• Bank Holiday Monday (May Day) – 2^nd (yay!)

• We can stop listening to boring politicians (General Election 6^th – go vote, or stop whining)

• Bank Holiday Monday (Spring) – 30^th (double-yay!)

Brummie Blogs is two years old

• Your congratulations here. 

• Your complaints about the scream here.

May? Already! Jeez.

Finally, after much procrastinating, my Partner and I finally dig the pushbikes out of the shed and go to the local park to play.

Actually, it took more time for me to decide what to wear for said bike ride than the bike ride itself. Tough decisions have to be made. Do I look casual in a long skirt and floaty top or do I just look like a daft old bat on a bike? Shorts herald the inevitable question, "Does my bum look big in this?" (and the inevitable look of horror on my Partner's face as he struggles with the ‘right answer’). Tight black cycling shorts and helmet look ‘professional’ until I have to get off to gasp and pant up hills (not so professional).

Last year, when we were cycling down canals, every female cyclist looked Just Right. The tee-shirt and shorts fitted perfectly, the footwear was sensible but attractive, and not a bead of sweat ruined their perfect makeup.

How do they do that!

End of the company’s financial year. Emails are sent out from the Big Bosses congratulating us all on meeting targets. A champagne trolley is sent to each floor late afternoon, and we partake of a glass - or, in our group’s case, a glass of champagne topped up with orange juice topped up with champagne and then more champagne.

After twenty minutes of major merriment I’m pretty much bombed and talking utter rubbish (well, more rubbishy than normal anyway - teenagers get mentioned and I’m stand there like a Jewish momma screeching, "Oh my God! Don’t talk to me about teenagers!").

Very odd to be intoxicated at work - I think I like it.

5pm I stagger to my bus stop and text my Partner: ‘I’m drunk!’ He rings immediately. "Champagne," I tell him, giggling in front of crowds of weary West Midland travelers, "Lots and lots of hic champagne."

Get home feeling extremely happy.

The air conditioning system in our office block is, to put it blunt, knackered. It either blasts us with hot air during summer, turning the entire building into a greenhouse, or blasts us with cold air in winter so we’re forced to sit at our desks wearing jumpers and cut off gloves.

The thing should really be ripped out and shot.

Today, it appeared to conk out entirely and the office became stagnant. I kept glancing at the windows-that-don’t-open-for-safety-reasons (presumably in case one of the office staff ‘loses it’ and tries to throw themselves out), desperate for air.

By 3pm I was almost asleep with oxygen deprivation and had a stonking headache. The air was so stale you could part it like curtains … it was like breathing into a paper bag. I was forced to go outside for a fag just for the chance to breathe!

Hauled knackered self to pub after work, yawned through my pint of Stella, went home, yawned through tea, went to bed at 9pm.

Ah, the joys of working life.

Thursday 5

This morning traffic into the city centre comes to a dead standstill during "rush hour" this morning, so despite leaving the house at my usual 7.45, I don’t actually roll into work until 10.15. That’s two and a half hours to get to work, a record! I could drive to the coast in less time.

Worked through lunch to make up the time.  7 solid hour day with no break.  Arrive home like a limp rag, only to realise have to go back out to vote.  Force myself to the polling station to vote but, too exhausted to decide which party had any glimmer of hope, I put a cross next to all of them - that’s allowed, isn’t it?

Got up early and left the house at 7.35 (unheard of!) to catch the crack of dawn bus.

Arrive in city centre 8.15am.

Sometimes you just can’t win!

At lunchtime, I celebrate the fact that I had a lunch break by going round the shops with the vague idea of maybe buying something. I was wearing ‘comfortable’ high heels, which weren’t so comfortable once I’d walked from one end of town to the other. My feet were screaming. I went into Clarke’s shoe shop and stood there, staring enviously at all the soft sandals and low heels, wondering if the pain was worth £40+ for a new pair of shoes. As I didn’t have £40+ on me, I hobbled off, cursing my shoes and my poverty.

By the time I got back to the office I had tears in my eyes and was walking like a constipated navvy.

Later in the afternoon I hobble out for an ‘air break’. Just as I light the fag and take a puff, the fire alarm goes off. I immediately wonder if its me, but no, it’s a proper fire alarm and I’m AWOL. Dash back inside building. Hundreds of people are pouring down the stairs. I run up several flights against the tide as dozens of people shout ‘You’re going the wrong way!’. Race to desk (well, okay, I stagger to it, gasping, my legs like jelly) for my handbag and mobile phone and jacket and sunglasses just in case the sun came out. Race back down stairs.

