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?

Miss Me?

Here's what I've been doing:
Reading:
'ROOM' by Emma Donoghue.
Was fab. Lapped it up like a vanilla milkshake.  I didn't like all the 'hype' that surrounded it and got (as always) uber-envious of it's star-studded-status on the top of every list going and mentally refused to acknowledge it for months.  Then caved.  After all, who am I to judge?  What I really loved about it was the way little Jack, who's only ever known Room and Bed and Table and TV and all the other thing in his miniscule world, sees the Outside world.  it fair took my breath away with the message it was delivering without making it feel 'heavy'.  Completely understand it's well-deserved accolades now and very sorry for having bad thoughts about it initially.

'GONE'  by Michael Grant
One that The Girl said I should read (and who am I to argue?).  And again, another that I felt really ambivalent about.  Especially considering it's a series of four now, and so I know there's no proper End in sight with the first one.  The idea of reading this made it feel heavy and laboured, a bit like picking up the second in the Twilight series.  But from the first sentence I was hooked.  And that was it - early to bed, late to rise - quite literally Gone - over too soon.  I can't wait to read the next one now! In fact, as testament to how good the writing is, the Hubster's actually reading it now and he usually only reads stuff about Fly Fishing or Trout Tickling.

'HOUSE RULES' by Jodi Picoult
Wow.  Just bloody wow.  I've never read any of  Jodi's books before, although I did see the movie of 'Her Sister's Keeper' and thought it was a pretty decent tear-jerker with a proper twist and I cried at the end.
But I was kind of unprepared for the emotions this book stirred in me.  In fact, so well was the story told that I didn't just become a member of the Hunt family, I was convinced to the point of completing online questionnaires about being on the autistic spectrum myself.  (It turns out my score does indicate a slight sway in that direction and if I'm honest it makes a lot of sense).
It takes a lot for me to fall in love, and to fall in love with a book takes something REALLY special.  And I hardly ever want to read books for a second time - House Rules? Only the third to go on a very elit TBRA pile.  Everyone should read it. It's an order - and orders are good.


'THE VANISHING ACT OF ESME LENNOX' by Maggie O'Farrell
I don't know how I came across this.  Either a recommendation or a browse through the Amazon listing, as I do.  But I'm so very glad I read this.  As I've said before, I'm not scared of Historical fiction anymore and this is SUCH a fabulous read that it's made me actually thirst for Historical now. 
I can't believe that things like this really happened, even though I've heard about it, of course, and it sort of makes sense of the generation that it's set in - but to be living with one such story of how it takes such energy to unravel a mess from a half a century ago,  left me quite emotionally drained - in a good way.
It stirred up feelings of anger on behalf of the eponymous Esme, and I really rooted for her estranged great-niece on whom she'd been unexpectedly foisted.  I loved the generation shake-up and expanding my world even further into unknown terrain. I'll definitely be reading more by Maggie O'Farrell.

'THE KITE RUNNER' by Kahled Hosseini
One of The Girl's A-level reads and another Award-Winner I'd never have read without a small twist of the arm.  It kept me up at nights and apart from (little-brained-me) not really understanding much about the area and getting confused with the unfamiliar names, the writing and the evocation of feelings and situations was just stunning.  Powerful, beautiful stuff and another book I'm very glad I read. I'm definitely getting 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' next.



Currently I'm reading: 'LIGHT ON SNOW' by Anita Shreve and LOVING it so much. I'm so happy there are many other's by Anita Shreve I can buy after this.

I'm nothing if not eclectic in my reading, you think?

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!

HERE’S ONE I MADE EARLIER

This morning, when my husband asked me what I had planned at work, I replied: “I’m turning a sheet of cardboard into a Native Indian Camp using sand, rabbit straw and PVA glue. Then I’m making a 3D totem pole and action figures. The children made their own teepees.”

He looked a bit incredulous (but he’s heard a lot more convoluted) then laughed: “You don’t go to work, you go to playschool”. And I have to admit that at times it does feel a bit like working behind the scenes at Blue Peter.

It’s also approaching ‘that time’ of the year again - when I’m asked to weave a bit of special magic at school.

Where in the past I’ve made a library out of a stage, a leg of lamb from a piece of foam and a pair of tights; a witch squashed under a wooden house from much the same things and where I’ve turned ten children into trees and twelve little girls into sunflowers.

