• Halloweeeeeen (31st)

Saturday 1

So, out of the kindness of my own heart, I offer to put my Partner’s washing out to dry.  I slip on his sandals by the back door.  They’re big sandals, but I’ve worn them in the garden before.  Didn’t bother doing them up, thought I’d shuffle like a wash lady.

Big mistake.

One foot out the door and I trip.  Suddenly I’m windmilling my way alarmingly fast towards the small shed.  I fall, my head missing the shed by mere millimeters, but I twist my leg what feels like 360 degrees.  The pain is excruciating.

So I’m outside on the floor, gripping my screaming leg and hissing lots of rude words through gritted teeth, and my Partner’s inside the house.  I can’t get up.  I’m in agony.  I need help.

I toss a sandal at the kitchen window.  It thuds against the glass.  No movement from inside.  I toss the other one.  Thud.  Nothing.

Argh!

I haul myself, still seething appropriate words of pain, onto a garden chair.  A few more choice words, and then I hop to the back door, open it, scream, “Help!”

Finally, I’m rescued.  My Partner has to lift me backwards up the steps into the house and deposits me on the sofa.  Then he disappears outside to retrieve the fallen washing basket (way to prioritise, dude).

My Partner is a first aider at work and he immediately goes into boss mode – or, more aptly, he goes into bossy mode!  He wants to put me in the recovery position on the living room floor.  Still in agony, I tell him what he can do with this idea.  Then he wants me to take my jeans off!  I tell him if he lays one finger on my pulsating leg I won’t be responsible for my actions.

So, I’m on the sofa and he's bellowing, “Need to get your jeans off might have to cut them off need to look at your leg might have to take you to hospital stop being such a wimp I know what I’m doing I’m a first aider just get them off.”

I tell ya, my stress levels peaked at a level never before reached.  I figure the only reason the injured men at work get better is simply to get away from the barked orders!  He’s a bossy little bugger.

After about half an hour of me hissing “Sod off, you’re not touching my leg,” the pain subsides. 

He tells me I’m a terrible patient. 

I tell him if he were a doctor he’d be struck off for his appalling bedside manner.

He hangs his own washing out.

Monday 3

Hobble to work fearing that I might have fractured the bone in my throbbing leg and that any minute I might hear a loud crack and topple to the ground like a fallen tree.

All the secretaries in my new ‘group’ have been spectacularly busy the last few weeks, myself included.  In fact, I’ve been that bombed with work that my boss, having asked if I’d done the filing yet (to which I laughed maniacally), picked up said filing and did it himself. 

This is a first.  I’ve never – not ever – known a boss do his own filing before.  It proves two things: one, he must have been really desperate to find documents that hadn’t been put into files and, two, he’s a bloody great boss who recognises a bombed-out secretary when he sees one (again, a rare thing).

Tuesday 4

Like the rest of us, one of the secretaries was struggling with her work load.  Her boss suddenly came storming out of his office and bawled, “I can’t believe you’re all sitting there when there’s so much work to do, can’t someone give her a hand?”  The implication being that we’re all idly filing our nails whilst his secretary, alone and unaided, did all the work.

Big mistake.

One secretary who’d been working diligently on a document roughly the size of War and Peace retorted, “Would you like to see what I’m working on at the moment!”

Another hissed from behind her piles of paperwork, “You are kidding!”

I turned from my urgent 25 minutes dictation and snapped, “We’re all bombed!”

I tell ya, if he’d said one more word he would have been ripped to shreds by Secretaries On The Edge.

Fortunately, he recognised the seething animosity and scuttled back to his office.

Wednesday 5

I have a non-urgent medical concern that I’d like to talk to my doctor about.  Unfortunately, my doctor operates an ‘open surgery’ appointment system, which is pants.  It works like this.  I ring at 8.30am, either on the bus or having arrived at work.

Me: “I’d like to book a late afternoon appointment today, or an early morning appointment for tomorrow morning please.”

Receptionist: All the late appointments are taken and you’ll have to ring again tomorrow for an early appointment. 

Me: But I work full time, I need something really early or really late.

Receptionist: We have an 11.15 appointment available for this morning.

Me: But I’m at work now.

Receptionist: Ring again tomorrow.

