Monday 1

Hey!  How ya doing?  I've just had a mini-stroke swapping home pages (always ages me about 15 years), but I think everything's running smoothly - if not, let me know ... I probably won't be able to do anything about it but its good to know these things.  Do you like the new look?

So, the first day of 2007.  Nothing to report so far, unless you particularly want to know about my work clothes ironing, the work shoes cleaning and the work bag preparation, all accompanied to the sound of me weeping uncontrollably.

Yeah, back to the rat race tomorrow (No! NO! NO!).

In case you missed it (God forbid), check out the end of the December 2006 blog ... I got to babysit my own granddaughter!!!!!!

ALSO: In case you were out gallivanting and didn't see it, this was on tv last night. 

Absolutely brilliant.  Me and Partner were on the floor, rolling with laughter and crying buckets ... funniest thing I've seen in ages.  (Who is that mime bloke?)

                        www.brummieblogs.com    

As modest as I am, and as much as I hate self-promotion, the Seventh Annual Weblog Award is here and I'd reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally like to be in it. 

If you enjoy reading Brummie Blogs, if it gives you a laugh, if it makes you feel good in any way, please spare the time to pop along and nominate me in ANY category (Best British, Most Humorous, Best Writing or even Best Weblog of the Year!). 

Voting closes on Wednesday 10th January 2007, so no pressure, just do it now, perleeeeeeeeeeze.

I thank you.

Tuesday 2

Oh.  Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh.

Could NOT get to sleep last night.  Tossed and turned for a couple of hours, then woke up at 2pm because the moon was shining like a giant flashlight into our bedroom.  Closed curtains, tossed and turned for an hour.  Then partner, who’s recovered from flu but now had raging sciatica, kept tossing and turning.  Would have been good if our tossing and turning had been choreographed (and left turn, wait, wait, and right turn, wait wait), but I could only think violent thoughts as I bounced up and down on the mattress next to him.

6.30am  the alarm clock went off – berluddy joking!  Fell off mattress, staggered to toilet, staggered to bathroom, staggered through kitchen into living room, tried to find my face with my makeup without success.  Staggered to bus stop in pitch dark with the wind howling and the rain lashing.  “I don’t know what I’m wearing underneath my coat,” I croaked at a woman waiting there.  “Me neither,” she croaked back.

Bus was unbelievably quiet, apart from the odd cough from someone at the back.  Every single passenger was asleep with their eyes open, including me.  The roads were empty, presumably because most people had gone through the ‘berluddy joking’ stage and stayed in bed.

As I walked into work I actually felt all my internal organs moving – the sticky stuff that holds them in place was loose from lack of use, accustomed as it was to lying down with a book as opposed to marching across a city centre.  Felt like a huge, quivering blancmange.

Was greeted at work by zillions of emails, zillions of requests for meetings and chase ups and … just … stuff.  Could barely cope. Still in holiday mode.  Should still be in bed or lounging around, doing my own thang and taking ma time.

What an absolute sheer slog to get through the day!  Fell asleep on the bus coming home – there was no choice about this, I just zonked.  Got off half a mile from home and shuffled the rest of the way like an old woman in slippers.  Everything ached.  Everything was knackered. 

Fell into house.  Fell into chair.  Fell asleep.

Day 1 – done.

Have you voted yet? Eh?  Eh?

Wednesday 3

Day 2 – oh God.

Still utterly knackered, I now also have headache the size of the African continent.  Strangely, everyone else in the office is suffering the same headache - we’re all detoxing and dieting, suffering major withdrawal symptoms from alcohol and food binges.  I bring in a box of chocolates and everyone glares at me like I’ve just dragged in a roadkill.

Forced myself out at lunchtime to have a look at the January sales because, after three whole years, I’m still after a replacement for the Fuzzy Pinstripe Suit (yes, really! - suit jackets are more like shrugs these days, I want one that at least attempts to get somewhere near my waist).

Glanced at the pin-stripe shrugs in Primark, then picked up a jumper.  Hmmm, decisions.  Boredom tugged at my fuzzy jacket like a toddler about to throw a tantrum.  Decided to get it, then I saw the queue and dropped it like a hot rock.  Picked a jumper in Bhs, then saw the queue.  Boredom was now throwing itself down on the floor and screaming.  Tried on some shoes in Clarks but just seem to lose the will to draw breath and return to the office with Absolutely Nothing.

Everything is such an effort.

Wot, not voted yet? Tsk.

Okay, its tomorrow (!), the stick has been rescued, and on we go ....
 

Thursday 4

Voted yet?

As you may already know, I think my partner is the bees knees.  He’s fab, the best, a complete star.  I say this before I slate him.

He has one habit that drives me Absolutely Potty.  He loves to talk.  I actually like that about him.  He can chat to anyone about anything, and the Yorkshire accent is just so cute.  It’s not so much that he talks, it’s when he talks.

Sometimes he just goes into Yak Mode at the most inappropriate moments.  It’s like a power surge to his mouth.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, he’ll start some in-depth monologue that doesn’t require any interaction whatsoever, it’s self-replicating.  Which is extremely irritating when I’m trying to watch something on tv. 

He seems to wait until a Crucial Moment, when the murderer is about to be identified or the man is finally going to tell the woman he loves her or the baddie is about to be leapt on by aliens.  “Did I ever tell you about the time … ?” he’ll say, turning to me.  Or else he’ll begin, “That reminds me of when … “

The worst is when I hear the words, “Oh, isn’t that the bloke in that film?” and my heart just sinks.  “Oh, what’s his name?” he’ll say, repeatedly, “He was in that film about the war.  Peter somebody.  Or was it Michael.  In that film, you know, the one where he had that operation, the one so-and-so was in, that bloke with the blonde hair who was in oh what’s it called?”

