Thursday 1

March?  Already?  How did that happen?

On Tuesday I went to Boots the Chemist with my prescriptions for malaria tablets, and waited in an enormous DropOff queue whilst, next to the enormous queue, was a shorter, faster moving queue leading to the PickUp counter.  So dropped my prescriptions off and went back today to pick them, planning to maybe do a bit of holiday shopping afterwards or something.

I actually smiled rather smugly as I bypassed the massive DropOff queue and stood behind a lone woman in the PickUp queue.

Would you berluddy believe it, three assistants came from behind the counter and began dealing with the DropOff queue, which vanished in minutes, whilst I stood behind a woman who had clearly ordered something that either came in a large box that wouldn’t fit through the door or was rarer than dodo poo.  Ages I stood there, tapping my foot, huffing, puffing, reading the medical posters over and over again until I began to feel quite ill.  Finally, the woman got what she came for and toddled off.  I moved forward.  5 people stood behind the counter, and not one of them looked at me, their only customer.

I coughed.  Nothing.  I coughed again, louder this time.  Still nothing.  I coughed like they do on stage in the theatre when they want the people in the back rows to hear, and finally a girl lifted her head and said, “Are you being served?”

Before I could even answer, she’d turned away again!  A bloke walked passed.  “EXCUSE ME!” I said, finally attracting the attention of all 5 people, which was nice.  “I’ve come for my prescription.”

I told him our names, what they were, and when I’d brought them in.  He disappeared round the back.  A few minutes later I saw him walking across the bottom of the pharmacy looking a bit confused.  He spoke to a woman, who took on the confused expression and looked at me, and then they both disappeared round the back again.  Eons later, the woman came up to me.

“When did you bring your prescriptions in?” she asked, and I felt my whole body go limp.

“Tuesday,” I sighed.

“Malaria tablets?” she said, saying it like someone would say ‘Piles!’ or “Venereal disease!’ (or ‘garlic bread!’).

“Yes,” said I.

“What kind of prescription was it?” she asked, still adopting that stunned, high pitched tone.

“Just a normal prescription,” I shrugged, “A green one.”

“A green one!” she gasped, and I did wonder if there was someone under the desk in front of her, such was the surprise on her face.  “No,” she added, gaspily, “You need a private prescription to get malaria tablets, because they’re so expensive.”

“I got them from my doctor.”

“No,” she huffed, “A doctor wouldn’t give you a prescription for malaria tablets.”

“Well he did.”  As recommended by all the foreign travel literature and websites I’d read on the subject and the nurse when I’d had my vaccinations: ‘See your GP for malaria tablets.’

The pharmacy woman frowned whilst, at the same time, raising an eyebrow, which I thought was quite impressive.  She disappeared round the back again.  Half a lunchbreak later, she returned with paper bags.

“You must have a very good doctor,” she said pointedly, handing me my super-expensive malaria tablets like she was handing me tablets of gold.

“I have,” I said, “As do all my friends and work colleagues, who all go to their doctor for malaria tablets too!”

And I stormed off before I slapped her.

Dopey cow.

Friday 2

Emailed the bloke in charge of stationery in our office this morning.  “Could you please send down a strong man with a trolley full of paper for our much-used printer, as we keep running out and need a stock.” 

A short while later, the teenager stationery assistant who’s 5’2” staggered over with one box. 

I couldn't stop laughing.

Saturday 2

I came across a great saying the other day.  “Always read stuff that will look good if you die in the middle of it.” Isn’t that great?  And also rather worrying.  Did I want to drop dead on the top deck of a bus whilst reading a particularly smutty bit of Ben Elton (the ‘fisting’ episode immediately springs to mind … in fact, I fear it will be embedded in my brain for all time!)?

I promptly dumped the Just Jordan book I was plodding my way through (expected to read about a savvy business woman behind the fluffy exterior, but no, she really is that shallow!)  Rifled through my extensive library and started reading John Wyndham’s The Crysalids instead.  I actually heard my soul sigh with relief as I started on the first page.

Must give up the crappy chick lit just because its cheap and readily available.

[Talking of books, I’ve had an email from a Brummie Blogs visitor: “If you love all things Brummie then you should go to www.thelastviking.co.uk  which is about a gang of Brummies, the Aston Villains, who used to meet in the marvelous Bartons Arms. They pulled of the world's greatest heist but it was all hushed up.”  Haven’t actually bought a copy yet (but I will) – if anyone reads it let me know what you think.] 