I’ve so far had this conversation six times over a two week period.  It’s a catch 22 situation.  I can’t not go to work in the vain hope that I might get an appointment that day, and they won’t allow me to book ahead.

Very annoying.

And why, if I ring at 8.30 when the surgery cranks open its doors, are all the late afternoon appointments already taken?  Who is getting these appointment and, more importantly, how are they getting them? 

Answers on a postcard please.

Thursday 6

A girlie lunch paid for by a boss in ‘recognition of our efforts when moving the department’.  Yay!

Bushwackers.  Meals pre-ordered.  Great table by the patio windows looking out onto the miniscule courtyard.

Service, appalling. 

A water jug roughly the weight of a baby elephant was put on our table.  “Would you like glasses with that?” the waitress asked.

We looked at each other, wondering if not-drinking-the-water was maybe the latest craze sweeping the city.  “Yes,” we said.

“How many glasses would you like?” she asked.

Looks were again exchanged.  Sharing one glass between us all was considered.  “One each,” we finally decided.

“How many is that?” the waitress asked.

“How many of us are at the table?”

The waitress counted.  Twice.  “Eight,” she said.

“Then that’s how many glasses we’ll need.”

They apparently had a chef missing and all meals were delayed.  When you have to get back to the office by 2pm and food hasn’t arrived by 1.35, you start to worry.

However, we had an ace card to play.  One of our party demanded freebies to make up for the delay.

“What would you like?” the waitress asked.

“Puddings!” she laughed, “We all want free puddings.”

“You won’t have time to eat them, will you,” the waitress said, with an edge of what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here bitterness to her voice.

“Drinks, then,” said our heroine, “We’ll all have free drinks.”

We’d previously been on Coke and fruit juice, but the offer of free booze was irresistible and spirits were ordered (I didn’t, I fall asleep at the slightest whiff of alcohol at lunchtime and, being normally caffeine-free, the full-bodied Coke had pretty much the same effect anyway).

We wandered raucously back to the office at 2.15 very merry indeed. 

Our bosses didn’t complain, the state most of us were in I don’t think they dared.

Friday 7

Right, I have a plan.  I’ve told my bosses I’ll be in late this morning after attending a doctors appointment and, by hook or by crook, I am going to see a doctor today.

Rang, from home, at 8.30 on the dot.  I finally got a 9.40am appointment.  Time, then, to fire off a letter.

Arrived at surgery 9.35.  Got in to see doctor at 10.20am.  “Your appointment system is pants,” I said as soon as I walked in.  “You should have asked for one of the late appointments,” the doctor said, “The ones we set aside for people who work.”

There followed a five minute ‘discussion’ on this, followed by an examination, where it occurred to me I might have complained about the appointment system afterwards and not before!

Out by 10.30.  Arrived at work 11.15.  Had to work through lunch to make up the time. 

Not fun.

What was fun, however, was the basement smokers' discussion of the day: What would you do if you won the lottery regarding work.

Me: I’d come in at 12.30, gather my bosses and the head secretary together, and say, “I quit.  I’m not working a notice period.  This is the last you’ll ever see of me.”  Then I’d take all the secretaries out for lunch.

Smoker 2: I’d come in as normal.  I’d work until my boss started ranting and raving at me, then I’ll pick up my bag and tell her exactly what I think of her and her job before walking out.

Smoker 3: I’d just email them from Antigua.

Saturday 8

First time on a computer after using a typewriter

And one for the laydees ...

Tuesday 11

Work is frantic, and I mean, frantic.  I’m working at a hundred miles an hour all day, every day, and I’m not liking it one little bit.  To make matters a million times worse, the computer I have is worse than useless, it's so slow it should be using DOS (remember DOS?!).  Trying to get anything done, even the simplest thing, is like wading through treacle. Very frustrating – biting on edge of table trying not to scream frustrating.

The other secretaries are the same.  You could cut through the atmosphere with a knife in our office.  Today, into the tense silence, one of our group cried out, “Does anyone have any capacity to help with my workload?” and six voices snapped, “No!” in an end-of-tether-really-can’t-cope kind of way.  One of them reached the tether and wailed, “I need a drink!”  “Coffee?” I asked.  “Gin!” she cried, “And lots of it!”

