Oh joy.  Oh woe.  Oh poo-breath and bugger-nuts.

Hospital today.  They say it’s a minor op, but anything that involves general anaesthetic is pretty big in my book. 

I’d forgotten that the last time I had surgery it had been through my company’s BUPA scheme.  HUGE difference between being a private patient and doing it through the NHS.  Although the nurses were lovely, I felt like an anonymous lump of meat that had to be processed and packed off asap.  But hey ho, as long as it gets done (and they don’t kill me in the process).

Had to walk down the corridor in my open-backed gown to the operating room, trying to cover my naked posterior.  A man then pushed me to the post-op room – “Do we swap names or do you wish to remain anonymous?” I asked him.  He struggled with a smile.

In the post-op room, people came and went – it was like lying semi-naked (and terrified) in the middle of New Street Station.  Without warning, a needle was stuck in the back of my hand whilst someone else pressed electrodes to my chest.  A man appeared with a syringe and, rather alarmed, I said, “Can you warn me before you put me out?”  He said, “I’m putting you out,” and promptly filled me with anaesthetic.

I hate that bit, when you think its not going to work, that they haven’t given you enough and, er, excuse me but I'm still conscio……………….

Woke up with a mouth so dry I couldn’t swallow or move my tongue.  A nurse tried to get me to speak when only three brain cells were functioning at 2% capacity.  She said I might experience some pain.  I searched for pain and realised there was less of it than there had been for months.  Oh good.

Back to ward.  Slept.  Had some seriously weird dreams, mostly about water.  Woke and drank lots, just gallons of the stuff.  Even my gums throbbed with thirst.  Toast was brought but I couldn’t swallow it.  Emptied another water jug.  Was told to pee but couldn’t, even though I felt like a very large water balloon.

“You can’t go home until you’ve peed,” a nurse told me.

“I’ve peed,” I lied with a huge, satisfied, just-done-a-pee smile.

Drank more water.  A woman came to tell me about my operation and I had to lunge for the nearest sink.  As I struggled with nausea and dizziness, she said they’d removed some internal bits.  Minutes later, the surgeon turned up and said they hadn’t removed anything.  I didn't care what they had or hadn't done, I just wanted to go home.

Hubby arrived (my hero come to rescue me).  I still felt like death, but put on a brave face so they’d evict me.  I felt so spaced out the poor bugger had to hold me up as we left the ward and almost carried me to the car, where I fell into yet another coma. 

The journey home was weird, everything seemed to be in slow motion - felt like I'd been asleep for decades, then I opened my eyes and saw we were still at the same set of traffic lights.  It took forever to get home, where I fell into bed and slept, for 12 solid hours.

The op itself was a doddle.  The worst bit was the anaesthetic - felt like my brain and all my internal organs had been put in a blender and left to set in the fridge.

But I live, which is good.

[Also good, Hubby handed in his notice at work today.  Like me, he’s decided to give up the stress and the pressure and the relentless demands of a soul-destroying job and do something else instead.  Well done, Hub – we may be poor, but quality of life is infinitely more important.]

Wednesday 2

Woke up feeling like I’d drunk half a bottle of whisky followed by several cans of Tenants Extra chasers.  Still dizzy, but at least half a dozen brain cells were functioning so … to work.  Oh I’m keen!  The need to earn dosh is also a great incentive.

Mom and Sister came bearing flowers and grapes (where’s the chocolates, hmmm?).  Mom 'helped' me arrange the flowers in a vase, spending a whole 25 minutes endlessly moving 8 stems around - in the end I had to take the vase away from her or she would have been there forever.  She sat on the sofa next to me, reached into her handbag (chocolate?) and pulled out a serviette.  "Want a hanky?" she said.  I was too stunned to answer.  There are many strange things in my mother's handbag (bags of Cheerios, health bars, assorted items 'removed' from pub tables including, I suspect, salt and pepper pots).  [Actually, that reminds me, apart from having an obsession with Tescos, mom also frequents charity shops.  She bought a fitness DVD the other day and, inside the box, was a credit card receipt for its original purchase, complete with signature.  The signature was the same name as my mother ... how freaky is that!]

Mom and Sis asked if I wanted to go out to lunch with them.  Now, whilst this fits in with my vision of ‘carefree homeworker’, the fact that it was already 2pm, Sister had to pick Niece up from school at 3.30, and they hadn’t yet decided where to go for lunch, I had to decline as I simply didn’t have the strength.

Thursday 3

I’m settling into this homeworking thing now.  The screaming panic has died down, replaced with a kind of Why The Hell Didn’t I Do This Before euphoria.  I’m finding my own pace and finding that my pace is pretty laid back.  At ‘lunchtime’ today, instead of rushing around town through the crowds looking for cheap sandwiches and/or smart clothing in my allotted 30 minutes, I wandered down to the greenhouse at the bottom of my garden and potted up some tomato plants.  How fab is that?

