September?!!  Already?  Argh!  My life on fast forward … still!

We’ve been busy the last few weekends.  3 weekends ago I worked for most of it while Hubs went oop north to visit family.  2 weekends ago we used quite a lot of emotional energy trying not to bicker whilst decorating the bedroom together.  Last weekend Middle Son and pretty much the rest of the family came to visit, which was fabulous, but again, a bit exhausting.

This weekend, the plan was to Do Nothing.  Absolutely Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Not a Thing.

Okay, we had to do a bit of shopping first (“I’m not going near any supermarket!” I cried).  Bought newspaper and mincemeat (oh, and a bottle of whisky), the staple necessities of life as far as I’m concerned.  Man cannot live by bread alone, but I find he can survive quite well with a newspaper and a bottle of whisky (the mincemeat was just a luxury item).

Then what did we do?  Well, last weekend we went to Currys for their ‘special offer’ 19” flat screen tv for the newly decorated bedroom, only they’d sold out and we ended up buying this berluddy enormous 27” screen.  Yes, we were that married couple in Currys you see every weekend, inspecting screens from every angle and constantly asking each other, “What do you think?”  In the end it was Hubs, driven to the edge of insanity by an endless choice of tv sets and my chronic reluctance to use the credit card, who cried, “Get the big one on special offer, we hardly ever buy anything, just get that one!”  So we did.  (Hubs, incidentally, is the one who keeps taking me to DFS and World of Leather, utterly convinced that our lives are not complete unless we buy new sofas to replace our divinely comfortably but scruffy ones … I haven’t yet succumbed … I just can’t get into this spend-a-fortune consumerism thing that everyone raves about).

Anyway, I digress.  Shopped for 20 minutes, then we came home and locked the doors and drew the blinds and … went to bed!  At midday!  On the new sheets.  With the specially bought tv cushions (Land of the Giants size).  And we watched tv ALL DAY.  We just lay there, whilst below us the house remained in disarray, and Made Like Teenagers (we slobbed, we watched, we yakked, we slept).  It was faaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous.  All afternoon.  Oh the bliss of being idle.

I can’t begin to describe how relaxing and comfortable (and illicit and guilt-making) we felt, doing nothing, ignoring all the boring domestic stuff, and laughing our socks off at the newly discovered shopping channels (where do they find these presenters, they’re all like bingo callers on drugs).

At 6pm we hauled our lazy bodies downstairs, to watch tv again (our brains are overcooked cabbages, but oh, the chill factor).  Hubby cooked his curry while I indulged in a bout of whisky tasting.

We now have not a single iota of stress or exhaustion or care in our bodies.  I highly recommend it for everyone, once a week, to spend an entire afternoon in bed (get rid of the kids, throw the pets outside, lock those doors and just chill).

We are so doing that again.

Sunday 2

NEWSFLASH: That Kate Humble face-tearing experience is on again tonight, Ultimate Caving, BBC2, 6.00pm.  Watch and be amazed and terrified.  (If you miss it, clip here ).

After yesterday’s slob fest, today we did a kind of diluted replay.  I ‘played’ on my computer updating websites and resisting my obsession with Freecell.  Hubby, ever the Yorkshireman, was outside with his power tools.  We want our giant tv screen on the bedroom wall, but Hubs had to be supported when the whippersnapper at Currys said the brackets were £100 (“£100!” Hubs cried, “I just want a bracket, not shares in the company!”).  He spent the day outside in the garden, meticulously making his own bespoke bracket with the aid of a drill, a workbench, a sander and an arc welder (“Don’t look at it!” he kept shouting every time I went outside, and when I started to water the hanging baskets he went all apoplectic on me and hollered, “Would you mind not spraying water over my arc welder, it’s a bit bloody dangerous!”)

Stage 1: Get out all power tools, leave house to buy more power tools, spend all afternoon constructing bits of metal in a loud and sparky way.

Stage 2: Apparently essential to stick tongue out whilst constructing bits of metal.  Look at those sparks fly!

Stage 3: End up with welded, slotted, angled bits of metal (struggle to find something positive to say about it: 'It's nice'? 'It's ... good'? 'What the hell is it exactly?')

Stage 4: TV on wall.  Sigh with amazement, heap praise on Hubs, cross fingers and hope it doesn't fall down (no of course it won't, it'll be there long after the world ends, that bracket).

Another Hubby Masterpiece of structural engineering and tight-fisted ingenuity.

Bits of metal: Free from work
Electricity used: £50
New power tools: £12
Time taken: Infinite (or so it seemed as the sound of arch welding and grinding echoed endlessly around the neighbourhood)
Sense of job well done: Priceless

Next step, shelf for the silver boxes (no idea what they are).

Monday 3

Dentist appointment today.  Totally fed up of turning up only to be told that it has been cancelled, I made Hubs book it because the girls on reception are always pleased to see him and never cancel his appointments (tsk).

We arrived on time and approached the desk together, as a couple.  “Check ups for Smith,” said Hubs.

“Oh, Mr Smith,” the girl said with a huge smile.

Hello?  Can you not see me?  “And Mrs Smith,” I blurted, feeling very much like some dowdy old wife married to a gorgeous hunk, the wife nobody ever notices. 

“Mrs Smith?” said the girl, looking down at her appointment book (do they have a note next to my name reading See how often you can mess this woman around before she completely loses it or something?)

“Yes,” I said, “We’re together.  Joint appointment.  For the two of us.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that could she and, for the first time in eons, me and my teeth got to see a dentist.

We did indeed go in together, like a double act, Hubs trying to outdo me in the laughter stakes (but failing miserably, I’m more subtle than the gobby Yorshireman).  The dentist, having been tickled by our repartee, tickled our teeth a bit and rubbed some toothpaste over them, happily charging us over £30 for the privilege.

