I was on the phone telling a friend about the drive to Gambia.  “Didn’t you want to go?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” I said, “But not with five men and no shower for 10 days?”

But what if women did it, we thought.  Thelma and Louise style (but without the death and the chasing police and all that).

Now that sounded interesting.

“It would have to be in a pink car, of course,” said my friend.  “A convertible.”

“With a trailer on the back with a luxury shower.”

“And we’d only play chick music like Pretty Woman and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

“And we’d have beehive hairstyles and wear 50s style dresses, and shriek a lot.”

“And throw our heads back with laughter, and go all screamy at the slightest provocation.”

“And we’d only move our arms from the elbow down.”

“And we’d get horribly lost because no one can read a map.”

“But we wouldn’t care because we’re having such a good time.”

“And because we’d picked up Brad Pitt.”

Interested women, sign up in the comments box below.

Friday 2

Hubs rang me this morning, just for a quick chat.  On impulse I said to him, “I’ll have your dinner on the table by the time you get home.”

I could hear him suck in air.  “Why?” he gasped.

“Because I’ll have finished my work and will have time to do it.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Really, dinner, on the table, when you get home.”

Silence.

“So what are you cooking?”

“Not telling you.  It’s a surprise.”

“Oh.”

Later, he rang again.  “So what’s for dinner?”  He tried to sound casual, but really, he sounded like a man about to have his spleen removed with a blunt instrument.

“Not telling you,” I giggled.

“Just give me a clue,” he persisted.

“You’ll like it.  Really.  On the table.  When you get home.”

“Ooookay.”

Later I indulged in my favourite pastime, bathing.  I’d been in there for quite a while and had no intention of getting out any time soon, I just luuuuuuuuurve my bath.  So I’m lying there, all soaked and warm and sighy, when the phone rings.  Well no constant ringing is dragging me from my favourite place, so I ignored it.  Sighed some more.  Ran more hot water.

Next thing I know there’s a sudden loud banging on the back door window (my bathroom is downstairs, next to the back door – strange, I know).  I’m a bit shocked/scared/terrified and go rigid in the water.  Ripples of terror radiate across the surface of the water.  And then a voice.  “Fastfingers,” it cries (burglar? stalker?).  “Fastfingers, I’ve left my keys at work.”

I lock the doors when I’m in the bath so I don’t go running through the living room naked and find family or friends sitting there.  I haul myself out of the bath, wrap on a towel, and go let Hubs in the door.  His first words were, “What have you done for dinner?” (having clearly worried about the prospect of me cooking all day).

I smiled my sweet, wicked smile, and showed him the kitchen table.

On which were three takeaway menus.

His relief was palpable.

Saturday 3

Have you seen these men?

It started with relief that they weren’t ringing me all day.

They didn’t ring all morning.

They didn’t ring all afternoon.

These men.  In Morocco.  Or wherever they were.

No contact from them at all.

Late afternoon I was starting to have some niggling concern, so tried calling them on their mobiles.  All of them.  And all of their phones were off.

It was then that panic hit me like a speeding truck.

I don’t know where they are, if they’re in trouble, if their phones don’t work in Africa or if they’ve been deliberately turned off.  I don’t know if they’re okay or languishing in some foreign cell.  Surely one of them could figure out how to get in touch, they have satellite communication for crying out loud.

I’m a bit worried.

Sunday 4

I knew I wasn't acting like an over-protective mother hen yesterday when, early evening, Hubs joined in the general panic fest, and he never panics, so that made me panic more.  Kept trying their phones, still all off.

Finally, at 3pm, got through to one of them.  They sounded dead casual whilst I screamed, "Where have you been?  Why haven't you phoned?"  He thought I was nagging about sending photos, but no, I just wanted wind of their vital signs.

Buggers!

Anyway, they eventually found an internet cafe and sent some photographs through - have a look.

Might actually have time to think about our holiday soon ... we're leaving for the Gambia Friday morning, and when I say Friday morning I mean 3am (gulp).  Haven't even started packing yet.

Monday 4

I haven’t had a migraine for ages.  When I feel one coming on (like cold fingers picking through the grey matter), I just casually pop a couple of tablets (worth their weight in gold, and that’s how much they cost), which turn me into a zombie (nobody notices) but stops the migraine dead in its ‘orrible tracks.  Fab.

Today, the weather got heavy.  It went all grey and muggy and suddenly lashed down with rain.  I was working in my study thinking, hmmm, I feel a bit funny … never mind, carry on.   Hmmm, my right eye feels like its had anti-freeze poured down the back of it … ignore it, it’ll go away.  Eventually half the words on my computer screen disappeared and I realised I should maybe become an extra for Sean of the Dead (the funny version, of course). 

So I pop a pill or two, clean my glasses to get rid of the blur (only its not on my glasses, its caused by the anti freeze), and wait for it to pass whilst still typing, blind and a bit slow, which may have been a mistake. 

