• Absolutely nothing!

• There must be something

• Nope, nothing ...

• Nothing at all

Oh woe. Oh no. Last day of our holidays. Time for the depression and the misery to set in Big Time.

I’ve noticed a trend with holidays. At the beginning we’re still in work-rush-around-hurry-up mode, like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. By the fourth day we slow down a bit and start saying ‘isn’t it nice to have time’ a lot. After seven or eight days, we’re barely moving at all and hum We have all the time in the world continuously. Didn’t go to Longleat. Didn’t go horse riding in the New Forest. Didn’t go out on the pushbikes (well the weather was pretty crap), or even visit the newly restored back-to-back houses on Hurst Street (now that’s just plain lazy).

What did we do? We pottered in the garden and DECORATED. Joy of joys. We certainly know how to have a good time. Oh yeah.

So, two days of decorating, today our last day, what shall we do apart from lament the passing of our glorious freedom?

We clean up the house because tomorrow we have ‘people coming’.

Wah-argh!

Saturday 2

Oh my god, we’re having a party. Well, a barbecue anyway.

"How many people have you invited?" my Partner asks me, compiling a list of food we need to buy.

"Dunno," I tell him. "I just asked everyone I knew."

"Helpful. Thanks."

We buy tons of meat and trolley loads of fruit and salad. We made the mistake of taking Middle Son with us to the supermarket (he-who-eats-healthy) and had strange things in our trolley we didn’t even know existed. Then we bought lots and lots of alcohol.

4pm. Start time. That horrible pause moment when everything’s ready and people are supposed to arrived … but don’t.

"Nobody’s coming," I wail. "Nobody likes us. We’re social pariahs, outcasts, unloved and unwanted, doomed to … oh hi, come on in, nice to see you."

6.00pm, absolutely cannot move in the garden for bodies, the place is heaving. It seems we’ve invited most of the West Midlands. Girlies arrive from work, big burley Black Country blokes turn up from my Partner's place, even my boss and his family came ("Be nice to him," I told everyone, "The fate of my pay rise is in his hands.")

My Partner, who was cooking ("Step away from the barbecue," he kept telling me) dashed between the burgers and the Famous Curry bubbling in the kitchen – he was a blur of movement. Acres of food were decimated. Everyone got wonderfully drunk. Middle Son connected his ipod to the stereo so we wouldn’t have to keep changing CDs (it was still playing -silently - the following morning) and I held up 27 conversations simultaneously whilst trying to watch Live 8 on tv with several people I’d never seen before (what was Peter Kaye doing??).

Midnight, the last person left.

I was totally and completely knackered.

But it was great.

Sunday 3

Recovery time, and a chance to gather pace on the work-miseries.

Didn’t feel too bad when I got up. I was still drunk. I sobered up about midday and the hangover kicked in about thirty seconds later. Then Small Son and his girlfriend turned up, expecting to have ‘deep and meaningful’ conversations when my vocal chords were buggered. Small Son’s girlfriend is painfully shy but today she formed a full sentence. The sentence was: "How do you feel about being a grandmother?"

Yep, they’re pregnant. Small Son told me a few days ago. I was numb with shock at first and I’m sure that will wear off some time soon, but they seem happy and excited about it. I don’t suppose any parent feels their children (their babies!) are ever ready to have offspring of their own, not least because of how incredibly old it makes us feel.

I’m too bloody young to be a grandmother!!!!!

So, while I’m nursing my hangover, still trying to digest the Big News, clearing up a house that’s had thirty plus people running through it and picking gobs of yellow paint off the carpet, the ex arrives.

I’ve pre-warned him about The News so it won’t come as too much of a shock, but Small Son doesn’t know he knows. We leave them alone in the garden, Small Son looking like he’s about to be shot. Ex takes it surprisingly well. He calls me Granny. I call him Grandad.

We both look at each other with stunned expressions.

Monday 4

How can nine days of glorious freedom pass so quickly. There’s so much I wanted to do, but didn’t. Holidays are just a chance to look at life as it should be, before you’re forced back onto the corporate hamster wheel again. Sniff.