This can go on for quite a while.  Eons, it seems.  It’s terribly annoying.  I used to try to be patient and give him all my attention.  Then, after a couple of years, I tried to listen to both him and the Crucial Moment.  Then, after 4 years or so, I started getting a bit touchy (as in, “I’m trying to watch this!”) and he’d go all huffy.

But now, after 7 years, I’ve finally found the solution.  The instant I hear him start one of his repertoires, I look him dead in the eye and, very calmly and very clearly, I say, “Stop talking.”

This shocks him into silence.

Fortunately, it’s the only annoying habit he has.

Apart from leaving on all the burners on the cooker hob.

Friday 5

Ooooh look >>>>> a link <<<<<<<< to a place where you can vote for Brummie Blogs.

Today was manic at work, had all these big meetings to organise, three of the buggers.

Unless you’re a secretary, you won’t know the angst, the blood, the sweat, the tears that go into organising a meeting.  You first have to contact everyone required to identify a convenient date/time – difficult enough with internal people, damn near impossible if external people are involved.

And I had three of these to sort.

I emailed.  I telephoned.  I cajoled and pressed and insisted.  I even grovelled at one point.  I booked rooms.  I sent out appointments.  I ordered refreshments and lunches.  X 3.  My desk was awash with paperwork and post-it notes.

And then the inevitable happened, the thing every secretary dreads the most.

The main speaker, the important person, the reason for the meeting in the first place, emailed to say that, actually, he couldn’t make that date after all, despite me checking with him a dozen times.  Could I reschedule?

As my boss sits quite close by, I couldn’t bang my head on the desk because it just doesn’t look professional.  Neither is it good form to start tossing papers and pens around whilst hissing expletives.  And crying is definitely a no-no.

Instead, I got up from my desk and went into the post room.  I found a friendly (if rather startled) ear.  I hissed, really loudly and with great depth of feeling, “For Fark’s Sake!!!!” whilst shaking my hands and jumping from foot to foot.

“Bad day?” the person attached to the ear said.

“I just want to know,” I hissed, “Why no-one has yet invented an email that slaps the recipient, really hard.  Or at least flips them the bird, or moons them, or flashes a disgustingly rude word across their screen.”

Budding inventors, get working - you have the undying adoration of every secretary in the world as your motivation.

[Almost forgot ... had lunch at The Mailbox today with a group of stressed-out secretaries, and the very cute ASHLEY BLAKE was in our restaurant, at the next table!  We were all elbow waving and screaming, "It's him!  It's him!"  Well, okay, that was just me.]

Saturday 6

I am aware that I’m looking slightly shabbier at work than normal.  I’m not fashion conscious by any stretch of the imagination – in fact, fashion sense appears to have bypassed me completely (probably while I was decoking motorbike exhausts back in the 70s).  But wearing fuzzy pin-stripe suits and baggy trousers and tops that should have been burned long ago just isn’t going to hack it any more.

I need a suit.

I need it pretty bad.

I’ve done the soul destroying trek around town looking for long items (because I’m tall) and obscure sizes (because I’m obviously a funny shape – more Catherine Zeta Jones than Kate Moss), to no avail. 

So today, Harborne, where there are a couple of nice shops that cater for the niche fashion market I favour (Harborne’s quite a posh area of Birmingham).  Gobsmackingly, I found a suit that I liked and it fitted!  I looked good in it (gasp).  So I bought it.  And a rather snazzy jacket.

Total cost (and get this) …

… £15.  Yes, that’s right, £15 for a suit from Long Tall Sally and a jacket from Next, an Absolute Bargain.

And where are these nice shops in Harborne?

One is the Acorn Children’s Hospice Trust.

The other is for Cancer Research.

Yep, charity shops.  Thank God for charity shops.

Sunday 7

Middle Son heartlessly abandoned us after spending Christmas at home, and went back ooop north.  Sniff.  I emptied his room of cups, glasses and plates so we now have kitchen utensils again, which is nice.

Shortly after I got a text from Small Son.  “Could you babysit?”

Could I!

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

Did I!

He brought granddaughter round, a bundle of smiles and energy.  I cheerily waved them off in their new ‘grown-up’ car (as opposed to the Boy Racer Metro he’s favoured for years – maturity is a wunnerful thang).  Once they’d disappeared into the horizon, panic set in.  I was now fully responsible for an 11 month old child.

Oh my God!

No, honestly, I was terrified.  It’s only the second time I’ve babysat, I couldn’t have the parents coming home and finding a big bruise on her head or any mark on her body where I’d been careless (“You reckless grandmother, we’ll never let you babysit again!”)

So I watched her every move.  I rolled on the floor with her.  I veered her away from the gas fire (must get a fireguard).  I rescued the budgie from prying fingers that could be pecked by his dangerous beak, and crawled along with her so she wouldn’t inadvertently bump into anything (by staring at the stupid grandmother plodding along beside her).

I played games, I wobbled my head in an 'entertaining' way until I got a headache, I whistled, I sang, I dredged up every nursery rhyme from the deepest regions of my memory, and contorted myself into shapes that seemed so easy when my boys were babies (admittedly 20 years ago).  How on earth did I manage to raise three sons and have any time to do anything else?!

Granddaughter smiled, she cooed, she tried to put EVERYTHING in her mouth, she dismantled the stereo system, pulled down the giant wind chime, slobbered all over an SAS Survival Guide book (don’t ask), became obsessed by the gas fire, and forced me to do rugby lunges across the carpet catching tossed ornaments.  Eventually, we both settled down in an armchair and I sang Ring A Roses for possibly the 947^th time.

