Just talk amongst yourselves for a bit whilst I have a major stroke about:

(a) it being only 24 days until Crimbo and I've done zero preparation (whilst all my friends and family have, apparently - and somewhat smugly - informed me that they've finished all theirs, gits).

(b) my laptop keyboard wearing out (there are just-about-to-rupture dents in all the worn-clean keys), it getting so hot I have to rest it on a thick book on my lap, and its running slower than a slug on valium pulling an anvil uphill.

Our friend and neighbour is very outspoken and funny, but he's said a couple of things to me recently that have made me squint my eyes up and think "What?  Like, WHAT?" 

The first indication that he didn't view me as a normal human being (does anyone?) was when he was talking about the female reporter and female photographer coming out to the Gambia with us.  "At least being together they'll have another woman to speak to," he said. 

Hello?  Am I not classed as a real woman any more then?

Then, finally acknowledging that I am of the femme variety, he went from one extreme to the other.  In Gambia, the reporter and photographer wanted to have some local outfits made.  "You can take them to the market," he said.  Before I could start shrieking about my deep seated loathing for shopping of any kind, he exacerbated it by adding, "You'll know how much material to buy, won't you.  And get a good price for it."

My reply (minus the expletives and the violence that followed) included the following important points:

No.1: I don't shop.  Period.  Do not ask me to shop, do not suggest I shop, do not mention shopping of any kind.

No.2:  Why will I know how much material to get exactly?  This knowledge isn't genetic.

No.3: How, since I can't actually speak the language, will I be able to 'get a good price' for said material.  Telepathically?  Using sheer brute force?  Maybe just stand there and scream in a girly fashion until they give it to me for free?

Today he came round with a friend who is visiting from the Gambia.  She wanted her hair done.  So he came round with her and said, "You'll know which hairdresser to take her to, won't you."

There was a long, long moment of heavy silence.  I could hear Hubs clench in anticipation, he was almost mouthing my thoughts and smirking in a nervous kind of way.

When has anyone, ever, heard me mention anything about having my hair done? (I have a mobile hairdresser that comes once every six weeks to 'trim' us). Why, since I don't have 'ethnic' hair (and my own hair has free rein because I just can't be bothered), would I know the location of 'ethnic' hairdressers, or indeed any hairdressing salon at all?  Why, of all the women in Birmingham/West Midlands/the world, would he ask me something like that when he knows full well I've spent years riding a motorbike, raising three sons and being the most ungirly girl he's ever come across.

"Yellow Pages," was all I could bring myself to say.

Its all quite funny.

In retrospect.

I see that teacher in Sudan has been granted a full pardon for daring to name a teddy Mohammed.  What a storm in teacup that was, although maybe I should take the name of the receptacle our national beverage in vain, you can’t be too careful these days. 

I was thinking of renaming my budgies Bin Laden, Alquada, Quoran and Bollocks, but it would just be such a mouthful when I’m personalizing the abuse I throw at them on a daily basis.

The feeling that the entire world has gone completely bonkers is quite scary sometimes isn’t it.

Two things happened yesterday.  The first was I went shopping in the city centre ... I'm not sure whether to write about this or not because I'm still somewhat traumatised by the whole experience.  I may need therapy.

Secondly, after surviving the trip into the city and staggering home to see how much work had piled up in my absence, there was a knock at the door.  I raced down the stairs to find a salesman on my door (yep, there's a sign there saying No Salesmen, but salesmen don't seem to believe they're salesmen and knock the door anyway, which really pisses me off - see video at bottom of page.)

"Yes?" I snapped/snarled/spat.

"Survey," said this little man.

"No time," I said, "I work at home and I'm very busy."

"Oh, what do you do?"

"Transcriber," I said.  He looked blank.  "Typist."  He still looked blank.  I did a finger typing mime and he seemed none the wiser.

"It'll just take a minute," he persisted with a huge smile.

"No time!" I said again.

"I'll need to come in and sit down and put your answers down on this laptop here," he continued, patting the laptop just in case I hadn't noticed he was carrying a laptop and totally ignoring the fact that I Really Didn't Want Him There.

"No.  Time.  Busy.  Work from home.  Transcriber."  How much clearer could I be?

The bugger wouldn't budge, and I couldn't slam the door shut screaming berluddy annoying salesmen! because I could see Hubs coming home.  Just as Hubs pulled into the driveway, the salesman said (pay attention here, its important), "Oh, here's a worker, he'll answer some questions for me."

"I'm a worker!" I cried, a bit bloody peeved to be honest, "And he doesn't have time because he's been at work all day and the last thing he'll want to do is answer some stupid questions for some stupid survey!"

Still the little man wouldn't budge, he seemed totally oblivious to the rage going on around him.  So I looked at Hubs, just getting out of his car, and said, "Get rid of him!"

And Hubs, being a blunt Yorkshireman, a tired, work-weary, salesman-hating Yorkshireman, promptly got rid of him.

I'm now practising, "Clear off, we're not interested!" in my best Yorkshire accent.

[Had some trouble with FrontPage yesterday so couldn't upload the Gambia page.  Try to contain your excitement, but if you click on this link you can have a look at my holiday photographs!]

Aren’t men funny.  As in 'odd'.  But you knew this already.

We ordered two internal doors on Saturday to replace the awful plastic paned ones we’ve had since the dawn of time and which I can’t stand the sight of a minute longer.  The new doors were supposed to be delivered on Monday, but of course I went out on that traumatic shopping trip into the city and thought I’d missed them.  But I hadn’t.  They rang to say they were bringing them today instead.  For some reason I can't fathom, Hubs was like a three year old on Christmas morning about their arrival.  They're doors.  How can anyone muster an iota of interest for doors?

