Thursday 1

Sitting on the bus this morning, I heard a dishevelled bloke ask the woman in front of him what the time was.

“Twenty five to,” she said.

“Twenty five to nine?” he asked.

“Twenty five to eight.”

“EIGHT!” he cried, jumping up out of his seat, “She’s bloody changed the bloody alarm clock again!”

And he hurried off the bus, either to go home and give ‘her’ a serious bollocking for clock tampering, or else to jump back into bed.

THEN …

Coming home on the bus tonight, we reached Five Ways island.  We pulled out onto Five Ways island and went round it.  And round.

And round.

The passengers suddenly became agitated and approached the driver.  I just carried on reading my book (Inconceivable by Ben Elton, bloody funny).  Once again I was displaying the sublime calm of an experienced commuter.  I texted my Partner: “Stuck in traffic on Hagley Road, not sure why as my bus doesn’t go down the Hagley Road.”

The driver had lost his route.  Oh what fun.  A male passenger at the back became almost hysterical, shouting, “Just turn round and go back!  This isn’t the way!  Why are we going this way?  Just turn round and go back.”  Overwhelmed by it all, he got off the bus and stood on the pavement looking confused and terrified before running back to Five Ways.

Eventually, as always happens, a passenger directed the driver back to his route via multiple traffic jams and several gridlocks.  Added 45 minutes to my journey time but, hey ho, it all just adds to the general joy of life.

Friday 2

Busy busy busy.  This week has just flown by in a blur of feverish activity, most of it work based.  For a change it was a case of Monday miseries *blink* Friday already?

I worked later than usual tonight because I had so much stuff to get through (I’m organising an ‘event’ for Monday and my Meticulous Attention to Detail gene kicked in, the gene that is noticeably absent when I try to cook or buy clothes). 

Photocopying, collating, stuffing, final edit of a Powerpoint presentation and I was done.

I stood up to put my coat on, and was stunned by what I saw.

Nobody.  I was completely alone in a huge, empty office.  Every single desk was blatantly bereft of bodies.

It was 5 o’clock.  I couldn’t believe it.  I’m used to ‘legal’ people who often stay late and even all night in their desperate clamber up the corporate ladder, people who willingly sacrifice their social life and their families for the sake of their career, people who don’t actually have a life away from their desk.

It was 5 o’clock on a Friday night and everyone had made an unashamed run for it.

I am so staying at this company.

Saturday 3

I laptop on Saturday mornings, catching up on emails and websites (this one is brill, a real cowboy family) and, of course, posting on Brummie Blogs.  I sit here and tap on the keyboard in my dressing gown whilst all around me lie the remnants of last night’s Slob Fest – the tossed work bags, the abandoned jackets on the back of chairs, the door to the kitchen firmly shut so I can’t see the aftermath of the takeaway, and millet everywhere.  (I now know why it’s called a Millet Spray, because that’s what it does, it sprays.  You just look at it and it explodes like popcorn.  A more accurate description would be Millet Bomb, guaranteed to cover a wide area.) 

Anyway, stop me if Tales From the Birdcage bore you (my best friend is still hysterical about the fact that I own budgies), but I’ve just been crying with laughter because Pea and Poo flew out of the open cage and, stunned to be left alone and driven by the instinct to flock when flocking is required, Puff (who can’t fly) literally threw himself out after them.  He just through caution to the wind and divebombed like a Kamikazi pilot (“I am so not being left in this cage on my own, I’m off to play with my mates, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee … bollocks, forgot I can’t fly, umph.”). 

Pea, Poo and Puff: wet because I'd just sprayed
them, which stunned the new ones no end

Puff then raced around on the floor like a little green penguin, crawled up his tree, then sat there thinking, “Where’s the bloody stick?  I’m sure there was a bloody stick on here somewhere!” (it had fallen off).  Clearly piqued that his stick was no more, he crawled back down, waddled across the floor and got back into his old cage underneath the table.  Meanwhile, Pea and Poo flew around the room squawking “Where’s the cage?  Where’s the cage?” with Puff joining in and screaming, “What’s going on?  What’s going on?”

Honestly, who knew birds could be this entertaining?

And who knew I'd end up doing voiceovers for budgies!

