• There's a bank holiday somewhere (29th?)

• We get a 6 day break from work (and we ain't flippin' decorating)

• I win the lottery and hand in my notice (I will! I will! I must!)

• Big Brother finally ends - how long have these narcissistic people been in there!!!  Bring back Friends at 7.30am I say.

Monday 1

Last week my boss said to me, “This plane ticket you got me, it’s for the wrong date.”  There was a split second of silence as my boss held out the offending ticket and I gave him my ‘I Don’t Do Mistakes’ look - never admit to anything unless there’s photographic evidence and statements from witnesses is my motto. 

A quick look at the details he’d given me confirmed it - I’d screwed up.

I rang the plane ticket company.  “Non-refundable ticket” they said.  So I went into grovel mode.

Never underestimate the power of grovelling.

“My job’s on the line,” I whimpered.  It wasn’t.  “My boss will sack me when he finds out.”  He wouldn’t.  I resisted the urge to drop in a sentence about me trudging the streets, unemployed, and my poor children starving, thinking that might be taking it a little far.

The bloke at the ticket company was now on a mission … to Save My Job.  Star!  He cancelled the wrong ticket and provided new ones which were cheaper than the original.  “These are definitely non-refundable,” he said.

“You mean if I screw up again, I’m sunk?”

“Yep,” he said, “That’s about the size of it.”

I dashed back to my boss, all nonchalant.  “Yeah, I did order tickets for the wrong date,” I grinned, “But I’ve managed to get you replacement tickets at almost half the price.”

Million brownie points for me, then.

Tuesday 2

The department is having yet another move around.  Last time they did this I was left completely on my own in the empty half of the office for a few weeks.  It was lonely time.  Eventually, they decided to move me about thirty feet away.  The other secretaries got manly help moving all their files, I got nothing.  I did it all myself, and almost died of exhaustion in the process.

So, this time, will I rejoin my fellow secretaries and finally have company?  Will I have someone to moan to about the printers/archiving/work/life in general?

Apparently not.  Whilst all the other secretaries are moving to another floor, I’m staying exactly where I am.  My paranoia tells me that maybe people have refused to sit next to me (maybe I smell or something - being anosmic, I wouldn’t know). 

I feel lonely misery settling upon me already.

Wednesday 3

I receive an email ‘sent randomly to a small group of people’ asking how the company can improve department meetings … ie how can they (a) get people to attend the meeting in the first place, and (b) once they have them there, how do they keep people awake.

Well, it was like waving a red flag at a bull.  I couldn’t resist.  I emailed back immediately:

Department meetings - how to  make them more ‘fun’

1.      Hold the meeting in an interesting place - Paris, maybe, or perhaps Florida; all expenses paid 

2.      Have a live band playing gently in the background during the meeting, see if Meat Loaf or Led Zepplin are available.

3.      Provide obscene amounts of free food and alcohol.

4.      To avoid people falling asleep during the meeting, hire a couple of strippers to dance next to the presentation.

5.      Plan a water balloon fight - again, to keep people awake.

6.      To encourage people to attend, offer large sums of money for everyone who turns up and cash incentives to all those who stay awake.

7.      Perhaps have side-shows in the meeting room such as a magician, fortune teller, therapist, chiropodist.

8.      Get the speaker to do the whole presentation naked.

9.      Get Brad Pitt and Catherine Zeta Jones to do the whole presentation naked.

10.  Do the entire meeting in 10 words or less.

I received a standard reply, telling me the company would consider my ideas.

Oh, I do hope so!

Thursday 4

There are some people where I work who are such slobs I suspect they may need the help of Kim and Aggie in their own homes.  The kitchen area regularly looks like its had chimps in there … I mean, what’s so difficult about replacing lids or wiping up spilled coffee (can only be Upper Management, that’s all I’ll say).

So, totally stolen from Sane Scientist, I put up a sign reading “We regret to inform you that the recent grant application requesting funding for a fairy complete with wand to clean up after you has been rejected.  We would therefore request that after you have made use of the kitchen, you clean up after yourself to save others the hassle of doing it for you.  We generously supply a tap and paper towels to aid you.”