Thankfully, there were no injuries except to myself, and her parents came home to find her happy and content.  I, however, was completely and TOTALLY bloody knackered.

They’d been gone for two whole hours.

Monday 8

Saw my bus coming up the road this morning and broke into a run.  Sprinting I look like a knock-kneed girly with outstretched arms and a coordination problem, which is why I don’t do it in public if I can possible help it.

So there I am, racing towards the bus, watching it pull up and galloping towards it with my internal organs (still loose) and bag contents (of which there are many) bouncing up and down like a sackful of maracas.  Nearly there. 

Like a disjointed rag doll I reach into my bag for my bus pass whilst doing a full pelt.  I even threw the driver a ‘thanks’ smile because he’s looking dead at me running down the road towards him.

And then, a whole 2 metres from the stop, the swine pulls away.  I carry on smiling because I’m the optimistic type, despite all experience to the contrary.  Of course he’ll stop.

So there I am, gasping at the roadside with a big smile and outstretched arm waving my bus pass.  And the bus driver who’d watched me run all the way down the road towards him and his bloody bus turns his head the other way and drives straight passed me.

Oooooh, the rage!  The anger!  What would it have cost him to stop for a whole second to let me get on?  Nothing.  Would it have made him late?  No.  Isn’t it his job to pick people up and drive them to their destination?  Isn’t that the whole point of being a bus driver, to pick people up!

Most drivers seem to indulge in some despicable game of ‘How many passengers can we leave behind today?’  I’m sure they have some kind of bonus scheme based on it (“And Bill wins the prize this week for letting 153 people believe they could catch his bus before he hastily drove away, and for letting a total of 29 people actually pound on his door as he pulled off looking the other way.  Well done, Bill.”)

We need some sort of system so we can identify buses that will or won’t stop for sprinting passengers.  I don’t know, maybe there should be a pile of bricks at bus stops that we could use to lob at the buggers (“Oh look, a battered bus, lets not bother running for that one.”).  Or paint ball guns, splatter the little sods so other potential sprinters could save their breath.

Or maybe ignorant drivers could have a sunstrip across their windscreen simply reading “GIT”.

Tuesday 9

My partner woke me up again last night.  In fact, he’s woken me up every night for the last two weeks.

I realise he’s in pain, poor bugger, but sympathy is terribly hard to muster at 3 o’clock in the bloody morning when you’ve been catapulted from deep sleep.  Sometimes, after dreaming I’m being tossed by a stormy sea, I open my eyes and there he is, looking at me, expectantly, as if he’d rather like a conversation to take his mind off his discomfort.  Yeah, okay, let’s see how many sentences I can formulate using only swear words, shall we.

Last night it was midnight.  I’d been asleep for less than two hours.  I had a bit of a muffled scream (so as not to alarm the neighbours), muttered a few expletives, and pounded my pillow for a bit.  Then I lay there, wide awake, whilst next to me my Partner drifted off into blissful sleep and started snoring.  Snoring!

Let’s just say we weren’t exactly on speaking terms this morning.

“I’ll make up the spare bed whilst you’re at work today,” he muttered as I dabbed makeup onto vampire red eyes.

“Good idea,” I snapped.

“Then you can sleep in it if my agony disturbs you.”

That certainly didn’t improve matters.

We’re on speaking terms again now, of course.  He’s aware that if he wakes me again I will probably kill him, and I’m aware that when someone is in pain hands tightening around his neck really isn’t going to make him feel any better.

Wednesday 10

Whilst randomly surfing the internet I came across Marks & Spencer website and just happened to notice that they’d got a rather nice suit (I’m clearly in suit buying mode for the first time in 3 years).

At lunchtime, off I dash with my printed out details.  I head for the suit section.  I look around for a bit, and then I spot it.

I walk towards it slowly, checking my printed out details.  Looks really nice in the picture.

But in real life, close up, the material and pattern were so heavy and strong (like dyed sackcloth) you’d have to stand half a mile away and squint at it through a fog for the migraine-inducing material to dim a little.  I was most disappointed.

But, while I was there, I picked up a couple of things and went into the changing rooms (M&S have the best changing rooms).

I've never understood it when women say, “I felt a bit depressed so I went clothes shopping to cheer myself up.”  Surely trying on clothes that don’t fit would make them more depressed?  That’s how it works for me anyway.

In the changing room, the flowing skirt on the hanger turned out to be a shapeless rag when worn.  Let’s be clear here, I’m neither obese nor anorexic, I’m a ‘normal’ shape.  So why don’t clothes fit me?  I get the right size, but they’re cut all wrong, they don’t hang properly, they don’t look good.  I swear trying to find clothes that fit right is like searching for the holy grail.  Don’t designers realise that women have curves?

I left feeling quite miserable, vowing never to go clothes shopping again.  I might start a new trend and start wearing boiler suits or something.

Thursday 11

Went to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery with a friend at lunch because they have an exhibition of ‘sticking out pictures’ by Patrick Hughes, dead good.  If you stand in front of them and rock from side to side, they move.  Problem with doing that (to get the full 3D effect) is that you tend to bump into other people.  And then I noticed that other people there weren’t rocking from side to side gasping “Isn’t that clever!” like me, they were calmly walking passed as if looking at wallpaper.  I hate being the only one to making a plonk of myself (and it happens so often!). 

Afterwards, my friend felt dizzy and I had eyeball strain.

Later, when I was still trying to get my eyes to focus properly, I chatted with a fellow secretary who’s around my age (37ish).

“I just don’t understand it,” she said.  “I’ve just started a new job paying a huge salary, and it’s a doddle.  Every successive job I’ve had always pays more for doing less.”

“What do you mean, doing less?” I asked.