I’ve made a Chinese dragon out of a pink sheet, raffia ribbons and four excitable girls and when the enormity of trying to paint an Aladdin backdrop turned me into a quivering, snotty mess last year, I learned when it was okay to say ‘enough’.
This year we are to transform the stage into the ballroom scene from Beauty and the Beast; make cutlery out of children, turn one boy into a grandfather clock, another into a mirror and make sure the Beast’s ‘head’ stays put.
We have the added complication of making 4 framed 'works of art' which will be smashed over one actor's head by another every night whilst ensuring no violations of Health and Safety regulations are infringed.

It’s not going to be easy, but it’s always (in hindsight, anyway) a lot of fun. And very, VERY messy…

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!

My Feature about how Dad predicted the date he'd die and then popped back from the dead...

... is NOT now going to be published. I know, I know... talk about pride before a fall, blowing my own trumpet so loud I make my lips fall off, or something dumb like that...BUT the upshot of it is, the magazine rewrote the thousand words I sent them, even though they'd told me it was a "lovely account" AND they cut the piece by half. Half! I'd had a hard job getting it down to 1,000 words so this will tell you how 'brief' they'd made it. And it made me sad that they'd taken what was left of the real emotion out of my dad's story, so I pulled it.
Anyway, I thought I'd post it here, in case you wanted a read. It's all true, by the way. Nothing sensationalised or anything... hope you enjoy:

DAD PREDICTED THE DATE HE’D DIE

THEN CAME BACK TO GIVE ME A SIGN

My dad turned the next playing card over. The Queen of Clubs.

‘There’s a journey. Not far, but it shows travel.’

He turned another one. The King of Spades. He looked up ‘An older man. He’s not well. He might not have long….?’ I frowned and shook my head. I didn’t know any older men who were sick, although… ‘Oh, wait – I know.’ I thought of a friend’s father who had Alzheimer’s and was in a Nursing Home.

Dad returned to the cards. The next ones were the Nine of diamonds and the Ten of spades. ‘In 9 or 10 weeks…’ he tapped the cards, ‘9 or 10 months maybe… that’s what it’s saying… oh and there’s money,’ he smiled as he turned over the last card. ‘Don’t look at me young lady – you know you won’t be getting anything from me.’

That’s when we both laughed. It wasn’t that my dad was tight, but he’d always had a firm rule never to lend or borrow money – friends or family. He didn’t even like to talk about it.

I loved it when Dad came to stay with us. And although we lived 200 miles apart, I’d felt closer to him since mum died 5 years before. I think he enjoyed the break from having to look after himself a couple of times a year.

Dad always said that his own father, my Grandad, could tell fortunes and that afternoon we thought we’d kill some time before my daughter came home from school.

A few weeks later, during one of our Sunday evening telephone calls, he told me he had to have a heart operation. I was a bit shocked because he’d told me he had Angina, which I thought was to do with his breathing. He said not to worry, but that it wouldn’t be a good idea for my daughter and I to go and stay with him in the summer holidays. He’d been feeling tired, and didn’t want to worry about looking after his guests. I understood, of course, but I was also concerned.

The night before the operation he joked on the phone about how the nurse’s skirts weren’t as short as he’d have liked and I said I hoped he understood that because I wasn’t there didn’t mean I didn’t love him. This was the first time I’d ever said the word ‘love’ to my dad – that just wasn’t the way we were. He said he knew; that he loved me too and I knew then that he was scared. He hated hospitals and the last time he’d been in one was the night he held my mum’s hand as she died from a brain tumour.

When I went to visit him in hospital he looked like Homer Simpson, with his chest all yellow from the chemicals they’d painted on. His legs were all stitched up from where they’d taken veins to replace the faulty ones in his heart. He looked tired but cheerful and joking with the nurses still. I left feeling optimistic but wishing we lived closer.

When he left hospital, I was worried about making him get up to answer the phone and I guessed he’d be sleeping more during his recovery. But I knew there was something wrong when I could hardly hear his words. He sounded breathless and said he hadn’t been able to keep food down for over a week. Typically, though, he’d been telling the visiting Nurse that he was fine, making a joke of it as usual.

Quickly, I phoned my cousins who lived down the road and told them I was worried. They went straight round. Soon after he was airlifted in a helicopter to Harefield Hospital in London for an emergency heart operation. I could hardly believe it.

At 2.am a Surgeon called to say that Dad had decided he didn’t want another operation. He just wanted to die in peace. Then he put Dad on the line. He told me that he was proud of the way I was bringing up my daughter on my own, that although he’d never said it, he’d loved me from the minute I was born, and that he was sorry but he wanted to be with my Mum now. And even though we didn’t believe in Life after Death, he promised he’d give me a Sign once he got there.

