• April Fools Day

• Rain

• More rain

• Even more rain

• Not much else!

I'd like to have the time to draw breath, let alone stand and stare like cattle (sigh)

Friday 1 (April Fools Day)

Got home from work yesterday, sat on sofa, immediately slipped into a coma type sleep for four solid hours. Felt like all my energy had been vacuumed out and my bones replaced with a jelly-like substance.  Had to ring in sick today, which means I didn’t get to play any April fool tricks on my work mates (like putting post-it notes under their computer mice).

Anyway, in the absence of any tomfoolery, here’s something about bad interviews to amuse you.

Sunday 3

Obviously spurred on by the joys of spring, my Partner raced into the garden this morning and fixed the fence at the bottom of the garden so the neighbours/burglars/sinister type folk can’t get through any more. Then he neatly piled up the branches we lopped off the apple tree a while ago, which has cheered the wildlife up no end (the fornicating sparrows can have a bit of privacy now - hey, you don’t want to see that kind of thing at the crack of dawn). He weeded the patio, scrubbed it with bleach and hosed it down. Then he mowed the lawn.

I tell ya, I was exhausted just watching him.

Monday 4

Woke up to driving rain and howling gales, just what you need on a Monday morning. Walking the last bit to my bus stop, the bus roared straight passed me. I mean, I catch this bus every single day at exactly the same time, the driver could at least wait for me to arrive!

Waited 10 minutes in the driving rain and howling gales for the next bus. The road was like a wind tunnel. My brolly blew inside out at least 4,272 times, I eventually held onto the edge of it to stop it collapsing entirely, and the rain dribbled relentlessly down my arm. I was half beaten to death by my coat, and my hair whipped itself up into an enormous candyfloss.

Arrived at work looking like a drowned Medusa.

Tuesday 5

Top deck of the bus at 5.10pm, a teenage girl covered in spots with lank, greasy hair is yabbering furiously into her mobile phone. She has the thickest Brummie accent I’ve ever heard. "Yeah," she suddenly says, "Like, yeah, I gotta go ‘ome an’ mek meself look beautiful." In front of me, three people coughed in unison. Catching on, I also coughed. Behind me, two more people coughed.

The girl on the phone was totally oblivious to the fact that the entire top deck were now grinning conspiratorially..

Wednesday 6

Took Middle Son with us to the pub for our mid-week pint of Stella.

He’s going back to university tomorrow.

Wah!

I shall miss his leg slapping, his obsessive fridge opening, his movements around the house at 3am and his handsome face.

On the plus side, we’ll have privacy and the internet back.

Thursday 7

Horror of horrors, I’ve lost my reading glasses. I can read a document at the far side of the office with no probs, but have difficulty focusing on my computer, and anything closer is just guesswork.

"I’ve lost my glasses," I said to my boss.

"Oh," he said, "Will you cope without them?"

"Yeah, as long as you don’t expect me to type anything."

My boss then did an amazing thing. He pulled off his own glasses and held them out to me.  "Try these," he said, "I can manage without."

Gobsmacked, I put them on. The man is blind!  He'd have never have made it back to his desk.  But I thanked him anyway - terribly nice thing for him to do.

Rang the pub we went to last night and they had a quick look but no joy.  Rang Middle Son at home to tell him to take the furniture apart, but the glasses are well and truly gone. And I miss them. I need them.

Dashed to Boots the Chemist at lunch for a pair of those ready focused glasses. £20! Muttering at the expense, I bought a pair.

I can now read close up, but I still can’t see the computer screen, so the glasses are perched on the edge of my nose and I’m peering over them like Anne Robinson.

Friday 8

Went to pub again last night (well, I had to, didn’t I) to search for the glasses. Confused/amused people watched me crawl on my hands and knees around a table, which was fortunately unoccupied. Grilled the bar staff, but they deny having seen said spectacles.

Damn.

Rang my opticians this morning. "I've lost my glasses and my sight, and possibly my job if I don't get some work done soon," I wailed. "How quickly can you get me a replacement pair?"

