Mr Branson, you need to read this...

VIRGIN ON THE UNBELIEVABLE

We’ve been Virgin customers since Virgin was NTL. We’ve always had the 3-deal package with them (TV, Phone, Internet) and 2 years ago I rather fancied having a Blackberry phone to keep up with the rest of the world. And the deal was great – even cheaper at £15.00 per month than I was paying for my trusty old top-up and go machine. 2 years with something you love isn’t time wasted and the only hiccough I’ve had with it was about a month ago when my ‘alt’ key stuck which meant I could do nothing with it whatsoever.  The nice lady we spoke to told us she’d post us a prepaid envelope to return it and if it couldn’t be mended then I’d get a replacement. 

All of this happened.  And happened efficiently.

So the other week, when we got a flyer through the door about the latest Virgin delicacies, my husband was pleased to see that there was a great deal involving the HTC Invincible (or whatever it’s called) mobile at £20/month.  His current contract with ‘Three’ was a mere 6 weeks away from ending anyway and as my daughter has this very phone (at £30.00 with another supplier) he was understandably hot on the phone asking Virgin Sales if he could have one.

My husband, who is a self-employed carpenter,  was advised that they’d ‘run out’ of this particular phone (even though it couldn’t have been more than 24 hours since we got the leaflet through our door) but suggested he might like to try the Samsung Galaxy at £25.00/month.  He listened to the sales pitch, said it sounded just what he needed and details were taken.  Amongst which was the overriding proviso that he could transfer his existing mobile number which he had on contract with ‘Three’ as this is his business number. He was told, yes, this could happen; all he had to do was get the PAC number from ‘Three’, tell them he was ending his contract with them and within 48 hours of receiving his new phone, his existing number would be transferred.

At the same time he enquired as to my own mobile phone contract, which we’d been told was due for upgrading (when we’d called with the ‘alt’ key technical problem) and was told that yes, I was due a new phone and so husband asked them if it could be moved to the £9.99/month tariff as this was also on a special deal at the moment.   Not a problem – my phone would be in the post tomorrow and my husband’s would be delivered 3 days hence.

Lovely.

My phone arrived in all its beautiful glory and I stroked it half to death.  I love my Blackberry.  I love it even more now it’s £5 cheaper a month than my original contract. We have felt the pinch of the recession quite badly and are selling our house to downsize and hopefully free up enough capital to help with daughter’s university fees.

On the Saturday my husband’s Galaxy arrived and, with daughter’s help, he downloaded all sorts of apps that he’d never had before and found it perfect for his use.  He couldn’t wait to get everything finalised so he could use his existing number and he’d already contacted Three to get the PAC number and cancel his contract with them, paying an early settlement fee.

On the Monday he telephoned Virgin to say thanks, he’d got the new phone, could he now have his number transferred please?  He gave his PAC number and was told it would be another 48 hours before this was working, and that he would be contacted when everything was ready to switch over.

Nobody called.

So on the Wednesday, my husband rang Virgin to ask what was happening as his existing number wasn’t working (just a dead-tone when dialled) and did this mean the transfer was happening?

He was asked to hold.

He spoke to somebody else and repeated the same thing to them.  He was told there was ‘an issue’ and to please hold.

He held.

When he spoke to somebody else they told my husband that his existing (Three) mobile number had been transferred to the mobile number ending 890.  This is MY number.  My husband explained that, no, this number was mine (his wife’s) mobile number and nothing to do with his new phone or his existing number, but he was told, well this was what was happening.  The new Galaxy phone would retain the new number issued with it and my Blackberry would be taking his business number.

WHY?

WTF?

Obviously my husband was not pleased.  He asked the adviser what his name was and he was told ‘Ken Smoke’.  He asked Mr Smoke if he could speak to somebody else, a Manager, somebody in a higher Authority and Mr Smoke said that he could pass him to somebody else but he would only repeat what he’d just said to him.

He was passed to another guy who gave his name as ‘John’ and said he wasn’t allowed to give out his surname.  Clearly Mr Smoke was a bit of a Maverick.

John, as advised, repeated everything Mr Smoke had just told us.  My husband’s new phone had the number attached with it and his business number would be transferred to my Blackberry.

We told them that No, we did not want this to happen, and could they please sort it out but they said that it was too late, my old number had been transferred and it was an irreversible process.

We asked where exactly my number had been transferred and they said ‘deleted’.

We couldn’t believe it.  We told them that this was ridiculous, that at no time did we instruct Virgin to carry out this; after all, my husband’s business relies on this phone number – why would he want to transfer it to me and have a new one?

We asked them to please find the recording of the telephone conversation he’d had to the sales team when he requested his existing number be transferred to his new phone and it went quiet for a while.  When ‘John’ returned he apologised and said if we had a complaint that we should follow the correct complaints procedure detailed on the internet and that we would be given 2 months’ free services for our mobiles.  We said that this was not nearly good enough and that they had messed up.  

We asked them if they were going to pay to have all the numbers changed on the business stationery, the 1,000+ business cards, and the signwriting on my husband’s van – not to mention contacting all his existing customers and we were told to again, we had to follow the correct complaints procedure.

We don’t often sit in stunned silence of an evening, but that night was different.

Eventually we decided that although we’d been treated appallingly and had every right to seek legal action and sue Virgin for wrongdoing, we’d have to suck it up for the meantime and contact all my husband’s customers to let them know his new number.

So we spent the rest of the evening doing just this. 

However, we noticed my phone was still using my normal number.  I hadn’t got my husband’s old number, so we assumed this would either happen the next day, or else it was just another cock-up on Virgin’s part and they’d got that wrong too.

I wrote and posted two letters to Mr Branson c/o Virgin at 2 different addresses informing him of this circus of catastrophe and asking him what he intended to do about compensation for my husband’s business (reprinting business cards, stationery, details on his van re-painted etc) and sent two e-mails to Virgin via their ‘official complaints procedure’ on their website.  I also tracked Mr Branson down on Facebook and informed him I had an urgent complaint.  To which somebody called ‘Vicky Angel’ replied with an e-mail address asking me to revert to her and she would make sure somebody dealt with our complaint.

Unsurprisingly I heard nothing from back from her after I’d e-mailed her.

