I don't know what happened to Tuesday.  If you find it and its got my name on it, could you let me know.  Thanks.

In fact, wasn't Tuesday yesterday, the last day of the month?  Is it the 1st or 2nd of August today?

Oh I don't know, I'm all confused.

Wednesday 2 (I think, or it could be the 1st, I'm not sure - help me, someone, help!)

Because my much anticipated Black Books III arrived this morning (isn't online shopping good!), I stayed up late last night to watch all the episodes, all the out-takes and even all the trailers. 

Which meant (oh my God don’t tell my mother) I didn’t clear up after dinner last night.  The kitchen was just an explosion of Hubby’s compulsion to use every pot, plate and utensil we own.

And the Happy Chappy repairman was coming this morning, which meant I had to get up super-early (again) in order to clear the kitchen, wash up, shower and vac up the budgie devastation before he arrived.

All done for 8am.  Go me!  Set to work.  9am, Mr Jolly arrived.

But whoa.  What’s this?  I open the door and he … he smiles.  He looks … cheerful.  He enters the house not dragging a veil of surliness along with him, but with an optimistic glow of lets-get-on-with-it.

Twin brother?

He responds when I ask him if he wants a drink (he doesn’t).  He responds when I ask him about the weather (yes, it is warm outside).  He keeps smiling and … and makes eyeball contact.  We have a conversation about working hours.

Mr Jolly has been transformed.  He’s in my kitchen whistling while he works.

I am stunned.

He fixes my machine and with a cheery wave (fan me, I feel faint), he leaves.

And the world suddenly seems a strange and surreal place.

UPDATE (bringing you the news as it happens on a minute by minute basis):  So there I was, laptopping in the garden, thinking 'Oh isn't this wonderful', when I hear a rustle beside me.  Wind, I thought (the airborne kind, not from me you understand).  Another rustle makes me look over to my right. 

And there was the biggest looking rat I've ever seen in my life, sitting there, not two feet away from me.

Now let me explain, I've raised three strapping sons, I've roared around on motorbikes, I own not a single pink thing and I just stop short of having enough testosterone to grow hair on my chest.  I am a muscle-bulging Amazonian type warrior princess ... on the inside anyway (on the outside I look exactly like Susan Sarandon, see here for proof).

So, faced with a berluddy huge rat right next to me, what do I do?  I scream.  I scream like a right girl.  I scream high pitched whilst leaping out of my Ikea chair and waving my hands about.

Reality is such a drag sometimes.

The rat is about the size of a cat as it waddles casually across the patio area in front of me, pausing every now and again to have a sniff or a fart or maybe contemplate the meaning of life.  The rat shows No Fear, whilst I am pretty much clambering up the brick wall at the back of my house.  I'd stop screaming by then and was now repeatedly crying "Fark! Fark! Fark!"

I call for my neighbour, who was outside a minute ago but has now disappeared.  When is there ever a man-type when you need one!  The rat scuttles under the garden bench, mere inches from my now abandoned laptop and Ikea chair.  I clearly can't work with that thing wandering around.  I know, I'll throw a box over it so I know where it is and it won't sneak up on me and leap at my neck (and hubby will come home and find the Ikea chair all bloodstained and my feet sticking out from under the big shed).

There's never a box when you need one either.  Tsk.

Emptied out the plastic bottles from the recycling bin (so my driveway now resembles a council tip).  Approach the rat.  It spots the bright blue box and scuttles behind a plant pot.  I pull a tall stick out of a nearby tomatoe plant and prod it a bit.  It runs straight towards me, like real fast.  Cue for another screaming fit interspersed with some farking as I bolt down the side of the house and look out front for a man, a man, my kingdom for a berluddy man.

I venture back into the garden.  There's a cat sitting on my garden path.  It looks at me as if to say, 'Yeah, I know you don't like cats, but I can sit here if I like, nah nah.'  The cat licks its paws.  I make that chuching noise you make to attract cats, and point at the rat sitting under the bench.  Stupid cat just carried on licking its stupid paws and eventually wandered off.  I mean, what is the point of a cat if not to rescue us from marauding vermin?

I look at my abandoned laptop.  I look at the rat, which doesn't seem in any particular rush to go anywhere.  I do the only thing I can when faced with a rodent in my work area.

I snatch up my laptop and go into the house, slamming the door hard behind me.

First I'm driven out of the living room by a bunch of bickering budgies, now I'm chased out of the garden by the wildlife.  Where will it all end?

Thursday 2 (definitely 2nd today, positive, absolutely certain, well pretty certain)

Hubby got home from work last night and I immediately pounced on him screaming, “I’ve been attacked by a rat!”

He had a bit of a wander around the garden, a bit too casually I thought considering there was a rodent of epic proportions in the vicinity.  “Where did it go?” he asked.

“Under the big shed,” I yelled from the kitchen, peering nervously through the window whilst chewing on my nails in a girlie fashion.

Hubby came back into the house.  “Well?” I gasped, “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

He looked at me, all haggard and tired.  “Short of dismantling the shed,” he said, “There’s not a lot I can do.”

Oh.  I had visions of him sitting in a garden chair all night with a double barrelled shotgun, Bruce Willis/Clint Eastwood style, muttering, "Mess with my wife, would ya!"  But it wasn't to be.

I was quite pleased that it was grey and overcast this morning.  I didn’t fancy working in the garden with my back pressed against the wall inside a strategically placed ring of fire with cattle prod (okay, stripped wire plugged into the mains) and meat cleaver in hand.

I’m such a coward.

[Postscript 1: Oh, a customer I did some work for this morning emailed me to say I’d ‘coped admirably well’ with his dictation.  I immediately emailed the young whippersnapper back, saying, “I’ve survived three teenage sons, I can cope with anything!”]