Friday 5

Couple of thangs.  Firstly, on the bus into work in the mornings I pass a huge billboard. It’s currently advertising a film, “The Devil’s Rejects” (which looks a riot yawn) and shows a blood-streaked hand.  Makes me smile every time I see it because, blown up to that size, you can clearly see that, although the hand is covered in a thick blood-like goo, just poking out from underneath can be seen manicured fingernails.  You can just imagine the model being told their next assignment is a ‘hand job’ (snigger) and rushing out to get their nails done (“A horror movie! Yeah, okay, I’ll dip my hand in the red goo, but you ain't hacking at my nails, buddy”).

The other thing is, I’ve been driving people mad all day with the Metro newspaper.  On page 2 it details how the Space Shuttle is being repaired in space.  Next to the article is a brilliant picture which I think is hysterically funny … Paynes Manual. 

I’ve been saying to everyone all day, “Look at this, its so funny.”  It’s yet to raise a smile with anyone else.  Maybe its just me.

On your marks, get set, GO!

My Partner gets up at some god-forsaken hour and goes to work for a couple of hours, I get up equally early and update my blog as I know with terrifying clarity that I won’t have time later.  My Partner comes home 10am and I start wailing and sobbing about everything we’ve got to do.  Persuade Small Son to help out.  He mows grass, smashes up two old desks in Middle Son’s room (now abandoned sniff) and lobs multiple boxes in loft (which is now heaving with offsprings’ belongings).  I help.

Draw breath and …

Fill car with broken desks and assorted rubbish, roar to local tip, toss everything in skip, roar to local shops, dash to get essentials (bread, milk, fags, booze, another bloody big bag of bloody peanuts for the birds and squirrels).  Rush home, unpack, get changed. 

And … decorate.

I love decorating as much as someone with a needle phobia  loves acupuncture.  Its endless.  Its messy.

Its gotta be done.

My Partner and I have, however, worked out a fail-safe system for achieving such home improvements without killing each other.  I strip (sometimes wallpaper, sometimes as an excuse to get out of stripping wallpaper :-), he ‘prepares’ using a plethora of power tools and liberal amounts of plaster.  I then paint.  He does the papering.  We’re never in the room at the same time, so we don’t end up throwing paintbrushes and paste buckets at each other any more.  It works for us.

We’re doing the small bedroom this time, what used to be Small Son’s room (wah!).  Turning it into a guest room so that we can have the middle-sized bedroom (which used to be Middle Son’s room - wah!) as a study.  I’ve always wanted a study with book lined walls and a large desk by a scenic window but, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather have my sons in their respective rooms again, preferably aged 10 or thereabouts.  As this is unlikely to happen (sniff) I guess I’ll create the study of my dreams.  Which I can’t have until the small room is done so we can put the bed in there, so …

Paint!

Sunday 7

Argh!  Will it never end!

I finished painting while my Partner ‘stripped’ the doors.  They’re old paneled doors, an original feature of the house, and have about half an inch of paint on each side.  In the garden, my Partner used his electric plane to strip off the layers and then his electric sander to smooth them down.  The sound of this power tool frenzy echoed around the neighbourhood for five solid hours, at the end of which the wood doors had been pared down to roughly the thickness of a wafer biscuit - we may have to use them as curtains rather than doors that open (only kidding  x x x).  Everything - plants, lawn, windows, neighbours - was covered in a thick layer of dust.  We could have sold the resulting sawdust to some company that uses a lot of sawdust and made ourselves a small fortune!

6 o’clock, we’re both sobbing with exhaustion over our Sunday dinner (which my Partner cooked … star!).

The day that we don’t have to decorate will be a great day indeed.

Monday 8

Oh woe.  Monday.  Again.  So soon.  And after all that hard slog over the weekend, we're bloody knackered.

Doesn't work get in the way of real life.

Must tell you this … Last Friday Small Son had to take some Extremely Important Documents (ie his driving licence and stuff) to a place in town.  On the way back, he left the carrier bag containing an Argos catalogue and ALL of his important papers at the bus stop.  When he realised, minutes later, he rushed back but they were gone.  He was gutted.

