Too Young for a Midlife, Too Old for a Tantrum

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2009-08-26T22:20:00.002+01:00

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The End

2008-09-14T17:35:00.002+01:00

I've kept you waiting, and I apologise. I teased a little, and then life got in the way, as life is always wont to do.

Also, I had to take my time, to tell you how I felt, and how I am, and sometimes I thought about coming back here to do it, and then I couldn't, because I can't always find the words to sum up how I feel. You all know that I'd waited for him for such a long time, and I'd never given up on him, and I'm quite sure that most of you thought I was mad.

Anyway,

'Of course I wouldn't see anyone else! Why would I do that when I'm in a relationship?'

I think I need my ears syringing. I'm fairly sure that it sounded like he said we were in a relationship. What word sounds like relationship? Battleship? No, the first bit is wrong. Station pip? That's closer, but it doesn't actually make any sense. 'I'm in a station pip' No, that's nonsense. Did he say we were in a relationship?

'You just said we were in a relationship.'

OK. I could have tried to make that sound like less of an accusation.

'I did, yeah. Well, we are, aren't we? Why? What did you think?'

Well, it obviously wasn't that, was it? Do you think I'd be sitting here having this conversation if that's what I thought? Madman.

'Well I didn't think we were in a relationship. You said at the start that it wouldn't be like that. What's changed all of a sudden? And why didn't you tell me?'

Oh, it was all going so well, until that last bit. Maybe he won't notice.

'What do you mean I didn't tell you?'

Bugger.

'Do I have to tell you? Women are supposed to be good at these things! I thought that you'd know! I didn't think I'd have to tell you!'

Yeah, right, laugh it up, funny guy. But...

'OK, so if you've known this, then what on earth did you think I wanted to talk about?'

'God, I dunno. I thought you wanted us to live together or something. I'm not ready for that yet.'

Not ready for that yet! Not ready for that yet! I've only been in a relationship for about 20 seconds! Let's slow down here a minute, funny guy!

And so it went on.

And so it goes on.

That was over two months ago, and I couldn't be happier. We're just about to go on holiday (to Sorrento), and I'm about to start living some of those dreams I had.

It kind of makes a bit of a mockery of this blog, certainly at the moment. I know life's not always this kind, not always this settled, but I also know that at the moment, I've never felt less like having a tantrum. Although I can't rule out a mid-life crisis.

And let's be honest, no one wants to hear a blogger chirruping away about how happy they are. Do they?

So it might be time to start a new incarnation, somewhere else. But if I do, I'll be sure to tell you where.

As long as you don't mind all the 'raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens' malarkey....

Not Always What It Seems

2008-07-11T20:56:00.003+01:00

Hello people, sorry I've been so long. I know I have memes, uus (eh?) and tags to catch up on, and I promise I will soon. But I think I owe you this at least first.

'OK, my reminder's just kicked in. You wanted to talk, didn't you?'

'I did, yes. But I wasn't going to say anything until you did.'
Oh good grief, he remembered. I've changed my mind.

'No, until tomorrow morning, then you would have said something just as I was walking off and it would have been too late then.'

'You might have a point'
Oh my God, I am transparent.

'So, go on then. Say what you want to say.'

'Erm....OK then...ummm.....I don't know where to start...erm....'
Please. If I am ever to be struck by lightning, please let it be now. Shall I fall off this stool as a distraction? Shoot me now.

'Well...er... I suppose....er....I suppose I want to talk about us, you know. I can't really see the difference between what we're doing, and what it would be like if we were going out with each other. I mean, it's like people say, we're a bit like a, you know, thingy. Er... couple.'
Oh people, where are you all now? Look at what you have been saying, and I have been listening. And where has it got me? Into this conversation that has only 2 end results - bad or worse. Or I could die. Make that 3.

'Yeah. I see what you mean. Does it matter though? What people think? Or what we call ourselves?

'Erm. Well, yes. I think it does.'
I am hopelessly backed into a corner. There is no way out of this situation now. I give us five minutes before the shouting starts. Or the crying.

'Why?'

'Well. Erm...'
That's a fine question. That's the very question I would have asked if the situation was reversed. But it isn't. You sure you want the answer? You're not going to like it, you know.

'Because I feel disrespected. That you don't think enough of me to refer to me as your girlfriend.'
Disrespected is a massive word. Just MASSIVE. There's no taking that one back. Could you not have prevaricated a bit you damn fool?

'That's a harsh word, Tine. And that's the last thing you should ever feel.'

'It's right though, isn't it?'
I have been possessed by the spirit of a woman braver than myself. I wish she would sod off.

'I mean, when you're talking to your mates, what do they think?'
This is a top card to play. I cannot lose with this card.

'Dunno. I suppose they think we're seeing each other. Don't talk about it really. It's blokes.'

'What about your mom then?'
That was a rubbish card. But this one is better. I would stake my life on the fact that his mom has said something about it. And other people's lives too. Absolute certainty.

'I don't know, she hasn't said anything.'

I am doomed, I need a minute to regroup. I need to phone a friend. I need someone to have this conversation for me. Where is everyone? Hello? People?

'OK then. Tell me this. Doing what we're doing now, would you see someone else?'
I have nothing left. Nothing at all. I'm seconds away from giving up on this conversation. I don't even know why I'm having it. I LIKE being with him, and if this is all it is, then where's the harm? I have just ruined something that was fun for no good reason at all. He's going to tell me now that he's seeing someone else. And I can't deal with that. Especially if it's Juliette Binoche. Although there's no reason why it would be, but that's the way that this conversation is going.

And then he turned towards me, from his new casual position at the door, cigarette smoke melting into nothingness, and said...

You Couldn't Make It Up

2008-06-29T14:50:00.002+01:00

It's ridiculous. Really it is. And it stretches credulity to its absolute breaking point.

Men and women eh?

Both credited with the gift of speech, but communication between the two almost an absolute non-starter. No sign of any common ground at all.

In fact, no sign of any ground.

"I thought we were going to..."

"Oh yeah. I forgot...."

"Shall we next time? We could...."

"Maybe. Or perhaps we should..."

"Definitely. Or...."

You see, I wish I had something to tell you here. But it looks as though my complete lack of conversational skills are going to keep you waiting a wee while longer.

Cryptic, isn't it?

Or do you all understand it better than I do?

psst

2008-06-23T18:25:00.001+01:00

More news expected.

Maybe next week.

I know you've waited patiently.

Just for a little while longer?

The Tuesday Tantrum

2008-05-28T21:55:00.002+01:00

Good evening everyone, and welcome once again to The Tuesday Tantrum. Beg pardon? I'm sorry? Yes of course I know it's Wednesday, I'm not a buffoon. Do you want to make something of it? Do you want to come here and say that? Are you talking to me?

And anyway, its not my fault that I'm a day late doing the Tuesday post. It's Sir Alan Sugar's fault. If he was a bit more of a man, he'd have said 'No. Stuff off. I'm not moving to a Tuesday night for The Apprentice to be on television, and I don't care what sort of football match is on. It's not Tottenham, is it? Stupid television controller, you're fired!' That's what he'd have said, I reckon. Also, it's not my fault that I was really tired, because I haven't been sleeping very well, because when I'm at work I drink too much coffee, and in our coffee machine, you can have it extra, extra, extra, extra strong, and then that means that when I'm at work, I'm all whizz bang tiddly pom, and I don't seem to be able to come down at all because of the caffeine and I talk a lot and sometimes it means my sentences are really long, because I'm still a bit thingy.

And also, it's not my fault, because I can't be held responsible for everything round here you know, it's not like someone died and put me in charge of the world and made everybody do what I say and all of a sudden no-one can do anything without checking with me first, and if things don't get done then all of a sudden everyone's looking at me and going 'Well I was waiting for her and look at her, she's meant to be doing a blog or something and she can't even do that when she's meant to, so I don't see why I should have had to do the washing.'

Anyway, if you haven't already guessed, this week's Tuesday Tantrum is about whining.

Dear GOD, the whining. I work in an office for heaven's sake. Not a kindergarten. Not a home for people with challenging and debilitating illnesses, or even mildly irritating ones. Some of the people are mildly irritating. Some of them are like Olympic Irritants.

In case you ever work for me, I'll give you a few ground rules:-

I am a very caring team leader. But if you are late every day, I will lose patience, and I will not be interested that your alarm clock has broken/your girlfriend has dumped you/your car has broken down/you have a bad stomach. Just get up a bit earlier and do us all a favour.

I am a very caring team leader (see the theme here?). But if you have not done the work I asked you to, and this happens consistently, I will not care that the systems are slow/the telephone is busy/you've lost your pen/it's too noisy/you thought someone else was doing it/the moon isn't in alignment with Venus. Just get your finger out and earn your damn money.

I am a very caring colleague (ah, a subtle difference), but I am not interested in sitting and watching you bumble your way round the computer, hoping to stumble upon the right thing, while I'm POINTING AT IT WITH MY BLOODY FINGER, while you say that no-one's ever shown you, and how did I know that, and is it your job, and did you ought to speak to someone about it, despite the fact that you've been there years longer than I have, and that's what you get paid for.

Anyway, I think I'm done now. I might have been a bit whiny myself. Sorry about that.

Anything on your mind?

Well, That's Done Then

2008-05-26T23:46:00.003+01:00

Bank Holidays then.

People are always campaigning for more Bank Holidays. Or random days off work. Or days to commemorate some obscure saint, a person of interest or Leona Lewis getting to Number 1 in America. I can understand it, really I can.

I mean, what could be better than a day off work, chance to do all of those jobs you've been meaning to do?

Get your decorating done, get out in the garden, catch up your chores? Go away for the weekend, do something touristy, go for a picnic?

All you people out there who've done just those things, you are my heroes. Really you are.

But did I really need another excuse to sit on my fat arse all day?

The Tuesday Tantrum

2008-05-20T22:27:00.002+01:00

Good evening one and all, may I welcome you into the haven of all that is to be despised, spat at and generally moaned about. For today is the day of the tantrum, the day to let your hair down, and the day to poke someone in the eye, if that will help (which sometimes it does, but only if you can run really fast, and if it doesn't hurt them very much). If I can just make one small comment before I start, this is a weekly malarkey, but that doesn't mean I only have a tantrum once a week, it's just that I like to, well, focus.

When I read the comments to my last tantrum I was literally stabbing my finger on my desk and going 'Yes! You're right! That gets me too!' and I had a whole thing planned for the way that people can't even seem to speak properly now, and have a language of their own, and don't even get me started on the spelling, and even a topic as dear to my heart as that has been superseded by today's tantrum.

Public transport.

Now first of all, because some of the readers here aren't from the UK, I'm going to need to do a bit of an explanation. First of all, I have to catch something called a bus. You'll note the use of the word 'catch'. That implies that it is something elusive, something you have to work hard to get, something not always within reach.

That is a bus.

It's quite a big vehicle, which seats quite a lot of people, you can stand up on them too, and sometimes they have an upstairs as well, but there are stairs, not an elevator, to the top bit. It generally smells a little bit like a public toilet and so do some of the people on it. It travels on roads.

The other one is called a train. It is made up of a number of carriages, the people tend to smell a bit better, and it does not have an upstairs. It does however have a First Class, which you do not go in unless you are travelling on business and someone is paying for your ticket, or you are frightfully posh, in which case you have probably got your chauffeur to drive you instead of having to mix with those ghastly people. Some of them also have something called a Quiet Zone, which means you cannot use a mobile phone, talk loudly, play music or generally disturb your fellow commuters. And if you sneeze at more than a moderate range of decibels, you are instantly shot. It travels on tracks.

I should mention that where I live, there is technically a third option, called a tram, or the Metro. This is a sort of cross between a bus and a train. It goes on tracks, but the tracks are on the road. It is slower than a train. It is slower than a bus. If you are a brisk walker, it is slower than you.

Today's tantrum was inspired by my little jaunt yesterday, which turned out to be not so little after all. I caught the bus (on time-ish, not too smelly, no spitting), and then went to catch the train. I arrived at the station 15 minutes early - when you are a commuter, you find that you will leave your home approximately 5 hours before you need to, which allows for delays. So I built in a buffer for the bus being late, it wasn't, got to the railway station in plenty of time. The train was late. 30 minutes late, so I had 45 minutes to kill at the station. Apparently the driver hadn't turned up in Manchester, where the train started. Oh well, that's all right then. It's not as if we were depending on him. Oh, we were?

So of course I arrived late for the meeting, had the meeting, no lunch (oh that is SO another blog post) and got on the train to come back. It was on time. In fact I even had to do a little woman commuter jog up the platform. This is instantly recognisable as being the jog that a woman in a suit and high heels does to catch a train, and ultimately means that it is slower than actually walking, but you pinwheel your arms a bit more. Marvellous. On the train, train pulls away, no smelly people, buy a sandwich that is approximately equal in price to the National Debt, and settle in. Train pulls in at the first station, stops to let people off, let people on, and then pulls away. Except it doesn't. The pulling away bit. Because someone, further up the line, has thrown themselves in front of the train in front of mine. This is disturbingly more frequent of an event than you would imagine. We are made to get off the train. The line is closed. Nothing to be done. No offers of alternative transport, the swell of commuters ever increasing until we are packed like sardines on the platform, with nowhere to sit.

For two and a half hours. TWO AND A HALF HOURS.

When the line re-opens, I find that my train, my lovely train, has disappeared off the face of the earth. No train to Wolverhampton. I could go to Glasgow. Or Manchester. I expect if I set my mind on it I could go to Venus. But not where I live.

And that's why this week that my tantrum is about public transport. Because it's late, it makes me stand in the cold, and it doesn't drop me off at my house.

It's like being married again.

However on a much brighter note - the lovely David at Authorblog has awarded me a Post of the Day for Work is the Curse of the Drinking Classes. How lovely! So get yourselves over to see him, and see what other blogs he's mentioned too, they're fab.

If I were you though, I'd get a taxi.

Work is the Curse of the Drinking Classes

2008-05-18T21:14:00.002+01:00

At least my work is. I made a very flippant comment in a previous blog post about my new job, and expense account lunches. I'm not important enough to have a company credit card, a company car, a company mobile or a company Blackberry.

And I thank god for all of those small mercies.

I can understand that if you're new to a job, then these little things would be a sort of status symbol, some kind of proof that you deserve to be taken seriously. When you've been doing a similar sort of job for a while, like me, you know that you don't need these to be taken seriously. Actually, what you know is that no one takes you seriously anyway, most of the time you're spitting into the wind, even more of the time you couldn't care less, and even if you did want to be taken seriously, you know that shouting and/or random acts of violence are the only way to go.

However, in the pecking order of our office, the one where I sit slightly above cleaner, but with less popularity than the trolley lady, I do get invited out to lunch. Quite a bit. In fact, twice this week coming. It sounds great, doesn't it?

