Wow, a brand new year.  Hello there 2009!

365 days all laid out before me like a pristine white sheet, just waiting for me to walk all over it.  The possibilities are endless… although I can’t actually think of any at the moment as I appear to have a slight hangover (I’m clearly allergic to Decent Whisky, my body only tolerates cheap crap).

But I do have some caveats for 2009 if it’s listening.  Are you listening, 2009?  Okay, here goes:

• I’d like 2009 to not go by so quickly, hauling me through it like I’m tied to the back of a racing car, the days and weeks and months flying passed in a blur of speediness.  I’d like to have time to stand and stare like a cow every now and again if its all the same to you.
   

• I’d like the sun to appear in our skies at some point, not bothered when so long as it’s around long enough to dry out my bogged garden and put a healthy glow to my pastry-coloured face.
   

• I’d like someone in charge of the country who instills hope and optimism and patriotism in us again, someone with enough charisma and enthusiasm to pluck us from our discontent.  It ain’t Brown.
   

• I’d like to remain happy, so don’t mess around with family and friends and life and stuff, they’re just fine as they are.  No, I’m telling ya, step away from family and friends and life and stuff.  Do it now!
   

• I’d like to stop ageing, if you can manage that – try hard!  Harder!
   

• I’d like to earn enough to travel more this year, lots more, mostly to America – in fact, America’s the only place I want to go.  Can you swing it?  In a convertible?  For maybe three months or so?  I await your your intervention with baited breath.
   

• I’d quite like some new challenge this year as I’ve become a bit blasé and lethargic – a new writing opportunity perhaps, a new place to live, or simply let me win the lottery and I’ll dabble in a few things until I find something that challenges me (skydiving maybe).
   

• And of course I’d like world peace and happiness.

Cheers.

[I know, I know, I didn’t change the look of the website.  After much soul searching and many sleepless nights, I decided that shiny aliens really aren’t what Brummie Blogs is about - the winking woman with the whisky is much more me.]

Friday 2

Okay, I’m not a big fan of Big Brother at all, but I was curious to see who the ‘celebrities’ were this time.  My reaction to their unveiling was as follows:

La Toya Jackson:  No, really?  She agreed to do this willingly?  Does she even know what its all about?

Mutya Buena: Who?

Verne Troyer:  You’re kidding me!  And they’re sending him in the back way because he can’t manage the stairs?  And he’s supposedly a ‘womaniser’ (womaniser womaniser).

Tommy Sheridan: Oh God, another politician ready to embarrass himself for fame and fortune… and apparently a very good friend of George Gallagher (figures).  I can barely contain my excitement (yawn).

Lucy Pinder: “I’m famous for my boobs.”  Uh huh.  “People assume I’m stupid.”  Uh huh (and appearing on Big Brother doesn’t prove this?).

Ben Adams: Who?  The bottom of the barrel has most definitely been reached. 

Tina Malone: I was wrong, this is the bottom of the barrel.  Celebrity?

Coolio: Ah ha ha ha ha ha.  I give him three days, then he’ll be scaling the walls, unable to keep up with his egotistical persona… you mark my words.

Michelle Heaton: Oh I watched her on Come Dine With Me (a sad reflection on my viewing standards) and liked her down-to-earth attitude.  Never heard of her before, mind.

Terry Christian:  Oooh, there’s hope of something intelligent happening then… or fisticuffs. 

Ulrika: Oh God, must we? Who knew those depths were there!

All in all, a pretty sad bunch of desperate Z people.  Deeply disappointed, Hubs and I discussed a list of ‘celebs’ that we’d like to see in the house:

• Davina (force her in there and see how she likes it)

• Ant and Dec (Hubs choice because, as he says every time they appear on TV, he Cannot Stand Them).

• Gary Glitter (Hubs said judgement by public vote)

• Alistair Dahlink (Hubs suggestion... not quite sure why)

• Peter Mandleson (oh now you're talking, that would be interesting)

• Jeremy Clarkson (just because he's fab and gobby)

• Dame Edna (House Mother)

• George Michael (again, not quite sure why)

Channel Four, take note.

Saturday 3

Saw this last night and Could Not Stop Laughing:

Then watched this and suddenly knew what Jo Brand’s stress incontinence was all about (the woman is supposedly singing Maria Carey’s I Can’t Live If Living Is Without You):

Incidentally, Black Country folk would sing it “I caw loive if loiving is without yow.” lol

Sunday 4

Middle Son went home today.  I hate that bit, I hate it when he leaves me all over again (and yet, deep inside, I feel a little relief that I won’t be collecting water glasses from all over the house for a while).  I hate that my baby is going back to the big, cruel world, and still marvel that my child, my boy, is leaving in his own car.

That was the signature tune for this year’s Crimbo festivities: Can you move your car.  This would be followed by a frantic search for keys, a bit of huffing and banging, much shouting of I’m coming!, followed by the multiple roar of engines outside my living room window.

We have a large driveway, but its wedge shaped so only the vehicle at the back can escape.  When there’s three cars parked on it there’s always one that’s trapped.  One morning it was MS’s car.  He tried to back-and-forwards in front of Small Son’s car (to the sound of Hubs’ bawled instructions of ‘Back a bit, a bit more, WOA!’).  In the end Small Son, woken from his coma by all the shouting coming from the driveway, opened his bedroom window and croaked, ‘I’m coming!’  