On Saturday morning he received rather a thick letter in the post.  Opening it, he found all his important documents!  A note said “Found at bus stop.  Kept Argos catalogue.”  No name or address.

How fabulous.  Someone had actually taken the time to return them.  Not only that, but the postage was correct, so they must have taken it to a post office to have it weighed.

There are still good people out there!

Tuesday 9

You may have noticed the definite lack of 'ladies who lunch' episodes last week.  I was very good.  But today, needed coffee (which I don’t normally drink).  Went to Druckers in the Pallasades Shopping Centre, which has just been done out and is now open again.  I felt right excited, which only confirms that I really do need to get out more.

You can see Druckers as you walk down the middle of the Pallasades.  Or at least, what used to be Druckers.  “Is that it?” I asked my coffee colleague.  “Yes,” she said, miserably, “That’s it.”  “What the hell have they done to it?” I almost cried (must get out more must get out more …).

It no longer looks like Druckers (with its distinguished café painting in every outlet). 

It now looks like a canteen.  They’ve taken out all the colour and atmosphere and turned it all white.  Canteen white.  There aren’t even any tables outside any more so you can watch people walking by (I love people-watching).

They’ve ruined it.

We’ll still go there, of course.  They have the best selection of cakes in town (even if they do cost an arm and a leg and a substantial amount of my salary), and the staff are always nice and friendly (you notice it because you don’t get it many places any more).

And their cappuccino, whilst not as large as Coffee Republic, is so strong I won’t need another caffeine hit for days.

But, really, bring back the old style ... progress is vastly overrated.

Wednesday 10

And you think you have bad days!?!

Today was a Day From Hell  Whatever could go wrong did go wrong.

Got up with stomach ache and feeling pretty miserable/sorry for myself.  Missed bus (of course!), next one arrived late.  Finally got to work, where my desk phone was already ringing.  Boss on his way to London on the train tells me he only has a single ticket and no way to get back.  Ticket people can’t do anything (yep, I tried grovelling, they really couldn’t do anything).  Tried our HR department in case they have an emergency helicopter for such situations - nobody knew what to do, least of all me.  Rang to tell boss.  “Panic over,” he said,  “I found the return ticket, they’re printing them differently now.”

Phew.

I then discover they’ve changed my computer for some unknown reason.  It was a shell, had to reinstall everything.  Whilst doing this, noticed the plant a colleague bought me and which has been thriving for weeks was hanging limply over the edge of its pot, knackered looking, clearly on its last legs.  I loved that plant!

Proceed to spill whole pint of water across my desk and important documents turn into paper mache.  I’ve never, not once, ever spilled a drink across my desk before (although I once snorted coffee down my nose when someone told a particularly funny joke in mid gulp.  Coffee sprayed not only over my desk, but also over the desks of my two bosses in front of me.  We were finding coffee spots on documents for weeks afterwards). 

Life continued to slap me across the face and poke me in the eyeballs.

When I rushed out at lunch and went to light a much needed fag, the cigarettes weren’t in my bag (they’re always in my bag, what is this, a conspiracy!).  Race back to desk, retrieve cigarettes, now need toilet, where I discover the cause of my stomach ache!  Phsnarlbuggeryurgh!

Race back out again .  The shop that had millions of copies of a book I wanted for a birthday present yesterday now has none.

Can it get any worse?

Oh yeah.

Ploughed through mountains of work, muttering and twitching a great deal, then went to pub.  Where I managed to fall out with my Partner.  Really, just shoot me, please.

Downed a very large pint of Stella.

Followed by several extraordinarily generous whiskies at home.

Thursday 11

Hangover.  Probably the best way to be after yesterday's nightmare, the still-a-bit-drunk feeling emphasising the Really Don't Give A Damn Any More attitude.

Or maybe not.

At least four or five times a day, someone rushes down to my side of the office, sees that Head Secretary isn’t at her desk, and yells “Do you know where she is?” at me, because (lucky me!) I’m the closest.

Four or five times a day I tell them, no, I don’t know where the Head Secretary is.  They then huff and puff a bit before storming back to their desk.

Today … “Do you know where Head Secretary is?”

