Hubby woke up this morning and his very first words were, “Let’s go to Ikea.”

I checked his temperature and heartbeat, but he seemed okay.  Apparently he wanted to get new blinds to go with our new (orange) wallpaper.  I’ve clearly stoked up his motivation a bit too much.

Ikea was berluddy packed, couldn’t even find a parking space in the car park it was that busy.  I immediately dived into a pit of misery when I saw the hoards pouring through the doors, but Hubby was full of enthusiasm.

His enthusiasm was only mildly hindered by the constant sound of some child or other screaming blue murder – you can’t think Ikea without hearing the joyous sound of toddlers throwing a strop.

We got to the blinds section, having picked up four cushions and a cork board along the way – I’m sure Ikea have subliminal messages in their tannoyed music, Buy cushions and You MUST have that, and than, and that, and …

We pithered over white blinds or – and Hubby got quite animated over this, I’m starting to worry – yellow blinds.  Bright yellow, as yellow as the paint in our toilet which has a line of sunglasses on the outside for unsuspecting visitors (who are often heard to scream, “Farkin’ hell, that’s yellow!”).

And scream is what they do!

As I had, by now, lost the will to live, I found myself nodding when he picked two up. I didn’t have the strength for another loud Yorkshire hissing fit.

We’re now the proud owners of orange wallpaper and bright yellow blinds.

Oh God.

[Couldn’t find a copy of my usual Sunday paper today – I won’t mention the name as AndrewM gets all snobby and literary on me.  Ended up with The Independent.  Inside the magazine was an article called “Confessions of a Gold Digger” which had this quote from a 32 year old single woman:

“Ideally I’d hope to meet someone who’s on a minimum of £150k to £200k who probably works in the financial sector or has their own business.  My dream is to live in a big house in the country.  I want children, and we’d have lots of dogs, tennis courts, a swimming pool and maybe a little gym.  And possibly a bijou flat in Chelsea too.  I have expensive tastes – my usual drink is champagne.  I like having my hair done in good salons and I love designer labels … I’d like to meet a man who felt relaxed about me spending my own money, but even better would be him buying things for me.  In return I’d offer love, commitment and partnership.”

Love?  You can’t buy love.  You can’t buy happiness.  Reading this article just made me want to scream with frustration.  How incredibly, unutterably shallow.  I could well understand why she’s still single and hasn’t yet met Mr Right.  God help her when she does.

Is it just me or is this woman – and many like her – missing out on something really rather nice and far more precious than designer clothes and champagne?

Don’t say it’s just me!]

Monday 2

I’m currently in the throes of stripping the bedroom … oh the joy, the joy.  I’ve become quite adept and thought I would share a few tips with you because I don’t think I should suffer the agony alone.

Wallpaper stripping – Gordon Ramsey style

1. Take a bucket of water, 1 sponge (or cloth), 1 binliner and I sharp wallpaper scraper.

Make sure scraper is sharp enough to cut through paper but not slice through fingers or take off half your face if you slip.

2. Prepare.

Empty room or, if you prefer, as I do, just shift things around so you’re always tripping over objects and swearing a lot.

3. Strip.

Pull off all the loose bits of wallpaper – this is hugely satisfying, like picking scabs off your knee when you were young … spend an inordinate amount of time doing this.

4. Score

No, not that score, the walls!   Scratch wallpaper with corner of sharp scraper, backwards and forwards, crisscrossing and doing some strange and exotic dance in front of the wall that all the neighbours will laugh at if they catch sight of you.  Music helps this process, something fast and energetic.  Sing along, just to increase the amusement of the neighbours.

5. Wipe.

Soak wall with sponge.  Remember not to start at the top of the wall with the freshly soaked sponge, as I do, to avoid cascades of water dribbling irritably down into your armpits.

6. Marinate.

Leave to soak, the longer the better.  Go off and make a cup of coffee (or alcoholic drink depending on the time of day, although there’s every chance you won’t be bothered to go back after a nip or two).  Or, as I do, check see if there’s any work come in to distract you (and hence give you the perfect excuse not to strip wallpaper any more).  Or, if you’re of the enthusiastic variety, utilise the time to score and soak another section of wall.

7. Repeat.

Wipe wall with wet sponge again, enough to make your clothes all wet and itchy.  And one more time, just for good luck.  If you find you start to throw the sponge or the bucket of water at the wall whilst laughing hysterically and twitching a lot, place an emergency call to your local decorator.

8. Scrape.

If the wallpaper doesn’t come off easily, like a knife through butter, soak again, and keep soaking.  If you get bored with the whole water dribbling down arms and wet clothes sticking to you process, drag the hosepipe in from the garden and just drench the entire room until the wallpaper flops off.

9. Clean.

Haul paper mache off floor into bin liner.  Or if, like me, you’re pretty bloody knackered by now, go all girly and get some man-type to do it for you, and vac while he’s at it – try to time it for when Hubby/partner gets home from work.

10. Stripping – done!

HANDY TIP

If you have anaglypta or woodchip wallpaper, save your sanity and just move house.  Or invest in a flamethrower and several extinguishers, and possibly a team of firemen on standby just in case it all gets out of hand – or have the firemen on standby anyway, just outside your house, or even sitting inside your house partaking of a cup of tea or two, whether you’re furnacing anaglypta or not.

I've met a real, live Brummie Blogs fan face to face!

God it was weird, he knew more about me than I did!

Tell you all about it later.

[HELLO TO IRELAND!]

Wednesday 4

Well, what happened was this.  The blokes we went to Gambia with came round late on Monday night.  They brought a friend with them.  The friend came through the door and just stared at me with a big smile.  “I read your site,” he said, planting a kiss on my cheek. 

My brain ran at about a million miles an hour trying to figure out if I’d written anything incriminating and decided that pretty much everything I've ever written is incriminating.  Anonymity is very freeing, and very scary to lose.

The friend said I had a brilliant sense of humour (I’m currently undergoing medical treatment to reduce the size of my cranium).  He asked me about ‘my neighbours from hell’ (who’ve been much better since the drugs bust) and which awful legal firm I’d worked for. 

It was odd having someone I’d never met know so much about me. 

Hopefully he didn’t leave thinking I was a huge disappointment – Hubby and I had spent the evening slobbing to the nth degree; I was wearing comfortable scruffs and Hubby had a hole in his sock. 

Vowed to never be seen without full makeup and designer clothes ever again for the sake of my public image.

Thursday 5

There’s something wrong with my laptop.  It keeps freezing and little messages keep popping up on screen saying my memory’s low (I just thought it was my age).

This is worrying since I do all my work on the laptop.  I simply cannot live (financially or emotionally) without my little machine.

I need it!!!!

The hard disk is 37GB.  When I looked, the free space on it was 5GB, which is odd since I don’t store many photos or hefty stuff on it.  I deleted all photos and anything remotely hefty.  Free space now 6GB.

Argh!