I hate dentists.

Raced back home because [blare of trumpets] a salesman had got through our stringent security system and was coming to ‘measure us up’ for a conservatory.  Nice bloke, knew his stuff, got us all excited about a giant monolith of glass. 

Not really!

He quoted us, tried to persuade us to have it done like now, but we’re old folk, tough folk, we know what we want, when we want it, and nobody’s going to tell us what to do.

He left without an order.

Half an hour later, the conservatory company rang up, asking when we wanted it done.  You don’t phone this house to pressurize the owners with your sales spiel without getting short shrift, I can tell you.

Tuesday 4

9.30 this morning, someone knocked on my front door.  As I was just finishing a big piece of work, I hadn’t yet got dressed [sharp intake of breath] but dashed downstairs regardless (wearing my dressing gown of course, I don’t tend to work or run around the house naked – although if I don’t get my ironing done soon I might).

There, on the doorstep, was a man.  With a box.  Quite a big box.  It had M&S written on the side of it.

“Ooooh!” I cried excitedly (these are the moments!), “What is it?”

“Flowers,” he said.

“Ooooh,” I cried again, “Flowers? For me?”  I checked the box for my name in case it was for a neighbour and I was standing there hyperventilating for nothing.  Yes!  My name! 

I’m not sure if I’ve always been like this or if working from home has reduced me to it, but there, on the doorstep, with the delivery man and a big box of flowers, I whittered.  Yes, whittered.  “Ooooh, flowers, for me, how exciting!  Isn’t it exciting!  Who are they from?  Where does it say who they’re from?  Oh isn’t it exciting!  What a nice job you have delivering boxes of flowers to excited people, you must get this kind of thing all day.”  The bloke just looked at me in a blank no love just you kind of way. 

In mid whitter, the bloke asked me to sign one of those electric boxes.  I scribbled F Jones and printed F Smith (I do this a lot, still not quite sure who I am any more, and working from home only increases the confusion).  “It’s not working!” I whittered.  “You’ve signed in the wrong place,” he sighed.

I ripped the box open on the doorstep, wearing my dressing gown, whittering endlessly.  “Oooh, who are they from?  Is this the card?  Oh isn’t it exciting!  I wonder who they’re from.  A secret admirer?”  Oh sure, a secret admirer when I never leave the house, not very likely is it.

I’m pretty sure the delivery bloke remained simply because he couldn’t believe a grown woman was making so much fuss over a bunch of flowers (or maybe he couldn’t tear himself away from my in-yer-face humbug dressing gown).  I tore off the card and opened it.

Nope, not from hubby, declaring his undying love.

Nope, not from a secret admirer.

Nope, not from a mate wondering if I’d died or something.

It was from one of my transcribing companies, thanking me for the work I’d done when she’d been on holiday.

How lovely!  How kind!  How much had I earned for her, exactly?

I sent her an email, thanking her profusely, along with a photograph of the flowers (because it’s awful when you order flowers and never get to see them).

The infamous Ikea chair in the study - trust me, its the most comfortable thing on the planet.

Made my day.

MUST get out more.

[Conservatory company rang again, yadda yadda yadda.  “What can we do to encourage you to have it done before Christmas?” they asked.  “Give it us for free,” I said.  Yep, thanks, bye.]

Wednesday 5

Sent a message to my head of department (we use Messenger to ask things like 'how do ya spell bressumer?' and 'could this dictator be any more boring?'): “I’m off to do some much needed ironing so I’ll have something to wear tomorrow.  Call me if any work comes in.”

She agreed.

I went downstairs, threw a sandwich together, watched five minutes of news, chatted to my neighbour at door eating said sandwich.

Then the phone rang.  A 25 minute dictation had come in.  As its taken me days to build up the motivation to tackle the ironing pile, I whipped it off in 35 minutes, which is pretty good going!

Raced back downstairs.  Decided to watch a new DVD series whilst I ironed, put the first disc into the player.

The phone rang.

Dragged self back upstairs to the study.  This time a 47 minute dictation by a bloke who speakssobleedingfastitshardtokeepup.

Sigh.

I gave up trying to iron, it languished crumpedly and reproachfully around the living room.  17 minutes into the fasterthanthespeedoflight dictation, I moved everything out into the back garden, figuring that fresh air and sunshine might give me motivation.

It didn’t.

27 minutes into the dictation, I was slumped like my ironing on the garden rocker, typing at arms length.  In between this superfastdictation I kept hearing a strange noise - took me a while to figure out it was actually me sighing out loud.

37 minutes in, I was fast losing the will to live.  It was never going to end, he was never going to slow down.  He kept saying inspiring things like, “Gobacktosectiontwoandtype … “ or “Godowntosectionfifteenandadd…”  I was up and down that document like a yoyo, convinced I’d be doing it until the end of time.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more satisfying in life than coming to the end of an interminable piece of work.  Hubs came home just as I was sending it off, and I cried, “TAKE ME OUT!”

Went t’pub, downed a pint of Stella, which went straight to my head and mademetalkreallyfast.

Thursday 6

I’m having a day off?  Why?  Because I can.  I worked so hard yesterday I thought, bugger it, I’m having tomorrow off.  The perks of being self employed are many.

I’m sitting here now, in my humbug dressing gown, surfing the internet to my heart’s content.  I’m looking at conservatories, trying to find one I really like.  The one from Monday is just too big and would dominate the garden.  Hubs and I discussed alternatives last night at t’pub, and he went on to Phase II of garden working.  A shed.

Hmm, a shed.  Bit woodeny, and the view would be pretty crap too.  Besides which, we already had two sheds, another one would just make it look like a Rest Home For Sheds.