I’m up to my eyeballs with work, typing like a fiend, fielding off phonecalls and worrying about the dangerously high pile of filing teetering on the edge of my desk.  I ignore them.  Mistake, since they then come and stand right next to me.

“Do you know where Head Secretary is?” they say again, this time with an annoyed/impatient tone to their voice.

“NO!” I hiss, “I don’t know where the Head Secretary is.  I never know where she is.  STOP BLOODY ASKING ME!”  This last sentence is snarled rather more loudly than I’d intended - heads turn - but I seemed to get my point across.

They look stunned for a split second, and then slope off.  Later, the same person rushes down the office again, sees Head Secretary’s empty desks, and instinctively turns to me with their mouth already opening.

I give them a look that could easily halt a charging bull elephant in its tracks.  No, really, my ‘looks’ are deadly, bordering on dangerous weapons.  I’ve brought up three sons with barely a raised voice with these eyeballs.

They freezes in mid breath.  You can see it takes HUGE restraint not to ask.

I doubt anyone will ever ask again.

At last, the end of long-haul week (like climbing backwards up a mountain with my arms tied behind my back and an anvil hanging from my neck).  It's also curry night, yay!  Except, because we gleefully abandoned any plans to go shopping this week, we don't have the ingredients.

Fear not, Tesco is now on New Street.  Me to the rescue.

It seemed easy enough; buy chicken breasts, mushrooms and cream.  Not a problem.  No, the problem was that Tesco sell books.

Cheap books.

As a incurable bibliophile, I can't resist.  I'll just walk passed and have a quick glance, I won't buy anything.  No, really, I won't ...

My favourite author has a new book out!  I must have it.  Slip The Wives of Bath by Wendy Holden into my basket.  And there's the new Michael Crichton's State of Fear!  Oh yes baby, you're so coming home with me.  I'm in a frenzy now.  Must have more.  Lovely, lovely books, all clean and new and screaming out to me.  Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl by Tracy Quan is reduced, how can that not go in my basket [it was actually rubbish].  I reach out for another but, in the distance, the voice of my anorexic bank account echoes in my head like Darth Vader in slow motion ... Noooooooooaaaaaaaaaaargh!  I drag my shaky hand away from the book display.  I pull my eyeballs off the bright covers.  It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to turn and walk away, gibbering slightly.

Cost for chicken breasts, mushrooms and cream ... slightly more than anticipated.

After the slog-fest of decorating last weekend (God were we knackered), we are definitely not overdoing it this weekend.  It’s been decided.  We’ll choose the wallpaper and maybe put that up, but that’s it.  We need to rest, recharge our batteries …

Went to shop in Northfield where we always go for wallpaper and where they always vastly undercharge us by not ringing things up on the till (“Did you do the 150 litre tin of paint and the 17 rolls of wallpaper?” I ask, “Yep,” they say, when they clearly haven’t, “That’ll be £2.60 please.”).  Today was no exception … we always leave that shop grinning like mad things and nudging each other.

“I’ll make a start,” my Partner said, when we got home, and promptly starts lobbing wallpaper on the walls.  Well, I say ‘promptly’ … he spent about an hour collecting the necessary equipment first and although he's incredibly good at decorating, he’s also incredibly slow - it’s literally like watching paint dry [I’m so gonna cop it when he reads this].   It’s why we can’t be in the same room together when decorating - I’m all hysterical impatience (“Get it up, slap it on, let’s get it over with!”) while my Partner is more “Hmm, needs a little thought, a little measuring, a little more thought, a little more measuring” (by which time I’m usually beating him round the head with a paste brush screaming “Argh! Just do it!”).

Anyway, while my Partner is slowly wallpapering, I start painting the paneled doors.

That was yesterday.

Today, we’re still doing it.

It will never end.

Never!

Monday 15

I got on the bus this morning (which, incidentally, only takes thirty five minutes to get me to work instead of 60 now that the schools are on holiday).  I instantly ‘sensed’ an atmosphere.  Seconds later, I discovered why when the bus turned a corner where no corner should be turned.  The bus driver didn’t know where he was going.  Seasoned travelling that I am, I just sighed and thought ‘Here we go again.’