We did, however, receive a lovely ‘welcome’ letter from Mark Davidson – Executive Director of Customer Care at Virgin a day or so later, saying that congratulations, everything had been transferred.  The phone with the number 890 had taken my husband’s business number and his new phone had a new one, just as planned. As who had planned, please?

We especially enjoyed the last line of this letter which stated “We’re looking forward to looking after you”.  Oh how we laughed.

Needless to say, I wrote an equally nice letter back to Mr Davidson, informing him of the massive mistake on Virgin’s part and asking him what he intended to do about it.

Then, last night, nearly 8 days later, I started getting text messages and phone calls from people I didn’t know.  We worked out that, lo and behold, my husband’s number had, indeed, as foretold, been transferred to my own phone.  So then I had to go through the rigmarole of contacting all my own contacts and telling them I had a new number as well.

We are totally disgusted with what has happened to us.  It’s unprofessional, unforgiveable and will cost my husband many hundreds of pounds to put right. We, quite rightly, believe we are entitled to at least compensation to cover the costs of having his business number changed on everything it’s written on aren’t we?

A Barbeque (How it’s NOT supposed to Happen):

1. Decide to have BBQ on the day that weather forecasters tell the UK that it is due clouds, light rain turning heavier in the afternoon. AND YET STILL ignore wife’s insistence that sometimes weather forecasters CAN get it right.

2. Continue to steadfastly believe that weather forecasters are a bunch of idiots because they forgot to forewarn the hurricane about 5 years ago (so, just Michael Fish then, really) and actually go out and BUY a barbeque from Wickes because although you already built one at the one at the end of the garden last year, you’ve decided at the eleventh hour it might be too close to the weeping apple tree* and could cause it undue distress**.

3. Begin to believe No.2 might be stretching belief slightly when wet stuff appears from sky at 1.30pm. Barbeque is due to start at 2.30pm. Start to huff a lot, swear under breath and shake fist at sky. That’ll help.

4. Find roll of plastic in garage and drill… yes DRILL lengths of it to top of car-port and adjacent wall to prevent wind sending rain sheeting over said Barbeque, ensuring Wife has plenty to do holding the length of “four-be-two” whilst drills/six inch screws are located and drilled noisily into (probably) neighbour’s wall.

5. After having arranged two full-sized doors as tables, decide as wife won’t allow impromptu (but “essential”) purchase of outdoor heaters, to start a fire in two of her favourite metal plant containers that she had plans to pot trailing cherry tomatoes/basil in outside the back door. That’ll teach her.

6. Put wife’s screech (yes, SCREECH!) of “Oh My F*cking Good God What Do You Think You’re DOING!?” down to pre- Barbeque nerves. Repeat ‘it’ll all be fine, it’ll all be fine” until you actually start believing yourself and ignore anyone else who doesn’t.

7. Find thickest pair of sunglasses you can find as smog from both metal plant containers (turned-patio-heaters *snort*) send billows of thick black smoke through garden, neighbouring gardens and house (even with windows shut) ensuring all smoke alarms go off (but not at the same time, resulting in as much cacophony as possible) and men rush about with long-handled implements trying to stop the incessant din.

8. Thank god the neighbours are out. It IS a UK Bank Holiday Monday after all, they’re probably at the nearest beach enjoying a good old British soaking.

9. Finish the bottle of wine.


* Call me old-fashioned but when a wife mentions she’s always fancied having a Weeping Willow tree in the back garden, she does NOT expect her husband to tie bricks (seriously, keep reading) to every branch of the apple tree by lengths of string in order to “train” said tree to grow its branches in a downwards fashion.

** This wife happens to consider it tree abuse.

The moral of this story is: NEVER accept an invitation to a BBQ at our house unless you bring so much alcohol it can guarantee drowning out the sound of angry optimism. (And Angry Italian Optimism is NOT PRETTY).

No photos will follow – just use your imagination!

Things I learned today

1. It takes at least 24 minutes before my brain will accept I have to open my eyes and move limbs.

2. The first cup of tea is the BEST cup of tea (and not just because I didn’t make it. Hang on, maybe it IS because I don’t make it).

3. Chris Evans’ voice is tinny and irritating if listened to from another room. But then the same could be said of anybody, perhaps.

4. I like working alone. I know where stuff is, I can do things my way and I don’t get annoyed with anybody not doing stuff MY WAY.

5. Janet Brown died. I never liked her impersonations but I’m sure she was a lovely lady.

6. The Beckham’s are expecting a girl baby but I don’t GET why Victoria can’t smile just ONCE for a photo. It’s not like she has to come home from work and wash up the breakfast things and spend the rest of her day wondering what she’d buy first if she had loads of money. Even SOME money.

7. Our flippin’ Prime Minister, David Cameron allegedly spent £68,000 of taxpayers money on refurbishing his flat at 11 Downing Street. The article in the Daily Mail actually hurt my heart and made me think (not for the first time today but still…) ‘what’s the bloody point?’.

8. My best writing friend in the world, one who constantly tries to keep my head above water and sent me a link about self-belief and creative confidence is on a hiding to nothing. I am thoroughly unhelp-able. Unassistable.?

9. I can teach myself pretty much anything so long as it is written down, in sentences of not more than 1.5 lines long and does not contain too many technicalities of the computerised kind. I password-protected our wireless network! I know!

10. The rare pockets of bliss and joy I feel last less than the time it takes me to realise I am undeserving of them and will be smote for enjoying even a millisecond of them. Don't ask me why, it's probably something to do with the way I was brought up and means I need therapy.

How I'm preparing for 'The Wedding'

... or Dull, Dull, Very, Very Dull

If it hadn’t been for the frock and the cake I’d have been bored at both my own weddings.
And it’s so much worse when you’re ‘just’ a guest.
How DULL can something be? A whole day spent wearing something you probably won’t wear again (at considerable expense to yourself, unless you have a ‘range’ of wedding outfits you use on a rotational system and don’t care about fashion faux pas), of having to smile and – especially if you’re daft enough to marry into an Italian family – having to kiss people you wouldn’t ordinarily nod absently to in a queue at Sainsbury’s and you’ve even bought the Happy Couple a flippin’ present!