By the time I reach the crowds gathered down the road, the alarm’s been called off and they’re all heading back into the building again. I clamber up several flights of stairs, hauling myself up by the banister rails (whilst all the young gym-types bound up like over-excited puppies). By the time I reach my desk I’m a mass of heart-pounding sweatiness with my feet throbbing like buggers.

Should have forked out for the Clarkes shoes.

 THE END OF AN ERA!  Oh woe.

I've finally done it.  It's taken me weeks, nay months, but I have at last mustered up the courage to do the unthinkable.

I'm selling my precious, gorgeous motorbike.  WAH!

It's been in the shed for nearly three years.  I'll never use it to ride into the city for work every day (commuting by bus can be a life and death experience, there's little hope of survival on a motorbike!).  I can't afford to get it back on the road, I don't have the knowledge to maintain it, and the poor thing is just wasted.

So I've advertised it.  It's the right thing to do.  Definitely.

It's a sad, sad day.  Sniff.

Monday 9

So I’m in my favourite exclusive designer store, Bhs, and I spot a jacket I actually like. I excitedly take off my mac and jacket and hide my handbag underneath whilst I try on said jacket, parading up and down in front of a mirror thinking ‘Is green my colour?’. When I go to put the jacket back on the hanger, a man is standing there. He holds a blouse out towards me.

"There seems to be a button missing off this," he says accusingly.

"Don’t buy it then," I say.

"But it’s the last one."

"Well, there’s a spare button inside. Look."

I show him the spare button and walk off, noticing his jaw dropping. I put on my jacket and mac, and throw my bag over my shoulder. The man is glaring at me, and I suddenly realise why.

He thought I worked there!

How funny.

Tuesday 10

Go to lunch with a mate (yes, another lunch). In the course of conversation, she comes out with three utterly brilliant observations which I shall remember for all time:

1. "Isn't work a bit like Groundhog Day." … yes, its exactly like that

2. "The working week is just one long day, really." Couldn’t have put it better myself.

3. And, when talking about a friend’s ‘child in a pushchair’, she referred to it as "a baby, or a toddler … something small anyway." Totally creased me up.

There was an article in yesterday's Metro newspaper (the free one you get on buses) which was so amazing I read it several times.  It was about people who plan to be cryonically frozen after they die:

"There's a team on permanent stand-by to pick up members who die ... Once the team arrive they'll wrap the body in an ice pack, and then be taken to a cryonics unit in London in a purpose built box trailer  [a trailer!]... Once frozen, the body is flown to the US and taken to whichever lab the patient is signed up with ... The patient is immediately taken to the operating room and additional cooling [anti-freeze!] is applied.  At the same time, surgeons will perform the appropriate surgery, which may include cephalic isolation.  This is the removal of the head for those who believe in the power of human cloning." Full article here.

Can you imagine bringing this up in conversation:

"I don't want to be buried when I die, I want to be cremated."

"Nah, not me.  When I die, people will come and get my body, throw it in the back of a trailer, pump me full of anti-freeze and toss me on a plane to America, where they'll chop my head off."

Nice.

Friday 13

Forgot it was Friday the 13th or I would have wrapped myself in bubble wrap to get to work.

Sat by the Floosie at lunch with a mate, who is one of the funniest women I know and is the only person on the planet allowed to call me a bitch via email. I spent the entire hour in hysterics.

I told her I was advertising my motorbike on ebay. She gasped, "How much is that going to cost you in postage?"

Later, she said, "They’re trying to ban that advert where emergency telephonists talk with their mouths full, apparently it teaches kids bad manners."

"It’s not up to advertisers to teach kids good manners," I said.  "It's up to the parents to give good examples."

"I know. Me and my kids were trying it last night, stuffed our mouths full of chicken nuggets. Its really hard to speak when your cheeks are bulging like a greedy hamster. Took ages to clear up the mess afterwards."

Then she told me about a bloke at her bus stop who had the biggest hair she’d ever seen. "Look," she said, taking out her mobile phone, "I took a picture."

I looked at it. It was the back of someone’s head. She’d only gone and taken a photo of someone sitting in front of her on the bus.

"Didn’t realise the camera clicked when you took a picture," she said, "So this bloke wonders what the noise is and turns round to look at me. Should have took a picture then cos you could really see how big his hair was from the front, but I was too busy pretending to read my book."

As we walked back to the office, I told her I needed to buy some mushrooms.

"Which kind of mushroom?" she said.

"How many kinds of mushrooms are there?"

"Button, magic … "

We had to stop in case I weed myself.

