Last day of the month and a last chance to increase my monthly income by working like a fiend.  Suspect its still going to be one of those months where I end up sitting outside Sommerfield asking for donations of food or cash (tried selling my body, but only medical research were interested).

Then daddy came over for a visit.  I told him all about our holiday in 10 minutes flat:  “And oh my god the canyon was just magnificent but I was more impressed with Monument Valley which is strange because Hubs was the one who wanted to see Monument Valley and he was more impressed with the canyon and we had a helicopter flight over it and…”

Afterwards, looking at bit stunned, dad said, “How’s work going?”

“Oh my god we’ve come back so broke and spent every penny we had and now my transcription companies are telling me the work is slowing down because of this credit crisis thing and I’m thinking oh my god I’m going to be poor and I’ll have to sit outside Sommerfield…”

Dad took out his wallet.  “Well,” he said, “We were going to give you something before your holiday, but we can give it to you now, to tide you over.”

“Oh!” I gasped.  “No!” I cried.

“No?”

“I couldn’t!”

“You couldn’t?”

Unsure what to do next in the face of his eldest daughter’s chronic attack of misplaced pride, dad started to put his wallet away.

“No!” I cried again, aware that sitting outside Sommerfield might be a tad more embarrassing than taking money off my parents, “That’s so kind of you thank you very much.”

And dad got his wallet out again (phew).  And all is well with the world once more.

[Dog has rather miraculously recovered from his hacking kennel cough.  Suspect he may have been putting it on to gain sympathy, the bugger, but his attention seeking behaviour cost me rather a lot at the vets.  Never rains but pours does it.]

I'll keep posting this until you know all the words.
I want the whole world to one day ring to the sounds of people crying,
"DOWN CAME THE YAIN!"

Wednesday 1 October

I came across this today while searching for a way to Get Into America:

"I was flying to Vancouver from Toronto this weekend, and the flight attendant reading the flight safety information had the whole plane looking at each other like "what the heck?" (Getting Toronto people to look at each other is an accomplishment.) 

So once we were airborne, I took out my laptop and typed up what she said so I wouldn't forget. I've left out a few parts I'm sure, but this is most of it." 

(BEFORE TAKEOFF)

Hello and welcome to WestJet Flight 438  leaving from Toronto to Vancouver. If you're going to Vancouver, you're in the right place. If you're not going to Vancouver, you're about to have a really long evening. We'd like to tell you now about some important safety features of this aircraft. The most important safety feature we have aboard this plane is The Flight Attendants. Please look at one now. 

There are 5 exits aboard this plane: 2 at the front, 2 over the wings, and one out the plane's rear end. If you're seated in one of the exit rows, please do not store your bags by your feet. That would be a really bad idea. Please take a moment and look around and find the nearest exit. Count the rows of seats between you and the exit. In the event that the need arises to find one, trust me, you'll be glad you did. We have pretty blinking lights on the floor that will blink in the direction of the exits. White ones along the normal rows, and pretty red ones at the exit rows. 

In the event of a loss of cabin pressure these baggy things will drop down over your head. You stick it over your nose and mouth like the flight attendant is doing now. The bag won't inflate, but there's oxygen there, I promise. If you are sitting next to a small child, or someone who is acting like a small child, please do us all a favor and put on your mask first. If you are traveling with two or more children, please take a moment now to decide which one is your favorite. Help that one first and then work your way down. 

In the seat pocket in front of you is a pamphlet about the safety features of this plane. I usually use it as a fan when I'm having my own personal summer. It makes a very good fan. It also has pretty pictures. Please take it out and play with it now. 

Please take a moment now to make sure your seat belts are fastened low and tight about your hips. To fasten the belt, insert the metal tab into the buckle. To release, it's a pulley thing -- not a pushy thing like your car, because you're in an airplane -- HELLO! 
 

There is no smoking in the cabin on this flight. There is also no smoking in the lavatories. If we see smoke coming from the lavatories, we will assume you are on fire and put you out. This is a free service we provide. There are two smoking sections on this flight, one outside each wing exit. We do have a movie in the smoking sections tonight ... hold on, let me check what it is . Oh here it is ... the movie tonight is "Gone With the Wind." 