Monday 5

I was quite looking forward to running an external conference today, a whole day out of the office herding groups of people from one room to the other and making sure they all knew where they were supposed to be.  I thought it would be interesting.

It wasn’t.  It was dull and exhausting and not something I wish to do again (crossing External Conference Organiser firmly off my CV).

Infinitely more interesting, it was my granddaugher’s first birthday today.  She’s one year old … already!  How amazing!  Easily the most beautiful, most cheerful, most intelligent little girl on the planet, and I’m not the least bit biased.

Relations with The People Next Door (where Small Son and granddaughter live) have been much better since Christmas.  The Girlfriend comes round and actually talks now, which is nice.  AND I’ve been babysitting rather a lot lately, which is FABulous. 

It’s almost normal … apart from the Other Grandmother, who still doesn’t want us in her house unless we take the driveway fence down, tsk (so yesterday!).  However, its granddaughter’s birthday, and nothing is going to stop me seeing her on her birthday.  Nothing.

I nip round after work with card and pressie.  My sister is already there and together we fuss over my granddaughter.  There’s another girl and her baby there too, quite a houseful.  We’re all merrily yakking away and playing with the small people.

And then (da da DAHHHH), the Other Grandmother comes home.  We all say ‘hello’ and she says ‘hello’, and then she promptly goes into the kitchen and shuts the door behind her.  Odd.  I can never quite decide if she’s crippingly shy, ignorant, or just plain rude. 

But who cares?  It’s my granddaughter’s birthday, and she is exquisite.

Tuesday 6

The criteria for clothing today was, how much of my wardrobe can I wear at once.

It’s berluddy freezing!

A tell-tale sign that its Really Cold is when you sit outside in the winter sunshine eating yer sandwiches at lunchtime, and the scavenging pigeons are so fluffed up they’re the size of turkeys.

Idly tossed a lone pigeon a piece of bread.  The next thing I know, 74,000 pigeons are flying through the air towards me, noisily fighting over the tiny morsel whilst all around me fellow lunchers tut and shake their heads at my stupidity.

Inch my way back to work like the ending of Hitchcock’s The Birds.

Wednesday 7

My Partner has been telling me for months that cuttlebones for budgies come from cuttlefish, real fish.  And for months I’ve been saying, “Yeah, whatever.”  A fish indeed, how gullible does he think I am?  It’s clearly some kind of sandstone.  A rock.

“I have a present for you,” one of my workmates said to me today.

Oooh, excitement.

She handed me a cuttlebone.  I would have preferred chocolates or maybe jewellery, but there you go.  She’d found it on a beach and immediately thought of my budgies.

I held it in my hand and said, “My Partner keeps trying to tell me that these are from real fish.  I mean,” I scoffed heartily, “What kind of fish has bones like this, all ready shaped for budgie cages.”

“Cuttlefish,” said my mate.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“No, really,” she said, “They come from cuttlefish.”

Hmmm.

I walked down the middle of the office with the ‘natural’ cuttlefish held out in front of me, dying for someone to ask me what it was.  Another mate called me over and I placed the white thing on her desk.  “If you can guess what this is,” I said, “I’ll give you – “ 

I was going to say a fiver, or a box of chocs, something huge like that because she’d never in a million years guess what –

“A cuttlebone,” she said immediately, and I was glad I hadn’t got to the fiver bit.  “But,” she added, “Do you know what it looks like when you’re walking down the middle of the office with it in your hand?”

“No, what?”

“It looks like a sanitary towel.”

Oh.  My.  God.  It did, too!

That cuttlebone was shoved in my pocket in a flash.  But I still couldn’t resist ‘fishing’ it out every opportunity I got to ask everyone what they thought it was.

Most of them thought it was a sanitary towel.

The budgies liked it, anyway.

[Bomb scare on Broad Street tonight.  Police everywhere.  Someone on my bus cried, “I wonder what’s going on?” just as a Bomb Disposal Unit van roared passed, and then there was an eerie silence as the bus crawled by the Hyatt hotel.  I think we were the last traffic they let through before closing down Broad Street completely – phew, lucky!  Turned out to be a hoax – again, phew.]