The drugs don’t work, they just bring you down, and I want to see the world again.

I had a migraine of EPIC proportions.  Brought on, no doubt, by the heavy weather front, my determination to Carry on Working, and the cheese on toast I’d had for lunch.

Oh the pain, the paaaaaaaaaaaaaain!

I always tell people, a migraine is not a headache.  A headache is a bit of pain in your head, a migraine is a really big drill cracking open your skull and then pulling out your brain matter, whisking it all up into a bowl and pouring it back in again to set.  In fact, a migraine feels just like this:

Just so you know what I'm talking about.

My whole head just throbbed and writhed and radiated agony.  I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think at all, in fact.  I staggered to my bed convinced it was a brain haemorrhage/tumour, or maybe Lupus.  Hubs came home, said it wasn’t Lupus, said I should stop watching House.  I pushed my hand out from beneath the duvet towards him and croaked, “Drugs. Get … me … drugs.” 

Hubs, being the practical sort, actually read the pill box, which is full of dire warnings about not talking too many or you go into a kind of vegetative state (again, would anyone notice?).  I just keep taking them until I feel well again, but Hubs declared that I couldn’t have any more as he quite likes a wife who can form complete sentences, even if she doesn’t make much sense most of the time.  I grabbed at his body, pulled him down to my dry, trembling lips, and croaked, “Drugsssssssssssssss!  Give me drugssssssssssssssssss!”

A decade and a half later, Hubs returned to my bedside with … an Ibuprofen, one of.  One.  “This is all you’re allowed to have,” he said, kind of smugly, I thought, considering he wasn’t, at that precise moment, having his brain drilled out.

I don’t remember much after that, I think I was taken over to the Other Side and given a good kicking.  In the head.

Tuesday 5

Hangover of the farkin'-'ell-kill-me-now variety, which seems a bit unfair considering I hadn’t downed 15 litres of pure alcohol.

Could barely remember my own name, and when I coughed or sneezed or moved my head in any way, my entire brain exploded.  And all my innards had somehow been cast adrift and were all flopped limply and quiveringly over my rib cage.  And talking seemed immensely difficult so I didn’t bother answering the phone.  And everything was kind of surreal and dreamlike, which I kinda liked.

Worked anyway - I don’t listen, I just type the words in my head … my sore, battered, barely functioning head.

And gave my migraine pills a severe talking to (“What the hell is wrong with you?  Since when don’t you work, eh?  When?  You miserable bunch of pink tablets!  I take you everywhere with me, show you love and respect, pay and arm and a leg for each and every one of you, and how do you repay me?  By doing nothing!  Pah!  You’re useless, get out of my sight.  No wait!  I have a blur!  Oh, its a smudge on my glasses, get out of my sight.”).

Wednesday 6

Some bits in the news that caught my attention today (now that I can think again):

A NEW PLANET IS DISCOVERED IN THE SOLAR SYSTEM:  There’s us, searching all over the universe for exciting new orbs, and there it is, hiding right in our back garden, peeking out at us from behind Pluto and waving ‘Yoooo Hoooo’.  Tsk.  Billions of pounds of interplanetary exploration wasted because its shy (don’t look at me, I’m shy).

MIT alleges flaws in Gehry building: Bwha ha ha ha!  Coffee sprayed over screen, tears running down face, unable to draw breath!  Alleges?  Just look at it!  Its crumpled cardboard stuffed into a space between blocks that was obviously smaller than the designer realised, stiffened with concrete and a few windows thrown at it.  I mean, does it even sympathetically blend with the existing buildings? (still trying to draw breath).  You’d be walking quite happily down a street, turn a corner, see this, and not know whether to phone your optician or a psychiatrist.  Did anyone ever actually say, “Hmmm, yeah, drawing (in crayon!) looks good, let’s build it.” 

This is clearly the result of some crazed architect high on meths or drugs or alcohol or (looking again) all three after a 15 day bender.  If you were a resident you’d have to tell people, “I live in that building that looks like it’s been hit by a missile” and have to keep a straight face.

Kirsty Allsop: “Now I’m going to show you a flat that’s a little crazy, a little off the wall (a lot off the wall actually), but I want you to consider it before you start running off for comfortable Surrey.”

How would you hang pictures?  Are there groups of people standing outside with their eyes bulging, their jaws hanging, all gasping "What.  The.  Fark.  Is.  That?"  Does Dr Seuss live there?

YOU DON’T NEED PILLS TO BEAT INSOMNIA:  Very true.  What you need is a half litre of whisky, a strenuous mattress workout, and that other half litre of whisky.  Works a treat.  And pills don't work anyway (see Migraine Malfunction above, the bastards ... oops, profanity, blame the drugs, I do).