Couldn’t figure out what was wrong.  Hubby came home from work and found me fretting and sighing and ‘bugger’ing a lot.

“Let me take a look,” he said, all man-like.

“I’ve looked!” I snapped/frothed/eye-bulged, “I can’t find what’s taking up so much space!  It’s my work tool!  I need it to work properly!  It’s not working properly!  Argh!”

He gently prised the laptop from my white-knuckled fingers.

Hubby has about 89% more patience than I do.  He’s methodical, whereas I just tend to be fast.  He's diligent, whereas I expect problems to be answerable within minutes.  And have I mentioned that he's mind-bogglingly patient?  After a while of calmly clicking while I 'bugger'ed a bit more, he turned the screen towards me.

“There,” he declared, “That’s what’s taking up all your space.”

Audio files.  Digital dictations from my outsourcing companies.  Loads of them, some as big as half a gig each.  They were all there, every single one I’d done in the last three months.

“But I delete them all once I’ve typed them up,” said I, relieved and confused and by now holding a rather stiff whisky, “Why are they still there?”

After a bit more investigation we discovered that the transcribing software I use (Express Scribe – brilliant) actually has a setting on it that deletes all digital audio files after a certain number of days.  Except, if you don’t put in the number of days, it assumes you want to keep them all, so it diligently puts them in a special folder on the hard drive.

Deleted en masse.

Free space now 28GB and my beloved machine is working properly again.

Phew.

[Undying love and eternal gratitude to Hubby xxx]

Friday 6

I did a terrible thing today.  Really, I’m a horrible person who doesn’t deserve to have any friends.

Planned to meet some mates in the city for lunch, all sit together in Brindleyplace and have a damn good yak.  I haven’t seen them for weeks, we had so much to catch up with.

I got ready, making sure I didn’t look like some down and out who had turned into a complete slob whilst working at home (as opposed to the semi slob I was in the city).

When I was ready, I looked outside at the perpetual rain and the howling wind.  It was grey and dark, wet and horrible.  Water lashed against my windows (as it has done for weeks).

And I suddenly thought, ‘I don’t want to go.’  I didn’t want to get wet and cold or hang around for girlies who probably wouldn’t want to leave their offices anyway (fair weather friends?).

But mostly, I didn’t want to get on a bus and go into the city.

So I rang them all up and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to sit in Brindleyplace in the sunshine?”

Fortunately, they all agreed and another date was made.  But I felt bad afterwards.  I should make the effort.  I’m terrible at staying in touch (typing emails in between work is a bit of a busman’s holiday, and my mobile battery ran out about five weeks ago and I haven't bothered to charge it since I don't use it any more).

My sister has friends she’s known since schooldays.  She makes the effort to stay in touch, to phone, to visit.  She has loads that have lasted for years.  My sister would walk naked across the Antarctic to make sure she never loses a single friend.

Me, I can’t be bothered to get on a bus.

So, like I say, I’m a horrible person who will one day think ‘Where did all those fabulous friends go?’

One day it will just be me and the budgies … and that’s a frightening thought.

Saturday 7

Something miraculous happened today.  Something really strange and unusual.

I woke to the sound of silence.  No rain lashing against the window.  No howling of wind.  And ….

… the sun blazed in a bright blue sky.

Proper daylight hasn’t been seen since … oooh, about April 30?  We’ve spent weeks languishing in grey, wet weather.  Thousands of people the country over have been flooded.  It’s been more like winter than summer.  I’ve had my gas fire on in July!

But today, sunshine.  Yay!

What a difference a bit of good weather makes to the dampened soul.  When I went out into the garden in my dressing gown with a coffee this morning (I always feel distinctly continental and decadent doing this) all I could hear was the sound of lawnmowers and hedge trimmers echoing across the entire neighbourhood.

I surveyed my neglected garden, which has been left to its own devices for more than a month.  Far from things thriving and running amok (amok amok), everything’s halted in its tracks.  Hardly anything’s grown at all, the plants were just fighting to survive the appalling weather.

Fortunately, having bought two industrial sized tubs of slug pellets and turning my entire garden blue prior to the monsoon, all I found were dead ones.  Lots of them.  I mean absolutely bloody loads in varying stages of decay.

Slug pellets.  Use ‘em.  They work.

So did we join the hoards of hedge trimmers and lawn mowers and make like enthusiastic gardeners?

We did not.  Why go with the crowds.  Hubby had other ideas.  Strange ideas.

Like Ikea the weekend before, Hubby decided … he wanted to look at sofas.  I don’t know what’s the matter with him lately, anyone would think he was pregnant and nesting or something.  He’s gone all domestic on me.  Suddenly he had the urge to look at sofas.

I’m not a great shopper and I don’t go in much for the ‘house proud’ look, I just want everything to look vaguely tidy and, above all, comfortable.  My home is a shrine to sheer comfort.  The sofa we have may be getting on in years (at least 15 to be precise) but it’s still functional, if a little scruffy.  A bit like me, really.

But I was hauled off to DFS.  God, furniture is boring.  They all looked the same.  Pretty dire.  I usually shop using the wow! principle.  If something doesn’t jump out and me and make me feel I can’t live my life fully without it, I buy it.

Nothing jumped out at me.  They were all just deadly dull.  Not a patch on the sofa we already have.

Refusing to give in to my chronic lack of enthusiasm, Hubby dragged me into the shop next door.  Leather World or something.  It was very plush.  It had ornaments that cost more than my sons education combined, including university.

Found a sofa that didn’t make me roll my eyes.  Hubby was dead keen on it.  Why?  Because it had electronic recliners in it.  I’d never see him in the evenings, he’d be asleep in joyous comfort all the time.

“How much?” I asked the super-keen salesman.

“Three seater plus a two seater … £1,700,” he replied.  “Plus extra for the electronic recliners.”

It’s a testament to my age (seen it, done it, bombproof) that I remain composed and didn’t instantly snort, “How effing much?”  Maturity is a wunnerful thang.  Instead, I said, “Oh, that’s not too bad” (while my brain screamed ‘How effing much?’).  “I’m not sure it would fit, though,” I added, as Hubby rocked backwards and forwards on the electronic recliner.  “We’ll have to go home and measure.”  Translation = No chance in hell I’m paying that much for a couple of sofas, mate, get a grip and don't expect to see us ever again.

Made Hubby buy me an ice cream to boost my flagging energy (complete with a flake, syrup and those multicoloured bits, I can be such a child at times).  Then I was dragged kicking and screaming into World of Leather, where the salesmen are clearly overdosing on Red Bull – they were like chirpy Redcoats at a Butlins holiday camp.

We looked around, dodging the hyperactive salesmen.  My boredom level bottomed out and just sat in a dark puddle of apathy.  They were just sofas, they weren’t going to change my life in any way, they’d just leave a massive hole in my anorexic bank account.  Did we really need one?

“What about this one?” Hubby kept asking, getting more and more desperate. 