Then there’s the whole waiting around whilst photographs are ‘arranged’ and guests are shunted about and put into order and it gets painful and uncomfortable and BORING and all you want to do is find a nice sofa somewhere and a TV to flick on and watch whilst you wait for the Good Bits. Which never seem to come in my experience.

If you’re lucky the food’s okay and at least you get to sit down for a bit. Followed by a stand and a clap, then another stand and a clap then another….. oh god, so dreary….

In my head, if I ever had the idiot sense to get married again (which, in my fairytale, eternally romantic brain I hadn’t entirely written off the prospect of) I was going to do it barefoot under a majestic Oak tree on the top of a hill on a glorious late Summer’s evening, wearing denim and lace, with daisies in my hair. I had no idea who my Groom would be but our guests would also be barefoot and we’d have fish and chips brought to us in a van from the local shop and we’d eat from newspaper into the twilight hours.
I hadn’t got as far as music. Maybe there’d be a Harpist. I don’t know. There certainly wouldn’t be a bleedin’ DJ belting out “Congratulations” and “Angels” at every turn.

Nor would there be a bar. Perhaps some Elderflower Presse. And nobody would have to sit where they were told to sit and nobody would have to bring presents, and nobody would have to buy a special outfit to wear, in fact ties and hats would be BANNED; taking off of shoes would’ve been compulsory and more importantly I’d want people to HAVE FUN!

Which *ahem* okay, didn’t happen. But then I married a bachelor. And as he was the ‘baby’ of the family he HAD to do it in style, didn’t he?

I’d have been just as happy getting married in the back garden where I’d been proposed to, under the cherry tree with maybe the passing wildlife and a nosy neighbour as witnesses.

I seriously couldn’t contemplate marrying a Prince – even though I did have a bit of a hankering for Prince Andrew in my formative years (before I realised they were ALL going to be bald before they were 35). It would do my head in. I’d have to just put my foot down and say “Look, I’m sorry, William/Percy/Henry I don’t want any fuss, can’t we just have a nice quiet ‘do’ and run some shonky footage on the News at Ten?”

Big Day? The only Big thing about it for me is the lie-in I'm planning!

Tight? Arse.

Lovely shoes...

Tight is not a word I’d associate with myself. However my husband’s opinion may differ. He is not what I would call a careful spender. For instance one year he bought two, yes two pink shirts in slightly different shades of pink to wear for the same wedding because he couldn’t quite make up his mind which one went better with the ties… yes, ties plural… he’d also bought (separate to the shirts I might add. I know, I know. Just don’t get me started).

Of course these shirts weren’t Primark shirts. Oh dear me, don’t be silly, no. The one from Next was fairly reasonably priced as far as shirts go. I mean I’d NEVER pay more than, say £35.00 for a shirt (if it was for a present I mean) so this was fine. But the second one, in a slightly different hue to the Next one…. Well, this was “a treat”, he explained, beaming in the Posh Gentleman’s Outfitters. “I think I deserve a shirt like this, it’s not every day I get to splash out on myself and I think I work hard enough…” Actually perhaps beaming is pushing it a bit. He’d turned into a double-glazing/Life Insurance Salesman. He was trowelling it on. He’s good at that – when he wants something and he knows I’m not keen. He knows which buttons to press.
And a Guilt Button is always a good one to press where a woman is concerned. After all, aren’t we born Guilty, women? It’s bound to have something to do with Eve. Everything comes back to her eventually. If we can’t find another way of explaining a woman’s actions, then Eve holds the Guilt out of Jail Free card.

So the “I deserve it/I work bloody hard” spin wasn’t a new one on me. I’ve heard it countless times and to be honest it’s getting a bit boring now. Let’s just say I haven’t perfected the imperceptible eye-roll just yet but I’m getting there. One day. Actually one day he won’t care if I deliberately eye-roll him in front of an audience of millions. Married couples get like that – I’ve seen it.

So he does the whole “I’m such a hard grafter, I deserve such luxuries” spin. And immediately after my Eve-in-denial cleverly-concealed eye-roll, I feel my stomach clench, then I get a kick of indignance at what I think he’s implying (i.e. that I DON’T work hard therefore I DON’T deserve luxuries) and then my heart does it’s usual flump and I think ‘oh, let him have it. It’s just easier to let him have his own bloody way – again’. Easier than trying to explain to him that he’s managed to hit the Guilt button again. Especially in public. So I smile, I nod and he’s happy because he thinks I’m happy. For him.

*sigh*

Then he further cements his deservedness by going into John Lewis and buying THE most expensive pair of man shoes I’ve ever watched anybody buy. Okay, so they’re just short of a hundred pounds, but still, a hundred quid for a pair of blokes shoes? Excuse me?

See that lady standing beside him? She spent about four months looking for the ‘right’ dress to wear for the same occasion. She scoured shops the length and breadth of… well the county… but still. And when she eventually found it, BUT then happened upon it in a different shop a week later with a price tag showing £100 LESS, she (after she’d picked herself up off the floor in a very cold sweat) asked the nice assistants to hold the reduced dress for her in shop 2, drove 30 miles to shop 1 to return the original dress and then back the 30 miles to buy the cheaper one. Sensible? I think so. Husband’s reaction? “You probably spent that much in petrol going to and from both shops.” Hmm, there’s probably a very good reason he’s not Chancellor of the Exchequer.

And my shoes? Ha – I’d like to see the Sex and the City Girls peeing their pants at this one, but mine cost a lovely £12.99 from TK Maxx. And they’re soft and leather and comfortable, and I’ve worn them a damned sight more than the Hubs has worn his million-pound bloody pair, that’s all I can say!
PMS? Nope, don’t think so. I’m always this grouchy these days.

Time well wasted

I'm not liking Car Salesmen.  Almost as much as I've come to not like Estate Agents or Insurance People or anybody else who thinks it's their job to sell you something you need at an over-inflated price you can ill-afford.

'Mr P'

Take for example... oh, let's call him Mr P... whom we met with the other day.  For an appointment.  A proper, pre-arranged appointment we'd made about 3 days previously.

We arrive 5 minutes early and we're asked to take a seat as Mr P is busy with somebody else at the moment and would we like a tea or coffee?  No, we wouldn't,  we've just had one.  We'll just sit and wait for 5 minutes.