In a moment we will be turning off the cabin lights, and it's going to get really dark, really fast. If you're afraid of the dark, now would be a good time to reach up and press the yellow button. The yellow button turns on your reading light. Please don't press the orange button unless you absolutely have to. The orange button is your seat ejection button. 

We're glad to have you with us on board this flight. Thank you for choosing WestJet, and giving us your business and your money. If there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please don't hesitate to ask. If you all weren't strapped down you would have given me a standing ovation, wouldn't you? 

(AFTER LANDING)

Welcome to the Vancouver International Airport. Sorry about the bumpy landing. It's not the Captain's fault. It's not the Copilot's fault. It's the Asphalt. 

Please remain seated until the plane is parked at the gate. At no time in history has a passenger beat a plane to the gate. So please, don't even try. 

Also, please be careful opening the overhead bins because "shift happens." 

Thursday 2

I finally managed to get through to my home insurance company.  I think I must have caught them off-guard by ringing twice in one day, and was put through to the woman who’s dealing with my claim.

“Oh!” she cried.  “Yes,” she gasped.

“I’m just chasing my claim,” I drawled in an uber-bored way, “To see if anything has happened to it yet, like someone looking at it.”

“Yes,” she said again, clearly thrown that a customer actually managed to get through at all, “I was just looking at it.”

“Uh huh.”

“You want payment don’t you.”

“Would be rather nice.”

“How much did you want?”

The temptation here was to mention something in the region of four figures, maybe five.  She mentioned something more in the barely three figure range, because she obviously hadn’t looked at any of the paperwork I’d sent her two months ago.

“Did you send me receipts?” she asked.

“Yes,” I drawled, “Twice.”

“Ah.  I’ve had a problems with my emails recently.”

“Uh huh.”

“They’ve been coming through late, or not at all.”

“Uh huh.”  She wasn’t talking to just any idiot here.

“I’ll have a look and send you a cheque,” she said.

I’m not holding my breath.

Friday 3

Hubs and I used to have a Favourite Pub, The Swan just outside Harborne.  We’d meet there every Wednesday night after work (when I was working in the city) and partake of a pint of Stella.  It broke up the week and gave us an chance to catch up on life, the universe and everything.

Then the comfortable, lively pub was taken over by someone with delusions of grandeur.  They took out the carvery that was always full and bustling, and replaced it with a rather posh restaurant.  The décor was changed to ‘minimalist’, and they increased the price of Stella, so of course we stopped going. 

I used to go passed it on the bus every night, and the car park was a wasteland of emptiness.

That was about two years ago.  This Wednesday, realising that our weekly outings hadn’t happened for a while (we were waiting for summer to arrive which, of course, it never did), we thought we’d once again take a look at our Favourite Pub.

It’s still the same.  Still empty.  Still a bit ‘pretentious’… well a lot pretentious actually.  The barman actually seemed to look down on us when we entered (we weren’t wearing suits, but we hadn’t just crawled through a hedge backwards either).  Having people stare down their noses at me puts me on the offensive and makes me talk like Joanna Lumley in a bad mood – oh yeah, I can talk posh when poshness is required.

We sat down.  The atmosphere was non-existent.  We were quietly giggling at the sheer snobbery of the place.  Then we looked at the menu and broke out into laughter.  £10 for a  burger, £12.50 for a  portion of Shepherd’s Pie?  They had to be joking.

We quickly drank our pints and left, went to the much more welcoming Green Man up the road. 

With pubs closing down at a vast rate of knots due to the smoking ban (can’t we just have a separate smoking room like they used to do in the ‘olden days’?), I’m surprised The Swan is still surviving – must be the expense account clientele we saw dotted around while we were there (looking at us and clearly thinking ‘how did the plebs get in?’).

I might start a campaign: Bring Back Decent Pubs.  If you know of any in the south Birmingham/Halesowen area, let me know.

Saturday 4

Middle Son arrived last night.  He’d emailed me when we were in America to say he was staying this weekend. 

Because it was Friday night, aka Slob Night, the house was a bit… well, lived in, but MS is used to that.

“She’s coming down on the train,” Middle Son said after I’d ruffled his hair a bit and told him how handsome he was.

“Who is?” I asked.

“My girlfriend.”

There was a moment of deep silence while I digested this bit of information.  Then panic exploded like an atom bomb.

“YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS COMING?  HERE?  TO STAY?” I wailed.