Such is my enthusiasm for work, I haven’t washed or ironed anything to wear so I pull out clothes from the back of my wardrobe that haven’t seen the light of day since 1970. I bid farewell to my garden before I leave, noticing two squirrels dashing about on the lawn, the doves pigging out on the bird table and 70,000 sparrows lurking in the hedge (no sign of Pandas yet). I wipe away a tear and brace myself for chronic exhaustion and time-deprivation once more.

Its raining. Of course it is. I try to put up my brolly but it stubbornly refuses to open, so I’m drenched three steps from the front door. My bus sails passed before I reach the stop. It’s all a sign, fate telling me to turn around and go back home. But I don’t (fool!).

Arrive at work with only a vague memory of where my desk is and what my job entails. I’m still in holiday mode and they want work done so fast. How did I ever cope before? And why is the day so bloody long?

Consider discussing flexi-hours with my bosses, just so I can reclaim some of my life back.

Depressed? Moi?

Oh yeah.

Tuesday 5

My Partner’s brother came to stay the night during his travels (he’s a coach driver). It was weird having two yakky Yorkshiremen in my living room. He's currently enduring teenage trauma home, but thinks Small and Middle Son are extremely nice, polite young men.

Yeah, they are.

I’ve not done a bad job at all (cue ooze of maternal pride).

Wednesday 6

Race into my office building this morning Really Desperate after an epic journey to work, and use the downstairs/visitors loo. Afterwards, I discover the toilet doesn’t flush, and I Really Need to flush this toilet (if you know what I mean). Frantically search the cubicle for A Solution, inspiration, anything. There’s only a tiny bin and a sink the size of a teaspoon. I fill the bin with water from the sink and flush all two fluid ounces down the loo whilst pulling furiously on the handle. I do this twelve times.

Afterwards, I stagger, exhausted, to the reception desk. "The visitors loo isn’t flushing properly," I tell them.

"Oh, we know," they say brightly.

They know? I’ve just spent fifteen minutes of my life pouring two fluid ounces into a loo bowl from a great height and they know.

The receptionist flinches when I rasp, "You want to put a bloody sign up then."

BREAKING NEWS: Bloody hell, we won the next Olympics! Yay for us. Glad I don’t live in London though (although they’re using Aston Villa for training, I hear).

Thursday 7

Bombs in London!

BASTARDS!!!!

I took the day off from work yesterday to ‘get some stuff done’, but ended up watching the television news all day. Disbelief and anger as the reports came in of the bombs in London. Ordinary people just going to work. People dead, people missing, people who didn’t go home last night to their families.

Deliberately planning to murder innocent people – can you even get your head round that way of thinking? Who cares for what reason, people are dead, people like you and me. I wasn’t aware I was capable of such outrage and hatred.

There weren’t many people on the bus going into Birmingham city centre this morning.

There was a palpable sense of sadness everywhere.

Saturday 9

Seems strange, almost disrespectful, to carry on as normal when something so terrible has happened. But life goes on.

We cycled into the city centre along the canals today to watch the Dragonboat Races at Brindleyplace.  Fabulous day.

During the night, Birmingham city centre is evacuated because of a bomb scare.  The head bloke at West Midlands Police feels he has to justify this move on the television news - no need, everyone understands why, just carry on doing your job mate.

Monday 11

New book. I’ve read all of Dan Brown now. Bit of a shock to come to the end of his four books and then realise there’s no more. So now for something completely different. Ben Elton. Past Mortem.

Tonight the bus was packed to capacity as I turned the pages. Suddenly, I’m reading an in-depth description of ‘fisting’. I cower down in my seat a little, reading fast, desperate to turn the page before anyone notices the endlessly long paragraphs involving olive oil.

I turn. Blow me (!) if I’m not now reading about ‘golden showers’. Two flipping pages of it. I’m now curled up in my seat like a foetus. Its not that I have anything against literary sex, I quite like it, when I’m at home or alone, but on the bus its just plain embarrassing. There should be a warning on covers telling us if books are suitable for public reading or not.

I flick the page, and now I’m reading about a woman with her naked bum in the area screaming for it to be ‘pushed in’ because the other ‘entry’ is too big after all that ‘fisting’!

At this point I just slam the book shut and shove it in my bag.

I’ve been too frightened to open it ever since.