“It’s not as nice as the one at home,” I sighed miserably.

We left without buying one, without even picking one, and with no plans to get one in the foreseeable future.

Phew.

Sunday 8

Took budgies out into the garden in the sunshine today (in their cage, of course, I haven’t been driven to set them free just yet, although its been a pretty close call a couple of times).  I can’t bear to be parted from them.  If I don’t hear the constant sound of screeching in the background I think there’s something wrong or I’ve suddenly gone deaf.

They sat on the table whilst I gardened to within an inch of my life.  A cat sidled up to the cage trying to look nonchalant.  Brave cat, since Hubby usually launches himself out of the house upon sight of a feline on our property and they normally only cross our lawn doing about 90mph.  The budgies went all quiet.  Why, since they’ve never seen a cat before?

The cat had a bit of a sniff, a bit of a calculation (could he get them before the mad man came bursting out of the house?), then it sauntered off.  The budgies resumed their screeching.  I resisted the temptation to shove a Magpie in with them.

I love passion flowers (and they love the soil in my garden) – they always look like eyeballs popping open to watch you walk passed.  I once convinced hubby that one was about to open and he sat there for ages, staring at it, really ages.

Garden looks nice now.  

I’d just like to point out I was doing my Bette Davis walk at this point, I don’t normally look all bendy like this!  No idea what that enormous plant is on the left, it’s either a Triffid that's going to be banging on the back door asking for sandwiches soon or something from the Triassic period – the pond (aka buried bucket) is underneath.

Hope the weather lasts.

UPDATE: 5pm, the sun was beaten out of the sky by clouds as dark as coal.  It's currently bucketing down.  And thundering. Sigh.

Someone else who's joining my list of straight-talking, sarcastic and irreverent heroes after watching two complete series is Dylan Moran in Black Books.  I'm quarter Irish (which accounts for the cheekbones) so he appeals to me on a genetic level anyway, but combined with that drunken say-it-as-it-is humour makes him virtually irresistible.  If anyone comes across a pic of Dylan wearing nothing but a teacup do let me know (pst, don't tell Hubby).

Monday 9

Comparisons

Tuesday 10

People keep asking me, in hushed, horrified tones, what I think of the smoking ban.  Yes, I smoke - expensive habit but it is rather pleasurable.

What do I think of the ban?  Not a lot.  Has it changed my life/smoking habit in any way?  No.

“But you can’t smoke in pubs now!” people gasp.  Since the only place you could smoke in a pub in recent years is the dark, dingy corner that’s never decorated and is the furthest away from the bar, I can’t say I miss it.  And besides, pubs don’t want to lose that must custom from smoking clientele and provide seats with heaters outside, which is jolly nice of them.

“You can’t smoke in restaurants any more!”  I can’t actually remember the last time I smoked in a restaurant – even when you could smoke, I didn’t like to because people were eating … smokers aren’t totally without consideration. 

“You can’t smoke in your workplace!”  I’ve spent years trailing down stairs and lifts to get to the designated smoking area (usually uncovered, so us smokers are a pretty hardy bunch).  Most of my best friends (the ones I still have!) I met in the smoking area.  And it’s a good excuse to have a break from the computer/workload/incessant demands of bosses for a few minutes.  Some people complain that smokers shouldn’t be given time off to go for a fag, I complain about the length of time some women/secretaries spend in the toilet faffing with their hair and makeup or gossiping around the photocopier/coffee machine or drinking so much tea they have to pee every half an hour or leave for lunch early and return late.

I work at home (have I mentioned that?).  Does that mean I can’t smoke at home?  And, if I’m not supposed to, who is going to check up on that?  Am I going to have men in uniforms banging on my front door?  Will they be handsome?

“You can’t smoke in enclosed public spaces!”  Surrounding every enclosed public space is an outside public space, no problem, its no big deal.  Smokers have slowly been ostracised over the years, we expect to be treated like lepers now.

So, what do I think of the smoking ban, as a smoker?  It doesn’t bother me and I’m actually in favour of it.  Why should other people be bothered by my smoking habit?  I don’t want to irritate anyone, and if that means going outside then so be it.  I’m used to it.

Have I considered giving up?  Oh yes, every single day - its expensive, unhealthy and (nowadays) anti-social.  But I’ll do it tomorrow.  Tomorrow is another day.

Wednesday 11

I couldn’t put it off any longer.  I rang my local opticians and said, “I’m almost blind, I work on a laptop which is now perched on the end of my knee and I still can’t see it, I need an emergency appointment.”

“21 July is our next available slot,” they said.

I doubt I’d even be able to find my way there by then without the aid of a stick and a dog.

Rang Vision Express in Harborne.  “Help!” I cried.  “11am,” they said.

Now that’s what I call service!

It’s the first time I’ve been on a bus since I abandoned the rat race three months ago.  It felt strange going down that familiar route again.  I thought, ‘Thank God I don’t have to do this any more.’  I was just awash with relief.

Had air blasted into my eyeballs (which always makes me yelp).  As I waited to be tested, I watched a woman trying on glasses in the shop.  She put on a pair and then looked in the mirror whilst lifting her hair.  Now, I can understand if you’re buying a dress or even a necklace that you’d want to see how it would look with your hair up, but a pair of spectacles?  She turned to ask an assistant his opinion.  The assistant, young bloke, visibly flinched (he clearly needs Hubby’s Little Book of Men’s Answers).

Into the test room to have a bright light shone into my brain matter whilst the optometrist breathed heavily into my ear.  He said, “Why do you think your eyesight has changed?”

“Because I was talking to my husband the other night and realised I couldn’t see him, he was just a blur.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” he laughed.

“Oh definitely bad, my husband’s very handsome, I’d like to see him.”

New lenses were prescribed, stronger lenses, lenses that will probably look like the bottom of milk bottles.  I went to choose some frames.

“Which of these,” I couldn’t resist asking the young assistant, putting on a couple of pairs, “Makes me look less like a secretary?”

“Less like a secretary?” he flinched.

“Yes, which pair just makes me look intelligent?”  Well that threw him.  He got all flustered and picked up a pair that, quite honestly, made me look like a cross between a serial killer and a drag queen.  I chose those.

£200!  Flop! 

I dashed outside for a nerve calming cigarette (tsk).  Now that was weird.  With the smoking ban in full effect it seemed like every single person in Harborne glared at me reproachfully - 'What's that woman doing?  Oh!  She's smoking!'.  I dramatically I stubbed it out really well on a litter bin, Marcel Marceau would have been proud - ‘Look, I’m stubbing it out properly and putting it in this bin like a good citizen’.  I bought mints in case my breath offended anyone.  It’s the first time I’ve ever actually felt like a total leper on the streets.

Pub on the night to celebrate the impending return of my eyesight and to dampen the shock of forking out all that hard earned cash in order to get it.  As we sat outside the Green Man in Harborne (again), a woman approached, laden down with Tesco shopping bags.