“I told you in the email.”

“I was on holiday!” I wailed, “I didn’t read it all!”

What happened next doesn’t happen very often.  My motto is ‘take us or leave us, we’re not bovvered’.  But this was a girlfriend coming, didn’t want her to think that her boyfriend came from dodgy stock.

I leapt up out of my chair, screaming, “Hubs, get the vac out!”  Hauled Middle Son upstairs to empty the not-yet-in-the-loft boxes out of the spare room and into the study.  Made up the spare bed, blew dust off the surfaces, and raced downstairs to hide the washing up under the sink.  Changed into something that made me look like less of a bag lady (difficult given the contents of my wardrobe), and hid a lot of things in cupboards.

“Why are you making this much effort?” Middle Son asked, rather amused.

“It’s a girlfriend!” I hissed, “Have to make a good impression!”

“Why?”

“Don’t want her to think we’re all bonkers.”

“She already knows.”

“Oh.”

We were like a show family by the time the girlfriend arrived, sitting upright and smart in our pristine living room. 

Didn’t last long though, we resorted to slobby casualness by Saturday.

Sunday 5

Due to being attacked by pretty much every loose dog in my area over the last few months, I now tend to fall to pieces every time I see a marauding canine.  The whole point of getting a dog was so I could walk it every day.  Sadly, I’ve lost my bottle Big Time after the blood-fest that was my last outing.  I miss my early morning walks.

I go out with Hubs occasionally.  Yesterday afternoon, in between the monsoon weather, we strolled out in the brief window of sunshine.  I had Sam on the lead.  We were chatting away happily (me and Hubs that is, Sam doesn’t tend to indulge in conversation much, him being a dog and all).  Then we came upon a loose dog.

It wasn’t so much ‘out on its own’ as off its lead.  A man was walking on the path with his two dogs.  One of them – a big fluffy monster with white eyes – immediately came towards Sam with its head down and its ears back.  I’m pretty familiar with attack mode now, and threw the lead into Hubs’ hand.

The owner called to his stalking dog.  His dog completely ignored him.  Hubs got Sam to sit and pointed the big stick we’re now obliged to carry at the furry monster.  The furry monster continued to approach.

I backed off about 20 steps because blood-baths aren’t really my thing.  “You want to get your dog on a lead,” said Hubs, very calmly I thought under the circumstances (I’d have been crying by now).

“You shouldn’t bring your dog out if he’s not friendly with other dogs,” said the owner.

“My dog is on a lead, it’s your dog that raced over for a fight.”

Whilst his dog tried to get our dog and Hubs was controlling Sam and the other owner was trying to get hold of his animal, Small Son pulled up in his car.  He rolled down his window and laughed.  “Having trouble?” he asked.

“Always,” I said, “Every single berluddy time I go out.”

Meanwhile, back at the growl-fest, the other owner was saying, “It’s your dog’s fault because he doesn’t look very friendly.”

“He’s nervous because he keeps getting attacked by dogs like yours,” retorted Hubs.

Me and Small Son looked on, me hoping we wouldn’t be making a mad dash to the vets (again) any time soon.  I thought it quite sweet that SS waited at the kerb, engine idling, looking after his little mommy.

The other owner eventually got his dog back on the lead and dragged it away, growling its fuzzy face off. 

It’s awful that you can’t walk your dogs these days without taking a big stick with you to fend off other dogs.  Hubs takes a bottle of water with him too to spray at any attacking canines. 

My dad’s getting me a ‘sonic’ gadget to ward off potential attackers. 

I’m trying to source a cattle prod on the internet.

Monday 6

Day in the life of a non-working transcriber

7.00     Get up.

7.05     Pat dog, make coffee.

7.10     Check emails and note that no new work has come in.  Ominous, since this happened last week too.  Too early to panic.  Have another coffee to encourage consciousness to come out to play.

7.15     Update the blog.  Check emails.  Still no work.

8.00     Do some internet surfing (‘working in America’, transcription companies I might apply to, ‘how much is a spleen worth?’).  Check emails.  No work.

8.30     Email my transcription companies, casually asking “Any work today?”  They both say not at the moment, it’s gone terribly quiet.  Wrestle with the panic monster and win, but only just.