“The work is really easy,” she said, “I could do it with my eyes closed.  It seems the more you’re paid, the less you’re expected to do.”

I’ve had this conversation before.  Some secretaries just don’t ‘get it’.  “Could an office junior do your job?” I asked.

 “No,” she breathed, “They wouldn’t know where to start.”

“So, do you think that maybe the work isn’t getting easier, you’re just getting better at it?”

She looked at me.

“Is it at all conceivable,” I said, “That women of our age who have been doing this job for years actually get paid more because of our skills and experience.”

Her eyes widened.  “Oh yeah,” she said, “I never thought of it like that.”

And we both broke into enlightened smiles.  She sauntered off in her tailored suit and heels, while I staggered off to find my office with crossed eyes.

Friday 12

Jumped on the not-my-bus tonight just to Get Out Of Town.  I could feel the tension as soon as I got on.

Upstairs there were some teenagers smoking a cigarette at the back.  A woman sitting near them kept opening the window, and they kept slamming it shut.  Eventually she hissed, “Well put your pissing fag out then!” to which they replied, “Why don’t you get off and walk, you fat cow.”

Nice.

Downstairs, a woman who appeared to have dozens of children spent the entire journey shouting at every one of them, her favourite phrase being, “Just stop it will you!” at a decibel equalling that of a Harrier jump jet.

Next to me, a bloke was listening to his MP3 player so loud that a woman two seats in front of me kept turning round to tut loudly (though not loudly enough for him to hear since he was patently deaf).

Across the aisle, a man and a woman were sitting next to each other and talking as if they were on opposite sides of a football field.  He bellowed about his recent trip to court about non-payment of council tax, she squealed about people he obviously didn’t know because he kept going back to the evilness of court officials.  Rivetting stuff, I tell ya.

Up at the front, a girl cruelly devoid of any consonants was on the phone screeching, “I ain’ ‘appy, Bri, I really ain.  No, I ain, no’ ‘appy a’ all. I' ain fair, it really ain.  Why should I? I shudden ‘ave 'o, I really shudden.”  (translation: She’s not happy, with ‘Bri’ or something else is not clear).

It was like sitting in the middle of a mobile madhouse. 

Just another joyous journey on West Midlands Transport.

Sigh.

Saturday 13

Slobbed.

<<<< let's hear it for slobbing!

Sunday 14

“Do you think the budge looks a bit cramped in his little cage?” I asked my partner.

“Why, what were you thinking?” said he.

“Well, a tree would be nice.”

“What, let him go?”

“No, in the house.”

“You want a tree in the house?”  Partner’s eyes had gone all wide.

“Not a whole tree, obviously.”

“What then?”

“Maybe a big branch he could sit on so he wouldn’t go scuttling off behind the tv set to roost on the wires and poo all the time.”

“How big?” Partner said, already getting up out of his chair.

“Couple of feet?”

And off he went.

There was a bit of a sawing, a bit of shouting for the stepladders, a bit of watching as Partner hacked off a substantial piece of apple tree in the garden.

Mere minutes later, Puff, the budge, was the proud owner of a house tree.

He really really likes it.

[Incidentally, the PC sounds we keep playing for Puff, the budge, makes him dive for his seed tray and then race around his cage like a ball on a roulette wheel.  Suspect all these budgies are actually screaming, “Eat all you can!  Quick!  Eat!  Eat more!  Then run for your lives!”  Followed, possibly, by, “This is a group budgie broadcast on behalf of the Lonely Budgies Party” or “This wav file will cause you to self destruct in five … four … three ...”]

Monday 15

Despite the fact that Small Son has been gone for over two years now, living right next door means he’s never bothered changing his address on things like car insurance, he just pops round for any post he gets.  If he doesn’t come round for a few days and there’s something for him, I ring him or send a text.

Then Partner discovered he has Bluetooth on the phone I bought him for Christmas (which has not been out of his hand since he got it).  Last time Small Son came round they huddled together round their mobiles and apparently got them ‘connected’, or something.

So Small Son received a letter.  Partner took a photo of it lying on the table, put his phone next to the dividing wall, and sent it ‘free’ via Bluetooth.  He seemed terribly excited about this.

Small Son didn’t come round, so next day Partner took another photo and sent that.

Then I bought him some socks, and that was photographed too.

Partner seemed quite disappointed when Small Son finally came round to collect them. 

Tuesday 16

I had to fill in a security form for work today.  Previous names, date of marriage, date of divorce etc. etc.  It would have been easier to write a Brief History of Me 19601969-2007.  Had to ring my parents for their postcodes and year of birth – mom was terribly impressed to be involved in an official form!  Then Partner's details, age, previous addresses, date of death.  Date of death?  He looked alright this morning!

I rang him, just to make sure.  “You alright?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I ticked the N/A box.

“Have you, to your knowledge, ever been involved in:

(a)                espionage

(b)               terrorism

(c)                overthrowing of a government.”

Hmmmm, let me think.  No, I don’t think so, although in a pique of political petulance I did once vote for the Monster Raving Looney Party.

Did I have any financial problems?  No, but I wouldn’t be averse to a substantial payrise.  Did I have any debts?  No, because shopping is abhorrent and depressing and should be outlawed immediately. 

Have I ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?  Not diagnosed, no.  Do I suffer from any psychological problems?  Deep-seated loathing of public transport, maggots, war films and Sian Lloyd.  Any addictions?  Well, yes, but I’m not listing them here.  Please list.  Bog off. 

I’m to provide them with my passport.  I’m only surprised they didn’t ask for a blood sample, a gynaecological examination and a letter of satisfaction from my Partner!

Wednesday 17

I weighed myself at the weekend to (finally) acknowledge the damage Christmas had done.  After I stopped screaming I realised I’d have to do what everyone else is doing.