[Postscript 2: On the subject of this month’s brilliant Brummie Blogs competition – see below – I am somewhat depressed that I will never, in my entire life, be able to utter the sentence, “Oh, that jar of snails in truffle sauce in my fridge is from my favourite deli in Geneva.”  Unlike a certain reader of this ‘ere blog.  ‘Got it cheap from Sommerfield’ isn’t quite in the same league is it.  I feel deprived.  I feel I’m missing out on something deeply important.  Sniff.]

Friday 3

Dad came over yesterday.  “Come look at my opium poppies,” I said gleefully, dragging him out into the garden (where, thankfully, the giant rat was nowhere to be seen or my dad would have chased after it with a spade which, with his dicky heart and my chronic aversion to blood, wouldn’t have been good).

He mauled the poppy heads a bit, hmmmmed a bit, said aaaah a couple of times, and then said, “Yeah, they do look like opium pods, don’t they.”  He then proceeded to tell me what I should do with them to extract the opium and (get this) “cut” it with something.

My dad’s 66.  How does he know?

A bit taken aback by visions of my dad running an opium den in his youth and keen to change the subject, I mentioned how I’d nearly fallen down the stairs earlier carrying the comfortable Ikea chair from the study into the garden to work in the sun.

“Have my garden rocker,” he said.

His rocker?  The rocker that’s part of my childhood, an intrinsic part of dad’s garden?  Cast iron and solid, it’s sat outside his back door for many a year and is just supremely comfortable.

I was dead excited.  So excited I made Hubby go over to fetch said rocker as soon as he got home from work (poor bugger). 

As we all stood in dad’s glorious back garden, I gasped at the size and glory of his sweet pea display (whilst hubby huffed and lugged at the cast iron rocker).  “Yours are so much bigger than mine!” I wailed (as hubby staggered past us, muscles bulging).

“You planted yours late,” dad said.  When I continued to pout like a three year old, he put his arm around my shoulders and said, “You’ve been to Africa.  You’ve got married, done jury service and given up the rat race.  And hubby’s changed his job too.  You can’t have everything!”

He was right.  But I had got the rocker, almost a family heirloom.

It was then that I noticed that hubby (and the rocker) were no longer with us.  He’d hauled the half ton monster across the road all on his own (not that I’d have been much help).

I raced home and found hubby not even out of breath (he’s such a He-Man).  I cleared an area for The Rocker, right up against the back wall so I can spot any approaching rodents.  I placed a garden table next to it, and stood back to admire My Outdoor Workspace.

S’good.  I like it.

Saturday 4

Hubby came home from work this morning and came out to where I was sitting doing a bit of work on t’puter.  He looked at a plant pot next to me.  He looked at it for a long time.  Then he said, “There’s feet sticking out from under that.”

Cue me racing across to the other side of the garden. 

Hubby pulled out the body attached to the feet, gasping, “Jeez, that smells.” (Honestly, I could have a running sewer under my seat and I wouldn’t know)., “Found that rat you were on about,” he said, “It is pretty big isn’t it.”

Big?  Even dead, it was the size of a domestic cat.

But at least I don’t have to worry about it rampaging around my feet any more.  Just all his mates.

Anyway, Sister’s birthday today.  “Do you fancy going to Wing Wah’s?” she asked me on the phone.  “No,” I said, remembering the last awful visit there.  “I’ve booked it,” she said.  Well actually, she hadn’t booked it because Sis has some chronic aversion to booking anything and much prefers that other people to do it, so mom did it.

We were due there at 7pm.  At 5.30pm I realised we hadn’t Done Anything All Day (it being Saturday and all) and the house looked like a stampeding herd of elephants had crashed through it, sideways.  I washed up, vacced, dusted, showered and put on my makeup.  6.30 I was standing in front of my wardrobe whining, as I always do, trying to figure out what to wear that wouldn’t have people pointing at me and laughing.  I settled on something casual (i.e. the one skirt that was ironed) and jazzed it up with the purple pashmena with the dangly beads I wear at night when I’m verging on hypothermia and Hubby’s sweating his socks off.  I also wore the fruit pastel shoes.

Good night.  There were three small children involved – Hubby and I waited to see where they sat and then raced to the furthest end of the table (we just love other people’s children).  Brother turned up too, which was nice - he’s just like that bloke in Black Books.

I intended to eat my own body weight in food to make up for the rip off meal we’d had last time, but still only managed half of what Hubby ate and wished I’d brought a large Tupperware box with me concealed about my person.  Afterwards, they all went back to Sis’s house, but we’re sad gits and it was already late (9.30pm), so we took mom home instead.

It was only later I realised nobody had said, “Ooooh, your pashmena is nice,” so suspect I looked like a tall purple bag lady (but hey, I’m used to that).

And the fruit pastel shoes, gorgeous though they may be, nearly crippled me (staggering to the car like John Wayne just completed the bag lady effect really).

Sunday 5

Decorating gives me the same feeling I get when I go for a smear test – that sense of oh-god-I-don’t-want-to-do-it-I-really-don’t-want-to-do-it-but-it-has-to-be-done – only decorating lasts a lot longer.  It’s just prolonged agony really.

10.30am I said, “Right, lets get to it!”  2pm, I still didn’t have a paintbrush in my hand.  Hubby had to go out for One Coat paint (does exactly what it says on the tin) because I didn’t fancy the whole de ja vu process of doing it all again.  While he was out he popped to the local car shop and chatted with the owner, popped to another car shop to have his tyre done only the nail that had been embedded in it had mysteriously vanished.  Then he popped to another shop (what he calls the Offy!).  Then he finally got round to B&Q.  I, meanwhile, had lost the one atom of motivation I’d had and played on the computer, tidied up the house, tried to teach the budgies to whistle something (anything! Come on, I’ve only been whistling the same three notes at you lot for nine berluddy months), and read a book (Peter Kay – s’good).