Yes?

Er, actually, no. You see, it's all right going out to lunch, but it's all the other stuff that goes with it that bothers me. For a start, I have to try and look business like, which is no mean feat. This means I have to dust off a suit, make sure I've got decent shoes on, and make sure that I haven't got toothpaste on my face. I even (horror of horrors) have to put a bit of make-up on, to let people know that a/ I'm a woman and b/ I'm only half as ghastly as I could have been. I also then have to sit in a meeting, looking both thoughtful and attentive, nodding my head at relevant moments, putting my finger to my chin and going 'Hmm' and 'Mmm mmm' as and when I feel some sort of business response is required.

And don't even get me started on the meal business. That's a minefield all of it's own. A quick glance at the menu, then a longer glance at what I'm wearing. If my clothes are black, nothing with a cream sauce. If they're white, nothing with a tomato sauce. NEVER, EVER, spaghetti. Nothing that requires twirling round a fork. Nothing with bones in, that might inadvertently get stuck in my throat, and lead to a paroxysm of coughing which results in fish hitting my guest opposite in the eye at a rate somewhat approaching the speed of sound. Nothing that I think I'll like, only to remember when it's in my mouth that I don't, and then makes me gag. Nothing that will fetch a filling out. Nothing that I'll get on my face, and only notice on the train journey home. And most importantly of all, NOT THE MEAL THAT IS MOST EXPENSIVE.

This is quite an art. You have to look at the menu, look at your fellow guests, and then try to anticipate what everyone will have. No good opting for a sandwich, if everyone else is going to tuck into a steak. Even worse to order the highly expensive, but beautifully presented, sea bass if your fellow diners are just having a quick Caesar salad.

And the worst sin of all; don't have too much to drink.

Don't get me wrong; I like a drink as much as the next woman, particularly if the next woman is Amy Winehouse when she's having a break from the crack with something a bit lighter on the possible custodial sentencing. But drinking at lunchtimes is something I do not do well at all. One glass of wine has me bright red in the face, two sees me a little more giggly than usual, three might have me discussing sexual positions and four will see me sliding off my chair. But it's almost the done thing to have something to be sociable, so I'll have to try and get used to it.

Wish me luck, won't you?

And can you really get your leg right up there? Let me see if I can...

The Tuesday Tantrum

2008-05-13T18:53:00.003+01:00

Welcome to a new weekly series on things that are making me a bit cross. It does come however with a little bit of a proviso. For a start, I can't always guarantee that it's going to be on a Tuesday. I can't say for definite that it will be weekly. What I can say, is that there is always something that is getting my goat. When I called it a weekly series, I was a bit worried that I might not be able to do it every week.

Now I've thought about it, I'm more concerned that it might be hourly.

Today's tantrum concerns an apparent lack of literacy in the working population. Or more specifically, some people being unable to FOLLOW A SIMPLE DAMN INSTRUCTION IN AN E-MAIL.

I hate to lift a veil of secrecy over my employment; really I'd like you all to believe that I swan around, making executive decisions, and shouting 'Buy! Sell! Buy!' into the phone, while I twang my Wall Street braces. However that is very far from the truth. Lean in close, so I only have to whisper. My job?

Not rocket science.

I run a team of people, all well educated, all used to working in an office, all with previous experience of very imilar types of work. No one fresh from school, all with tongues in their head, all capable of making rational decisions. Sounds marvellous doesn't it? Because I've got quite a big team, because both I and they spend a lot of time on the telephone, it's quite difficult to get everyone together so that they can all be told the same thing at the same time. Thus I resort to the team leader's fall back position; I send them an e-mail. That way, they can read it when they've got a minute, and if it's important they can keep it so they can refer back to it.

Again, not rocket science.

I'll give you a little example, and paraphrase it very slightly so I don't break some previously unheard of privacy law:-

All,

I know you'll all have noticed the problems with accessing certain data this morning. Systems are working on it, but they've managed to put a temporary fix in place. Double click on the icon below, and you will then be able to gain access. However, this will not save overnight - keep this e-mail safe so that you can click on the icon every day until problem is permanently sorted.

Any queries, please give me a shout.

See? It doesn't seem so difficult, does it? And just in case, the e-mail was titled something like 'IT Issues - Important, Please Read'. Like I'd send an e-mail that you didn't have to read. If I wanted to talk and have nobody listen, I'd just get married again.

And did it work? Did it buggery. Some hours later, one of my team asked if anything had happened about the problem. I asked if they'd read the e-mail. Oh? Had I sent an e-mail? Someone else deleted it without reading it, someone deleted it after reading it, someone couldn't find it at all the next day, although they'd definitely seen it before, one person thought it didn't apply to them and another one hadn't clicked on the icon because they didn't understand the instruction.

As well as having the tuesday Tantrum, I'm thinking of having Firing Squad Friday; I'd do it earlier but I need time to go and buy the ammo...

So, does anyone want to join in? Anything on your mind today?

Let's have a little rant and get it out of our systems...

A Shadow of my Former Self

2008-05-12T19:40:00.002+01:00

I wish.

One of the things I really wanted to do this year was lose weight. It's now four months from the time when I'll be going on holiday, and it will apparently be warm enough for me to not to have to wear a scarf. Indeed, there is the possibility that I will take my socks off. And even, maybe, be seen in some sort of swimming attire (which is nice, not just because I can't swim, but also because the fashion for knee length stripey costumes appears to have passed by). This means of course that I need to be at my best weight, looking gorgeous.

I wish.

The cause of my sad downfall on the weight loss front has been my new job. I could make up extravagant stories about the fact that I now have expense account lunches with clients, where we eat only the finest caviar, and quaff port. I could fictionalise my evenings and tell you that I work in such a high pressure environment that when I get home I have to order in a takeaway as it's already nearly midnight. I could delight you with tales of business breakfasts, executive brunches and early evening cocktails.

But none of it is true. My downfall is the staff canteen.

I get there early some mornings, early enough for me not always to either have had time for, or feel like, breakfast. But wait! All is not lost! The canteen is open for breakfast! With a selection of toasts, preserves, cereals and cooked breakfasts. I haven't always had time to make my sandwiches. But wait! The canteen is open for lunch! With a selection of hot meals, ready made and made to order sandwiches, crisps, puddings and chocolates.Sometimes in the afternoon, you've been working so hard that you need a little pick-me-up to get you through the rest of the day. It's a shame that the canteen closes after lunch, because do you know what would be really useful? I know! A lady coming round with a trolley! With reduced price sandwiches, chocolates, crisps, fruit (!), Angel Delight in pots, muffins, and my all time favourites, little pots of pick n mix sweets.

So today I decided enough was enough, unless I want to achieve fame and fortune in a Channel Five Documentary called 'F*** Me, That Woman is Fat.' I had a very healthy bowl of cereal before I left for work. I took a salad with me for lunch, and some raspberries to snack on in the afternoon. I had a beef salad when I got home tonight, and followed it up with a yoghurt.

Marvellous.

But I reckon that Creme Eggs don't last forever, so I had to finish those last two in the fridge. But eggs? That's like protein, right?

I wish.

Another Country

2008-05-11T19:39:00.002+01:00

I'm back. And this time for good.

Or evil.

Do you remember when I was 40, and I had a massive long list of things I wanted to do? I told you about it here? Well, I've been busy. And it's only May right? So I'm not even half way though the year yet, am I?

I'm also not even close to halfway through the damn list either, which is one of those things about blogging where you come a cropper. I mean, if you make a New Years Resolution and don't tell anyone, then who's to know if it's all gone to cock by the 4th of January?

So far, I'm well on the way to number 14, 18's a done deal, 21's looking good, 29, lots of you did (but you should really get your screen resolution sorted) and Belle's taking care of 17 and 26, but they're still in the future.

Which brings me to number 2. I'd like to go to a country I've never been to before. I was thinking about lots of places when I wrote that. Australia, Canada, New Zealand, China. And a little bit nearer to home Croatia, Greece or Russia. I've just booked a holiday for a week in September, but it's not to a country I've never been to before. It's Italy.

And I'm going with him.

I would like to say the process was straightforward. I'd also like to say that I've just won the lottery, but that's not true either.

We'd skated round the subject for a little while but eventually agreed that we would like to go on holiday together. In a burst of enthusiasm that I normally reserve for cheese or cheese related products, I whizzed off to the travel agent to get a brochure to give me some ideas. We talked about when we could get away. Golf played a far greater part in the decision than one could imagine, frankly, but eventually, we decided on the middle of September. We both wanted to go somewhere warm, and somewhere where you can do things. You know, things. A bit more than a beach holiday, if you like.

I came up with a wealth of suggestions: Morocco, Egypt, Greece, Italy. We decided on Italy, so then the searching could begin in earnest. Or so you would think...

I went back to the travel agents and came up with enough Italy brochures to fill, well, fill a travel agents. He went to the travel agents and picked up a brochure. Singular. I perused them at length, came up with an idea of what sort of area I'd like to go to.

I think he watched the football.

My decision was carried unanimously, so I went back to the brochures to draw up a short list of hotels, based on price, location, amenities, the usual sort of thing.

I think he watched the football.

I took all of my brochures out with us one night, and we skimmed through them while we had a drink. The next morning I left them for him, with the corners helpfully turned down, so he could see which ones I liked. I'm not a control freak (quiet at the back); I told him that there were loads to choose from, and I'd welcome any other suggestions. The weekend was a Bank Holiday, so there was loads of time to look through them. He didn't. I do not think that men like to look through brochures, nor make decisions.

Maybe that is only certain men.

We met up at my house to finalise the booking. In a fit of frustration the night before I'd sent him a text message telling him to 'LOOK AT THE DAMN BROCHURES'. It perhaps wasn't very polite. But he had taken me seriously this time, and made a page of useful notes. They mainly centred around one hotel, which was his favourite. It is too expensive, well over the price range that we'd set for ourselves. I'd discussed this with him before. It was only cheaper in one brochure because that was a flight from Gatwick and it didn't include a transfer from the airport, and for all I know, you had to stand on one leg while you booked it, to get that price. It was also booked up entirely for the week we wanted to go.

I told him all of this, and we went to trawl the internet. I pulled up a website showing a hotel that I liked the look of, that we could afford, and that was free the week we needed.

'It's not really like that other one, is it?' he said.

No, it isn't. What about this one? It's a bit more expensive, but still within our budget.

'It's not really the same as that other one though, is it?' he said.

No. because it's in our price range, and we could stay in it for the right week.

I would like to say that this stopped after two hotels, but again with the winning the lottery thing.

Finally, finally, we decided on a hotel. No, it's nothing like that other one, but by this time I'd have slept on the beach. We started to go through the booking screens, decided to pay the supplement for the room with a view, rather than the room with its own polluted atmosphere from all the Vespas on the road outside. No need to book an in-flight meal is there, I said, skipping past it. He looks at me in some horror. I reiterate to him that the flight is at 10 past 6 in the morning. We will have been at the airport since 4. The only food I can imagine eating at that time is a kebab. And usually I have to have had a fair few lagers to work up an appetite for it. I try to look at it from his point of view.

You know, the wrong one.

'Well, I suppose when I go on holiday with C, she always makes me a bacon sandwich to eat at the airport' I remark wistfully.

He looks at me with renewed hope.

'Shall I ask her if she'll make us both one?' I say, thereby dashing all of his hopes of me as a domestic goddess.

The meal costs quite a lot of money. That's as cheap as we could get something at the airport, he says. Yes it is, if we have foie gras and lobster, but I don't think they do it in a kebab.He makes a final bid for the meal on the plane.

'But Aldo Zilli's making it!' he says, with a note of triumph that is clearly meant to be the casting vote. I do not think that a meal that is inspired by Aldo Zilli means that he's going to be at the front of the plane, whipping up some sort of gastronomic delight. I think we'll be lucky if it's a variety box of Rice Krispies, but I also think you have to choose your battles. A meal on the plane it is.

And finally, we're booked.

It might not be a country that I've never been to before, but a lot of it's starting to feel like uncharted territory...

At last

2008-04-20T12:25:00.000+01:00

As I have been booted unceremoniously out of semi-retirement by Swearing Mother, I am here. I've just been to her blog and she sounds as though she's in a foul mood, so I daren't disobey.

However, the simple fact is I'm not sure I should be here.

I'm a few weeks into a new job (which is going great), non-relationship tripping along very nicely (best not to ask) and my computer is dying on its arse.

So I keep wondering, why am I here. Not in a sort of existentialist what am I on this planet for, but because I seem to have run out of things to say.

I've lost my funny.

And my misery.

All gone.

Just me left.

So I'm going to disappear for a bit.

Take care everyone, you've been fab.

Tina
xxx

Cold Truth

2008-03-30T18:48:00.002+01:00

So, 2 weeks ago, it's my last day at work. I've been there almost 17 years, so it's really hard to leave everyone behind. That said, some of the people? Wish I'd left them years ago.

We all went out in the evening. Well, I'd been out at lunchtime too, so it promised to be a good night. And it was. Loads of people came out, some people I didn't expect to come out, which was fab, because the drinking thing, it's not for everyone. Specially, because when I do go out on a night like this, there's not really much of an opportunity for food, unless chips happen to fall in your mouth from a plague of raining chips as you walk from one pub to another. Which I've always sort of hoped for, but it's yet to happen.

One pub led to another. It always does. There were tears, not mine. There are always girls who cry for no reason. Why does that happen? Are we still in school? Good grief.

We ended up in an 80s bar, which is always kind of an end of night thing with us. You know, at the beginning of the night, it's the worst place that you could think of ending up, and you wouldn't be seen dead in it. Halfway through the evening, you start to think about where's a good place that you can all stay late, and some people can have a dance. Come half eleven, it's all "Oh God! Wham! I love this one!" and you're away. We danced me and him, messing around, having a laugh. We may have shared a quick kiss, no big deal, hardly anyone left that had started out with us, and nothing more than a peck anyway.

Fast forward, if you will, two weeks later. One of my friends from the old office leaving to start a new life in Dublin. I went to say goodbye to her. Same old faces, but already I felt like I didn't belong, that I've moved on, I have a different road to take now. He was there and someone commented to him that now his girlfriend had turned up. We were a couple, weren't we? We had, apparently, been the talk of the office in those two weeks, not that he knew anything about it of course. Men don't really enter into that sort of gossip (well, if they do, they don't often admit to it), and anyway I guess that people knew that he'd give them short shrift if they asked him anything about us.

I watched him when he was asked the question. He laughed and said no, we weren't a couple.

And that's the cold truth.

The Flip Side of Mothering

2008-03-08T22:04:00.002Z

Or Why I Need a New Coat.