Tuesday 12

I’ve printed a massive legal document off the internet for my boss. It took me two days and a substantial amount of reformatting, patience and bloody-minded perseverance.

Today, another secretary asks to borrow this enormous document. As she walked by with all my hard work in her hands, I hissed "Lose that and your life won’t be worth living."

Hell hath no fury like a secretary’s work being nicked.

Wednesday 13

Druckers in the Pallasades has been closed down for renovation. Why? There was nothing wrong with it! How inconsiderate to leave hard-working secretaries bereft of caffeine and sugar overdoses.

So off we trudge to the Coffee Republic at the top of New Street, which I quite like as you get to sit outside (if its sunny) and watch the world and its mother walk by. Because its almost the end of our salary month, we’ve all turned into Stingy Gits and recoiled at the thought of paying almost two quid for a slice of cake. So, we just bought the coffee. And nipped next door to Greggs for the cakes. Outrageous!

So we’re sitting outside Coffee Republic with our cappuccinos and chomping on cakes from Greggs bags, with Coffee Republic staff glaring at us through the window. We waited to be forcibly ejected from the pavement, but they didn’t, so we just carried on eating.

But I bet they refuse to serve us next time we go there.

Which is why we’re going to wear disguises. If you ever see women sitting outside a café at the top of New Street wearing long overcoats, trilby’s, sunglasses and fake moustaches, that’ll be us.

Thursday 14

Two minutes silence for the London bomb victims at work at midday. I was bloody furious that, once again, some people are really just too busy to stand still and silent for a whole two minutes to show some respect!

London was supremely impressive, with thousands taking to the streets like that, showing their solidarity and sending a clear message to terrorists.

On a personal level, it’s been a momentous month for me, what with Middle Son finally giving up his bedroom after three years at university (sniff), and Small Son creating small people of his own (argh!).

Today’s big event – Small Son emptied his bedroom. He’s not coming back either.

So now it’s official. I am totally bereft of children and about to become a grandmother.

Do I feel old?

Oh God yes.

Friday 15

Lunch. Yes, again. Terribly decadent, daaarlinks, but what is a girl to do if someone says, "Let’s do lunch."? It’s just so hard to resist. Just me and a colleague this time who is the spit of Audrey Hepburn in both looks and mannerisms. I quite like going out with her because she draws peoples attention and I can bask in her glory a little … or, as I prefer to imagine, they’re all actually looking at me because I’m the spit of Catherine Zeta Jones phnar phnar.

Anyway, Druckers closed, The Victorian Restaurant a bit of a rip off, Coffee Republic a bit boring now, lets go explore the Bull Ring cafes.

As its sunny and crowded, we sit at the only table available, outside The Good Food Company. "Never been here before," I said. Afterwards, "And we’re never coming here again!" £1.80 for a sliver of cheesecake the size of a Dairylea triangle that wasn’t even proper cheesecake but that whipped up stuff I can’t stand!

City centre prices are extortionate! I may start my own Stingy Git’s Guide to Birmingham Cafes, naming and shaming all those who overcharge.

I’m open to bribes (free cappuccino, free cakes, reserved table outside in sun etc.)

It’s a nice day and I’m sitting out in the garden on the bench under the apple tree, when one of next door’s many cats slithers through the privet hedge.  As the neighbours are out in their garden, I can’t run at said feline hissing viciously out like I normally do, so I just stare at it and growl a bit.  The cat arrogantly stares back.  Still looking at me, it half turns, crouches, and takes a dump right in front of me, not taking its eyes off me the whole time.  It knows exactly what its doing (“I can poo in your garden and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, lady.”)

Just as I’m looking around for a missile I can silently lob at the bloody thing, my Partner comes out of the house.  The cat takes one look at him (He Who Hates Cats) and flings itself through the hedge so fast I think it must have injured itself.

I do hope so.

Monday 18

I look out the window into the back garden before I go to work.  Sparrows and Great Tits are crowded on the bird table.  A blackbird hops across the lawn and wood pigeons (cows with wings) strut across the paving slabs.  On the apple tree, three squirrels frolic happily, running to bury their nuts in the long grass (note to self, must mow lawn).

As I watch this delightful scene, a cat shoots out of the privet hedge towards the squirrels.  Doesn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of catching it, but I don’t want my squirrels abused like this.