15 minutes later, we are asked if we'd like a cup of tea or coffee and that Mr P has had to re-schedule so we'll be seeing another Mr P (they're all made of the same transparent material anyway) when he's finished with his customer.  Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?

No, we wouldn't.

I would like some Panadol, something to eat, and to get to Sainsbury's before sunset please.

A further 20 minutes later, during which time we have read all there is to know about every model and shade of car post-1914 and I've lost a few challenging games of 'BallBreaker' on my phone, Mr P strides up and shakes the Husband's hand meatily, not even glancing my way.  I could kick him.  *I'm on tablets, I'd have every right.  I roll my eyes, sigh and follow the Hunter-Gatherers to Mr P's desk.

'So what are we doing today?' Mr P asks our expectant faces.  Clearly he hasn't the first idea.  And the other Mr P hasn't had the professional foresight to enlighten him.  *I sigh again and probably roll my eyes again too.

I let the Hubs explain (in case I lash out which is very probable as my stomach is now turning on itself) that although we bought our current car from them a scant 5 months ago, that it's not really working out for us.  i.e. it looked great with it's top off in the sunshine but we didn't realise it had such a voracious appetite for fuel, that it drives like you're taking a dead dog for a walk and it costs more in road tax than it does in insurance - and that's not cheap.

Upshot is, this car was clearly a mid-life-crisis panic purchase (don't look at me, I was a quivering wreck who never wanted to get behind the wheel of another car in my life) we can't afford it and we want something more economical.

Please.

That's why we're here. Which is what we already told the nice receptionist lady when we made this appointment in the first place.

Mr P takes out his forms and starts filling them in.  Name.  Address. Telephone.  Drone.  Drone.  Drone.  Why the hell couldn't this have been done BEFORE our appointment?  We've been here nearly an hour and we've got PRECISELY nowhere.
And when Mr P realises our current car is in MY name, he finally decides to recognise that I exist.

Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?

No, we'd really like to find out how much we've got left to pay on the finance agreement with this car and sort out what our options are with a more sensible car.  That's what we'd like to do.

All through the inane form-filling process I am acutely aware that the only thing Mr P is interested in is trying to persuade us to buy a totally brand new car - even to the extent that when we're shown the car he HE wants us to buy (probably been on the forecourt too long and needs shifting) and we walk past a cute, cheap little Citroen, he steers us right past it, ignoring my "coo-ing" and "aaahh-ing"  (it's such a lurid colour that NOBODY would miss me on the roads). And we again end up facing him over his desk.

When he's finally worked out  how much deposit our current car WON'T make, that if we sell our respective souls on E-Bay to scrape together a down-payment, we are told that repayments will be more, we'll be repaying for longer and at the end of the term we'll still have a final settlement figure nearing £6,000.

You what?

And this helps us HOW?

I have to ask him how he sleeps at night and he looks a little curious. I explain that although his little scenario might earn him some top commission, it doesn't help us in the slightest.  If we were looking for a way to increase our debt and push us into more money misery, then by involving much more interesting things than a heap of metal with wheels, we could handle it ourselves thank you very much.
'I love my job,' he tells us.  'I wake up every morning with a thrill, knowing that this day is going to be more exciting than the last.  I've been doing this for nearly 20 years and I wouldn't want to do anything else.'
I smile charitably.  Bless his poor, sad, deluded heart.  He knows no better.   So I decide to turn the other cheek.  And if I don't get to Sainsbury's, I will eat his forms without ketchup.

'Can we book a test drive?' I say kindly, standing to leave.
'Absolutely,' he says, pound signs "ker-ching-ing" in his eyes, and excitedly scampers off to put us in his diary for... oh about three minutes ago.

I know it's *childish, but it made me feel slightly better.

Two fingers to fudge...

Christmas is cancelled, 

because we’re getting fat.

Please give any edibles to Alice or the cats.

If you haven’t got the message

we AREN’T opening Santa’s sack,

don’t be offended come your Birthday

at getting your chocolates back!

Call me old fashioned...

...but I think I'm old enough now to know what I like and what I don't.
Or rather, what I can tolerate and what I simply can't be arsed to any longer.  And I think I've reached that stage in my life where I'm absolutely allowed to say 'enough', 'move on', 'life's too short' and all that jazz.
Okay, let's get to the point.

My last book came through from the lovely Transworld people when we got back from Italy last week and, dutifully, excitedly, even, I got stuck in straight away.  But I don't like it.  It's full of rich people who run casinos in Las Vegas and who are clearly harbouring ill-gotten secrets that I already am not the slightest bit interested in finding out about.  And there's chicks, airheady bimbos, gangster bouncer-types, babes and stud-muffins - in fact all manner of alien life form (not literally, there's no proper green people prior to page 40) that I just can't  - dare I say 'won't'? - connect with.

Not since my Jilly Cooper heyday with all the horses and the 'gosh'es and the mummy's darlings dripping with education and million-carat mansions have I ever felt less connected to my main characters.  But back then I read them because I didn't 'get' the big deal with horses (my friends rode all the time and I thought I must be missing out on something) and thought the answer may have lain between Ms Cooper's lines.  The sex scenes were pretty cool too, of course.  In lieu of my mother ever telling me what went where, I learnt pretty much what I needed to do when faced with a straw bale, a pure-bred gelding and guy in jodhpurs wielding a whip.

Of course this knowledge would have come in handy had the only horse I ever came into real contact with, not sprayed snot all over my forehead before standing painfully on my foot and putting me off anything to do with stables for the rest of my life.

Some would call it Karma, I call it a lucky escape.

If anyone has a hankering for a gold-plated read, then let me know and the book is theirs.  I don't like to see words go to waste and it's not the authors' fault that I'm not impressed.  If she'd set the exact same story at the head office at Asda I might be more inclined for forge through.
But forging's too much effort, no?

So onto the next book.

Romantic Hero or Funny TV Guy?

Which my lovely niece lent me after she'd finished reading it in Italy.  And... well... call me old fashioned.... intolerant... whatever (go on - I can take anything at my age!) the minute I'd read this in the acknowledgements, I was already slightly irritated before I'd even started...