Small Son lives next door with his girlfriend and her family (which I still find odd after nearly three years).  Early one morning some men came to buy a car part that SS was selling.  “We tried ringing him,” they told me on my doorstep, “But there was no answer.”

“He turns his phone off when he’s sleeping,” I said, “Let me try.”

I dialled the number.  It went straight to his answering machine.  The men paced impatiently outside my house.  I grabbed a large dog bone off the floor (which surprised the dog a bit as he was chewing on it at the time) and ran upstairs to my bedroom.

As I was pounding on the dividing wall with the dog bone hollering “THERE’S SOMEONE HERE TO SEE YOU!” at the top of my voice, it did occur to me that this was not normal behaviour for a woman of my age… or a woman of any age come to that.  Small Son, stirred by the banging coming from the wall (and the distant sound of mommy screaming), eventually sauntered round.

But all is quiet now.  There are no long bodies sprawled across my furniture any more, no water glasses on every surface, no revving of engines outside my house.

I miss it.

I miss them.

Sniff.

Crimbo Leftovers

Big Son – who had flu all Crimbo, poor thing – gifted me with an ‘Anti-Ageing Kit’ that included a face mask to make me look younger.  Subtlety was never his forte J. 

Just gimme some faver beans and a nice Chianti… ffff ffff ffff

My technical inability is legendary (I can’t even work the electric can opener).  Here’s me trying to take a family photograph… on the wrong setting.

Small Son – the tall one – huffs at mommy’s incompetence and comes to the rescue

Monday 5

Oh God, back to work.  Even for me it was an effort.  Isn’t 6.45 early! 

And what’s this?  Snow?  Ice?  Temperatures into zero figures?  Oh the joy of sprinting down the frozen, wind-swept hallway and fighting with the dog for space in front of the gas fire (central heating, pah!) at the crack of dawn.

Marmee rang mid-morning.  As soon as I heard her voice a little switch pinged on in my head and I immediately burst into an astonishingly bad rendition of Happy Birthday.

Sista and I were taking her out to lunch to celebrate.  “I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” she told me over the phone, “Be ready in 20 minutes.”

Needless to say, because of Sista's chronic ability to be on time for anything, I didn’t rush.  She arrived an hour later.  And because my Sista likes to multi-task to within an inch of her life, we weren’t just doing lunch; today’s tasks included:

1. Taking Niece sledging up the Clent hills.  I persuaded them to do it on the hill at the back of my house, and watched from the comfort of my frozen study. 

Hi ho, hi ho, its off to sled we go

Marmee likes to remain inconspicuous in the outside world

2. Popping back to Sista's house for Marmee’s present, because she’d forgotten to bring it.  Whilst there they indulged in some frantic dancing to Spanish music… I don’t know why, and I was too afraid to ask. 

3. Nipping to Halesowen for some shopping, which involved Sista driving like a rally driver on black-iced roads (while I gripped onto Niece on the back seat and prayed for a painless death).
    
4. Taking Marmee for lunch.

We finally arrived at the pub.  As we got out of the car, famished and frozen, Marmee said, “Oh you can smell the food can’t you.”

“No,” I laughed.

“Oh yes,” she said, suspiciously, “You can’t smell can you.”

“No, mom.”

“Maybe when you give up smoking you’ll be able to smell again.”

“I’ve never been able to smell, mom.”

“Haven’t you?” she asked, like this was something new she’d never heard before.

“No, mom.”

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning that you couldn’t smell when you were little.”

“Well I clearly remember telling you when I was about seven or eight,” I said, “And you didn’t believe me then either.”

“Oh it’s not that I don’t believe you,” Marmee said, half-heartedly.

“What is it then?” I asked, “Do you think I’ve been lying about it for the last forty thirty five thirty years?”

“Maybe you just don’t have a very good sense of smell.”

“I have zero sense of smell, mom.”

“Maybe if you tried harder.”

I don’t know what it is that makes my mother question my veracity.  It’s not like I’m claiming to have seen the Virgin Mary in my soap or declared that I’m being abducted by aliens on a regular basis.  Maybe she’s disappointed to have produced offspring with fewer than average senses, who knows.

Anyway, we had a nice lunch, punctuated by me practising how to smell.  I can’t.  Yet.  But any day now.

Sniff.

[Marmee Nose Best?  A brief history of my mother’s inability to believe her own daughter.]

Tuesday 6

Ah, January, month of misery brought on by chronic poverty, lack of daylight, freezing temperatures and that general post-holiday blues feeling.  Yuk hoik spit.

Gotta tell ya, February ain’t gonna be much better (you at the back, stop shouting about the downbeat post, there is a point to this.  Yeah, sit down and shut your face.  Er, can we have that person escorted from the building please?  Thank you.).

So how are you going to get through January and February, the hibernation period, the coma months (that’s coma as in zzzzzzzzzzzzz, not comma as in oh look there’s a pause in the text for us to draw breath and contemplate the meaning of life and stuff)?

And, because there hasn’t been a poll for ages, here’s one.  I know its hard for you to lift your hand off the table and flop it down on that dusty, frosty mouse there, but have a go, make an effort. 

And in case your brain wasn’t able to boot up properly today because of lack of daylight, frostbite and general miseryness, here’s the question again:  What are you doing to ensure that you make it through the next couple of months without breaking down entirely?  Got it?  Good.