THE GOVERNMENT PLAN TO BUILD 3 MILLION NEW HOMES:  Yes, but where?

Mills slates 'skinflint' Sir Paul:  Do we care?  Honestly, do we give a c**p about anything this intensely irritating and whiny woman says or does?  If the husband I love (madly, truly, deeply) was rich (another laughing fit) and left me, I wouldn’t be shrieking “Gimme money!”, I’d be (a) a bit bloody surprised actually, and (b) a complete wreck (but stoically carry on to the strains of some emotional music in soft focus).  I certainly wouldn't whine 'He hit me!' like a three year old, I'd be wondering why, if he'd hit me, he was still breathing. Stop giving the bloody woman news time!

And that ends the Brummie Blogs newscast.  Goodnight.

[Come back for the final post tomorrow.  Yes, final.  The Last One.  Like totally the last one, dude.  Before I go on holiday for a week. Phnar phnar.]

Thursday 8

My most favourite part of the day is first thing in the morning, when I shuffle into my study and turn on the light, the water heater, the radiator and my laptop.  And when I’ve done all this, I sit in my comfortable Ikea chair and look out of my window to see the sun rise outside my Room With A View.

Just faaaaaaabulous

And this is my chair, which is going to be awfully lonely and sad for the next few days whilst I galavant off half way down the world.  But the laptop is coming with me, baby.  Oh yeah.

These are also coming with us.  Some of you may remember our previous travelling companions who, sadly, went missing in the Gambia in March.  We haven’t fully recovered.  But we’ve found replacements.  Meet ..

Custard and Tickly

Yes, I know, we're utterly sad gits, but what can we do.

Can’t stop, and the reason why is succinctly described in an email I just sent to a friend, who I was supposed to meet for lunch this week:

“There's no way I can make it into Birmingham today – been trying all week.  Haven't even packed yet!  Been trying to clear up all my work, take phonecalls from the men-types (who have broken down in Mauritania), update their website before I leave, and get the house child-proofed because granddaughter is staying while we're away (not just granddaughter, her parents too).  Have I mentioned I haven't packed yet.? And the phone keeps ringing.  And this dictation I'm typing up sounds like it was recorded underneath a big waterfall.  AND I STILL HAVEN'T PACKED!

Can you sense the rising panic?  I could do with a drink! 

AAAAAAAAARGH!

And again, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Right, better berluddy pack!  We're off to The Gambia in less than 10 hours.

AAAAAAAAAAARGH!

I’m back!  Absolutely knackered, up to my eyeballs in washing, bracing myself for the horrors of Yet Another Birthday tomorrow (practising my screeching and chest beating in the bathroom mirror, its coming along quite nicely).  Just typing up my cryptic notes made in a rush whilst dashing over most of the Gambia (“I didn’t know you did shorthand?”  “That’s not shorthand, that’s my handwriting”), which includes:

The arrival of The Men on Saturday morning, all of them sunburned, starving and utterly exhausted. 
They did it!  I almost burst with pride and awe.

A Remembrance Sunday I’ll never forget.

Drinking gin and tonics on the lawn of the High Commissioner’s house (get us!).

Just having a really great time with five men and two fabulous laydees from the Birmingham Mail
(their articles here).

 Until then, back to the wailing … AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

UPDATE: Struggling to catch up with everything, mostly work (of which there is loads), but also ploughing through the washing pile, suffering the trauma of Yet Another Birthday, and now we have some kind of flu bug too (oh, and I pulled a muscle in my arm so I can only lift it from the elbow down, so I look like a right girlie!).  I'll update as soon as I can (there's some fabulous photographs).  If you want an email when I've finally got my posterior in gear, send your email address to bhamsecretary@gmail.com.  All good things are worth waiting for
;-) 

(UPDATED UPDATE: Done it!  Here.)

Still haven’t had time to write up the African holiday - so much to tell and so little time.  I’ll post it when I can, but until then, here’s what’s happened since we came back.

Saturday 17

First day home and we slobbed.  Oh how we slobbed.  And stared at the suitcases (still packed), and lethargically tidied up a bit.  But mostly we just slobbed.  Jet lagged even though Gambia is in the same time zone as the UK.  Exhausted even though we’d just spent 12 hours pretty much motionless in one tiny seat or another (if animals were treated like passengers on planes, the RSPCA would be in uproar).

The budgies were trilled to see us back.  Not!  They didn’t get excited or come shooting out of their cage towards us or acknowledge us in any way.  God, budgies are boring.

Small Son was glad to see us though.  I’d tell you about his outraged indignation when Middle Son came to stay last weekend and “Ate all our food!”, but Middle Son reads this and I don’t have the strength for his indignant sarcasm in my comments box.

Berluddy nice to be home.  There is nothing in life more fantastic than sleeping in your own bed in your own house (and the constant sound of the washing machine struggling to cope with all the sand-laden laundry).