Phase II, a bespoke structure made of steel and glass created by Hubs.

Hmm, I’d quite like to use it before total decrepitude sets in.

This morning, I hit upon Phase III, a proper ‘garden office’ structure.  Then I hit upon the prices and laughed for a while.

I think Phase IV is 'IT'.  A summerhouse at the bottom of the garden.  Small and cheap and glassy.

Yep, I like that idea a lot.

Started surfing the internet with the Google query: how to insulate a summerhouse.

I fear Phase V might be a canopy.

[Some interesting insights into homeworking: here and here.]

Spent the rest of the day - The Rest of the Day! - ironing!  And watching Solo, which has dated terribly but is still very good if you can get passed all the 'I can't live without a man' references (I love Carla Lane).

Fastfingers Speaks!
Radio WM - Phil Upton Show - Thursday 23 August 2007
Listen and weep/laugh.

 
They edited out a lot of my dribbling incoherence to get that little bit!  Thanks to MS for replacing my name with the sound of a cruise liner, not sure if that bears any particular significance but will try not to dwell on it.

So c'mon, tell me how BAD I sound, I can take it ...

Hmmm, that bad, eh?

Thursday 6 - Part II

Anybody know what this means? 

Keeps popping up on my laptop screen and then makes everything come to a juddering halt.  I have a memory drain somewhere but can’t track it down.  Maybe its mine.

Friday 7

In my line of work I do a lot of research and survey interviews.  Sun cream, timers, policies, research into research.  This week I’ve done loads about new uniforms.  “And what do you think of the cuffs?  And what do you think of the pockets?  And what do you think of the collar?”  Honestly, who knew there was so much to say about uniforms!

I did five of these in a row, big buggers too.  I swear if I’d have heard anyone else say ‘smart and neat and clean’ one more time I’d have gone completely round the bend.

Let’s hear some interesting questions, I say.  Like, “And how long have you wanted to be a male stripper?” or “When did you first realise you were actually an alien from another planet?” or “Exactly how long did it take you to make your first million?” 

Just something interesting!

Anything!!!

Then I did a dictation from a bloke who sounds exactly like Robson Green, and all was well with the world again (“And how long have you know you have a voice that turns women to jelly?”)

Saturday 8

For Christmas last year I bought my sons gift vouchers.  They’ve just booked up their stuff (before they run out), so I knew I was babysitting for Small Son today while he roared off to do a rally driving thingy.

Yes, I knew, but somehow it wasn’t quite acknowledged by moi last night.  As far as I’m concerned, Friday is still the day you get to stay up late (just a pity there’s no Hammer House of Horror films on any more).  So I stayed up.  Late.  And drank whisky.  Rather a lot of it in fact. 

7.30am, I was woken by a noise.  A loud banging.  On my front door.  It was Small Son.  With granddaughter.  Plus 15 tonnes of baby paraphernalia.

“You alright?” asked Small Son, obviously a bit taken aback by the sight of me at the crack of dawn with a hangover and 15 minutes sleep.

“I don’t know,” I croaked, “It’s too early to tell.”

Baby and paraphernalia were deposited in the living room and off Small Son roared in the sunrise.  Granddaughter and I looked at each other in the dim light.  She’d just been plucked from her bed and had bedding creases on her face, but she still looked a million times better than I did.

Three strong mugs of espresso later, I was verging on consciousness.  We played.  We got dressed.  I started to feel vaguely human and she helped me wash up by tossing soap suds around the kitchen, helped me vac up the budgie debris by standing in front of the vacuum and pointing at bits.

She tiptoed like a fairy on speed into the kitchen and closed the door.  I opened it, cried Hello in that way you do with small people, and she laughed her little pink socks off and closed it again.  Open, Hello, laugh, close.  Open, Hello, laugh, close.  Open, Hello, laugh, close. 

After 157,965 more times, I thought it was all wearing a bit thin, but granddaughter was still finding it inordinately funny.  I offered her a budgie instead, which promptly did a kamikaze dive onto the carpet to escape.  Took her upstairs and bounced her on the bed, bounced her on the study Ikea chair, bounced her back down the stairs and out into the garden.  Up the path and down the path, up the path and down the path, granddaughter doing fairy steps, me plodding behind promising to go swimming again soon, to leave the house for walks soon, to watch that Ann Diamond exercise video my mom gave me (isn’t Ann Diamond fat?)

Granddaughter produced a toy from a bag.  Oooh what’s this?  Heavy.  Full of batteries.  Clearly did something interesting.

It took me 15 minutes to figure out how to work a children’s toy.  A green frog singing a rap song and dancing.  This means an 18 month old baby has more intelligence than I do, which comes as no great surprise.

Hubs came home from work with some kind of dreaded lurgey which has stripped him of any sense of humour (such a drag) and every iota of energy he possesses.  He promptly fell asleep on the sofa.  Then granddaughter, clearly exhausted by the Neurotic Nan, fell asleep.  And I did too.

Two hours later we were up and raring to go (well, we were, Hubs was like Marley dragging his chains and moaning a lot).  Let’s go shopping with the baby and the car seat and the pushchair and assorted paraphernalia.  I once again strained to remember how I ever managed with three.

And then, just as we’d figured out which was up the car seat went and spent a really long time trying to work the pushchair, Small Son came home.  And took her away.

Oh.

Went shopping on our own, really exciting shopping, like looking for replacement bulbs in B&Q and debating which shelf to get for the silver boxes in our bedroom. 

Came home and found Yet Another Car in the driveway.  Our driveway is a bit like musical chairs, we have to move several before we can get the front one out.  Small Son has a Metro, but his old Metro has been languishing outside the house for many weeks, so there’s been two red Metros, plus Hubby's car.  He finally got rid of one, and then another Metro appeared, a mate’s car he was fixing.  And now, a black car of indeterminate make.  Who’s that, we thought?  A visitor?  Another car Small Son is fixing? 