“Damn,” said another secretary who never swears.

“Pardon?” said I.

“Damn and double damn,” she said.

I shook my head.  “Damn isn’t going to do you any good at all.  Bollocks is what you need.  See how it rolls off the tongue … bol-locks.  Try it.”

She did.  It didn’t help.

As I simply didn’t have the time to type one up from scratch, I asked a colleague if there was a template for a secretary’s letter of resignation.  “Company secretary?” she asked, searching through the templates, “Which company?”  “This company,” I said, “It’s for me.”  She sighed heavily.  “If there were such a template,” she drawled, “Don’t you think we’d all be using it by now.”

Good point.

I emailed a colleague.  “Smoke?”  She replied, “Oh dear god yes!”  That’s how bad it is.  When I met her in the lift, she asked how work was going.  “Bollocks,” I said.  “Hmmm,” she said, “Bollocks, I like it.  I’ve been using bugger, but bollocks is much better.”  “Take it,” I said, “It’s yours to use at will.”

And we went for our smoke, both of us saying bollocks in a really heartfelt, rounded kind of way.

Wednesday 12

Oh joy.  A court appearance.  Not for me, you understand, but for Small Son, who forgot to produce his driving documents months ago, got fined for it, and forgot to pay the fine, which increased because of non-payment and now totals the price of a decent small car.

He went to court last week.  They told him if he didn’t pay up they’d send him to prison (for motoring fines?!).  He had to go back today for the 'final verdict' and I went along today with some vague idea about wailing and begging a lot – not normally my style, but motherhood does strange things to a person.

Birmingham Magistrate Court, where you’re treated like a criminal the instant you walk through the door but, judging from the people milling around inside, perfectly understandable.  The missing link isn’t missing, it’s just hiding outside courtrooms!

Small Son said, “I’m going to appeal.”

I glared at him, a bit peeved that me and mine were sitting outside a court room, and snarled, “You will agree to do anything they tell you to do, is that clear?” 

He nodded. 

He did.

He's making monthly payments.

Thursday 13

We had a Chinese takeaway last night.  Even as I ate my Singapore Chow Mein I thought, “This is a bit spicy,” as it burned a layer off my lips and pretty much melted my internal organs, but I ate it anyway.  Big mistake.

Woke up this morning with the most incredible pain.  I didn’t know it was possible to endure such agony and live.  I could barely move, I was sweating, nauseous and dizzy.  Nauseous and dizzy didn’t seem a good combination to be in when you're on your own (Partner had gone to work), so I spent 15 minutes making my way to the phone on tip-toe with the aid of every piece of furniture we own, and rang my Partner.

“I don’t want to die alone,” I gasped.

He raced home.  In fact, he came speeding down the road like a Formula One car and screeched to a halt within 20 minutes – good going since he works half an hour away. 

He wanted to call an ambulance.  “No need,” I said, clutching both arms of the chair so hard I thought they might come off, “Not that bad.”  He wanted to call a doctor.  “Food poisoning,” I hissed through gritted teeth, “It’ll pass.”  He wanted to bundle me into the car and take me hospital.  I said if he could prise me off the chair and wanted the inside of his car pebble-dashed he should go right ahead.

It eased off three hours later.  It was akin to childbirth with nothing to show for it at the end except my own survival.

I will never eat another Chinese takeaway again.

Friday 14

As I’ve already had two days off work this week, and because of the enormous workload, I hauled my wretched body to work.

It wasn’t too bad, actually.  I caught an early bus before I was even conscious and, because I haven’t eaten since Wednesday night, I felt wonderfully light-headed and very spaced out.  It’s a great way to work – I was aware of things going on around me, but I was cocooned in a soothing bubble of malnutrition.

I sent out an email to my department: “As I was in the office at 8.15 this morning, I’ll be leaving at 4.30pm.  If I’m slumped across my desk in a deep sleep/coma by then, could someone nudge me and send me home.”

Managed to stay awake and left at 4.30, but the city centre was already gridlocked – sometimes you just can’t win no matter what you do!  I dropped into a limp sleep at least seven times on the way home, so sent my Partner a text message: “If I’m not home by 6, start checking buses for my comatosed body.”

Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Saturday 15

The squirrels in our garden are industrious little buggers.  Whenever I put nuts out for them, they’re up and down the apple tree like speeding yoyos, dashing across the lawn to bury them one by one, backwards and forwards, not stopping until the feeding box is empty.  As I tend to put about 60-100 nuts out at a time, they sometimes get so exhausted they rest on the bird box or slumped over a branch, motionless, knackered.

But are they planting and digging up said nuts purely for feeding purposes?  I thought so, until I read this.

Now I sometimes peer out of the window with binoculars, trying to see if my squirrels are red eyed or shaky,

Puts a whole new slant on things, doesn’t it!

[Thanks to Arbroath for this amazing article].

Monday 17

My computer at work is rubbish.  It’s an old one which clearly isn’t capable of coping with the software on it.  I’d get more work done chiselling letters into slabs of granite.  It’s a world away from the sleek machine I used to have before we moved.

I’ve rung the IT department so many times I’m expecting an invitation to their Christmas party, and my workload is piling up to nightmare-inducing proportions. 

After four weeks of battling with the bloody thing, my patience cracked.  Dashed up to Head Secretary today and hissed, “I’m having a nervous breakdown!  Making me use that bloody computer is like putting a champion jockey on a Shire horse.  I loathe it from the very depths of my soul.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

Spent the rest of the day hissing expletives at it. 

And ringing the IT department.

Tuesday 18

Interesting evening.  Went to bed as normal.  Woke up at 11.30pm to the sound of my neighbour’s front door being knocked and pounded continuously.  Then the two-fingered whistling started.  Then the yelling.

We looked out of a side window and saw two dodgy looking men outside my neighbour’s house.  My neighbour was out (he works night shifts) and these youths were clearly after the son who lives there.  He, apparently, was out too, or else hiding, but the youths weren’t giving up.

One ran down the side of our house and reached up to climb up onto the neighbouring garage.  My Partner threw the window open and yelled, “Oi, you!  What do you think you’re doing?”

The bloke, totally ignoring him, continued to try and get onto the roof.  My Partner shouted that he was calling the police, the bloke yelled that he could effing do what the effing hell he liked!

We called the police and reported a potential burglary.  The men began wandering off down the road, but their “escape” was blocked by two police cars, who arrived like Starsky and Hutch three minutes after we called.  Impressive.

Two policemen came to our house.  “Way to be discreet!” I told them, “Now they know it was us who called you.”

“I think you yelling that you were calling us gave the game away,” they said.

Oh, okay.

They let the men go because we’d stopped them before they'd broken in, which doesn’t seem right somehow (should we have waited until they’d actually broken into my neighbours house?).  Later, the men returned to my neighbour’s house with my neighbours son, who obviously knows them.  As they walked to the front door, one of them shouted, “Good job that [so-and-so] from next door didn’t come out or I would have slapped him.”

“Slapped me?” laughed my six foot odd hard-as-nails Yorkshireman who knows No Fear.  “I’d have needed more than a slap to stop me if I’d gone out there.”

Wednesday 19

Today my much-despised work computer froze and hung and crashed so many times I got 10 minutes work done in 3 hours.

When it completely shut itself down while I was in the middle of a memo, I rang the IT department.

In a very slow, very low voice, I said, “I am not doing any more work on this computer unless someone comes over here, right now, and looks at it.”

“Let me just remote you and try – “

“No,” I said, “I want a human being, at my desk, now.”

“Let me try – “

I struggled to keep my hysteria in check.  “I want someone at my desk within thirty minutes,” I said, “Or this computer is going through the window, and don’t for one second think I’m joking.”

I sat at my desk, waiting and cursing.  I planned to go out at lunch and buy a lump hammer.  I’d hit the computer, just once, then tell the IT department it wasn’t working.  ‘Why isn’t it working?’ I imagined them asking.  ‘Because,’ I’d say, “It’s in 72 small pieces scattered across my desk.’

Fortunately, a man arrived.  He sat in my chair while I peered menacingly over his shoulder.  “I think,” he said, sensing that his next words could be his last, “I think you need a new computer.”

YES! 

I raced across the office doing my happy dance (think David Brent from The Office).  “See this face,” I told my somewhat startled bosses, “This is the face of one Very Happy Secretary.”