The woman acknowledged my panic and discussed my tragedy with some urgency with her colleagues - star!  Then she said, "I can get you a pair by tomorrow."

"Really?"  They normally take a week.

"And we have a special offer on at the moment, you can have this pair for free until you’re ready to buy a new pair."

What fabulous customer service! Scrivens. Go there. They’re great.

Go to pick up ‘free’ glasses from opticians and order a ‘proper’ pair to go with the ‘buy one, get one free’ offer.

One hundred and seventy eight flipping pounds! You could actually hear my credit card screaming as it handed it over.

Charles and Camilla get married.  And jolly good luck to them, I say.
 

Gorgeous day. The sun shone brightly or, at least, I was aware that the sun was out - I couldn't exactly see it through my windows. Right, clean 'em then. Just the living room, inside and out - and while I was out I might as well wash down the porch too (that's porch not Porsche ... I wish).

Quick wipe over the hallway windows. Now all the back windows looked mucky, so did them. Then felt bad because the upstairs ones were almost becoming a health hazard, so did them too, inside and out (hanging out of the top floor with one buttock desperately clutching the ledge and me visualising my own death).

By the time I'd finished (two and a half hours later!) every muscle in my body was trembling with exertion.

Why  Women  Think  Men  Are  Immature

Could barely move this morning, every window-washing muscle (that's every single fibre in my entire body) is rigid. Raising my arm is like trying to lift a truck, which makes putting on my makeup interesting (I eventually lowered my head and sort of rubbed my face across the makeup – "New look?" my workmates asked. "No, window cleaning," I said, leaving them with What? expressions).

Absolutely bombed out at work, so I enlist the the help of two young secretaries.

To repay them and escape the hair-tearing stress, we and a couple of other 'youngester' go out to lunch ... not an adult-type lunch but cake and coffee at Druckers (major treat). Before we left, I sent them an email:

"As I will be the oldest (oh I'm so old!) person at lunch today, I would like you all to behave yourselves and following these simple rules:

1. No running around annoying other people
2. No screaming for sweeties
3. No running off and hiding (you'll just be left behind)
4. One cake only allowed (so don't pester for more)
5. No cake fights
6. No fighting amongst yourselves
7. Try not to spill coffee down you
8. Try not to spill coffee down other people
9. Don't throw any tantrums on the floor
10. No sticking out of tongues / bad language."

They behaved themselves marvelously. Afterwards we went to the 98p shop in the Pallasades and giggled over all the cheap jewellery like schoolkids.

[For an interactive 360 view the Pallasades Shopping Centre, click here and select "View the mall".]

Bearing in mind my resolution not to do lunch any more, I do lunch with another workmate.

"Pub?" she said.

"Floosie and Coke," I replied.

"You want to become a prostitute and do drugs?"

"Right now it sounds like a pretty good career move," I said, hauling my way out of the mounds of paperwork.

We bought cans of Coke and sat by the Floosie in the Jacuzzi (a water feature) waiting for the caffeine to take effect. Being a non-coffee drinker, I twitched and talkedreallyfast all afternoon.

Mid week treat at the pub. As we walked away from the bar with our pints of Stella, I casually turned and said to the bar staff, "I don’t suppose you found a pair of spectacles, have you?"

"Yes," they said.

"What?"

"They’re here." And I was handed my own glasses.

At first I was pleased … for a good 10 seconds. Then I thought about the £178 I’d just forked out for a replacement pair and furiously wondered why they hadn’t rang to say they’d found them.

After that I just sulked.

I’ve gone from having no glasses (and having to hold everything three feet away in order to read it) to having four pairs and a Really Big credit card bill!

Bummer.

Because we haven’t actually shopped for food this week (so easy to find an excuse not to, until malnutrition and rickets begins to set in) I go to the new Tescos on New Street. As I’m waiting in the checkout queue, two men behind me start talking about recipes for chicken using lemon grass and garlic butter. I’m so engrossed in this impromptu cookery lesson I don’t notice that I’ve arrived at the front of the queue.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp, painful wallop on my arm. I’m so alarmed I actually scream out – well, you don’t expect to be attacked in Tescos, do you. A woman has actually broken rank at the back of the queue to encourage me to ‘shift my ass’ to a vacant till.