Apologies to everyone who emailed me to say how GREEN with envy they are at my escape from corporate slavery, but the sense of freedom is really just amazing!  I don’t get the ‘Oh great its Friday tomorrow’ feeling, but then I don’t get the ‘Oh God it’s Monday’ feeling either.  In fact, last Sunday I felt positively lightheaded with joy because I didn’t HAVE to wash and iron my work clothes ready for the week ahead – in fact, I haven’t done any ironing at all for THREE WHOLE WEEKS (I look like a crumpled bag lady, though).

I still wake up at 6.30, but when I get out of bed I don’t feel weighed down with the misery of having to go to work, it’s my time and I can do whatever I want, I’m not chained to some excessively frantic routine.  Instead of rushing around getting ready for the 7.30 bus, I wander round the garden with a cup of coffee and then start up the laptop, see what work I’ve got on today.  I don’t think I have an iota of stress in my body.

This afternoon, when the sun blazed through my living room windows, blinding me on the sofa, I took my laptop into the garden and worked out there.  It was great.  I’ve already planned where to put several electrical points (because my laptop only has an hour battery life), and started dreaming of some kind of gazebo at the bottom of the garden where I can work.  I spent last summer racing around town to various temping jobs, most in offices without air-conditioning, hot and sweaty and chasing after the next job.  Everyone kept saying, “Oh I wish we could move our computers and work outside in the sunshine.”  This summer that’s exactly what I’m doing, working outside on my computer, in my garden, watching my plants grow and listening to birdsong.   Bloody bliss.

True, I’m not earning city centre money, but it’s not far off when you factor in the expense of bus travel, lunches and clothes.  It’s enough, and I have the most valuable commodity of all …. time.  Whilst not quite The Good Life, it’s certainly a nice one.

I think I’m going to really like this.

Friday 4

Three things:

1.  I’ve become totally addicted to and in awe of a brilliant web blog.  Pioneer Woman.  Not your average, everyday blog, but a blog about real cowboys.  Who even knew they still existed!  And not just any old cowboys, either, but pretty snazzy looking ones.  The photographs are extraordinary, you feel like you’re there, you feel like rushing out and buying chaps and an American saddle and a ticket for the next available flight to the States.  Go and have a look and tell me you’re not impressed!

2. I’m doing dictations for lots of different companies and I’ve already identified a couple of favourites.  When I get work from them I actually go a bit funny (Note to self: get out more and stop talking to budgies).  One sounds exactly like Robson Green.  I mean, KWOAR!  I’ve already offered my ‘team leader’ bribes to have all his dictations sent to me (hell, I’d even do them for free!).  Another has one of those velvety warm syrup voices that sends a shiver up my spine, the kind you only hear late at night on the radio – he makes soffit boards sound sexy!  I tell ya, I'm having a ball!

3. A Friday Treat for the girls (takes a while to download but, trust me, its well worth the wait!).

Saturday 5

The garden is coming on well, although I seem to have planted a few too many seeds and will have a massive glut of tomatoes, chillies and peppers this year (assuming the garden is big enough to grow them all).  At least we won’t starve.

This morning I wandered out, as I normally do, and noticed that (dah dah DAH) the berluddy slugs are back!  I swear my little patch of land is an historic breeding site for the little buggers.  There’s a plant growing by the pond (well, I say pond, what I actually mean is buried bucket filled with water that laughingly passes for a pond) which is slowly being eaten away.  There’s a frog in the ‘pond’, it was idly sitting underneath a half eaten leaf.  We had words.

“Now listen here, frog,” said I (working at home means you’ll talk to anything, I’m sure it’s a sign of early madness), “I’ve provided you with a jolly decent pond to live in, all I ask in return is that you eat a few slugs every now and again.  It’s just damn lazy to not eat slugs that are right next to you.  Get a grip, for crying out loud.  You're a frog.  You eat slugs.  Slugs are the enemy, they deserve to be eaten, so eat them!”

The frog plopped into the water and disappeared.  Tsk.

Later, I wandered around the garden again and saw said frog lounging over the edge of the pond by his elbows, half in and half out of the water.

“So,” I said to it, “Eaten many slugs today, hmmmm?”

It was then I noticed a second frog.  The original frog, clearly unable to deal with the slug infestation on its own (or just too lazy to bother - maybe he prefers MacDonalds or something), had brought in reinforcements. 

I anticipate mass destruction of all slugs from my garden very shortly.

Sunday 6

Babysat my 15 month old granddaughter last night.  She just smiles all the time and then fell asleep, so we put her to bed.  Couldn’t get the baby monitor to work without it beeping like a time bomb, so left it off.  Which meant my ears were perked up for the slightest sound all night.