Dad died the following morning, on the 9th of October. 9.10. The cards had been right. About everything.

As my daughter and I left Dad’s body at the Chapel of Rest, she looked up at me and said “I think that’s the first time we’ve been with Grandad when he hasn’t moaned” and we both laughed. She tried to cheer me up again when we were on the beach a little while later, saying “Don’t be sad, Mummy, Grandad’s watching over us; he’s here somewhere.” And although I knew she was just trying to say the right thing, I hugged her tight.

Then, just as we were about to drive away from the beach front car park, I suddenly froze. In a white van, parked just ahead of us, was…..

“Mummy, there’s Grandad in that van!”.

I went cold. My brother, sitting in the back of the car gasped and said: “Jesus, it’s Dad!”

The man in the van leant over the steering wheel, watching the stretch of beach where we’d been minutes earlier, and then scratched his beard the way Dad always did. He was even wearing his favourite shirt.

“It can’t be. He hated white vans. Just drive,” my brother said, shocked.

As the cards had predicted, there was a journey. With the money from the sale of Dad’s bungalow, my daughter and I moved house 6 months later, not far from where we were. And the day the carpenter turned up in his white van to repair the kitchen at our new home, I had no idea that he would turn out to be my future husband.

But I think Dad knew.

My Girl.  My Dad.

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.

Healing Thyself

So, great news about the Ozone layer, yeah?

getting better now - officially!

Oh, and I also heard today that some Scientist guy who told everyone about the icecaps melting, was lying - ha! Yeah - good one - lol-ling my socks off over here, Boffin man! And, quite rightly, he's been lawfully charged with something or other.  I forget the details.  Anyway, in my head he looked like Emmet (Doc-from-Back-to-the-Future) Brown but that's besides the point. But what a silly man.  Did he really having nothing better to do or was he just after his fifteen minutes of fame?

And I remember the incomparably sublime Stephen Fry telling his audience on QI once that the human body also goes through a kind of regenerative metamorphosis during a 10 -year cycle.  But, no, (husband, specifically - not that he EVER listens to anything either myself OR Stephen ever says - EVER) that doesn't mean that just because you've recently turned 40 you get a whole new body of cells to abuse, neglect and wear out - this regenerative process is ongoing.  But I DO like the idea that the liver I put through very alcoholic paces during my twenties is now a mere spring chicken again - and cheerfully having to endure nothing stronger than PG Tips as exercise.

These snippets of very important information also made me remember the time that, shortly after we were married, the Hubs made me throw away all the tablets I was taking because he was convinced they were making me ill.  At the time I had Trochanteric Bursitis, which was incredibly painful and so I was taking muscle relaxants, anti-inflammatories, painkillers and supplementing these with a couple of Glucosamine (yes, yes with Chondroitin... which also this week was revealed to have proven of no real benefit whatsoever despite advertising to the contrary).  So basically if you'd shaken me back then, I'd have done the decent thing and rattled.

Nobody wants to be newly-wed to a medicine cabinet, do they?

And he was (he loves this bit!) right.    He has a very annoying habit of being mostly right most of the time.  Apart from the 'new body at 40' delusion of course.
Within about 3 days of not taking any of these tablets, my headaches had lessened, the pain from my 'condition' hadn't improved - but also hadn't worsened - and the great thing was that I wasn't so listless and constipated (TMI?).  So this convinced me that all these drugs were doing was confusing my poor body into not knowing what to do with them and where to put them and how to absorb the majority of them.  My body already had enough of what it needed, because that's how it was made originally, anything else was just going to hinder it's capability to repair.  After all, I would never assume to start a scar off by putting a line of Superglue along the cut... I know my body will sort that one out in it's own time without any help from me.

Obviously I'm not saying that if I broke my arm I'd just leave it to heal itself - which it would, of course, it'd just turn out wonky and nobody would like that.  Or  if I was Diabetic that I'd just let nature take it's course and hurl me into a fatal coma, oh no, I'm ALL for topping up where there's a definite imbalance.  I've just come to believe that the body has a remarkable way of knowing when, where and what it needs in order to function properly. So if it says 'you're sleepy - rest' - then do it.  If it says 'you need chocolate', then, by all means, the Vicar of Dibley head-in-fountain technique has to be adopted.  If your body says 'scream' then who are you to refuse it's release?
And if it says 'lie in bed all day reading and having cups of tea brought to you', then where's the harm in that?