I would have said something about the bruise forming on my arm, but she looked so like a hyped-up bulldog with severe constipation – all wild hair, bulging eyes and murderous agitation - I thought it best not to.

The survival instinct is strong in the city.

[New evening classes for men]

7.50am. ‘Rush hour’. Hundreds of people desperate to get to work on time. And West Midlands Travel send us … a single decker bus. G-reat. As I get on, I notice one solitary seat available. A small child is sitting on the outside of said seat. I approach him. "Excuse me." Nothing. "Excuse me!" Still the child continues to stare out of the window. So, I nudge him with my bag, slightly harder than I intended, almost bordering on abuse in fact. But at least the little bugger shifts.

The bus becomes so packed its like traveling inside a sardine can on wheels. And then, as if things aren’t bad enough, Bristol Man starts up. Obviously thrilled to have a trapped audience, he bawls into his mobile phone about talismans and learning spells – riveting, totally riveting!!! And this for a solid 55 minutes all the way into town.

Rover’s closing! Gobsmacking.  Longbridge has always been synonymous with the massive car plant and the huge car parks for the workers (I used to live next to one of them), its just always been there. And now its closing.  Seems odd, like Parisians being told the Eiffel Tower's being dismantled, Longbridge will no longer be dominated by the car plant.

Politics and (obvious) management cock-ups aside, I feel so sorry for the workers and their families, suddenly thrust out of jobs some of them have been doing for decades. They’ve been on the television news looking traumatised and panic-stricken, wondering how they’re going to pay their bills. And so many people flooding the work market, they’re not all going to find jobs. How terrible.

Our local (part time) butcher works at Rover. My Partner told him about two vacancies at his place but, fortunately, he’s already sorted. My Partner left his number. Two hours later, someone rang about the jobs – "We can’t pay our mortgage and my wife’s going nuts," he said. Hopefully my Partner will be able to sort him and someone else out, but there’s thousands out there, all going nuts about their future.

How awful.

A couple of men rang about the jobs going at my Partner's place.  Neither were interested.  Why?  Because they were, apparently, on £lots an hour at Rover and my Partner - and I suspect most of the job market - is paying significantly less than that. 

Monday 18

During a brief lull in the maelstrom that is my work life lately, I had a quick chat with of the boss-types and they casually mentioned they’d just got a new cleaner.

"Ooooh, did you get one of those Dyson cleaners?" I said enthusiastically. "We got one of those not long ago and they’re dead good, aren’t they, really do the job and don’t lose any suction at all, just like it says on the …."

It was at this point I noticed the boss-types’s confused expression. "Was it a Dyson cleaner?" I asked weakly.

"No," they said, clearly embarrassed, "It’s a woman who comes in three times a week."

Ah!

Tuesday 19

Today is my hormone-induced eat-the-world day, craving chocolate Big Style. What on earth did women in the stone age do?

Stone age woman: "Hmmm, y’know," smacking of lips "I really fancy something … " smack smack "Y’know, really sweet."

Stone age man (chewing on dinosaur bone): "What’s ‘sweet’?"

Stone age woman: "I don’t know," smack smack "Something high in calories."

Stone age man: "Calories?"

Stone age woman: "Something kinda chocolatey and milky and melty-in-the-mouthy."

Stone age man: "Women! I’ll never understand them."

Stone age woman: "Ain’t that the truth."

And in the same vein, you know when you fancy something but can’t quite put your finger on what it is … could be that it hasn’t actually been invented yet. Mind boggling.

Wednesday 20

Today I was at work for seven hours, and for six and a half of those hours I typed, solidly. The letters on my keyboard actually started fading, and there’s a dent in the space bar (space bar - always makes me think of Harrison Ford leaning against some bar on a foreign planet … hmmm, I like that thought).  I typed so fast that, when I quickly check my speed on an internet site, I've reached 111 words per minute - I could play the Flight of the Bumble Bee in 13.2 seconds at that speed.