“Mommy!” I cried, as she dumped all the bags on our table (outside, where we could smoke, in fact at that precise table there with the snazzy umbrella), “You’ve been shopping.  At Tescos.  Again.”  Therapy is definitely required.

Hubby bought her half a pint of bitter shandy which, because mom never drinks, went straight to her head.  She’s nice, my mom, and dead funny when she’s drunk!

Gave her and her Tesco shopping bags a lift home.

HELP! 

I work on a laptop.  I can’t work on the Mother Computer upstairs primarily because it’s not fine tuned for work purposes, specifically autocorrect.  If my laptop ever goes down I’m stuffed.  I’ve tried to figure out how I can transfer autotext from my laptop to Mother Computer, but its clearly beyond my capabilities (see brain cell death above).  Can anyone explain in words a three year old could understand how to do it?  I’m offering a Brummie Blogs fridge magnet in return (incentive!).

[I'd ask genius computer guru Middle Son to do it, but he (sniff) never comes home (sniff) any more (sniff)]

Thursday 12

Work.  Work.  More work.  Just oodles and poodles of work.  Have to collect spectacles, they called and said they’re ready, but no time, I can't stop typing, there's so much to do!

Hubby comes home.  I’m still working (a deadline project, I hate those last minute blinders that strike just as you’re clicking on the Close down and thank God for that button). 

Afterwards, mind racing, fingers still twitching (and partially blind from staring at the computer screen with weak spectacles for almost 10 straight hours) I dive into the bath and just veg.  I am but a carrot floating in the water (okay, more like a deformed potatoe languishing at the bottom of the tub … no, I still have my tan, I’m a carrot, definitely a carrot).

Spend rest of night watching the fabulous, brilliant House series, Part II (if you haven’t seen it yet, watch this).  Rivetting, except they’ve changed the introduction music so now I find I have to (have to) whistle along to it to make it sound like it used to. 

Have I mentioned my whistling?  I’m a whistler.  My nan use to breathe, “Oooh, you know what they say about women who whistle, don’t you?”  I didn’t.  I still don’t.  She never told me.  It’s haunted me all my life … I’m a woman and I whistle, what does that mean?

It’s all my dad’s fault.  My childhood was filled with the sound of my mother (screaming from the kitchen), “[Husband], will you please stop whistling!”  Used to drive her bonkers.  He’d whistle all the time, all the time.  So it’s only natural (and probably genetic) that I whistle too.  Constantly.  In the bath, in the garden, in the loo (good acoustics in the loo). 

With whistling I can reach those high notes that my crappy vocal chords can’t reach.  I can hold a note and make it wobble and do all kinds of interesting things with it.  I feel good when I whistle.

It’s my only musical talent. 

Friday 13

Argh! Friday the 13th!  Pah, I'm too busy to care.

Finally pick up my spectacles.  The young assistant measures me up and obsessively cleans the lenses – he brings them out and cleans them, he takes them off my face and cleans them, over and over again.  I go home and put the semi-worn glasses on.

And the world is transformed!

I kid you not, I can see things I wasn’t previously aware of.  Words on a computer screen have spaces in them! (how annoying is that!)  I can see the bristles on my husband’s face (previously a blur of greyness).

I can read without holding everything at arms length!  I can see the small print on everything, sell by dates, the bottom line of Brummie Blogs fridge magnets (have you entered the comp for one yet? See below).

It’s great. 

I CAN SEE!!!

I'm now going round the house all the time saying, "Oh look, I can read it.  Oh look, I can see what that is now.  Oh look, budgie feathers ... coffee granules ... wallpaper texture (not sure I like it now)."

So far Hubby has managed not to throttle me to shut me up ... but I suspect its only a matter of time until he cracks (oh look, argh! Wrinkles!).

Saturday 14

MY FRIDGE DOOR - Spot the difference (click for bigger)

 
Before (boring)                                                      After (bit spooky, actually)

And one of these spooky fridge magnets can be yours to keep forever!  See below.

[You'll notice my fridge magnets are not 'straight'.  Visitors keep straightening them up and putting them in neat lines, which annoys me intensely.  The big Australian ad is ripped from a newspaper because I thought it was funny - makes us say 'So where the berluddy 'ell are ya?' in a really bad Ozzie accent every time we go near it.]

Sunday 15

Hubby had yet another attack of domesticity today.  Very worrying.  First it was Ikea.  Then sofa hunting.  Today, he painted the bedroom ceiling and then declared, “Right, we’re going to B&Q for one of those fan lights."

Oh, okay, don't know where that came from but okay!

There’s a sort of fever that hits you when you enter B&Q.  It offers all kinds of comforts and lovely things to transform your home into a veritable palace of gorgeousness.  You want everything.  Hubby drools over the power tools, I gaze wide eyed at the kitchen units and light fittings.  Then we come together to see what each of us can’t resist.

Hubby got his fanlight.  I got a cooker hood – yeah, exciting, eh?

Except the cooker hood didn't fit.  The instructions say some models come with two outlets and ours only has one, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s the wrong one.

So we took it back to B&Q, where the manager blatantly lied through his back teeth telling us that all cooker hoods only come with one outlet while I bit my tongue and tried not to call him an idiot.  They gave us a refund.  We dashed into Homebase, but they don’t keep cooker hoods in stock. 

“We can order one for you,” said the enthusiastic assistant who obviously hadn’t seen a customer in her kitchen  department for a very long time. 

“How long will that take?” I asked. 

“28 days,” she said. 

“I have a hole in my kitchen wall,” I told her, “I need one today.”

I have never seen such deep disappointment on a woman’s face before.

Dashed into Comet.  “They won’t do cooker hoods here,” I scoffed.

They did.  £20 cheaper than B&Q too, so Hubby, in a mad (and uncharacteristic) fit of impulse buying, grabbed a sandwich maker on his way to the check out – he didn’t choose it, he just grabbed it randomly.

I’m wondering if maybe he’s pregnant.  Or 'going through the change' (no, you're not irritable, you're just irritating, darling).

Monday 16

Rang Hubby up at work this morning.  “As you’re not at home,” I said, “I’m assuming it’s not the weekend, but could you just tell me what day it is?”

Honestly, it’s weird, not knowing what day it is any more.  There’s no distinction between them.  No highs (Friday!), no lows (Monday!), just a consistent level of happiness and contentment.

How much do you hate me?

Had to ring Hubby again this afternoon (no, I don’t do it just to check if my vocal chords are still working).  A stranger answered his mobile.

“Is Hubby there?” I asked, thinking he’d left his phone on his desk and wandered off or something.

There was a long, ominous pause.  As Hubby works in a steel factory with lots of nasty, heavy metal everywhere, visions of ambulances are never far from my consciousness.

A male voice said, “It’s come up on my phone as ‘Home’.”

“Well yes it would do,” I said, rolling my eyes, “Since this is home calling.  Who is this, and what have you done with my husband, tall bloke, good looking, big gob on him?”