Hubby eventually returned from his epic tour of the West Midlands, and I finally walked into the bedroom with a paint tin.  I took the lid off.  I dipped the brush into the paint and headed for the door.

“No, not the door,” said hubby, “I’ve got to sand it down yet.”

I headed towards the window cill.  “No, not that,” he said, “I’ve got to sand it down yet.”

It was at that point, when I could see a Bickering Argument descending on us like a heat seeking missile, that I put down the paintbrush and went back to the computer.

I hate decorating. 

[Is paint magnetic?  I think I have magnetic skin, paint seems to leap out of the tin and attach itself to me.  By the time I’d finished I looked like an inverted Dalmatian dog with a streak of white hair (I think it was paint in my hair, I don’t think even decorating can make you age that fast … can it?)]

Monday 6

With the amount of whistling I do around the house, all day, every day, I can’t understand why these budgies of mine aren’t chirping Adagio in G Minor as a quartet, or at least humming a song or two from Yentl.

Maybe I just have stupid budgies.

Tuesday 7

School holidays.  There aren’t many kids where I live so even when I work in the garden its quiet apart from the reverberating scream of a mother crying “Put that down!” or “Come here!”

Except for today.

We have a new family living at the bottom of the garden.  Not little people, you understand, I’m not yet at the stage where I believe there are fairies living in my greenhouse (but give me time).  In the house where their garden backs onto mine. 

Today, the resident children had obviously found something to play with.  I’m not exactly sure what it was, but it sounded very much like they were trying to build a spaceship out of a large piece of corrugated iron simply by jumping on it.  Constantly.

All flipping morning!

Later, when I took a break and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden (this is so the life), the stomping ceased.  All was silent.  And then I heard little voices on the other side of the fence right next to me whisper, “What’s over there?  Is that someone’s garden?  Let’s go and have a look.”

Without looking up from the book I was reading, I said, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

There was a long startled silence, and then I heard the rustling of little feet running off (probably to tell mommy about the gremlin living at the bottom of their garden).

A short while later, the spaceship programme started up again.

Wednesday 8

I was typing up some letters today (which I don’t particularly like doing ‘cos they’re fiddly little buggers, give me something chunky and enormous any day).  The dictator was Welsh.  First couple of letters, fine, usual company stuff.  Third letter was a complaint to some contractors who hadn’t done their job properly.  It was quite a long letter and the dictator started getting quite worked up about it, his voice getting higher, his accent stronger, I swear I could hear him slamming his fist down on his desk.  Imagine “It’s taken you aaaaaaaaaages” in high-pitched Welsh.  I was laughing my socks off.

Afterwards, a deadline.  “Can you get this back in two hours?” I was asked.  “Sure, no problem,” I said.  Fool.

70 minutes long.  70 minutes of a man who … spoke … really … slowly for a few sentences (“Oh come on! Give me a break!” I cried, fingers poised motionless over the keyboard) and thensuddenlystartedspeakingreallyreallyfast (“What?” I cried, “What?”).  He dictated some of it outside and I could hear the howling wind and heavy traffic and his tiny little voice in the background telling me to type something only I couldn’t hear what he was saying so I boosted the sound to Eardrum Abuse volume and heard him say, “I’m just outside now, going round to the front, we’ll be doing the internal section next.”

Got it done.  But I was deaf for the rest of the day, which was no bad thing as the kids started working on their spaceship again in the afternoon.

Thursday 9

And more on the workfront.  I think I’ve been promoted by one of my outsourcing companies.  Well, kind of promoted.  It’s a one-woman business and I get loads of work from her, more than half of my earnings.  She emailed me to say she was going on holiday for two weeks next Tuesday.

What?  Two weeks without work?

She then said she’d send me work to do while she was away and I could send it straight back to the client.  Ooooh, look at me, working directly with clients!

Fastfingers, the transcribing empire!

This time next year we’ll be hundredaires.

Friday 10

The phone rang at 7am this morning.  Thinking it could only be Hubby (who starts work at that time) I answered it and said, “Hi Smelly.” (these are the terms of endearment we use)

“Is that Fastfingers?” came a voice I didn’t recognise.  A man.  Quite posh.

There was only a second before I said, “Yes,” but in that time I’d gone through the whole repertoire of:

1. Is it my boys?  Has something happened to one of my boys?  The voice sounded authoritative, like a doctor or a policeman.  What’s wrong?
    
2. Is it Hubby?  Has he had an accident at work?  Is this his boss calling to give me bad news?  What’s wrong?
    
3. Family, is it family, has something happened to my family?  Is dad okay?  Mom?  Sis?  What’s wrong?
    
4. If this is a farking salesman I am so going to hunt him down and give him a good thrashing.

Turns out the bloke is a researcher from a BBC radio station (phew … and then argh!).  Would I be willing to be interviewed on their breakfast programme at 9am about giving up the rat race?  Live!

Live!

LIVE!!!!

I’d like to be able to tell you that I agreed immediately and enthusiastically.  But, alas, I didn’t.  Being recorded by the BBC is one thing (and I only survived that by reminding myself to breathe, keeping breathing), but live is something else.  I know my limitations.  I don’t want to become world famous as that woman on the radio who couldn’t string a sentence together.  Two hours gave me plenty of time to work myself up into a right state – tears and dribbling would inevitably be involved.  So I said no.

An opportunity missed, maybe, but my rather shy ego tells me I did the right thing. 

Saturday 11

A typical slob fest Saturday.  I usually do some work on Saturday morning while Hubby's at work, but I choose to play on the internet instead this morning because sometimes I don't have the strength to fight off the Idleness Monster.  Hubs came home and promptly fell asleep in front of the History Channel (actually, he came through the door looking knackered and I said, "Shall I put the history channel on for you, darling?"  Well, I didn't really say 'darling', I think it was 'dog breath', but you get the picture).  I clear up the chaos from Last Night (Friday night is Do Nothing Night, we do like our little routines), and then we have The Big Saturday Discussion.