9.00     Write up my Sunday Mercury post (see below).  Check emails.  No work.

10.00   Chat with window cleaner chappie.  “You still busy then?” he asks, noticing my laptop.  “Not as busy as I should be,” I say, furiously biting on my nails. 

10.30   Panic monster blindsides me and quickly moves in for an attack.  A big fight occurs; there’s some screaming and a lot of dribbling involved, but I manage to get it under control with a firm neck lock.  Keep it at bay with a big stick we use to ward off attacking dogs.

11.00   Consider going out for a walk, but its raining.

11.05   Consider doing a bit of housework, but its too boring.

11.10   Try to play with dog, but he’s just eaten his own bodyweight in leftover food from yesterday’s dinner and isn’t interested, the fat lump.

11.15   Consider phoning sister for a chat, but she hasn’t replied to my last three phone messages asking her to call, so suspect she may have fallen out with me (for reasons unknown).

11.20   Consider phoning friends, but they’re all at work and won’t have time for a chat (sigh).

11.30   Start daydreaming about going to live and work in America, but at this rate I won’t be able to afford to.

11.45   Start daydreaming about winning the lottery – a quick fix solution, but hey, it’d work for me.

12.00   Check emails.  Still no work.  Overwhelmed with apathy and resignation.  Been here, done this, but worklessness doesn’t get any easier.  Slap the panic monster in frustration, it flips me the bird.

12.05   Go onto Facebook out of sheer boredom.  Not cheered by notification telling me that my sending limit in Hatching Pets has been restored to 20.

12.15   Some work arrives, but too late, I’ve been eaten alive by lethargy.  Download it, ignore it.

12.30   Oh what?  Another audio file arrives.  Its too late now, the window of opportunity for work has elapsed.  I am now, officially, a waste of breathing space.

12.35   Its about this point I completely lose it.  I hate days like this.  Spend afternoon wallowing in self-pity and misery, plus a double dose of Jeremy Kyle (yes, things are that bad).

16.20   Hubs comes home to find me splayed out on the floor, wailing and howling and crying that I may (da da DA!) have to Go Back To Work Like Proper, Like In The City And Everything.  He steps over me and tends to the traumatised dog (not really... he pushed me out of the way with his foot first - suspect honeymoon period might be over after only a mere nine years, tsk).

Tuesday 7

Whatever Floats Yer Boat at The Sunday Mercury

And also, in this ‘ere book, it mentions something about my favourite programme, Have I Got News For You.  I’ve long been in awe of the panellists quick wit and ability to have me rolling on the floor with a throwaway line.  Merton was my hero.  Hislop was just the funniest man alive.  I worshipped at the altar of their comedic brilliance.

But my illusions have been shattered.  Destroyed.  Apparently the panelists have a ‘run through’ before the show, and then a couple of hours to ‘think about it’.  Not so 'off the cuff' after all, which makes the whole thing a bit of a sham really.  Perhaps they should retitle it 'Have I Got Some Well Rehearsed News For You, Suckers'.

I’m gutted.  Truly.  Gutted.

In protest, I’m only ever watching the equally good Mock The Week and Never Mind the Buzzcocks in future – surely they can’t be rehearsed… can they?  [Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know, I’ve got enough heavy-hearted disappointment to deal with already].

Wednesday 8

Ooops, I think I’ve dropped a clanger (CLANG clatter clatter clatter!)  I’ve been raving about this book I’m reading, which is really rather good.

Or so I thought.

It mentioned in this book about the author, Piers Morgan (former editor of the Daily Mirror) appearing on HIGNFY, so I watched the episode on YouTube.  Turns out the author is not a very nice fellow at all.  Jeremy Clarkson has punched him!

The thing is, is the book still good given that the author is clearly a bit of a pompous git?  Is something ‘based on fact’ worth reading if the author’s veracity is a bit dodgy?

Yes, deep questions today people.

In other news, I’ve been on a bit of a downer lately, what with holiday blues, lack of work, impending poverty/homelessness/starvation, shock over HIGNFY, a touch of food poisoning from a Chinese takeaway and, as always, the god-awful weather.  I’ve slumped, I’ve wailed, I’ve sighed a lot.  Not like me at all.  I don’t like misery, its not a very good companion, and when you work alone at home you need good companions, real or imagined (mostly imagined it has to be said, but I’ve been told not to talk about the keyboard people any more).