“He’s not here any more,” said the man, and I could actually hear the ambulance siren wailing as I prepared to grab paper and pen to take down the name of the hospital, “He’s moved on.”

“Moved on?”  To where?  Another room?  Another plane of existence? 

“He’s gone to another company.”

The sound of the penny dropping was loud and reverberating.  I’d rung Hubby’s old number, which meant I was talking to the man who was trying to replace him (and, by all accounts, doing a very bad job of it, which is deeply satisfying).

“Oh don’t worry,” I said, trying not to sound like a complete dipstick, “This is his [dippy] wife, I’ve [dippily] rang his old number [because I’m a dipstick], I’ll try his other number [if I can manage it].”

Tuesday 17

Middle Son rang me this afternoon (my whole existence revolves around telephones these days, I answer therefore I exist).  “Are you at work?” I asked him casually.

“No,” he said, “I’m at home.”

I can’t help this.  When you become a mother Nature gives you all these extra endorphins and huge dollops of adrenaline to use for your children in emergency situations.  I clearly have loads left over.

“WHY ARE YOU AT HOME?” I screeched, endorphins kicking in big time, “ARE YOU ILL? WHAT’S WRONG? TELL ME!”

“I’ve just passed my driving test,” he said.

I heaped praise upon him whilst my mass of endorphins tutted miserably and shuffled back into their Hysterical Mommy cave (where they picked up their Idiots Guide to Hysteria for Endorphins books and watched Jerry Springer on tv … I must get out more).

  Well done.

DON'T DO THIS (Small Son on Bristol Road))

Of course, being a mommy with aspirations to be a Jewish mamma, I twittered on about immediately buying a car and coming down to see his poor lonely mother occasionally.  I don’t have any control over this so, Middle Son, if this gets on your nerves let me know and I’ll send you a book called ‘Coping With Jewish Momma Syndrome’ which might help.

He also sent me some photo’s from Glastonbury (where he looks decidedly muddy and very fuzzy faced – mother syndrome again). 

Two Irish flag bearers feel their football team is worth obscuring the view of 5000 Killers fans ... Middle Son © 2007

And this one is just crying out for a caption … any ideas? (there's a tin of SPAM in there).  Guess what, the best one in the comments box gets ... yes, a Brummie Blogs fridge magnet!

Wednesday 18

Last year I pinched a seed pod from a flower display in an office.  This year, I planted the seeds from the pod.  They grew.  And very nice they were too.

I was reading the Sunday paper on Sunday (as you do – again, no mention of title in case AndrewM rolls his eyes in literary disgust).  I read an article about the UK growing opium in fields for the NHS.  Interesting.  Even more interesting, the article had a colour photo of the opium fields.

I blinked and stared and rearranged my (fabulous) spectacles.  Then I went outside.  Into my garden.  Where the exact same poppies as shown in the colour picture were growing.  From the pod I’d nicked from work.

What do you think?  Opium poppies?!

On t'right - they are, aren't they! 
Any handsome policemen in full uniform, get in touch.

THE GREAT BRUMMIE BLOGS GIVEAWAY

Okay, gather round now, Brummie Blogs is giving away freebies.  FREE STUFF.  Fridge magnets!  Not just one but ten of them!

Shown larger than actual size

Adorn your dowdy fridge and bring it to joyous life with a Brummie Blogs exclusive fridge magnet.  They’re all the rage!  Everyone wants one.  Get one now before they’re all gone.  Just leave a comment below and this much sought after item could be yours, all yours. 

There’s a catch (of course there is).  For survey purposes, tell me what it is you like about Brummie Blogs and (more importantly) if you think it’s changed since I’ve given up the stresses and strains of city life, for better or worse.

The 10 best answers will be announced next Friday, 20 July and the winners will receive this splendid Brummie Blogs fridge magnet to keep forever.

What are you waiting for?  Vent your spleeeeeeeeeen! 

Thursday 19

Today I lived the dream, my dream of ‘working from home’.  There was a gap in the slashing monsoon weather that epitomises our summer and the sun came out so, with laptop under one arm and footpedals in the other, I dashed outside to type in the garden with the birds twittering and sun shining and all that.  It takes me longer to do things outside because I look around and sigh a lot.

I was one line away from completing a big report when the computer crashed on me, corrupting the whole file (and I suspect the template too).  Every time I tried to open it to put in this one line, it froze.  Determined not to type the whole thing out again from scratch, I sent it to the outsourcing supervisor with an email that started “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”  She put the last line in for me.

Small Son’s birthday today.  Scary to think that I had three children by the time I was his age.  10 minutes ago I was taking them to the park to play on the swings, now I’m taking their children to the park.

Where does the time go?

Friday 20

Got up this morning and felt a bit ill.  Not having worked in an office for three months (and therefore not being exposed to the billions of bugs that descend from the air conditioning systems), I haven’t been ill in all that time. 

So why now?  I don’t see anyone!  I’m not exposed to anything, germs or people.  I suspect Hubby’s brought it home for me as a present (I’d have much prefer flowers or chocolates to be honest).

Anyway, not exactly a dream moment, but I got up this morning feeling all grotty and crap.  Outside was grey and windy and absolutely pelting down with rain.  And I thought, I don’t have to go out there, fighting with umbrellas or standing damp and miserable at bus stops for a bus that’s late.  Instead, I shuffled, sniffing and sneezing, into the study, turned on my computer, and started work wearing my big dressing gown and wrapped in a duvet.  Duvet Day!

This is the life.  No struggling to work in appalling weather even when you feel ill because it’ll look bad if you don’t turn up on a Friday (everybody whispering, “Sick my bottom, she’s skiving.”).

So, ill and with rain pelting against the study windows, I started work without any effort whatsoever.

Saturday 21

Ugh!  Everything aches.  Everything hurts.  Barely moved today.  Hubby actually went out on the night without me to a pre-planned event.  I went to bed early.

I hate hate hate being ill, it’s just so boooooooooooooring.

Sunday 22

Still sick.  Will waffle instead, huddled up on the sofa in my thick dressing gown with my trusty laptop, as the wind and the rain run amok outside the window.

I’ve listened to lots of dictations over the last few weeks.  I’ve struggled through fuzzy audio and audio that sounds as if everyone’s talking into pillows, foreign accents I could barely understand and people who talk so fast I’ve had to slow them down as much as my software will allow.  I’ve strained to hear through children shrieking in the background and the sound of traffic and aeroplanes obliterating everything.

All these voices in my head!

I love accents and the way people talk.  I’m in awe of those people who speak in perfect sentences without any hesitation, without any ers or ahs or spluttering silences.  Enviably articulate.  Some people’s enunciation is like listening to classical music.

