bus with screaming toddlers pushing me to the brink of insanity made me shudder in horror – how much worse would it be trapped on a plane at 35,000 feet?  But they were impressively well behaved, hardly heard a peep out of them – there were some seriously patient parents travelling, I felt like giving them all a medal.

Take-off, my favourite bit.  The excitement, the anticipation, the incredible G-force for a full 30 seconds (the urge to put your hands up in the air and scream weeeeeeeeeeeeeee