Wednesday 7

I’ve lost my fizz, my umph, my yeeehaaa feeling.  Don’t know what happened to it, just got up a couple of mornings ago and discovered it was gone.  Searched all over the place, but its definitely AWOL.  I’ll ring its scrawny neck for leaving me in the lurch like this.

I am a blob with a face like melted candlewax.  I sit here, awaiting its return, sighing a lot.  I’d howl in anguish at its absence, but I don’t have the energy. 

The spark of creativity has been blown out, had fireproof material wrapped around it, and is currently languishing in a dark box in the cupboard under the stairs.  I can hear it yelling a muffled, “Hello?  Is there anybody there?” but I don’t have the motivation to go and rescue it.  Sigh.

Bursts of enthusiasm have taken to reading the newpaper, and motivation has just given up altogether and is currently oozing across the living room carpet like an oil slick.  The dog keeps growling at it.

Also, I can’t be entirely sure that my fizz, my umph, my yeehaa feeling hasn’t taken a companion with it.

I suspect its made off with my sanity.

Wednesday 8

Okay, read this…

“We need a thoime tune,” said Adrian Chiles.

“A what?”

“A thoime tune,” he repeated, “So that when cayses come in w’can all jump up and hold a powse while it ploys in the backgrownd.”

“Is he even talking English?” Ozzy Osborne asked.

“Its strangled English,” Cavanna said, flicking through a copy of Private Eye on the sofa, “He’s from the Black Country.”

“Oh Black Country,” cried Julie Walters.  “Oarite, Ade, mate!  Can yo giy us a chaze ununiun cob ana tot o'tae, an sum faggits an pays, Ta verimuch.”

Everyone stared at her in amazement.  “Yes,” said Julie, “I’m bilingual, picked it up on the other side after being buried in a cemetery in West Brommich.”

Adrian humphed.  Cavanna said, “I have the perfect theme tune.”

“I don’t think we actually need a-“

“GIRLS!” Cavanna yelled, “TOYAH, JAMELIA, CHRISTINE MCVIE!”

The three ghosts flew into the room excitedly.  “Whath’s up?” Toyah asked.

Cavanna whispered in their ears, and then they all turned to face the room in a line.  “One, two, three, four… Here come the girls.”

“Girls.”

“Girls.”

“Girlth.

Read more… [I know, lazy post, but see post above entitled ‘Bereft of oomph’]

I've had an email which simply reads: "Do you remember that blog you used to post to on a regular basis?"  Er, yes, it sparks a memory at the back of the dark sponge I call a brain.  I know, I know, cut me some slack man!  Its January, I'm busy reading books in hot baths to keep warm, busy planning a new life with Hubs that we both know will never happen, busy trying to get back into the routine called 'work'.  But, as Swarzenneggerythingymebob said, I'll be back. 

Monday 12

And I'm back!

I’ve conducted a thorough search for my oomph, my yeehaa feeling, over the last few days.  I’ve looked under the bed in case it fell out during the night.  I’ve looked in the garden in case the dog took it outside and buried it.  I’ve even searched the kitchen, even though I’m not in there much (except to create gas explosions and Really Dark Food).

I’ve given it a great deal of consideration and decided that someone’s actually stolen it, crept into the house and pinched it, probably while I was sleeping.  It can only be aliens – I’ve been having a lot of sleepless nights.

I’ve advertised locally:  “REWARD FOR THE RETURN OF LOST OOMPH,” but nobody’s yet come forward.  Maybe a fiver’s not enough.  I could make it a tenner at a push if anyone has any information as to its whereabouts. 

Have you seen my ooomph anywhere?

I’m hoping one of the neighbours will come round holding it between finger and thumb, saying ‘Is this yours?’ in a really sneering fashion and telling me its been wrapped around their table leg for the past week.

I imagine it shivering under a bush somewhere, lost and a bit blue looking.  I visualise it tramping the cold, dark streets trying to find its way home.  I leave the hallway light on at night, just in case.  I’m hoping it took the door key with it.  I lay out a glass of milk and biscuits before I go to bed hoping maybe Father Christmas will bring it back if there's enough incentive.

Its quite difficult surviving without it.  I’m expected to do things, like work, possibly chores, some reading, a lot of computing, but I just sigh and flop around like a limp balloon, bereft of enthusiasm or energy.

It’s getting on Hubs’ nerves.  “Let’s go for a walk,” he says chirpily, and I just fall to the floor wailing.  The dog’s not quite sure what to make of it all.

I am an empty shell of oomphlessness. 

COME HOME, OOMPH, I MISS YOU!

Tuesday 13

The last few days have been a bit odd, a bit lacking in enthusiasm-type stuff.  I had a sudden surge of work and was typing my little socks off – not that typing off socks helps in any way, it’s a psychological thing - then it all suddenly stopped and I was a bit stunned and felt like an extra in Shaun of the Dead for a bit… looked like one too to be honest.

But I’ve pulled myself together now, given myself the Pep Talk in front of the bathroom mirror (whilst Hubs stood behind me saying ‘Why do you look like an extra in Shaun of the Dead?’).  I still want to hibernate in this Cold Cold Weather, but at least it’s not as bad here in Brummieland UK as it is in Quebec, Canada:

Who lives in a place like this.
Well actually its Sue, who reports that they’re currently enduring minus temperatures in the double digits (brrrrrrrrr). 