Sunday 18

We were watching a film tonight and I was flicking between the different size screens on the tv.  “Look,” I said to Hubs, “There’s no difference between Cinerama and Zoom 1.  Watch, Cinerama and Zoom 1, Cinerama and Zoom 1, Cinerama and Zoom 1.”

Hubs, wide eyed and mesmerised by the flashing screen, said “Just pick one before I have a fit.”  

I laughed so much I had to go to the loo.  As I passed the back door overlooking the garden, I screamed, “HUBS!  COME HERE!  QUICK!”

He came skidding across the kitchen, obviously thinking I was being attacked or mugged or had done something stupid like fallen off the back step and broken a limb.  “What?” he cried.

“Look,” I said (again).

I pointed outside.  He stood next to me, both of us peering through the glass in the back door in wonderment, watching the snow falling from the sky.

November 18^th and its snowing!  

We’ve gone from sweating buckets in 90+ degrees heat to minus 3 degrees in the space of 48 hours.  I’ll be surprised if we don’t get pneumonia.  

But the snow was pwetty.

Monday 19

Well, this is it.  The Day.  Misery Day. The ‘how berluddy old am I?” Day.   

My Birthday.

Sigh. WAH!  Sniff.

Actually, didn’t feel too bad because Hubs (unable to bear the thought of me ringing him at work to wail and rant and bawl about how old I am now … I’ve decided on 42 by the way), took the day off work to calm my hysteria.  He bought me possibly the biggest birthday card on the planet – they were all lined up on the mantelpiece; card, card, card, what-the-hell?   

He took me out to buy a birthday present of my choice.  I stepped outside the front door, saw a pile of snow still languishing in our driveway, and put my smooth boot in it to make a neat size five footprint.  Boot skidded across the snow, I did the splits, threw up my arms to save myself from certain death, and pulled a muscle.  I now have an arm hanging limply from my shoulder that I’m only able to lift from the elbow, so I look like a right girlie.

Hubs took me into town.  It was rather exciting going back to the Big City again, haven’t been near the place in months (well, not since the Mayor's presentation anyway).  It was lunchtime and it was busy.  Really busy.  The German Market was there, and all the streets were heaving with office workers and crowds already in a Christmas shopping frenzy.

“How on earth did I stand this every lunchtime?” I said, as we stood at the beer bar in the middle of New Street, staring at the thousands of people rushing towards us like a tidal wave of bodies.

Partaking of a leisurely drink midst the maelstrom
(If you're in this pic, you win a Brummie Blogs fridge magnet!)

“They’re all wearing black,” Hubs said.

“That’s the uniform,” I told him.  “Black suits, black coats, black hats, de rigueur office wear for the modern city slicker.” (Note the pic - yep, wearing black).

It was manic.  It almost felt like I’d never been in a big city before.  I’d forgotten about the pushchairs that come at you like attacking tanks, the office workers bashing passed you in their haste to get where they’re going, the screaming children who so do not want to be there with their screaming mothers, and the stunned-looking pensioners.  I’d forgotten all about surly shop assistants, the extortionate price of coffee, the noise and the sheer multitudes of people.

Despite the onslaught on senses which have been soothed by months of home working, made it to HMV in one piece, and then just went mad.  We love DVDs.  We especially love DVDs on special offer, so got lots of those.  And then, the piéce de résistance, Hubs got me (wait for it, wait for it) House III.  Yesssss!  My life is complete!  Hunky Hugh Laurie, come to mamma! 

Just because ... it's my blog and I want him on it (swoon)

Hubs treated himself to 24 Day 6.  So that’s us set up in the winter evenings for a couple of weeks.

“Shall we go into Waterstones?” I asked as we staggered down Corporation Street with our bags.   

Hubs usually goes pale when I ask this and splutters things like, “Do we have time?” or “Can you afford it?” or mostly, “Oh God!”  But today was my birthday, so in we went and I just looked at books and touched books and bought books and drooled a lot (and spent a lot).  It was marvellous.  I want to be buried in Waterstones, in the psychology section so people can stand on me and think, “What went wrong there then?”

All in all - what with mommy coming, daddy coming, Small Son and granddaughter coming, even Big Son coming (I thanked his girlfriend for the card and pressie since I never ever got one before she arrived) - its been a pretty good birthday.  I was deluged with some rather nice gifts, including Guatemalan Worry Dolls from Small Son and a teddy that was born on our wedding day from Marmee.

And not a single tear was shed.

Tuesday 20

Aaaand back to work.  But not like the old days, where I’d have to iron clothes and dress smart(ish) and catch a bus in the wind and the rain and sit, damp and bored, in an office all day.  I didn’t have that feeling of utter dread I normally get after a holiday about climbing on that hamster wheel and Going Back To Work.  It was just another day.  At home.  In the study.