She woke at 2am, but settled down again.

She woke at 5am and just kept on smiling at me as I (zombified) tried to get her back to sleep.  In the end I broke my own rules and took her into our bed, where she spread out like a starfish until both me and Hubby were clinging like limp pieces of string to the edges of the mattress. 

She slept, she fidgeted, she kept sitting bolt upright as if trying to figure out where she was, and waved a lot. 

Up at 8am, me and Hubby both utterly knackered but granddaughter full of beans, crawling around the house like a wind up toy.  I’d forgotten how much energy small people have, and how little of it I have – it was exhausting. 

At 11.30am, still in our dressing gowns and with eye bags hanging down to our kneecaps, I texted Small Son, “She’s been golden, when are you coming to collect her?”

He came round at midday and found us heaped, semi-conscious, on the sofa as granddaughter pounded a on a saucepan with a wooden spoon.  After loads of munching and mass collection of baby paraphernalia that was scatted everywhere, granddaughter went home.

We went to back to bed.

Monday 7 – BANK HOLIDAY

“Look what I’ve bought,” I said to Hubby.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like a thick blue rope with a clip on the end.”

“Yeah,” I said, a bit excited.

“So,” Hubby persisted, “What is it?”

“It’s a dog lead.”

Long pause.

“Why have you bought a dog lead?” Hubby asked.

“For the budgies,” I said.

Another long pause. 

“You bought a dog lead for the budgies?” Hubby finally said.  “Are you planning on taking them out to the park or something?”

“No, silly.”

“Then … why?”  His face was all kind of scrunched up.

“It’s really rather clever,” I said, feeling rather clever.

“Uh huh,” Hubby nodded.

“When Puff (the budgie who can’t fly) falls off his cage and can’t get back again unless we give him a lift up, he can use this.”

“Uh huh,” said Hubby, not getting it.

“I put the dog lead over the dining chair, like so … “  I did my gameshow hostess impression, pointing at the dog lead hanging on the back of the chair with both hands.  “ … And Puff can climb up it back to the cage without any assistance from us.”

“Ah.  Right.”  He’d already lost interest. 

“And,” I added, as he wandered off to do better things than listening to my brilliant ideas, “Because I’m working at home now I thought it might come in useful for when we get a dog.”

That halted him in his tracks.

“A dog?”

“Yeah.”

We eyed each other up like cowboys in a western movie about to shoot it out to the death.

“You want to get a dog?”

“Yeah.”

“A dog to poo all over your garden and dig up your vegetable patch and run mud through the house?”

“Erm.  Yeah.”

“Who will look after it when we go on holiday?  We have a hard enough time finding budgie sitters.”

“Er … “

“And will you have time to train it?  It’ll need training.”

“Yeah, well … “

“And then there’s vet fees and dog food to buy.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Can we afford it?  Will you have time to look after it in between working on the computer and  rearing tens of thousands of tomato and chilli and pepper plants?”

Long pause.

“Good for Puff though, eh?” I said, pointing gameshow hostess at the dog lead on the back of the chair.

Hubby went off to clear out the big shed.  I sat down and had another think about getting a dog.

PICCIES!

Downstairs laptop and Big Muttha computer upstairs fell out a while ago, I’m not sure what it was about but they just stopped communicating.  Total bummer.  Then Middle Son came down and did a bit of relationship counselling and now they’re talking again.  Yay!

Now I can peruse the hard drive upstairs in the comfort of my own armchair.  And I came across these …

Me and Sooooze on a night out	Where we met up with Patsy	And Georgie babe just happened to be at the same restaurant	Along with my best mate, Steve	Robin tried to entice me away on the way out! Tsk
And then I had to promise to Do Lunch with Oprah AND Whoopie	He's coming ...	... coming ...	Oooh, the an-ti-ci-pa-tion!	Bond, James Bond
KWOAR!	Could they BE more handsome?!	The pride, the PRIDE (that's ex on left)	Sis (looking a teeny bit freaky) and fam	A room with a view

If the download time is like watching paint dry let me know and I'll take off the pics (which are mossive!)

 

Tuesday 8

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I get up and put on the computer.  And log into my emails.  And see a message saying there’s been an error and to try again in a moment.

So I wait a moment.  Still no emails.  I wait another moment.  And another.

20 moments later, I still have no emails, which is a bit alarming since I get most of my work via emails so it’s quite imperative that the error goes away before the cupboards become bare and the budgies abandon me.

I rang Blueyonder.  “Email don’t work,” I said to the rather nice sounding chappy on the other end.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

“Dunno,” I said, “Was rather hoping you’d tell me.”