"...thanks to ***  for your help and enthusiasm, which were much appreciated..."

Is that right?  "were".  I read it once, I read it twice... I read it backwards, I shut my eyes and re-read it.  I even shouted it aloud to the Girl who was in the next room and she shouted back "eeeee-wwww!" so I knew it wasn't just me.

And even though I gave it a fair shot, the whole style of the writing annoyed me to inner screaming levels.  There was a "for" in almost every sentence e.g.  "the air was chilly, for the sun had since waned"  and "she had moved south, for there was no work in York..."  stuff like that.  And normally I'm all for conjunctives... but not the same bleedin' one every time.... per-lease.
And then six characters were introduced in two paragraphs.
Pass me the smelling salts somebody, it's only page 7!
I knew the Right Time had come when I read/re-read/lol'd at this:

..."She had missed him and Lotte a lot, though..."

Lotte... a lot...?  Weren't there any more words in the writer's toolkit than the one that sounded the same as the character's name? does the synonym icon not work south of the border?

And I just couldn't get over the fact that David Mitchell (of Mitchell and Webb/Peep Show - him up there) was actually a character in this either.  Apparently he'd bid at a charity auction to appear as a character in this book.  A wholly admirable thing to do, of course and generally I'm very happy and a bit swoony when he's being all clever and funny on TV.  But as a character in a book, he's not exactly the brooding, swarthy hero I have in my head for moments such as these and I couldn't concentrate properly.

Somebody please tell me it's not just me? Oh, and the Girl.  Maybe it's our Genes.  Do we need ones with slightly more 'give' in them?

Where I live, in my head:

Other women wake up with perfectly applied (natural, naturally) make-up and hair that just needs a bit of a shake before they’re good to go.

[they don’t need to shut the curtains and pull the bedcovers over themselves AFTER they’ve left the bed for fear of husbands catching an unsightly glimpse and demanding a full refund]

Other women still have their natural, although sometimes highlighted, hair colour (yes, Trina I'm talking to YOU!).

[they don’t have to book their husbands in for a root re-growth touch up every third Sunday in the kitchen]

Other women reach tantalisingly manicured hands into their capsule wardrobe full of beautifully organised clothes that compliment and flatter (is that the same thing?) their body shape and colouring. They automatically know that anything they pull out will make them look effortlessly stylish and enviable.

[they don’t keep everything they bought for £2.99 on E-bay just because they can’t be arsed to re-list it, hoping that one day they’ll wake up with snake-hips and a 36DD bust because that wasn’t how it looked in the frikkin photo.

They ALSO don’t systematically go through everything they have, even if it’s ten years old and try it all on, get into a sweat and a lather and then cover it all up with the faithful long cardi they wore yesterday, the day before that and the decade before that one]

Other women know exactly how to walk in a nice straight line with pointy heels on. Without looking the slightest bit like Dick Emery in his “Ooh… you are awful” days.

[they don’t have only ONE pair of heels that only ever come out for a wedding or something. Maybe a New Years Eve – so long as it’s an entirely sitting-down affair]

Other women know precisely what to say in any given situation. They have poise, they have command, they know some big words and they even know what they mean.

[they don’t fumble and bumble and look – literally at times – deep into their cavernous handbag for some kind of inspiration, resorting to a meaningless moan about the weather because that’s the only certain, albeit changeable topic of conversation, in such a cruel, uncertain world]

Other women have a confident attitude to everything they do. They KNOW what they want. They KNOW where it is and they KNOW how and that they WILL get it.

[they do not have airy-fairy ideas that change with the wind, the season, the underwear. Ideas that are only good for as long as they’re still listening to the person who has them. Mostly a TV/Radio personality. Because they HAVE what they WANT. Which IS a personality]

Other women go to the gym three days a week, they cycle, they swim, they jog with aplomb (whoever she is) and they have a cardio-vascular system that demands accolades. And still their hair looks lovely and bouncy when they’re performing these health-giving feats.

[they don’t have to swill back a handful of tablets and coffee before they have the energy to pull the bedroom curtains back. And then find the stretchiest thing to pull onto their body without putting anything out in a major muscle area. And then have to have a quick lie down through the exhaustion of having got in/out(shake it all about) of the shower. This is cardio-vascular taken to it’s limit. No, seriously]

Other women’s multi-tasking skills include holding down a high-powered job, putting on a wash AND hanging it out before going to it; being all high-powered and bolshy in an executive position for 8 hours, coming home, making dinner for 5 (maybe even entertaining an extra 8 really important people from high-powered career place after putting the kids to bed) Twittering about how fun life is, putting pictures on Facebook of how happy and shiny and healthy their family/house is and then blogging about it before finishing off the latest book in bed (that’s writing it, not reading it).

[they don’t spend 4 hours in a part-time job where the biggest worry of the day will be if there’s a spare box of staples in the cupboard or not,  whilst working out whose turn it is to fill the kettle up next. After which, deciding the prospect of watching Loose Women on demand is a lot easier than having to visit Sainsbury's on the way home and then having a small wail about how there was just “no time” to start anything for dinner and forgetting that the chippie is shut on Monday and so having to eat stuff from tins at the back of the cupboard]

My husband is one very special man, that’s all I can say.