Only I haven’t typed for 11 whole days, and my fingers are stiff and clearly have no memory of ever having seen a keyboard before.   

At least I have work.  Quite a lot of it in fact.  It’s just a pity that I’m working like a sloth on Valium, staring at my fingers and saying, “Come on, guys, you know what to do.”  They claim they don’t.  I think they’re on a go-slow for a manicure or something.

I could have typed faster with my tongue. 

[Talking of fingers:  being the fastest typist in the West Midlands means I have ‘well-muscled’ digits, like 10 mini body builders on the end of my hands.  Okay, I’ll admit it, I have fat fingers.  My sister has long slim ones with perfect talons that could scratch your eyes out at thirty paces, but I’ve been genetically lumbered with stubby ones, made even stubbier from years of pounding on a keyboard.  In Gambia, one of the hunky drivers looked at my fingers and said, “Are they swollen from the heat?”  Hastily shoving the offending digits in my pockets, I found myself saying (lying), “Yeah, the heat, swollen, tsk.”  They weren’t swollen, they’re just ‘big-boned’.]

Wednesday 21

I was working in the study, fingers fortunately limbered up and typing properly again.  Every time I paused the audio, I could hear the budgies flapping their wings at the bottom of the stairs (we’ve moved them out of the living room because they’re simply too farkin noisy).  I just thought they were quite lively today, and carried on typing.

A couple of minutes later, when I paused the audio, I realised they were still flapping.  Quite a lot.  A lot more than normal.

I got up and peered down the stairs.  Pete (the big bugger who thinks he’s a pigeon), was clinging onto the side of the cage, just flapping his wings for no apparent reason, too fat and idle to bother flying up and down the hallway.  I went back to work.

A few minutes later he was still at it, and I went down the stairs to give him a good talking to.

It was then that I noticed he was in the same position on the side of the cage.  And seemed to be flapping because he was stuck.

He looked very distressed.

I tried to pick him up, but he wouldn’t move.  He was caught.  Small Son had put a hair band on the cage for them to play with, and Pete had only gone and got his head stuck in it.

It was tight around his neck.

It was one of those moments when the adrenaline kicks in and you move a lot faster than you normally do but everything seems in slow motion.  I couldn’t get Pete’s head out of the hair band and, as I held him, he suddenly went limp.  Exhausted.  And dying.

I had to leave him hanging there as I sprinted across the living room, grabbed a pair of scissors, and sprinted back.  Took about three seconds.  Pete wasn’t moving any more, he was just lying motionless against the bars.  I picked him up again and forced the scissors between the hair band and his neck, trying not to cut off his leg or his head.

Snip, and he was free.  But still limp.  I placed him carefully on the open door of his cage and stroked him, spoke to him.  After a few seconds he regained consciousness and hopped into his cage, panting a bit but looking okay.

Phew.

Pete didn’t seem grateful or anything, in fact he glared at me like it was all my fault.  I looked at the others, his buddies, all silent, not a peep whilst he’d been struggling for life.  Far from being alarmed that one of their own was being strangled right outside their cage, frantically flapping his wings to escape and coming close to death, they were … asleep.

It was like that scene from The Time Machine where that woman almost drowns in the river whilst others look on idly.  They weren’t the least bit bothered that Pete had almost died.

It confirmed all my suspicions that budgies are just stoopid.

Removed every dangly thing from the cage that might cause injury to stoopid budgies.

The advantages of being self employed and working from home are:

• You're your own boss: do what you want, when you want, and maybe fit in a bit of cleaning or ironing between 'incoming', whatever floats your boat.
• You work your own hours (once you've settled into a routine that doesn't involve frantically running yourself into the ground trying to earn the same as you did in the city just to justify yourself).
• You can take time off when you want: don't feel like it today? Just let your companies know you're having a duvet day and there's no questions or recriminations.

The disadvantages are:

• You take time off, you don't earn da dosh.

Consequently, I'm trying to catch up from having 11 days of no earnings.  I've so far almost caught up with enough to pay the bills, but nothing extra for Crimbo yet (MS: take note).  Hence the fact that I'm not posting, I'm too busy trying to earn some dosh so that my poor, deprived children can have something on Christmas day, even if its only an orange and an uncracked nut (which is what I used to get in my stocking - cue violins).

In the meantime, while you patiently wait for Fastfingers to get her berluddy act together, here's something that totally cracked me up (and yes, I've just learned to resize YouTube because I have a chronic pathological aversion to pixels) ... enjoy.

Thursday 22

Work work work work work work.

And some bug or other.  Hubs says it Man Flu (well he would) and is valiantly struggling to work every day despite feeling (and looking) like a limp lettuce.  I call it ‘a bit of  a cold thing going on’ and sniffle in my Ikea chair all day.  Hubs thinks we caught it off the plane air conditioning, I think it might have something to do with plummeting from 90 plus degrees temperature to close to zero.  Hubs is taking medication, I’m just groaning a lot (whilst Hubs screams Take some medication will ya!)