It wasn’t until I saw the alien hieroglyphics on the car seats I realised it was Middle Son, come to pay us a surprise visit!  Raced into house, raced upstairs to spare bedroom, raced around house.  He wasn’t there.  “Well it was going to be a surprise,” he drawled when I rang him to locate him, “But you weren’t in.”

Ooops, sorry, parents supposed to wait around until offspring decide to visit, must remember we don't actually have a life of our own.

MS claims he’d come to visit, but was only actually in the house for 45 minutes before he was whisked away by friends for a night out.  Tsk, treat the place like a hotel this lot ;-).

Wouldn’t want it any other way.

Sunday 9

There’s some kind of virus that Hubs had brought home from work, although I'd have much prefered chocolates or flowers.  Nasty little thing, all green and horrible and blubbery.  Makes you go all floppy and lethargic and a bit miserable.  Makes you sigh a lot.  Makes you slump across furniture and then finally give it up altogether and go back to bed, lovely comfortable bed with the cinema screen tv and the remote control.

Makes you cry out for porridge, must have porridge.

Must be a Quaker virus.

Monday 10

I’ve just read one of the comments on YouTube about ‘Barber’s Adagio for Strings’ (my favourite piece of music): “Its just so amazing that anyone could come up with this song, is truly gifted.”  Er, well yes, he was, that’s why he’s famous and why we’re still playing his music, cos it’s a bit good!  And song?  Think they’re getting confused with the X-Factor.

Talking of The X-Factor, we only watch the beginning bits when they're auditioning (gets a bit boring after that).  I simply can’t understand how or why so many people can be completely delusional.  Is it genetically mutated food, do you think?  “I can carry this show,” they cry, and sound like a drain cleaner.  “I have an exceptional voice,” they gush, and you rush outside to rescue whatever poor cat is being mauled to death by a rabid hyena.  “I’m gonna be big, I’m gonna be the greatest thing you ever heard,” they declare, and show infinitely less talent than my tone-deaf budgies.

Throughout the entire progamme, Hubs and I always sing our worst (which in my case isn’t that difficult), crying, “I have the X-Factor!” 

My rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has been known to make grown men weep.

Tuesday 11

Working at home means I lose track of time.  Mostly I don’t know what day it is (although I’m aware of the year, usually).

Today, midday, I had this nagging thought.  Was it Tuesday?  If it was Tuesday, wasn’t I supposed to do something today?

A short while later there was a knock on the front door.  I unplugged myself from the computer and raced downstairs.

“You ready?” my neighbour asked breathlessly.

“For what?”

“For the meeting at the Birmingham Mail offices at 1 o’clock,” he said, “Taxi will be here in a minute.”

Oh poooooooOOOOOOO!

I’ve never moved so fast in my life.  I took the stairs two at a time, pulled a suit out of the wardrobe and leapt into it, raced back down stairs, gulped a coffee as I tried to remember how to apply makeup whilst, at the same time, gathering together all the paperwork for the meeting.

Had just located my seldom-used handbag and shoes that hadn’t been flattened by the vacuum in the cupboard when the taxi arrived.

Good meeting (for my neighbour’s charity drive).  Afterwards, I wandered off down Colmore Row to pay a cheque into the bank.

It was 3pm.  The city centre is pretty quiet at 3pm.  The bank was empty.  I waited in a queue of one as the customer in front of me tried to make her requirements understood to a teller who didn’t understand her requirements.

Tick tick tick.  5 minutes.  10 minutes.  Even I knew what the customer wanted by now, but resisted the urge to shout it out.

Finally, my turn.

I was just paying in a cheque.  You’d have thought I wanted to exchange Yen into Delases using the US stock market exchange via a Swiss bank account. 

The woman behind the counter didn’t look ‘new’, looked like she’d been there since the dawn of time, in fact, kind of dusty and cobwebby.  I don’t think it was a case of couldn’t understand, more couldn’t be bothered.  I’ve seen more enthusiasm and enlightenment in a road kill.

She couldn’t comprehend why I’d given her a blank paying in slip, despite me saying three times that I couldn’t fill it in myself because I didn’t have my glasses.  That took five minutes of explaining and waving of bank card.  Then she couldn’t find some form or other and obviously couldn’t be bothered to shift off her chair, she just languidly stretched over to the next counter – it was a ‘will she topple off or not’ moment, honestly, I was poised pensively for the full four minutes it took her to … reach … out … and … get … the … form.  Then her tapping on the keyboard was like watching a slow motion film, and then she just stared at the computer screen for the longest time (I thought she’d actually died mid way through).

There is, I discovered, a fine line between volcanic rage and catatonia. After 15 minutes of trying to pay in a cheque, frustrated anger peaked and then instantly dropped into abject apathy – it was that kind of atmosphere, time just sort of stood still and solidified around me.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  My pulse rate plummeted.  My breathing became shallow.  I was slumped at the counter like a dribbling zombie. 

And then the woman looked up at me.  I looked at her.  She looked at me some more.  I looked back.  Her face slowly took on a kind of what-are-you-still-doing-here expression whilst my face arranged itself into a confused gape.

“That’s it,” she said dismissively.

I’m not sure if I was stunned because The Cheque had Finally been Paid In or because she hadn’t given me a receipt slip (probably couldn’t be bothered as that would involve more unnecessary movement).  I was beyond caring at this point and simply turned and left.

Outside, the world seemed really fast.

Wednesday 12

I’ve been having lots of nightmares lately, must be the time of year.  Last night I woke up frantically brushing at my body, convinced the bed was full of spiders. 