Because the budgies now live ‘free’ in the hallway, it occurred to me when the doors arrived that I couldn’t leave the front door open while the man brought them in.  I couldn’t catch them either because they fly off when you go near them (the sods).  So I threw their night blanket over them, all four of them, sitting on top of their cage.  They were a bit stunned, but it was preferable, I thought, to them spending winter in the Great Outdoors, though I doubt they saw it that way.

The delivery man brought in a door, laid it down on the stairs, glanced at the covered budgie cage and stopped dead. Underneath the blanket, four little blobs moved around. The man seemed mesmerised for a moment, glanced at me, then hurried out for the other door.

“Come on in and I’ll pay you,” I said, as he laid the second door on the stairs.

He glanced at the four bulges moving around underneath the budgie blanket and said, “No, that’s okay, I’ll just wait outside.”

He left his pen in his haste to depart.

But that’s not the funny bit.  No, the funny bit was when Hubs fairly raced home from work to view the doors.  He got all excited and hyperactive with a tape measure, racing from doorway to doorway in the living room measuring everything, repeatedly, and telling me in intricate detail how he was going to hang the doors, how tall they were, how wide they were, and how much he’d have to take off the bottom to make them fit.  Who’d have through two simple internal doors could cause a person so much joy?

In the end, when it looked like he might expire with delirium at any moment, I had to say to him, “Look at this face, Hubs.  Does it seem remotely interested in the finer details of door hanging?”

He went quiet.

But he didn’t stop measuring. 

Like I said, men are funny.

Thursday 6

Occasionally, when I venture into the outside world, certain things happen that make me realise that I’ve been pretty much institutionalised for the last few years.  For one, after eight months, I’m still revelling in the novelty of not having to catch a bus every day.  At 7.30 each morning I look at the clock and think, “I used to be standing at the bus stop by now.”  And a little thrill runs through me, especially if its chucking down with rain and blowing a gale.

Today, I walked up to the local shopping centre (yep, that's it, up there).  I don’t do this very often because I’m still revelling in the novelty of not having to go out if I don’t want to, and I don’t want to very often.  But Hubs yelled at me last night (the bloody brute) and said I had to get some fresh air every day and go for a walk before I turned into a large vegetable.  I said going for a walk would be much easier and I’d be far more likely to do it more regularly if we had a dog, but he pretended not to hear that bit.

So anyway, I’m at the local shops, and it strikes me how different they are to the anonymous, curt, impersonal shops I’m more used to in the city centre, where you’re just grateful to get served at all let alone nicely.  In the building society, the assistant smiled at me for absolutely no reason which, like, never happens in the city.

In the bank, the tellers greeted all the customers in front of me by name.  “How’s your husband now, is he better?” they asked.  “Oh hello, Mrs Smith, how are you today?”  Compare that with the deplorable service in the city centre.

Then into the local supermarket where, again, the customers were greeted by name.  Not only that, but the assistant told an elderly woman in front of me that if she spent another pound she’d get a money off voucher, and then gave her the voucher anyway.  Not only that, but the assistant took the time to explain the voucher, and said she should sign up to the delivery service so she wouldn’t have to haul the shopping home herself.  I mean, that’s like personal service isn’t it.  Its just, like, really nice.

I think I’ll be going out more to witness this sense of community spirit more often.

(But it would be so much easier to do with a dog in tow J)

Friday 7

Ex-husband rang last night.  We don’t speak often now that the boys are all grown up (and gone, the buggers), but whenever we do we always acknowledge the fact that we’re being ‘terribly civilised’ (well, bitter recrimination is so yesterday).  He wanted to know what to get the boys for Crimbo. 

“Not a clue,” I said, “They’re all earning more than me now anyway.” The days of buying bikes and computer game consoles are long gone.  I think it’s now time that we, as poverty-stricken parents who have given their all for the benefit and welfare of their children, should now benefit from hugely expensive presents from grateful offspring J.

We swapped a few ideas, then chatted for a while.  Ex recently split up with his long-term girlfriend, but they’re living in the same house until it’s sold – it all sounds rather ‘difficult’.

“I might pop over on Christmas day to see the boys,” Ex said.

“Okay,” I said.  “Why?”

“I’ll be out visiting all day.”

“Why?”

“Nowhere else to go,” he said.

After I’d hung up, I turned to Hubs.  “He’s got nowhere to go on Christmas day,” I said.

“I know what that’s like,” said Hubs.

So I rang Ex back.  “Want to come for Christmas dinner?”

He did.

So this year, Ex-husband will be joining in the Festive Family Slob Fest. 

Should be interesting. 

[Told sis about me having ‘two’ husbands for Christmas dinner.  She said she’d just been to watch her daughter in a carol competition, along with marmee, her boyfriend, her ex-husband, her ex-husband’s wife, and her ex-husband’s wife’s ex-husband.  “It all seems terribly complicated,” she said.  “You can’t hold a grudge because you’re too busy trying to figure out who all these extra people are.”]

Saturday 8

Went to the NEC last night to see Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds.  It was pretty bloody good!  You never get to play music That Loud on your own stereo at home, do you – I still can’t hear properly this morning.

I bought the tickets back in March, and promptly forgot about them (surprising, since the price of the tickets was pretty unforgettable).  Thursday night, purely by chance, I glanced at the calendar and screamed, “Farkin’ ‘ell, we’re going out tomorrow night!”