“Well, there’s no maintenance work scheduled for today,” he said.

“Really?” I said, surprised, “Only I’ve just read this minute read on your website that you’re doing maintenance work today.”

Ha, that caught him off guard.  He immediately put me on hold.  More moments later, he came back on to say, “They’re doing maintenance work on the system.”

“I know,” said I, “I just told you that.  What I need to know is, how long before I get my emails back?”

He went off to ask, putting me on hold again.  I think he stopped off for a Coke and maybe a massage while he was at it, he was that long.

“They’re defragging,” he finally told me.  “They don’t do it very often, every couple of years or so.”

“And today’s the Big Day,” I groaned, “Lucky me!  When will they finish defragging?”

“At 10,” he said.

“AM?” I ventured.

“PM,” he dared say.  “It’s a 16 hour job.”

Oh … faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous!

Had to email my top secret email address (this blog’s) to my team leader … the irony of whatawaytoearnaliving@yahoo.co.uk.

Got some work done, but not much.  Weather was bad.  Building surveyors apparently don’t survey buildings if the weather’s bad.  So they don’t dictate.  So I don’t type.

Which means the budgies are already eyeing up their escape route.

Wednesday 9

Hubby came home from work and found me sprawled across the living room floor.

“Sup?” he asked.

“I haven’t been out all week!” I wailed.

“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll tek yer out.”

So I raced to put on makeup, only its been that long since I’ve put on makeup I could hardly remember how to do it, so made do with a bit of mascara and lippy.  And then … I was ready.

“Okay,” I cried, standing in the hallway, “No sudden moves now.  Open the door.”

He opened the front door and I gasped, “Wow, isn’t the world big!”

Honestly, I need to get out more.  I must factor some form of exercise (hoik spit) into my daily routine before I turn into Couch Potatoe Woman, mumbling insanely to myself and covered in budgie poo.

Nice pint at the pub, though.

Thursday 10

I quite like the new Explorer 7, all those tabbed tops allowing easy access to the 137 web pages I’ve opened.  But it does annoy me when the words “You’ve opened a new tab” come up on screen every single time.  It’s almost accusatory, isn’t it.  “Hmmph, you’ve opened a new tab.  Don’t you have enough open already?”  Or surprised.  “Oh!  You’ve opened a new tab!” like I’ve caught it off guard on the loo or something.

I’d like new tabs to open with this …

Or maybe this …

Oh no!  You've
opened another tab!

Or a “Joke of the Day” type thang …

You've opened a new tab

An Irishman, a Scotsman and an Englishman walk into a bar.  The barman says, “What is this, some kind of joke?”  BOOM BOOM.

Or even this! …

Yeah, definitely that one J.

On 1st May, Hubby handed in his notice at work (yay!).  On 2nd May, he rang another company on the off-chance they might have a vacancy.  They hadn't, but after he'd given them a rundown of his skills and experience they said they would make a position for him - he's that good.  He went for two interviews - where he wowed them with his down-to-earth charm and knowledge - and they were dead keen to have him.

Today, they rang to say he'd got the job they'd created especially for him.  For the money he wanted.  For less hours than he's doing now.  And its closer to home.

WELL DONE THAT MAN! [Round of applause, pat on back, break open the two miniature bottles of Babycham to celebrate].

So at least one of us is gainfully employed!

On the home-front, a salesman dared approach my front door this afternoon, despite a big yellow sticker saying "No salesmen".  As soon as I realised he was a salesman I said, "I'm sorry, I work at home, I don't have time for this."  "Oh," he muttered, "I wish I could work at home."  I nearly said, 'Well you spend several years in a frantic city environment putting up with crap corporate people, perfecting your computer skills to the nth degree and wasting hours sitting on a packed bus in rush hour traffic and maybe you can!'  But didn't. 

Before I banished him from my driveway, he gave me one of those 'wasting my time' looks ... I nearly gave chase and clobbered the little bugger.

I've been having trouble accessing my website the last few days, and you probably have too.  My web-provider apparently crashed or something.  Hopefully its a bit more stable now ... unlike some people I could mention (aka moi).

Saturday 12

We tend to practise the great art of Slobbing on Saturdays – Hubby goes to work early then comes home and has a bit of a kip to recuperate.  I just potter around doing all those little jobs I try to ignore during the week, like vaccing behind chairs and trying to teach the budgies to obey commands like ‘Shut Up!”’  Then we spend the afternoon reading newspapers or (in Hubby’s case) watching the History channel (you’d think Tony Robinson would be heartily sick of digging up mud by now, wouldn’t you!  And look, there he is again telling us about crap jobs in history whilst treading in stale urine!  Does the man never stop?)

So, anyway, 4pm I turn to Hubby with squinty eyes and say, “Didn’t we invite friends over for dinner tonight?”