This morning, whilst vaccing the bedroom, I spotted the mangled body of a huge spider on the carpet.  It wasn’t a dream!

I’m going to bed with a big stick and insect repellent from now on.

[Worried now about the nightmares I've been having about aliens ... haven't found one of those under the bed yet though].

Thursday 13

There are good things and bad things about getting older (not that 37 is old ahem). 

Bad is that you start to vaguely consider how much time you’ve got left (oodles hopefully).  You look in the mirror and wonder who’s body that is reflecting back at you, cos it certainly ain’t yours. 

The face is starting to look a bit 'mature', too, but then you whip off your glasses and take three steps back from the mirror and, hey presto, those youthful looks have returned once more (if this doesn’t work, squinting might be required, although if I’ve taken my glasses off I’m usually squinting anyway, and squinting causes wrinkles, so closing curtains and turning off lights is probably a better option, but then you tend to trip over things in the dark and you don’t fall well any more, what with the aching joints and the extra 20 pounds you’re carrying, so its probably best not to look in the mirror at all if possible.)

And talking of glasses, it’s a REAL pain that I can’t see anything closer than 50 feet any more. No more quick glances at the newspaper, I have to hunt for the glasses first, which is another pain, so I tend to keep them on the end of my nose like Ann Robinson, which makes me look odd, but who says looking odd is a bad thing.

The memory’s not what it used to be, either.  I had a young bloke come to the door on Sunday.  He had my purse in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” I cried.

“Found it on the road over there,” he said, pointing ‘over there’, which was a long way away.

“What was it doing there?” I cried.

“I don’t know, I just picked it up and brought it back.  It’s got your name and address inside.”  And not much else, as it happened.

I thanked him profusely, then tried to figure out how my purse had ended up in the middle of the road.  We’d been out shopping, had it then.  Got back in car, definitely had it then.  Got home, had it then.  Small Son and granddaughter in driveway, I cuddled granddaughter … after putting purse on roof of Small Son’s car.  He drove off, I went into house without a care in the world.

Dopey cow!

The good side to getting older is that it’s extremely liberating.  You’re fully aware of your capabilities and your weaknesses and you’ve learned to live with both.  You really don’t care what people think any more – you can sit working in the back garden wearing an old hat, pashmena and green wellies, whistling some vague tune in G minor whilst tapping on a laptop and scoffing cherry tomatoes, and really not care that the neighbours think you’re a complete fruit bat. 

But the best thing, I’ve found, about being this age is the experience of life I seem to have accumulated quite by accident, without even trying.  Oh yeah, I’m a woman of experience - been there, done that (can’t remember most of it, which is probably for the best).  Not a lot phases me any more.  I am bomb-proof, shock-proof and crisis-proof.

Take tonight, for instance.  Tonight was one of those rare occurrences where (gasp) Hubs and I Argued.  Nearly eight years and perhaps three arguments.  And they’re not even arguments, there are no objects thrown or screaming involved, it’s usually a huff or a raised word or two, lasts all of 15 seconds.

Tonight, Hubs was unusually irritable and snappy.  He snapped, I barked, he shuffled off to bed.

10 years (and another hubby) ago, this might have bothered me.  Oh woe, I would have wailed, its over, we’re doomed (with other hubby it was, actually).  I’d have fretted and stressed, overwhelmed with panic and unloved-ness.

Now, in my wisely old age, I just tutted.  Man clearly tired, let him sleep.

Being older is a wunnerful, wunnerful thang.

[Hubs has since left …. Haaaaaaaaaaaaa, no, not really!]

Friday 14

Love Fridays, really LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURVE Fridays.  There’s no other day of the week like it.  Its almost compulsory (or should be compulsory) that you SLOB on Fridays, that you take the LONGEST bath on Fridays, that you pour yourself that first glass of whisky and lemonade with clinking ice and think ‘Yeah, survived, did well, here’s my reward’.

Ah, the satisfaction of Fridays.

As always happens (whether at work or at home) some bright spark in some company decides that he wants something humungous typing up at 3pm on a Friday afternoon, the git.  It was 2.55.  I was just typing a message to my ‘Leader’, saying I was orf, when it happened.

3pm, a dictation arrived.  25 minutes of thesuperfasttalkerwhodoesn’tpauseforbreathandtakesyouonsomemanicrollercoasterride.  And he needed it back today, wouldn’t ya berluddy know it.

Bugger.

Buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbugger.

Whipped it off, muttering and cursing MrSuperFastTalker the entire time.  The study echoed to the sound of pounding keys and hissed expletives.

And then … dah dah DAH, Friday time!  Yay.

Bath, whisky, (a recovered) Hubs in kitchen whipping up a curry.

Bliss.  Utter bliss.

Life doesn't get much better than that.

Saturday 15

Hubs works on Saturday mornings, so I feel I should too – beats clearing up the debris from the Friday Night Slob Fest anyway.

“Send me something for the weekend,” I told one of my outsourcing companies.

She did.  108 minutes worth.

Berluddy ‘ell.

Luckily, Hubs was going to Yorkshire to visit family for the day, so I sat in my sun-washed study and started work.  Then, when the world had had a good cough and a strong coffee and had warmed up a bit, I upped laptop and worked outside.

I hate to go on about how FAB it is working at home, but honestly, working at home is FAB.   A bit of typing, hang out washing.  More typing.  Bit more washing.  Chat to budgies.  Wander down to greenhouse to scoff cherry tomatoes.  Type.  Listen to birdsong (mostly budgie song until I shut the back door).  Type.  Sigh a lot and contemplate the meaning of life a bit.  Type.  Listen to the sounds of the neighbourhood and sigh some more.