“I’m going on a diet,” I told my Partner, tossing a packet of crisps and a Mars bar into my lunch bag.

“Seafood diet, is it?” he grinned.

I removed the crisps and chocolate.  Instead, for my lunch on Monday, I had homemade boiled rice with veg and chicken, which tasted of Absolutely Nothing.  I also picked at a bowl full of sultanas and dates.

Same yesterday.

Today I became acutely aware that healthy food had side-effects.  Oh boy, does it!  I could not move without … erm … ‘expelling air’.  And not in a ladylike, dainty way either, this was ocean liner fog-horn stuff.  And there was such a lot it!  I was so gassed up I should have been floating round the ceiling like a balloon.  Instead, I had to walk around the office accompanied to the sound of rhythmic trumpet blasts – parp parp parp.

At first I tried to be discrete, dashing off to a quiet corner, clenching to keep the noise down.  Exhausting!  I tried pushing myself down in my chair hoping it would ‘dissipate naturally’ but, having no sense of smell, I wasn’t sure if I was surrounding myself in a pungent fog – I definitely had fewer visitors to my desk than normal.

Even in the lift, chatty people got in and suddenly felt silent – I did wonder if they were holding their breaths.

Got home, tossed rice and dried fruit in the bin, ordered a takeaway.

I’m sure the 3 mile walk from the bus stop every day will soon take care of those extra pounds.

Thursday 18

Everything was against me this morning.  Still-suffering Partner woke me in the night (and promptly disappeared to lie flat out on the living room floor, poor bugger).  I got up at 6.30 (an obscene time to start the day) but felt like death.  I was worried about the budge because he seemed quite morose yesterday (please don’t die!), and there were weather warnings on tv.

I stood in the bathroom, looked at my face in the mirror, and saw bride of Dracula staring back at me.

Outside, the wind howled, the rain lashed, and it was pitch black.  I looked at bride of Dracula and muttered, “Can’t do it.”

Rang in sick.  Took tablets.  Went back to bed.

A short while later, Partner hobbled home from work and promptly fell asleep next to me.

I think there's Yet Another Bug doing the rounds.  Isn't winter fun!

Friday 19

Partner stayed at home (because he gets sick pay) whilst I struggled into work (because I don’t).

“You look terrible,” I was told (yep, thanks), “Why are you here?”

“Because if I don’t work, I don’t get paid,” I sniffed.

My agency rang me whilst I was slumped across my desk, and a super-chirpy woman said, “You’re finishing there today, aren’t you.”

“Am I?” I gasped, instantly unslumping.

“Yes, all you agency temps are leaving there today.”

“Are we?  It’s the first I’ve heard!”

“So you’re available for work next week then.”

Panic shot through me like an explosion.  “Are you sure about this?” I asked, “Only nobody’s mentioned anything to me about it.”

“Oh yes,” said the super-chirpy woman.  “They don’t need you temps there any more.”

“Are you sure, absolutely positive, you’re not thinking of someone else, it’s definitely me leaving?”

“Yes, yes, definitely you and all the other temps.  All leaving.  Today.”

I said I’d get back to her and turned to my boss.  “Am I leaving today?” I asked.

She spun round in her chair with (fortunately) a look of horror on her face, and gasped, “Not as far as I’m aware.”

I raced up to the HR department and wailed, “My agency’s just rang and said I’m leaving today, is that right?”

They all looked flummoxed (or guilty, I couldn’t tell).  “We didn’t know about this,” they said/lied.

A HR person immediately picked up the phone while I raced back to my desk to fire off an email to my agency.  “Thanks for giving me a complete heart attack, nobody here knows anything about me leaving today.”

Minutes later I received a super-chirpy reply.  “Just spoken to your HR department and there’s been a bit of a mix up.  It’s not you that’s leaving today, its so-and-so [another temp].”

Phew.  Relief.  When I later spoke to so-and-so and casually asked her where she was working next week, the blood drained from her face.  She was on the phone to the agency within seconds.

Save us from super-chirpy agency people who don’t get it right.

Saturday 20

What do you think of Celebrity Big Brother then, eh?  I have to admit, I watched the first episode when they all went in (muttering, “Who?”, “Who?” and “Who?”) and then didn’t bother again until all this bullying furore started.  Pretty despicable stuff, and rather too familiar for comfort.

The exact same thing happened to me at work last year, although the 'leader' wasn’t as vocal as Jade because she was ‘posh’ and her attacks were more subtle (but nonetheless spiteful).  The behaviour of Jo and Danielle is oh so familiar too, all that giggling and laughing, the whole ‘joining in’ thing, deliberately making another person feel uncomfortable and ostracised.  I eventually left my job because, unlike the company I worked for, I wasn't willing to tolerate it (in fact, these three woman caused such an atmosphere in the office that several other people left shortly after me, it was like a mass exodus).

I’m watching CBB now to see the downfall of these nasty women.  Jade has already been evicted without a crowd (very disappointing).  She can currently be seen on Sky News squeezing out crocodile tears for the sake of her ‘reputation’ and saying she didn’t mean it (my bullies wailed that they didn't mean it either but, like Jade and the others, they certainly enjoyed themselves at the time).

Jo and Danielle are crying too, terrified of what might now happen to them.  Good, I hope they're sick with worry, I hope they feel as uncomfortable and as miserable as they made their 'victim'.

I’m watching CBB now because I hope my bullies might be watching it, might be recognising themselves and might one day get the comeuppance that they deserve.

I live in hope.

[There are currently no laws against bullying unless it’s racially motivated.  Most companies have an anti-bullying policy at work but its unenforceable and, in my experience, pretty useless.  After the media exposure on CBB, the government ought to make legislation against bullying of any shape or form, racial or not.  Again, I live in hope.].