I now have a brand new, sleek, state of the art computer that does exactly what its supposed to do.

Result!

Thursday 20

Oh the joys of public transport.  2 hours commute a day, 10 hours a week.  Words can’t begin to describe.

Tonight, going home, the bus was packed.  I stood with 30 other people on the lower deck, thinking at least I’d get home quick because the bus wouldn’t be making any more stops.

Wrong.

The driver kept letting on more passengers.  Sardines would have felt claustrophobic.  I’m sure at least three people on the lower deck passed out or died but were kept upright by the force of people pressed against them.  And still the bus kept stopping!

Someone stood on my foot.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I always thought five toes was too many anyway.”  He didn’t laugh.  In such cramped conditions, humour is the first thing to go.

Someone tried to squeeze passed and glared at me reproachfully.  “If I breathe in any more my head will pop,” I snarled.

I eventually decided to get off and forced my way to the front.  I stood at the door, but the bus went sailing passed my stop (now it misses stops!). 

“I need to get off,” I said to the driver.

“Then you should have pressed the bell!” he yelled at me.

“I couldn’t find a bell!” I yelled back, “I’m lucky I found the bloody door!”

The bus stopped.  The doors didn’t open.  “What is wrong with you?” I bawled, flipping furious now, “Let me off or you’re going to have a homicidal maniac on your hands, mate!”

The doors opened.  I walked off.  The bus followed beside me, the driver glaring at me like I was the cause of all the world’s problems.

I flipped him a V-sign – most undignified but, in the absence of a brick to lob, it was all I had.  If I ever see him again I can’t be held responsible for my actions

Public transport … love it.

Saturday 22

Yesterday, because I was so fed up of always running out of shampoo, I bought five bottles which were on special offer and felt very pleased with myself.

This morning I got up and found a note that my Partner had left for me before going to work.  “WEAR YOUR GLASSES WHEN YOU GO SHOPPING.  YOU’VE GOT ONE SHAMPOO AND FOUR CONDITIONERS.”

He used to leave me love notes, now he’s calling me a blind old bat, in capital letters no less!

I guess, after six years, the honeymoon period is waning.

And this ...

Oh, and then there's THIS!

Daily Mail, Saturday 22 October 2005. Simon Heffer column:

"Apparently, Birmingham is the rudest place in Britain, with fewer people there engaging in the basic courtesies of 'please' and 'thank you' than anywhere else.  I have often regarded poor manners in others as a sign of deep insensitivity.  And if you are daily subjected to the concrete hell of unremitting ugliness that is Birmingham, it is easy to see why."

EXCUSE ME! 'Concrete hell of unremitting ugliness'?!  Has the man even been to Birmingham?  Does Mr Heffer - in his infinite wisdom - not know that Birmingham has more canals than Venice and more parks than any other city in Europe? Is he not aware of the massive increase in trade and industry over the past decade or two because Birmingham is the place to be?

And Brummies aren't rude!  They're friendly, extremely good looking people who love their city because its a fabulous place to live - you need it, we got it. 

Lazy journalists should check their facts before making such sweeping, stereotypical and blatantly insensitive statements.

   Simon Heffer:
Irrepressible
Irascible
Irreverent
Idiot!
 

Monday 24

Half term, so the kids aren’t at school and there’s barely any traffic on the roads.

If only I’d realised, I could have had an extra 20 minutes in bed this morning (sigh).  As it was, I turned up at work at 8.15.  AM.

Everyone’s still incredibly busy, so I started work straight away and, because the weather was truly appalling, I stayed in at lunch and worked straight through until 5pm.

But I couldn’t leave then because all the secretaries were all going out for a drink after work.  So I hung around until 5.30 until everyone else had finished (again, if I’d took 10 seconds to think about it, I could have come in later and had a full 40 minutes extra in bed this morning argh!).

Went to Bushwackers.  I don’t know why, the food’s not especially nice and the only extraordinary thing about Bushwackers is the god-awful service.  And tonight was no exception.

We were led to a table in a dark corner, drinks were ordered, food was brought.

And then we were totally and completely abandoned.  Didn’t see another waiter/waitress for over an hour.  We were parched.  We went in search of staff and found none, the bars were bereft.  It was like the Marie Celeste!  We nearly helped ourselves.