Some people might find it a bit isolating, but I love it, that overwhelming sense of time, all of it mine.  Do what I want when I want.  Don’t worry about bills because I know I can earn enough (helps that I’m the fastest typist in the West Midlands).  I can work as little or as much as I want.  Some days I feel a bit lazy, other days I’m on a roll.  Some days the fingers don’t want to type and I clean out kitchen cupboards instead, some days they’re itching to get at a keyboard and I’m unstoppable.  Some days there’s not much work, some days (most days actually) there’s MOUNTAINS of the stuff.  It’s all swings and roundabouts.  It’s all my time.  Oodle and oodles of luverly time.

And loads of fresh air.  And natural light.  And access to a window with a view.  Or a garden with a view.  

And feeling in charge and feeling in control.  No buses to catch, no timetable to stick to, no rushing to fit everything in.

No more suits.

I’ve found my niche in life.

I’ve become a recluse.  A hat wearing, budgie raging, constantly whistling recluse.

Sunday 16

SCENES FROM THE KITCHEN

SCENE 1:  Monday

Hubs (just got home from work): What are you doing?

Me (in kitchen … yes, in the kitchen): I’m reheating some mash and stuff left over from yesterday because you worked late and I’m starving.

Hubs (horrified); Just put down that saucepan and step away from the cooker.

Me (being firm, because I’m hungry): No, get in shower, it’ll be ready when you’re finished.

Hubs (trying to take wooden object – spoon, I think – from my hand): You’re not stirring it right.

Me: You’re kidding.  It’s a reheat job, I’m not creating anything except probably carbon, you’re in no danger of losing your job as Chief Chef.

Hubs goes off to shower looking really really worried.  I didn’t burn it.  Didn’t dare.

Hubs 0 Moi 1

SCENE 2: Wednesday

Me (on phone to Hubs, who’s not so much working late as staying over):  Your dinner’s ruined! (I’ve always wanted to say that, along with ‘Follow that car!’ and 'We've won the lottery!')

Hubs (horrified … again): You cooked!

Me:  Well I tossed something in the oven.  Three hours ago.

Hubs (sound of gulping): What is it?

Me: What was it, you mean.  It was faggots.  Its now six black snooker balls in a tray covered in dark goo.

Hubs: Oh.

He ate it.  Well, he had to.  The sound of crunching echoed around the ominously silent living room.  And then he promptly fell asleep and I was a bit worried I’d killed him (I hadn't).

Hubs 0  Moi 2

SCENE 3: Friday

Hubs (heading out the front door):  I’m just popping down the road.  I’ve left the curry simmering on the stove.

Me (horrified): What?!

Hubs: I’ll be back in 10 minutes.

Me: No!  Wait!  Don’t leave me with that kind of responsibility!

Hubs: I’ll only be 10 minutes.

Me: 10 minutes is a long time in the life of a curry!  Don’t go!

He went.

10 minutes later, his car pulled up in the driveway.  I was jumping up and down in front of the window, pulling at my silently screaming face and pointing frantically towards the kitchen.

I’ve never seen a man move so fast (no, of course I didn’t burn it, I didn’t stop stirring for the full 10 minutes – my arm still aches).

Hubs 0  Moi 3

Monday 17

Wot’s this?  I wake up in the morning and it’s dark now.  And cold.

Summer’s gone!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

I want it back.  I don’t want to wear jumpers and woolly tights. 

There endeth the good weather (sniff).

Here cometh the grey skies and the wind and the rain and the frost.

Ah well, it’ll soon be Christmas AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Tuesday 18

A friend was standing in the kitchen while I made coffee this afternoon (yes, I do have friends, but I don’t mention them because they tend to say things like, “Can you make me thin in your blog,” or “Am I the funniest women on the planet you mentioned three weeks ago?” .

I also have imaginary friends, but my therapist recommends I don’t talk about them, either.

So, anyway, this friend (thin, drop dead gorgeous, hysterically funny) said, “That’s an eclectic group of things you have there.”

“What’s the theme?” she asked in a really humorous way.

“They have nice faces,” I said, basking in the glow of her gorgeousness, “I like smiley faces.”

“Oh,” she said, bored (and thin).  “What about these?  What’s the theme here?”

Yes, its the fridge again!

“If I laugh out loud in the shop, I buy it.”

“You laugh a lot in shops then.”

I suppose I do, but not as much as when I’m with my thin friend, she’s just so funny!

Wednesday 19

The mid-week drinky poos, which I really look forward to now that I don’t actually leave the house all that much.  As I said to Hubs in the car on the way to the Country Girl, “Ooooh, isn’t the world big, we’ve been driving for ages and still haven’t reached the end yet.”  He nearly crashed the car.

The weather is turning cold now but, because we’re smokers (I know, I know!), we sat outside trying not to look as if we were freezing to death in front of all the people sitting inside (who were clearly thinking, ‘Just look at those poor addicted people out there in the cold and the lashing rain, trying to light their damp stubs and coughing a lot.’)

Sip, sip, yak, yak.  And smile, look happy, look warm.

Afterwards, we did something that will make Middle Son terribly proud of us.  We went to PC World and bought a wireless mouse and keyboard for Muttha Computer.  I’m not sure of the exact moment when my children stopped viewing me as the font of all knowledge and wisdom and started treating me with ‘infinite patience’, but MS wasn’t very impressed with our rollerball mouse last time he came to patch up our computer; “An antique,” he called it.

That got me thinking (in a ‘just had a pint of Stella’ way) about how things have changed in the last 20 years.  In my day (cue violins … hey, violins, wake up and play some music … I don’t know, how about an adagio?  You don’t have the sheet music?  No, William Tell won’t do, I want something soft and olde worlde … yes, that’s it, the Hovis advert, perfect) … where was I?  Oh yes, back in the old days we didn’t have computers or digital music, we had state of the art Grundig tape players that we used to record the Top 40 chart off Radio One every Sunday night (and the DJ would always start talking before it finished). 