The cats must die.

Tuesday 19

Small Son’s birthday.  He’s now 20, a fully formed human being.  He came round when I got home from work and I handed over a bevvy of presents. 

Gifts are the only thing that make me feel like a mom these days.

Sniff.

Still, I’ve got being a grandmother (at such a ridiculously young age) to look forward to.

WAH!

Wednesday 20

I guess it’s a form of self-torture.  I know Druckers is expensive, but its peer pressure that drives me there (when asked “Wanna lunch at Druckers?” my mouth, with no interaction from my brain whatsoever, just says, “Yeah, why not.”)

Went to the one in the Great Western Arcade [above], which is roughly the size of a shoebox.  I had a mad fit of what-the-hell-I’m-broke-anyway-and-I-deserve-it-bugger-the-cost, and instead of looking for the cheapest cake, I just picked the one I most fancied.  Madness!  £2.30 for a strawberry tart.  I’ll repeat that, just for effect … £2.30.  Same thing at Greggs - 60p-ish.

“Would you like a drink with that?” the woman asked.

I needed a stiff whisky!  Unable to afford anything else, I asked for tap water.  Not sure if they charged me for tap water or not, I was too stunned to notice, but it tasted like luke warm barley water.

Must stop going to Druckers must stop going to Druckers must stop …

Thursday 21

Huge amounts of work to get through, and I get a migraine.  Take my tablets and disappear to loo for 20 minutes until my personal laser light show fades.

It doesn’t.  It gets worse.

I mumbled something incoherent to the Head Secretary and staggered from the office.  My head felt like it was in a vice and I felt nauseous - if I’d been asked my name, I doubt I’d have known.  On the bus, I slipped into a coma, but not in an elegant way, huddled discretely against the window like most knackered passengers.  Oh no, I careered into unconsciousness with my head back on the seat, mouth wide and undoubtedly snoring.

Survived the journey (plastic bag at the ready).   I live 5 minutes from the bus stop, but it took me 15 to make it home.  Fell through the front door, lay down on the floor in the living room, and basically left the planet.  When I woke up hours later, the pain in my head was so bad I actually checked my face in the mirror to see if I’d had a stroke!

I hadn’t.  But a lobotomy may have been carried out.

Friday 22

Got up, got ready, got back into bed again.

My Partner rang work to tell them I was ill because, basically, I was too chicken to do it myself.  “She’s like a zombie,” he told the answering secretary.  “No change there then,” said the secretary!

Utterly boring being ill - couldn’t read, couldn’t watch tv, couldn’t actually focus on anything.  So did the ironing, which needs no concentration and lack of vision is probably a bonus.

Talking of which, when people say ‘the creases will fall out’ of wrinkled garments, try to remember the last time you saw a pile of creases in the bottom of your wardrobe.

Saturday 23

Went to Ikea - I can’t tell you how thrilled my Partner was by this.  “What do you think of this?” I kept asking, to which he kept replying, “Yeah, s’alright.”

So many screaming kids everywhere.  At the end there’s a sort of toy/play area, and there were hundreds of them - it was like Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’.  I feared for our lives, but we managed to get through pretty much unscathed.

“I’ll treat you to dinner,” my Partner said (obviously relieved that the whole Ikea thing was over).

Great, I thought.

Meatballs at the Ikea restaurant.  The man certainly knows how to treat a woman. [Only kidding :-)]

Monday 25

Hauled carcass to work despite feeling like death warmed up, cooled down and microwaved for half an hour.   But what’s this I notice on the bus?  No traffic!  We slice into the city centre like a hot knife through butter.

THE KIDS ARE ON HOLIDAY, YAY!  That means an extra 15 minutes in bed in the morning - wish I’d remembered before I got up so flipping early.

There’s a lot of posters around town  for ‘Slim Patches’.  A sleek model who doesn’t have an ounce of excess on her is sexily wearing a big plaster on her smooth thigh which claims to reduce fat.  How fab is that!  I might get a couple of dozen in my lunch break and wear them all at the same time - by the time I get home I should look exactly like the model in the advert.

My Partner will be pleased.