It’s probably pneumonia. 

Or … it could be Lupus!

I have ALL of these symptoms!!!

Friday 23

Worked.

And groaned.

A lot.

Isn't this just fab!  I want one!

Saturday 24

It’s no good, we can’t carry on like this any more.  Time to Give In to the sickness that has haunted us since we got back from holiday and let it run its course.  I’m all for battling through like the toughies that we are, but sometimes you just have to let go and submit.

And boy, did we submit.

Okay, we dashed out for some provisions in the Absolute Freezing Cold first.  Man, it was bitter out there.  But as soon as we got back we leapt into bed, pulled the duvet up to our chins, rested our aching bodies against the Giant Pillows, and Gave In Big Time.

There is no illness that a man with a temperature of 102 and a good bed can’t cure.

Along with six solid hours of Saturday afternoon television (mostly shopping channels tsk) and several bouts of comatosed sleeping.

Felt much better afterwards.

Sunday 25

Having finished watching House III (waaaaaa, my life is over … oh get a grip), we’ve now started watching 24 Day 6.  More hubby’s ‘thang’ than mine – all that violence, all that He-Man stuff and Only Jack Bauer Can Save The World type heroics.  A woman would do it all in much less time and with much less fuss (plus she’d also find time for a manicure and a spot of retail therapy).

So anyway, Jack Bauer staggers off a plane after spending 20 months in some Chinese hell-hole being battered a lot.  His American ‘buddies’ (who couldn’t be bothered to save him from the Chinese prison before they needed him to save the world), sit him down and dump all their problems on him while he’s still recovering from jet-lag and trauma.  Give the man a cup of tea for God’s sake!

“I need to wash up,” an incredibly bushy Jack says, and they give him … a small bowl.  Next scene, Jack is clean shaven and well scrubbed … from a bowl.  Yeah, okay, this is men’s stuff, men don’t bother about 20 months of grime and acres of split ends.  A woman (let’s call her Jackeline) would have demanded a shower, soft towels, decent shampoo, a femme razor, body lotion, Simple soap, underarm, pair of tweezers, some hair dye, a hair stylist, manicurist, masseuse and a selection of outfits from a top designer store.

“Sorry,” say Jack’s American ‘buddies’, “I know we’ve just rescued you from the Chinese, but the Albanian terrorists want you now.”  And Jack says okay, for the sake of my country and saving the entire planet and all that.

Jackeline would have gone, “Excuse me!  You want to hand me over to Albanian terrorists? I want to see my lawyer!  Like now.”

Suddenly Jack is zooming all over the place in an assortment of cars, screaming, “Trust me,” and “Now!” a lot.  The Albanians have stabbed him and punctured a lung and almost cut his finger off, but he’s fine.  Really, fine.  Jackeline would, by now, be screaming, “I’ve broke a farkin’ nail God damn it!  Kill the b****rds!”

Jack deliberately crashes into a car.  Jackeline can do this, absolutely no problem, though not intentionally [sharp intake of breath from the feminists there … tsk, such stereotyping]. 

Jack violently interrogates a suspect.  Jackeline would just tickle him into submission (you know how terrible it is being tickled relentlessly, you’ll admit to anything to make it stop). 

Jack chases baddies down streets, Jackeline wouldn’t even attempt it in heels. 

Jack makes phonecalls and says things like, “I’m sorry, Mr President, I don’t have time, they’re about to set the bomb off.”  Jackeline would say, “Hi Pressie babes, how you doing today?  Bomb?  Oh, that’s all sorted, don’t you worry about it.  Bit of nail file twiddling and it was all over.”

Jack will be running and chasing and crashing and screaming and throwing people against walls for 24 hours.  Jackeline only covers the 8 hour period as stated in her corporate contract, anything extra is double time plus free membership to BUPA.

Jack Bauer does 24 hours like a right drama queen.

Jackeline does 8 hours and calmly sorts everything out.  Just like a woman.

I like it.

Monday 26

Something terrible happened today.  Really terrible.

I happen to be married to a rather tall, rather handsome, rather hunky husband who has an enormous sense of humour and also talks rather nice.  He talks Yorkshire.  But he works at a steel stockholders in Halesowen with loads of Yammies*.

Tonight, when he came home from work, he said someone had told him where we could get the extra-wide doors we need for our living room. 

Even as he said it, something didn’t seem quite right, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.  It was like the earth had tilted a bit too much on its axis without knowing why, like the surreal had merged with the real but you’re not fully aware of it, like … oh you get the picture.

It was only later, when I was lying in my beloved bath, that it suddenly occurred to me what was wrong.