“Do you know where you’re going?” a passenger yelled.

“No,” said the driver (who honestly looked about 12), “It’s my first run.”

“Well this is what you need to do,” said the passenger, “Turn round at this island and go back the way you came.”

For thirty five minutes this passenger gave the driver directions … “Left here.  Straight ahead.  Stay in this lane because you’ve got a junction coming up.”

Unfortunately, what the passenger neglected to inform the driver was where the bus stops were.  Despite people frantically waving their arms from the edge of pavements, the bus obliviously sailed passed.

I’ve no idea how the driver got back from the city once the passenger got off.

Tuesday 16

I had a ‘moment’ today - one of those times when you look at life and think , “Hmmm, not bad, not bad at all”. 

I’d worked my nuts off (argh! they’re gone!) all morning.  At lunch time I just wanted to relax and let the blood return to my battered fingers/stubs again.

It was sunny, so I grabbed my book, my fags and a sandwich from a nearby shop, and sat against a headstone in St Philips Square, reading, all alone, just me, my book, my sandwich and my fags.  Fabulous.

But that wasn’t the moment.

Glanced at watch.  Flipping 2pm!  Leapt up.  Big mistake.  Sitting motionless for an hour had certainly got the blood flowing into my fingers again, but unfortunately it had been at the expense of my legs, which were now empty and numb.  The place was crowded so I couldn’t conspicuously sit down again, so I kind of staggered/wobbled along for a while until sensation returned.

But that wasn’t the moment either.

The moment came as I walked through St Philips Square, in the centre of Birmingham city, in the sunshine, having chilled with a good book, wearing my flowing skirt and top, my long hair blowing in the gentle breeze.  And as I walked, I thought, “Yep, this is it, I’m here.  I’ve got the handsome sons, I’ve got the perfect partner and I’ve got the pretty snazzy job.  I’ve got it all.”  Except money, of course, but hey, lets not be greedy.

It was great.  I love it when life strokes you like that (instead of walloping you with a baseball bat like it usually does).

Thursday 18

If you catch the same bus at the same time every day, you get to see the same people and begin recognise them, even if you never speak.

There’s a rather good looking chap who gets on my bus.  Tall, distinguished, very smart looking.  Not that I look for him or anything, I just notice him (he’s less miserable/haggard/weary-looking than the rest of us waiting interminably for buses that never show).

This morning I sat on the top desk reading the free Metro newspaper (who’ve just listed my blog on their website) when several ‘familiar’ people got on, including the distinguished looking man.  He sat down next to me and I thought, “Ooooh, distinguished man sitting next to me, hope I don’t fart or anything.”

He turned his head and looked straight at me.  “Good morning,” he said brightly.

Well, this threw me.  People never speak on buses.  You may have commuted with them into the city and back for the last 27 years, standing shoulder to shoulder at bus stops in the wind, rain and snow, but you don’t speak.

I glanced at him quickly with a half-smile and said (and get this), “Gmunnin.”  It fell out of my unprepared mouth like a wet flannel.  It wasn’t even a word.  My brain was like, “What?  Speech? Now?  But I haven’t even washed yet!”

And then, because of the non-word and the fact that distinguished looking man had chosen to sit next to me and had spoken to me because I was obviously one of his ‘recognised’, I blushed.  No, blush is too small a word for what I actually did.  Spontaneously combusted would be a better description.  I glowed so bright I’m surprised he and the people around us didn’t start taking off clothes and complaining about how hot it had suddenly become whilst putting on sunglasses.

No doubt Mr Distinguished will recognise me as The Human Lightbulb in future.

Way to be cool!

Friday 19

Last time I was in The Works shop (cheap books!) on New Street, I picked up a hefty paperback called ‘White Magic Spells’.  Inside is a good luck spell which I thought I’d try.  An amethyst stone is required.  I promptly ordered two off ebay for the grand sum of 26p each.  The price alone should have alerted me, but didn’t, because my brain obviously thinks over-use of its cells wears them out quicker so removes them from service from time to time without informing me.  The amethysts duly arrived, roughly the size of grains of sand.  But they’ll do (they do say size doesn’t matter!).