Is it just me? Or do you only realise when you're at the bus stop on the way to the childminder, that you haven't examined your offspring's face? I mean, don't get me wrong, you look at them all the time. But really examine? I mean, they know the routine, right? Make sure your face is clean before you leave the house. And clean your teeth. And at least wave something over your hair. So you don't need really to examine their faces, do you?

Of course you do.

Even for minor things, like sleepy eyes. (Although it is not unheard of for me to spot toothpaste, jam, chocolate or a combination of all 3 which dates back days). I have a real issue about those bits of sleep that get into the corner of your eyes. I prod at my own eyes with the fervour of an archaeologist and am amazed that this is one of the habits my son hasn't inherited. (Lord have mercy on him, he got my laugh. Which means that he will spend the rest of his life being recognised at a hundred yards every time someone says something even remotely amusing.)

So it's really only when I get to the bus stop that I have time to examine his eyes. And sadly he is past the age where he allows me to stick random digits in his eyes. (ah, those were the days). I am therefore left with the highly unsatisfactory resolution of pointing out that he has sleep in his eyes. When I first started doing this he would perform nicely, like a good boy. Lately, things have taken a sinister turn. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and then wiped his finger on my sleeve. I stared at him.

'What are you doing?'

'Wiping my finger.'

'What was on it?'

'Eyeball jelly.'

Eeeeeeewwwwwwww. I mean, just eeeeeewwwwwwww.

He has now stepped up the campaign of horror. Recently, I took the brave decision to point out the sleep in his eyes again. Then turned away to look for the bus, affecting nonchalance. The next thing I feel is his fingers.

Entwined lovingly in my hair.

I turn to stare at him.

'Have you just wiped sleep in my hair?'

He bursts out laughing at the look of disgust on my face, and chortles merrily.

'Of course I haven't, mummy.'

I breathe a sigh of relief, and turn back to look for the bus.

'I wiped it on your coat first.'

Why I Love Being a Mother - #1 in an Infinite Series

2008-03-02T19:45:00.002Z

Mother's Day.

A Special Day. For Mothers. Because We Are Special.

It's good, isn't it?

It's one of the things that I like about being a mother. As my son is not with me permanently, there is inevitably a scuffle just before Mother's Day (or Mothering Sunday, as my own mum will insist), whilst said son tries to smuggle in random assorted gifts through the front door, under his dad's supervision.

'Mum, will you go & stand in the kitchen?'

I do. Strategically positioned, so that I can see the antics reflected in the kitchen window. There is rustling, whispering, a bit more rustling, and then thundering footsteps up the stairs. Son returns.

'You know the place where the shower switch is? Where the suitcases are?'

I do indeed. It is the place that I'm going to rent to a vertically & financially challenged person when I fall on hard times.

'Don't go in there'.

I wouldn't dream of it.

I was lucky enough to be woken with breakfast in bed. By a nine year old. This had taken quite a lot of preparation, on both our parts. I thought long & hard about it yesterday. Did I trust him with the toaster? Did I buggery. Could I trust him to get up the stairs with cereal, and more importantly, milk? No, I could not. So what then would be easily managed?

Pain au chocolat would, and stuff the diet. I gave brief instructions last night about how to use the microwave.

'Open the door. Put them in. On a plate. Close the door. Turn the timer thingy to in between 1 and 2 mins. Don't stand in front of it. (Old superstitions die hard) When the timer dings, take them out. Bring to lovely mummy.'

Child's play, you'd think.

I was greeted with his little smiling face, clutching a plate.

'Did you hear that bang?'

No. I did not hear a bang. I felt an earthquake in the week, but I did not hear a bang when my son was unsupervised in the kitchen. Dear God, the house is in ruins. I will need to call the fire brigade. I wonder if the cat has exploded too.

'I think it was when they got so hot that the cellophane exploded.'

Did I remember to tell him to take them out of the cellophane? Apparently not. I'm slightly perturbed that there wasn't molten plastic on them. At least none that I could taste.

Ah well.

Mother's Day. What's not to love?

Road to Nowhere

2008-03-01T11:42:00.007Z

I keep being gone too long, I know I do. And I sometimes miss having the time to come here as often as I used to. Lots of you with site meters will find that I still come to see you, even if I don't always have time to leave a comment, and I do still love hearing about what you're all up to. But these days, I just seem so busy, and there's always somewhere else I need to be.

Like Thursday evening for instance. Some work do, where one of our clients took quite a lot of us out for a meal and a drink. They've been doing this for about 5 years now, and always just after Christmas, so we were a bit later this year. These events are now the stuff of office legend. One year someone got so drunk that they fell asleep in their own garden on their way home, and lost one of their contact lenses. (Not me, don't wear lenses). One year we went to a club, and someone threw up, incredibly violently, in the toilets. (Not me, I rarely throw up now from drink). One year, someone drank 5 sambuccas straight down, after lighting them, and then thought they'd gone blind. (OK, that one was me). If you have the stamina for them, they regularly go on until about 5 the next morning.

I do not have the stamina for that.

This year, we left at about half 12 (just 1 sambucca, but quite a lot of vodka & a little bit of wine), and as we sat in the taxi I thought a little bit about the fact that it would be the last one that I went to, because of my new job. Lots of things will come to an end now. And as Manic Mother was astute enough to point out, the new job means that I won't be working with him any more. Are we still doing what we're doing out of habit, because we're there? Is it just because we see each other nearly every day? Will this just become a Christmas and birthday card sort of friendship?

No one knows, not even me, although I don't think it will.

When we got to his house, he gave me my birthday present, which had been ordered and had taken a long while to get here. It was this.

I love this painting. I know there is much snobbery in the art world about Jack Vettriano, but I simply do not care. Is it wrong to like a painting because you can see what it is? Is it wrong to like something traditional, because it is not made out of earwax and toenail clippings?

It's called 'Road to Nowhere'. He chose it because he loved the painting, the fact that the couple looked so damn cool, and that even if it's a road to nowhere, you kind of want to go where they're going.

He also chose it because it's the title of one of his favourite songs (by Talking Heads, if you're not sure).

The lyrics make me smile.

'Well we know where we're goin'

But we don't know where we've been

And we know what we're knowin'

But we can't say what we've seen

And we're not little children

And we know what we want

And the future is certain

Give us time to work it out

We're on a road to nowhere

Come on inside

Takin' that ride to nowhere

We'll take that ride

I'm feelin' okay this mornin'

And you know,

We're on the road to paradise

Here we go, here we go.'

I like the idea of being on that road, even if it is going nowhere.

Working for Peanuts

2008-02-16T16:13:00.003Z

Goodness. I have split the blogger community asunder. And I'm glad.

I like the fact that you'll be honest with me. Not for me the namby pamby 'Oh, but it's lovely. You're lovely. Have you lost weight?' I'd rather you tell me what you think. And so you do. With bells on. And that way I know you're reading it too. But just to give you all a little break from the controversy, I've decided to stick with 2 less controversial topics that I've also promised to write about (Crystal, I promise I'll come back to holiday). Today, pay attention, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to discuss weight and work.

You may remember that I've promised to shed 10% of my weight within 6 months. This campaign, within our office is affectionately entitled, 'Axe The Flab'. I may well yet have to resort to an axe. Lola, you've given me excellent advice on how best to do this, and I can see that I was clearly along the wrong lines with chopping off a leg. As you very kindly point out this is 18.5%, and therefore that is too much. A head is 7%, and therefore not enough (although it would help in the long term, as I would no longer have a mouth to put food in, and I'm not sure you can put weight on by cramming cake straight into your neck stump.) Also there is the dead related problem. Although I will await for Lola's properly scientific advice, I'm pretty much convinced at the moment, that if the worst comes to the worst, I can do without 1 arm, 1 foot, and a generous shaving off each buttock.

All is not going well at the moment with the weight loss. I was off to a flying start, and lost 2.5 pounds the 1st week. I felt like I had too. I commented that I felt like a waif. I felt like a bag of crisps or 12 would set me back on the right track. But I stuck to it and lost another pound the week after. Then, my birthday week, I put a pound on (goodness, doesn't pizza & vodka weigh heavy when it's in skin?), and I think this week I've stayed the same, although I was technically wearing lighter clothes, so may in fact have put weight on again. Tricky damn business. But at least I'm going in the right direction, and at least, technically and theoretically, I know how to lose weight.

A colleague of mine who's doing the same thing put 2 pounds on the 1st week, then lost 1, then put another 2 on. She's lost the will to live now, and can't remember if she's lost or gained this week, as she now has no idea how much she weighed in the 1st place. She was listening in to a convesration I was having with a friend when I explained how I'd been really good, eating chicken, fish, vegetables, lots of fruit (this was early on & I wasn't counting lemon in my vodka as fruit). She asked if I'd changed what I normally ate. I said of course I had. She looked at me in astonishment.

'God,' she said. 'I don't think I could do that.'

She appears to be under the mistaken apprehension that by signing up for the campaign, she has effectively guaranteed that she will lose weight. And cannot understand that if in 1 week, you have fish & chips (twice), pizza & chips, a family size lemon sponge cake, and 2 Danish pastries (with vanilla custardy stuff) per day, then you will not automatically lose weight. Beats me how she lost any weight in that second week.

It is only my competitive streak that keeps me going, and soon I'm going to lose that. Well, not lose it, but just not have access to it. Bacuse you see (cue drumroll & fanfare), I have a new job. I've signed on with an agency, been for an interview, been offered the job and handed my notice in. All in the space of 2 weeks. It has taken my breath away, and I'm fairly sure that when the adrenalin wears off I will be in shock. But for now, I'm very content, and delighted with the fact that I gave a figure for the salary I was looking for, and left myself enough room to negotiate, because I was at the top end of their salary band. I'm even more delighted with the fact that they clearly realised I was a catch & no mistake, and offered me more than I asked for. I'm even more delighted than that, that this equates to a salary increase of approximately 17%. (so my mathematically minded friends tell me). And to that person who told me that the grass isn't always greener? No you're right, it isn't. But the grass is dead on this side & I'll thank you to keep your miserable face & opinion to yourself. So there.

I had a bit of trouble with writing my resignation letter. I've not written one for years. In the end, I wrote a very pleasant one, thanking them for the opportunities they'd given me.

But I'm still quite fond of my first draft.

'Dear (insert name),
I would like to tender my resignation from the company forthwith. This is because I hate my job, and (insert other name) is really mean, and I hate her too. Also, I think you have the potential to be mean, and in fact a mini-me clone of (other name). I would rather eat my own feet than continue working here.'

And I would too.

But I'm trying to lose weight.

When is a Relationship not a Relationship?

2008-02-10T23:34:00.001Z

First of all, I'd just like to say a massive thank you to readers new & old who left such lovely comments on my birthday post. I did feel quite brave coming out with a photo, and I promise it's never likely to be repeated! I had a great birthday, thanks all.

Secondly, as promised, there's some things I need to get back to, because I've not posted here as regularly as I would have liked. I've been busy with all sorts, but I'll try to get you up to speed.

Right. Where to start. Right. Erm. Well.

Crikey.

You'll remember that I walked away, right? And you'll remember also how that went, right? That despite my promises and oaths, I walked right back, about half a nano-second later? Right.

Well, after Christmas, we had a bit of a talk. Or at least I did. Because by now, I was so certain as to how things went, that despite his presence, I decided to hold both sides of the conversation. I am nothing if not helpful.

Me: I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that you never meant for any of this to happen. You don't regret it happening, but you don't want to hurt me. You would never do anything to hurt me, and that's why it can't happen again. But you're not sorry and you enjoyed it. But you don't want to hurt me. And you just don't see me in that way.

He at least had the grace to laugh.

But, in an extremely sly move, and most unexpectedly, he had changed the script (although he told me it was a damn good effort.) You see, I've been here before with him, and I said that unless we did something about it, then I didn't think I could rule it out that it might happen again.And he said that he didn't think he could, either.

Then he said he didn't want to rule it out.

Now readers, if you are paying attention, you will note that this is something unexpected (To me at least. But you are probably quicker on the uptake, and decidedly more realistic). You see, although he doesn't want to rule out the possibility of us spending the odd night together here and there, he doesn't want anything else. At least, not from me.

This is not where I expected my life to be. At some point, I was meant to have moonlight and roses, champagne and dancing. I think I maybe need to check my Amazon order again, because something has gone awry.

So I did the only sensible thing. I told him that I wasn't interested in half measures. That I deserved better than that. That I deserved someone who wanted all of me, as a person. And I told him to stop being so damn cheeky. Did he think I was some cheap bit of skirt?

Did I fuck.

I laughed, and told him OK, that we'd see how it goes. Then I giggled a lot, because frankly, this is so out of character from my usual self that it is like an alien invasion.

And it's going really well. I think I'm more surprised than anyone.

But when I was talking to Belle about it, she doesn't seem to get the crux of the matter. God bless her, she's had a lot on her mind of late, so I can understand her confusion. You see, WE ARE NOT DATING. At all. We are not in a relationship. But she's not getting it.

You might be able to settle this for us.

This is how it goes. We talk to each other, and then we suggest a time that we might like to go out. We work together, so it's usually after work. So we make an arrangement in advance. He asks me if I'd like to stay over, and if I would, then I take an overnight bag, which is infinitely easier than before when things just 'happened', and I had to borrow shower gel, shampoo, toothbrushes etc, and wear the same clothes to work 2 days running. Not a good look, if I'm honest.

Anyway.

Then we go out for a drink in town, have a laugh, like always, chat about rubbish, like always. Have a meal, then go back to his home town (far posher than mine, in a very nice part of Birmingham). Have a couple of drinks there. If we haven't had a meal in town, we'll pick up a takeaway, then go back & watch ER. Then, well. You don't need all the details.

He was disappointed, I think, that I couldn't stay over the night before my birthday, so I'd wake up with him. But I had other plans. On Monday, I had some exciting news, so we went for a drink after work. Then I stayed over in an impromptu fashion. On Thursday, we'd planned to go out for my birthday, which we did & it was lovely. Had a meal, went to the cinema, went back to his house (with my overnight bag this time). Friday, we went out for a drink with loads of people from work.

I had approximately 12 vodkas too many, on top of the 6 or so that were OK, and was feeling a little bit the worse for wear. He didn't ask me if I wanted to stay at his house.

He told me that I had to.

Because he was worried about me getting home by myself. It's a long way, for goodness sake, I'm a woman on my own, and IT'S NOT SAFE, YOU ARE STAYING. (I might have taken a swear word or 20 out).

When I have had a little drink, I've been known to let the feisty side of me come out. This was one of those occasions. I was really stroppy with him. Did he not trust me to get home? Did he think I was some pathetic woman? He'd let me go home like this before, what's changed? Did he think that now, especially now, that I wasn't so damn careful of the boundaries that we'd set up, that I was looking for him to rescue me?