We had a telephone number that you could ring from a public phone box (no such thing as mobile phones, or house phones come to that … we were poor in those days … play louder, violins), Dial a Disc.  I’d huddle in a phonebox with a couple of giggling friends and we’d spend a whole 2d (that’s old money) to listen to The Rubettes sing Sugar Baby Love.  Ah, those were the days. 

I remember my mom setting jelly in a bath full of cold water because we didn’t have a fridge.  I remember lining up on the living room carpet with dad and my sister, picking bits up off the carpet because we didn’t have a vacuum cleaner.  I remember dad’s box of television valves for the black and white televisions set, and mom’s mascara that she’d spit on and soften with a little brush.  I remember the absolute joy of being given a ‘posh’ box of writing stationery that I never used (probably still have it in the loft).  I remember playing tennis outside with my mates until it got dark, pretending we were all Billy Jean King, being told off by the neighbours for bouncing our ball on the side of their house, and pleading with our mothers to stay out for just ten more minutes even though it was pitch black (and they let us!).  We had space hoppers!

I remember the horror I felt as a ‘girl with a lot of horsey penfriends’ when postage stamps went up to two and a half old pence.  I remember my mom’s mini-mini dresses and pointed stiletto shoes and backcombed hair (that took her ages).  I remember dad dragging us all out for interminable walks through Birmingham parks that they loved and I hated, and dad letting me ride his Honda C90 on the roads when I was 14 years old.

No text messages to boyfriends in those days, we used our mates (“Go and ask him if he fancies me … go on!”).  Huge headphones, complete with miles of wire attached to boxed stereo systems, was cutting edge technology.  We didn’t have Playstations or computers, we had Etch a Sketch and painting-by-numbers, chalk to draw endless games on pavements and skipping ropes and clackers and string tricks and jackstones.  We ran around and got burning lungs but didn't stop, and went for adventures in the park on our bikes and formed the outlines of houses from newly cut grass and hunted for furry caterpillars underneath window ledges (there were always loads).

So a rollerball mouse is still a wondrous thing to someone who didn’t grow up with CDs and DVDs and PCs. 

[Okay, violins, you can stop playing now].

Thursday 20

Hubs came home from work tonight and gave his usual cry from the front door: “You up or down?”

“Up,” I cried back, as I was in the study.

I heard him coming up the stairs, and then he stopped.  For a long time.  Finally, he came into the study and we chatted about our day for a while.

Later, when we headed downstairs for sustenance, I found this on the windowledge.

Love you, too, dude.  

Friday 21

I worked my socks off today, just typed and typed and typed.

So, if you want something to read, try this (s’good, I writted it).

Or for something more visual, the awesomeness of these photographs is just AWESOME.

Or ... I saw this tv ad yesterday and it totally cracked me up.

Saturday 22

Went to look at summerhouses today at a place in the Black Country, because I want to be able to absorb as much natural light as possible while I work.  £900 for a shed with big windows seemed a bit steep.

“Do you deliver?” I asked.

“Where do you live?”

I named my area and a few surrounding areas.  The man looked blank, then said, “Birmingham?” like someone might say, ‘The black plague?’ or ‘Beirut?’

Tsk, Yammies.

“Can I insulate it?” I asked the man.  “I want to use it in winter with a heater.”

He sucked in his breath.  “Can’t put heaters in summerhouses,” he said ominously, and proceeded to tell me why in laborious detail.

And there went his £900 sale.

I’m looking at a cheap Argos garden room now.

Sunday 23

Yesterday, I said, “Right, come on, let’s stop yakking about it and just do it.”

So off we toddled to Barnes Hill Dog Kennels.  I’m at home all day now, all alone (mostly), vulnerable to marauding salesmen and devoid of any motivation to exercise.  I’m a mute slob with a laptop.

I need a dog, someone I can chat to and complain to about the computer/work/budgies/salesmen.  A friend.  A companion.

I want a dog.

They do things differently at dog’s homes now, it’s all terribly formal.  Instead of just walking round the kennels and picking one that doesn’t look as if it will chew your leg off given half a chance, you’re given a book of photographs and mini biogs of each dog.  ‘Jenny is a really friendly dog but doesn’t like other dogs, children, milkmen or budgies.’  Or ‘Hamish the Bulldog/Alsation/Doberman cross is 3 years old and needs an owner with a firm hand.’

It’s a nice faced, placid natured pet I want, not a hound of the Baskervilles.

Hubs and I flicked through the book.  None of them seemed terribly happy about children, and I have my granddaughter to think about.  And you can’t get an idea of size or pleasantness from a photograph.  So we left.  Bereft of a new family member.

I may have to go the puppy route.

THANKS TO: everyone who's sent me medication to take to Africa in November.  I now have so much I'm hoping I won't get stopped at customs for drug smuggling.  Thanks also to Stephen, who took the time to email me a solution to my memory drain ... seems to be working so far (fingers crossed), will keep you posted.

Monday 24

I’ve been very devious lately.  I’ve had to be.  Even I’m aware that if a man's been at work all day, he shouldn’t come home and cook a meal for a woman who’s been at home all day (even if she is working).  But Hubby’s very territorial about his kitchen, despite the fact it’s been my kitchen for the last 24 years.  He doesn’t like me in it.  Okay, I’m not the best cook in the world (will wait while the sound of Hubby’s hysterical laughter dies down a bit), but I can muster up a hot meal, of sorts.