Yesterday I took hold of myself and gave myself a good shaking, which isn’t easy unless you find shoulder dislocation easy.  “Pull yerself together woman,” I said into the mirror, “Stop yer whinging and whining.”

But fear not, I have a cure for general melancholy that doesn’t involve alcohol, physical exertion or decamping to bed.  It’s an old family recipe and the ingredients can be tailored to suit individual needs.  I’ve had to obtain written permission from marmee and daydee to publish this, but here it is, The Cure For Melancholy.

• 2 episodes of Black Books (compulsory)
• An hour of upbeat music played at full volume (wild dancing optional)

• An hour of either:

-          Mock the Week

-          Grumpy Old Men/Women

-          Absolutely Fabulous

• Two hours of trawling YouTube for funny stuff to lift the soul, i.e. Frankie Boyle, stupid people falling over, Eddie Izzard (cake or death?), funny stuff
• An hour of internet surfing (‘sneaking into America’, ‘how to surreptitiously kill loose dogs’, ‘is crumpled the new look?’)
• 30 minute phone chat with exceptionally funny friend (or sister, if she was speaking to me)
• Marinate for up to six hours and behold, a smiley face.

UPDATE:  And Hubs taking me for a pint in a pub near a main road where weary commuters passed by on packed buses - reminding me of the horror I no longer have to face - also helped.

[In yet other news, this... which amused me a bit, the cheeky bugger.]

Here's something interesting to play with while I get my act together... you can write directly onto the page.  If it works, I'll add it to the main page so you can all chat to your heart's contentment.  I love gadgets.  Plus, if you go right to the bottom of this page, I've actually figured out how to use Twitter (although not entirely sure what it does, or why).

Thursday 9

October’s an odd month isn’t it.  Not summer, not winter.  The sun’s grown heavy from its pathetic efforts to shine on our rain-drenched island and hangs low in the sky, giving off a weak light which evokes memories of Octobers past.  And it’s cold.

October is nightmare month for me.  I’ve been dreaming about driving endlessly through Monument Valley trying to find a petrol station before my convertible leaves me stranded in oven-country.  I dream about heat whilst shivering in bed.

More worrying are the dreams about being in some sort of ‘institution’ (subconsciously crying out for help perhaps?) and I’ve run out of clean knickers.  Not sure what that one’s about, and I’m not sure I want to ponder on it too much.

Absolutely no work today at all.  Starting to worry, what with the dreams and all.

Friday 10

Get up, check emails.  No work.

BUGGER!

Right, I’ve had enough of this waiting around, pondering the meaning of life and the possibility that I may be extremely poor soon.  The sun’s out, and so am I.

Abandon dog and jump on bus to a nearby shopping centre.  It’s not the trip of the year, but it gets me out of the house and breaks my chronic lethargy.

On the way home I peer out of the window at the world.  My bus idled next to a stop, and I saw a woman standing outside.  A woman with a black eye.  The bruise was healing, but the look of abject misery on her face was all too palpable.

She was in her mid-sixties.  There was no joy in her, no happiness.  She seemed heavy with misery and resignation.

And I thought, there but for the grace of god.

I was once like that, a younger version of that woman, ashamed and bruised (not my youngest sons’ father I hasten to add).  I once wore the same expression as her, feeling trapped, feeling pain and fear and an overwhelming sense of helplessness.  There seemed no escape.  That woman must have thought the same: ‘This is my life.’

I did get out in the end.  His furious temper was once directed at my two year old son, and I totally blew a fuse.  I snapped.  Yes, I was terrified of him, but the instinct to protect my child was even stronger.  I chased him round our shabby flat with a knife, threatening to kill him if he ever laid a hand on my boy again.  I wasn’t joking.

His reaction, fleeing instead of fighting, made me see him for what he really was, a coward.  I went to my mom and said, “I don’t want to be with him any more.”

“Oh,” she said, “Are you bored of being married?”

“No,” I said, gulping because I’d never admitted this to anyone before, “I’m tired of him hitting me.”

My dad, more livid than I’ve ever seen him, went up to our shabby flat to confront the bully.  The bully, unsurprisingly, ran off down the road.