So, as I work on computers for seven hours every day, the last thing I want when I get home at night (knackered, often sobbing) is to look at another computer - I have my retinas and my sanity to consider. Therefore, until I win the lottery and can give up work. I’ll be updating this blog once a week, on Saturday.

Thursday 21

Argh! The end of the month. So much time yet so little dosh.

Poverty sucks.

And yet, when I checked my bank account today, there appeared to be a spare £30 in it. Amazing. I started thinking about what I could do with this surplus money - meal, takeaway, maybe shoes. Whilst trying to decide, Big Son rang from Yorkshire. "We’re broke," he said, "We’ve got no milk, no sugar, no bread, no food. Can we borrow some money?" As Big Son rarely asks for anything, I said, "How much?"

Wouldn’t you know it, £30!

Yep, poverty sucks.

Friday 22

I had an email at work. I was supposed to answer questions about the sender of the email and return it to them. I don’t participate in this stuff, primarily because I’m not sure I want to know what people think of me, so, for a joke, I thought I’d fill it in myself and pretend someone had sent it to me (about me, if you follow):

Your name: Anon

Where did we meet: In the photocopier room - we had a fight over who got to use it first, I pulled your hair, you gave me a black eye.

Take a stab at my middle name: Miseryguts?

Do I believe in God: I doubt it

How long have you known me: Too long

Do I smoke: Like a chimney

What was your first impression of me upon meeting: What the hell does she think she's wearing? Does she not own a brush? Does she not have mirrors at home?!

Color of my eyes: Muddy

Do I have any siblings: If you did, you probably ate them

What's one of my favorite things to do: Start pub brawls?

Do you remember one of the first things I said to you: "Step away from the photocopier! NOW!"

What's my favorite type of music: Horror movie themes?

What is the best feature about me: You don't have one

Am I shy or outgoing: I'd say reclusive

Am I a rebel or do I follow the rules: If only you could decide!

What's your favorite memory of me: Hearing you scream as we fought in the photocopier room

Any special talents: None whatsoever

Would you consider me a friend: Not a chance

If there was one good nickname for me, what would it be: Trouble

If you and I were stranded on a desert island, what one thing would I bring? Boxing gloves

I expected my work colleagues to find it amusing. Instead, they all asked who had sent it to me.  "It was a joke," I told them.  "Oh," they said, "Was it?"  !!!

Oh my God! A miracle! (not easy for an atheist to admit to). For mother’s day Middle Son sent me a CD in the post - Joss Stone. Only it never arrived. Middle Son copied the copy CD he'd made and duly sent off a claim form to the Post Office, who sent him a £17 cheque.

"It’s yours," he said when he rang to tell me, "What would you like?"

With a nervous sense of de ja vu (see Thursday above), I quickly thought what I could do with this dosh that was mine, all mine. I decided (before any sproglets rang me asking for money) that I’d quite like the cash to buy some material to make a nice summer outfit. I asked Middle Son transfer it to my bank account for me.

Today, money has been transferred from Middle Son’s bank into my bank account. From his into mine.

Like I say, a miracle.

I vowed not to do any more lunches again because its getting too expensive. I told myself, "No more!" and suddenly I’m lunching more than ever.

"There’s a special offer on at Coffee Republic on New Street," I said. "Coffee and cake for £2 something." So we went there. But the special offer had ended, so we had to pay full whack (mutter mutter).

There was a poster by the till: "Free cake for regular customers named [Me!]".

"That’s me!" I screeched excitedly. "That's my name! Where’s me free cake?"

"Are you a regular customer?" I was asked.

"Well … yes … I was definitely here last month."

"Not a regular then."

"Er, no."

And the freebie was cruelly snatched from my grasp.

Bummer.

My Partner agreed to do the late shift for a couple of nights at work – 11am to 10pm (maniac!).