Happy Wedding Anniversary to US!

Once upon a time there was a Girl who read too many books (actually, there's no such thing) and watched too many films (ditto) and who dreamed of meeting a handsome prince.
This Prince would love her no matter how much she ate, and how wide her girth, or how loud she moaned and cried or how long she spent in the bathroom or on the computer.
And for a while, she'd forgotten how much she'd dreamed of him because Real Life had taken over and it looked like he'd already met and fallen in love with someone else and her dreams were just that.  Dreams.

But then one day she came back from a holiday with her beautiful daughter and found a man in her kitchen who (unbeknown to both of them at the time) had failed to level up the worktop properly when he'd fitted it.
Their eyes met and they had a brief chat (about wood treatments) but it wasn't the right time for them.  She had become cynical and he already had a girlfriend.
Six months and many smashed eggs later*, the man came back to realign the worktop (not a euphemism, although...) and this time things were a lot different.
The following week she had him laminating her hallway (again, not a euphemism....) and his tool-kit hasn't moved from there since.... ah, romance!

* from having rolled off the wonky worktop I mean, not from having been thrown about with wild cynicism... just to clarify *

This Year's Holiday

This is where we  holidayed last year.
Il Borro in the beautiful Tuscan countryside.  And it was pure five star plus luxury, right from the majestic villa (entrance top pic) to the fabulous family wedding we were a part of.
And although regulars will know of my 'realistic' outlook on most things, I actually had allowed myself a certain frisson of excitement leading up to this escape.
Which rhymes with 'mistake'.
In fact, when I twisted off a top of one of the bottles of body lotion I brought back as a 'souvenir' the other day, immediately images of  car hire hell, tiny mirror-less bedrooms, flooded toilets, unhealthy amounts of time in gyms, waterless taps, £30 bottles of wine and very shouty voices filled my whole being.  I don't know why I've kept them.  They're a nightmare in a bottle, is what they are.  And the sense of smell is so evocative, isn't it?

But  this year nothing like that is going to happen**.
And that's not because I've turned all optimistic overnight - oh no - have you SEEN how much personality transplants cost these days?! It's purely because this year we are spending our time with my husband's parents.  The Italian In-laws.  In a little place they like to call Ginestra degli schiavoni in the heart of the Italian countryside (there on the right ), 2.8 hours away from Naples airport and miles away from beaches, tourists, bars, restaurants, night life and... well... all major forms of holiday entertainment. Oh, and there's no access to any kind of internet communication, as far as I'm aware.

But that's precisely how I want it.

I'm EXPECTING the loos not to flush - hell, we might even be offloading our excess into holes in the floor for all I know - and wiping our arses on yesterday's tabloids.  Of course there WON'T be electricity -  that's why there's NO internet access.
And when our hire car runs out of petrol, we'll just have to use the friendly neighbourhood donkey (time-shared) to get to the local village bakery.
There'll be trees.  There'll be a bed to sleep in.  There'll be my incredibly lovely mama-in-law who cooks amazing food, and there'll be my gorgeous husband who is SO excited about showing me where he spent his formative years, and I'll be meeting the extended Riccio family; there's the 'Festa' which is being held for the week that we're there and I am taking no less than FIVE books with me.  That might just be the only English language available to me.  Apart from the Hubs, of course.

**we're hoping that the only Bad Thing to happen this year has already happened.  When we were looking through our travel documents the other day we noticed we'd booked our car into the mid-term park at Luton Airport.

We fly from Stansted.**

Apologies...

As you can see, my methods of procrastination have no limits.... I cannot tell a lie, I have spent the majority of today on a faffing expedition of mammoth proportions.

Hence yet another new blog design.
But the other one was taking so long to load that even I was bored waiting.

So faffcrastination was the order of the day, of course, when I wasn't working out the UK/USA time difference and fretting over The Girl's blog from New York where she tells the world and her mother that she nearly drowned yesterday... I KNOW!
AND... And....
the Husband returns from a 'quick job' (that's carpentry, not any other kind of 'job... well, none that I'm aware of... see... extreme digression... aka faffing...) with stitches on a split upper lip...
I KNOW!
I mean, don't bother letting me know you're in A&E darling; no, no I'm quite happy lying here in bed reading my book and scoffing Philly-covered bagels whilst you're having your bloody top lip stitched.
Talk about stiff uppers...!
Talk about weepy!
Actually, let's not.
It's just a good job I'm on some medication that's all I can say.