I got an emergency injunction to keep him away.  He tried intimidation and rage, lots of rage – he was indignant and incandescent with it.  He tried cajoling, he tried crying.  I was stone.  I didn’t want to live like this any more.

I wanted something else, something better.

My eldest son showed me a photograph of his father recently.  I wouldn’t recognise him if I saw him on the street.  He lives alone.  I feel no hatred for him now (certainly no fear), but it took a while.  A long while.

I saw that woman standing at the bus stop today and thought, ‘There but for the grace of God.’  I felt sadness.  Empathy. 

But mostly I felt relief that it wasn’t me out there, standing at the bus stop with a black eye and sad, weary soul.

Saturday 11

We were out and about in the car today when some young teenage boys ambled into the road in front of us.  Typical teenage uniform; tracksuit trouser hanging around their kneecaps, cap and hoodie.  They walked into the road slowly, menacingly, causing the traffic to slow down. 

Ooh, the deluded power of teenagers. 

I don’t know about you, but when adolescents do that (and they seem to do it quite regularly round here, like a right of passage – see how slowly you can cross that busy road without getting killed or beaten to a pulp by some irate motorist), I’m just so impressed.  No, really, what rebels! 

As the last one sauntered across mere inches from the front of our now crawling car, he peered over his shoulder at us… and caught me laughing my face off in the passenger seat, pointing at them and fair slapping my leg in amusement.  His face crumbled upon realising that, really, 14 year old boys crossing the road in a Really Defiant Manner isn’t nearly as impressive as they might imagine. 

Sunday 12

We need a new iron because our current iron waits until you put a white blouse on the ironing board before it releases gobs of yellow water.  We also need a new iron because I threw our current iron across the room when it gobbed One Time Too Many.

So, to Currys.  Joy.  Delirium.  Comatose with boredom.

We pulled up outside The Shop.  There was an ice cream van outside The Shop.  “WANT AN ICE CREAM!” I wailed.

“No,” said Hubs, “You’ve got to be a good girl, and then you can have an ice cream.”

“Bar steward!”

We went into Currys, me skulking and shuffling and kicking at the vacuum cleaners.

“Which one?” asked Hubs.

There were 30 of them.  I mean, 30 irons?  Who needs that much choice?  There should only be three:

    1. Cheap (made of wood)

    2. Reasonable (powered by a hamster in a ball)

    3. Extortionate (takes three men to carry it into the house)

“Wah!” I said.

“Ice cream,” Hubs said.

“Want that one,” I said, pointing vaguely at one of them.

“Why that one?” asked Hubs.

“Because it’s a nice colour.”

We got that one, and my life was complete (yawn).

I got my ice cream, complete with flake, sprinkles and juice.

And promptly dribbled it down myself.

Some days it just doesn’t do to make like a grown up, acting like a toddler is much more interesting (and you get ice cream).

Monday 13

It’s not Friday today (at least, I don’t think it is), but let’s pretend its Friday just for the hell of it.  Friday, yay!  I bet you feel better already (although tomorrow will be a particular disappointment when it turns out not to be Saturday, but we’ll gloss over that).

For your Friday viewing pleasure, here’s some videos I recently came across which I thought were pretty neat.

Spaghetti western

Sticky note experiment – who has this much time on their hands? 
Oh, employees J

[The washing machine repair man came today... again.  Mr Happy.  I opened the door to him and cried, "You're here to fix my washing machine?"

Nothing.

"You okay with dogs or shall I put him out the back?" I asked.

"Put him out the back," he said, monotone, "I don't like dogs."

As he came into the house, he got whiff of the single cigarette I'd had that morning (trying to cut down).  "Can you open the windows," he drawled, "I don't like cigarette smoke."

Tsk.

"So, what's the matter with it?" I asked after a while.

"Filter is blocked," he droned.  "You should clean it every couple of months."

"Really?"

"Yes, it says so in the manual, if you bothered to read it."

Tsk.

He was a little ball of misery.

But he fixed my washing machine.]

Tuesday 14

And today’s post is all about losing one's marbles and Making a Run For It.

Letters to the editor telling him he should be paying me vast amounts of money much appreciated.

The Naive Brits Guide to an American Road Trip trip is now complete!  A total labour of love.  Go read, go comment, go tell US immigration that we're perfect candidates for a prolonged stay in their country.  Update added 5 October 2008.
 

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