After an hour, a man appeared out of nowhere to collect our empty plates.  We mentioned the lack of service and he just looked at us like we were a gaggle of whinging, miserable women.

“We all wanted another drink,” one of us said.

A waitress stomped over to our table.  “You want a drink?” she said, as if she’d just been disturbed from discovering the meaning of life in a back room.

“Yes, an hour ago,” I replied.

“Do you want anything else?” she snapped.

“I suppose a smile’s out of the question?” one of us snapped back.

We didn’t leave a tip.

Tuesday 25

Here's some put-down lines you might want to use in the office today (thanks to Bill for these).  Give yourself 1 point for each one you use (anything that helps pass the time, I say):

Wednesday 26

I got told off at work today!  Proper told off, like when you’re skidding down a school corridor and the headmaster comes out and shouts at you.

Really, I’m too old for this.

I’d been for a smoke with a colleague.  When we got back, one of the bosses called us over, all agitated.

“You do realise,” they said, “That when you take a cigarette break you’re supposed to take the time off your lunch break.”

News to me.  Had I known this was company policy, I wouldn’t have accepted the job in the first place but, having been there nearly three years, difficult to kick up a fuss about it now.

“You’ve been 15 minutes,” the boss said said.

We hadn’t, it only ever takes 5 minutes to smoke a cigarette, but the boss was most definitely not happy.  Neither was I.  Do people who have chronic bladder problems brought on by drinking 72 cups of coffee a day take their toilet time off their lunch breaks?  I think not.  And, if we’re timing things down to the last minute, if I get to work at 8.40 and/or work through lunch, do I get to go home early? 

No.

If they're noting down the minutes I spend away from my computer, I think they’d find they actually owe me time and not the other way round. 

Thursday 27

Today, a work colleague is getting married and my Partner and I have been invited to the evening reception.

Last night was spent with me trying on every single item of clothing in my wardrobe and wailing a lot.  Dashed out at lunch and bought a new outfit from a top designer store (Primark).  Nothing like leaving things until the last minute.

My Partner collected me from work at 4pm and we were off to Shrewsbury, to Rowhampton Castle no less.  Flopped into rather nice B&B, got ready (an hour spent asking “Does my bum/boobs/hips/thighs/arms look fat in this?”), at reception by 7.30pm.

Fabulous time.  Never been to such an enjoyable wedding before.  My friend is Indian and looked spectacularly gorgeous, and the whole event had an Indian theme to it.  Kylie Minogue to the rhythm of an Indian drum was just amazing.  Everyone danced, everyone had a great time.

“Shall we get married?” my Partner and I asked each other, as you do.  We discussed it for a while – pagan wedding, maybe?; symbolic swapping of rings on a foreign beach? (oh, done that already); Gretna Green?; online wedding? (!).

In the end it turns out that I just want a flashy dress and sparkly ring, and my Partner just wants a good excuse for a booze-up.  So we’ll have a Crimbo party instead, with maybe a cubic zirconium from Argos [<<<< hint hint].

There’s nothing like compromise, is there.

[Actually, looking up the links for these, have to say Gretna Green looks very appealing! J].

Friday 28

Hangover.  Unfamiliar surroundings.  Incapable of speech.  Breakfast served, conversation required.  Please, just hand me a bucket and throw me in the boot of the car, I’ll be fine, really.

On the road by 9am.  Whole day to ourselves.  Oooooh, exciting.

Off into Wales.  Beautiful scenery.  Reach the coast, collect large pebbles (to stop squirrels digging up my garden pots).  Back into car.

Because of the hangovers and general lack of communication, I assumed my Partner would turn around after seeing the sea and saunter home.  I had visions of us having lunch in some scenic Welsh village and arriving home around 3pm, where we could potter for a while before our customary Friday night curry.

So I was somewhat surprised (and a little hysterical) when I spotted Liverpool across the estuary and realised we were a mere 20 miles from Manchester! (80 odd miles from Birmingham!)

Lunch was spent in an M6 service station, silently eating M&S sandwiches.  The rest of the afternoon was spent sitting in standstill motorway traffic.

Arrived home, barely speaking and barely able to move, at 5.30. 

Next weekend, Yorkshire.

Up the flippin’ motorway again!

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