“Hubs!” I yelled.

“What?” he yelled back from the living room.

“How do Yorkshire people say door?”

Curious, he came into the bathroom.  “What?”

“How do Yorkshire people say door?” I repeated.

“Dour,” he said.

“Ah ha!” I blurted, splashing water onto the floor in a fit of indignation.  “So how come earlier you were saying doo-wer?”

He laughed.

“No!” I cried, splashing more water in a fit of misery, “You’re starting to talk Black Country!”

The wailing echoed off the tiles for quite a while.

Its not that I have anything against the Black Country accent, far from it.  But I married a Yorkshireman with a Yorkshire accent, not some northern/yammie hybrid.  If I’d wanted Black Country or Brummie Man I’d have gone to the nearest pub instead of zooming 135 miles up the motorway on my motorbike in the middle of the night in January to meet someone rather interesting from the picturesque village of Bradford.

I’m sending him back for dialect lessons at the earliest opportunity.

Hubs, too ashamed to show his face after calling a 'dour' a 'doo-wer'
[I am your huuuuusbaaaaaand]

* Yammie

[Also today, Radio WM rang me to ask if I’d appear live on the Ed Doolan show tomorrow to talk about people keeping diaries.  That’ll be a no.  I do the writey thang, not the speaky thang – listen here for proof of my limitations.]

Oh, and thanks to Debby, who sent me this rather scenic picture of some birds which apparently made her think of me!

Oh, and one final final final thang.  Girls, brace yourself.  I'm about to show you something that verges very close to perfection.  From the same blog that gave you pictures of Hugh Laurie and David Duchovny wearing a teacup, I'm going to show you something that will have you palpitating, perspiring profusely, dribbling a bit and possibly gibbering incoherently.  Men, look away now or forever be gripped by desolation and loss of the will to live ... click here to avoid the girlie screaming and general hysteria.

Girls of Brummie Blogs, are you ready? ...

... Honestly, once you see this, your jaw will drop to the floor with a clank ...

     ... You won't be able to catch your breath.  It truly is that wonderful ...

          ... beautiful ...

               ... just the Most Amazing Thing you'll have seen in a long long time.

                     ... this is Pioneer Woman's daily life ...

                         ... Yes, some lucky lucky woman actually experiences this Every Single Day! ...

                              ... Women who draw breath, I give you ...

REAL COWBOYS

   
www.thepioneerwoman.com www.thepioneerwoman.com www.thepioneerwoman.com

Oh!  My!  God!  KWOAR and all things wunnerful!  Goooooood grieeeeeeeeef!  Hubba HUBBA! Man alive!  And again, KWOAR!  This picture has everything a red blooded woman wants or needs or dreams about - hunky men, cowboy hats (pant), chaps wearing chinks, real cowboy boots, genuine cowboy jeans, dust, heat, hunkiness, just lots and lots of hunkiness ... (wait while I mop my brow and learn to breathe again).  AND there's more hunky cowboyness over at Pioneer Woman - but please check with your doctor before venturing there ... don't say you haven't been warned!

To my husband: I love you dearly, but Look At It!  This is John Wayne territory with knobs on, this is Tombstone times a thousand.  Oh, and you'll be getting a cowboy hat for Christmas, babes - brace yerself!

THE END (Men, don't look up.  No!  I said don't look up!)

Tuesday 27

I love working at home, as you’ve probably gathered.  I don’t use an alarm clock, I wake up naturally.  I don’t wear a watch, not quite sure where it is any more, and I'm hard pushed to know what day it is.  I don’t have a mobile phone (well I do but its flat from disuse), and don’t have any timetable or rigid routine to adhere to.  True, I don’t get paid as much as a ‘proper’ job, but I never leave the house to spend anything either (which is fine by me!). 

I also have time to surf the internet without feeling guilty that my boss will catch me.  Here's a laugh-out-loud article I found about working from home.  In fact, this bloke’s whole website is just pure brilliance on a computer screen.  Here's someone else's home working experience, some tips for working at home, and some pros and cons.

And then there’s this …

Working At Home - The funniest movie is here. Find it

This hasn’t actually happened to me, but I did walk into the study the other day to launch myself at Hubs at the computer.  Fortunately I realised just in time that he was ‘Skyping’ his daughter in Cyprus on the webcam (so pretty glad I didn’t shimmy my boobs in his face).

Wednesday 28

Had some work from my third outsourcing company today.  A Word table thing, several tiny audio files of a minute or two each, with a man speaking at twice the speed of sound.  Did it, sent it back, they emailed me to say:

1. Could I round up the audio files and charge for the lowest minute (i.e. for one minute 29 seconds, I charge for one minute instead of two, which adds up when there’s quite a few like that ).
2. As the table template has an identity issue (thinks it’s an aeroplane), could I type it out, copy it all, paste it into a new document and retype the stuff that’s gone funny.