Happy Ever After

Once upon a time there was a young girl with flowing locks of chestnut hair, a sprinkling of (okay then, she was covered in them) freckles, slender (alright, spindly) legs and dreamy eyes of cornflower blue (or “dishwater grey” as some kind person once conveyed). She lived in a town, not far away and whilst her wishes were simple, she was quite convinced that one day they (come on, at least ONE, yeah?) would come true.
Wish one: To make her family proud by becoming popular and successful in her chosen ‘field’ (note: this ‘field’ changed with the seasons, or even quicker, depending on what TV programme she watched or book she was reading at the time. One day she’d want to be on the back of “White Horses” and the next she wanted to train to become a “Tomorrow Person”. Oh, and Julie Andrews had A LOT to answer for when it came to walking about wearing any white tablecloth handy after watching The Sound of Music one Christmas). And it took her parents a long time to convince her that applying to Mallory Towers really wasn’t an option.
Wish Two: To meet and marry the Prince of her dreams. And NOT have to go through a succession of ill-fated relationships that should have stayed in whichever nightclub they’d started at and not limped on dejectedly for weeks, sometimes months (one time 7 years) until she was ceremoniously dumped because she didn’t want to hurt the boy’s feelings. Esp. after losing her virginity. Somehow she felt she had to remain in the immediate vicinity of the boy who’d taken this from her. After all, he might have wanted to give her it back at any time. She could always use it again, no?
Wish Three: To have a gaggle of happy offspring, not dissimilar to the Waltons, the Partridge Family, or that family off Happy Days. Always laughing, always getting into scrapes and getting out of them before the programme ended, and always having somebody who jumps in and saves the day in the nick of time. But it didn’t seem to matter how hard, how loud, how long she cried for, nobody EVER seemed to leap to her rescue and come along to make her feel better and the only thing that stopped her sobbing was her mother’s threat that if she cried too much, the tears would make her eyelashes dissolve and then nobody would ever want her.
Wish Four: to be Doris Day (I might have mentioned this before). This was, of course, before Rock Hudson was Gay… being a whole PART of the wish.
Wish Five: to be “discovered” for a talent that probably not even SHE knew she had. These ranged, variously from 1.being an artist. 2.being a poet. 3. being a writer 4. being a designer. 5.being a chat show host 6. being a singer. 7. being an actress.
(shamefully, No.6 was tried and tested on a daily basis whilst under the shower with the bathroom windows well and truly open, whatever the weather, in the hope that some nice Music Producer would happen to be walking past and hear melodic strains wending their way down the street - the fact that she lived halfway round a Crescent would’ve meant he’d have to be either a local or lost Music Producer - and instantly recognise her ‘raw’ talent. The closest she got to this was when her music teacher put her in for singing lessons which tragically got cut short when her wicked parents stopped her from performing at the Royal Albert Hall one Christmas (although she was a bit grateful she didn’t have to sing about ‘virgin births’ to a room full of people) because she had studying to do.
The girl grew up … well, she got taller; but no wiser and her wishes became no less than they always had, although they turned more into hopes. And hoping doesn’t mean you have to stand naked, dangerously close to an open window singing the Happy Wanderer at the top of your lungs to get spotted. Well…. Does it?

Major Rant (be warned)

Ok, I appreciate there has to be balance in all things.  But why does it feel so much like the scales are always tipping rather too much for comfort in the... wrong direction at times.  More than 'at times'.  Most times actually.
My lovely writerly-friend Claire Allan (she's a best-selling novelist don't ya know?)'s FB status said yesterday:
 Seriously.. could we have a day when some money comes in and none goes out? Just for a change? 
 And she's right.  It doesn't seem to matter how hard we 'normal' people try, there NEVER seems to be a time when there's a proper breathing space from financial demands.  And no sooner have we started to save a bit of money to buy a carpet for the stairs (oh, we don't ask for much - no Bahama retreat for us - just a simple floor covering to replace the paint-tea-bleach splattered existing one that's been here since we moved in 5 years ago) than what little we've put away is demanded elsewhere.
Point in case:
My gorgeous Carpenter Husband has decided to buy the van he's been using from the guy he (hasn't since November) worked for - so that he can start doing proper private work and get himself established as a Carpenter under his own name - start his own company if you like.  So we got down with Meerkats one night and found what we thought was the best deal insurance-wise and went ahead and paid deposits and signed paperwork etc.
Only today, to receive a letter from them returning the last Insurance certificate he sent off confirming his lengthy no-claims details.  Because he's not entitled.  In fact he won't be getting ANY no claims simply because for the past 2 years the van he's been driving was insured by the guy who he worked for and owned it and not himself.  So he has to go back to ZERO NO CLAIMS (whereas he must have over 10 years of previous no-claims in his favour - but that doesn't count anymore) and pay... wait for it - DOUBLE insurance premiums.  That's  £800/year.  Eight hundred quid?  The van's only worth another couple hundred more than that!
Why is it in today's shitty economy and with everyone else sponging off the state on benefits etc, that when ONE person tries to make a difference to their lives and tries to improve the quality of their employment and wants to actually go out there and do a decent - honest day's work that they get shot in the back and penalised to the hilt for trying to do their best?
Seriously - is NO ONE allowed to get on in life these days without some bureaucratic bastard standing in their way and waggling a finger of disapproval for just trying to better themselves?
They should come see our carpet then they'd realise what some people have to put up with. 
I could sob.

DISAPPOINTMENT, ACTUALLY

Forget Love, Hate and even maybe indifference – I have decided (therefore it must be true) that Disappointment is the strongest of all emotions known to man*.
*I’m guessing this doesn’t apply to animals because as we all know, the Bear is the beast we should all be aspiring to. S/he is not bothered about the weather. She wears her coat whatever the season whether it’s in fashion or not and doesn’t give a monkey’s what her cave-dweller friends think. In fact she probably doesn’t even have friends – she’s that un-bothered. Not fussed to the enth degree – timesed by infinity. Such a laid back Bear.I have left what others would deem perfectly respectable jobs and/or relationships based purely on levels of disappointment.
Does that mean that I have particularly exacting standards that are difficult to achieve without some kind of qualification? Not really. I just know what I like and my standards of ‘like’ are not way and above the normal levels anyone would expect of… well, anything really. Points in case:
1. I like a hot meal. If someone has spent a good few hours preparing, overseeing and presenting something on a plate that they consider worthy of eating, then the least I can do is eat it whilst it’s hot. I have felt my soul torn asunder by the simple act of someone dear leaving a plate of my lovingly prepared food until it is pretty much chilled and the feelings this induced were extreme. Cut to the quick doesn’t even go halfway.
2. I like a clean house. But, as you all know, I am not a stickler for housework per se. Of course, we all know dust levels achieve a certain level before they just give up so who am I to argue? I will not be the one to stand in the way of dust achieving its personal best. Cruel I am not. But I don’t like to be brought up on my standards of housekeeping and when told that the downstairs loo smells like a Gents, do not react favourably to this. Am I the only one in the house dextrous enough to grip a bottle of Bleach? This question disappoints me.
3. Specsavers were *this* close to getting some kind of communication from me about their levels of brilliantness. Their customer service has always been second to none, the smiles I have been greeted with and the cheery waves of goodbye and the utmost professionalism every worker seems to have, has absolutely bowled me over (no mean feat). Every time I’ve left their premises this year I have felt positively uplifted and certain that I shall return and even spread the word. Until yesterday. When the Girl and I had a pre-booked 2 hour contact lens appointment which they had somehow overlooked. Of course, the rest of the day had been carefully planned around our 2 hours appointment and from the minute their computer said ‘No’, the whole day fell to bits. Other planned things got messed up. Tears ensued. Cakes consumed.