We went by train because it’s the easiest way if you don’t fancy waiting two hours to get out of the NEC car park afterwards.  When we flashed our tickets at the station master (not to show off, to get a reduction on the train tickets), he was pretty impressed as apparently they’re as rare as a gold tickets to Willy Wonka’s factory (not surprising, given the price of them).

Selly Oak to New Street, and then jumped on another train to Birmingham International.  Hubs, who like never uses public transport, was all edgy and hyperactive: “What platform is it?  Where’s the platform?  Is this the platform?  Where’s the train?  Is this the train  Is this the right train?  Are you sure this is the right train.”

I was the calm one, saying things like, “Chill, man.  I’ve lived here all my life, of course I know where I’m going.”

As the train passed through Stetchford, I said, “Not sure we’re on the right train.” Which was okay, because it was Hubs’ turn to be The Calm One.  “Of course it is,” his mouth said, while his eyes screamed ‘We’re on the wrong friggin’ train!’

We weren’t. 

It’s a 10 mile walk from the train station to the stadium (okay, maybe not 10 miles, but it sure feels like it).  Why didn’t they just build the station a bit closer?  What bright spark decided to build the station here and the stadium waaaaaaaaaaaay over there?  We joined the throngs pouring down long corridors, all of us following the people in front, who we hoped knew where they were going but might have just been looking for a toilet.

Happy chappy organising the queues outside the arena: “Line one for Des O’Connor, two for Tom Jones, three for Westlife.”

“Really?” someone cried.  Tsk.

“I quite like Westlife,” a girl said.

“Not after five nights in a row you wouldn’t,” sighed the concert-weary queue keeper.

We were in seats J11 and J12, except there was no seat 12, only  seats 11 and 13, so we sat there and nobody threw a hissy fit about it (although the couple next to us were turfed out for daring to be one row in front of where they ought to be– it was a jungle in there!)

We weren’t so far back that the stage looked like a spec of light in space, but not so close you’d recognise any of the musicians in the pub afterwards.  There must have been more than 10,000 people in the audience, the atmosphere was electric.  I love live events.

A camera roved over the audience and displayed them in a ‘Martian’ screen on stage - people were caught mid-drink or mid-coma (I was dying to see someone having a furious argument, but alas, they were a pretty happy bunch, apart from the seat fighting).  A woman behind us, clearly overhyped from just being there, frantically jumped up and down in the aisle, desperate for the camera to pick her up (obviously didn’t get enough attention as a child, I thought she was going to combust at any minute).  When the camera finally did pick her up, 5,000 people in the rows behind all cheered as she took a bow. 

And then it began.  It was brilliant, just fabulous.  But …

I’m an ignorant cow and didn’t actually know who Justin Haywood was, I just thought he was some poncey bloke who had let the singing part in a show go to his head.  The parson was Ozzie Osborne incarnate, and the Richard Burton hologram was … well, think Action Man with the moving eyes, hysterical.  I think they tried a bit too hard with the naff graphics in the first half, but the more stylised graphics in the second part were much better, you could just get into the music instead of thinking ‘pretty naff graphics’.  And the music was incredible.

In the interval, we wandered off around the stadium, along with 10,000 other people; not a good time to suffer a bout of claustrophobia!  £1.70 for a bottle of Coke seemed a bit steep (but the whisky we’d brought in flasks was free).  The queue for the ladies toilet was, as always, ridiculous (fortunately, only being able to afford the one bottle of Coke, I didn’t need it).

We tried to go outside for a cigarette, but were firmly turned away by a dozen fierce security guards.  We had to walk through the milling crowds to the other side of the stadium to find ‘the smokers door’.  Outside, hundreds of people were frantically puffing away next to huge rubbish bins – I love being made to feel like an outcast just because I smoke.

Afterwards, walking the 10 miles back to the station, we waited on the platform.  Hubs wandered off to the loo.  “Train’s delayed,” I said when he got back, “Not sure how long, we’ll play pinch punch while we wait.”  He didn’t answer.  I turned to say it a bit louder in case he hadn’t heard me (and also to start pinching and punching) and this bloke who wasn’t my husband glared back at me.  How to Look Mad and Embarrass Yourself, Part One.

Some unsuspecting Virgin train from Glasgow pulled up, and hundreds of people piled on and fought for seats.  Hubs and I had to sit on opposites sides of the aisle.  “We wanna be together!” I cried, and proceeded to pull faces at him all the way back into Birmingham – HTLMAEY Part Two.  I blame this kind of behaviour on the fact that I don’t get out much any more … or possibly the family genes are finally kicking in.

Grabbed some Indian nibbly things on way home, then stayed up yakking until really late (2am … hell, haven’t seen 2am for years).

A really really good night.

ARGH!!!  Deepest apologies to everyone who saw the original picture from this post ... no berluddy idea how that happened and nearly had a farkin' heart attack when I saw it!  Was supposed to be a woman smoking, NOT what berluddy appeared.  Good grief, I need a lie down in a dark room!!!!!

Well that was a bit of a shocker, that picture (which, hopefully, most of you didn’t get to see, and thank your lucky stars for that, I’m still having nightmares about it).  Suffice to say, I will be checking my all posts after I’ve uploaded them in future to make sure there are no other nasty surprises lurking in them.  I’m sure my blood pressure will return to normal at some point. 

Aaaaanyway, without the aid of any pictures whatsoever, not now, not ever, Brummie Blogs struggles to retain some modicum of dignity and resume normal service …

Sunday 9

Hubs hangs the doors (not to be mistaken for Hubby Does Dallas, God forbid).