No idea why my links have gone all big and grey!

I know, I know, I just disappeared without explanation or so much as a farewell wave.  Life just got MANIC, no time to post At All.  And then, of course, I was off on horliday to deepest, darkest Africa, where something rather spectacular happened …and something rather sad.

Sunday 3

We started taking our malaria tablets yesterday.  I read the notes that came with it, which said that side effects could include ‘face swelling’ and/or ‘forehead bulging’ … so that’s reassuring then!  Keep checking in the mirror now for any signs of ‘chubbiness’ that could indicate feature fatness or head distortion.

Monday 4

Spent the day walking round the office, pushing back my hair and asking everyone, “Does my forehead look bulgy?” in a wide-eyed, slightly bonkers kind of way.

Got home and, halfway through the local news, for no apparent reason, my beloved turned to me and said, “Well, Fastfingers, you’ve completed your seven year probationary period, and you’ve done quite well.  I think I might stick with you.”

The cheek!

“Pah!” I replied, “You’ve got another three years to go yet, mate.”

That should keep him on his toes for a bit.

Tuesday 5

Tonight, at 6.20pm, I receive a text message from my bestest, heavily pregnant friend.  “On way to hospital,” it read.

Oh!  Oh!  I immediately rang her, the pitch of my voice high enough to shatter glass.  She told me to calm down.  “I’m just so excited!” I cried.

Spent the next 2 hours bouncing off the walls, cleaning, tidying, picking my mobile phone up every 12.5 seconds and driving partner round the bend shouting “Was that my phone?  Have I had a text?” as I scrubbed out the kitchen cupboards.

Finally, at 9.50pm, a text message.  Two words.  “Born.  Boy.”

I rang to congratulate.  She sounded utterly knackered.  “It really hurt,” she croaked.

“It’s your fourth one,” I said, “Surely you knew what to expect.”

“I forgot.  I won’t forget again.”

So my bestest friend is now the mother of a new little boy.

Well done, Sooooooooo. 

Wednesday 6

Yesterday one of my semi-bosses asked me for a train ticket to Harrogate.  Using my initiative and my (clearly inept) knowledge of geography, I ordered one to Leeds.  He changed it to York.  I raced over with his York ticket and said, “But Harrogate’s in Leeds.”

“It’s in York, isn’t it?” he replied.

“No,” said I, “It’s definitely in Leeds.  My son lives there.”

Well there was no arguing with that, was there, a mother ought to know where her own offspring are living.  I reordered a ticket to Leeds.  And all was well with the world.

That same afternoon, I thought I’d just check on Multimap, just to preen a little.

Harrogate is not in Leeds.  Fortunately for me, it’s not in York either.  And my son doesn’t live there.  He lives in Headingly.

I Am An Idiot.

Sent semi-boss an email as I couldn’t face him personally:  “Harrogate was apparently moved in 1979.  It now lies between Leeds and York, which seems a strange place to put it.  I’m buying ‘The Idiot’s Guide to the UK’ at lunchtime and only hope I can manage to find my way back to the office afterwards.”

On the other side of the office, I saw him laughing at his screen, so the call for my P45 had once more been deftly avoided.

This morning my semi-boss came over waving his train ticket.  He looked sheepish.  I tried not to scream I’m an idiot.

“You want your ticket changed?” I asked as casually as I could.

“No,” he said, laughing.  “The meeting’s been cancelled.  I don’t need it after all.”

Thursday 7

Drove over to the other side of Birmingham to see bestest friend and her new baby after work.  The giant bouquet in a bubble of water from the man at the top of New Street (which were fantastic) fell over three times on the back seat, so by the time we got there there was hardly any water left and the back seat was drenched. 

Found the whole family (who I’ve never met before) all perched formally on the edge of the sofa.  They greeted the Tall Yorkshireman and his Booming Voice with deep trepidation, but they soon got used to him. They’re one of those families that you look at and think, ‘Ah, aren’t they a nice family.’  And the new baby is gorgeous, totally munchable. 

Afterwards, driving back home, bestest friend sent me a text message.  “[Partner] is lovely, you have my permission to marry him.  Even [husband] liked him, and he hates everybody!”

Breathed a sigh of relief.

Friday 8

As I’m off on holiday for two weeks tomorrow (and we haven’t even packed yet! argh!), they’re bringing in a temp to cover me.  I’ve seen her CV.  The woman is a veritable genius and I’m only surprised she isn’t running the country whilst organising world peace and discovering a cure for everything.