All my friends are in hibernation mode too and haven’t come out to play for a while.  Or call me.  Or email me.  Maybe they just don’t like me any more (waaaaah).  We’re all pensively waiting for spring to arrive before committing ourselves to anything strenuous like Meeting Up.

Anyway, isolation and ooomphlessness aside, we have a new theme-sentence in our house at the moment.  Over Christmas the words repeatedly cried were “Can you move your car so I can get out of the driveway?”  This has been succeeded by the current bellowment of “What date’s on it?”

We bought loads of food over Christmas, because when you have three sons you can’t have them passing out with hunger at any time because it just doesn’t look good and the maternal instinct to Feed Them gets all apoplectic.  We bought less than we normally do, but it was still a lot (and nobody fainted from hunger, which was good because moving tall heavy bodies out of the way can be a bit laborious).

So we’ve got a lot of food left over, and occasionally we feel a bit peckish and smack our lips together.  “Hmmm,” Hubs will say, “I fancy a bit of brie.”

“Have the Lancashire cheese with mixed peppers,” I’ll cry, “It’s out of date tomorrow.”

Or I’ll say, “I’ll just have a Quality Street,” and Hubs will cry, “Have a slice of Christmas cake, we’ve got to eat it by the end of the week.”

So our diet (or rather, snacking habits) are being dictated to by eat-by dates, so we're never really getting what we want.

One good thing is that my Marmee didn’t partake of her Bailey’s Irish Cream very much over Crimbo, so there’s loads left… which means that I can glug it into a cup of cappuccino every now and again before it goes off (and I’m not listening to anybody who says Bailey’s doesn’t go off, it does… no, really, I have to use it before it goes off).

So I’m pigged out on leftover snacks and alcohol.

Maybe that's why Oooph left.

Wednesday 14

I’ve just looked on my calendar – which is a bespoke one I had made which displays photographs of us looking warm and glorious in America… anyone truly fed up of me going on about America yet? 

We love America!

Next week is a biggie and I’ve no idea how I’m going to get through it without being forced to sell some internal organ on ebay or something.

Monday is Big Son’s girlfriend’s birthday.  No dosh for pressie, so I might have to give her the dog (what the dog will make of this sudden change of residence I’m not sure, but I’m hoping he’ll find his way home eventually).

Tuesday is Small Son’s girlfriend’s birthday, and it’s the big 2-1.  Absolutely no idea what to get her, although as they’re just about to move into a place of their own (HALLELUJA!!!) I might get her a celebratory set of saucepans and have ‘Happy 21^st Birthday’ engraved on them.

Wednesday is Nephew’s birthday, and again it’s a big 2-1 event (1987 was clearly  a good year for procreation).  Fortunately, as Nephew is currently gallivanting around Australia, I have until March to save up enough pennies to get him something (like a thermal padded all-in-one suit with integral gloves and booties for when he gets off the plane).

Thursday is the anniversary of the day Hubs and I finally got it together and met each other, me riding up to Bradford on my Virago535 motorbike and almost freezing to death on the three hour journey up the motorway.  We’d been chatting on the internet for a few months, then I just threw caution to the wind and accepted his invitation to a party – where most of West Yorkshire stood staring at me and whispering, “Oh look, a southerner!”  Obviously we hit it off straight away and spent the next two years traversing the motorway system every weekend, until I cried, “Enough!  Move in!”  We’ve been together nine years now, and I still look at him and think KWOAR!

KWOAR! Hunky Hubby!

On Friday we’ve had Sam, the dog, for a whole year.  He’s a rather splendid little chap who, scarily, appears to be our surrogate child.  I thought I might get him a new bone to mark the event, although the house is already strewn with enough bones to make a dinosaur skeleton. 

So, if anyone wants to buy a spleen, or a kidney, or my hair, let me know.

Friday 16

I’ve received some information about my Ooomph.  Apparently its been seen in a pub in Edgbaston, slumped against the bar and telling all and sundry what a terrible life its had… ungrateful little sod.  It was gone by the time I turned up with a cage and a cattle prod.

I’ve also received an email: “We have your Ooomph.  Deposit £1,000 in a plain envelope and leave it on the Floozie in the Jacuzzi by 5pm today, or the Ooomph gets it.” 

I replied: “Having just paid my extortionate tax bill I doubt I have 1,000 pennies let alone pounds, but I do have 1,000 phrases to describe how I feel about the Inland Revenue, will that do?”

As yet, no reply.  I'll keep you posted on developments.

And for your Friday viewing pleasure (altogether now… Fri-day! Fri-day!):

Saturday 17

We went shopping today.  In Really Big Shops.  For a Really Long Time.  With Gorgeous Granddaughter.  But I can't write about that now, I'm still too exhausted/traumatised.  So instead, here's a really uplifting TV advertisement that I like a right lot (despite Virgin giving me food poisoning last time I flew with them):

I want to Be One just to learn how to walk in those gorgeous red shoes

But this had got to be THE best advert in the history of advertising.  I think its Absolutely Brilliant (I keep watching it over and over):

Pure genius

And if you're still in viewing mode, might I recommend you watch Snow Cake, which is just a lovely, lovely film... well apart from the bit where the girl gets hit by a truck.  Alan Rickman (pant pant) is the absolute spitting image of Hubs (hubba hubba).  If you're into 'grittier' stuff, watch Taken with Liam Neeson when it comes out.  In fact, he's my Top Five Must See recent(ish) films:

1. Snow Cake (Alan Rickman, Sigourney Weaver)
2. Taken (Liam Neeson)
3. The Mist (Stephen King story)
4. Ghost Town (Ricky Gervaise)
5. Hancock (Will Smith)
6. Mamma Mia (okay, six, but couldn't miss this out)

What are yours?