Thursday 8

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

I’m no wimp.  I go to work if I feel ill, when tonsils have been bulging out of my neck or a virus threatens to pulse the eyeballs out of my head.  I’ve spent many 20 minutes sitting on loo seats waiting for migraine tablets to ‘kick in’, and a stomach upset won’t stop me showing up for duty, oh no.

But, today, snow - pelting from the sky, driven into drifts by a howling gale and covering everything in a six inch blanket.

And still it snows.

And there ain’t no way this girl is setting foot out of this house today.

Wimp?  Nah.  I’m an experienced commuter, I know exactly what will happen if I make the effort to get to work … there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to get home again.  When it snows, public transport is the first to grind to a halt.  Gridlocks are guaranteed.  Long and arduous hours spent trudging through snow with frostbite nibbling at extremities is not appealing.  Been there, done that, it so ain’t worth it.

So, I’m at home, in my snug little house, listening on the radio to traffic chaos, ‘long journeys to work’ and school closures.  I’ve fed the wild birds, stuffed my face with open tomatoe sauce sandwiches, and walked to the shops in my fur hat and Russian coat making Charlie Chaplin footsteps in the snow.

Infinitely preferable to a hard slog to and from work.

Friday 9

Still snowing, but the chirpy weather woman on GMTV said it would turn to rain later, so set out to work armed with the knowledge that the snow currently falling from the sky would cease and all would be well with the world once more.

Got to work, still snowing.

Went out for 10.30 fag, still snowing.

Midday, still snowing.

3pm, large flakes are falling passed the office window with increasing regularity.  And it’s sticking.  And memories of trudging through the snow struggling to get home come back to haunt me.

“I’m going home,” I tell my boss, snatching up my fur hat and coat.

“I don’t blame you,” she says.

And off I run.

Jump on bus.  Traffic slow, but not terrible.  I get out my book.  We crawl up Broad Street.  We slither around Five Ways Island.  We hit standstill traffic by the White Swan pub and sit there for 30 minutes.  Another 30 minutes to crawl up the hill to Harborne.  The High Street is gridlocked with traffic struggling to stay in a straight line.

I read my book for another 20 minutes, optimistically chanting, “We’ll get home eventually.”

And then the driver, in a rare moment of passenger communication, yells, “Everybody off.  Traffic is at a standstill, can’t go any further.”

Here we go!

I pull up the collar on my Russian coat, wrap my scarf several times around my face, pull my bag over my head and … off I go, stepping straight into the grey slush right up to my ankles.

And the slog begins.  I live nowhere near Harborne, I have a trek of Captain Scott proportions ahead of me.  I slither and slide passed all the gridlocked traffic like Bambi on ice.  Its freezing, its wet, its deep, and still bloody snowing.  That chirpy GMTV weathergirl needs to be taken into a room and given a damn good thrashing, the lying cow.

Onwards, along with all the other abandoned commuters fighting through the appalling weather to get home.  A young, skinny girl marches passed me in high heeled boots, oblivious to the snow and strutting like she’s on a catwalk – how the hell does she do that?

Onwards.  A group of hoodies swagger towards me.  I stay on my straight(ish) path and so do they, clearly thinking I’ll move out of the way for them.  The hell!  I’ve just spent nearly an hour trudging through knee high snow and black sludge, suffocated by the exhaust fumes of a thousand motionless cars, and I’m more than a little pissed off.  I stomp onwards, willing to fight for the path ahead if needs be.  The hoodies launch themselves into the snowdrift at the side of the road, and on I trudge.

And on.

And on.

I slip, I slide, by some miracle I don’t fall over.  One foot in front of the other, nowhere near home, my feet sopping wet.  And yet, strangely, it’s all rather pleasant - the crunching of snow underfoot and a strong sense of purpose, to get home.  A woman ahead of me falls over, and no less than 10 fellow trekkers rush to her aid – it’s that kind of atmosphere.

I start to flag.  I pull out my MP3 player and crank up Bodyrockers, the perfect snow trudging music.  I like the way you mooo-oooove stomp stomp stomp.

And onwards.  Forever onwards.  Up a hill, down a hill, gridlocked traffic everywhere, cars skidding and sliding, buses like ungainly dinosaurs.  My partner rings to say he’s stuck in Quinton.  The whole of Birmingham and beyond has come to a shuddering standstill. 