Obviously, as I’m still (still!) a temp myself, I’m a little worried about my substitute.  “What if she’s better than me?” I wailed at my boss.

“That’s the risk you take when you go on holiday,” she replied, joking – at least, I think she was joking.

“Oh God,” I groaned, “And she’s younger than me.  Couldn’t you have picked someone a bit decrepit and inept?”  I managed to refrain from adding ‘like me’ in case it put ideas in her head. 

I emailed the nice folk in the IT department, asking them to set up my new computer for the temp on Monday.  “Hopefully she won’t be some kind of PA genius and I’ll still have a job when I get back,” I added.  The nice folk in the IT department replied, “If that happens, we’ll leave,” which I thought was quite sweet.

Won’t save my job though!

Saturday 9

And so the adventure begins.  It’s an epic tale of life in Africa, heat like you wouldn’t berluddy believe (Jesus Christ it was 'ot), real love, some spectacularly nice people … and, sadly, death.

I'm calling it "Three men ... and me."  And you can read it all here (just added!).

Haven’t had chance to write up the Africa Trip yet, simply no time (someone make it stop!).  It was such an amazing experience and I have 22 typewritten pages of notes and zillions of photographs on my laptop, I ain’t rushing that.  I’ll put up a link when it’s done.

But I will tell you that -  without any prior planning, after many trips to the Government office in Banjul, a lot of bribing of corrupt Government officials and a lot of rushing around (screaming) - my Partner and I, after 7 years together, got married on an African beach to the sound of African drums wearing bespoke African outfits (with silver sequins, no less).

Me checking our names were correctly spelled on the marriage certificate because they certainly hadn't been before
That gorgeous Gambian-style dress cost me £30!

We did it!  And it was fabulous, absolutely perfect in every way.  It's all here.

Then we came back and I hit the ground running …

Monday 26

We didn’t get home until 2am on Sunday morning, but the clocks had gone forward (daylight saving) so it was actually 3am.  Which meant that, as well as feeling exhausted from 13 hours of travelling, I actually had to get up a whole hour earlier than I normally would this morning.

You better believe I shuffled into work feeling (and looking) like a (tanned) zombie, already disorientated and nowhere near conscious.  They’d moved my desk in my absence and I stood in the middle of the office, shaking, possibly dribbling a bit, whining, “What?  Where?”

Informed the IT department that I needed my name changing on the system.  One of them came running down, threw himself into the chair next to me, took hold of my hand in both of his, and said, “You got married!  I thought it was just me and you, Fastfingers.  I’m gutted, truly gutted.”

Silly sod.

I then had to change my name on voicemail.  Let’s say my old name (which I’ve had for over 20 years) is Fastfingers Smith, and I had to change it to Fastfingers Jones.

VOICEMAIL: Please say your name after the beep.  BEEP

ME: Fastfingers Smith.  Oh bugger!

VOICEMAIL: Press 1 to record your name.  Please say your name after the beep.  BEEP

ME: Fastfingers Smith.  No it’s not! It’s Jones!  Jones!  Fastfingers Jones!

VOICEMAIL: Press 1 to record your name.  Please say your name after the beep.  BEEP

ME: Fastfingers Smith.  AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

VOICEMAIL: Press 1 to record your name.  Please say your name after the beep.  BEEP

ME:  Fastfingers (long pause and then a voice determinedly declaring) Jones.

It sounded stupid.  For the fourth attempt I actually wrote it down and read it out.  My own name!

Old habits die hard.  Really hard. 

I don’t know who I am any more.

I answered some external calls.  “Fastfingers Smith,” I responded automatically, quickly adding, “Oh no it’s not, its Jones.  Fastfingers Jones, can I help you?”  Or else I’d say, “Fastfingers Smith (long pause while the brain races to catch up) Jones,” giving myself a hyphenated name.  Once or twice, after managing to announce myself as Fastfingers Jones, some asked for Fastfingers Smith, and I said, “Speaking,” which confused them even more.  All terribly professional.

Called a few ‘mates’ in the office about work related stuff (of which there was loads).  Our system puts the name of the caller onto our telephone displays, and my ‘mates’ were terribly polite for a few minutes before asking, “Who are you?”

One said, “I’ve just brought your picture up on the intranet and I don’t recognise you.”  Because my picture on the intranet has been ‘doctored’ to look like Catherine Zeta Jones (which cost me the price of a cake).