A turquoise stone is also required.  I searched ebay.  Turquoise stones are expensive (‘Turquoise bracelet, only 99p’ Plus £22 postage!), but I finally found three small, flower shaped ones.  Other ‘ingredients’ required are a sprig of rosemary, which I don’t have, so I’ll substitute lavender instead.  And I don’t have any ‘cinquefoil essential oil’ either, so will replace with Sommerfield’s own brand olive oil.  Hoping hotchpotch spell doesn’t turn me into a cabbage or something.

The book says the spell is more ‘potent’ if performed during a full moon on a Thursday, which was last night, only I was too tired last night so I’ll have to do it tonight.  Spell says I have to circle a huge oak tree chanting spell words.  As I don’t want the whole of Birmingham watching me skipping madly round an oak tree in some park in the dark, I’ll be chanting round the apple tree in the garden.  Again, hoping use of apple instead of oak won’t result in me growing a tail, which will be very difficult to explain at work.

Will let you know how it goes.

Saturday 20

So I managed to stay awake until midnight, which seemed a suitable time to do a spell, although I looked like this …

I gather my ingredients together, including the two squares of shiny wrapping paper I’m using as spell bags.  The garden is pitch black, sure ain’t going out there like that, so put the billion watt garden light on.  Now the whole world can see me as I stagger, knackered, into the garden in my dressing gown.  I put the ingredients on the table underneath the apple tree.  The wind blows them off onto the grass and I spend several minutes trying to locate them in the dark.

I sit.  I chant.  I keep one foot on the shiny wrapping paper so it doesn’t blow away.  I sprinkle the Sommerfield home brand olive oil and wrap the ‘spell bags’ with hair ties.

Done.

Doing the lottery later.  If there’s no more blog entries, it’ll be because I’m too busy running the country estate.

UPDATE:

Went into shop to do lottery, picked up a few things while we were there, took them to the counter.  “I’ve left the specially prepared lottery ticket in the car!” I gasped at my Partner, and ran off to fetch it.  In the rain. 

When I got back to the shop, my Partner was at the front of a long queue looking pained.  “I’ve left my wallet at home,” he said.  So I tried to pay with a bank card, but the shop didn’t take cards, and the queue were getting jittery.  “Just the lottery ticket then,” I told the now annoyed shopkeeper.  He put it through the machine.  “Four pounds,” he said.  “But there’s only three lottery lines,” I whimpered.  And I only had three pounds in cash.  Huffing, he ran them through the machine again.  I could feel the animosity oozing off the queue behind me.

I grabbed the lottery ticket and ran before the riot started.

We didn’t win.

And there endeth my brief dabble in spell making.

Sunday 21

Oh my God, the decorating, the decorating!  It’s like one of those nightmares that never ends.  If you’re contemplating decorating, even if its just painting the shelves in a cupboard, a word of advice … DON’T DO IT!  It might start off as a couple of shelves, but believe me, it’ll escalate until you find yourself screaming hysterically at the sight of a paintbrush.

Anyway, the small bedroom (formerly Small Son’s bedroom wah!) is done, a vision of serenity in lilac. 

      
BEFORE: The Teenage Room       AFTER: The Perfect Guest Room

It's finished.  Thank Christ for that.

Started on middle bedroom.

Argh!

Monday 22

We did so much over the weekend I woke up this morning absolutely knackered.  I’m not talking about a bit tired or a bit achy, but bone-numbing, blancmange-muscled, brain-gibberingly wrecked.  Felt truly awful (probably OD'd on paint fumes) so was forced to ring in sick at work.

I barely moved all day.  Late afternoon, when I’d recovered enough strength to raise a hand, I rang my Partner.  “I’m cooking tea for you tonight,” I said.  There was a very long silence.  “Hello?”

“Are you?” he finally asked.

“Yep, chicken and mash.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“So that’ll be nice for you, won’t it.”

Pause.  “Yes.”

The first words he uttered when he came through the front door were, “Something’s burning.”

“Can’t be,” I said, “The chicken’s only been in 90 minutes.”