Sunday 21

We’re broke.  Oh so broke!  Barely a penny to rub between us.

It was time for … (ta da DA!) … The Change Bottle.

We have this giant plastic Coke bottle in the study and all year we put our loose change in it – anything below 50p.  It’s our SOS fund – Stop Ourselves Starving.  Dosh always runs out at the end of January so this is our emergency stash.

We emptied the contents of the bottle into a carrier bag.  It was heavy!  I hauled it out to the car like a dead body and we drove to Morrisons in Rubery, where they have a rather snazzy machine that counts your loose change and gives you a chit to cash in at the tills.  It’s good, but by ‘eck is it noisy, they might as well put a huge sign above it reading “Look!  Destitute people cashing in change!”  I always expect a police car to skid to a halt next to us and ask which charity boxes we’ve stolen.  Its a bit embarrassing, but when there's only dustballs blowing through the food cupboards pride is the first thing to go.

Anyway, we poured our money into the clanking, crunching machine and it gave us a running total on screen.  £20 - ooooh.  £30 - not bad.  £40 - yes, we can eat!  £50 - hey!  £60 - verging into takeaway money now.  £70!!  YAY!

So instead of picking up the bare basics in Morrisons – bread, milk, whisky – we were like schoolkids in a sweet shop.  Then we went home and checked our lottery ticket because “They had to cash in the loose change they’d been saving all year because they were so broke” just seems like the perfect prelude to winning a jackpot.

Sadly, we didn’t win, but I did find £20 in my purse which I didn’t know was there (which, like, never happens!).  So we’ve gone from poverty-stricken to flush, which is nice.

[I'm alarmed how excited I am at the thought of watching the first episodes of 24 - Day 6 tonight on Sky One.  Should I (a) Try and get out more; (b) Book an appointment to see a therapist as soon as possible; or (c) Not worry about it as Mr Sutherland is pretty cute (and, of course, its a good programme)?]

Monday 22

There was this girl sitting on the top deck of the bus tonight.  A young, extremely pretty blonde girl.  Into the abyss of catatonic silence, she asked the bloke sitting across the aisle from her, “Does this bus go to so-and-so?” in a lilting Irish accent.

It’s not often you hear strangers talking to each other on a bus (unless there’s abuse involved), but this bloke was only too keen to tell her where the bus went, in intricate detail – every road, every turn, every passing landmark.  The Irish girl thanked him and there was silence for whole seconds before the bloke once again urged her into conversation by asking where she wanted to go.  Argos.

“There’s an Argos in Selly Oak, isn’t there?” said a man sitting behind me.

“Is there?” said another bloke, “I don’t think there is, not in Selly Oak.”

“No, but there’s one in Northfield,” said yet another.

And so commenced an in-depth conversation between all the male passengers on the top deck; the best Argos, the closest Argos, step-by-step directions to Argos in various areas, the likelihood of heavy traffic in those areas.   Honestly, if this girl had been naked she couldn’t have attracted more attention.

The original bloke, keen to maintain his title of The First Person She Spoke To, stood up but seemed reluctant to get off the bus.  He leaned towards the pretty Irish girl and again told her where the bus went, where she should get off and how to get to Argos.  He eventually prised himself away.

Another bloke alighted a short while later, but not before approaching the pretty girl and explaining, yet again, where she should get off.  She now had enough information to compile a book on Shopping at Argos in Birmingham.  I’ve never seen such enthusiasm.

Nice to know that Brummie Man is so willing to help out a damson in distress – as long as the damson is young, blonde and breathtakingly pretty; if you're old, fat or ugly its probably best to invest in an A-Z.  

Tuesday 23

Small Son came round tonight.   He’d fallen out with his girlfriend because she’d had her hair done and he hadn’t noticed.

“What did you say to her?” Partner asked him.

“I didn’t say nuffin’.”

“Ah, that’s your problem.”

Partner proceeded to teach Small Son a few facts of life (no doubt passed on by men for generations).  Small Son witnessed the sight of Partner flicking his imaginary mane and squealing, “Does my hair look alright?”  He continued to do this, despite the incessant giggling, until Small Son said, “Oh it looks great, I really like it,” with total conviction. 

Partner then moved on to clothes (“That skirt/dress/jumper really suits you, you look really good in it”) and the infamous fat question (“No of course you don’t look fat, you’re just right, absolutely perfect”).

Small Son left, armed with his repertoire of phrases, a lot happier.  Partner seemed quite pleased with himself too.  With a deep sigh of satisfaction he said, “You know, I really must write that Little Book of Answers.”

“A Collection of Men’s Lies?” I asked.

“More of a Survival Guide for that no-man's land of feminine foibles,” he replied, "That quagmire of misunderstandings and confusion between man and - "  He stopped suddenly.  “Your hair looks nice by the way," he said, but too late, the cushion was already flying through the air towards him.

Wednesday 24

You know as you get older policemen start to look younger?  Well, I don’t know what the age limit is (if any) for becoming a bus driver for West Midlands travel, but I imagine it goes something like this.  “Dear Bus Depot Boss, I can’t come in today as I’m not feeling well, but I’m sending my son, P-Daddy, along to cover for me.  I know he should be in school but he only has double PE and an English test and he’s quite good behind the wheel, despite being only 12.”

I swear to God, the driver of the bus I got on tonight didn’t look old enough to be out of the womb let alone school.  It sat there, hanging from the steering wheel, dribbling and bouncing up and down in its seat like it had Attention Deficit Disorder.  I said as I got on, “Bit dark isn’t it,” because it clearly couldn’t reach the switch for the interior lights - all the passengers were sitting in the dark looking like a load of startled bushbabies.  The driver just grunted at me, too young to string words together.