Because of the monsoon weather outside, Hubs cut the doors to size in the living room, which made one helluva mess, but I didn’t complain (did I complain? I did not).  I mostly stayed out of the way because I hate DIY almost as much as I hate cooking and shopping, but every now and again I would be called upon to ‘assist’.  That’s the bit that makes my teeth clench, assistance, because I usually just get to stand there for aeons holding something (and repeatedly asking, ‘Can I go yet?’).

So I held the doors while Hubs cut them to size, and I held the doors while he shaved, and I held the doors whilst getting covered in sawdust and wood chippings (and held the doors as I watched my living room disappear under a blanket of shavings).  It was all very technical and manly, with much use of power tools, most of which I’m sure he didn’t need and were there simply to show off.

Finally, when my living room had been turned into a timber wonderland, the doors were done.

I have proper doors and feel quite posh.  These ones don’t rattle (because they’ve been fitted properly).  These ones don’t let the draught through (because they don’t have crappy plastic panes in them).  These ones are solid and white and fab.

Proper doors, get me!

Not only fits doors, but cleans up after himself too!

Land of the Giants pose with the new door

Another pose with the new door - Man at Burton perhaps?

And yes, yet another pose, this time demonstrating the opening of the new door

Afterwards, Hubs sauntered John Wayne-like into the kitchen and rustled up an amazing Sunday dinner.  Honestly, is there anything this man can’t do?

Monday 10

14 more shopping days until Christmas.  And what have I got so far?

Nothing.  Zilch.  Nada.  Zero.

Panic levels are quite high.  I haven’t even written a list yet.  I don’t go anywhere near shops any more. 

So I’m trying to decide which way to go:

(a)    Just ignore Christmas, it’ll just go away (and I’m sure gift-deprived friends and family will speak to me again eventually).

(b)   Change my religion to one that doesn’t celebrate Christmas – well, not so much as ‘change’ it as adopt one.  I could temporarily, over the Crimbo season, become a Jehovah’s Witness (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!)

(c)    Plead insanity, or develop some kind of non-fatal, non-painful, non-rashy type of illness that miraculously disappears in the New Year (actually, I think I did that last year).

(d)   Stop whingeing and bloody well get out there and sort it, like presto.

I can’t decide.  You decide.  A, B, C or D?

I won't be doing this this year:
(1) because I don't have a car, and
(2) I don't have a job

Tuesday 11

Talk about a bad day!  First off, woke up at some godforsaken hour of the morning with a searing migraine.  Staggered downstairs in the dark and tried to find medication in the cupboard, without turning on a light, whilst partially blind and half insane with pain.  Trouble is, when you’ve got a migraine, you can’t actually locate the box that has ‘migraine relief’ on it – they should have it in big zigzaggy letters on just one side of the box, the side you can see. 

The noise of flying pill bottles woke Hubs.  He seemed quite worried, so I must have looked like death.

Fell back into bed, woke up a zombie (so not much change there then).  Hubs offered to stay home and look after me, which was sweet, but I’m not a good patient, I like to be left alone to suffer in silence, martyr-like, so for the sake of our relationship I refused.  Besides which, I had work of my own to do, money to earn, jobs to complete, I couldn’t skive just because my IQ had dropped below that of a dung beetle.

First job was the dreaded (and barely paid) ‘minute’ files, which were all over the place.   Basically, because of the migraine and the medication and the fact that my brain was now only one third of its normal size, I couldn’t do it.  Just.  Could.  Not.  Do.  It.  And, because it had a deadline, I sent it back unfinished.  They weren’t pleased.

Then my other company emailed to say I’d been undercharging them for the last eight or nine months because they hadn’t told me the ‘new’ rate.  I was well peeved I can tell you.  A few emails went flying, and they eventually agreed to recompense me, so at least I have a Christmas bonus coming.

Not that I’ve prepared anything for Christmas yet.  Argh!

Finally, realized its Hubs birthday tomorrow, and I don’t have a birthday card yet and, because I’m still zombified, I can’t go out and get one (I may not be able to find my way home again – I’ll be that woman wandering bewildered and lost in the street wearing a dressing gown and wonky spectacles).

3pm, I gave it up.

And went and watched Jeremy Kyle.

Which put all my problems well into perspective!

Wednesday 12

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO HUBS

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO HUBS

HAPPY BIIIIIIIIRTHDAY DEAR HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBS

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU

Love, Fastfingers x

I've checked this picture, several dozen times - its a woman, that woman out of that rabbit film, and the words "Happy Birthday".  If it looks any different to you, if it looks like an XXX rated porn pic, please call me immediately.  I mean, IMMEDIATELY!

Thursday 13

Sum daze my tie pin is terror bull.  Disleksic fin gores.  Get frost trait ted.  Reel lea diffy colt two werk.

Hears sum inter resting tie pin in foe wot sum won cent me:

• Stewardesses' is the longest word typed with only the left hand.

• 'Lollipop' is the longest word typed with your right hand.

• No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, or purple.

• 'Dreamt' is the only English word that ends in the letters 'mt'.

• The sentence: 'The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' uses every letter of the alphabet.

• The words 'racecar,' 'kayak' and 'level' are the same whether they are read left to right or right to left (palindromes).

• There are only four words in the English language which end in 'dous': tremendous, horrendous, stupendous, and hazardous.

• There are two words in the English language that have all five vowels in order: 'abstemious' and 'facetious.'

• 'Typewriter' is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.

None of which helps the fingers, which are making like they've never seen a keyboard before, like ever, the buggers.

Friday 14

It started off as a normal day.  Wandered into the study, which was berluddy freezing at 7am.  Turned on heater and computer.  Started typing wrapped in a blanket.