We both hurried into the smoky kitchen and retrieved the carbon shapes from the oven.  “I’m not eating that,” my Partner said.

“You are,” I told him.  “It’s not that burned, not by my standards anyway.”

Small Son arrived from next door.  “Do these look burned to you?” I asked, holding out the smoking tray of chicken.  He glanced at my Partner, at me, then at the blackened chicken, and laughed.  “You’d eat this, wouldn’t you,” I persisted.

“No!”

“It’s not that bad!” I wailed. “It’s not burned, its just a bit … dark.”

“It’s coal,” my Partner said, “And I’m not eating it.”

He did.  Much easier than having to pack.

Tuesday 23

10 things you’ll never hear me say:

1. Oooh, that smells nice/nasty/please leave the room immediately you rotting carcass of a human being.
2. No, sorry, I’m on a diet.  (The exception being: “I’m on the whisky diet.  So far I’ve lost three days”)
3. Let’s decorate!
4. I never touch alcohol.
5. Let's have a dinner party, I'll cook.
6. Let’s go shopping!
7. I don’t smoke.
8. I’m in training for the London Marathon/Great Northern Run
9. I have enough books.
10. Overtime, great!

I know I'm getting old because …

1. I can’t remember the last time I watched Top of the Pops
2. Even if I watched Top of the Pops I wouldn’t recognise anyone on it
3. Weeks whiz by and suddenly its August, suddenly it’s the year 2005!
4. I've taken up gardening because, with life on warp speed, plants seemingly grow overnight
5. I've start saying things like, “50 isn’t old.”
6. Body parts begin to ache
7. I can read the newspaper of the person in front of me on the bus, but can’t focus on my own
8. I’ve seen it all, done it all, can’t remember most of it because the memory ain't what it used to be, which is scary.
9. All my children are taller than me
10. I'm considering buying horrendously expensive wrinkle cream, just in case.

Wednesday 24

Our whole department at work is moving, so archive boxes are required for the zillion files that currently line the walls/form a protective wall around desks/present a health & safety risk.  Five secretaries came up to me yesterday, every one of them asking, “Have you ordered archive boxes?”  I started off with a smile and a pleasant “Yes.”  I ended up banging my head repeatedly on my desk and screaming, “Yes, the bloody boxes are bloody ordered.”

This morning, a secretary said, “You know we’ll be needing archive boxes, don’t you.”  “They’re arriving today,” I told her.  “When?” she asked.  “Today,” I said.  “What time?”  I looked up from my mountainous pile of filing and peered at her above the files I have to send off site.  Through gritted teeth I said, “As soon as they arrive you’ll be the first to know.”  “You’ll let me know then?” she said.

It was at this point I threw up my hands and cried, “Am I speaking in a foreign language or something?”  The secretary wandered off.

Ten seconds later, another secretary stomped furiously across the office towards me.  “When are these f***ing archive boxes coming?” she shrieked.

I froze.  I’m not used to being sworn at.

I have no intention of ever getting used to it.

She was one more word away from being rugby tackled to the floor, a mere hairs breath away from being beaten to a pulp.  I was a seething, quivering mass of indignation.  I slowly turned to look at her.  She looked back at me and the hands slipped off her hips.  I must have been poised like a cat about to attack because she quickly turned and scurried away.

The archive boxes arrived shortly afterwards.  Four hundred of the bloody things, blocking the doorway to the office.

By the time I left, not a single one had been taken.

Thursday 25

Pay day.  I still want to know why a month’s salary only lasts for two weeks, they’re clearly not paying me enough.

To celebrate, a couple of us went to the German Wine Festival at the end of Colmore Row to partake of an unbelievably huge sausage in a tiny bun. 

Sun shining, sitting by the Floozie, scoffing and yakking.  In the background, a man played a violin.  For entertainment, a terribly tall bloke in long black coat and trilby (pant pant) drunkenly danced across Victoria Square.

Perfect.

Except, no German beer, only German wine (hoik spit).  So we scuttled off to the Litten Tree for some alcohol.  But the Litten Tree is no more (since when?)  We were forced to go to a pub on the corner which, amazingly, was totally bereft of any atmosphere whatsoever and was filled with ‘suits’ drinking bottles of expensive wine.  Oh yeah, just my type of place!