I don’t ask for much. I’d like to be thanked by even one driver when I wait for them by a parked car to let them through. I’d have liked Specsavers to have gone out of their way – the way we’d gone out of our way to plan our day with military precision around an appointment with them – to have somehow redeemed themselves instead of making a different appointment. I’d like my hot meals eaten when they’re still at their best please. And I’d like not to be made to feel guilty about my standards of hygiene when I’m trying to write a goddamn book and still trying to catch up on two weeks worth of washing and ironing that didn’t get done because I wasn’t well.
Post-Bug Grouch? Yeah, that’s me.

Says it all...

Loyal followers and readers of this blog will know that I hate, with a passion, those e-mails that you're expected (for 'expected' read 'guilted') to send on to five-ten others etc... don't get me started.

And this makes exactly my point. Albeit American - but you'll get the gist.

Ooh, and thanks to my loyal follower and reader of this blog, Luisa, who unlucky for her also has to work with me in the 'paid' world. She sent me this. She knows me so well.

Would you just listen to yourself!

Ok. I’m trying not to think about this too severely.
It couldn’t have come at a worse time, though and I hope the person who started this has a bad night’s sleep – at least one.

I wrote a post back in April entitled “Things That make me go Aaaarrrghhhh” because a lot of things do, especially at certain times of the month. Oh, and whenever I’m driving. And whenever I spot bad spelling. And misuse of the Queens English. And lads with their jeans round their arses showing off their skidmarked pants. And those same lads who drive past/sit parked in a virtual moving disco. Whoever invented rap and then left the “C” off the beginning of the word deserves to find a dead, deep-fried, battered rat in his Kentucky Fried Chicken (this really happened to a friend of mine once).
AAAARRRRGGGGHHH!
So, okay then, pretty much most Things Make Me Go Arggghhh every day.
Hmm.
I should leave the house less perhaps.

So, during what is NOT the worst week of PMS I can remember. Last month was a winner and that was whilst we were in Tuscany so that made it ten times more, shall we say “feverish” than it should comfortably have been.
Anyway.
This morning (I have been “due” for two days now but because of extenuating circumstances* I’m never on time) I woke up to 13 glorious messages in my In-Box, most of which were from lovely writer friends and lovely writer sites and one from the lovely Dictionary dotcom people which is always um…lovely. The first one, though, was from a friend I haven’t seen for 2 years but who I’ve known since we were teenagers (well, one of us was – see I’m even being kind to her) but since getting married and having kids and moving from country to country we kinda lost touch and we’ve never been as close as we were in our heyday.
Anyway.
Getting to the point has always been a shortcoming.

Yup, you guessed it - I got a “sorry, I’m not usually superstitious but I had to do this” (or something like that – I can’t check because I deleted it fast and hard and very very angrily BUT not before I’d STUPIDLY STUPIDLY STUPIDLY scrolled down and read that I was to make a wish on the Cat in The Hat and after ten seconds – it even helped me by counting down on each line for me – my wish would come true. Ah, lovely I thought – not a nasty vibe in sight – until the last line. I had to send it to TEN friends including the sender otherwise my wish would turn out to be THE OPPOSITE).
My three book-deal is now officially down the pan.
Unless.
Unless I really really truly read and believe the post I wrote in April
And right now I’ve got the Witch of PMS cackling over my shoulder because I fell for it. I fell for it big time and now I’m scared I’ve jinxed the whole goddamn thing simply for being stupid enough to believe that someone really wanted my wish to come true – without conditions – for a change.
Nice.

Things that make me go "aaaarghhhhh!" (part I probably)

Hands up who actually likes getting those 'chain post' e-mails in their inbox?
How many of us seriously think "Ooohhh goody... so if I forward this onto nine of my contacts then Good Luck will befall me approximately nine minutes following my hitting the 'send' button - and if I don't, then it's a near certainty that one of my close family members and/or a friend will die.... okay then".
And what if, perchance, you're just on your way to work and you're running late and you don't have time to consider possible repercussions let alone sift through your address book for the nine people you are almost convinced won't, in turn, be mortally offended by this ridiculous threat that assualts them the minute they open their in-box?
What if, say, you've already received some pretty bad news and this is the final small thing that will topple you over the edge of the cliff of sanity you're desperately clinging onto right now?
There should be a Law. It's Hate Mail basically, isn't it? It's a threatening letter only it's sent electronically, as most things these days are. Including one recently which included a 'prayer' if you will! Now I'm all for moving with the times and I did love the part in 'Bruce Almighty' where he received e-mailed prayers from everyone who prayed in the world - but... please? The power of prayer through microchips and wire/less?
Of course, these mails, like anything else we "don't really understand the power of", work. They really do. Because it's a proven fact that if you go around believing good stuff will happen (whether the e-mail tells you or not) then it probably will. You'll have a smile, your heart will be big, your mind open to possibilities and you have the aura of someone to which everything is naturally "drawn". You're a Good Luck Magnet basically. And even if it's only marvelling at the way a bud is opening up on the daffodils or the way a mother thrush stuffs her babys beaks with food, these are all 'Good Things' to the Positive person.
Contrariwise, the Negative person who believes bad luck follows him/her around doesn't need an e-mail to tell him that he will trip over every stone on the pavement, not have an umbrella when it starts to rain, will be late for that urgent meeting and will probably die of a stress-induced heart attack - because he expects bad luck.
In my opinion it is a weak person who feels they have no choice but believe in these things and it is a bully who perpeturates them and inflicts them on others.
Less than four weeks after my father died I received just such a chain-mail from a colleague. Unfortunately my young daughter read it with me and became seriously distressed and sobbed "Does that mean somebody else is going to die now?". When I confronted my colleague about this, after apologising, she added that she'd only sent it to me to 'make up the numbers' anyway... Not nice.
In fact, Blue Peter once got all their viewers to send in their 'chain mail' letters so that they could destroy them on their behalf, proving that, sadly, this is not a new thing. There should still be such an Escape today for those who aren't strong enough to just hit 'delete' and not seriously believe that someone else can dictate what will happen in their life. Belief comes from within, after all. Nobody can give you it or take it away. If you have the strength of mind to believe in yourself, then no amount of coertion, e-mail or otherwise, can shake that faith and if anyone is thinking of sticking me on a 'forward' list then please - think again.
p.s. Of course the jokes and the pictures of daft-looking animals can keep right on coming!