Dual panic is a wunnerful thang.  We both leapt up off the sofa and dragged out the vaccum cleaner, dusted, washed up, cleaned out the budgies and deposited them in the study (they weren’t pleased!) and then dashed out for food to feed our guests.

By the time said guests arrived at 6pm, we were still out of breath, but the house looked vaguely habitable and featherless.

Hubby’s curry went down well (as always), and copious amounts of alcohol was consumed.  I reached that point where I think I’m terribly witty and amusingly articulate and just a fabulous human being, and surpassed it by miles – slurring and talking total crap.  Fortunately, everyone else followed the same wavering path to chronic intoxication.

Good night.

Sunday 13

Hangover.  A really, really big hangover.

Ugh!

Monday 14

When is it ever going to stop raining???   A scorching summer to equal last year’s heatwave, they said.  Now they’re saying we might not see the sun again until June.

June!  Jeez.  There go my plans for working in the garden.

So while I was waiting for the monsoon weather to stop and for work to come in, I pondered about my motivation as a homeworker, because its rather like a roller coaster ride at the moment – one day I’m full of enthusiasm and optimism, the next I’m convinced I’m a deluded failure.  As motivation is quite important, I gave it a body and a name.  Here it is, my motivation.

He’s called Blurgh.  Say hello to Blurgh, everyone. 

I know, I’m losing it!

Tuesday 15

I felt like Kathy Bates in Misery today.  More rain.  No work.

Sigh.

Motivation had most definitely packed its bag and buggered off, the git.  At 3pm I lay down on the living room floor like a starfish with the phone clamped to my ear, wailing, “I’m a faaaaaaaaaailure!” to Hubby.

He came home, found me still splayed out on the floor wailing, and bundled me into the car.  Over a pint in our favourite pub, he gave me a severe talking to along the lines of ‘give it a chance’ and ‘you’re doing fine’ and ‘you’re better than you think you are’.  Which sort of plumped up my motivation like a cushion.

Motivation now looks like this …

Hubby, No.1 Supporter.

Love ya, Hubs J.

Wednesday 16

Still no work from my outsourcing company.  This is not looking good.  On the verge of another wailing episode I thought, bugger this for a game of soldiers and, grabbing motivation by the throat and giving it a damn good shaking, I searched for other outsourcing companies on the internet and emailed a few, asking if they needed a fast typist.

One emailed back to say almost immediately. saying, “Yes!  We're bombed!”  And they promptly sent me some massive work.  Even better, they pay more than the other company!!!!

Yes!

Another one is also interested, but I suddenly have a lot of work on.  The new company just kept on sending ‘em.

It was one of those blinding moments of clarity when you think, why the hell didn’t I do this before?  There isn’t just one outsourcing company, there’s loads.

So now I’m back on track again.

And thank Christ for that!

Thursday 17

My granddaughter is walking!  It’s the funniest thing.  She’s like a little wind-up toy wobbling around like a puppet from Thunderbirds, legs and arms all over the place.  I can’t stop laughing.  She is the cutest thing.

New outsourcing company kept sending me work, real big stuff I can get stuck into and no faffing around with templates and house styles, just type.  I’m on such a roll!

This time next year …

Friday 18

Absolutely amazing day.  Both outsourcing companies sent me work and, oddly, the more they sent, the faster I typed.

Remember my first day home-working?  Earned 40p (okay, there were some software problems).  Then £23-28.  Then up to £40 odd, which was just about enough.  Then nothing.  Then more nothing.  Then the panic set in again.

Do you know how much I earned today?  Go on, guess.

£100.

Yes, you read that right.  £100.  That’s more than I earned in the city and there was no commuting or dressing up or bitching involved!  Okay, I worked my fingers to stubs and it took quite a while to extricate myself from the sofa where I’d sat for pretty much six solid hours, but I wanted to see how much was possible if you put the effort in.

Bloody pleased with myself, I can tell you.

Celebrated with a bubble bath (primarily to try and reverse the effects of atrophied muscles), a new bottle of whisky and a DVD (Night at the Museum, pretty good).

Now wondering what dog I should get.

BATH TIP:  I’m a HUGE fan of baths, not having had one for 17 years (just a shower).  Three years ago I had a new bathroom installed – see here – and I’ve been luxuriating in bubble bath ever since, almost obsessively in fact, I’m permanently water-logged. 

I read in the bath.  Most of my books are damp wrinkled.  I had a problem with my spectacles, though.  They kept steaming up, which is really annoying.  I tried the old motorbiking trick of rubbing them with washing up liquid (they put in on helmet visors to stop them steaming up when they’re down), but that gave me spots on my nose. 