Monday 19

Oooh, today is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year, ‘Blue Monday’ no less.  I think the fact that somebody tells you its Blue Monday is enough to have you plunging head-first into a vat of apathy, so finding out about it half way through the day isn’t too bad.  Also, the sun is currently shining and I’ve finished my work, so its kind of hard to feel anything except relieved contentment.

Apparently there are several reasons for the Mass Monday Miseries:

• Lousy weather [no argument there]
• Post-Christmas debt [helps that I was too poor to go into debt]
• Failed New Year's resolutions [helps not to have made any]
• Time elapsed since Christmas festivities [and some people still have their Christmas decorations up to try and combat this]
• Motivation levels [nothing new there then]
• The need for something to look forward to [which is why we’re all searching the internet for Really Cheap Holidays, finding them, and then worrying that the company will go bust before we get to take them]

The good news is, things can only get better.  I’m declaring tomorrow Happy Tuesday, because it won’t be Blue Monday any more, because it won’t be Monday any more, and because we’ll have forgotten all of the above points by tomorrow.  I think it should be turned into a National Holiday – which will coincide well for Mr Obama’s inauguration tomorrow.

I don’t think anyone needs to tell Dubya it’s Blue Monday.

[Somebody help me.  No, seriously, I need help, and no, not that kind of help, I’m waaay beyond that.  Hubs, the brute, in anticipation of 24 Series 7 coming out sometime this month, has made me… nay, forced me to watch Series 1 to 5.  That’s all of them, 120 episodes of Jack Bauer screaming ‘Trust me!’ and ‘Do it now!’  That’s, like, 4,800 minutes, 80 hours!  I can’t take any more!  But Hubs, the brute, says we have to now watch 24 Series 6.  Heeeeeeelp Meeeeeeeee!  Protest in the comments box to make him see the error of his ways, tell him he’s being a brute, tell him time would be better spent watching Absolutely Fabulous or Black Books back to back.  Do it now!]

And there's more!

Oomph is back you’ll be pleased to know.  I found it lying face down on the bedroom floor this morning.  I nudged it with my toe, hissing “And where the berluddy hell have you been?”, but it just flipped me the bird.  That’s when I did some fancy football kick and splattered it against the wardrobe door.  It’s still there.

There was a note on my kitchen table: “Where’s the milk and cookies?”  I ignored the fact that ‘cookies’ is, in fact, an Americanism (and whilst I love America, in my country we speak my language, as in Proper English like).  I suspect Father Christmas brought Oomph back.  This is confirmed by an unnamed source who sounded suspiciously reindeer-ish when they rang me this morning to tell me what happened.

So what happened was, Ooomph was in some pub in Harborne, slagging off the customers and being offensive, when Father Christmas burst in, all ruddy faced.  Rudolph had apparently tracked Oomph down because Ooomph kept sending Rudolph rude messages on his mobile phone.  Father Christmas wasn’t pleased because he’d been getting some right earache from Rudolph about it and he was trying to rest after all the frantic festivities.

So anyway, Father Christmas grabs Oomph by the scruff of the neck – or around the neck region anyway since Oomph doesn’t actually have a neck – and shook it quite firmly.  “You Ooomph?” FC asked, “Fastfinger’s Ooomph?”  Oomph promptly hurled up all over FC’s snazzy Santa outfit.  FC furiously tossed Oomph into an empty sack (empty because its no longer Christmas, try to keep up) and dragged it out to his sleigh, which was causing a major traffic jam on Harborne High Street.

So anyway, Father Christmas brought Ooomph home last night, landing his sleigh in the bog that used to be my garden and fighting his way past a comatose dog at the back door.  When he let Oomph out of the bag, it ran around swearing and gesticulating, so FC told it to Get To Bed.  Oomph flounced up the stairs and collapsed in a heap – or a squelch – on my bedroom floor, where I found it this morning.

So Ooomph is back, although not much use at the moment.  I’ve tried scraping it off the wardrobe door, but it clings on, screaming, “Just fark off and leave me alone.  And bring me another beer.”  Hubs will have to have words with it when he gets home.

Meanwhile, I’ll just keep taking the tablets.

Tuesday 20

Wow, the USA have their first African-American president.  What an amazing piece of history. I was glued to my television set.  I think there was even a lump in my throat, but I may have just been choking on a Quality Street.

I was going to write about it, but someone else has done a much better job than I could ever do and expresses my sentiments exactly.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Stevyn Colgan.

Wednesday 21

Something keeps bugging me.  It’s not a big bug and it doesn’t keep me awake at night (much), but every time I see it I cringe and whine and roll my eyes until I feel dizzy.

Television programmes and films take a great deal of time and effort to make every detail as authentic and realistic as possible.  Well, most of them do anyway.  But one thing nobody bothers to check is…

…keyboards.

Yep, you read that right.  Keyboards.  Actors sit behind their computers and ‘pretend’ to type in the most unconvincing way.  It sticks out like a sore thumb.  They’re not typing, they’re buffing up their fingerprints.

Most use the top line of keys, which are actually numbers, so unless they’re typing binary code the action is useless.