And still it snows.  And onward I plod.  My bladder swells to the size of a Zeppelin balloon and I eye up potential bushes along the way but can’t bring myself to scurry behind them for relief (not with the eyes of a thousand stranded motorists sitting all around I can’t).  Just keep walking.  And walking.  One foot in front of the other.

I finally reach familiar surroundings, albeit colourless.  It’s now 5.30pm, over two hours since I raced out of my office building, over an hour since I jumped off the bus.  A man walks along the path towards me, not veering to one side to let me pass.  How rude!  The man reaches out and takes my hand.  It’s my Partner, who managed to crawl home and then came straight back out to search for me (the star!). 

Together we walk home hand in hand, parting only to push the Other Grandmother’s car out of the snow (was that a thankyou? was it? no, of course it wasn’t, tsk) and for Partner to race ahead and unlock the front door so I could shimmy wetly to the toilet.

Oh the relief!  Home at last.

My Russian coat, when I peel it off, is so sodden it weighs more that I do.  My black fur hat is white and stiff with snow, and my sensible Clarks shoes are swollen like sponges.  “This,” I say, as I pull off my drenched trousers and dripping socks, “Is exactly why I sacrificed a whole day’s wages yesterday, so I wouldn’t have to do this.”

It took me almost three hours to get home tonight, risking frostbite and injury.  But I did it.

I won’t be doing it again.

Saturday 10

Can barely move.

Sunday 11

“Let’s do it.”

We donned our coats.  We hurried out to the car.  We drove to our local Currys electrical shop.  We stood outside for a moment and looked at each other.

There was no other choice.  It had to be done.

We went in and bought …. a dustbuster!

Oh my God, might as well claim my pension now and have done with!  It’s for the birds.  Of course it is.  I vac, I draw breath, there’s bird seed everywhere.  But no more.  Ah na, I have a cunning plan.

I vac, I draw breath, I watch the little buggers deliberately tossing their millet around.  And then … I attack with my dustbuster. 

It’s quite a big one.  Quite loud.  Makes them sit rigid on their perch waiting for the end of the world to arrive (if budgies think such things).  When I get up in the morning and it looks like they’ve had a budgie party that got seriously out of hand, I get out the dustbuster … at 6.30am when the little cuties are still all tucked up recovering from their midnight feeding frenzy.

That’ll teach them to learn some table manners.

[NOTE: No budgies were harmed in the making of this blog.]

What’s wrong with this picture?
It’s not surrounded by 15 ton of millet seed!

Monday 12

I went to see the nurse this morning for my tropical injections.  Actually, I went with my partner, but they split us up into separate rooms so we weren’t able to hold each others hands to calm the screaming.

“Which ones do you want?” the nurse asked when I walked in. 

“Tetanus, typhoid, diphtheria, Hepatitis B,” I said 

She looked at me oddly for a moment, then said, “Will you be having much to do with the locals while you’re there?” 

“I guess we’ll see them from time to time, yes.”

“Are you sure you mean Hepatitis B?” she asked, “Because you only need Hepatitis B if you’re intending on having relations with the locals.”  She said the word ‘relations’ very slowly, stretching it out whilst widening her eyes and very slightly nodding her head

The penny clanked quite heavily.  “Oooooooooooooooooh!” I cried, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

The nurse smiled.  “Hepatitis A.”

“Yep, that one, that’s the one I want, Hepatitus A, not B.  Definitely not B.  Definitely A.”

Anyway, the nurse said she’d give me the tetanus ones this time and the rest on Friday, in case I suffered an allergic reaction to any of them (which was reassuring).  In went the injection.  Didn’t hurt a bit.  (Two hours later it felt like my arm had been hit by a ten ton truck, could barely feel my fingers at all.)

“I had them all,” Partner proudly declared when we met up outside.  I think that’s quite sexist, that he was given them all because he’s a tough, rugged bloke, whereas mine were split up in case I, as a mere girl, couldn’t take it.

Tsk.

Spent the rest of the day wandering round the office, clutching at my arm and wailing “OWWWWWWWWW!”

Tuesday 13

Feel quite dreadful today.  Went round the office telling everyone I had yellow fever – I’ve looked up the symptoms on the internet and I have them all (although I can’t be certain about the internal bleeding). 