Because *I'm* Worth it...!?

Yep.  I wish.
The Hubs has been otherwise engaged, so I've been pretty much left to my own devices lately.  And this happened to include the getting to become rather too regular for comfort root-touch-up at the weekend.
[Ah...didn't I already say...? That along with being particularly skilled at turning the roughest piece of wood into a thing of beauty, the Hubs is also a bit clever in the hairdressing department]?
Anyway... forget about the nicely-(calmly)-worded leaflet that comes with detachable gloves/plastic hat.  Here's what REALLY happened:

1.  Locate oldest, pre-'use-by'-date-stamped (thereby possibly prehistoric) box of 'Vibrant Reubenesque' and marvel at beautiful image of pouting (albeit Cyclops-ed) redhead on box.
2. Want some of that.  Desperately. Esp. recently.  And she looks so 'together'... Well, doesn't she? I bet she doesn't tremble when faced with a steering wheel, gearknob and a 40 minute drive to work.
Anyway...
3. Starting at the roots, perform almost impossible feat of manoeuvre with pointy-end of plastic comb, parting hair along the scalp to reveal (worryingly silver) roots.
4. Ignore funny fizzing noise emitting from just-shaken bottle of colour-creme combo.  Maybe Hubs never mentions this because it's entirely  normal.  Convince self of normality of even louder fizzing noise.
5. Daub inconsistent meandering length of 'Vibrant Reubenesque' along said parting and squint worriedly into bathroom mirror.  Ignore purpley colour.  Again, probably completely normal.
Repeat.
A lot.
In fact over entire headspace.
6. Do what instructions say and relax whilst colour gets to work.  No mention of still-fizzing bottle which also 'cracks' when you squeeze it.
Still relaxing.  Kind of.
Albeit with mad-staring eyes in bathroom mirror.
7. To take mind off of strange noises and dubious colour of hair, wipe gloopy mess from ears, neck, chin, nose, bath, sink, windowsill, basin and windowframe (don't ask) and manage to turn nice cream bathmat into  underfoot Dalmation-pelt feature.
Persuade self of intention to do this all along.  Bathmat was dull anyway  Cream is SO last year.
8. Squint even closer at  blacky-purple hair roots and begin to sweat profusely.
9.  Sweat some more.  It's good for you.  And increased heart-rates are all the rage right now.  This is cardio-vascular.  Breathe in.  And out.  Enjoy the moment.
10. Check instructions and feign understanding.
11. Sweat even harder.
12. In one seamless movement fling head manically over bath, spotifying all over-bath wall tiles, swipe shower-head from stand and eradicate worryingly fizzy, black concoction from head until all that remains is a decidedly orange scalp where the first lengths of colour were squirted.
Nobody's going to notice the spots in the bathroom. If I refuse to allow anybody in it.
13. Fire up computer, enter 'Funky hats' on EBay Women's Clothing search bar and...relax...

Not.

NEWSFLASH! Men are *still* from Mars, sadly...