Then there’s those that don’t even bother to press the keys down, they just sort of limply drag their fingertips over the top of them as if dusting them down (usually holding a conversation with someone else and stopping the world from getting blown up at the same time).  Regardless of their ability to ‘press’, stuff comes up on their screen.

That’s another thing.  Since when in the history of computing did pressing one single button open up multiple programmes?  One tap and baddies have completely wiped all the incriminating evidence from their hard drives (regardless of whether the computer’s on at the time or not).

And nobody looks at the keyboard either, they’re all competent touch typists.  Most people tend to do it with two fingers and maybe a thumb, their heads bobbing up and down like pistons, but never on camera.  On camera, everyone can type at 100 words per minute… with one hand.

It just really irritates me.

Thursday 22

These are brilliant.

I want one!  We need someone with Obama’s kind of charisma and optimism to run our country, somebody we can relate to, who’ll inspire us and make us feel good about our country again. 

I don’t actually remember voting Brown in to begin with, but maybe I missed something pertinent, like an election.  To me it just seems like Blair said, ‘D’you know what, I’ve had enough.  Take over will you, Gordon.’ 

At least Blair had some gusto to him, some enthusiasm.  Brown can barely draw breath and looks like he’s persistently suffering from chronic diarrhoea.  He’s so dull I can’t look at his picture without wanting to crash into a coma.

The alternative, it seems, is Cameron.  Bit of a Hobson’s Choice if you ask me… but of course, nobody asks me because I’m just a common person, I just live here.

I don’t care if our Prime Minister has been to Oxford University or Brixton Comprehensive.  I don’t care if they wear a skirt, a sarong, a kilt or a string vest.  I just want someone with personality and strength, like Richard Branson, Peter Jones, even Alan Sugar.

Just not Brown!

Friday 23

Small Son and his family have just moved into their own flat after living next door for the last four years.  And he’s just realised that he doesn’t have babysitters on tap any more.

“What are you doing on Valentine’s Day night?” he asked me today.

I looked at him and said, “Oh, we’ll probably have a nice meal at home with some candles and a bottle of wine.”  I paused for effect.  “Just like you.”

S’gonna be a steep learning curve! 

And for me too.  I won’t see them every day any more.  I won’t have Granddaughter standing underneath my living room window while Daddy unlocks his car on my driveway screaming, “NAAAAAAAAAANEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”  I won’t be able to open the window and have a quick chat with them before they drive off.   I'm gonna miss them.

Sniff.

Saturday 24

I’m sorry, but Ulrika Johnson won Big Brother?  You’ve got to be kidding me!  I didn’t watch all the episodes, but she did come across as a right bossy cow.  The crowd booed every time her name was mentioned.  Nobody else in the Big Brother house liked her.  She complained constantly about not wanting to be there.  In fact, all the ‘celebrities’ were a miserable bunch who made it clear they were taking part purely for the money, as a ‘job’.

“Hey, Ulrika, do you want to take part in Big Brother?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve got all these children to look after.”

“Go on, we’ll pay you lots.”

“How much?”

“£175,000.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.”

“And we’ll let you win.”

“Oh, okay.”

What A Load of Baloney!

Monday 26

I get loads of emails – and not all of it hate mail, which is nice - asking me about working from home, so I thought I’d gather them altogether and have a Q&A session.  Feel free to ask if I’ve missed anything.

What made you decide to start up your own business working from home?

Well it was a combination of things really.  The commute to work just kept on getting longer and more fraught with danger, usually about dying of hypothermia at the bus stop.  And like most people I guess I’d always daydreamed about starting up my own business and working for myself.  Finally, I realised that the higher up the secretarial ladder you go, the worse your work colleagues become – there’s no glass ceiling, just a bunch of paranoid and menopausal women wielding knives and shrieking like banshees.

Did you plan it?

Did I heck!  No, it was an impulse thing, a spur of the moment decision, an epiphany if you like.  I just decided I Simply Couldn’t Stand It a Moment Longer, and made a run for it.  The sense of relief was incredible.  I knew straight away I’d done the right thing… although I was near-hysterical for the first few weeks.  There was no Great Plan, I just knew I had to do something else or risk permanent insanity (sadly I was too late to save it).  It was only afterwards, when I sat at home thinking What the hell have I done? that I did a bit of research about transcribing and realised it was ‘doable’.

Did you have enough savings to see you through at the beginning?

Hell, no.  The desire to succeed was driven purely by necessity.  Impending poverty provides extraordinary motivation.  I’m fortunate enough not to have a big mortgage, no debts and no dependents.  And for the record, Hubs doesn’t subsidise or ‘keep’ me!

Can anybody do it?

Sure, if you can type, and especially if you can type fast (I blast out 90wpm). 

Where does your transcribing work come from?

At first I put advertisements in shops near Birmingham universities, because that’s what I’d done before, provided a typing service for students.  I soon realised that people will phone asking you to do the most incredible things: handwrite a love letter, type up ranting letters to politicians and celebrities, write blurbs for obscure websites, type up 45,000 words by 9am tomorrow, and oh could I collect and deliver as well.  That kind of advertising didn’t work out very well, but approaching transcription companies and bragging about my experience and speed did.  I also had some corporate contacts that put me in touch with other companies, and I gradually built up a regular customer base.

My other marketing techniques are top secret ;-)  Where there’s a will, there’s always a way.