Me: We need to go shopping.

Hubs: Yes, I know.

Me: We need quite a lot of stuff.

Hubs: Yes.

Me: We ought to go to Morrisons for a big shop.

Hubs: Yes.

Me: Or maybe Iceland, we can probably get everything there.

Hubs: Yes.

Me: And then we'll go to the local shops for meat from the butchers and a newspaper and things.

Hubs: Yes.

And then what actually happens is we procrastinate and pither about until late afternoon and end up rushing up to the local shops before they close for some milk and eggs, thinking we can make do with milk and eggs for a few days, and we'll go shopping on Monday night when its quieter, definitely Monday night.

God we hate shopping.

!

Sunday 12

Today, I work.  Hubs disappears Oop North to see family, and I set about typing.  10am to 4pm.  On a Sunday. 

Its just not right is it.

Don't know what's happened to my text up there, its gone all funny and won't budge!  Must be what-the-berluddy-'ell-do-you-think-you're-doing-working-on-a-berluddy-Sunday Monster.

Monday 13

[I'll be indulging in a major work fest today so have posted this early]

Pick a pic to print out and put on your computer today, whichever one suits your mood.  I have them all on mine!


 






I've no idea why they're all spaced out like that!

YOU'VE ONLY GOT A FEW MORE DAYS TO ENTER THE BRUMMIE BLOGS COMP (SEE BELOW), SO GET THEM CAMERAS OUT AND START CLICKING.  I've received a few good ones, a couple of sad ones and also a rather scary one which I'm hoping isn't real.  You can see them all on Wednesday.

ANOTHER GREAT BRUMMIE BLOGS COMPETITION - TOO LATE, ITS OVER, YOU'VE MISSED YOUR CHANCE!  See winners below.

Okay, brace yamselves, contain your excitement and stop talking at the back there, here’s your chance to shine and fall madly in love with Gregory House.

<<<< DO YOU WANT THIS MAN? Kwoar!

And what, I hear you ask, do you have to do in order to win a £12.99 voucher for the HMV sales?  Dead simple.  This month’s fabulous comp is called …

You show me yours …

Okay, settle down now, stop thinking those smutty thoughts.  It’s a photo theme this month, so blow the dust off them thar digital cameras and make like David Bailey.  Muster up your creative juices and get clicking.

Click what?  Stop those smutty thoughts immediately, I’m not that kind of girl!

Well it came to me this morning, when I was shuffling across the kitchen to the fridge to get the milk for my first Wake Me Up! coffee.  I opened the door and with squinty eyes I suddenly thought, ‘Who owns a fridge like this?’  Well, I do, of course.  And if I had a choice the contents of my fridge would look like this …

But it doesn’t, it looks (rather sadly) like this …

All yer basic necessities of life: whisky and lemonade, Gaviscon for post-takeaway disorder, and a four pack of Babycham that's been there since Christmas.

And that’s the comp.  You show me yours.  No tidying, no cleaning, no dashing out to the shops to stock up on healthy stuff and expensive bottles of champagne or caviar, just open your fridge door and snap it au naturelle.  I wanna see the contents of your fridge raw and true to life.

Send your pics here.  The best one (not necessarily the most well stocked or the healthiest) that is full of character and life and joy and just depicts the essential essence of Your Fridge wins a £12.99 HMV gift certificate to spend on whatever you like (but House kwoar is highly recommended).

Now go forth and photograph.  You've got two weeks, starting from .......... now!

Small print: Competition closes Wednesday (or Tuesday) 15 August 2007.  You will be asked for your permission to reproduce any photograph(s) on Brummie Blogs.  HMV gift voucher will be sent via email for you to claim online at www.hmv.co.uk.  House is a really good series, you should buy it.  Friends and relatives may enter, particularly interested in Middle Son's fridge (are you eating enough fruit and veg?).  Bribes accepted.  Rat catchers willing to rid me of rodent currently languishing in my garden awarded extra brownie points and a Brummie Blogs fridge magnet.

Tuesday 14

Set the alarm to wake me up at 3am last night for a meteorite shower, which was supposed to be as spectacular as a firework display so I wasn’t going to miss that.  Plus if it was going to be a The Day of the Triffids kind of event, I wanted to be there when it happened because I've got a lot of really large plants in my garden and I'd like some kind of warning beforehand if they're going to storm into the house and make a mess.

Dragged heavy carcass out of bed in middle of night, looked out of window through bleary eyes.  Clear sky.  No meteorites.  Shuffled into study, opened window and nearly froze to death inspecting the sky for any signs of meteorites.  Nothing.  Out of side windows.  Nothing.  Went back to bed.

Today, on the news, there were some photographs from people who had witnessed the ‘momentous event’.  Single meteorites.  Just a line across a dark sky.  So not really the firework display we’d been promised then.   And it took me ages to get back to sleep afterwards because of the hyperthermia I’d experienced. Tsk.

Anyway, sitting in my study today, working away in a sleep-lacking kind of way, I looked down at myself and thought, “Hmmm, there seems to be a bit more of me than there used to be.” 

I’m getting fat!!  Not surprising really since I sit in a chair typing all day and exercise to me is just another word for pain.

Immediately rang my mother.  “Maaaaaaaaaaaaarmeeeeeeeeeeeee!” I cried, “Help me!  I’m getting fat!”

Mom instantly leapt into Helpful Mommy Mode (and my kids wonder where I get it from).  “Okay,” she said calmly, “You can come swimming with me tomorrow.”