Then there’s those who can’t string a sentence together, whose thought processes must resemble spaghetti.  They’ll start saying one thing, then get sidetracked and begin saying something else.  My transcripts have to be accurate but clear, so my backspace pedal is well worn.  I’m often heard to cry out loud, “You’ve just said that!  Why are you repeating yourself and making me type it out again!”  Or, “God, you’re boring.”  Or, “Just get to the point, will you!”

Some people just talk, endlessly, pointlessly, clearly liking the sound of their own voice even though its like listening to a slug wearing chains being dragged through treacle.

Last week I actually cried over one audio file I was typing up.  A family member was ill and they were interviewing the carer.  I’d done a similar one the day before which was all doom and gloom, but this one was different.  This woman was so incredibly upbeat and clearly adored the sick family member.  There were no support groups in her area, so she started one.  There were no activity centres, so she started one.  Bureaucracy tried to ignore her, but she was like a tour de force.  Just a really incredible woman.  Who made me cry.

It could be said that I’m missing out on the real world because I work at home.

That’s not true.  The real world comes to me, and I type it up.

 AND THE WINNERS ARE …

Okay, gather round while I call out the register.  Can the following people please email me their addresses … you’re soon to be the proud owners of a Brummie Blogs fridge magnet!  [Round of applause].

AndrewM – give a wave to the adoring crowds as you come up to collect not one but two fridge magnets for ‘entering’ the original comp and taking part in the picture caption. 

Marmoset – take a modest bow as you also accept two magnets, you lucky thang you.

Brett, from Ozzieland – selling the budgies to pay for the postage to you, mate.

MS – Okay, you get one too, its there, on the fridge, just take it. J

I’m an idiot.  There’s no getting away from this.  Sometimes I have mad surges of competence and intelligence and borderline normality when I’m working or communicating with other people (which admittedly doesn’t happen much these days).  But mostly I’m just an idiot.

Can Lynne and Ruggedtoast – who are obviously sitting there sobbing uncontrollably about their missing and fabulous Brummie Blogs fridge magnets - email me your addresses so I can send you one (thanks for your help with the autocomments, which I still haven’t worked up the courage to do yet and will bitterly regret when the laptop, please God no, blows its CPU function from gross overuse).

Also, AndrewM – if you’ve wondering why, when you look at your dull fridge door, there seems to be something missing, something intrinsically important that you can’t quite put your finger on, it’s because you haven’t sent me your address yet, mate.

Try to control your excitement when I tell you there will be Yet Another Competition next month, for which the prize (wait for it) will be (brace yerselves) a HMV gift voucher for a whole £10!!!! FAN-TAS-TIC!  In fact, no, I'm throwing caution to the wind, it'll be for the huge sum of £12.99 so that you can buy an entire sublime series of House MD - everybody should watch this and marvel at Hugh Laurie (the surprise sex symbol of the year ... he can feel my body parts any time!)

Monday 23

Our washer/dryer is on the blink (again!) so (again!) I ring the extended warranty people and (again!) I go through exactly the same process as before.  “Please press 1, please press 3, please press … “ yadda yadda yadda

 “Please state the date on which your appliance was purchased,” said a woman’s automated voice.

“28^th August 2006,” I said very clearly and very loudly because she couldn't understand me last time.

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

Oh God.

I tried three times until the woman (sounding a bit exasperated to be honest) said, “I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you are saying.”  No, because you’re a bloody stupid machine, that’s why!

More questions.  Got to the postcode bit and I could already feel my life force just draining away and oozing across the study floor like a mudslide. 

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

“B2* ***,” I said.

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

No it bloody isn’t!  I was about to yell out my postcode again, when there was an electronic kind of noise and an automated voice said, “Sorry, we’re experiencing a technical problem, you have been disconnected.”

What?  Berluddy WHAT?

So I had to ring the number again, and go through the ‘press 1’ and ‘press 3’ process all over again, and the date thing again (which the silly cow still didn’t understand).  Didn’t get to the postcode bit this time because I was disconnected AGAIN! (can you sense the angst, the fury, the receiver banging frustration).

With gritted teeth, I rang the number again and, joy of joys, I got a human bean.

“What make is your washer dryer?” a real woman asked.

“Hoover,” I said.

“We don’t cover Hoover appliances,” she said.

“You did when I took out the extended warranty which I’m paying for every month,” I said, “And you did last time I rang.”

“We don’t cover Hoover appliances any more,” she said.

There was a long pause.  “So,” I ventured, “What do I do?”

“You’ll have to ring Hoover direct,” she said.

Another long pause.  I swear I could hear the rasping of her nail file.

“Do you have a number?” I asked casually.

She did.  I rang it.

“What’s the matter with your washer dryer?” yet another woman asked.

Honestly, empires have been built in less time.

“It’s having a personality crisis,” I said.  “When I put in on a drying programme, it starts to wash.”

“What happens when you put it on a wash programme?" she asked.

“It just sits there, doing nothing, trying to figure out if it’s a washing machine or maybe a toaster.”

“We’ll send someone out,” she said.

Oh good.

Tuesday 24

They sent someone out.  He was due this morning.  Hubby seemed particularly excited about this for some reason as he’d met our friendly neighbourhood repair man once before.  “Mr Happy,” he kept saying, “You’ll never meet anyone more miserable in your life.”

The repair man cometh.  I opened the door and there was this bloke, an absolute vision of complete and abject apathy.  He was indeed like a black hole of misery.  “Come in,” I beamed.  He entered with reluctant effort.

He stomped through the living room, where the budgies were having their early morning exercise.  “You don’t mind birds, do you?” I chirped, as they flew over our heads like little helicopters.

No answer.  No response.  No acknowledgement that there were three budgies flying around the room (one the size of a chicken) and one yellow one leaping kamikazi-like off the dining room table.

“Would you like tea or coffee before you start?” I asked brightly when we got to the kitchen.

Again, no reaction of any kind.  “What’s wrong with it?” he huffed, pointing vaguely at the washer dryer as he opened up his big box of tools and deftly avoided any eyeball contact.

I told him. As I told him, I stared at the man’s oh-my-god-I-really-can’t-be-bothered face and remembered all Hubby’s warnings.  I had to concentrate to not laugh out loud.  Honestly, a corpse has more life and joy than he did.

Hubby had unplugged the machine because he said the repair man specifically asked him to unplug it last time and wouldn’t touch it until it had been unplugged.  So it was unplugged.  And the Happy Chappy said, “Can you plug it in?”

Well, no, actually, I couldn’t because Hubby had moved other appliances (notably the cooker) in order to extract the plug and cable.  So we both stood there, in the kitchen, with a dangling plug that wouldn’t stretch to the socket.

“Extension cable?” he managed to find the energy to ask.

I went to the living room cupboard and had to stay there for a while until a giggling fit had passed.  It was like dealing with a very large toddler who’d just been told he couldn’t have any ice cream for a week.

The giggling fit continued as the repair man sighed heavily with every other breath as he pulled out the machine and started taking it to pieces.  I escaped to the living room before I started asking him what was wrong, had his wife just left him, had his dog died, did he enjoy his job or was he just surly with the people he was forced not to speak to.