The bus wobbled down roads.  Really.  Wobbled.  First we were in the left lane, then the right, but most of the time we sort of straddled the centre line as if the driver couldn’t quite make up his mind which lane he liked the most.  It hesitated at traffic lights (marvelling, perhaps, at the pretty colours) and I got through a whole book chapter waiting for it to negotiate Five Ways island – we eventually lurched round it accompanied by a crescendo of car horns and screeching brakes. 

I was quite worried, actually, that I wasn’t as alarmed as I should have been.  I guess after all these years of sitting on a bus twice a day, the antics of drivers and passengers alike no longer holds any fear for a hardened commuter like me – seen it all, done it all, and by some magnificent stroke of luck I’m still alive with some shreds of sanity intact.

Far from being concerned that I’m on a wobbly bus driven by some fetus who barely has the strength to turn the wheel, I slip into a deep catatonic state.  I’d say it was my survival instinct kicking in – ‘just go limp’ – but my survival instinct died a long time ago, somewhere around Harborne at 7.55 on a wet Monday morning.

QUICK! HAVE YOUR SAY! Over the last few weeks the Birmingham Mail has been looking at some of the issues facing the city's public transport network and the people using it, in particular the buses.  Now it's your chance to have your say.  They want to hear the views of people in Birmingham so that these can be passed on to transport chiefs.  Spare a few minutes to download and complete the simple questionnaire and send it back (you will automatically be entered in a prize draw for £100).  You’ve only got until 31 January so do it now – vent your spleen and tell them how it really is.

Thursday 25

Two blokes from the IT department came and sat at my desk today.  The problem I’d complained about was, they said, a ‘well-known’ glitch in the software.  As I’ve been a secretary for quite a while, and a legal secretary at that, I was somewhat sceptical.  They assured me there was nothing they could do while I kept saying, “Are you sure?  Because this is quite a serious problem and I’ve never heard of this ‘glitch’ before?”  But yes, definitely a software glitch, nothing Microsoft could do about it apparently.  The only solution was to copy and paste entire documents into new documents.

Hmmmmmm.

Satisfied that they’d done their best to explain why they couldn’t fix it, the IT blokes stood up to go.  One started to walk off.  The other approached me and said, “Do you know how to highlight before copying and pasting?  You press CTRL and A - ”

The world seemed to draw a sharp intake of breath as I slowly raised my head to look at him.  The IT bloke caught the ‘You’d better be bloody joking, young man!’ expression plastered across my face at the exact same time as the other IT bloke cried, “Just step away while you can!”

Tsk, youngsters!  Think they know everything.

Friday 26

I think I can safely say without any hesitation or doubt that we have the most spoiled budgie on the planet.  He lacks for nothing, not even his own personal tree to sit on in the living room! 

He still can’t fly, but he’s getting better at bouncing and his grasshopper impersonation across the carpet is really quite impressive.  As is his ability to squeeze into the tiniest places in order to poo prolifically behind the sofa.  We’ve had to block up all the gaps between the furniture with cushions and barricaded in the tv with piles of DVDs, so our house resembles a ransacked pet shop.

The temperature has dropped recently - open the front door and your face freezes, so you better be wearing a good expression when you leave the house or you’re gonna get some funny looks walking to work with that face.
 

As we don’t have central heating, we leave a stand-alone radiator next to his cage switched on all day.  Then, because he doesn’t seem to like prolonged silence, we now leave the radio on all day too.  Heart FM (so he’s well familiar with – and no doubt heartily sick of – Pink’s ‘I’m not here for your en-ter-tain-ment’).  It’s costing us an absolute fortune in electricity alone.

Now the ‘doting owners’ (aka sad gits) have decided that Puff, the budge, needs a bigger cage.  Not necessarily for the budgie, but because we wanna buy more toys.  And more hangy dangly treaty things.  I’d consider therapy, but I can’t afford it after stocking up on millet sprays and sandpaper.

So tomorrow we’ll be visiting the Mega Garden Centre for a new cage.  And we both know, without actually admitting it out loud, that whilst in the pet department we will probably end up buying another budgie to keep our budgie company.

This time next year our house will have been converted into a giant bird cage and I’ll be shuffling through the pigeons in Victoria Square covered in lines of white poo singing Feed the birds, tuppence a bag.

Scary.

Saturday 27

Oh my God what have we done!

Went to small pet shop in Longbridge where Partner had bought Puff, but they had no big bird cages.  They did, however, have a load of budgies.

Went to another shop in Blackheath, where they had cages, but their budgies looked pretty sick (and one poor parrot was almost croaking his last).  Got cage, went back to first shop, picked a nice grey budgie.

Then saw a rather nice felt pen green budgie with a blue tail.

Looked at grey one.  Terribly handsome and proud.

Looked at green one.  So bright and chirpy.

Grey one.

Green one.

I just couldn’t decide, so I bought both!  Let’s face it, giving Puff a couple of pals to play with will be infinitely cheaper than leaving the radio on all day.

Got home and prepared new cage whilst the TWO new budgies squawked in their little cardboard boxes.  Puff was going absolutely ballistic, I’ve never heard him so excited.  Put the new budgies in their cage and the noise was horrendous.

“What the hell have we done?” I screamed at Partner.

“What?” he yelled back.

I hope we’re not going to regret this.

Sunday 28

Got up this morning, plodded downstairs, and was bombarded by the cacophonic sound of multiple budgies.  One has a pitched so high I swear it could shatter glass.  Not what you want to hear first thing on a Sunday morning, it was like sitting in an aviary.

“We’re getting rid of the green one,” I grunted at Partner, as the windows rattled in their frames.