Went to docs last night for malaria tablets.  He asked if either of us ever suffered from depression, and we burst out laughing.  We have both, in the last 12 months, sat in his office (me sobbing uncontrollably) complaining of chronic work-related stress.  In fact, it was quite embarrassing sitting there laughing about our trip to Africa, clearly a vision of love and joy, when last June I was the epitome of a woman who’d lost it big time (“Give me a sick note so I don’t have to go back to that evil cesspit of an office!” I’d wailed).

Anyway, the doc gave us a prescription for malaria tablets that wouldn’t plunge us into an abyss of misery.  I looked them up on the internet.  Side effects could, amongst other things, include face swelling and forehead bulging.  (“What’s wrong with your head?”  “Oh, it’s just a bit of forehead bulging.”) 

Hopefully we won’t end up looking like the elephant man.  

Wednesday 14

Last night I locked myself away in the study with a pack of special balloons.  The instructions looked pretty simple – put red heart shaped balloon inside big white balloon, and blow them up together to create a fabulous Valentine gift.  There were 12 of them, and they were clearly made of some non-stretchy stuff that threatened to cave my lungs in.  I

I did manage to get a white balloon blown up, but the red balloon inside it looked like a ravaged internal organ, not very romantic at all.  As I struggled to get at the neck of the red balloon, the white balloon slipped out of my fingers and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzed around the room.  It was at that point that I started screaming.

I stomped downstairs with my pack of balloons and handed them to Partner.  “These,” I hissed, “Are supposed to make a romantic bouquet of beautiful balloons.”

“And?” said partner.

“And I can’t blow the bloody things up.”

“And?”

“And I’d like you to do it for me because I clearly don’t have the lung capacity to draw breath.” 

“Who are they for?” Partner asked suspiciously.

“You, you fool.”

“You want me to blow up my own Valentine’s gift?”

“Yes.  Please.  If you wouldn’t mind.”

Of course, because he’s a chest-beating He-Man, he managed all 12.  They did look nice.

To celebrate Valentines Day, we opened up a bottle of champagne left over from Christmas tonight (only tastes like fluff, doesn’t it, but I was bladdered after two small glasses).  Then we argued for a while over which was The Most Romantic Film in our video collection, and watched Pretty Woman, accompanied by the incessant screaming of three budgies who obviously have a problem with Julia Roberts.

Lovely balloons.  Lovely film. 

But most of all, utterly lovely man.

Thursday 15

A workmate has been chasing my elusive boss for some work.  Exasperated, she sent me an email about it:  “Yo girlfriend, What up wit de Boss-man’s speaking notes? Is he dissin me on sendin dees through or is he just frontin on it?  Word.”  Absolutely killed myself.

As I’m still feeling Really Really Ill, sent an email to a workmate (bold = me, red = workmate):

 “Look!  I definitely have it …

‘Yellow fever can be divided into three stages:

1. Early stage: Headache, muscle aches, fever, loss of appetite, vomiting, and jaundice are common. Yeah, got all those (well, okay, I’m still eating, but I’m FORCING myself to eat) On my GOD I must have it too, as I ALWAYS have to force myself to eat!!!!!!!
2. Period of remission: After a few days fever most individuals will recover at this stage, but others may move onto the third, most dangerous stage (intoxication stage) within 24 hours. I’m going to be intoxicated … how exciting (good excuse to come to work roaring drunk: “Can’t help it, I’ve got yellow fever, I’m supposed to be this bladdered!”) As I too now have Yellow Fever I’m going to start my intoxication straight after work! Cool la laaaaa!
3. Period of intoxication: Multi-organ dysfunction occurs. This includes liver and kidney failure (could this be down to the booze?), brain dysfunction got this anyway but nobody’s noticed yet, been without a brain for years and its never really bothered me (I knew there was something odd about you!!) including delirium (I’m deliriously happy its nearly home time), seizures, coma, shock (Boo!), and death. Death?!” eek!”

Whatever gets you through the day, I say.

Friday 16

Went to get the rest of my tropical vaccinations today.  As I walked in the doctor’s surgery, I saw a woman lying flat out on the floor surrounded by medical people.  The young woman at reception was all of a flap, telling me, “We’ve had to clear the waiting area!  I don’t know where to put you!”