And do you know what he did then? He agreed. But he still said it wasn't safe. But that he was just being protective. Maybe a bit over-protective, he said. When we got to his house, I sat on the sofa & sulked. Then I cried. Then I went to bed, to stop the room spinning. I don't think we spoke until the morning.

Surely to god, none of the above is how couples go on with each other? Where is the moonlight & roses? Where is the champagne? No candles?

Belle told me that it sounds very much like a relationship to her.

But then I played my trump card.

We're not going out with each other. Because he hasn't asked me out.

So there.

40

2008-02-02T17:35:00.000Z

I'll come back to the other topics, I promise.

But today, it's my birthday.

1. I'd like to stay up all night and watch the sun rise.
2. I'd like to go to a country I've never been to before.
3. I'd like to learn a new language.
4. I'd like to go dancing.
5. I'd like to be sent flowers.
6. I'd like to walk barefoot in the sand.
7. I'd like to go and see a new band.
8. I'd like to go to the opera.
9. I'd like to ride a horse.
10. I'd like to learn to drive.
11. I'd like to have beautiful nails, with patterns.
12. I'd like to lie in a field and look at the stars.
13. I'd like to make snow angels.
14. I'd like to smile and laugh more.
15. I'd like to drink champagne.
16. I'd like to go for a long walk in the country.
17. I'd like to go to the National Gallery.
18. I'd like to get a new job.
19. I'd like to go and see a French film, with subtitles.
20. I'd like to have a massage.
21. I'd like to see my son stay as happy as he is now.
22. I'd like to sit outside and drink wine in the evening.
23. I'd like to exercise more.
24. I'd like to wear fancy dress.
25. I'd like to spend more time with my friends.
26. I'd like to go to the theatre in London.
27. I'd like to watch Shirley Valentine again.
28. I'd like to learn to ski.
29. I'd like someone to tell me I look beautiful.
30. I'd like to start voluntary work.
31. I'd like to make a difference to someone.
32. I'd like to go on a boat.
33. I'd like to lose weight.
34. I'd like someone to sing to me.
35. I'd like to be brave.
36. I'd like a wish to come true.
37. I'd like to see fireworks, and have a sparkler.
38. I'd like to wear silk.
39. I'd like to be in love, and be loved back.
40. I'd like to be me, but better.

Lots of love,

Tina

Out of Breath

2008-01-28T18:54:00.000Z

I'm only here really quickly, life is most manic at the moment, so I'm literally grabbing a few spare minutes as I haven't been here for so long. Forgive me, but you're really going to have to run to keep up, and I promise I'll come back later in the week.

Age
Yes, it appears to approach, and ever faster. I will be 40 this Saturday. I expected to dread it, but instead am approaching it with glee, and a renewed joie de whatsname.

Job
It remains the bane of my life. Not just because it gets in the way of really important stuff, like Jeremy Kyle for instance, but because it's horrible, and I hate it. There are however plans...

Weight
Somewhat foolishly, I (& some others) have agreed to do a sponsored weight loss thingummy at work, called Axe the Flubber, or some such delight. I have to commit to losing 10% of my body weight within 6 months. This equates to about 20 stone. Am thinking of having a leg off.

Holidays
Nothing planned, although have recently come back from a lovely weekend in Portugal. Ooh, get me!

House
Needs decorating in some rooms, knocking down in others, & bricking up the remainder. Am thinking a coat of paint might have to do it though. And a blindfold at the door.

Friends
Not enough time to see them, talk to them, catch up with them or generally be with them. Is pissing me off mightily.

Lovelife
Is taking a very pleasant turn, thanks very much for asking. Yes, I'm being careful, yes I'm being careful not to get hurt, yes, I'm enjoying myself. Mightily.

Blogging
Not enough time, not enough time to come & read you all, but I will do soon, I promise, I really haven't forgotten you all. I miss you very much.

Now to help me prioritise & manage my time better, if you leave me a comment, then please let me know which of the above you'd like me to expand on.

Because believe me, there's more on every single one...

Subverting The Form

2008-01-14T22:21:00.000Z

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess called Brunettilocks. When she was just a little girl, she had been Goldilocks, and as she grew up, she changed her name frequently, being Blondilocks, Highlightilocks, Blackilocks & Burgundilocks. An evil witch, so jealous of the princess, cast a wicked spell upon her, and turned her hair to the shiniest silver. Luckily, her fairy godmother came to her aid, and every few weeks restored her hair to its former glory.

Brunettilocks, the beautiful princess, lived in the land of Sometime-Never, and spent hours gazing wistfully through her window into the dark woods beyond, wishing for her Prince Charming. Prince Charming sadly never seemed to arrive, so Brunettilocks decided to take matters into her own hands, and venture into the deep, dark woods. One day, whilst she played happily with a little band of squirrels and rabbits, she spied a cottage she had never seen before. Bravely, she approached, and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so she pushed the creaking door open to peek inside.

She explored the little cottage, exclaiming joyfully at the treasures she found within. She ventured upstairs, and overcome by the excitement of her adventure, lay on the bed to sleep. She was rudely awakened by a loud shout. Sitting up in bed with a start, she was shocked to discover a great big bear, who told her his name was First Bear. She decided quickly that she loved him very much, and married him the next day. They lived happily for a short while, but then one day, First Bear came home from work looking very cross.

"Whose bed have you been sleeping in?" he growled, and Brunettilocks (who at this point was known as Copperilocks) sadly decided it was time to leave First Bear, and resume her search for Prince Charming. Some days later, she happened upon another cottage, very similar to the first. And here was another bear, almost the same as the first one! She was very worried that she would never find Prince Charming, and was tiring of the happy little games with the rabbits and the squirrels. So when Second Bear asked if she would marry him, she happily said that she would. They soon had a beautiful little baby bear, who Brunettilocks called Best Bear in All The Land, and she loved him very much.

Sadly, the day soon arrived when she had to leave Second Bear too, but Best Bear in All The Land lived some of the time with Brunettilocks, and some of the time with Second Bear, and he was a very happy bear indeed. Brunettilocks still dreamed of her Prince Charming, and would still gaze into the distant woods of Sometime-Never, wondering if he would ever appear. She decided that she would have one last search for him, and ventured into the woods again. She came upon a third little cottage, but this one was very different to the first. She peeked round the door, and spied a lovely steaming bowl of porridge on the table and sat down to taste it. Mmmm, it was delicious! But just as she put the second spoonful to her mouth, the door swung open, and there stood another bear, very different to the first two.

"Who is eating my porridge?" he asked, but not unkindly.

"It's just me, Brunettilocks", she replied. "It tastes delicious - does it have a special name?" she asked.

"Yes it does" he answered. "This is special friendship porridge"

And Brunettilocks and Third Bear sat down together to share the special friendship porridge. Soon she visited every day, and always enjoyed a bowl of special friendship porridge, but one day she asked if she could have something more.

"I'm sorry" said Third Bear. "But special friendship porridge is all I have".

"That's OK" she replied, and continued to visit every day. Some time later she asked again for more, but sadly the answer was still the same. Never mind, she thought, because the special friendship porridge is delicious, and I like it very much. She still visited Third Bear every day, and decided to ask one final time if there was anything else she could have. This time, Third Bear thought carefully and said:-

"I don't have quite what you want, Brunettilocks, because I think you would like to have some cake and eat it. But instead I can sometimes give you sugar and spice, and if you can be happy with that, then everything will be OK"

Brunettilocks thought very carefully. It had been very important to her to find Prince Charming, and truly she did want to have that delicious cake and eat it. But sugar and spice sounded very nice to have, so she told Third Bear that sugar and spice would be very nice indeed. She decided that she would visit him as often as she could, sometimes to have some special friendship porridge, and sometimes, if there was any, she would have some sugar and spice.

And if one day Prince Charming happened to come by, he would surely find her.

The End.

And the moral of this story, dear readers? That not every fairy story has a happy ending.

But sometimes, just sometimes, if you clap your hands and believe in fairies, it's not entirely a sad ending either.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it's the start of an adventure.

Come On People! Help Me!

2008-01-06T19:13:00.000Z

Look everybody, this is really serious. We have (and I really do mean we, this is no time for you to be shirking your responsibilities) only 4 weeks to go, and we have to get moving.

YES, I SAID MOVING! PAY ATTENTION!

I'm sorry for the shouting, only I'm getting a bit stressed. I've moved quite a lot, but I've never done this sort of move before. It's really serious, a really big commitment.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT? WHY ARE YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION? I JUST TOLD YOU!!!

Oh, erm, I didn't.

Look at the URL for this blog. Go on, you know you want to. It is latethirtiescrisis. In just 4 weeks, there will be nothing late 30s about it. It will be 40. Well, I will, if not the blog. And not only does that mean my URL becomes not only crap but a lie, but it also means that I am too old for a tantrum (still), but not too young for a midlife crisis. Which I plan to have at the earliest opportunity.

OR EVEN SOONER IF YOU DON'T HELP ME.

So I need to move my blog to another URL. And I need to change the title of my blog. And I might need to change my name too. And my toothbrush. But I can manage that last one by myself.

SO COME ON PEOPLE!!!! I NEED SOME IDEAS!!!!

I NEED THEM NOW!!! STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING & HELP ME!!!!

Please?

Having a Degree Does Not Make You Clever

2008-01-03T18:41:00.000Z

Books, I can do them. Films, not a problem. Music, art, go on, I'll give them a whirl. Maths, not so much. In fact, I am a retard when it comes to maths. I have an O'Level in it, if that counts (ha! I made a maths joke!) for anything, but it seemed to be all about tangents and algebra and pi, and I don't use them at all now. Well, I go off on tangents. And I eat pies. But that's about it.

So anything vaguely maths related, and I go a bit glazed. And parts of me die. That's not me being dramatic, you know, I can hear them clunking out of action. Like Belle's washing machine. I'm not so bad in shops. But you know those conversations you have that start "OK, well I've given you 75 pence, but you already owed me 18 pence, but I bought the ticket for.."? By the time it gets to 75 pence, I have lost the will to live, and it has taken my reason with it.

So imagine how this conversation filled me with delight. For your benefit, I'll even give directors advice, so you can experience the full horror.

Me: Well, that's because you're a lot older than me. You're in a different decade.
Him: Only for 5 more weeks, and then we're in the same decade.
Me: God, I am old. Soon I will be the same age as you.
Him: You'll never be the same age, will you? Not exactly.
Me: Well, in the same year. For some of the year I'm the same age.
Him: True. And the gap between us is getting smaller.
Me: Eh?
Him: Gap's getting smaller. When I was 2, how old were you?
Me: Erm, 18 months old?
Him: So what was the gap as a percentage?
Me: Eh? (Panic sets in)
Him: What was the percentage?
Me: Ooh, er, crikey. Well, if I was 18 months old, and the gap was 6 months, and you were 2, well, it would have been, erm, ooh, god, erm, 25%? (This is a very random guess. I was close to saying pi, or something squared.)
Him: Well, if I'm 40 now, and you'll soon be 40, the gap is still 6 months, but what's the percentage now?
Me: Erm....4? (My brain has died)
Him: 4? How did you get 4?
Me: I guessed. Is it right? No, wait a minute....7! (This is said with some triumph)
Him: 7? 7? How in god's name did you get 7?
Me: Well, it didn't sound as though 4 was the right answer. So I tried 7. (I have decided honesty is the best policy. He will tell me the answer now, and not make me work at this)
Him: Now look. What fraction of 40 years is 6 months?
Me: Erm...(Oh dear god, it didn't work. And now we are doing fractions. Still, they are not so bad) Erm, is it an eightieth?
Him: Right, so if it's an eightieth, what is it as a percentage?
Me: Erm...(I have never done this in maths. Why would you need to convert a fraction into a percentage? If you wanted half of a cake, you wouldn't say "Oh please could I have 50% of that cake?" You would probably say "Oh please can I have all of that cake, and stuff your fractions and percentages". That's what you would say if you felt like I feel, right this minute.) Is it 7? (This is a last ditch gamble)
Him: (clearly exasperated beyond measure at my idiocy) Of course it's not 7...

There then followed an extremely complicated explanation, not only of why the answer was not 7, but of what the answer was. If I could remember it, remember how to work it out, or remember where the half of that cake was, I would tell you.

I tell you what, I should have got out of bed then...

Two Friends Together

2007-12-17T23:28:00.000Z

Manic Mother, I'm at your service. Details you require, details you shall have. If you are of a nervous, sensitive, or disinterested disposition, look away now.

Still here?

Right. Let's go.

Thursday evening. My old department Christmas meal. I'm there only by virtue of the fact that it was arranged before I moved departments, but these are old friends, friends I've had for many years. It had been booked for many weeks, since before there was awkwardness between us. I had dreaded this evening, not for the awkwardness, but for the memory of what was, and what could have been. And still I decided to go, when the sensible decision would have been not to. Over the last few weeks, we had started to rebuild the fragments of what we shared, tentative steps to redefine our friendship. A friendly smile, a quick chat, nothing more than that.

Still in the office, I got changed, called for some of my girls on the way down to the ground floor. They were nowhere in sight, but he was. We took the lift, my gaze fascinated beyond measure upon the door panel. Collected the girls downstairs, made our way to the bar. We stood side by side at the bar, as we'd done so many times before, chatting, muttering about our lack of bar presence.

We got to the restaurant, he sat opposite me. We chatted across the tapas, I switched to full on party mode, regaling the table with information they could do well without whilst eating, to much hilarity. I relaxed. It was going to be OK. I had my friend back, and it was just like before.

And that was all I'd ever wanted. Wasn't it?

The meal over, many people decided to leave. Not us. A group of us, just a handful, decided to move on to a bar; I was, after all, celebrating. It's not every day you get a degree, and by lord I was going to enjoy it. Numbers dwindled, three of us left. Me and my two favourite boys. Like evenings of old. It felt right. We moved on to another bar, sat laughing, drinking, exchanging gossip, and traditional office party banter.

Our friend left, it was late. Closing time. First decision. Time to go? Move on to another bar? Move to a different town? Did I want to go home, or stay over? Deep breath. Let's go on somewhere else, I'll stay over. I've done it lots of times before, my brain said. Before there was this between us. It has always been fine, and this will show me that we can be friends again. Did I believe that voice? I did. Don't believe me? It's true, and I'll tell you why.

Because I didn't dare believe that something would happen between us.

Just two friends together.

So we moved on to a venue more local to him. Sat on high stools next to the bar, facing each other, and talked like we had of old. Serious conversation, difficult topics, the occasional brush of a hand against an arm to show support, the occasional resting of fingertips against each other.

Just two friends together.

Back to his house, sitting next to each other, watching a DVD. Chatting, smiling, entirely comfortable with each other, just like we'd been in the past.

Just two friends together.

And then something more. Impossible to say who had started it, irrelevant really. I don't regret it, as I've said. It might not have been sensible, but there is little in my life that is governed by logic. If we need to redefine our friendship, or walk away from each other to protect ourselves, we'll reach the decision between us this time.