I sat on the sofa.  Without a word of explanation, he stomped passed me and out the front door.  I peered through the window.  Had he done a runner?  Was he coming back?  Had he fixed my washer dryer but couldn’t be bothered to tell me?  Had he decided that now was the exact moment he realised he couldn't stand it any more, before he'd fixed my machine?

He came back, stomping silently through the living room and into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with it?” I dared ask.

“Corroded,” he sighed.  “I’ve cleaned it off.  Don’t have a replacement part.  Will bring one next time.”

Oooh, a whole sentence.  Not that he looked at me or anything.  “Next time?” I asked, “Is Hoover not a good make any more then?”

“Yes,” he said.  He didn’t elaborate. 

He made me sign an electric machine and then he was gone.  “Bye,” I called after him from the doorway.

He didn’t respond.

Wednesday 25

Oh my God, when is it going to stop raining!  It’s been so grey and dark and depressing the budgies go to sleep en masse in the middle of the day thinking the sun’s gone down.  Plants in my garden aren’t growing at all (apart from the bloody enormous thistles from the ‘wild flower selection’, which are so not being allowed in my garden ever again), and my hanging baskets have all gone thin and lanky from not getting enough real daylight.

I was supposed to work joyously and enviably in the garden this summer – the summer of my vast contentment – but I’m just grateful I haven’t been flooded (actually, Birmingham is on a plateau, if we get flooded the rest of the country, including London, is under water … and Birmingham will become the country’s capital which, being central to everywhere and an infinity much nicer city, is its rightful destiny - yeah, bring it on).

It’s very depressing. 

And rather alarming.

Thursday 26

Work is still going fabulously, even though plans to spend summer working in the garden have been cruelly and rather damply scuppered.  I’m slipping into a rather nice routine – proper working environment (in the study, away from the damn budgies), proper break times (avoiding the homeworker’s temptation to keep on working), and enough experience and familiarity to just whiz through dictations.

The ‘deal’ with the franchise of shops offering my typing service never panned out - after some initial enthusiasm, they never got back to me and I, with more than enough work to get on with, never chased it.  But that’s okay, I have enough.

In fact, I have more than enough.  Today, something rather amazing happened.  Something quite brilliant.  Something that made me ring hubby at work to say, “I’ve done it!”

I've proved the theory. I've justified myself.

Today, on only the 26^th day of the month, only my third month away from the rat race, I have ‘hit the mark’.  I have reached my target.

I’ve not only equalled my city centre salary, but I will inevitably surpass it!

Way to go, me!

Do you know what the best part is?  Apart from the fact that I don’t have to catch buses or traipse through appalling weather to reach boring offices or tolerate corporate crap any more?  Apart from the fact that my bills are covered, that I’ve proved working at home does work, that I actually love my job?

It’s that, having achieved my target, I can now reinstate my direct debits to the three charities I’ve always supported – Greenpeace, Childline and Cancer Research.

And that’s a nice feeling.  Good to give something back.

Friday 27

I lied, I do get that Friday feeling.  I’ve done a satisfying amount of work for the week and can put my fingers on hold for a couple of days (for which the fingers are really really grateful).  Hubby comes home all excited because he’s finished his hard graft (and has been t’pub with a mate, who told him that his old work place is soooooo going down the drain, which is nice to know … the twats!).

Friday night is also bath night.  It’s obligatory.  Its Friday, therefore I bathe.  Well, I say bath night, I usually can’t wait much past 5 o’clock to jump in that blissful hot water with my crinkly book and my new spectacles.  Hubs comes home finds me all wrinkled and water logged, clinging onto the side of the bath screaming, “I’m not getting out!  You can’t make me get out!”  He wanders in with my Friday Night Drinkypoos and we yak.

And yak and yak and watch utter crap on tv and yak and get a bit drunk and watch more crap.

And yak.

I love Fridays.

Saturday 28

God we’re pathetic, we really are.  We have no children, there’s nothing to stop us, and we’re always saying, “Oh let’s go out on Saturday, we haven’t been out in aaaaaaaaaaaaaaages.” 

And then Saturday comes round after we’ve spent the afternoon lolling idly on the sofa reading the papers (Hubs falling asleep in front of the History Channel, Tony Robinson has that effect on him), and we’re all comfortable and cosy and really can’t be bothered to stir ourselves from our self induced comas. 

But tonight, we’re making the effort.  We Are Most Definitely Going Out.

I quite fancied gnocchi (oooh yum yums), so I hunted down an Italian restaurant in the Mailbox.  “We’re going there!” I declared.

Two hours later, as I was putting on my makeup, it started to rain, and it got quite dark, and it was a bit miserable.  To get to the Mailbox we’d have to catch a bus and walk a bit.  In the rain.  Not fun.  [Yes, we could take a taxi, but there’s something rather fabulous about getting dressed up and then Catching The Bus into town].

Makeup on, it started.  The usual conversation that we always have.

“Do you really want to go out?” I asked hubby tentatively.

“Yes, if you do.”

“I can’t decide.  Shall we?  Do you really want to?”

“Whatever you want.”

“It’s raining,” I said.  “I’m not sure I fancy going into town now.  But I don’t fancy pub grub.  I’d like a nice restaurant.”

“Which one?”

“Oh I don’t know.  I can’t decide.  You decide.”

“Wherever you want to go,” he said, rather unhelpfully.

In the end we did go out.  We headed towards the Lickey Hills and the pub by the island (can’t remember what its called!),  where mommybeans said she’d had quite a few nice meals.  We pulled up in the car park and I was alarmed at the number of people standing outside the place in the rain.  Fire alarm, I wondered.  Bomb scare? (out here in the sticks?)  No, it was the smokers, outside having a fag, hoards of them.  I didn’t realize that many people smoked any more, we’re a tenacious bunch, us faggies.

Nice pub, good atmosphere.  On the downside, they allowed children on the premises [sharp intake of horrified breath].  We’ve reached that stage in our lives where, having done the Small People thang for a couple of decades, we don’t want to be assailed by Other People’s Small People.  They were everywhere, screaming at tables and generally behaving like hyperactive, over-excited children.  We’d have gone somewhere else, except we were starving and it was raining and I wanted to check the place out anyway.

Despite the fact that it was packed to the rafters, I spotted an empty table in a corner and lunged at it, deftly overtaking an old lady by taking Really Long Steps whilst looking innocently nonchalant.  Hubs brought the drinks over (as the old lady glared and sloped off – it’s a jungle out there, lady).  Next to us, a young couple were clearly on their first date – the bloke bought her an Irish Coffee in order to impress (that phase doesn’t last long, in a year or two he’ll be complaining about buying her a pudding, if indeed he’s still Taking Her Out at all – oooh the cynicism).