Now, considering I only get paid a pittance for this kind of work, I was a bit peeved that there were all sorts of ‘caveats’ attached to the little bleeders.  Instead of replying in a peeved kind of manner (“What?  You want me to pither about and not charge the full amount and work on dodgy templates and retype stuff?”), I went for the humorous approach:

ME: “Template clearly has a bit of a personality disorder - Word tables were only created to drive a generation of secretaries round the bend.  Do you have any hunky, chunky stuff?”

THEM: No hunky chunky stuff today I’m afraid. I might have some medicals coming through which I believe you’re not too keen on! [I like the sarcasm, since medicals don’t pay all that well either and I asked for more dosh last time I did one, which they weren’t best pleased about]

ME: That's the choice, neurotic tables or (gasp) medical transcriptions?

THEM:  Yes.

So I guess I’m back to working for just two outsourcing companies then.

[Birmingham bus smashes into tree.  I initially thought, when I saw this headline, that the driver must have been a WM Travel fetus who didn't have the strength to turn the wheel, but it turns out the driver wasn't actually in the bus when it rolled off down a hill.  You're just grateful to survive public transport most of the time.]

Thursday 29

We’re still watching 24 Day 6, which seems to be exactly the same as Day 5 actually, but what do I know, I’m just a gurl.  While Hubs is rivetted to the screen, I’m now watching it purely for the humour value … there’s only so many times a man can save America, be tortured and not notice, and yell “Trust me!” or “Now!” before it all starts wearing a bit thin.  I mean, is Jack the only man in CTU/the USA/the world who can do this stuff?  I keep having to pause the DVD to wipe the tears of laughter/disbelief from my eyes.

JACK (on phone to boss at CTU): “Bill, it’s Jack.  I’ve just escaped from an exploding house, chased down the baddies concerned, killed one and apprehended the other by throwing him against a fence and leaning on him.  Saved the woman.  Diagnosed the bullet wound of my colleague, he’ll survive but send an ambulance, now!  I have a clue to the whereabouts of the Big Baddie and I’ll follow that, probably in a helicopter, so send a helicopter, now!  Get Chloe to link me to the Air Force, the navy, the President and the nearest Pizza Hut.  Order me a margarita and have it delivered to the corner of West 2^nd and 3^rd, now!  My nephew’s being held by my dad, who’s a baddie, and I’ll go and rescue him after I’ve eaten and taken a leak up the nearest wall.  Update the President as to the existence of another 15 stink bombs, don’t forget its your wife’s birthday tomorrow - get her something nice, she likes perfume, possibly Chanel No.5 which they’ve got on special offer at SuperDrug at the moment - and make sure IT at CTU defrag the system before they go home tonight.”

BOSS: “Jack, are you sure?”

JACK: “Trust me!  I’ll have it all sorted by the end of this series.”

BOSS: “Be careful, Jack.”

JACK: “No problem, I’m signed up for another three series after this one, nothing’s going to happen to me, I promise you.”

And then later, all the scheming top knobs are in the White House, but one’s missing (tied up in the basement by other scheming top knobs).  The top dog top knob shouts, “Search the building!  Find him!” and people immediately go scurrying off to look for him.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he does that at home.  “I can’t find my car keys!  Find them!” and people go scurrying all over his house.  Or in the supermarket: “I can’t find the Heinz beans!  Find them!”  Or in the bedroom: “I can’t find my wife’s erogenous zones!  Find them!” 

I think we could all do with a small army of Find Them! people at our beck and call.  Might be a niche in the market ... I'll look into it ...

Friday 30

It’s the last day of my working month, so nothing happened today apart from me typing really fast to make up for my holiday*.  It’s amazing how much you can do when you put your mind to it.  It also helps that I’m transcribing some rather interesting corporate stuff – something went wrong in a company and they’re interviewing all the staff to find out what happened; “It was nothing to do with me,” and “It was all Mike’s fault!” features rather a lot.  It’s like typing up a soap opera, and I’m whizzing through them to find out who the next interviewee is going to blame and earning quite a lot in the process.

*The Missing Link (aka the time I buggered off on holiday to the Gambia) will be posted in all its Technicolor glory on Monday.  That’s Monday.  Don’t miss it.  No, really, don’t miss it because I’ll be asking questions after and you don’t want to look like like you're not paying attention. J

Anyone been having trouble emailing me?  If you’ve emailed me and I haven’t replied, I’m not being rude.  Try my business address (oooh that sounds posh dunnit) … bhamsecretary@gmail.com.

Two five insane brave mates completed their drive from Birmingham to Banjul in Gambia (Africa) on 10 November 2007.  A blow by blow account of their 4,000 mile drive through Spain, Morocco, Western Sahara and Senegal is here. 

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. 

CLICK THIS >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>