Okay, there's a Matchbox-equivalent toy made in it's image - so that must make it somehow more.... um....er... well, I still can't decide what kind of status this elevates the car to, but it does absolutely nothing to convince me of the non-existence of the male/female divide.
Take the day we met Scarlett. Yes, a car will always be a 'she' for some, possibly entirely sexist reason - and here I'm almost tempted to quote Lord FlashHeart from 'Blackadder Goes Forth' as he addressed the Twenty-Minuters - but I won't just in case it offends anyone. A lovely sunny day. And it strikes me that if it had been peeing it down with rain, the impact of seeing Scarlett for the first time may have been diminished somewhat.
Because she was sitting out there on the grassy knoll of the forecourt, flaunting her undoubted sex-appeal with her top off. Right in full view of any passing trade. Which, I'm guessing was the whole point of her state of undress.
And it worked.
Cue awestruck potential customer (i.e. Hubby): 'Look at this! And it's under seven grand!'
APC's wife (i.e. Me): 'But we want something economical - like this 207. it's only got 20 thousand on the clock - and it's younger and it's.....'
APC: 'Look - leather seats. And see - it's got a built-in SatNav screen - and bluetooth attachment... and look here...it's got...'
Me: 'No bloody roof. Er...how is it going to protect me when I roll it?' (because this is HIGHLY LIKELY to happen - in my World)
APC: 'It's in the boot. And you don't have to have it down. Only in the summer. Only when it's not raining... only when...'
Me: 'You're driving it.' (I may have scowled).
APC: 'You have to admit it's got style...'
Me: 'And 60,000 on the clock. It's ancient!'
Enter Salesperson (shiny suit, slick hair, dollar-signs in his eyes): 'Lovely isn't she?'
(I cringe and wonder how I got on the set of 'On the Buses' or 'Robin's Nest')
Me: (ever-sensible Wife) 'How many miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: 'Oh, now let's just have a look shall we? Have you seen this on-board satellite navigation system?' (question aimed directly at APC and not the 'little woman' which makes me seethe as well as scowl).To which APC nods enthusiastically. 'This clever little device will tell you everything you need to know... when you're running low on oil, water, fuel, when you're due the next service... when you need to take a right or turn around...what the ambient temperature is in South Korea (I made that up but he probably said that - I'd switched off by then)...'
Me: 'So - miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: (answering APC again and avoiding any eye-contract with me) 'Let's have a little.... ah here we are - looks like the last journey was giving the previous owners an average urban of aroundabout 33, 34... not bad for a two litre I think you'll agree...'
Me: 'Two litre - the insurance'll be huge!'
Salesman: 'Yep, plenty of oomph this little baby - of course she handles like a dream. Let's take her out, shall we?'
As the slick salesman eases himself into the 'plush leather interior... you cannot have fabric in a convertible - it makes perfect sense...' and the topless temptress glides out of the forecourt, I am hissing statistics to my awestruck other half. All along the lines of fuel consumption, insurance groupage, economy of service/repair, tax, back seat leg-room and the reduction of doors by two.
'I wanted something sensible, economical, practical....' I may just as well have been peeing into the wind for all the impact my words had on APC. He'd died and gone to convertible heaven twenty minutes ago. Now he was cruising down the High Street on a summer's day with his top off and the Beach Boys blaring out of the (5-slot) CD player with Robert Palmer waiting in the wings. His sexy little sat-nav lovely telling him exactly where she wanted him and precisely where he should take her next.
And the look on APC's face when a switch was flicked and the (metal) roof went back on is something I last saw when we went to see 'Transformers II' - in fact reference to these lean, mean, shiny machines was actually made. No, I mean - properly made.
I might as well have taken a good book with me for all the input I had.
But here's the thing.
The APC is about to celebrate his 40th Birthday in about four weeks' time and I'd much rather he cavorts around with slinky Scarlett in full brazen view of his wife than creep about behind my back trying to get into one of my girdles and chatting up the lithe, sweaty ladies that jog up our road of a morning.
So Scarlett, my lovely, you are very welcome to join our little family and so long as you keep your curves in our driveway and don't go leading my lovely-but-very-easily-swayed husband astray, then we'll all get along famously.
(*ahem*)Until I write you off, of course.
(joke)
(kinda)

Wishes Never Made...

My lovely interweb writer friend, Deborah Durbin (no relation to the black and white Deanna of 1950's Sunday afternoon musical fame) would probably back me up on this - come to think of it, so would Noel Edmonds with his Visualisation techniques and his Golden Orbs - but we'll stick with Deborah because that's a much less cringey image!.
It occurred to me in the shower this morning - the best place for any kind of creative thinking bar none - that in my life I already have things I never wished (aloud) for but which I certainly could not nor would not be able to function happily or properly without.  These being :

1.  The most beautiful, happy, level-headed, content-in-her-own-skin with no hang-ups whatsoever daughter who continually (even though I shamefully embarrass her on occasion) tells me she loves me and wants to be just like me when she grows up (okay then, so slightly worrying on the mental stability front, but we can't have everything) and with whom I have the best relationship I've ever had with anyone my entire life. *sob*.

2. The most incredible husband in the world who, for some reason seems to love me for my faults and not despite them and who never fails to lift my spirits with either a reasoned argument in spirit-lifting favour or else a supremely amusing face-pull/dance/moonie at precisely the right moment.  He remains my breath of fresh air, keeps me grounded and loves me whatever my mood and state of dress.
(Disclaimer:  Actually I DID wish for him and that'll be the subject of another post - with grateful thanks to Deborah for her amazing book "There's a Little Witch in Every Woman" and to my friend at the time, Tracey for giving it to me).

3. The absolute best (paid) work in the world for my mentality. If, during 'Career' lessons at school, it had been suggested I should remain working at a school, only I wouldn't be actually teaching, I'd be cutting, sticking, mounting and stapling work onto massive three metre display boards - after firstly having designed a whole mural associated with said work, I think I'd have peed myself laughing.  A ridiculous job like that?  Me?  Are you mad!  And yet I am the Middle School equivalent of Rolf Harris working to an academic timetable ("can you tell what it is yet?").