Then, to my immense joy, I found a way to clear vision.  I put my specs in the bath water for a few minutes, wipe them down, and they don’t steam up because they’re the same temperature as the water.  Good, eh?  Just wanted to share that with you because it’s really changed my life.  No, seriously, transformed my very existence. 

Side effect of this is that Hubby keeps shouting from the bathroom, “You know you’ve dropped your glasses in the bath, don’t you?”

Saturday 19

Went shopping at our local centre today (support your local community!).  Went to butchers, had a bit of a chat.  Went to papershop, where Hubby bought chocolate (he’s a total chocolate face).  Then the veg shop, where I picked up a cabbage and asked about the return of my much-missed sprouts (frozen just ain’t the same).

As we came out of the shop, Hubby said, “You’re odd, you are.”

“We’ve been together over 7 years,” I said, “You’ve only just noticed this?  Have you not met my mother?”

“I was watching your face when you were rooting through the cabbages for the biggest one,” he said.  “And you were drooling when you asked about sprouts.  Most women only react like that to chocolate.  With you, its green stuff.”

“And I can tell from your face,” I told him, “That you’re working out how much that’s going to save you in Ferrerro Rocher.  Buy me cabbages for my birthday and it’s over!”

So that’s clear then.

Sunday 20

At the end of the television news last night, the female newsreader said, “And we’ll be back at 11.45 tonight.”  And then, obviously thinking the camera had gone off, she pulled such a face!  Poor woman, I thought, it’s only six o’clock and she’s got to hang around until nearly midnight to do the news again.  What does she do?  Stay on set reading magazines and filing her nails?

Or does she throw caution to the wind and go clubbing?  Gets drunk.  Staggers back into the studio with hair awry and makeup sliding down her face.

“And here is the news,” she’d slur into camera, burping.  “The bloody Iraqis are at it again.  Tsk.  Bush has shoved his foot in his mouth, nothing new there.  And that skinny airhead, Paris Hilton, is still whinging about being thrown in jail. Hic.  Have you seen her in The Simple Life?  Should have been called The Simple One.  God but that woman seriously gets on my tits, don’t you just begrudge her the breath?”

I think it’d be rather interesting.

[Granddaughter stayed over last night.  Golden, but she wakes at dawn and she’s such a bundle of energy.  We took her down the park this morning, then called in at my mother’s house.  Mom gave granddaughter a present.  A plastic chicken.  I kid you not, a plastic chicken.  That squeaks.  Wait for the pic (on its way) and you, too, will think, “What?”]

Here's the chicken pic ... altogether now ... "WHAT?"

And here's a pic of granddad and granddaughter after a really exhausting morning together ... altogether now ... "AHHHHHH."

The one black sock she's wearing is because Small Son didn't provide any day clothes, she came round in her pajamas.  So to take her to the park this morning she wore my socks and a polo neck jumper that swamped her.  People kept staring at us, clearly wondering if we'd kidnapped her.  And then, of course, she squeaked the plastic chicken all the way home, which drew even more attention ("Hmmm, older man and woman pushing baby dressed in ill-fitting clothes who's playing with a plastic chicken, slightly suspicious?")

Just discovered this website ... amazing!

Monday 21

The budgies fly loose all day now that I'm home all day.  And they're noisy little buggers.  They used have brief spasms of noise and then quieten down again, but now they just don't stop.  It's just a constant screeching in the background.  I'll record the cacophony and see if you can stand it for more than a minute without resorting to pounding your head really hard against a wall.

Today, loads of work (s'great) and I was struggling to listen to a phone interview which was a bit scratchy, and the little blighters hit a level of noise that could have shattered glass.  Not just twittering away amongst themselves, but really screaming, all high pitched and see who can get the loudest.  And then Pete (the butch budgie) started dive bombing my head and the others were encouraging him by screaming even louder.  Pete fluffed up my hair just as I'd backspaced for the millionth time, and I lost it.  Leapt up out of my seat.  Shouted, "YOU BERLUDDY BUDGIES! I'M TRYING TO WORK!"

Budgie rage!

I went to put them in their cage and cover them up so they'd be quiet and I could get on with my work, but instead of going in like they usually do when I put my hands above their heads, they flew off.  I think they could sense my fury.  Furious, I chased after them, hollering, "GET IN THAT BERLUDDY CAGE!  YOU LITTLE GITS!"  Running backwards and forwards across the living room, in front of the window, waving my arms and bawling my head off.

God knows what the neighbours must have thought.

They went in eventually and I tossed a blanket over them.  But there was a little space in the blanket where I could see Pea, the tiny green one, sitting on the perch peering at me as if to say, "It wasn't me!" (or maybe, "That was a bit over the top, wasn't it?"). 

They sulked mercilessly.  But at least they were quiet.