I let Puff out for some exercise and he positively launched himself out of his cage, shot up his tree, and spent the next half an hour trying to fly onto the table where the other budgies were screaming their heads off, to no avail.  In the end, before he gave himself a serious injury, I put the big cage on the floor and Puff crawled all over it.

The noise level increased by another dozen or so decibels.

“Open the door and let him in,” Partner cried.

“They’re supposed to be quarantined for a month,” I cried back.

“They’re all from the same shop, they’ll be fine.”

So I gingerly opened the cage door and Puff shot inside.

A bit of a ‘Hello’, a bit of feather fluffing, and then all was silent as they sat together in a line on their perch.  And thank God for that.

Puff looks well happy with his new mates (and, sitting next to his sleek and slim buddies, he looked obese, like a tennis ball with a face).

Had I known we’d end up with three budgies I would have called them Tom, Dick and Harry (Three little dicky birds sitting on a stick, two called T and H, one named Dick).  As we already have a ‘Puff’, it seemed only fitting that we called the small green one ‘Pea’ and the other we’ve named ‘Poo’.

Puff, Pea and Poo.

Worrying, isn’t it.

Monday 29

My Partner’s mobile phone went off tonight.  He answered it and I heard him saying, “Hello?  Hello?  Hello?”  Then he looked at me oddly and put the phone on speaker.

On the other end were a couple who, having accidentally dialled my Partner’s phone number, were having a furious argument.  They yelled and swore and said terrible things to each other.  Of course, me and Partner were riveted (obviously suffering withdrawal symptoms from Celebrity Big Brother!). 

“We should hang up,” I said guiltily, just as the woman started to scream like a horror film victim.  “Oh my God!” I gasped, “He’s going to hit her.  What if he kills her?  What can we do?  Maybe we should call the police.”

“Get a grip,” Partner said, “They’re just arguing.”

It sounded quite violent and I wondered what the protocol was for these kinds of situations (“Hello, police?  A couple in the Black Country are having a serious domestic, could you send someone over to check they’re okay?  Where?  I don’t know, but I have their phone number if that helps.”)

I’m not a big arguer and I’m certainly not a screamer (being more a definitive statement type, such as “That’s not true” or “I disagree”), so this couple’s dispute was quite alien and startling.

We did eventually hang up when it sounded like the bloke and his phone stormed off, but when he gets his mobile phone bill I bet he’ll wonder about that phonecall he made on Monday night that lasted 15 minutes.

Tuesday 30 January 2007

Our washer dryer is having a bit of a personality crisis.  No matter what programme we put it on it does a full wash, which is a bit annoying when we’re trying to dry something and the drum fills up with water (many a harsh word has been spoken to that drum in recent weeks).  It was time to call out an engineer.

I was at work when I rang.  I thought it would be a simple case of, “My washing machine’s broke, send someone to fix it.”  But I got an automated answering machine.  Oh what fun.

“Please state the date on which your appliance was purchased,” said a woman’s voice, “For example, the twenty first of January two thousand and three.”

“28^th August 2006,” I said clearly.

“Was that the 20^th August 2006?” asked the automated voice. 

“No,” said I.

“Please try again.”

“28^th August 2006,” I repeated, a bit louder this time.

“Was that the 20^th August 2006?” asked the automated voice. 

“No!” 

“Please try again.”

“28^TH AUGUST 2006!” I shouted into the receiver.

“Was that the 20^th August 2006?”

“NO!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you are saying [because you’re a bloody stupid machine], let’s try another way.  Is your appliance more than 12 months old?”

“No.”

“Is your appliance less than 12 months old?”

Tsk.

More automated questions and me speaking like I had some kind of speech disorder, clearly enunciating every syllable as if I was auditioning for the lead part in a Shakespearean play.  Then we got to the postcode.

“Please state your postcode,” said the voice, “For example, W13 8US.”

“B2* ***,” I said.

“BD Bradford,” said the voice, “Is that correct?”

“No.”

“Please try again.”

“B2* ***.”

“BD Bradford,” said the voice, “Is that correct?”

“No!”

“Please try again.”

I did.  The voice was utterly convinced I lived in Bradford.  In the end it gave up and said it was transferring me to a real person.  Oh the relief.

When I eventually hung up I squealed, “Kill the machines, must kill the machines.”  Then I suddenly noticed that most of the people around me were looking at me in a strange way.  They’d all heard me wailing “No.  B2* ***.  No, you stupid woman.  B2* ***.  No, for crying out loud!  B2* ***.  What are you, deaf?  Pay attention!  B2* ***!”

I had to hastily explain to my horrified boss that I hadn’t been talking to a client.

Wednesday 31

A big boss came over to my desk today, stood in front of me and looked at me oddly (you’d think I’d be used to it by now).  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I eventually asked, “Have I got marker pen all over my face again?”

“No,” he said, “I’ve just had your security results back.”

I think I actually stopped breathing for long seconds.  Had they discovered I’d once voted for the Monster Raving Looney Party?  Had Small Son’s disastrous credit rating come back to haunt me?  Would my addiction to whisky and nicotine and all things Daniel Craig be held against me? 

Had he come to escort me from the office to much booing and hissing of “Failure! Failure!”

“You’ve been cleared,” he said, “I can talk to you now.”

Oh, so that’s nice then.

Actually it’s quite good.  I’ve had to have a ‘top-level’ assessment the same as all the big bosses because of the confidential information I’m privy to.  Mine was the first to come back, so that must mean they were terribly impressed with my unblemished record and impeccable character.

I’m glad I didn’t make any drole comments about overthrowing governments now.

[I’ve been hankering after a couple of stone statues for the garden for months now.  I’ve trawled garden centres and stonemasons and ebay (