Oh, okay.  Mom then continued the HMM by saying, “Now, you’ll need a towel and a swimming costume.  And bring a small bottle of water.  And a hairbrush.  And a bag to put your wet things in afterwards.  And talcum powder if you use it.”  Talcum powder?  Like who uses talcum powder any more?  “And a jumper because you’ll be cold when you come out, and money for bus fares, and … “ So it continued.  On and on.  You’d think we were planning an invasion of Poland not a trip to the local swimming baths.

So that’s it then, I’m going swimming with my mom tomorrow.

Should be interesting.

That link to the Triffids up there is actually The Whole Film!  How fab is that? You always get what you need here at Brummie Blogs, oh yeah.

Wednesday 15

Swimming with my mother.  Ah ha ha ha ha.

We were to meet at the end of her road where the bus stop is.  I arrived on time, marmee was nowhere to be seen.  I saw the bus coming.  Mom tottered out of her house at the bottom of the road.  I waved at her.  She waved back.  I waved harder and tried to make like a bus (which in my current condition of fatness isn’t that difficult!).  She waved back.  I indicated that maybe she should hurry up a little.  She waved back.  I started jumping up and down making huge Come! On! Motions, and she eventually broke into a trot.  Actually I didn’t mean for her to run as she’s now a ‘pensioner’, my mom, I just wanted her to walk as if she had some aim in life and wasn’t talking in the scenery.

Anyway, we managed to catch the bus.  Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak.  Nearly missed our stop.  Risked life and limb crossing the busiest part of the road in Harborne to get to the swimming baths (or are they called recreation centres now, something pompous like that?). 

“Do you want to have a look at their gym?” mom asked when we paid at the counter.

“GYM!” I cried. “Why?  NO!”

Despite my protestations that I just simply wasn’t a gym type of person (having an allergy to any form of physical pain), mom dragged me into the gym because she’s the marmee and she apparently knows best how to deal with expanding offspring.  So there I am, forty thirty seven years old, holding my plastic bag of swimwear, being hauled around a gym with my mom explaining all the vast machinery.  “This is a walking machine, this is a cycle machine … “  Yadda yadda yadda. 

It was quite strange seeing my tiny little mommy in her fleece jacket scuttling around a gym full of huge bulging men pressing weights.  It was even stranger when mom got on one of the weight machines, fleece still on, and started doing leg presses (or whatever they’re called).  “I usually do a hundred of these,” she beamed, and moved the leg press thingy a millimetre.  “Oooh,” she said, “They seem a bit heavy today.”  A woman immediately rushed over and took mom off Swarzennegger Bulging Thigh mode and into a more sedate Elderly Woman Who Just Wants a Bit of a Tone mode.

“You should come at least once a week,” mom said to me.

Yeah, right, okay, like never.

And into the swimming pool.  Harborne has the changing rooms around the side of the pool.  We went into a couple.  I whipped off my teeshirt, trousers, socks and trainers to reveal the swimming costume already worn underneath, stuffed the clothes into the carrier bag, tossed them into a locker and dived (well, okay, dipped slowly down the steps) into the pool.

Mom took 15 minutes.  I kid you not, she was in that little changing room doing God knows what for a full 15 minutes.  Then she fussed around the lockers for a bit, then went to the toilet.  By the time she actually got in the water I’d done a few widths and had started to wrinkle quite badly.

Mom started swimming.  She tells me she does at least 45 lengths, which is quite impressive.  Also impressive is the speed at which she does the lengths, the movement of which can only be detected by a speeded up camera.  And she doesn’t get her hair wet, just this little head moving very very slowly up and down the pool with a contented smile on its face.

I did widths, which was safer because everyone else seemed to favour the shallow end (they were all pensioners, I was the youngest person there by miles).  Doing widths entailed avoiding everyone else who was valiantly doing lengths, so it was like trying to cross a motorway in rush hour.  I eventually got told off by the attendant, who explained in no uncertain terms that People Don’t Do Widths They Do Lengths.

Did they ever!  All these pensioners going up and down, up and down, not stopping, not letting anything get in their way, deadly serious about the whole thing.  I got the distinct impression that if I hindered their swimming in any way they would probably kill me.  Nobody played or splashed around or anything like that, they were there to swim and swim was what they were going to do. 

Jeeeez, chill, people!

I noticed mom talking to an elderly chap in the shallow end.  She came back to me and said, “That’s Phil.  I told him I was here with my daughter and the first thing he asked was if you were married.”

Oh God.

“He won’t come down into the deep end,” she added, as if this was a bad thing, “He doesn’t like the deep end.”

I was most definitely staying in the deep end.

We were in the water for about an hour.  When I eventually hauled myself out of the water I gave an echoing cry because I was so heavily water logged I could barely move.

Into the changing rooms, dried, put on clothes, waited for mom in the foyer.

And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.

20 minutes.  I mean, why?  How?  What?  And even when mom did appear she looked like someone had kicked her out in mid-change.  I had to hold her bags, and her coat, and her umbrella, whilst she put on a jumper and rummaged in her bag for an Energy Bar.

“Shall we go shopping?” she asked me.

I just looked at her.  Does she not know me at all?

We caught the bus home.

AND THE WINNERS ARE …

I’ve been sent quite a few piccies of your fridges and deduced that most of you are quite a healthy, fridge caring bunch which puts the contents of my sad little fridge to shame.  It was quite hard choosing a winner, and I couldn't settle on just one, so I picked four of the best.  And these are they.

In fourth place [drum roll]:

This is from Ellen over in The Big Country, and I like this because its just so full, because she's clearly emptied the contents of her larder to fill up the fridge, because every food group you'd ever need or want is right there.   It's great.  It's packed.  It looks just incredibly healthy and I so want my fridge to look like this.

Well done, Ellen.  You don't win anything, but we like your fridge.