So not only do I not know who I am, nobody else knows who I am either.

Weird.

Came home to my “husband” and was in a coma on the sofa by 7.30pm.

Tuesday 27

We (‘my husband and I’) are lathering on lots of moisturising cream after having crisped in the sun for two weeks.  This morning, because we were in a rush, the only one to hand was Dove’s Summer Glow Body Lotion, which claims it “gradually builds a light tan”.

Gradually?  Went out in daylight at lunchtime.  Was chatting to a mate and she said I looked very tanned, and I smiled smugly and looked at my hands.

They were orange.

I thought “gradually” meant over a period of weeks, even months, of daily application.  Apparently it means hours – put it on, see nothing, ‘gradually’ turn bright orange during the course of the day.  And because I’d been in a rush it wasn’t even a smooth orange – it was almost mahogany around my nails where the cream had gathered, and patchy where I’d missed bits.

I immediately rang Hubby.  “Stop putting that moisturiser on your face!” I cried.

By the time I got home, we both looked like David Dickinson and fought over the rough sponge in the bathroom to try and scrub it off.

Dopes.

Wednesday 28

I had a dentist appointment this morning.  As the receptionists would give ‘stroppy’ a bad name, I rang them yesterday to confirm my appointment because they’re always cancelling at the last minute.  They confirmed it.

Arrived for my 9.10am appointment, and was told by the couldn’t-care-less receptionists that my dentist hadn’t turned up this morning so my appointment had been cancelled.  “We tried to contact you to let you know,” they drawled.

“Did you?” I snarled, “When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“I was at work yesterday afternoon.”

“We don’t have your work number.”  Honestly, they were so totally bored with the whole thing, man I expected them to lean back in their chairs and start filing their nails.

“You do have my work number,” I hissed, really, really annoyed.  “I gave it you last time I turned up for an appointment that had been cancelled.  And the time before that.”  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I turned up for an appointment that hadn’t been cancelled – my teeth are screaming out for attention.

One receptionist made the effort to lean forward a little and glance vaguely at my notes.  “Oh yeah,” she said, chewing on her gum, “We do have your work number here.”

“Could you not have called me this morning?” I snarled, “When I was home?  Because I’ve taken time off without pay to turn up for my appointment?”

They both looked at me.  Lethargy and indifference were embedded in their expressions.  “We were busy this morning,” they said. 

I gave them my best Lee Van Cleef sucking a lemon impression.  They gave me another printed appointment, which I screwed up and put in my coat pocket because it’s about as useless as a carrying case for an air guitar.  I stormed out muttering a few well chosen expletives.

Fortunately, Hubby was outside waiting and he managed to drive me to work in record time.

I raved about incompetent receptionists all the way there.

Thursday 29

My boss has been off sick this week and I’ve had to rearrange appointments on a daily basis because she was hopeful of “coming in tomorrow.”

Yesterday she rang to say she still couldn’t come in, and I raced around the department asking everyone if they could attend an external meeting that night.  Nobody could.  As it was quite an important meeting and I couldn’t think who else to ask, I emailed the newly appointed Head Secretary for suggestions.  She told me to ask a boss in another department. 

The other boss’s secretary (OBS) said the boss would do it but needed all the information, which I duly sent.  The OBS asked for more information and I rang the venue to get it and emailed that to her too.  It was all arranged.  Then, suddenly, it wasn’t arranged and someone else had been ‘forced’ by the CEO to go instead, and everyone seemed a bit confused and unhappy, including me. 

Today, I received an email from the OBS, who is a temp.  She ‘suggested’ that, in future, I check my boss’s diaries to make sure “what happened yesterday doesn’t happen again.”  I emailed back saying, “Obviously I check diaries, but difficult to manage appointments when my boss isn’t sure if she’s coming into the office or not and has specifically asked me not to cancel anything.”

I carried on juggling my hefty workload.  Another email arrived from the OBS, this time copied into the Head Secretary and the Other Boss.  The email rather curtly gave me detailed instructions on how to do my job properly.

Excuse me?

I read it again.  Yep, the OBS, a temp, was giving me suggestions about my job.

Furious just isn’t the word for how I felt at that moment.  I snatched up the phone and bawled, “What’s this funny email you’ve sent me?  I know how to do my job, thank you very much, and I certainly don’t need advice from you about how to do it.”  I said some other stuff I can’t remember because I was so angry, and the OBS backed down rather quickly. 