I'm thinking of hiring her out to people who feel a bit down in the dumps - or secretaries On The Edge! - because laughter really is the best medicine.

It was tense, thrilling. 55 people were ‘watching’ my motorbike being sold on ebay. I’d had loads of interested emails and sent out zillions of close up photographs.

It had reached its reserve price on Wednesday, so I was happy, but I was keen to know how much more it would go for (okay, I was overcome with hand rubbing greed). 55 people were watching it (have I mentioned this?), expectations were high.

10 minutes to go. No further bids so far. "They must have nerves of steel," I said to my Parnter, who was so excited by the auction I considered throwing a bucket of water over him.

Five minutes to go. No bids yet. I needed a bucket of water myself by now. Then I received an email asking for photographs. What? Now! Get real!

Three minutes. No bids. God, these people were tough cookies. Any second now the bids would come flying in, it could all happen in the blink of an eye. Ooooooh, the excitement, the tension.

Two minutes. Nothing.

One minute left. Any second now. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Then, without fanfare, it sold, watched by 55 non-participants – is bidding a spectator sport now? It was a good price, but I was disappointed not to have the rush of adrenaline towards the end – that’s what ebay’s all about, isn’t it.

I’ve got to get out more!

Honestly, some people are just so rude. Like most women, I do ‘bloat’ a bit at ‘certain times’, and I was wearing unflattering trousers and a long shirt that just happened to ‘billow’ at that precise moment, and I was ‘slouching’ because it was 9am and the body muscles hadn’t surfaced yet. But I didn’t expect some young whippersnapper in the smoke area to holler, "Are you pregnant?"

I was stunned. In the convex mirror I have at home I’m a Kate Moss lookalike. How dare someone accuse me of looking pregnant!

I’ve been walking round with shoulders back, tits out and stomach in ever since.

I feel like Jordan (the model, not the country).

This is how it began.

A secretary came up to my desk. "Have you seen my mug?" she said, accusingly.

"No."

"Someone’s taken it."

"Not me, I only drink water." I pointed at the pint mug on my desk to prove this fact.

"I’m not happy," she said, wandering off.

News of the Missing Mug spread around the office. I got a large piece of paper and a marker pen and on it with a thick marker pen: "We have your mug. Leave two chocolate bars in the photocopier room at 4pm or the mug gets it."

I stuck it in an internal envelope and asked someone to pass it to the secretary.  She didn’t twig it was me. In fact, when I walked passed her desk later, she shouted, "Have you seen this ransom note?" I pretended to read it (thinking ‘that handwriting is all over the boxes in the stationery cupboard I manage’). "Oh," I said. "Ooooh," I added, just for effect.

All the other secretaries sniggered and gave me ‘knowing’ looks.

It got us through the day.

It’s gone! My motorbike! My lovely Virago!

It was collected today. I was at work and didn’t see it go (I didn’t get to say goodbye!). It was probably a good thing – female hysteria is so yesterday.

I am now bikeless. Without motorbike.

Bereft.

Wah!

The missing mug mystery continues.

Yesterday I sent an email out to all secretaries: "Secretary X’s mug was cruelly mugnapped this week by person or persons unknown. A ransom note was received but, unfortunately, the mug was not returned. It is much missed. In memory of the missing mug, I propose to start a Secretary X Mug Memorial Fund. All donations gratefully accepted."

Secretary X emailed me: "Update on mugnapping - there has been a sighting on the 3rd floor which is being investigated."

Me: "Good news. Keep me posted on developments."

Another Secretary: "It has been brought to our attention that not only has Secretary X’s mug gone missing but quite a few others!!! We are considering doing an undercover job to steal these back from the other floors. Any volunteers out there, and suggestions for disguises??"

Secretary A: "I expect you could dress up as muggers."

Me : Brilliant! All bring in mugger outfits tomorrow ... we'll gather at 12.55 for recce to other floors.

Secretary A: "Don't they say dawn raids work best - by lunchtime all the mugs will be dirty."

Me: "Okay, lets all be here at 6am sharp!" (yeah, right).

Me and Another Secretary raced up the stairs to the other kitchens the following morning, noisily searching for the missing mugs.

No mugs are retrieved. I send out an email to all concerned.

Me: "Unfortunately, despite arriving at the crack of dawn (where were you lot then?), we investigated the other floors but were unable to locate Secretary X’s missing mug. A plaque in its memory will be put on the cupboard door. A fund raising appeal has been started - several people have offered to strip for charity, but we're currently negotiating for them to keep their clothes on."

We’ve so far raised enough to buy the Royal Dalton pottery.