4. Of course Bill Gates has to have played some small part in the next non-wish scenario but where would I/we be without the amazing technologies surrounding our pc's and the things we can do with them?  No more am I sitting huddled over a manual/electric/golfball/daisywheel  typewriter (remember those?) with stupid sheets of carbon and silly little strips of tippex, wondering how I can *seriously* cut and paste a whole section of story without making the manuscript look like a Christmas decoration or a doiley.  Thank the God of technology for the wonders we are able to use today - and thank goodness s/he was listening through my frustrations of finding an easier way to do it.

5. Never in my wildest (and believe me, I've had some) imaginings, could I have dreamed that One Day I could finish reading a book and then send the author a message telling them how much I enjoyed it and have the author then reply back saying 'thanks'. My god, the conversations I could have had with Enid Blyton, Jilly Cooper and Marian Keyes had this form of tehnology been available to me decades ago!

6. And a list wouldn't be complete without a mention of the Perm, would it?  Who'd have thought that all I had to do to get the hair of my dreams would be to give birth.  Not a mention of that one in the Pregnancy Manual.  I think I'd have noticed.  And I have to thank L'Oreal for keeping it 'real' and not making me appear as the silvery-haired crazy lady who sticks kids pictures on walls for a living whilst dreaming of becoming a proper author-type person one day!

REALISTICALLY SPEAKING...

If anyone accuses me of being pessimistic, I generally put them right by returning that I’m actually being a Realist, not a Pessimist – there’s a big difference.
A Pessimist believes everything is doom and gloom but a Realist knows there’s only a certain amount of doom and gloom – the rest is basic uncertainty of doom and gloom with a sprinkling of hopefulness that it might not be.
Of course I’d much rather live in Hope Springs than in Hope Falls, don’t get me wrong. But I know that the higher my expectations, the heavier the disappointment when (I mean if...) if all goes horribly Pete Tong.
So I’ve learnt to expect nothing.
If something is planned I don't expect it will go according to plan, therefore I am not angry when plans are upset - I have the 'meh' capability and Plan B's are my forte. An Optimist would see the delayed train he's getting for an important meeting as a bit of a setback. The Pessimist would see it as the end of the world. The Realist is somewhere in between. We take out our books that we brought along for just this occurence and wait.
Contrariwise or rather equally, though, if something unexpectedly great happens then it’s simply Effing Brilliant.
Take hubby as one E.B example.
I’d been a single mother for 8 years, the wrong side of 39 and no social life to speak of. The only dates I had were electronically engineered with disastrous consequences – although hindsight has them stored away in a box labelled ‘Material’ – and my next great accomplishment, if the writing thing didn’t succeed, was going to be Grandmotherhood. Seriously. No, seriously! And I’d be great at it. I still will, of course.
But then WHOOSH and WHIRL and there he was, this man of my (literal – see Random Facts post) dreams, telling me I was his dream girl (girl! And there was me planning my Grandmotherhoodness an’ all) and he wanted to spend his life with me. Me! No wonder I laughed like a drain when he asked me to be his wife. I sent him off immediately to get his crucial parts tested (eyes, ears, brain etc) but still he came back with 20:20 in every department. Gulp and Blimey O’Reilly all round.
And I couldn’t have even begun to hope that there was this happiness around the corner of my world. Not even for a minute. And I do sometimes wonder what would have happened if I HAD believed this might happen… would I have expected it and listened and waited for it, and like the watched pot that never boils, jinxed it from happening at all... or would it have happened sooner because I’d have been on full-alert for it?
I’ll never know. Realistically I never dreamt I was on course for a Happy Ever After, I thought that train had long since left the station – so realistically I KNOW that I will always write stuff I want to write about stuff I want to write about and I don’t expect it will be Good Enough for publication but I’ll still send out the queries when I’ve written the next one because you do Just Never Know.
Maybe that’s why the rejections are like bees with no stings. I expect them to annoy me but they don’t hurt.
I hope that Hubby doesn’t realise that Idealistically he should have married someone younger, prettier and dumber than me because Realistically there is not a snowball’s chance in hell of me ever putting housework above writing, shopping before writing (any kind of shopping – I HATE shopping), and whipping up something nutritious and delicious before having a quick blog. That’s me – A Realist to the end and not a pessimistic bone in my body. Honest.