A mother wandered by with half a dozen screaming, hyperactive, wildly excited children.  The young couple’s eyes widened as the screaming group surveyed the space on our table.  I sensed Hubby holding his breath as I spread out our belongings in a space taking way.  We all exhaled when the screaming group – obviously sensing the seething animosity aimed directly at them – wandered off again.

Good food, smiling staff, fast service.  And the food was nice too.

Afterwards, we joined the hoards outside in the rain for a faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag.

We were back by 9pm.  Like I say, pathetic.

We just like being at home.

Sunday 29

Okay, Saturday is a slob-fest, a slump at the end of the week.  You’re allowed to vegetate after all that work.  Doing nothing is justified on a Saturday.  Its battery charge time.  A well deserved rest period.

Sunday is different.  Sunday you actually have to Do Things.  Like decorate the bedroom.

Sigh.

I hate decorating, I really do.  All that mess and disruption makes my aura go all jagged and wobbly, and makes me talk in a really high pitched oh-god-do-we-have-to type voice. 

The walls were stripped, now it was Gloss Time.  Only, because me and Hubs can’t work in the same room without bickering (Hubs taking on a managerial role of ‘you don’t do it like that, darling’ and me taking on the indignant ‘I have done this before you know, darling’ role), we split the jobs.  I strip, he prepares the walls.  I paint, he wallpapers.  And never the twain shall meet.

So there I was, on a Sunday afternoon, totally alone in the bedroom with a brush and a tin of paint.  Muttering obscenities.  Lots of obscenities.  Because we couldn’t move the huge bed and the huge wardrobes and the huge sofa that we’re storing until Small Son gets a place of his own (hopefully this century), I kept tripping over everything.  And dripping paint all over the carpet.  And just getting really irate with the whole thing because I so wasn’t in the mood.

Then I realized we hadn’t bought One Coat paint, in fact it looks like see-through paint, so I’d have to do it all over again tomorrow.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

The paint I was using was obviously that stuff that never dries, so we couldn’t unfurl the carpet back by the time we went to bed.  We couldn’t put the bed back in the rightful place.  And Hubby had taken the door off to sand it down.

So we slept in the middle of the room with a big, dark, scary gap where the door used to be.

Did I sleep well?  Not a bloody wink.  I'd drift off into semi-conscious state and then be Wide Awake, eyes bulging, heart pounding.  Strange position, bed pressed up against the wrong wall right next to the (open) windows (I like to breathe).  And somebody, somewhere, had a dog that likes to bark, constantly, all night long.  Someone kept slamming car doors and front doors and generally moving about outside.  I thought we were being burgled several times, which increased the adrenaline surge until I was pulsating on the mattress.  With no bedroom door, the whole world sounds Really Loud and Alarming.

I hate decorating.

Monday 30

I am a zombie, having accumulated a total of 7.5 minutes of sleep all night.  Got up early and finished off the Second Coat (bleary eyed and just splashing it onto the skirting boards in wild abandonment), so we can at least sleep in the right place tonight.

As if dark circled eyes and a blancmanged brain isn’t bad enough, discover the washing machine is having an identify crisis again – is it a washing machine?  Is it a dryer?  No, it’s a Non Functional Appliance.  Damn, bugger and poooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Rang Hoover.  Again.  Might put them on fast dial.  “What’s the matter with it?” they asked.

“Same thing as last week.”

“Didn’t you have a repairman look at it last week?” they asked.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he fix it?”

Yes he did, I’m just making this up for the hell of it, got nothing better to do than call you and ask for the Happy Chappy to come again.  On Wednesday.  Joy.

Until then I’m subjecting the machine to some intense therapy, along the lines of ‘You’re a washing machine.  A washing machine.  Now pull your circuits together and get tumbling.”

So far, no joy.

But at least the paint dried, so that’s something.

Tuesday 31

Oh my God!  Oh my God oh my God oh my God!

SUNSHINE!  Blue skies!  Heat!  Is it real or am I dreaming?

I treat the weather tentatively, like a balloon that might burst at any second.  It’ll be raining by 9 o’clock, I told myself.  It didn’t.  I stared at the study windows, daring to hope, planning my escape to the great outdoors.

10.30am, I’m outside, in the garden, working on my laptop.  Except the garden chairs are a bit uncomfortable so, risking life and limb, I carry the huge Ikea chair from the study down the stairs (visualizing my broken body lying limp at the bottom and not being found until Hubs comes home).

Picture this.  After weeks and weeks and weeks of grey monsoon misery, summer has finally arrived.  I’ve survived the trip down the stairs with my Ikea chair, and I’m in the garden, in the sunshine, breathing fresh air, listening to birdsong and the sound of plants growing.   Okay, I’m getting a bit of sunstroke, so I put on my hat.  So now I’m sitting there, in the middle of the ‘patio’ area in an Ikea chair, laptopped, footpedalled, earplugged, wearing a floppy hat and reactolite spectacles, typing away, flicking away flies and wasps, scratching insects off my legs, working.

S'great.

And then the phone rings, Middle Son, to tell me how bored he is in an almost empty office.  So I chat on the phone wearing my hat and dark glasses, flicking and scratching, in the garden, with my laptop, earning money.

It’s my dream come true.  Especially when Hubs comes home from work and walks into the garden towards me carrying a End of Day celebration drink (I love the sound of ice clinking in a glass).  Like something all fluffy and fuzzy at the end of a movie.

Bliss.

DONATIONS?

We’re going back to Africa in November (yay!).  If you want to donate anything for our neighbour’s Gambian charity, let me know, its a simple process.  Throw some packs of paracetomol in the post, or aspirin, or plasters, or any First Aid medication, anything at all, one pack or ten, it all helps.  If you work in an office, do you have any obsolete paper or pens or computer equipment you don’t need?  If you work in a hospital do you have any equipment or medication you could donate?  They literally have nothing over there and are desperate for anything.  Get in touch.

PLUS two insane brave mates are driving from Birmingham to Banjul in Gambia on 31 October to raise funds for the charity.  A blow by blow account will be here on Brummie Blogs as they drive 4,000 miles through Spain, Morocco, Mauritania and The Sahara Desert (the utter nutters).  Wanna sponsor them?  It's dead easy, nag your friends/family/work colleagues to cough up some dosh, then when they complete their impressive journey and arrive in Banjul all tanned and sweaty and probably a bit smelly too, you just pay the money in the charity account from your own bank, couldn't be simpler.  Details here. Sponsor form here. Further details to follow.

So technology-challenged moi has come up with an idea that I might actually be able to cope with - EMAILS!  Send me an email with the heading TELL ME WHEN YOU'VE UPDATED and every time I update the blog I'll email y'all with a lil link.  Waddaya think?

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DISCLAIMER: This is a personal weblog.  The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer(s), work colleagues or family.  My experiences are written purely from my point of view and are intended to be a humorous depiction of my somewhat chaotic life.  No malice is intended in any way, it's not in my nature. The names of real people and companies have not been used (for which I'm sure they're eternally grateful).

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