But as the dawn broke, I lay in his arms and wondered where we go now, the two friends together.

Decisions

2007-12-16T19:21:00.000Z

There appears to have been a few discrepancies with the fat lady singing. I thought I heard her. Crystal heard her very loudly indeed. Belle & Swearing Mother don't think they heard her at all. I think I might have heard her if truth be told, but that might have been because I was listening out for her, and got confused. You see in my mind, for an occasion such as this, the fat lady should be a lot like this.

Instead, there appears to have been a crossed wire inside my head, and what I actually got was this.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Beth Ditto; she's a fine figure of a woman. But she's not final, if you see what I mean. She looks like she's, well, you know. Ready for something.

I'm sure you're all very disappointed in me. There appears to have been an error of judgement. I tried to walk away, and I thought I could do it. But I couldn't, it was too hard. I thought that I could just stuff all my feelings so deep that no one would ever get to see them and I'd barely know they were there. I thought we could go back to where we were, before anything happened between us.

I was wrong on all counts.

I could give you a handful of excuses, if that would help? I could tell you it was Christmas? I could tell you I was celebrating? I could tell you that I'd had a bit to drink? All true, but all unnecessary.

I'm a big girl, I made a decision. My motto in life has always been "Never regret the things you do; only regret the things you don't do". So a decision was made. A series of decisions. And every time there was a decision to be made, I made it. Not him, but me.

Where are we now? Haven't a clue. Do I regret it? No, I don't. Will I in the future? Maybe. Not regret so much perhaps, but realise that I could have made a different decision. I can tell you I didn't plan for it to happen. There was no waxing, shaving, or general preparation of any kind. Was I surprised? Maybe a little.

So there we are. Another woman who makes a grand statement, then doesn't stick to it.

It's a funny old business, don't you think?

Just Checking

2007-12-14T12:51:00.000Z

I have been out of action for some time. My computer was struck down with shoddy service, but has now recovered, thanks to some (drunken) complaining, and mild threats made to people on far shores.

So, what have you all been up to?

This week, I got my results! I have my degree! Am not a Belle type brainbox, I stand in her intellectual shadow as well as her tall actual shadow, but nevertheless, I have a 2.1!

I have been on some marathon drinking frenzy ever since. Am frightened of stopping, because this is going to be some mammoth hangover. Am in danger of knocking Amy Winehouse off her pedestal. But ho hum. I have my degree! And it's Christmas.

But while I was here, I thought I'd just ask you to help me with something. You know I wrote here about endings? And I was in a really bad place? And we all understood that it was over, and we weren't friends any more? And we know it ain't over till the fat lady sings? And we all heard her singing, didn't we? We did, didn't we?

I thought we did.

I was just checking.

Hats Off To Me!!!

2007-12-14T12:48:00.000Z

Yeah baby!

I have my degree!

What would you like to know about meme?

2007-12-09T18:56:00.001Z

I just can never resist a polite invitation. I'm always over at Manic Mother's place, (if you're not, you should be), and she's just done a little meme with an open invitation. I'm also a stickler for rules, so here goes.

Apparently the rules of the game are:
A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog...
B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...
C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...
D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Right, let's go. Seven random and weird things about me. Well, you've come to the right place.

1. I'm incredibly, embarrassingly clumsy. I can fall over nothing at all, or maybe the most minute piece of grit that is invisible to the naked eye. In recent years, I've chipped the bone in both elbows, sprained my wrist, my ankle, had a black eye, and more bruises than you could shake a tube of arnica cream at. The clumsiness is combined with damn foolishness. I once locked myself in my own porch. Pulled the door shut behind me, and it locked. Tried to open the door in front of me. Locked. My keys? In the hall. Length of time spent in there? About seven hours. Strangely, passers by ignored me, even when I shouted and waved items of my clothing through my letter box. Can't think why.

2. I have strange eyes. Well, not strange so much (I mean, they're not on the side of my head or anything) but a strange colour. They're not quite blue, not quite green, but instead a very odd sort of grey. You know like a really dingy puddle? You've got it. I also have a scar on my lip, caused when I fainted in the toilet as a young girl, and cracked my face against the toilet seat. Not so glamorous. I have quite a snub nose too (I bet you're just dying for a photo. No? OK then), but when I was a baby, my mum used to stroke my nose and gently rub the end, because she was worried that it would turn up at the end. Wow, thanks mum.

3. I have an unusual relationship with pastry affiliated items. Like sausage rolls, and pork pies. Also with custard tarts. And sometimes sandwiches (yes I know they've got no pastry, I only just thought of that.) I have to eat all the pastry first. Or the crusts off the bread. And only then will I eat the filling. Even if I'm in public. And I'm not very keen on putting more than one type of food in my mouth at once. It's OK if it's already like that; I don't scrape sauce off pasta (I'm not a freak, you know), but a roast dinner? I cannot and will not put vegetables and potatoes in my mouth at the same time. Or potatoes and meat. Or any combination. I know it all goes to the same place - it's just that I like it to go there separately.

4. I've been married twice. Both times to men with the same first name. Both with the same star sign. Both with the same star sign as my dad (God rest his soul), and one of them with the same birthday as my dad. Not the year. Amateur psychologists, make of that what you will. Still, am always on the lookout for Husband Number 3. Third time's a charm, I believe they say. But my friends inform me I'm not to be trusted to make this decision alone, having made such a bollocks of it in the past. So, any prospective husband must present:- his birth certificate (to prove that his name isn't the same as my previous husbands), his passport (I jokingly suggested I would marry next time for humanitarian reasons, so an illegal immigrant could get a passport), his educational qualifications (so we know he's not a thickie), and a selection of jokes (so we know he'll get on with my son). This isn't just before we get married, either. This is before he's allowed to take me on a date.

5. My favourite thing in the whole world was being pregnant. Even though I felt sick for 20 weeks. And none of this crappy 'just in the morning' stuff. But I loved it. And, if the opportunity arose, I would have another baby tomorrow. Well, I have to be at work, but I'm free in the evening. A couple of years ago, my son asked that if I had another baby, could he choose the name for it. I was (am?) so confident that this would never happen, I said yes. I have said the same to the naming of any new kitten we acquire. Whichever of them comes first, it will be called Frank.

6. I'm in the wrong job. I'm good at it (most days), but I'd rather be doing something else. I'd love to be a teacher (but finances won't allow), love to be a writer (but talent doesn't allow), or love to work with children in a counselling capacity (but I don't have the experience. Yet.)

7. I'm a really big gossip. I love to have a gossip about people, the juicier the better. But that's only a certain category of people I know. Friends? A different kettle of fish altogether. Once I am told a secret by a friend, it will stay with me to the grave. My friends know this, and consequently I'm often the receptacle of confidences. I tend not to do that so much. It's rare for me to share stuff about myself (I can here giggling at the back - yes, I know this blog's a bit different.) But even then, it's the stuff that I'm comfortable with you knowing. There are secrets close to me that I have only shared with one person. And I know he keeps them safe.

If you're willing to have a go, then go for it. All of you people who are reading this, just have a go.

You have to have a more interesting life than I do.

Pastry, indeed.

Is this what my life has become?

Voices in my Head

2007-12-06T15:38:00.000Z

I've been off work to day, to get started on this Christmas shopping lark. It was no use just putting it off, sooner or later it's going to come and I needed to be ready for it. It's quite a mindless task, shopping, don't you think? If you lived inside my head (and for all I know, you might), this is what you would have heard.

ooh i've got the day off i'm not going to work i'm going in the opposite direction la la la la la la i'm not going to work sod it i've forgotten the list i've got no idea what was on the damn list i'll just have to make it up as i go along christ how long does it take to get to the Merry Hill it would have been quicker to bloody walk i've got no idea where we are i could be on the wrong bloody bus for all i know ooh i think i know her oh this looks a bit familiar it must be the right way after all thank christ for that it's nearly time to go back home again i think i'll just have a look in here that's a nice top i might get that it's not really christmas shopping but sod it where shall i go now i think i might go in here they'll do they look all right my feet hurt i wished i'd bought a different bag with me i could have put stuff in the big one this handbag's pissing me off it keeps slipping off my shoulder now my shoulder hurts as well is it lunchtime yet i'm starving christ it's only half past 10 i could do with going to the toilet i'll just have a look in here my throat hurts now i think i must have the flu that's all i need just before bloody christmas ooh he's nice looking and he's singing to Valerie by the Zutons he probably thinks i don't know who the Zutons are

"I thought I'd come to you to be served as you were singing so nicely"

oh christ i'm flirting with a boy who's young enough to be my son he must think i'm his aged aunt shall i tell him i went to see Radiohead no i don't think that will help christ what am i wearing when i'm flirting with people a coat that's 2 sizes too big and my son's shoes fabulous i look like one of those women who mutters and has a tartan shopping trolley and smells of wee oh i think i might get that i wish someone would buy one of these for me i really like it my feet hurt i'm hungry shall i have a coffee i haven't been to the toilet yet i wished i'd put some make up on ooh i like her coat god she must be 80 i've turned into an old woman i hope i look like that when i'm 80 i wished i looked like that now i wonder if i should have botox do i need to get better moisturiser i should use the stuff i have it does no good just sitting there my back hurts i'm too hot

" I doe no why thems bothered. All that work and them kids am just keep guwin rait up the rowud end"

christ i live about 10 miles away and it's like a different bloody language i wonder if they do it at night school black country for beginners i'm starving it must be time to get something to eat i'll have to wait for the toilet i'm not carrying all these bloody bags any further i hope i don't have to wait a long time for the bus it's bloody freezing i wished i'd brought my gloves with me are they in my pocket i must have left them on the stairs christ are we going a different way i've still got no bloody idea where we are ooh a sheep i wonder why we don't call them sheeps are they called sheeps sheeps sheeps no it's sheep i wonder if there are more words like that horse cow elephant monkey no can't think of any ooh is that a goose oh it's a binbag oh i forgot to put the bin out today i think i need to wear my glasses more often looks nothing like a bloody goose is that shop called Farmhouse Christ oh no it's Cheese christ where are my glasses i'm only supposed to wear them for reading is that a llama in their garden it can't be a llama is it real christ i've ricked my neck now my back hurts i really need the toilet now

I left the house at 8 this morning and returned about 2. Imagine that inside my head for 6 hours. 6 HOURS. I've edited the dull bits out.

And I wonder why I'm single.

The Letter

2007-12-02T13:10:00.000Z

Hello love,
I'm not really sure that I know where to start. We've always had such an honest friendship and we've never had any trouble finding something to talk about. It's not really like that though now, is it? It's probably because we don't see one another so much though now, which is hardly a surprise. I'd sort of planned on never seeing you again, although I think that was what I wanted for only a little while. It didn't really take very long before I missed having you around.
But it's still not easy. You broke my heart, you know. I'm not even sure if you know that. I know that I've always been fairly open about my feelings, so it probably won't come as anything of a surprise. But did you know about my heart? Or did you think that I'm such a strong woman, I'd kind of laugh it off, and just get on with things? No. You know me better than that.
I'm trying really hard to move on, you know. I've joined a dating agency, which is a bit scary if I'm honest. I haven't dared to upload a picture of myself yet, so heaven knows, everyone must think I'm a right munter. And you wouldn't believe the sorts of things that people put on there either. I've tried to be really honest on my profile, but goodness, there are some optimists out there. I've had a couple of e-mails so far, even without the photo. Or maybe because there isn't one on there, before you say it. I'm really not sure what sort of date I'm going to go on with someone from Illinois. I mean, jeez, think of the travel costs. Do we meet half way? In the sea? I'm not overly keen on the second one either. He seems a bit mean. Not with money, just a bit mean spirited in his profile. And I'm a little alarmed that his profile says that it doesn't matter where he would take someone on a date, as long as they had enough energy for when they got back home. It's a bit forward, don't you think? Crikey.
Like I said, scary old business, but time to move on. I feel like I need to get in there first before you do. It sounds ridiculous, I'm sure, but I know it would hit me really hard if you started dating someone. Logic tells me it shouldn't, but since when did logic feature in my life? I'd already thought of it when we met for coffee, although I didn't mention it to you. It was really awkward, wasn't it? I know that you wanted to check how I was, make sure that I was getting on OK, but I didn't want to talk about it. You see, some of the trust has gone. I don't think you were very honest with me. I think you already knew that there was no chance for us before we came home from our weekend, but you didn't want to say so. Do you remember on the last night, when we were standing outside the cinema, choosing what film to see? They both looked really good, so I said well, we could always see the other one when we get back. And do you remember what you said? Of course you don't, you've got a crap memory. You said that you were trying to decide if you went to see one of them at the cinema, which of them would you bother to watch on the TV. So you see, even then, you'd got no plans for us to see one another when we came back. And that hurts. You're going to say it was just an idle comment, and that I'm reading too much into it. I might be. But I might not.
I've been telling all of these people what a mess I've been, and how much I miss you, and it's true. I told them how I wouldn't be the person I was without you. They don't agree with me, you know. But then, you wouldn't either, would you? You've always said that I was a strong woman, that I could do anything, and that you were really proud of the woman I was. That it was down to me, not you. I don't know where we're going to go from here, either. We've got plans to go out for a drink before Christmas, because it's traditional, we do it every year. But I'm not sure, even though we've started talking a bit more, that it will be easy. That's sort of why I wrote this letter to you, so that I could have a think about things, and get them sorted out in my own mind.

It might help you too.

But you know that I'm never going to send it, don't you? Of course you do. You know me better than I know myself.

But I'm getting there.

Beginning

2007-11-26T20:39:00.000Z

I've tried to explain to you how I've ended up where I am. I've tried to explain it to myself too. But I've started half way through the story and I need to go back. I need most of all to see the bond between us, and how strong it was, and how it meant something.

It really meant something.

When my second marriage was cracking under the strain, he was there to help me. We were good friends by that time, and his shoulders were strong, strong enough to bear the weight of weeping women. My second marriage was not a happy one, although it gave me the gift of my son, whom I love more than my life. Nothing so obvious as violence, nothing so sordid as infidelity, but unhappy even so. My friends would laugh so at the person I was then, unable to reconcile that image of me with the Tina they know now, the strong minded, the laughing, the confident. She didn't exist then, except in my dreams, and I didn't imagine I would ever find her. I was berated constantly, told I was stupid, told I was a bad mother, a phrase that haunts my nightmares to this day.

An image of my son and I at the dining table, working on his spellings over the weekend. Being told to get out of the way, into the other room, because I knew nothing, couldn't help, was doing it wrong.