“That’s alright,” I said calmly, “I’ll wait outside the nurse’s room.”

“But there are no chairs there!”

“I’ll take a chair with me.”

And so I ended up dragging a rather heavy chair down the corridor to the nurse’s room, where I dutifully sat down to wait.

After a few minutes, the Bulldog Receptionist walked up and looked at me like I was sitting there naked with a banana between my teeth.  “Is there any particular reason why you’re sitting there?” she barked scathingly.

“I like the view,” I joked, thinking maybe she was joking, only she wasn’t.

“Why are you sitting there?” she barked again.

I squinted my eyes at her.  A woman had just collapsed in the waiting area, the waiting area had been cleared (by the receptionists, who’d herded them all off into other rooms somewhere), and this dopey cow was asking why I was sitting in the corridor.  It surely doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.  “I’m waiting for the nurse,” I said.

“Why are you waiting here?”

Blatant stupidity winds me up, it really does.  I pointed towards the waiting room and snapped, “Why do you think?  Do you imagine I’m sitting here for the hell of it, because I have nothing better to do?  Do you think I’ve just wandered in off the street and fancied a bit of a sit down?  Is it conceivable that me sitting here has something to do with the fact you’ve just cleared the waiting area?”

The receptionist sniffed and stomped off.  I resisted the urge to trip her up as she marched passed me, but it was a close call.

So anyway, I’m now inoculated against every disease known to man.

And I feel like death. (But still valiantly struggling to work)

Monday 19

A friend texted me to say her email wasn’t working.  “I’ve lost the entire internet?” she said.  “It's all gone!”

“You’ve lost the internet?” I texted back, “That’s very careless of you, does the world know?!”

Tuesday 20 

Pancake Day

Have you seen those pancake bottles in Tesco?  Plastic bottles quarter filled with flour and dried egg, and you "just add milk and shake" for the perfect pancake mix.  I mean, how difficult is it to make pancake mix?  Shocking! 

Anyway, as I no longer have any children to cook for (waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, empty nest syndrome!) and because my Partner doesn’t like them all that much, we had chilli for tea – very civilised and grown-up.

Sigh.

Wednesday 21 

On the way back to the office after lunch, I stood outside my building to finish my fag.  Suddenly, a very large telephone receiver walked passed, bright red it was, about five feet tall.  It was closely followed by a very large cigarette. 

Stunned, I did wonder if I was perhaps delusional, especially when several people then walked passed carrying large numbers. 

But no, as I stood there dragging heftily on my fag, I realised it was an ‘event’ to publicise Birmingham’s new ‘quit smoking’ scheme.  They didn’t give me a leaflet though, I’d have thought – standing there puffing away – that I would have been a prime candidate.

Ah well.

Thursday 22 

Email from best friend who’s on a ‘prolonged absence from work’ because she’s about to give birth: “At school this morning I got really excited because I finally got enough points to get daughter’s Tamagotchi v3 a TV so it doesn't get bored.” 

Horrified, I hastily replied, “This is appalling news.  You need to start reading War and Peace immediately whilst, at the same time, watching the news on TV and figuring out a cure for lethargy using only a cotton wool ball and a paperclip.  Jump to it now, the world is waiting.”

Friday 23

I read in the local paper yesterday that a woman has been convicted of shoplifting - £163 worth of goods from Le Monde (the polyester shop for grannies).  I was amazed!  HOW had she managed to find £163 worth of goods that she wanted to wear from Le Monde?

I mean, if you’re going to go shoplifting, at least do it in a decent shop (like Primark).

Saturday 24

“We’re going out,” I said.

“Are we?” said Partner.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Well … “

It’s the budgie, you see.  The original one, Puff.  He seemed so sad in his little cage, all alone.  So we got a bigger cage plus two mates to cheer him up.

I think the mistake was getting 2 budgies.  It’s an odd number, 3.  The two new ones ‘buddied’ up, leaving Puff still looking alone and miserable.

So …

“We’re going to the pet shop,” I said.

Partner didn’t even ask why, he just adopted a resigned expression.  It was all very simple and painless.  I picked a nice coloured budgie roughly the size of a pigeon, and we took it home, for Puff, as a buddy.