Then Middle Son rings (the one who has a Masters (1st) in astrophysics - I love saying that).  He only went and got the job he went to interview for on Tuesday, the one he really, really wanted. 

RESEARCH SCIENTIST!  For a huge international company!

GO MIDDLE SON!

Well done, you genius you! 

I'm now typing with a huge smile on my face and pretty much floating round the room, having called everyone to tell them that my son, my son, is now a research scientist (and taking all the credit for it, of course - he takes after me).

True Friendship (With none of that Sissy Crap)

Are you tired of those sissy 'friendship' poems that always sound good, but never actually come close to reality?   Well, here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship. You will see no cutesy little smiley faces here - just the stone cold truth of our friendship.

1 When you are sad: I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you that way.

2. When you are blue: I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile: I will know you finally got laid.

4. When you are scared: I will rag on you about it every chance I get.

5. When you are worried: I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.

6. When you are confused: I will use little words.

7. When you are sick: Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want to catch whatever you have.

8. When you fall: I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

And remember .... when life hands you Lemons, get some tequila and salt and call me.

Saturday 15

Okay, let’s go!

To town.  To the city.  To do (sharp intake of breath) The Christmas Shopping. (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!)

I’d done a list, checked it twice, and it wasn’t actually too bad  - I’m playing the poverty card this year, wailing ‘Oh woe is me, a poor poverty-stricken self employed homeworker’ a lot.

Caught the train.  No probs.  Made it through the heaving crowds in New Street Station.  No probs.  Kept it together in the first shop queue, rolling our eyes profusely as we watched a woman pither with her purse and her purchases and requirements.  No probs.  Even made it to that shop that used to be Virgin but isn’t any more to get a DVD that was cheaper than I expected.  No probs.

Then to Waterstones.  There were probs.  Not the usual sort like being unable to tear myself away from books or stop touching books or just drooling over all the luverly books.  A sudden stomach upset.  Really sudden and somewhat desperate.

“Loo!” I hissed at Hubs.

Managed to find one.  10 minutes.  Then had to go back.  Another 15 minutes.  Meanwhile, poor Hubs is loitering around outside trying not to look conspicuous, while I’m inside wondering if I’ll ever be able to leave and panicking about getting home without appearing on the front page of the local newspapers.

Minced tightly all the way back down New Street to the train station.

We’d been ‘Christmas Shopping’ for a whole 30 minutes.

I think I'm allergic.

Sunday 16

Way-hay, a girlie lunch with girlies I haven’t seen in aaaaaaaaaaages.  I actually made the effort and got dressed up.  I wore tinsel!  Unfortunately, nobody else did so I looked like a right dope walking down Broad Street in broad daylight looking like a hyperactive Christmas tree.

Yak yak yak.  Faaaaabulous time, lovely girls, but …

It’s different when you work with someone and have something in common, like your work colleagues and bosses.  When you’ve been ‘out of the scene’ for a while, its hard to get excited about the colleagues you’ve all but forgotten or, worse, colleagues you’ve never met.

It was also quite difficult to find ‘common ground’, despite them being only marginally younger than me.  I’ve lived in my house for nearly 25 years, they’re just buying or considering buying flats.  I’ve had at least two husbands, they’ve never married.  I have offspring already producing the next generation, they have none.  They’re taking driving tests, I’ve held a car and motorbike licence for decades.  They’re talking botox and liposuction, I’m determined to grow old as disgracefully as possible (“Look at you!” they cried, “No wonder you’re not bothered!” which made me feel … well it made me feel pretty good actually).  I mean, just what the hell have they been doing all this time?

It was great to see them, but I’m not in ‘that world’ any more (in my own little world most of the time).  It did make me realise that I definitely don’t miss the office politics or the agonies of commuting every day. 

It also made me realise that I have a very nice life.  I’ve achieved quite a lot.

I’m very very lucky.

Farkin' 'ell its cold!

Post coming later, just as soon as I've hacked open the study door.  And chipped the ice off my laptop.  And cracked my fingers straight.  And stopped shivering and gibbering about it being berluddy freezing.

Jeez, everything outside is white!

Stay warm, people.

Tuesday 18

I survived the Great Chill of the West Midlands yesterday, but it was a narrow escape.  I went out for a ‘brisk’ walk (okay, I sauntered and looked at views a lot), and by the time I got back my face looked like it had had a massive injection of botox, I had no expression except one of abject agony.  I saw a robin in the garden and it was so puffed up from the freezing temperature it was the size of a chicken – quite startling, actually (what the hell is that thing on my bird table?)

Anyway, I’ve done something.  It’s not something I’m proud of and I’m loath to admit to it, but confessing my sins may (hopefully) be cathartic.

Here goes …

Because of the sheer number of people appearing at my house over Christmas (none of them invited I might add, they just turn up hungry and go through my kitchen cupboards like a plague of locusts), and because we didn’t ‘entertain’ last year because we were at deaths door (and so have to make this year Extra Special to make up for our chronic neglect), and because I have two husbands for Crimbo dinner, I … well I …

I’M DOING A KERRY CATONA!  AAAARGH!

There, I've said it, I've admitted to my sins.  I’m going the lazy, idle, really-can’t-be-bothered route and buying everything from Iceland.  “That’s why slobby people go to Iceland.”  Heaven help me.  I figure I’m doing Hubs a favour so he won’t be slaving away in the kitchen all the time, but really I’m just being a slothful git.  I have better things to do than make sandwiches, like watching Christmas tv and eating and drinking and drinking some more.