I became convinced, utterly convinced, that he was right, that I wasn't fit to take care of my son. I tried to distance myself from my son, perhaps I was doing him more harm than good. He was better without me. Wasn't he? The arguments between me and his father grew worse, I started to find my voice. But I never found my confidence as a mother. I knew in my soul that I didn't want my son to grow up in a house where arguments were all he knew. I confided in him, my friend, the man who was always honest, even if it hurt.

I told him I planned to go, and leave no contact. To leave my son where he would grow up better without me, where he could grow to be a good boy, a good man, without his bad, bad, mother. And even when my heart broke, as it surely would, I would know that I had done my best for my son.

He looked at me, I wept while I spoke, laying bare my plans for leaving, and how I would do it. And he took my hand, and talked to me, soothed me, comforted me, and made me promise not to go. Made me promise to wait until I knew I was wrong, that I was a good mother.

And I waited, and he was right.

He has made me the woman that I am.

But no. That is not the beginning of the story. Back further, to my first marriage. Married at 21, the first proposal I received. I rushed headlong into that marriage, desperate to join the ranks of women who had someone that loved them.

No. Earlier than that.

My first serious boyfriend. I was a late developer, my first serious boyfriend did not arrive until I was 18. Is that where I need to begin?

No. Earlier still. A 6 year old in the primary school playground. A quiet, shy little girl with long, straight brown hair. Standing on the sidelines, watching the children play. Unused to the rough and tumble of others, an only child, a protective mother who wanted to keep her safe from harm. A mother a whole generation apart, old enough almost to be a grandmother, but given one final gift of a child, not through God's will but from another. A taunting voice from the playground, an older girl approaching.

'My mum knows your mum. She knows you're adopted. Your mum's got to give you back, and you'll end up in a home.'

And there it starts. A lifetime of never fitting in, of never being quite right. Of never being wanted, not even by my birth mother. Too young to understand why this might have been, but the salving years have never soothed the scars.

Bullied throughout senior school, again never fitting in. Always the child with the wrong clothes, the wrong hair, the wrong voice.

The wrong life.

He has made me the woman that I am.

The miserable years at school, finally unable to deal with that last year. The tragedy of leaving school early, unable to continue, exams failed. A future gone.

But a spark remained. The teenager now tried to pick up her life, enrolled at college, resat her exams. took 'A' levels. Met her first boyfriend. A popular boy, the girl not realising that this was all some joke, some desire to slum, to see what girls like her were like. The boy that told her finally that he had chosen her because she was plain, that plain girls were more grateful. Was this true? In a way, he was right. She had been so desperate to be liked that she'd ignored all the signs, just wanting someone to love her for the person she was.

My first marriage, some three years later. A mistake from the first day. I thought I knew what love was, thought I had found someone who loved me too. I was wrong on all counts, and made mistakes that pain me still. An affair, over almost as soon as it began. A girl looking for someone to love her? Perhaps, but no excuses. Not any more.

He has made me the woman that I am.

He helped me to see that I could become the person that I wanted to be. He let me lean on him when I was weak, and he stepped away when I was strong, letting me stand by myself, to prove that I could do it. He held me tight when I received the call telling me my father had died, listened when I talked.

I loved him because he helped me be the woman that I am today. But it felt like betrayal when he didn't want the woman he'd helped to create.

It felt like one more person rejecting me. It was the playground again.

But he did a better job than that. I've started to see past that, started to see what lies at the heart of our friendship. Started to see that it's not a reflection on the person that I am, but instead, well, just one of those things.

And I've started to think that I need my friend back.

Heartfelt

2007-11-21T18:27:00.000Z

I managed to laugh through the tears that had appeared from nowhere and told him that I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. The spoken words so different from the ones that my heart beat out in an insistent rhythm.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Time passed as it does and almost inevitably we saw less of each other, his brother living far away and him making an almost daily drive there and back to see him. We caught up with each other whenever we could, a pattern already set of a daily text message from me each evening, checking he was OK. Brief glimpses of the man I knew best, but his heart torn away with worry for his brother. So brave for the rest of his family, his niece and nephew, his sister in law, his parents. And of course his brother. His father complimented him on what a rock he was for his family, how he was holding them together at this time of fear.

He told his father that it was because of me, that I made him the man he was.

I promise that I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

A semblance of normality resumed. We made boxes together of useful things, took them to his brother and his family. CDs, talking books, DVDs, vitamins, energy drinks, pineapple for mouth ulcers, special towels to soothe and gently dry a head ravaged by radiotherapy. He gave me a notebook, so that I could write down any more useful ideas, help him to plan. He had one too.

I have mine still.

We spent the day with his family, talking, laughing, lunching, playing with the children. Making arrangements to see a gig on my birthday. Looking to the future. The night of the gig came swiftly, and passed with little incident, until we left. The venue was packed, a struggle to get out, a hurried arrangement to meet outside. I met up with him and his sister in law. No sign of his brother. We waited. And waited. I caught a glimpse of his face, watching him silently mouthing "Where are you? Where are you?' over and over again. He emerged, of course, smiling at our worry, having resumed his normal practice of searching the merchandising stand for a memento of the evening. I could see the relief on his face, and the fear for the future.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Spring appeared, a trip planned to a music festival for him and his brother. The chance for them to spend some valuable time together. Time spent day and night in each other's company, harking back to a younger time when there were just the two of them. Chance for them to relive their youth.

Time for him to notice new symptoms, problems not so apparent before. The weekend over quickly, a return to his brother's home, hurried appointments with the hospital.

Quicker than the seasons passing, it had returned.

Talks of further treatments, more surgery, extra medication. Lunches with him sitting outside in the late spring while he told me of the news. Lunches when he was calm, but his manner belied the fervent prayers to god or the devil to give his brother time, let him see his children grow up and settle. A lesser prayer, to let him see the children finish school.

A final prayer, as the summer sun shone high in the sky, to let him see the children's school holidays.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Symptoms worse and worse. More time spent in hospitals. Further treatment abandoned. Mobility restricted. A stay in hospital and then a release home in a wheelchair. Plans of changes to the house, to make things easier. During that weekend, his sister in law phoned me, to say thank you. I'd sent her a box to take to the hospital, when she and him would be able to think of little else, giving them toiletries, chewing gum, cigarettes. Things to keep them going. He was getting better, she said, had been able to stand. Was laughing and joking. I smiled with relief and prayed for a miracle.

Next day, an early finish for me at work. A shopping trip on the way home to treat myself. A normal evening, studying to do. Working on the computer in the boxroom I laughingly call my study, the phone ringing downstairs. Typically, it stopped by the time I got to it. No message. I heard my mobile ringing in the room I'd just left. Again, it had rung off by the time I'd got back up the stairs. I checked the number. His.

I called him back, and smiling as he answered, asked him if he was looking for me. Yes, he said.

His brother was gone.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Funeral arrangements in the summer heat. A plea not to wear black which few of us heeded, wanting an outward display of how much we mourned. I compromised. Black trousers and blouse, pink shoes and scarf. Crowds of people at the funeral. I watched as he and his brother's friends prepared to lift the coffin. Watched him as he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Watched as the six brave, strong men put on their sunglasses, Blues Brothers all.

A eulogy delivered by his father, bringing laughter and tears in equal measure. I learned later that he had written it, not his father, had practised reading it until he knew he could do it without breaking down, wanting to make his brother proud. And then, the morning of the funeral, had given it to his father to read instead, giving his father a gift, a last chance to say goodbye to his firstborn son. The recessional, as we filed out, made us smile. The Blues Brothers singing that everybody needs somebody.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Seven months. He had only seven months to lose his brother, to fit in a lifetime of love that he had for him. His heart broken, crushed, smashed. His life changed immeasurably, the future with his beloved brother ripped away from him. I knew then that part of him was gone forever. I tried to help, but fussed and fretted, doing more harm than good, anxious to please, to try to make things better, where no better was to be found or desired. Eventually, we found a new normal, and tried to rebuild the friendship we had.

And we tried to take it too far, to where it should never have gone. Two people who cared about each other, but both with baggage, both with hearts already bearing scars that would fade but never heal. And our actions tore us apart, have made it difficult for us to be as we were. I had to walk away from him, could see no other way to hide the pain in my heart.

I promise I will never leave you and if you need me I will be there.

Where is my promise now?

Aftermath

2007-11-19T20:39:00.000Z

I had heard tell before of watching people change before your eyes, but never believed it. Surely this was an illusion of passing time, a shocking, stark realisation when you suddenly came upon an almost familiar face. But no. I watched him change in front of me. As I tried to hold him together, keep him safe from hurt, I felt a part of him trickling away like sand between my fingers. He still needed to tell his parents, they didn't know. I offered to go with him, to be of little help, but just to be there. He refused, rightly. This was a moment for family.

I thought about nothing else all evening.

The morning came round soon enough. How could this be? How could the world carry on as normal, when it should have stopped? I was desperate to do something, anything to help. I called in at a newsagents on the way to work, bought an armful of magazines for him to take to the hospital when he visited later that day. Film magazines, music magazines, anything that would appeal to him and his brother whilst they sat together in the hospital.

Time passed. A week. A sudden flurry of activity at the hospital. They could operate. Take it away. Make him better. The operation took place, taking away the unwanted thing from inside his brother. The evening of the operation, a beep from my phone. I had received 1 new message. I hesitated to open it, closing my eyes and offering a prayer to any god that would listen, hoping that it was from him and it was alright.

Instead it was from his brother, telling me he had kindly donated some of his brain to medical science, hoping to give them better taste in music. I wept with relief that here was the man I knew, the brother of the man I knew so well, the two men so alike.

Waiting. After the operation, a prognosis. We spent hours on the Internet, search engines speeding on slippery rails, not knowing their destination, but calling at every station to glean any information we could about this unwanted thing. We became experts in our field, knowing the grades of tumours, the symptoms, the treatment.

The outcome.

Finally, an end to the waiting. His brother seeing the consultant to talk to him after the operation. I knew that he was waiting for the call, could see him at his desk from mine. Waiting. My senses on alert, I heard his phone ring amongst the office noise and watched while he answered it. He talked for a while, then stood from his desk. I watched as he walked up the office towards the door. A gesture of his head towards the door had me on my feet in seconds and following.

Outside, he told me. Grade 4. As bad as it could be.

I watched his hands shake as he tried to light his cigarette, placed my hand on his arm to still it.

No words.

Christmas approached, sweeping all before it. I took him Christmas shopping, him desperate to seek some normality for himself and his niece and nephew, children both. Office chaos, as so many Christmases before, but this time watching from the outside. I attended each party I was committed to, guilt in every step, that I could be out, having fun, while his life fell apart.

Christmas came and went. Nothing remarkable in it. He spent time with his family, them holding each other close to prepare for the year ahead, to show the world that they could beat this, to show the world how strong they were.

The last day at work before New Year. A traditional early finish, just after lunch. A group of us walked to the pub together, a few doors down. We drank and we drank. At some point in the late afternoon, someone bought a round of whiskies and we drank a toast to the New Year. We sat and talked quietly whilst everyone got louder, two people cocooned from the rest. We talked of his brother, we talked of the future, what it held. I looked into his eyes and saw fear and hurt and the pain of the man I knew better than any other in the world.

He said it was time to go. Would I go with him? Of course. He was due to meet his friends later in the evening, perhaps I could go with them, he suggested. It was time they met me, he smiled. I smiled too. Time indeed.

We didn't meet his friends. We talked and talked, of everything and nothing. I wept for him and his brother, and he held me while my heart ached with guilt. It wasn't meant to be this way, I was the one who should be giving strength.

We spent the night together. A parody of an office party ending. Him, wanting something, anything to take the pain away and to feel normal, alive again for just a little while. Me, desperate to take his pain and make it mine. to bring him calm before the storm.

Afterwards, of course, it was a mistake. We both knew that. We talked about it. He told me how he felt how close we were, but he couldn't be there for me. Not now. I have a son, and if he was to have a relationship with me, then he wanted it to be with my son too. Not now, when he couldn't care for me as I needed, as I deserved. I understood, of course. He couldn't ask me to wait for him, he told me he knew that, it wasn't fair. I nodded in agreement.

He looked into my eyes and said,

'But please don't leave me.'

The Call

2007-11-18T22:34:00.000Z

December 1st, 2005.

An unremarkable day, a tick in the box of life, destined to be one more spent with little achieved, little lost, equilibrium maintained.

After 5pm, at work. The noise of a busy office only noticeable now in its absence, the hum of the heating gone, the gentle tap tap of a distant keyboard, the under the breath crooning of the cleaner.

I had a different job back then, before I became a manager. I was a techie, not a people person, back in the day. He was the person I referred to, the person in the office that always had time to help, the person who could answer any question.

My friend.

I had waited until the office was quiet; I had a difficult query, needed to ask his advice about how to deal with this particular piece of work. I went to his desk, explained. We sat engrossed in the file, while he wrote down notes, asked me questions, referred to the computer, asked more questions.

His mobile rang under his desk. I heard it as only background noise, a quiet little tune. We carried on. It beeped, the shrill insistence of voice-mail, demanding attention.

He noticed it then, played back the message, started to walk away from his desk while he listened to it. I had caught a few brief words as he listened, his sister in law, trying not to cry. He walked halfway down the office, leaning on the filing cabinets, looking out of the window, across the square to the cathedral. I watched his back and his shoulders, his head hanging down while he talked and listened, listened and talked, wrote on a small piece of paper. I debated leaving quietly, not wanting to intrude. But I stayed at his desk, waiting. Waiting for him to finish.

Waiting.

I saw him finish the call and walk back towards his desk. I looked at him, not asking, but waiting for him to see if he wanted or needed to talk to me.

It was his brother. He had smelt gas at work, he had said. He had wanted to know if anyone else could, it was strong. No one else could. It got worse, he had started to feel worse. And worse. An ambulance called. A seizure. Tests, scans, all done by the afternoon. A brain tumour, they thought.

I stood away from the desk and watched him while he told me. I opened my arms and stepped forward, pulling him tight against me. He leaned his head on to my shoulder, I heard a ragged, sobbing breath, and then he raised his head, face composed.

I carried on hugging, trying to give him my strength, trying to support him, trying to make it alright.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't.

8 Things...

2007-11-17T17:53:00.000Z

I've seen what fun everyone has been having with the new meme that's doing the rounds, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Heaven knows, there can't be much left that you don't know about me by now, but here goes anyway.