So, we now have 4 birds.  Puff.  Pea.  Poo.

And Pete.

Puff (the misery), Poo, Pete (mega-budgie extraordinaire) and Pea

I think I've lost control.  Assuming best friend has now found the internet and put it back where it belongs, I'll have to search for some kind of obsessive budgie buying helpline I can ring before its too late.

Sunday 25

Pete’s ‘buddied’ up with Poo and Pea!  So Puff’s still looking miserable.

Today, we went all the way over to Wolverhampton  (to a fabulous shop called Hooties) to buy budgie toys.  And a budgie bath.  And some budgie treats.

Honestly, where will it all end?

The expense has been enormous, the noise sometimes unbearable, the mess certainly annoying.  And after so much effort, the original budgie still isn’t happy.

I can only conclude that it’s an anti-social manic depressive.  My Partner has said, in no uncertain terms, that we are not taking it to the vets for anti-depressants and we are definitely not buying it a girl budgie to try and cheer it up.

Oh purleeze, this is just too sad for words!

Monday 26

Some people believe in God.  Some people believe in aliens.  Some people believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden (mine would have to wear wellies and carry a stun-gun for the slugs).  I’m a firm believer in fate. 

For instance, if I hadn’t lost the will to shop as soon as I set foot outside my office building at lunch today and sat on a bench for a cigarette instead, I’d never have bumped into my brother, who just happened to be walking through town and who mentioned the fam were coming up to lunch with me on Wednesday (not that I knew anything about it). 

And, after my cigarette, if I hadn’t seen that woman running across New Street towards the post office like the hounds of hell were chasing after her, I wouldn’t have remembered to check out their holiday insurance (of which we have none), found out how much holiday insurance costs from the post office (a lot!), and promptly bought it online (so now we have some, which is good). 

So yeah, I believe if something happens, it’s usually for a very good reason (such as me leaving my last vile job with vile people for this fabulous job in a nicely-peopled office with a rather snazzy job title, flexible hours and a bloody good salary). 

Hopefully fate, at some point, will take care of my holiday shopping.

Tuesday 27

My bestest mate, who’s about to give birth any second (ooooh the excitement!), had to call out a plumber because her loo was blocked.  The plumber came, looked at loo, and turned to my heavily-pregnant friend standing wide-legged in the doorway.  “Have you flushed any sanitary ware down?” he asked earnestly.

My friend was stunned into silence for a moment.  Then, rubbing her considerable bulge, she said, “No, not recently.  But we haven’t seen the dog for a while.”

Wednesday 28

Opened up my travel pass envelope today (they post them to me – much preferable to the rugby scrum queue in papershops every Monday morning).  As I put it in my wallet, I noticed that it had the wrong ‘valid until’ date on it.  The date was August 2006!

So I rang West Midlands Travel Direct Debit Line.  “It’s got August 2006 on it,” I laughed (because I thought it was rather funny).

“No, it should have April 2007 on,” said the girl on the other end, real bored like.

“Yes.  I know.  That’s why I’m ringing you.”

“What date has it got on your travel pass?”

I went a bit squinty eyed then.  “August 2006,” I repeated.

“Are you sure it doesn’t have April 2007 on?” asked the girl, and my eyes went all Lee Van Cleef.

“Yes, I’m sure, because I can read, and it reads August 2006.”

“Are you sure that’s the travel card we sent to you and not one you already had?”

Yes, because I like to keep my post for a few months before opening it.  “Yes, I’m sure.”  My eyes were mere slits by now.  I hate patronising incompetence, it really messes with my aura.

“Is it an old travel pass card?” asked the girl.

The implication being that I’d just happened across an old travel card lying on a pavement somewhere and popped it into my wallet, just for the hell of it.  “Can you just send me a new card,” I said, my aura all jagged and multi-coloured now.

“Yes, but you’ll have to send back the one you have.”  Presumably so they could forensically test it for fingerprints and carbon date it.

“Yes, I’ll send it back,” I huffed, bored with the whole thing, “Along with the envelope it came in which I’ve just opened and which still has August 2006 printed on the inside.”

Luckily, Birmingham bus drivers never look at the date on bus passes.  Their attention is more focused on avoiding potential passengers sprinting down the road towards them.

                                             

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