There was just one slight snag to this brilliant plan.  We only have a normal sized upright freezer, not gonna get enough frozen food to feed the starving thousands in there.

“We need a freezer,” I mentioned to Hubs.  And he was right on the phone.  To a man he knows who just happens to be selling a freezer dirt cheap (dirt cheap is my middle name).

Sorted. 

But … where to put it?  No room in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter (unless we turf the budgie cage outside ... I was tempted).

Hubs spark of genius flared up again.

We now have a freezer merrily humming away in the garden shed, so every time we want something we’ll have to traverse like Scott of the Antarctic across the ‘patio’ in the wind and the snow and the driving hail to get at our frozen goodies.

We’ll be well fed over Crimbo, but severely frostbitten.

The next snag is actually having to go shopping to fill it … oh God!

BEST CHRISTMAS ADVERT SO FAR: I lurve this because it so perfectly depicts what happens in offices all over the country at this time of the year (and the music's pretty good too):

Not that I have an office party to go to this year (sniff).  It'll just be me, all alone, in my little study [hey, violins, where are you?], with a mince pie and a small glass of port sherry whisky, holding mistletoe over my head and kissing a picture of Daniel Craig David Duchovny Hubs on my computer screen.  I'm thinking of having a Virtual Crimbo Party on Windows Messenger, drunk and talking typing utter bollocks ... come and watch the mayhem (bring your own mince pie, drink and background music)!  When, I hear you ask in joyful glee?  Hell, all this week! Hic.  Just look for Fastfingers.

Wednesday 19

We did it.  The dreaded deed.  We went to Iceland and got our Crimbo shopping.  (Well actually Hubs came home knackered and said, “Shall we go?” and I, also knackered after being bombed with work, said, “I dunno,” and he said, “Oh come on,” and I said, “Must we?” and started crying).

So we hauled our limp carcasses to Northfield and lethargically grabbed a trolley.  And then, suddenly, we were enthused and began tossing things in with wild abandon.  A bottle of champagne as tall as my granddaughter (not real champagne, obviously!).  Goodies, nibblies, more goodies, more nibblies, there was no stopping us.

Hauled our overflowing trolley to the check out.  “Can you deliver?” I asked.

The sweet girl on the counter said no.

“What?” said I.

“We don’t have anybody to deliver today,” she said, sweetly.

“But … but … what about tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” said the sweet girl, oozing with disappointment, “We have nowhere to store it.”

“Oh.”

Oh!

“How can we get it back to the car then?” I asked, eyeing up the 20 odd bags (because I certainly wasn’t hauling half of it back up to the car park – I am but a delicate, dainty gurl).

Fortunately, two young lads came rushing to our rescue.  They picked up the bags and made it as far as the lift outside, where one of them dropped the bags and made a bolt for it!  I now have two cute little lumps at the top of my arms where flabby muscle used to be.

Back at home, we emptied our goodies/nibblies/utter crap all over the kitchen.  And then, joy of joys, we had to haul most of it across the blizzard wilderness of our patio to the Big Shed, and toss it blindly into the newly acquired freezer (blindly because there’s no light in there).

As Hubs declared after we’d defrosted in front of the fire, “We’ve got a right lot.”  He also said, rather optimistically I thought, “We don’t need to go shopping again until February.”

Thursday 20

Hubs came home from work tonight with a HUGE smile on his face.

The holidays have begun.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Friday 21

As Hubs is home and I find it quite difficult to work when he’s around (having a handsome hunk in the house is terribly distracting), I told my outsourcing companies that I was ‘sort of’ available today, but wasn’t anticipating much work.  Ha!  Fool! 

One of them responded: “We have no other homeworkers, you’re the only one.”  And promptly deluged me with work.  Not just any work, the work I normally do, but the worst and most hated of work – letters.

I hate letters.  Loathe doing letters.  I normally refuse point blank to do them.  It may take only a few seconds for a dictator to say, “Letter to Meads in Bristol,” and rant off a couple of sentences, but I have to find the right template, find the berluddy address because the dictator can’t be berluddy bothered to dictate it, and make sure all the references and spellings are correct, which takes aaaaaaaaaaaaages.

And they just kept on coming, one dictation after another.  All around the country, in various offices, people were clearly panicking that it was the last day of work.  Gits.

Hubs kept me supplied with copious coffee and food, while I wailed, “Farkin’ bollocking letters!”  And typed faster.  And faster.

And then, just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, the window cleaner arrived.  I let Hubs deal with him as the cleaner is a Yakker and I had shitloads of work to do.  But he was hard to avoid when he put his ladder up at the study window and waved to me.

“Still working?” he yelled through the glass.

“Yes,” I snapped, “Really busy.”

But that didn’t stop him.  It took him 20 minutes to do that one window, it’s the cleanest window in the house, he must have washed it at least four times whilst telling me about his window cleaning business, when he was working, when he wasn’t, what he was doing for Christmas and where he was going on holiday next year.

By the time he’d cleaned and been paid and toddled off, I knew I’d had enough.  I told the outsourcing company, “I’m done,” and went and did something only marginally less painful.

Crimbo shopping in the city centre (which was heaving with shoppers).

I think ... I think we’re nearly ready.

Saturday 22

The Family Meal.  Lunchtime.  Local pub.

Marmee was on the bitter shandies, two of, which, as she’s teetotal, rendered her inebriated and ruddy cheeked and even jollier than normal (think Wendy Craig on speed).  She’d won a bottle of Coke at some thing she attends every week (line dancing, I think, although hard to imagine Marmee in cowboy boots) and had rashly bought a bottle of brandy to go with it.  “I’m going to force myself to have a little drink every night,” she announced.  It will no doubt last her all year. 