I think I need to get out more.

So, my bus gets to Harborne this morning, then stops in the usual traffic jam. It stops for a long time. Traffic ahead is solid and unmoving. Obviously a gridlock. Again.

Faaaaaaaantastic.

Remembering the two and a half hour pilgrimage to work last Thursday, I thought ‘Bugger it’ and got off the bus to walk. To work. A distance of about three miles. In my suit. And heels. And two rather heavy bags.

I wasn’t alone. Half of Birmingham walked with me, there were hundreds of us marching en masse, most on mobile phones shouting "I’m gonna be late". I saw a workmate up ahead and considered catching her up, until she started running – hell, I was willing to make the effort to get to work, but I certainly wasn’t jogging there.

Harborne Road was completely closed off to traffic, which seemed a bit drastic considering two dented cars were only taking up one lane of three. But at least I got to surreptitiously oggle lots and lots of policemen (hunting for one that didn’t look like a foetus in a uniform).

I’d been walking briskly for about half an hour by now, and one thing quickly became very clear and increasingly urgent. I needed the loo, and I needed it badly.

What to do, what to do? Work was another 20 minutes away. I had mere minutes before another accident occurred so, desperate, I dashed into the Chamber of Commerce building.

"Help!" I gasped at a couple of startled receptionists. "Can I please use your loo?"

Thankfully, a blonde lady immediately pointed towards the toilets. What a relief.

I eventually arrived at my desk – red faced and exhilarated – at 9.45.

Monday 23

This is taken from Mick in the UK's blog, and quite interesting to do.

5 Songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order).

1. Amazed by Lonestar - If I could write songs, I would have written this one for my Partner :-)

2. From this Moment by Shania Twain - This is ‘our’ song, oh yeah.

3. Wild Heart by Stevie Nicks - old, but makes me think of my young, dippy hippy days

4. Barber’s Adagio for Strings - I cried the first time I heard this and it still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up whenever I hear it.

5. Bat out of Hell, Meatloaf - motorbikes, rallies, the 70s, leathers, long collars and, of course, obligatory headbanging at parties.

The last 5 films I watched.

1. The Grudge (Okay film, few scary moments, seen better … much preferred Sarah Michelle Geller in Cruel Intentions)
2. As Good as it Gets (Jack Nicholson is utterly brilliant)
3. Carrie ("They’re all gonna laugh at you … they’re all gonna laugh at you … ")
4. Dead Calm (where Nicole Kidman looks so incredibly young and Sam Neil looks his usual gorgeous self pant pant)
5. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café (a freebie with the Daily Mail … I loved it, my Partner actually left the room halfway through saying he could feel his life ebbing away, so I guess it’s a chick flick).

5 TV programmes I never miss.

1. Eastenders (yeah, I know, you don’t have to tell me … only soap I watch though)
2. Friends - always always funny
3. 6.30pm local news (Midlands Today)
4. Any decent reality programme like Wife Swap, You are What you Eat and, currently, The Real Good Life (but NOT Celebrity Love Island or Big Brother hoik spit)
5. Any one off drama (or three-off drama like ‘Life Isn’t All Ha Ha Hee Hee’)

Tuesday 24

Got home from work to find a box in the garden. Ominously, the box had holes cut out of it. "What is it?" I asked my Partner, who was hovering excitedly around said box. A puppy? I thought, getting all excited myself. Maybe a kitten. Or a house bunny. Or ..

"Pigeon," my Partner said.

"Pigeon?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It was tired."

Long pause.

"Found it in the warehouse at work," he elaborated. "It’s a racing pigeon. Worn out it was. And starving."

I peered in the box. There was, indeed, a pigeon in there and it certainly looked knackered.

"It’s come from abroad," he said. "I rang the Pigeon Racing Federation with the number on its ring, and they said it wasn’t British. Brought it home to give it a rest overnight, then I’ll set it free."

It was a very tame pigeon, used to being handled, although we mostly left it alone to recover. In the morning, my Partner set it free. I cried, he hummed ‘Born Free’. The pigeon lingered on our shed roof for a while and we thought we might have gotten ourselves a pet after all, but it was gone by the time we got home from work.

I quite miss it.

Wednesday 25

I get a cheque from an household insurance claim. Fab! Except … the cheque’s made out in my ex-husbands name because, apparently, I never got round to changing the names on the insurance policy.

I rang the insurance company to explain. They said couldn’t issue me another one because my ex is the named policy holder (I’m just described as Mrs Ex). "So what should I do with this cheque I can’t cash?" I asked them. "Don’t know," they said.