In third place [ta da!]:

This is Mark's fridge.  Say hello to Mark's fridge everyone.  Its pretty cool because it has 'home made' stuff in there, so 175 brownie points to that man (are you over the pond, Mark?)

Again, you don't win anything, but the whole world gets to see and drool and sigh over your nice fridge.

In second place [pause for effect, slight murmur amongst the crowds, sense of anticipation great]:

This is Steve's fridge.  Sad, isn't it.  I mean, really sad.  You feel for both the fridge and for Steve, don't you.  You just want to rush out and get some M&S Vouchers for him, find him a nice girl, get him settled down with some decent grub inside him, maybe a dog, some kids playing in a sun drenched garden.

You didn't win, Steve, but you're in our hearts.  We feel for you, dude, we really do.

And in first place, the winner of Brummie Blogs £12.99 HMV Gift Voucher for The Best Fridge Contents is …

…

…

...

...

[exciting, isn't it]

...

...

Lynne! [Round of applause, lots of cheering, crowds standing up and shouting 'You go, girl!']

I like this because it just so clearly depicts the clash between healthy eating (the yoghurts) and the temptation of junk food (the chocolate) that we all face on a daily basis.  It's a well rounded, real fridge.  And I also like it because she buys cheap alcohol, so a girl after my own heart.  Well done, Lynne!  Send me your email address and I’ll send you the HMV Voucher for you to spend on anything you like (but House – swoon – is highly recommended).  Lynne has very generously donated her £12.99 voucher for the Gambian charity - thanks Lynne!  I've bought a decent First Aid kit with it.

There is also a runner up.  Well, its more of a WTF? kind of ... well, not 'winner', more of an honoured loser.  Well actually a loser of the enormously scary kind.  Somebody sent me this pic, which I’m rather hoping isn’t real.  Look away now if you’re of a nervous disposition.

In fact, I've decided that its just too gross to put here.  I can only bring myself to put a link to the pic, but be warned, this is really really horrible.  Use this link with great care.  Are you ready?  Are you sure?  Brace yerself.  Okay, here it is (gulp).

Thanks for that, Pete.  Never invite me round for dinner at your place will ya?  And have you considered therapy of any sort?

Thanks to everyone for taking part, I'm now in the process of redesigning the contents of my fridge because I feel a bit left out.  But then, that would entail shopping more, and I'm not sure I can bring myself to do that just yet.  But soon, real soon.

Thursday 16

Flicking through all the cable channels last night (searching vainly for something to watch), I saw a programme called Home.  It was actually Home Improvements but they couldn’t fit the whole title in its half hour slot.

“Home,” I said to Hubby, “Do you think that’s a cheap British version of House MD?”

Can you imagine it, House set in an NHS hospital?  It wouldn't be the devine Hugh Laurie playing House, it would probably be Robbie Coltrane and he'd be called Maisonette GP, Kevin Maisonette.  And he wouldn’t have a limp, he’d have an artificial limb because they didn’t have had the medicine to put him into a pain-reducing coma (too expensive) so they just hacked it off.  And probably the wrong leg.

The British House would probably be a bit overweight because his wages don’t allow him to shop at M&S, and a 145 hour working week doesn’t allow him time to cook either, so he’d probably be a bit scruffy and rumpled and unwashed as well.  With huge bags under his bloodshot eyes.  And the hospital wards would be filthy with just one huge woman idly shuffling around with a damp cloth.

His colleagues would all be dishevelled and demoralised and knackered, a couple of them from foreign lands who can’t speak English very well (sharp intake of breath … hey, I’m just keeping it real).  They’d say things like, “Do you think its Lupus?” and the British House would say, “Yes, its Lupus, but we can’t treat it because there isn’t enough NHS funding and our local PCT are in deficit to the tune of £7.7million.  So everyone's going to die and there's nothing we can do to save them.”

I think I’m onto something here.

All complaints to SecretaryofState@nhs.gov.org.

[There's already a British version of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation - its called Waking the Dead, and its rubbish, except for Trevor Eve who's a bit delish (and a fellow Brummie!) and who I'm still madly in love with from when he did A Sense of Guilt (sigh).  We can't do drama like the Americans can, but then, they certainly can't do humour like we can either - just look at how they crucified The Office!

I think I definitely need to get out more.]

Thursday 16 - PART II

I’ve been transcribing a series of interviews where the woman asking the questions ‘as a rayley tick Uuuuropeeeaaaan acsaynt.  Having struggled through one, I started a new one.  The Uuuuropeeeaaaan woman asked the first question, and I sighed heavily when the interviewee started speaking in a heavy Asian accent.  She answered the question, and then just kept going.  Without any intervention from the interviewer she covered every aspect of the subject from its conception to present, and beyond into the way distant future.

25 minutes she was yakking away, none stop.  Yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda.  Then suddenly, she stopped talking.  There was a moment of startled silence, and then the interviewer, instead of asking the usual second question, said, “Moovin’ on nouw to de layst qweshion.”

Managed to get through that without completely losing the will to live, and started the next one.  The usual firs qweshion, and then the interviewee answered.  My heart leapt and did a bit of an Irish jig when I heard the dulcet tones of a man who so needed to be on a late night radio show.  Oh, the voice, the voice!  Don’t stop talking I kept thinking. 

These are the moments.

I was quite bereft when it finished, proof (if more proof were needed) that I seriously need to get out more.

Friday 17

As you know, I work at home.  All alone at home.  Just me and my laptop and the tone deaf budgies.

Working away in the study this morning, I paused the audio blasting away in my ears, and instantly froze.

There was a noise, a kind of heavy thump.  Sounded like it was in the house.  Couldn’t be.  Could it?  I unplugged my head from the computer and stopped breathing.  There it was again, a dull thud.  Definitely inside the house.

Again.  Thud thump.