Sis was on tonic water.  “Why?” I asked.  “Midwives party on Wednesday night,” she said, bleary eyed, “Still recovering from a hangover.”

I stuck to Coke because any alcohol before 6pm just makes me fall asleep.  We’re a hard living bunch, my family.

Sat opposite my nephew and his new girlfriend.  Sis had told me he was going travelling for a few months in the new year, so I chatted to him about that.  Shortly after, he and his girlfriend talked animatedly at another table.  Apparently he hadn’t told her about his travelling plans.

Fabulously, Middle Son arrived from oop north in time to join us for a drink at the end.  “Its nice that you still come home for Christmas,” my mother beamed, red-cheeked and giggly.

“Free food,” he said.

Tsk.

Sunday 23

We were watching some programme on tv where the presenter was driving round the country.  He drove into Yorkshire, and Hubs was like Oh! Oh! Oh!

A village came into view.  “That's Keighley,” Hubs declared, confidently.

“And here we are at Stanley,” said the presenter.

“Yes, yes,” said Hubs, “That’s Stanley.  And there’s the library at Stanley.”

“Here we are at the church in Stanley,” said the presenter.

Hubs didn’t dare say anything after that.

Monday 24 - Christmas Eve

Because of my acute reluctance/slobbery/lethargy over Crimbo preparations these last few weeks – my lame excuse is that I was busy with work – I finally had to relent and Do Some Stuff.

I, the blasé non-shopper of the chronic kind, actually got caught up in the pre-crimbo mania and it all got a bit frenzied, what with the shopping and the visiting and the buying and the wrapping.  Ridiculous that anyone should think Christmas will be ruined if you don't have Cranberry sauce or cheese slices.

It all got so frenzied that (shock horror!) Hubs and I actually argued!  He got stroppy and I got hissy.  

The snarling only lasted a few seconds, but the seething animosity lasted a good hour or so, then we got bored and pretended it hadn’t happened (or we were just exhausted and didn’t have the strength to carry it on). 

We’re as ready as we’re going to get.

Bring It On.

Tuesday 25 - Christmas Day

And here it is, the day we’ve all been preparing for, cleaning for, shopping for.

I was hoping for a puppy.  I dropped lots of hints like, “I REALLY WANT A DOG!”  Instead, I got a doggie shaped remote control holder, and these ...

It’s like slipping my feet into decomposing canines.

Middle Son bought me a light switch pull, which sounds rather boring doesn’t it, except it looks like this …

It’s now hanging in the toilet (alongside Munch’s Scream picture) and makes me laugh every time I put the light on.

Midday, I got dressed as lounging around in a dressing gown all day like I normally do isn’t really appropriate apparel when ex-hubby is around.

Ex-hubby arrived.  Yak yak, drink drink.  Small Son came round with granddaughter, and it was just a nice family Christmas like you see in movies (but without the background music and soft lighting). 

I lounged on the sofa whilst Current Hubs J slaved away in the kitchen (just as Ex used to do, in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked a Crimbo dinner).  Its odd that someone was there on Christmas Day, and even odder that it’s someone I used to be married to.  But it all seems fine.  There’s a few mentions of my past life (like the way I stack dirty dishes to make it look less so somebody else might do it), and we both keep eye contact to a minimum, but its okay.  It’s pleasant.  I tend not to marry unpleasant men (!).  And it’s nice for the boys to have their dad around.

Dinner is divine (as always).  We drink champagne (a pressie) and get a little merry, but don’t resort to bitter recriminations, which is a relief.  We watch television.  We chill.  Me, with my husband, my sons, and a man I used to live with.  Hard not to wonder what he makes of it all.  Hubs and I try not to be overtly tactile.

Ex sleeps in the study.  His constant coughing gives me some seriously weird dreams.

Wednesday 26 - Boxing Day

It was midday before we stirred ourselves to get ready for the impending onslaught of bodies.  It was a case of Oh My God Look At The Berluddy Time!

Dashed out to shed, relieved freezer of Kerry Katona goodies and tossed as many as we could into the oven.  Not a sandwich in sight.  Hubs (the current one) cooked and prepared and made his infamous mini Yorkshire puds filled with mashed potato and chipolatas, while I did My Job of clearing and washing up.

And then they came, the starving thousands.  Okay, a dozen or so.  My driveway looked like a car park. 

Everyone hangs around, weak with hunger, while we wait for Marmee to arrive.  And wait.  And wait.  “Well I had to feed the cats,” she said, when she finally made an appearance, “And make sure they were all in before I left, and I thought I’d just do the washing up first, and … “ 

She drops hints as subtle as concrete blocks about what she’d like for her 65^th birthday, while I wonder just how much more my credit card can take.  She makes excuses for my brother’s absence and I just roll my eyes (bruv is the spoilt one in the family, He Who Can Do No Wrong, which gets very tedious).

Nephew arrives with air rifles, and the men all go in the back garden and make like hunters.  There’s a lot of talking and moving around and eating and laughing and game playing (and washing up!).  It’s nice.

Hubs takes aim, watched by Ex and Middle Son (whilst Nephew downs a can - looks good doesn't it, shooting and drinking!)

Sis's boyfriend checks that no one kills any of the neighbours

The Fam: Big Son's girlfriend, Big Son, Mad Marmee, Gorgeous Sis, Sis's boyfriend, Niece, Ex, Moi (ducking, I'm a lot taller than that but didn't want to block out the Ex), Gorgeous Granddaughter, Small Son and girlfriend and Middle Son

They all leave early evening, and we crash out, utterly exhausted from two whole days of entertaining.