Last night I came home to an empty house and entered the kitchen in search of food, which I knew was in there somewhere. The Cooker With Attitude glared at me defiantly – if it were human, it would be a skinhead with piercings and tattoos thrusting vicious V-signs and spitting expletives.

I paced up and down in front of it a few times, wondering if starvation was reason enough to deal with The Oven Nob That Had No Numbers. Memories of crackling fireballs and trays of smoking carbon flashed inside my head.

I opened a tin of soup.

Tonight I felt braver. No cooker was going to get the better of me, oh no.

I had toast.

Right, we’ve been paid, time for a rare treat. Not just a pint of Stella at our favourite pub, but a meal too, at Henry Wong in Harborne.

We ordered the meal for two – fabulous. Unfortunately, there were only chopsticks on the table. I’m an expert, my Partner not so. It took mere minutes for the pristine-white tablecloth to be covered in food that didn’t quite reach his mouth – prawns kept flying passed my face and I had to duck a couple of sweet and sour missiles.

"Ask for a fork!" I kept telling him, but no, he’s a Yorkshireman, and a stubborn one at that, he’d make do with chopsticks.

By the time we’d finished, our table looked like we’d indulged in a frenzied food fight. Hyperactive chimps couldn’t have created more carnage.

"Made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid," my Partner said to the tight lipped waiter when we’d finished. The waiter rolled up the splattered tablecloth and hauled it off over his shoulder without a word.

We left a huge tip and slinked out.

"Lunch?" someone at work asked.

"Yeah, sure."

"Beatties?"

"Why not?"

Why not! Wasn’t my brain in gear? Going for lunch at Beatties, one of the most expensive stores in Birmingham … what was I thinking!

We got there and surveyed the menu, me squinting my eyes at the prices like you do when you suck on a lemon.  A hot meal?  Erm, probably not. Cheese baguette? Yeah, right! Okay, a sandwich. You’ve got to be kidding, for a sandwich?

Just a cake then. Oh ha ha ha, very funny.  Cookie it is. And why not go mad with a large cappuccino from an exasperating woman who hissed, "Do you want a drink or not?" ("Do you want a slap?" I nearly replied). I also resist asking for a magnifying glass so I could spot the ‘large’ cappuccino.

We find a table by a window with no view and clear the remnants of someone else’s meal ourselves. It was like sitting in a canteen, and we’d paid a fortune.

Must … stop … doing … lunch.

We booked the day off work to make for a long Bank Holiday weekend, and hired an industrial cleaner for the carpets and three piece suite (we know how to live!). We took it in turns to use it because we bicker whenever we try to do jobs together ("Wouldn’t it be better if … ?" "No, bog off!").

My Partner not only reverts to ‘manager-mode’ whenever a job needs doing, he also has a terrible habit of using condescending terms of endearment when ‘patiently making suggestions’:

"No, darling, not like that."

"Sweetie, it’d be much better if … "

"Just a minute, love, let me show you … "

There’s been many a time when I’ve had him in a neck lock with a pasting or paint brush at his throat, hissing, "Don’t … call … me … babe … again!"

At the end of the day we had clean carpets and furniture and were still on speaking terms … which was nice.

Contents of my handbag:

• Reading glasses (now superglued to the lining to stop the damn things falling out at pubs)
• Hairbrush (with a label on saying ‘Use Me!’)
• Cigarettes (I know, I know)
• Lighter (if I can find one)
• Mobile phone (rarely used, £10 credit lasts me six weeks … actually, that’s quite sad)
• Lipstick (never sees the light of day)
• Keys (with handy corkscrew attached for those moments when you just can’t get through the day without a bottle of wine!)
• Security pass for work (ALWAYS at the bottom of the flipping bag)
• Purse (hopefully with some money in it)
• A £1 coin for emergencies (though what emergencies can be thwarted with £1 I’m not sure)
• Migraleve, indigestion and general painkilling tablets (necessary for office life)

Bear in mind this bag is roughly the size of a housebrick. I have to jump up and down on it to get it closed. Heaven help any bag-snatcher that tries to get this sucker open.