Eight things I am passionate about:

1 My son
2 My friends
3 Equality
4 Education
5 Music
6 Crisps
7 Books of all kinds
8 Perfume (strange one, huh?)

Eight things I want to do before I die:

1 See my son grow up
2 Visit Australia
3 Work with street children in the Phillipines
4 Graduate
5 Write a novel
6 Find love
7 Run a marathon
8 Learn to drive

Eight things I say often:

1 Fuck
2 You have got to be kidding me
3 Absolutely
4 Goodnight my angel
5 I thought I had made myself clear
6 Arsing buggery bollocks
7 Black coffee please
8 Of course you can come & see me

Eight books I have read recently:

1 Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Piccoult
2 Don't Tell Mummy by Toni Maguire
3 Mercy by Jodi Piccoult
4 Damaged by Cathy Glass
5 Before I Say Goodbye by Ruth Picardie
6 The Secret of The Indian by Lynne Reid Banks
7 The Ghost Road by Pat Barker
8 The Borrowers by Mary Norton

Eight songs I could listen to over and over

1 Will You by Hazel O'Connor
2 I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten by Dusty Springfield
3 Somewhere Only We Know by Keane
4 Going Underground by The Jam
5 On My Own from Les Miserables
6 This Years Love by David Gray
7 Pennyroyal Tea by Nirvana
8 Be My Love by Mario Lanza (really)

Eight things that attract me to friends

1 A sense of humour
2 A huge capacity for laughter
3 Honesty
4 A sense of adventure
5 Trustworthy
6 Intelligence - academic or emotional
7 Talkative
8 Loyal

Right, Rainbow, and Belle off you go.

Wistful

2007-11-16T20:32:00.000Z

It has surely only been a day since I last sat down to write. But no, my blog tells me not. Clearly, I have been busy elsewhere,doing other things, living another life.

Clearly.

Last weekend, I was visited by pestilence. You may remember that the previous weekend, the house was also visited by pestilence. It seems to be a regular occurrence. You may want to have a look for your umbrellas, because we are evidently due a downpour of frogs. This time, the plague was upon me. The same plague that had visited my son the week before. It was not nice. Not nice at all. In between the clear inconvenience of vomiting, there was also much whining, and woe is me-ing. I'm not a model patient, by any stretch of the imagination.

It is probably fortunate that I live on my own.

I recovered bravely to return to work on Wednesday, more of the same blah blah blah there, so clearly that cannot be responsible for my lack of an appearance at my PC at home. I think it may have been a teeny weeny amount of reluctance on my part to come back.

Not that I don't still enjoy it, far from it.

But if you remember, I was meant to be meeting him on Monday night. For our first coffee since.... well, you know. And I couldn't go, because I was ill. I sent him a text message to apologise, saying I wasn't well, maybe we could try another time. I drifted back to sleep, worn out by the sickness and plague. And was awakened not too long after at 8 in the morning, by him leaving a message on the answerphone. Was I OK? Could I drop him a text to let him know? Of course we could arrange another time. I thought it a bit odd, after all, it was early for a Monday, you know? About lunchtime, I did as I was bid.

I lay in bed until the afternoon, then moved location to laying on the sofa. A change is as good as a rest, they say. And I no longer needed to be within sprinting distance of the bathroom. A fairly rapid jog would now cover it. I wondered if this was a warning that I was trying to meet him too soon. I would have accepted a brief note, a rap on the walls, or a ghostly voice. Plague seemed a bit extreme.

I phoned him in the evening to let him know I was feeling a little better, and to provoke the plague gods a little. How much worse could they make it? He told me he'd been worried when he got my text, I hadn't told him what was the matter. That's why he'd phoned. We chatted a while, idle chatter, nothing significant.

He told me he missed me. And I told him I missed him too. And I do.

Nothing significant.

Not any more.

My Life in Their Hands

2007-11-10T22:06:00.000Z

There are many terrifying things in this world. War, famine, poverty, right up there at the top. Violence, drugs, disease. Heights, spiders, the dark.

Clowns.

Do you know what doesn't appear in this list & yet is so obvious? So terrifying that I'm surprised they don't make films about it?

School Fayres.

Yes that's right. School fayres. And more specifically, children at school fayres.

I am a good mother. On a good day. Today, I think I was good. Although today was also the day when I wondered if I was stark, staring mad. I had volunteered, AGAIN, to run a stall at the school fayre. I have done this every year I think that my son has been in school. Bonfire Night, Christmas, Summer. This year, in a terrifying break from tradition, not a Christmas Fayre, but an Autumn one. Every year, I emerge beyond the school gates, blinking as if released from a maximum security prison & muttering that I will never do it again. Muttering to myself.

And twitching a bit.

My first experience of a school fayre was a Bonfire Night celebration. I was but a novice parent & the more experienced mothers could smell my naivety. I arrived early to help set out the stalls, to prepare, to assist. At the allotted time, they kindly pointed me in the direction of my stall.

The sweets stall.

There are 3 distinct bands of children who frequent the sweets stall.

Firstly, The Inquisitive. They start at one end of the table, where the sweets are displayed in sickeningly technicolour glory, the fluorescent lights glinting off the sugar. 'How much is this?' '10 pence'. 'How much is this?' '5 pence.' 'How much is this?' 'Ten pence.' 'How much is this?' '10 pence.' 'How much is this?' '5 pence.' And so on, until they have exhausted the tables with the forty different types of sweets, and exhausted my patience too. And before you tell me we should label the boxes with the price, THE PRICES ARE ON THE DAMN BOXES. RIGHT THERE. IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES.

Secondly, we have The Trusting. These tend to be the younger of the children, who approach the tables in a shuffling gait, usually assisted by a helpful push from an older sibling. There will be muttering and conferring, and eventually a louder, exasperated uttering. 'Go on! Ask her!' I always smile at them, encouragingly, although I suspect they can see the fear in my eyes. The fearful tend to recognise each other, I think. Finally, hesitantly, they reach out their arm, and splay their small clammy fingers, their palms filled with the treasures of their money box, one pence pieces dully glimmering. 'What can I have for this please?' They look up at me, faces shining with trust. And I work my way along the table with them, working out what they can have for their 97 pence.

Finally, we have The Unreasonably Optimistic. We have been known, in the past, to provide bags for the children to put their sweets in, imagining for a moment that we are a grand Pick & Mix outlet, instead of amateurs. Many children don't see the need for this, instead preferring to help themselves from the boxes & clutch the spoils in their hands. The girls usually have a small, glittery, beaded purse, the boys rummage in their pockets for change. After consideration and deliberation, they have chosen their favourites and present them for purchase. 'That's 72 pence.' They examine their purses, their pockets, their other pockets, their friends pockets. 'How much?' There is surely some sort of problem. This cannot be right. There must have been a misunderstanding. They will show me their money, all 46 pence of it. 'That's 46 pence' I will say, helpfully. They will look at me to see if there is room for negotiation. They are met with impassivity. So they reject the ones that they can most do without, and stuff them back into the boxes, now with the added benefit of dirt & pocket fluff.

I thought that the sweets stall was the most terrifying of all. Until today.

Childrens Tombola.

No, not win a child. Goodness, there are probably laws against that, I'm not even sure if you can offer goldfish as prizes any more. But 2 tables (Count them! 2 tables!) filled with toys and labelled with raffle tickets, ending in 0 or 5.And a tombola drum, for spinning. The school doors opened promptly at 12, I watched as the Book Stall, the Toy Stall, the Bric a Brac stall, were swamped by children and car boot sale dealers. This will be easy, I thought.

How very foolish of me.

I was approacched by a young girl, clutching her money. I bent down, to help her spin the drum, to help her reach the tickets. And for the next hour and a half I stayed there almost constantly, occasionally stretching my groaning knees if a taller child approached. I smiled, I laughed, I asked the children if they wanted a lucky spin of the drum. I handed them their prizes, telling them how much I had wanted to win that very one with the coloured pens, the glitter, the beads or the dominoes. I remained smiling, even when one very keen little boy spun the drum without shutting the little door first, leaving the tickets to fly into the air. necessitating some scrabbling around on the floor to rescue them. I oohed and aahed, crossed my fingers for them, cheered when they won & told them 'Never mind, that was bad luck, wasn't it?' when they lost. I sold out after 90 minutes, & felt like I had run a marathon.

Today, I have been a good mother.

But if you see someone in the street, looking dazed and confused, stop them & check to see if they are OK. If they answer '30 pence for a ticket, or 4 tickets for a pound', then that will be me.

I wonder if we will have an Easter Fayre this year?

Hot Diggety!

2007-11-07T21:15:00.000Z

Today loomed over me like a grey sky threatening rain. Or a drunk man threatening trouble. Or an earache threatening the flu. But it threatened. I was not in the best of moods today, following on from the debacle that was my working day yesterday.

It sort of perked up though, in those ways that make it a better day than it could ever have promised to be.

Start of day - unofficial meeting of other poor souls who had been in the same meeting yesterday. Sat round, moaning, swearing & trying to outdo one another in just how bad we felt. In swear box terms, I personally am talking about a month's salary. Not mine, maybe Richard Branson.

Mid-morning - finished all work from yesterday, sent e-mail letting everyone know it was done, also to people who'd made the long journey to our office yesterday. I'd wondered of they felt as bad as we did. Maybe we are over-sensitive little flowers, too delicate for the cut & thrust business world. Received e-mail back from one of them almost immediately.

It said, simply:- 'I've smoked 78 fags today'

Lunch to mid-afternoon - intermittent moaning, almost constant swearing, managed a whole sentence composed entirely of swear words that included verbs, nouns & adjectives. A linguistic feat, I'm sure you'll agree. Felt much better for it. Started doing proper work again. Like shouting at team to work harder. Felt even better.

An e-mail from him. We're meeting for a coffee on Monday evening. Baby steps. Just to see if I'm even ready to begin allowing him back into my life, chaotic hovel that it is. But baby steps, nevertheless. I know he wants us to be friends again. I've said that I lost him & maybe I was trying to be kind to myself. I sent him away; let him go. He didn't want to go, but there were consequences to what had happened between us. I was hurt, heart-raw & I needed him, wanted him to see that my heart was broken. To show him how much I'd cared, how much I'd always cared.

But life is short & time without the ones you care about is long. And it's time to take baby steps to see if we can start mending what we had. And being friends again. Maybe not in the same way, but a new way. A way that doesn't hurt, for either of us.

The journey home. The pick up of my son from his home after school. The night falling around us, the chill in the air, the distant gunshot crack of fireworks late to the party. The dry leaves on the pavement, blown, stacked high against the verges. The rustle under our feet as we shuffled through them at speed & they flew into the air & tumbled around us.

'Hot Diggety!' he shouted, into the air.

And I laughed with him, into the air & off into the future.

When I Grow Up, I Would Like To Be...

2007-11-06T21:12:00.000Z

I had a choice of posts today. I could tell you that I've spent another day with flip charts, coloured pens and post it notes. I could tell you that it was meant to help motivate us, but instead reduced one of my colleagues to tears, and left her thinking that she was in the wrong job. I could tell you that I've learned today that people sometimes know such a lot about a subject, that they forget the basics, like being courteous, like respect for people, like behaving like adults. I could tell you that this day, above all other days, has made me more intent on finding a new job than any day I've had at this company.

In 16 years of working for them.

Instead, I shall take one of the positives from yesterday, because, despite all that, I don't have to descend to their level.

Because I can be a better woman than that.

Instead, I'm going to talk to you about ambition. Do you remember when you were a child, and you had such bright, sparkly dreams for the future? Do you remember thinking that you could be anything you wanted to be, achieve anything you set out to do?

Some of us have never lost that.

We were asked yesterday to write down (on a post it note!) our ambition for the future. Didn't have to be work related. Then the other people had to try and match those ambitions to the people that were there. It was a really entertaining exercise. Two people wanted to climb Ben Nevis. (God bless the third person who said that he used to want to climb a mountain, but was now so unfit that his ambition was to walk up a gentle hill). One person wanted to do a parachute jump, one to get their golf handicap to under 8, one to travel to the Galapagos Islands.

Mine? I want to write a novel. Difficult enough, I know. Not sure how or where to start. But I know that it's what I want to do, what I've always wanted to do. But as some people achieve ambitions or discard them, instead, I collect them.

You see, I don't just have one. But they only gave me one post-it note. Do you think they would have guessed that these were my ambitions too?

1/ travel to Australia.
2/ wear Size 10 clothes. That cover all of my body. And fasten.
3/ run a half marathon.
4/ find a house that I don't want to move from every 3 years.
5/ learn to drive
6/ learn another language

And one final one.

Wake up every day, and know that I'm doing the best that I can.

That's me sorted then. What about you?

My Life In Flip Chart Form

2007-11-05T22:26:00.000Z

I have been getting things all wrong. I have been trying to live my life as it suits me, & as it suits those nearest & dearest to me. I have not been planning properly, setting myself targets, looking at measures & agreeing on who is going to own certain actions. This is what I have been doing all day today. Not about my life, sillies, but about my work. But I reckon it could work with my life.

Let's be honest, it's all going to hell in a handcart at the moment, so we need to look at something new.

Shall we try?

Let's.

Actions (What)
1/ Find a new job to increase earning potential
2/ Take up a new hobby to fill empty space left by completion of study
3/ Take more active role in son's education. Alternatively, just take active role.
4/ Find man to love & cherish (me)
5/ Decorate dining room

Actions (How)
1/ Sign up with employment agency. Or 7, if you are quite desperate & on the breadline
2/ Review night school courses & look at voluntary work options
3/ Listen when son is talking. Also try to understand what SATS are. And who to pay to get good ones. Alternatively buy books on how to pass SATS. If they do them.
4/ Assume he will knock on the door looking for me. If this does not happen, consider dating agency. Or friends with single, nerdy brothers. Or Big Issue sellers. Or people who need Visa to stay in country.
5/ Go to Homebase to buy paint & get off ass & do painting.

When & Process Owner
1/ Before Christmas. Me
2/ By Q1 2008. (That is before end of March next year to the uninitiated). Me
3/ Immediate effect. Me
4/ By end 2008. There is no point rushing these things. Also I need to collect new friends who might have single, nerdy brothers. And buy Big Issue. And frequent immigration centres.
5/ By end Jan 2008. Me

What will success look like?
1/ Will have new job. And more money. And more shoes. And pink coat. And manicure.
2/ Will be expert in basket weaving. Or Italian. Or sign language. Or will have adopted granny, child or pet.
3/ Son will do well at school. Will get good SATS scores.Will get good place at senior school. Will grow up successful & when awarded a prestigious prize will begin speech with words 'I owe this all to my mother'.
4/ Will have new boyfriend, partner, lover or husband. Will stop booking singles holidays. Will stop inadvertently flirting with trolls without realising. Will smile more.
5/ Dining room will look like dining room, instead of soup kitchen. Will be able to invite friends round. Will stop grimacing at vile wallpaper.

Now you see, it's quite easy once you get it all sorted.

Can't think why I've never done it before.

Oh, I know.

IT'S BECAUSE I SPEND ALL DAMN DAY DOING IT AT WORK.

If I Close My Eyes, It Will All Be A Horrible Dream

2007-11-04T20:00:00.000Z

Challenging weekend at Tantrum Towers. Day of introspection yesterday, caught up on all of your new posts, decided to have an early night. I need an early night. Tomorrow, I am in a 2 day planning meeting. Yes, 2 day. Not 2 hours, but 2 days. It involves things like Powerpoint presentations, flipcharts, and my personal favourite, focus groups.