Can you put me in touch with the companies you work for and recommend me?  And can you tell me what equipment I’ll need and where to buy it?  And can you maybe put some work my way and tell me how to do it?

To be honest, if you can’t be bothered to research the whole transcribing thing, and if you haven’t got the computer experience and secretarial background, I can’t help you.  Harsh, I know, but I have tried helping a few people and they basically want it all handed to them on a plate, which isn’t what this business is all about.  You’ve got to be self-motivated, determined and focused.  I can tell you that you’ll need a USB foot pedal, a good set of headphones (I use Seinnheiser), and some free audio software to play files (I use Express Scribe). 

How much can you expect to earn?

Depends, transcription companies pay different rates per audio minute, but beware of those who offer you a pittance for doing quite complicated work (like berluddy Schedule of Dilaps in a template table that’s totally f**ked up).  You can earn enough, sometimes equal to city centre salary, if you have the necessary skills and you’re willing to put in the effort – this ain’t no job for slackers.  Remember that an hour of audio will take roughly four times as long to type up, three hours if you’re fast (sometimes two if its clear and not dictated by someone on speed).  

What’s your daily routine?

I like to start work early (so I can finish early), so I drop my carcass out of bed at 6.30am, wait 30 minutes for the brain to boot up, and then get to it - but there's no rigid routine and sometimes I do have a bit of a lie-in (because I can).  I’m a morning person, but I know some transcribers like to start later and work into the night.  I aim to finish by the time Jeremy Kyle comes on TV at 1.30 (hey, we all have our little quirks, and Jeremy forces me to have a break otherwise I’d just keep on working).  I don’t work ceaselessly, I have little breaks for the loo, for coffee, to put washing in the machine or drag a vacuum round.  Sometimes I do work 7am to 5pm, but not often (its usually all over for me by 3pm).  I do my own thing in the afternoons.

Where do you work?

I’m lucky enough to have a study where I can work in peace and quiet (at the back of the house where hopefully I won’t hear the salesmen pounding on my front door).  Study sounds posh, but I converted one of the three bedrooms when my ungrateful offspring all abandoned me.

Everything I need is to hand, even a view.

What kind of work do you do?

My work is mostly typing up interviews, one-to-one or groups, manuscripts and dissertations/theses.  I have a building background so I do a lot of reports, dilaps and schedules using templates and in-house autotext.  I’ll do anything, but I prefer ‘big stuff’ so rarely do letters or faxes unless its for a regular customer.

How do you receive and return work?

There’s free internet software that allows you to upload and download big files (and some audio files are berluddy massive).  I load it into my transcription software, type it up, and email it back. 

How do you get paid?

Mostly into my bank account, sometimes Paypal, occasionally by cheque.  I invoice regular customers at the end of each month, but with new customers I ask for a payment up front and then the remainder before work is returned.  I’ve never really had a problem with non-payment… they wouldn’t dare!

How much work can you do in a day?

Depends what mood I’m in.  Some days my fingers just take one look at the keyboard and make like they’ve never typed before, but most days I’m faster than the speed of light and there’s just no stopping me.  I do anywhere between 30 and 100 audio minutes a day – more than 100 and I’m usually ‘burned out’ the following day.

Desktop computer or laptop?

Laptop, definitely.  The days of sitting at a desk are long over.  I find a laptop more comfortable to work on for long periods, and of course I can take it anywhere (even in the back garden if the weather’s nice… I managed to sit outside twice last year, tsk).  

Do you miss going out to work or working in the city?

City, no, definitely not.   Going out to work, ditto.  I thank my lucky stars every time I see a bus that I don’t have to get on those things any more.  And when I get up on cold, dark mornings and hear gale force winds and rain/hail/snow lashing against my windows, I smile contentedly because I don’t have to go Out There (cue for more hate mail methinks).  I don’t get the Yay! Friday! feeling as much, but nor do I get the Monday Miseries either.  I can’t think of a single thing I miss.

Do you miss seeing friends?

I miss the Hey, wanna go to McDonald's at lunch time?  But I still see my mates, albeit less frequently than I used to.  We keep in touch via email and phonecalls.  I have fabulous (and v.tolerant) mates J

Doesn’t it drive you mad being at home all day every day?

Not really.  I’m lucky enough to have been able to stay at home to bring up my boys for a few years so I guess I’m used to it.  I’ve no problem at all with my own company.  If you’re an outgoing person who needs living bodies all around you, this kind of life won’t suit you at all, but for me its perfect and I love it, its my dream job.

Do you have any advice for someone who is thinking of doing it?

Seriously consider if it will suit you first, and then research, research, research.  Keep seeking out new markets.  Don’t get disheartened – I earned 47p on my first day!   Try not to panic if work seems a bit quiet today/this week, its usually the calm before the storm.  Give yourself a three month trial period; I took a holiday from my mortgage for two months to take the pressure off a bit.  And don’t forget the Inland Revenue, if you don’t declare yourself self-employed within three months the buggers try to fine you!  If you hate figures like I do, an accountant will stop Chronic Hair Loss.  Above all else, you need to Really Like typing!

Any regrets?

Yep, that I didn’t do it sooner.

Tuesday 27

Have you seen what Brummies are doing to the iconic Bullring bull?  They're worshipping it.  And about time too.