Tuesday 22

Yay, a day of sunshine.  I sat out in the garden and worked on my laptop.  Fresh air.  Blue sky.  Birdsong.  Watching the plants grow as I typed. 

This is how I imagined working at home, making the most of the weather instead of being stuck in some dusty office wishing I was outside, wishing I was at home instead of at work.  And now I am.  I'm living the dream.

Summer is going to be great!

So I’m tapping away and it’s wonderfully quiet without The Budgies screaming their heads off and making me shout at them as I backspace over and over again.  And then it suddenly occurs to me – because sometimes my brain and common sense don’t really see eye to eye – that I could bring The Budgies out with me.

Yeah, good idea.

So I hauled out the birdcage.  It’s a pretty big cage and I had to do some weird contortions to get it through the back door.  I put them on the garden table next to my laptop and they looked pretty stunned, rigid with tension, their heads high, their eyes bulging, totally and utterly silent.

For about 10 whole seconds.  And then they heard all the wild birds and they were off, screaming and squawking and getting terribly excited.  They kept staring at their new surroundings (“Oooh, it’s all green!”) and hollering when anything flew passed.  They were really funny.  And really really noisy.  I had to turn the sound up so high on my headphones I'm sure the neighbours could hear it.

I went into the house for a coffee and they instantly fell silent.  In the tree at the bottom of the garden sat several magpies, and The Budgies obviously thought, “Oh shit.  She’s gone.  We’re on our own.  With those big, nasty looking birds peering down at us.  Shut your beaks.  Don’t … move … a … muscle.”

As soon as I came back out they were off again, screaming, “Yeah, you don’t scare us you nasty looking birds, we don’t care, we’ll have you, come on!  Oh shit, she’s gone again!”

So we all got some fresh air today, which was nice.  It was different.

It was how I imagined it to be.

Wednesday 23

I haven’t worn a watch for five weeks now.  Me, the woman who can’t leave the house without knowing the exact time, who looks at her watch about a million times a day, who’s whole life revolves around arriving on time and who knows exactly what she’ll be doing at any given minute.

That was the old me, the time-poor, rushed and knackered me counting off the minutes until I could go home.  These days I don’t really care what the time is.  I don’t have to catch buses at a certain time.  I don’t have to be anywhere at a certain time.  I don’t even have to leave the house if I don’t want to (and often don’t, just for the sheer pleasure of Staying At Home All Day).

It took about four weeks for the sound of the hamster wheel to stop echoing ominously in my ears.  I imagined it right next to me, spinning fast, waiting to suck me back in and steal all my time away again.  But it didn’t.  Not yet, hopefully not ever.

Obviously this ‘alternative lifestyle’ wouldn’t suit everyone.  It wouldn’t suit people who like their social life and the interaction of work colleagues, or anyone who likes constant company.  I’m fine with my own company.  I don’t mind if the only words I speak all day are, “Will you just stop squawking you bloody budgies!” 

I pounce on Hubby as soon as he steps through the door, though, crying, “Speak to me!  I think I’ve lost the capacity for speech!”

But I’m really enjoying it.  It’s working out really well.

I’m finally starting to realize that it’s actually possible.

I can do this.

It's going to work.

Thursday 24

Remember the other week I bought a dog lead for The Budgies?  Well, today we bought them a newspaper.  Yup, a newspaper.  I was cleaning them out and went to get some clean paper, and realised I’d put it all the in the recycling bin.

So Hubby went off down the road to buy a newspaper.  For The Budgies.   “Get the cheapest,” I told him, “We’re not going to read it.  Unless you buy the Daily Mail, in which case The Budgies are going to be paperless for quite a while.”

Hubby duly returned.  With The Sun.  The Sun!  Honestly.

In it went, at the bottom of the bird cage, slightly overhung because The Budgies obviously have some kind of game going over who can poo the most on the table.

So now, as I sit here, I look over at The Budgies and I see the words ‘Skinny Bitch’ looking back at me.

The Budgies aren’t impressed.

Friday 25

Stop me if tales from the budgie cage starts to get on your nerves … sorry, what was that?  I can’t hear you.  No, really, not a thang.

Discovered something quite interesting tonight … well, interesting if you spend all day at home with just a laptop for company.  We’d been watching a film* until quite late with the lights off, so it was dark.  It isn’t normally, I like brightness that would blind a normal person, the lights are on all day in my house (I can hear your collective sharp intakes of breath).  I just like the floodlit look.

Anyway, Pete and Puff were sitting on top of the budgie cage when, still dark, we went to cover them up for the night.  I lifted up my arms in the usual way, but they didn’t move, didn’t seem to see me in fact.  I reached out to Pete and actually touched him (they’re not tactile birds, any form of human contact sends them into a frenzy of indignation).  Pete immediately fell off the top of the cage and hung upsidedown on the side, dead still.  Puff, sensing danger but not actually able to see it, dropped to the bottom of the cage like a rock and sat immobile.