I slammed the phone down and replied to the email, pounding so hard on the keyboard that heads turned.  I explained what had happened yesterday, which was completely unavoidable, and finished with a declaration that I’m fully competent to do my job and perfectly capable of handling emergency situations.  I sent it to all the people the OBS had involved, plus my boss, who was picking up emails at home.

My boss responded almost immediately (star!).  The OBS was given a slap on the wrist and she sent out a weak apology.  I ignored it (the cow!) and carried on with my work.  Then the Head Secretary came down and I thought, “Oh no, here we go.”

“What’s with these emails?” she asked, sitting down next to me and frowning with concern.

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” I said, “Completely out the blue and completely uncalled for.”

We chatted.  The newly appointed Head Secretary was quite good (unlike the one at my old place).  Apparently the OBS had been a bit slack in giving all the facts, to make me look incompetent (which was obviously her ‘thang’, to make someone look bad so she looks good – spare me!).  HS agreed this wasn’t on and said she would deal with it (again, a stark contrast to my last Head Secretary). 

“You have your interview [for the job I’ve been doing for the last eight months] this afternoon,” she added, “We can reschedule if you’re too upset?”

“I’m not upset,” I told her, “I’m bloody furious.” 

Anger is much easier to cope with because I experience it so rarely – dentist appointments aside.

So the interview went ahead, despite the fact that I has serious reservations about staying there – I’ve seen offices turned ‘poisonous’ by one or two individuals before.  Fortunately, I’m pretty good at interviews.  Far from getting nervous I go to the other extreme and believe I’m the perfect PA (regardless of emails to the contrary).  I think they were impressed.  At least, I hope so.  Doubts only set in afterwards.

We shall see.

Friday 30

When we landed at Manchester airport on Saturday night, Hubby received some bad news.  His mother, who had been ill with Alzheimer’s for many years, had died that same night.  It was a sad ending to our holiday/honeymoon.

Today was the funeral.  We drove up to Bradford.  As expected, it was a very grim and emotional affair.  It’s awful to see other people cry (I never knew his mother before the illness, but she was always a very striking woman and clearly well liked and loved). 

I held onto Hubby’s hand throughout.  He looked very tall and exceptionally handsome in his black suit – like a film star.  He handled himself remarkably well.

Just a really sad day.

Saturday 31

And finally the rollercoaster ride of the last three weeks stops, and I get to sit and contemplate and gather my frazzled thoughts together at last.  I’m physically and emotionally exhausted!

It’s odd being married again, being a ‘wife’ again.  As we’ve been together for 7 years, living together for 5, I didn’t think it would change anything – in fact, I was determined that nothing would change as we were perfectly happy as we were.  But they have. 

A local in Africa (it seemed the whole of Gambia knew we’d got married there) said that “our love would be deeper now that we were married, not like when you live together.”  Yeah, right, I thought.  But it’s true.  I look at ‘Hubby’ now (“Hello, husband,” I keep saying) and I do feel different.  We’ve been ‘bonded’.  We’ve been committed (or should be).  It’s rather nice.  I think I like it.

I look at Hubby now and think, “Yeah, good choice, Fastfingers.”  He seems handsomer, somehow.  Funnier.  Just an all-round decent, adorable human being.  I’m very proud.

Having inherited Hubby’s family (I’m a stepmother!!!!), I now tell people that we have 7 children and 2 grandchildren.  They look at me as if I’m either very promiscuous or very stupid.  S’funny.

And now its spring, and the world blooms and life goes on (with me chanting my new name over and over again in an effort to remember it).  I’m looking forward to chomping my way round the garden every night with the hosepipe, stuffing myself on tomatoes and baby pea pods (and ‘Hubby’ leaning out of the window shouting, “Dinner’s done,” and me thinking, “Oh, I’m not hungry now.”)  I’m looking forward to long days and balmy nights and planting and growing and teaching the budgies to shut their beaks (honestly, it’s like living in an aviary sometimes).

I think its going to be a very good year.  I think me and my new husband are really going to enjoy it.

[CONGRATULATIONS to Middle Son, who’s just passed his theory test.  Well done … is there anything you’re not good at?  Oh yeah, sending Mother’s Day cards (and where’s me pressie?) - me being out of the country is no excuse for slacking J]

                                             

people have been here (spooky!)

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).
 

This page and all of its contents are copyrighted (c) Brummie Blogs 2006.  All rights reserved - that's all of 'em so don't even think about nicking anything unless you ask first, y'hear?