9pm, the phone rings.  Our neighbour wonders if he’s still invited to the ‘party’.  “Did you not hear the guns going off, or the noise of multiple people all talking at once, or the roar of car engines when they all left?” I asked.

He hadn’t.

And now, the end of celebrations.

Time to chill.

And recover from the madness.

Thursday 27

Insanity struck.  Having lived an entire life of stingyness and poverty and just basic meanness, I suppose it’s inevitable that, like a child constantly deprived of sweeties, or maybe it was just the lingering remains of the Crimbo buy-fest, both Hubs and I went mad in the sales.  I mean, really mad.

Having completely worn out the keyboard on my 'old' laptop, I went and got a new one, all shiny and wide-screened.  Fast, sleek, magnificent, it also has 3D FreeCell and (gasp) 3D Mahjong.  I can't see me getting a lot of work done now.  I prefer FreeCell, not because its a better game, but because when you win all the cards go up in a really nice way and then, impressively, all fall down and smash into little pieces, which is terribly satisfying.  With Mahjong, you just get some fireworks when you win, how boring is that? 

I’m not just idly wasting my time, I’m getting used to the new keyboard, purely for work purposes you understand.

Not to feel left out, Hubs bought a new television set to replace the humungous dinosaur we’ve been watching for decades.  The humungous dinosaur is now languishing in our bedroom until we figure out what to do with it (shoot it and bury it maybe).

But it didn’t end there.  Oh no.  Hubs, in a last ditch attempt to get me to get a new sofa before his spine completely caves in, dragged me yet again to berluddy DFS (the furniture store … I think it stands for Dreadful Farkin’ Sofas).  Who the hell buys lime green suites? 

“See anything you like?” Hubs asked, hopefully.

“Yes,” I said, and his little face lit up, “The exit door.”

I made a bolt for it, but he deflected me into another furniture shop right next door, the swine.   I finally found one that didn’t make me want to throw up and went through the credit check.

“How long have you lived in your house?” I was asked.

“Since the dawn of time,” I replied.

“Where do you work?”

“At home.  Hardly ever see another human being,” I said, twitching a bit, “But the phone never stops ringing, and salesmen are drawn to my door like they’re following the star of Bethlehem.”

“What’s the name of your business?” I was asked.

“Fastfingers.”

Pause.

“Transcription services,” I added.

They glared at me, clearly having only heard the word ‘services’.  “I type 90 plus words a minute,” I said, “That’s roughly 50 times the speed you’re currently typing at.”  Yawn.

Signed 15 sheets of paper and made a run for it.

That’s me all shopped out for at least another 12 months.

Friday 28

Hubs is going a little deaf of late, or else it’s that genetic inability of males to listen to a female voice for prolonged periods of time.  He says, “What, love?” a lot.  A right lot.

In fact, a friend mentioned this male disability of the hearing kind the other day.  “He never listens to a word I say,” she said of her hubs, as he sat nervously in the room with us.  “I do!” he retorted, “I hear at least 50% of everything you say.”

Best Friend looked at me, wide eyed, and I expected her to launch into a diatribe about men in general and husbands in particular.  Instead, she said, “50%?  I didn’t think it was that much.”  And she smiled.  And I laughed.  And her hubs sighed with relief.

Anyway, I was playing on my laptop with my new headphones and hollered something to Hubs in the kitchen.  “What, love?” he hollered back, so I repeated it, but he still couldn’t hear, so he came into the room to lip-read and said, "No wonder I can't hear you, you've got your headphones on!" 

Of course, this deafness comes in a bit handy when I breathe, "Do you need a hand with the cooking?"  He's been in the kitchen all Crimbo - every time I venture in there (for a glass of water or cup of coffee or, more likely, a crack at the whisky) he does the throwing out of the arm thing, hissing, "Get out of my kitchen!" 

Logically I know that, because I've lived here for nearly twenty years longer than he has, it is, technically, my kitchen, but I don't like to split hairs; share and share alike I say.

He’s more than welcome to it (he has a better relationship with the cooker than I have).

Saturday 29

Hubs and I aren't really in sync at the moment, we always go a bit squiffy during holidays.  I like late nights, he likes early mornings.  I watch films late until the small hours and he watches them at the crack of dawn. 

Which means that, every morning, I get up to the sound of (a) bombs (war film), (b) guns (cowboy film) or (c) screaming and bloodshed (horror).  Just once I'd like to to get up to the sounds of something sweet and harmonious, Finding Nemo for example, or maybe a nice little romance, something soothing to gently entice the brain awake.

Sunday 30

Middle Son doesn’t drink tea or coffee.  He drinks water.  Using a new glass every time.  Which means almost every surface in the house has a half empty glass on it.

“Are you expecting an invasion of aliens any time soon?” I asked him, as I traipsed through the living room with an armful of collected glasses.  “It’s like that Signs film around here!”

And on the subject of films, Hubs and I got lots of HMV vouchers for Crimbo because everyone knows we’re film buffs.  Spent the morning on the laptops (one each, very decadent) trawling their website and making lists.

Then we went out and got them all, returning home with a new stock for our vastly increasing collection.

Hubs, inevitably, bought more war and western films to entertain me in the mornings.  I got chick flicks and … get this … Follyfoot.  Cost twenty quid, but it’s memories of my childhood on a disc and I’m thrilled beyond belief.  I loved Follyfoot, watched it every Sunday afternoon without fail (on a black and white television set that made everyone’s heads elongated at the top).  I fancied the bloke in it,