My entire body just swelled with a tsunami of adrenaline.  The noise was coming from the room next door, the spare room, the guest room, right next to me.

I felt like a woman in a horror movie, hearing a sound in the house when she’s all alone.  Still pulsating with adrenaline and terror, I considered my options.  Phone someone.  Who?  Dad, who’s the closest but has a dicky heart?  Hubs, who’d take about 20 minutes to get home from work, by which time my mutilated body would be spread up the walls and dripping down the stairs.

Thud thump.  Thump.  Thud thump.

Oh God.  There was nothing else for it, I’d have to investigate, just like those women in horror films who stoopidly go off in search of the axe-wielding murderer hiding in the other room instead of doing something sensible, like making a run for it.

Thud thump.

I was actually trembling as I made my way across the study and out the door onto the landing.  The spare room door was shut. Thud thud thump.  Definitely somebody in there.  I felt a bit faint as I hadn’t drawn breath for quite a while.  I gently pushed at the bedroom door and it creaked open, slowly, slowly, revealing the room.  It looked empty, but there was enough space behind the door to conceal an insane attacker, enough space under the bed for a bloodied hand to suddenly shoot out and grab my ankle.  I really must stop watching horror movies.

I step inside the room.  Silence.  The murderer/burglar/psychopath knew I was there, was just waiting to pounce out at me.  I’m not kidding, I was really really scared.

Thud thump.

I looked up.  Towards the window.  The small top window was open.  Wide open.  Almost horizontal.

And on it sat three huge, fat pigeons, thudding heavily against the glass, fighting for space and bouncing on and off like heavy footballs.

There was a split second of unmitigated relief, quickly swamped by unmitigated rage.  “BUGGER OFF YOU LITTLE GITS!” I screamed, waving my arms as I slammed the window shut, “GET OFF MY BERLUDDY WINDOWS!”

They flew off. 

I’ll be getting a double barrelled shotgun at the earliest opportunity.

And selling all my horror DVDs.

There’s an epic post coming tomorrow as Hubs and I finish decorating the bedroom.  I’m recording the event As It Happens,  a blow-by-blow account (hopefully not literally).  And there’ll be photo’s too!  Don’t miss it, all here on Brummie Blogs, tomorrow … if I survive (or rather, if Hubby does).

Saturday 18

A LIVE POST!

Fastfingers and Hubs Do Decorating

Today is ‘Let’s get the berluddy bedroom finished’ because I don’t want to end up as one of those women on DIY SOS who says things like ‘Well we started it 27 years ago and just never got round to finishing it.’

As we’re pretty crap at decorating together and can’t be in the same room without it turning into a near death experience, we discussed our strategy last night.

ME: Don’t call me darling.

HUBS: Don’t criticise what I do.

ME: Don’t call me sweetheart.

HUBS: Don’t interfere.

ME: Don’t order me around.

HUBS: Won’t talk to you at all.

ME: Try and move slightly faster than a slug on Valium.

[PAUSE]

HUBS: Just let me get on with it.

ME: I won’t speak.

HUBS: I’ll try not to look at you.

We smile confidently.

7.15am – I get up, slither down the stairs, wave at Hub’s on the sofa (he doesn’t sleep there, he just gets up earlier than me and watches the news), make coffee, strong coffee.  There’s a certain tension in the air.  We want to get the bedroom finished but we don’t want to end up killing each other either, its a fine line. 

7.45 – We’d better start then.  Hubs and I have been together for quite a while now and I know how he works.  He likes to prepare properly, get everything together.  It takes him aaaaaaaaages and it used to drive me round the bend, but I’m an experienced wife now and don’t ‘do stress’ any more.  So while Hubs disappears to the garden shed to collect his ‘tools’, I do a bit of housework and start up the computer.  It works well, I don’t shout ‘Just get on with it!’ and he doesn’t give me a lecture on the importance of good preparation.  All is well with the world.

9.00 - Hubs explains in intricate detail how to measure and cut a strip of wallpaper to the exact right size, and watches whilst I paste it to make sure I’m doing it ‘properly’.  I go limp inside so I don’t automatically make some sarcastic comment like ‘This isn’t rocket science, it’s just wallpapering!’  A domestic dispute deftly avoided.

Strong arms, crinkly wallpaper (but I'm not saying anything, nope, not saying a thing)

9.08am – First strip on the wall.  Yay!  Whilst I’m pasting the next strip to hubby’s exacting standards, I casually ask if his ex-wife ever helped with the decorating.  Well, that opens the floodgates and I stand there – limp inside, stay limp – whilst he stops putting the paper on the wall (argh!) to tell me all about the ex-wife’s endless  misdemeanours on the decorating front, of which there were apparently many.  After a few minutes of this – limpness is difficult to maintain for extended periods, a bit like standing on one leg – I can’t resist asking if men are completely incapable of multi tasking.  “You can’t decorate and talk at the same time?” I ask.  Then I smile to lessen the biting sarcasm a bit, and yet another argument is avoided (I consider marking them on the wall, but I’m not allowed near any of the walls). 

9.12 – I’ve pasted my strip.  I move towards the wall where Hubs is sticking it to the wall and gently press on the edge of the wallpaper to make sure it’s stuck properly.  “Don’t do that!” Hubs snaps, “I haven’t finished manoeuvring it yet!”  I force a smile and promptly leave the room, shouting “Tell me when you need another strip pasting.”  I think it’s essential that we’re in the same room for as short a time as possible in order to complete the task without divorce lawyers being called.  I retire to the study to await Hubby’s next instructions.

9.30 – Just in case I forget what’s happening, Hubs shouts through to the study giving a step by step commentary on what he’s doing while I tap away on my laptop.  I keep my responses to a minimum, don’t want to encourage this kind of behaviour, not the slightest bit interested in the non-straightness of the walls or how concave they are, but the commentary continues unabated.