SPILT MILK – proper

Did they cover this on Tomorrow’s World? Was I too busy trying to cope with my essay on the virtues of Heathcliff (I decided they were many and got my first A+!) to notice that pudgy nosed guy on TW telling the British audience that although the introduction of moulded polycarbonate materials to replace our humble glass milk-bottle container was the way forward (and if they smeared strawberry jam on it, it would still perform perfectly – or was that CD’s?) that if said innovative milk-bottle replacement was dropped from a height of… oh, say, five feet would almost certainly tear, split and cover every household surface within a twelve foot radius with it’s semi-skimmedness – whether you stood horror-stricken in your undies first thing in the morning or not?
Did I REALLY miss that episode?
And the first thing to cross my mind is always “I’m going to write to the manufacturers and complain”.
Yeah right. Give it an hour, lady, calm down, have another shower now you smell of freshly churned cottage cheese, and start again.
But.
It.
Just.
Got.
Shittier…
Sitting in a ‘Handwash’ car wash an hour later, I’m pretty certain the nice Slovakian/Kosovon people knew precisely that the couple in the mud-splattered blue car were definitely having a row. In any language, the wild eyes, the over-exaggerated hand gestures, the snarls, the tosses of the head and the rolling of the eyes are a universal language. Accepted in all major outlets. Including Handwash City.
‘You want inside also?’ said the nice man.
‘No,’ we both snapped. Not unless you want to referee this bloodbath and decide which one of us is in the right and suffer the aftermath.
He bowed away, Manuel-like. He knew. Oh, he knew alright.
What he wasn’t privy to, though, was the precise cause of this seemingly volatile disagreement. In hindsight maybe we should have just dragged him in and let him sort it out. Couldn’t have worked out any worse.
So.
The Girl’s been invited to spend Christmas in New York with her boyfriend (of one year – one year – can you believe that? She’s only 15!) and his family. When she told me I was thrilled for her. Thrilled. A little envious, sure, but thrilled nonetheless. There would be financial ‘concerns’ to overcome, but, sure, why not? A wonderful opportunity that may never arise again until she’s of proper earning age etc.
But.
Although I think it’s fabulous, Hubby thinks it’s littered with unforeseen obstacles that I should be worried about. Now. Right now – even before the whole thing’s been arranged. Whereas all I can see is a fabulous experience waiting to be enjoyed. Oh, and I’ve got to stop being the Girls’ Best Friend and start being the Mother with all the restrictions and rules that this conveys. Oh-kay.
So you kind of get the gist.
And if anyone else thinks I’m a bad mother (for yes, this is how I heard it) feel free to enlighten me.
By shutting my mouth and staring out of the side window, the air in the car managed to turn from a deep shade of blue, splattered with red to an uhealthy shade of puce.
And trudging round Sainsbury’s was almost normal.
We cooled off by the frozen foods and anything he wanted I damn well let him buy. Heart attacks in bags, deep-filled cholesterol pies and slabs of cardio-vascular artery-fluffing goodness.
Until we were spitting distance from home and I mentioned he was driving over the speed limit.
Mistake.
Big Mistake.
DO NOT EVER TELL A MAN (especially while he’s driving) THAT HE IS IN ANY WAY CONTRAVENING ROAD SAFETY LAWS.
Seven shades of sh*t.
Made even worse by pointing out that we already have 2 speeding fines between us this year.
We were still ‘discussing’ this two hours later (even after I’d stropped off in a cloud of “I’m going to bed I’ve had enough of today” – it was still only 2.30pm) as he continued to make clear to me that he pays enough in taxes every week (the equivalent of my ACTUAL pay I must add for sympathy) not to have to obey every effing law that’s laid down for the sake of lining the pockets of the government powers-that-be.
Oh, and then there was a ‘margins of error’ report followed by the back-up delivery of ‘ambient travelling speed’ on the roads and the dangers of obeying speed limits anyway.
Un.
Be.
Lievable.
Rewind 24 hours and one of my many “woo-hoo, it’s the weekend!” squeals of glee at work and I am pretty much feeling like my stuffing’s been taken out.
Thanks God for Strictly and the X-Factor – where we pretty much agreed on all points.
And his face lit up to the same degree as my heart lit up when he got a text later on from his mate asking him if he fancied a day fishing today.
And right now I’m trying to work out how I’m going to explain why I decided to put the watch he bough me for Christmas in with the second load of washing this morning.
Ah well.
I’ve heard there’s no point in crying over spilt milk.
*sob*