I found this because I wanted to know what the T-mobile advert was all about, and apparently there's something called Flashmobbing where people get together in groups to do strange things - like gather at Liverpool station to dance.  You probably already know this, but my finger slipped off the pulse of life a while back.  Here's what they did in Trafalgar Square, London, last year, and let me tell you, if I'd have been there when it was happening, I'd have been the one at the back screaming "WHAT THE FARK'S GOING ON!  WHAT'S HAPPENING!  OH MY GOD ITS INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS!  RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

And on a completely different note, check out the history of Oomph on the Sunday Mercury website.

Wednesday 28

I got up at 6.30am this morning.  At 6.40, having checked the online news, I was choking on my coffee and wiping tears from my eyes.  I know about Virgin Airlines food, having been poisoned by the stuff on my last flight (see end of this), so I could well empathise with this poor passenger.  This is being hailed as the Best Complaint Letter Ever, and is the funniest thing I've read in aaaaaaaaaaaages.  Enjoy! 

* * *

People often say to me, why do you have no fashion sense?  Actually, the people I know usually come right out and say, why are you always so berluddy scruffy?  I’m not ‘scruffy’ so much as blasé about the whole garment wearing procedure.

I always look these rude people dead in the eye and say, I dunno.  But let’s look at the evidence.

Okay, yellow t-shirt and red hooker shorts were never going to work were they.  I don’t care that this was the early 70s, putting kids in clothes like that was tantamount to abuse - although my sister (left) manages to carry it off with blasé aplomb. 

Right, mid-70s, hence the enormous sunglasses that I thought made me look like a superstar.  And the hair in a centre parting, yuk, I’ll never live it down.  Once again my sister proves that you can carry off any look if you have style.

I include this picture because (a) it’s the only photograph I have of me with short hair; (b) I can’t believe I ever actually wore an orange dippy-hippy waistcoat; (c) I can’t believe the shortness of my Marmee’s skirt (not bad legs though); and (d) I can’t believe she ever made my brother wear that tartan hat.

This is my first every motorbike when I was 17.  Only I, with the fashion sense of a bag lady, could have worn a mac on a bike, tsk.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, I used to buzz around wearing a skirt, usually tucked in underneath my legs but not always, especially if it was a bit windy. 

No idea what’s going on with the hair.

That’s lil bruv on the far left… I still think of him like this because I see him so rarely (and when I do clap eyes on him I think wow, bruv’s changed a bit!).  And that’s my daydee (who’s just hooked up to the internet, so HI DAD! if you ever come across this).

And the person with the face scratched out?  That’ll be my first serious boyfriend who turned into my first ex-husband (I have a few… oh, you never knew that?  Cue awkward silence). 

How many people can say they got married in purple, eh?  Only me, people, only me.  I was going for the film-star look with that hat but look more like a gangster’s moll.  Then-husband was quite hunky wasn’t he, I don’t tend not to marry ugly men (nor, indeed, do I produce them).

This is what I blame for my chronic lack of fashion sense, the Motorbike Years, lost in a wilderness of studded leather jackets and Bin Laden scarves.  The John Lennon glasses were about 20 years too late, but nobody bothered to tell me.  That's my bike on the left, I luuuuuurved that bike.

The Meatloaf years.  Need I say more?

Into the 90s now, a good year for shiny material and big, bold patterns with shoulder-pads.  This was actually a top and a skirt and made me look like a posh Christmas present, but I felt terribly sophisticated.  Sister once again depicts gorgeousness even in a tea dress (see, I know its called a tea dress, I’m not a complete philistine despite all evidence to the contrary).

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I actually wore this velvet creation during The Lost Years, when I completely gave up trying to get it right.  It made me look like a huge bruise.

This was actually for a works ‘fancy dress party’.  Sadly, everything here was stuff I wore anyway.  There’s obviously no hope is there.

If a girl can’t wear sequins on her wedding day, when can she?  I had no say in the design, I just bought the material from an African market and gave it to a local woman to whip up into a wedding dress. 

So what do you think, no chance of ever becoming a fashion icon, or can you see some vague signs of redemption in there somewhere?

CURRENT MONTH

The Naive Brits Guide to an American Road Trip  Go read, go comment, go tell US immigration that we're perfect candidates for a prolonged stay in their country.

     “Oh this is just a holder for my spirit,” ‘Granny’ said, fluffing up her hair.  “I could have
      picked Toyah Wilcox, but I couldn’t get my teeth round the lisp.”

"Why does Granny look like Julie Walters?"

"More to the point, why does Grandpa look like Ozzy Osbourne?"

“Good evening,” said the crypt keeper in a deep, resonant voice.

Cavanna twirled round in delight and cried, “It’s Trevor bloody Eve!”

     This is a star-studded tale of ghostly goings-on also featuring:
     Toyah Wilcox, JRR Tolkien, Barbara Cartland, Jaspar Carrot, Roy Wood, Lenny Henry, Adrian Chiles, Bill Oddie,
     Lisa Clayton, Jamelia, Nigel Mansell, Christine McVie, Matthew Boulton, George Cadbury, John Wyndham and
     Tony Hancock... all Brummies (although suspect Black Country folk will be up in arms about some of those)
     Frank Skinner also due to make a guest appearance.

     Chapter One   *   Chapter Two   *   Chapter Three   *   Chapter Four   *   Chapter Five

     Chapter Six   *   Chapter Seven   *   Chapter Eight   *   Chapter Nine   *   Chapter Ten (nag me)

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