9.45 – We’ve got five strips on the wall, bloody good going (teamwork!)  We haven’t argued and Hubs has only called me ‘darling’ four times, so things are looking good.  We smile at each other contentedly.

10.00 – A crisis.  Hubby asks, “So what do you think of the colour then?”  Its orange, but to Hubs (who’s colour blind) it must look a different shade altogether.  “Yes, I like it,” I say as convincingly as possible.  He looks pleased.  “Just the right terracotta shade we were looking for,” he says proudly. 

Its not terracotta, its orange.  I smile and nod and swiftly leave the room.

Could it be more orange?

10.45 – Hubs calls me in to paste another strip.  I bounce in enthusiastically. 

“Let me tell you what I’m going to do,” he says, staring at a empty strip on the wall in the corner.  “I’m going to need a thin strip to go in there.  I’m going to have to measure it, and then cut it exactly right.  Let me just measure it.  Four inches.  Can you see its four inches?”

“Just tell me what to do?” I say.

“I’m going to need to cut the wallpaper all the way down one length to exactly four inches, do you follow me?”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“I’ve measured it and now I have to cut it, you’ll have to help me cut it straight, a four inch strip.”

I think he just likes to make sure I understand what he’s doing and, just to make sure I understand what he’s doing, he repeats it, repeatedly.  And somewhere out there, a divorce lawyer starts gleefully rubbing his hands together as my patience stamps its little foot and Hubs continues to explain what he’s doing, what he’s going to do, and how he’s going to do it.  While I stand there, doing Absolutely Nothing.

“Call me when you need me,” I tell him, moving towards the door.

“No, don’t run off,” he says, “I need you.”

So I stand there, doing Absolutely Nothing, while hubby runs through it again, just to make sure I understand.

I’m pleased to report that I didn’t resort to abuse or sarcasm cunningly disguised as humour.  I can do this.  I can.

Hubby contemplates that pesky four inch strip up the corner.
And yes, the walls are that crooked, its an old house and there's 15 tonnes of offsprings' paraphernalia in the loft (which worries me a lot at night as I watch the cracks creeping across the ceiling).

11.04 – The Great Pen Crisis.  I’m pasting on a table which is dangerously close to the ‘being wallpapered’ wall and Hubby.  I’m aware that this kind of proximity isn’t good, made all the worse because we haven’t moved any of the big furniture so there isn’t a lot of space.  Hubby looks for his pen because he like to makes intricate marks on the walls at intricately measured intervals.  He pushes passed me to look for it on the window ledges.  He pushes passed me to look on the bed.  He pushes passed me again to look for it on the other side of the room.

“Get another pen from the study,” I say helpfully.

He pushes passed me again, not in the direction of the study.

“Just get another pen.”

He pushes passed me to look on the window ledges again.

“Hubs!” I hiss, “There’s 75,000 pens of varying kinds in the study, just grab one of those.”

But no, it has to be that specific pen because it obviously has some kind of magical properties attached to it.  He pushes passed me again and I’m just about to use the pasting brush to stick his face to the wall when, thankfully, the magical pen is found.

And all is well with the world again.

There's the magic pen and Hubby's fingers.  S'looking good innit.

11.21 – I make helpful noises from my comfortable position in the study like, “Do you want a cup of coffee?”  “Do you need anything to eat yet?”  “Do you want me to do anything for you?”  The perfect wife (deep sigh of contentment).  I’m up and down out of this chair like a yoyo, so I’m getting lots of exercise too and should look like Kate Moss by the end of the day.  It’s all going spiffingly well.

11.35 – Another thin strip danger point.  This one has to be five inches wide.  Get that?  Five inches, no more, no less.  I’m called into the bedroom to hold the tape measure while Hubs precisely cuts off a five inch strip.  We do it carefully, intently, like surgeons working on the brain of a genius.  Finally, a five inch strip is cut from the roll and we breathe a sigh of relief.  Hubby steps sideways to put the scissors on a window ledge, and promptly rips the long strip in half.

It’s a tense moment.  The air hangs heavy with anticipation as Hubby stares incredulously at the two skinny strips and I try not to laugh or say anything which might be construed as critical or sarcastic.

“Just stick it on, you’ll never notice,” I say, hoping he’ll fall for it because I’m in the middle of a particularly good game of Freecell in the room next door.

“Okay,” he says.  He’s letting his standards slip.  There’s hope for us yet.

The ripped bit tsk.

11.45 – Hubby’s working behind the bedroom door, so the door’s shut, and the radio’s in the hallway blasting out the Scissor Sisters.  I can hear the faint murmur of Hubs doing his running commentary.  He gets louder, I carry on typing.  Finally there’s a cry of “Fastfingers!  Can you hear me?  I need another strip!”  I barely recognise myself as I leap out of my chair crying, “Coming.”  Maturity and experience are wunnerful thangs.

11.59 – “Look at us!” I dare to say out loud, “Four hours of decorating without any bickering, abuse or fisticuffs.”

“Yes,” Hubs agrees, “You’re behaving yourself quite well.”

A suitable riposte is on the tip of my tongue, it really is.  But like the mature, experienced woman that I am, I simply turn and leave the room.  It all feels terribly calm, not like us at all.  Are we getting old?

12.15pm – Another strip to paste.  We smile at each other over the pasting table, a loving couple happily working together to decorate our bedroom (as opposed to the slanging match we usually indulge in amongst spilled paint pots and thrown buckets of wallpaper paste).  “Looks like you can take that divorce lawyer off speed dial now,” Hubs jokes (thinks he jokes).

“Don’t be silly,” I scoff, “I’m never getting divorced again.”  I leave the room, adding, “It’s a hit man on speed dial.”

12.44 - Hubby is taking great care to make sure he kn