But at least they sold Stella.

Friday 26

A booked day off work.  I could get used to working a three day week.  But, more exciting than that, we have all next week as holiday. Oh yay! Oh yay! Oh yay!

Small Son had to take his Important Documents to a place in Warwick, some distance away (a bus, a train, another bus - a two hour journey).  I tried ringing his mobile to see how he was getting on, but he didn’t answer.  Because he obviously couldn’t be bothered to go.  I refused to harbour any feelings about this (been there done that)

5 o’clock he comes round for a chat.  I don’t mention Warwick, I don’t want to be drawn into a nagging argument, I’m through with all that.

“Took me all bloody day,” he huffed.

“What did?” Don’t get involved, don’t get involved.

“To get to Warwick and back.”

I stared at him, literally open-mouthed.  “You went?” I gasped.

“Yeah,” he said.

I hugged him hugely.  “I’m so proud,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Because finally, angst-ridden son of mine, you’ve grown up.”

Elated, I rang my Partner and, as a joke, told him I’d be cooking the Famous Friday Curry tonight.  Regretted it immediately … it’s a terrible thing to hear a grown man cry.

Saturday 27

Partner: What are these you got from your dad’s garden?

Me: What do they look like?

Partner: Mange tout?

Me (laughing): Bloody big mange tout!

Partner: What are they then?

Me (still laughing): They’re broad beans.  Call yourself a cook!

Partner: Yeah, well at least I’m not queen of carbon cuisine.

No answer to that, really.

And here we go again, paint pots at the ready, roller wobbling precariously on a stick and …

I paint the ceiling.  Twice.  And the inside of a cupboard.  Twice.  Paint picture rail, skirting boards and doorframes with gloss (One Coat, bloody good stuff, does exactly what it says on the tin).

My Partner moves a plug socket and calls it a day. 

Monday 29

We have a schedule.  Day 1 (Sunday), paint.  Done. 

Day 2, today, my Partner lobs up the wallpaper (like a sloth at half speed … I’m running as you read this J)

Tuesday 30

Day 3, the floor.  Carpet or laminate, carpet or laminate, decisions, decisions.  Go for laminate because my sons say carpet is Old Hat.  I anticipate it will take all day to lay but, thanks to Small Son’s help and Partner’s power tools, it’s done in two hours.

S’looking good.

Wednesday 31

The highlight of my decorating weekend (must get out more)!  Go to my Partner’s workplace to pick up transport, then on to …

IKEA!

In a 7.5 tonne flat bed truck.  Oh yeah, way to make an entrance.  We take up two parking bays.  I swagger into the big blue shed displaying the tiny tattoo on my arm and craving a Yorkie bar.

Three giant bookcases, one giant desk, and a chair we can’t resist that’s so comfortable my Partner almost falls asleep in it.  Massively  over budget, but hey, we’re only doing this once, might as well do it properly (we were in a kind of buying frenzy, a new experience for us).

With credit card limp and sobbing, I wait outside with our Ikea mountain in boxes whilst Partner fetches The Truck.  It halts its slow drive across the crowded car park as a woman in front waits for a parking space.  The truck revs loudly.  The woman suddenly reverses towards it.  I can see my Partner’s expression: “What the bloody hell is she doing?”  He honks to prevent a collision, his lips mouthing “Use yer bloody mirrors, woman, there’s a bloody big truck behind you.”

Whilst people all around us are removing car seats and struggling to fit their purchases into their mere cars, we lob our boxes onto the back of The Truck and my Partner does his famous rope trick securing them.  They look like matchsticks in the middle of a football field.

Sorted.

Spend rest of day putting it all together.  And then, voila!  I have a fully functioning, absolutely gorgeous study of my dreams.

 
Space at last!                                                  A whole wall of books, books, luverly books
                                                                        (and videos)

   
More books,                              A room with a view …                  … and ‘The Hill’
and Partner’s coma chair          of the garden …
(plus doorless cupboard)

And it all started from this ...

              
My corner 1997                 Getting cramped 2003           And now a whole room ... yes!