Freddie or Nicole?

I always maintain that "inside I'm Nicole Kidman" - you know, all winsome and petite (in a willowy way) with fine, porcelain features, a smattering of girlish freckles (I do have the freckles actually) and the cascading curls - oh, but with the good sense to have held onto the Cruise for a while longer (yum). But after today I'm starting to wonder if I haven't got more than a little Freddie Murcury inside me. Absolutely no turning-homosexual puns intended (if there could be any made of course).
Because after today, and following the fact that I've been on a two-week break for Easter, I have arrived at the following conclusion:
"I want to break Free" because:
a. I hate 6.30 alarms.
b. I hate annoying, chirpy DJ's at above time.
c. I hate having to wear something other than jeans and yesterday's stained t-shirt.
d. I hate having to drive an hour someplace I'm only going to be at for 4 hours and then
e. have to drive home again (that's like a 6 hour day for part-time pay!)
f. I dislike (can't say hate because I survived) having to make small-talk abut how great was your break?
g. I hate knowing that during my 6 hours of oppression I could be adding a further, say, 2thou words to my latest book and
h. Could be a lot closer to having the thing ready to be sent Out There...
Then again
I didn't get hurt, I did have a laugh, I did something for the community (school-related of course) and I didn't sit about in my jammies reading the latest Emily Giffin for three hours whilst thinking about having a shower and preparing some leisurely brekkies... at least my arse was shifted...aha, I knew I was on the payroll for a reason!

Which part of "no thanks" don't you understand?!

Avon ladies are lovely. They're a doddle. They don't seem to care too much if you tell them you're not interested; that the last time you tried to renew the cells on your face with Hydro-phanny-pre-vita-biotic mega Serum 19, your skin erupted in a mass of angry, red-raw wheals which took a fortnight out of your life to calm down. They smile, they say 'ah well' and they're on their way.
The guy from the local Dairy took some beating. Not literally, you understand, but Hubby was sorely tempted, let me tell you. And I couldn't have been more forceful with my 'Not for us, thanks' either but each time he upped the ante and came right back at me with more valid reasons as to why we should have our dairy products delivered to our door in the wee smalls.
Point 1. It would be serving our community. (i.e. his Dairy I'm guessing)- my repsonse: "I do understand how difficult it must be in these times of credit crunch etc, but..."
Point 2. We wouldn't have to buy our dairy produce at the supermarket (instead we'd be paying extra for having it delivered at times we may not want it and in quantities we might feel the need to change at a second's notice - you know how it gets) - my response: But I'd rather. It's on the list, I'm at the supermarket anyway - I don't cope well with change (that's altering things - not coins of small denomination...)
Point 3. We would be the only house in the street not participating (you miserable, penny-pinching non-supportive ex-members of this so-called community) my response: "Ah well, you can't win them all" - not received in the good humour it was intended.
Would I try it out for a month? "No, thanks." But I would speak to the Hubby and see what he said.
Ha Ha! It's usually the other way round - the husbands have to get permission from the wives first! which completely got my back up and I wish I'd said "ah but actually that was my final get-out clause as you don't seem to have been hearing any of the others".
Of course following my string of NO THANKS, we started to have milk delivered to us! The wrong *strength* milk and at times that we really didn't want/need it. And it took us two weeks of ringing the Dairy to convince them that we hadn't signed up for anything in the first place.
And they had the gall to bill us for the milk we never even took in. Aaarrrggghhhhhhh!!!
So do I still maintain my rose-tinted ideal of the lovely British milk float whirring quaintly up the roads at four in the morning, bringing cheer and a certain amount of cholestoral to the English countryside?
Er... No, thanks.

Little Things = Big Difference

You know what I mean.
It could be anything. A thing so simple that it turns an otherwise perfectly lovely day into either something resembling that worrying scene from 'The Day After Tomorrow' - or into a prettifull, sumptuous scene from the jolly and sunny 'Wizard of Oz' (except the scene with those weird scary monkeys with spears).
It doesn't take a lot to alter the perspective does it? A mis-read repeat prescription request for example. When you automatically ASS-U.ME that a doctor or at the very least the doctor's admin staff are going to be able to read and get it right, before you're standing in a long queue at the chemists waiting to pick up half the quantity you requested (you thought it was going to be far sinsiter than that didn't you?).
And then you discover that someone you worked for for nearly five years has overlooked this small fact and invited your successor (of five minutes) to her surprise Birthday Party - okay, I'm guessing SHE didn't do this on purpose but the people who organised the thing did - humph.
And then just as you've been searching all the shelves for a certain publication for Hubby in Smiths, rubbing very suspect shoulders of other 'men with certain interests', and then had to resort to asking for help from a teenage Saturday assistant who finds it in no time at all... then .... THEN to be texted whilst I'm putting my change away - still at the tills - by said Hubby 'don't worry - don't need this week's after all.'
And then on the way home, waiting in a stream of midday traffic to turn left (easy peasy but I'm not a 'pusher-inner') one of my Best Friends drives past with her daughter and they give me a cheery wave of 'hello' whilst NOT LETTING ME OUT!!! AAaaaarghhhhhhhh!
But ...then there's the other side of the coin, isn't there?
I did get a load of 'love you's at the end of Hubby's text. Bless. The School holiday's start today - woo hoo! The sun's still streaming. I've done two loads of washing today and it's still only three pee em. And I have absolutely no inclination whatsoever to hoover.
I am a Writer. I Write.
If I was meant to Hoover I'd be a Hoove. Well, wouldn't I?