Budgies are blind in the dark!  Who knew?

Well of course we couldn’t resist getting each one out and having a bit of a hold without all the squawking and feather flapping.  They were rigid in our hands.  It was like handling dead birds.  Won’t be doing that again. 

But at least we know to get them in their cage at night without running around the living room like a couple of lunatics, we just turn off the lights and prod them.  Much easier.  And also much less embarrassing.  We had a friend call late one night.  We’d just finished chasing the birds round the room (light on, blinds open) when he knocked on the door.  “I was just waiting for you to stop running around with your arms in the air,” he said.  Did I feel like a great big, red faced idiot?  Oh yeah! 

So another lesson learned – if we have to give chase, draw the blinds!!!

[*Watched Casino Royale, which I’d really been looking forward to despite not being a particular fan of James Bond films.  My interest was purely in Daniel Craig, he of the blue shorts and sexy mouth.  Sexy for the first twenty minutes or so, maybe, but then that pouting does start to get on your nerves a bit.  Good film, though, very action packed but, as with all the Bond films, a bit too contrived for my liking (c’mon, who ricochets their way down an empty lift shaft, and would a Viennese house really just slip into the water like that after its balloons have popped?)].

Saturday 26

Today I planted peppers and chillis into big pots.  In the rain.  Only it wasn’t raining hard enough (not then!) to ‘water them in’, so I actually stood there, in the garden, underneath a brolly and wearing wellies, watering them with the garden hose.

I really hope nobody saw me.

Sunday 27

Bank holiday weekend and, wouldn’t ya know, it rains.  Still.  And forever more.  Not just lazy drizzle but real monsoon down porings. 

It’s grey and its dark and it’s cold.  Really cold.  It’s the end of May and it feels like winter.

Global warming my bottom!

There’s only one thing to do on days like this.

Go back to bed ;-)

Monday 28 – BANK HOLIDAY

And still it rains, absolutely buckets down, with a gale force wind thrown in for good measure. 

We ventured out, mostly because we were both suffering from chronic cabin fever, and found ourselves sitting in the car park outside Sainsbury’s in Northfield.  I don’t know why.  As if the shock of finding ourselves outside a supermarket wasn’t bad enough, we also had the added trauma of a New Road Layout.  What have they done?  It looks nothing like the Northfield I’ve known all my life!  I hate change.

Anyway, we were that bored we actually went shopping.  But no ordinary shopping.  Oh no.  We’ve raised the families, we’ve done the piled high trolley thing, these days we sometimes go shopping just for Goodies.  And on dark, cold, miserable days like this, you need as many goodies as you can get.

There’s something deeply satisfying about wandering down the aisles, hand in hand, messing around a bit, while families with piled high trolleys wobble past you, arguing and fretting about which breakfast cereal to get.  Been there, done that!  It’s great to finally saunter round with half a basket of complete rubbish.

Why?  Because we can.

Tuesday 29

I’m not saying that Hubby is getting a bit excited about his notice period coming to an end (last day on Thursday), but he rang me up at 9 o’clock this morning to sing The Laughing Policeman to me.  All of it.  With real gusto.  I’ve never heard him so hyper or so chilled at work before. 

He should have done it a long time ago.

Wednesday 30

I was sitting here this morning, merrily typing away and planning my workload for the day ahead, when Hubby’s car suddenly pulls up in the driveway.

It was 8am!

I leapt up and scoured his body as he got out of the car, looking for any signs of blood or injury.  Fortunately there weren’t any.  So why was he home?

Hubby handed in his notice at work just under a month ago because he simply couldn’t work for his two arrogant and ignorant bosses any more.  The daily stress and pressure from these two was unbelievable.  Hubby had only two days before he officially left.

This morning, one of the bosses rang him at work at 7am and launched into his usual tirade of furious criticism.  Hubby couldn’t get a word in edgeways as the boss ranted on and on, demanding this, complaining about that, saying he was “very angry” that impossible deadlines hadn’t been met. 

Hubby looked at his phone, said, “F**k this,” and hung up.  It immediately rang again.  Hubby took out the simm card, pulled out his work keys, and handed them to an astonished work colleague.  “Here,” he said, “I’ve had enough of this.  I’m not being spoken to like that any more.”

And he left.

Good for him.  Long overdue.

He’s now on an extra-long weekend.

And so am I.

Thursday 31

In holiday mode, we watched Jeremy Kyle on tv this morning (sharp intake of breath, I never watch daytime tv,   Hubby is such a bad influence!). 

Abuse, swearing, “You gotta think o