So I’ve been a bit sneaky.  I’ve started cooking simple food without (a) telling Hubs I’m cooking, (b) asking Hubs what he wants cooking (thus giving him the opportunity to Talk Me Out of It) or (c) letting Hubs Talk Me Out of It when he discovers me (with some look of horror) standing next to the cooker in the kitchen when he gets home from work.

Let’s not forget I managed to raise three strapping boys on my cooking.  True, they now have cast iron stomachs and a pathological dislike of carbon of any sort, but it wasn’t that bad (will wait while sounds of sons’ hysterical laughter dies down – anticipating sarcastic comment from Middle Son any minute).

It’s not actually my fault I can’t cook (she says, fiercely).  It’s not just that I can’t smell (cooking or burning), it’s my mother.  She can’t cook either (I hope she never reads this!).  I have memories from my childhood of my mother’s cooking (as I’m sure my sons do).  She once made toffee apples, got us all excited about them and we waited for the toffee apples to ‘set’ with huge glee.  When me and my sister were finally allowed into the kitchen to see if they were ready, we found 12 apples on a tray with sticks sticking out of the top.  No toffee.  The toffee has all slipped off and was languishing, stickily, in the tray.  We were chipping away at it for weeks.

Dad, being a keen gardener, had a glut of strawberries one year.  Mom thought she’d make jam with them.  A big cooking session went on in the kitchen, we weren’t allowed in there.  It was like a scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, all hissing steam and wooden spoons.

The strawberry jam lasted (in our child’s minds) forever.  There was an endless supply of this dark red liquid that had the consistency and taste of slightly lumpy washing up liquid.  We found it in our sandwiches, we found it in our bowls of icecream, we found it on crackers and biscuits.  I still can’t eat strawberry jam.

Mom once read a recipe on the side of a bran cereal box, and we endured malt loaf (made from bran cereal) for decades afterwards, and none of us even like it.  We didn’t have bowls of rice pudding, we had slices on a tea plate (with a dollup of home-made jam on top).

During the bread strike (which they used to have in the 70s 80s) mom decided to make her own.  They were like bricks, you could barely get a bread knife through them.  We tried to soften it in soup, but it sank to the bottom of the bowl like a rock.  I still have nightmares about having mom’s home-made bread slices (hacked from the loaf) spread with gloops of home-made strawberry jam.

Mom then went adventurous.  For tea, sometimes we’d have (blare of trumpets) boiled spaghetti with cheese melted under the grill and topped with tomato sauce.  Trust me, that was the height of sophistication in our house.

But I survived.  Just as my children survived.

And I’m sure Hubs will too.

Tuesday 25

And now for something completely different.

Budgies.  Yes, the wonderful, noisy, messy world of budgies.  You’ve seen my lot before but, having been to the Dog’s Home and seen how they do it, I’d like to give you a brief biog for each one, so you can feel you know them personally (and if you want to personally own one, please don’t hesitate to get in touch - only joking ... pretty sure I'm joking).  Skip this bit if Tales From the Budgie Cage bore you rigid.

L-R: Puff, Poo, Pete (mega-budgie extraordinaire) and Pea

PUFF (left)

Puff was our first budgie, bought to quieten my pleadings for a dog, so he’s a dog substitute, except it doesn’t work (I still want a dog, I will have a dog).  Puff is yellow, quite shy, and disabled.  He can’t fly.  He occasionally falls (or is pushed, usually by Pete) off his cage and splats onto the carpet, where he’ll remain stunned for a little while before scampering back up on his conveniently placed dog lead (the irony).  If the dopey owner has forgotten to replace the dog lead after cleaning the cage, he’ll scuttle off behind the tv set and shit a lot until Pete (his best mate) entices him out using the power of his gob.  He’s the only one, after 12 months of diligent training, that will sit on my finger, but only if he wants a quick lift back from floor to cage, otherwise he’ll just ignore me.

POO (middle)

Poo is grey and looks, flies and behaves like a bird of prey, a falcon.  Pete is second in command in the roost, but is actually quite shy and nervous, only coming near us if we grab him.  He’s quite good at biting.  He’s very aloof and reserved, likes licking water droplets off the bird bath after I’ve filled it.  Sheds so many feathers he should be bald.

PETE

Pete is the last (the very last!) addition to our budgie family.  He’s the leader.  He’s the leader because he’s the biggest (roughly the size of a chicken), the loudest (like a sergeant major barking orders at the others, Step away from the seed bowl, sonny boy) and the bravest (Chocks away, I’m going for her head).  Unlike the others, Pete has pink feet and a really big head that he likes to wobble a lot in a don’t-mess-with-me manner.  He’s the best flyer, cornering at an impressive 45 degree angle in mid flight and flicking hair as he skims heads.

PEA

Pea’s dead cute.  He’s felt-tip pen green, and screams like a right girl (all the budgies are males).  His legs are wide apart, so he waddles around like a weeble and stands with his belly resting on the perch.  And he barks like a dog (again, the irony).  We don’t know how he learned to bark, he just does.  Whistle whistle bark bark whistle.  He’s quite feisty when Pete’s aching for a fight, he’ll stand his ground even thought he’s half Pete’s size.  He’s Poo’s best mate and he loves to lick shiny things (mirrors, silver windmill, photoframes), often licking himself to sleep at night.

They’re all terribly sweet and funny (and cheeky) in their own individual ways, but they're farkin’ noisy gits.

Wednesday 26

I got up early this morning to do a humungous piece of work.  The kitchen looked like Gordon Ramsey had thrown a major strop in it because we had a curry and a drink last night and were too busy yakking to clear up afterwards (tsk).  The budgies had indulged in a frenzied seed tossing competition, and I’d dressed hastily in one of Hubby’s shirts (so comfortable) and old jeans, so both the house and me were a bit scruffy, which doesn’t really matter when you work at home, unless someone visits.