Tuesday 26

During my 60 minute lunch hour today, I:

• dashed to Bhs to change Small Son’s birthday t-shirt, which was too small, for a bigger one - waited in massive queue
• dashed to Thorntons for box of choccies for friend’s birthday - had to wait in massive queue of  chocoholics
• dashed to Clintons for birthday card - guess what, massive queue
• dashed to Sainsburys for jar of coffee as we’ve run out at home and my Partner is suffering severe withdrawal symptoms - yep, bloody enormous queue
• dashed to newsagents for cigarettes - queue in front of me were obviously working to a different time zone, I’ve never seen people move so slow
• dashed to Greggs for sandwich - the queue was out the door and by the time I got to the counter they’d pretty much sold out of everything, including what I wanted, so
• dashed back to Sainsburys for sandwich and waited in yet another bloody queue.

By the time I got back to the office, I was knackered.

One of the secretaries came barging down the office this morning, demanding to know where the Head Secretary was.  “She was there a second ago,” I said, “Maybe she saw you coming and made a run for it.”

The secretary then punched me.  Hard.  In the arm.  Then she barged off again.

I was stunned.  Nay, mortified.  You just don’t expect to be abused at your own desk, do you.

There may be bruises.

I may claim for physical injury and mental trauma.

I’m definitely hiring a bodyguard.

Thursday 28

Our wild birds have been going through fat balls at a vast rate of knots lately.  In fact, it’s more expensive to feed them than it is to keep a dog!

This morning I looked through the kitchen window into the garden to catch a glimpse of the squirrels in the apple tree.  Instead, I saw what looked like a fur collar hanging precariously off the bird table, munching away on the caged peanuts.  His nut box must be empty, I thought, so I plodded out in my dressing gown, in the howling wind and driving rain, to fill it up.  As I was already drenched to the skin, gave the birds some food and fat balls too.

Minutes later, the squirrel is back.  On the bird table again.  This time he nibbled on the fat ball, seemed to like it, unhooked it and made off with it!  The whole thing!  Off he bounded across the grass with this huge fat ball in his mouth.

No wonder all the squirrels in our garden are fat - they’re all on a diet of lard!

Friday 29

Well, tornados in Birmingham yesterday.  How amazing.  Poor old Kings Heath - a witness said it was like a ‘great big dirty carrot’ coming down the High Street.  Over my end, we 'only' suffered flooding.  Took me an hour and a half to get home on the bus because of all the traffic backing up before these huge road puddles/lakes. 

A bus on a dual carriageway decided it didn’t want to go through one massive puddle and tried to drive over the central reservation (a grassy hump) to get to the other side.  It got wedged like a see-saw.  Fool.

I may be an atheist, but I am a great believer in ‘fate’ … everything happens for a reason and all that jazz.  Visited my dad today, and he told me that he and his wife had a hospital appointment on Thursday morning.  They got up early and got ready, planning to go to the hospital and then go shopping afterwards.  Just as they were about to leave, the phone rang.  The hospital appointment had been unexpectedly cancelled, so dad and his wife went straight out shopping instead. 

In Kings Heath!

They got home around the time when they would have been shopping in Kings Heath if the hospital appointment hadn’t been cancelled … right around the time the tornado struck.

Spooky, eh?

Sunday 31

A couple of months ago a neighbour a few doors down - who obviously have everything they could possible desire and couldn’t think what to get next - became the proud owners of a dovecote, complete with two white fantail doves.  They looked really cute on our Mossive Bird Table and we proudly showed them off to visitors. 

A few weeks passed, and suddenly there were four white fantail doves on our bird table every morning and every night.  Still nice to look at, but bloody greedy.  If they arrive at the table and we don’t immediately rush out with food, they sit on the kitchen windowledge, nosily looking in and tapping on the glass with their beaks as if to say, “Well, come on then, where is it? Where’s the grub?”

Yesterday, when I put out the bird food, I was instantly surrounded by NINE ravenous fantail doves.  Nine!  Who needs that many doves?

I know there's only eight in these photos, but you try capturing nine moving doves all at once

Now, when we go out with the bird food, it’s literally like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’, all flapping wings and pecking beaks.  We’ve had to buy a special feeder so the small birds get a look in. 

I’m thinking of charging the neighbour for the enormous amounts of food they devour.

And preying they don’t get any more.