Nice.

So, after work, met my Partner at pub, had a pint of Stella on an empty stomach, went home and rang the ex.

"Wanna swap cheques?" I asked him.

"Put it in the post and I’ll send you a replacement," he said, after I’d explained.

"Our postman’s dyslexic, we haven’t received any post since last August. Tell you what," I giggled, alcohol rushing round my starving body, "Let’s do lunch. Tomorrow. We’ll swap cheques then. It’ll be fun!"

And, to my utter amazement, he agreed.

Thursday 26

So, lunch with the Ex! Civilised stuff. Should be interesting.

As ex was traveling by motorbike and would be wearing leathers, I wracked my brains all morning trying to figure out where to take him in the city centre that would let him through the doors. Eventually decided on Bennetts on Edmund Street, which just happened to have a bike park outside.

He bought the first round. He even asked if I wanted something to eat! I felt very empowered in my good suit, on ‘my turf’ so to speak, so it wasn’t as awkward as I’d imagined - I wasn’t the dithering little wife any more, I was a secretary who worked ‘in the city’ (go me!). We had quite a pleasant lunch hour. We swapped cheques, and he signed a letter I’d printed giving his consent to the name change on the insurance policy (finally, after more than five years!). Then we talked about the boys and caught up on family gossip. Really quite nice.

So, anyway, I missed lunch, so by the time I got home I was beyond famished. We were taking my dad out for his birthday and, as I got ready, I sucked on a large whisky and lemonade. On an empty stomach. Sober to blasted in roughly three minutes.  Great.

We went to dinner at Wing Wah’s on the Wolverhampton Road - wonderful self-service food, and they now have a chocolate fountain (I resisted the urge to put my head under it).  We so stuffed our faces, washed down with copious amounts of beer.

I was gloriously, astoundingly drunk by the end of the night.  It was great.

Friday 27

Booked a day off work (YAY!) and Slobbed Big Time … I’m talking major lethargy here, motion that can only be detected by the use of a speeded up film.

Read book, Angels and Demons by Dan Brown … was still reading it at 1.30 in the morning. Completely riveting. Go Buy This Book!

Saturday 28

Went to car boot and copious amounts of plants. Only now I have more plants than pots. So we went to the garden centre and bought more pots and more plants.

Gardening is hugely addictive and highly expensive.

Treat time.  We went to the West Midlands Safari Park because my Partner's never been and its only half an hour down the road. 

After ooing and aahing at the animals, we wandered into the fair area, which was packed with kids (I think we were the only unaccompanied adults there).  "Let's go on that," my Partner said, pointing at the Black Fly.

The Black Fly

It doesn't look much when you're watching it, a bit of swinging, a bit of a spin.  But as I got on I started feeling nervous.  "Don't worry," the woman said as she strapped me into the seat, "It's not that bad."

Not that bad?  I thought I was going to die.  The swing had the g-force of a spaceship on re-entry, and the spinning detached all my internal organs and whisked them into a soufflé.  The poor kid sitting next to me kept giving me nervous looks, obviously sensing the high possibility that I was about to throw up over him.  My Partner just laughed hysterically.

It was truly awful.  When I finally staggered off I was shaking and in a state of shock.   "Not that bad?" I gasped, "I ought to go back and slap her!"

It seems my theme park days are most definitely over. 

Bank Holiday.  A free day off work joy joy joy. 

Big Son and his girlfriend came to visit, which was nice as I hadn't seen him for months (how come two thirds of my offspring now live ooop north?). 

Spent evening wailing about going back to work tomorrow.  Surely working life shouldn't elicit this much misery?

And here we go ... back on the hamster wheel of life again (howl).

Had a letter from my insurance company this morning.  It was addressed to my ex and said that their records had been updated and could they have £20 for administration costs.  I rang them.

"Have you updated your records so that I'm the named policyholder now?" I asked.

"Yes," they said.

"So how come the letter you just sent me was addressed to my ex-husband?"

"Because he needs to pay the £20 administration cost."

"So why didn't you send it to the address on the letter he sent to you saying he didn't live at my address any more, instead of sending it to my address, where he doesn't live?"

There was a long pause.  It was a lost cause, I could sense it.  So I just coughed up the dosh.  Customer service ain't what it used to be.

Which reminds me of another call I made last week.  Small Son managed to acquire a huge credit card bill which he's diligently been paying off.  As he only had £30 left, I said I'd pay and rang his credit card company.

"How would you like to pay?" they asked.

"Credit card," I said.

"Your credit card or your son's?" !!!!!!!!!!