Good grief.

Anyway, son returned, flushed with success, from swimming gala, having successfully reached the final in the breaststroke. Hurrah! Am reliably informed he needs to practice diving off blocks, because at the moment it's all a bit belly flop. But hurrah him! So, an early night was in order. Collapsed into my bed, fell fast asleep, awakened some hours later by son pattering into my room.

'Can I come in with you? I have tummy ache'

'Yes of course'

There is shuffling, rearrangement of pillows, liberal application of stuffed toys (mine & his, sadly) and I close my eyes again. Then whip them open.

'Do you feel sick?'

'No. Just tummy ache'

Ah. That's all right then. eyes closed. Ten minutes later, he is in the bathroom, retching. He comes back to bed.

'Are you OK now?'

'Yes thanks, mummy. I feel better now.'

Fabulous. Then I shall go back to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, he has been sick in my bed, on my carpet, and in the toilet. Fortunately, he has not been sick on me. There is liberal cleaning, and no swearing. Not even in my head. I may have been cleaning in my sleep. The sickness continues at 30 minute intervals through the night, so I give up sleep, & come in here.

(Apologies to those people, if I left a sleepy comment on your blog)

Of course, in the wee small hours, there is always space for a bit more introspection, so I designed some questions to see if I can be his friend again.

Q1/ Can I be his friend again?
Yes, in a heartbeat.

Q2/ Would I be able to go out in the evening for a drink & not hope for something else?
Um, close. But maybe not quite yet.

Q3/ How would I feel if I learned tomorrow that he was dating?
Like ripping his head off. Then stamping on it. Then crying. Mixed in with wanting him to be happy.

Q4/ Could I go to his wedding?
Yes I could. I would wear a beautiful dress, a stylish hat, evocative perfume. When it got to the bit about people being able to object, I would throw myself into the aisle, and wail 'It was meant to be me! It was meant to be me! How can it not be me!'

Am thinking I'm not quite ready yet.

But getting there.

Now you must excuse me. I think I need to scrub the carpet again.

Better to Have Loved and Lost?

2007-11-03T18:06:00.000Z

Today finds me in introspective mood. It may be due to the large quantity of wine I consumed with Belle last night. It may be due to me reading Swearing Mother or the devastating end of a relationship here. But as I stand at the end of a friendship like no other, I'm starting to wonder if trying to turn it into something else was worthwhile after all.

We had known of one another for a long time, worked at the same company for years. Then I moved departments, to the same one as him, and ended up sitting opposite him. And he could really make me laugh. God knows, ours isn't the most interesting of jobs, so you need a bit of humour to pass the time. We became office acquaintances, people who would stand & have a chat if they met in the street.

Then we had our team Christmas meal.

There was an awful lot of drinking. Some eating. Then a lot more drinking. At some late point in the evening I decided that if I didn't leave now, then I would be getting an ambulance instead of a taxi, so I swayed drunkenly upright to leave. At some point, a lot of people seemed to have disappeared. Possibly into rehab. And it was nearly closing time anyway, so we all decided to make a move. We walked in the same direction, towards the taxi rank, outside the Grand Hotel in Birmingham, that's sadly no longer there. The taxi rank, centre of Birmingham, 2 weeks before Christmas, had a queue like the opening day of Harrod's sale.

He grabbed my arm, telling me to come on, we were going on somewhere else, to a party. He pulled me towards the door of the hotel, where we could hear the disco belting out Slade to drunken office revellers. I looked at him, aghast.

'We can't go in there. It's a private party. Look, there's a sign' (actually there might have been 2 or 3, I could certainly see more than 1)

It was a private party. He smiled politely to the doorman, told him it was nice to see him, and led me in. We danced, drank, laughed, talked. We talked to the office party people who assumed that we were friends of someone else. We said it was nice to put faces to names. When we left, we told them we'd see them back at work.

I wonder if they looked for us?

And we have been friends ever since. He knows more about me than any other friend. He has seen me through bereavements, divorce, grief, fear & misery. He has helped me become the woman that I am.

So were we right to try? I told him that we were, I asked him to try, I told him that we got on so well, there had been something between us for a long time, and unless we tried we'd never know if we were meant to be together.

When he told me that it didn't feel right, he smiled at me and said that at least we had tried.

But now I've let him go, the man that has saved me over & over again, & I miss him in my life.

Is it better to have loved and lost?

I would always have said yes, but now?

I Would Hate to Make Enemies of my Friends

2007-11-01T20:56:00.000Z

I have a very honest relationship with all of my good friends. We are not the sort of people that are polite with each other for the sake of it. We are not even polite when we are out in company & I very much doubt that we would be polite if we were in the presence of the Queen. When it became very obvious that I needed to have my eyesight checked (the chafing of my nose on the PC screen gave it away), I took a friend with me to help me choose the required glasses.

I tried on lots of pairs. That doesn't necessarily mean that I put them on my face. Some of them I just lifted up & she shook her head and said 'No' in a very definite voice. Some of them I put on my face and she looked at me and said helpful things like 'Good God, no' or 'Take them off, they're vile'. It is at times like that, that you need your friends to be honest with you. It is no use spending the rest of your life in glasses that make you look like the Milky Bar Kid's grandmother. And I love my glasses. I would wear them even if I didn't need them.

In my recent trials and tribulations, my best friends have been very honest with me. And I love them for it. If they were not already married, and if they were men, I would marry them myself.

If they would have me.

They have been stern with me. 'Don't call him', they have said, helpfully, when I have whimpered at them. 'Give yourself time', they have advised, when I have pleaded. 'Stop the damn moaning', they have thought, but never let me hear or see them think it.

As I've said, I've tried to be fair, and told them that things like this take two, I'm not a child, we have equal responsibility. They have agreed, they have threatened to slap me, and then they have said that they couldn't care less, because they are my friends, and I am their friend, and it doesn't matter apart from the fact that they don't like me to be upset, they hate to see me sad, and they are not liking it very much at all.

It is making me think that even if I did something horrible that they would be behind me.

I am not going to try that though, just in case.

I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of them.

Bizarre sentences that I never thought I would utter: -

Location: our office, senior management member running a lunch discussion about motivation and achievement.

Me: Are you really going to put Trinny & Susannah on the same sheet of flip chart as you have written "Putting man on the moon?!!!!'

I think my job is hanging by a thread...

You Can't Keep an Old Dog Down

2007-10-28T13:34:00.000Z

Or is that you can't teach it new tricks? No matter, because b*gger me, I'm back!

All has not been well at Tantrum Towers. There has been some weeping and wailing. (quite a lot actually). Some women are pretty when they cry, little pools of water creeping over the edge of their eyelashes. Not me. I cry great big rasping sobs, my eyelids go puffy, my nose goes red and I dribble.

It is not a good look for me.

(Number of times I have wanted to text him:- A bazillion)

My friends have been marvellous. There is nothing like having your friends there when you need them. They are stunned at the outcome.

And, dear god, they are not happy about it.

I have been fair. I know him better than any of them. I know things about him that no one else does. And I can see why this happened. I'm not a child; I didn't go into this with my eyes closed. There was a risk, always a risk. What has happened is not his fault. It's one of those things. I have defended him, I have tried to explain why it happened, that he isn't to blame, that he did the right thing in stopping it now before I got even more hurt.

One of them is going away on business with him today, and says she will find it hard not to throw him out of the car.

(Number of times I've wanted to call him:- A bazillion)

It's not going to be easy because we work at the same company. (Was there a gasp from the back?) Yes, an office romance, no less. We don't work together any more, but we still see each other about, so that won't be easy. Not if my nose is red, it won't. We're both fortunate though, we both have a life outside work. We are not people who live to work; I am a person who can barely tolerate the fact that I have to work. I hadn't realised how much this blog has become part of my life - it sort of creeps up on you, don't you think?

And it is people who've been kind enough to leave comments that have brought me back.

And back to stay.

(Number of times I've tried to think of what I could have done to make him love me:- Countless)

Best Foot Forward

2007-10-25T00:13:00.000+01:00

First of all, I'd just like to say thank you for all of your comments - it's been lovely to know that you've all been out there, rooting for me. And now, as promised, you can have the update.

We went out this evening, I've been back a little while now. We had tickets to a gig in Birmingham that we booked a while ago. I was back in work, he's off for the rest of the week, so we decided to meet up before for a drink and something to eat.

I've felt out of sorts today. Maybe I am missing the cooked breakfast. I met him in the bar and smiled when I saw him, waiting for me. He got off his bar stool to give me a kiss.

'Hello handsome' I said. 'Hello gorgeous' he replied.

We talked about what he had done with himself today, we talked about what I had done at work, and then moved on to get something to eat. We arrived at a different bar. We ordered our food and made small talk.

He looked at me and said 'You want to talk about us, don't you?'

And I looked at him, and I knew. I said 'No. There's no point, is there?'

And there wasn't. We talked though, and he told me that he cares for me a lot, but it just wasn't right. It wasn't right in his heart. And that's where it needs to be right, most of all.

I cried into my dinner, while he asked me if we could still be friends. And I told him, no. There was no going back, not for me. Because it wouldn't be fair, unless we both wanted the same thing. And I would always want more than he could give.

We left the bar, and I cried again, because I knew that when I walked away from him, that would be the last time that we were friends. And he cried too. Because he knew it as well.

So I made a choice. Right or wrong, I have no idea, and less interest in if it even matters. I told him I was going to the gig, he asked if I wanted some company. It's pretty much where we started as friends, and it seemed right to finish there too. So we went to the gig and it was fabulous. One of the best ones I've seen.

He walked me to the train station, and we hugged while we said good bye. I put my hand on his cheek and told him to take care. He told me the same.

And then I walked away. And I didn't, couldn't look back. Best foot forward, but on my own.

I sit here now, wondering where to go from here. I'm not sure whether to carry on with this blog, start a new one, or delete it. The heart feels ripped out of this one.

Or that just might be me.

The Return

2007-10-23T19:14:00.000+01:00

Evening everyone. How have you all been? Been doing anything nice? Good, glad to hear it.

Me? Lovely. Thanks for asking.

Do any of you have any idea how close I was to putting that on the site as my post for today? Really, really close.

But I do love to share.

So, here we go.

Do you know what I have loved about this weekend away?

He came to pick me up & carried my case to the car without me even having to mime the huffing and puffing.
We stopped at the Services on the way there for some lunch & he leaned forward & brushed a crumb off my lip.
We checked into the hotel & he had brought extra coat hangers, & gave them to me.
We got ready to go out, left the hotel room, him first, then he turned round, looked at me & told me I looked gorgeous.
As we were in Bath, we watched the rugby on Saturday night, he stood behind me, talking to someone else, but with his hand resting on my hip while he talked.
He makes me laugh until I cry.
We tried to see lots of things yesterday but were running out of time & he chose the place I wanted to go to, rather than his choice, which was nearer.
When I couldn't stop coughing in the night, he leaned over & asked me if I needed some water. I apologised for waking him & he said it wasn't that, he was worried about me.
He told me that they had taken the word 'gullible' out of the dictionary & then laughed at the look on my face when I asked how could they do that? Was it not still a word?
He wasn't cross when I beat him at crazy golf & he kissed me when I got a hole in 1. Although he spent a lot of time walking in front of me & I believe I may have heard the words "f**king staggering' on more than one occasion. His handicap is either 9 or 10; mine is that I have no co-ordination & my hair gets in my eyes.

There are lots of things I have loved about this weekend, but it is over now.

So where are we? Don't know, is the honest answer. I asked him. He doesn't know either. It's difficult for him. Complicated.

We have been so close this weekend, & I don't want that to be the end. But it still might be. I want us to move forward, but it's a big step for both of us. And there is no step back, at least not for me. The only other step for me is the step away.

I wanted him to see that I would be worth the risk, but I'm not sure that he does.

So maybe I'm not.

My head thinks it's time to move on; my heart begs to differ.

You see, he's the one.

Waxing Lyrical

2007-10-19T21:06:00.000+01:00

Note 1 - Swearing Mother, I haven't gone yet, I go tomorrow. I apologise if I led you on with a soap opera type preview. I am also sorry that sometimes my life has come to resemble a soap opera. Neither of which are your fault, my love.

Note 2 - if there are gentlemen reading this blog, you may wish to avert your eyes now. It could get rough. If you believe your wife, girlfriend, lover etc to be a woman of fragrance and mystery, I am no one to disabuse you of the notion. Don't read this blog, try a Mills & Boon website instead.

I have worked for the same company now for 16 years. I have learned a lot whilst I have been in their employment. I have learned how to manipulate a spreadsheet, how to extract data from a report, how to create a graph or a bar chart on the PC. I have learned how to conduct performance appraisals, how to manage under performance and how to hold an effective interview. I have learned that my least productive time is a Friday afternoon, that my laugh can be heard at the opposite end of the office (and it's a BIG office), and just this week I have learned and seen with my own eyes that a member of my team has a pierced nipple. The greatest and most important gift that I have learned, however, is that it is important always to be prepared. Preparation, preparation, preparation. This of course is not something that applies just in the office. This is known as a transferable, or transportable, skill. This means that you can take it home with you and use it there. And I have.

I have been preparing for this weekend. I have been to the beauty salon. For a wax.

Down there.

It is the first time I have been for this sort of extravaganza. But I thought the time had come. I was a little nervous, not being experienced in the ways of beauty salons. The girl was lovely, took me into a little cubicle, and told me to undress, just leaving my top half on. This seems relatively normal, I thought. Considering why I am here. She had told me to lie on a little bed, covered in what resembled a long paper towel. It may indeed have been a long paper towel. I did what I was told. She came back in, asked me what I wanted. It is a little like going to the hairdressers.

Except I didn't take a picture with me.

We discussed and agreed. She appeared to mix potions. I closed my eyes. They shot open a moment later, at the same time as this thought ripped through my mind.

'It feels like she is pouring hot wax onto me!!!!!!!!'

Oh. She is.

The next thought followed a split second later.

'Holy Mary, mother of God, preserve me from this agony!!!!!' There is no response. I am not surprised. She is a mother, and of God. She has no time spare to be helping me out, the woman must be rushed off her feet. I try a different approach.

'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never been to confession, on the grounds that I am not a Catholic. I can do you a recap of my sins, but I'll be honest, it could take some time, and I'm looking for quite a speedy response here.' Again, nothing.

In the meantime, the charming girl is ripping wax, skin, veins and arteries from me with abandon. I expect to look down and see bare skeleton. She asks if this is the first time I have been. I nod my head. She tells me I have done very well, there was a woman in that morning who screamed. I have not screamed. Mainly because my teeth are clenched so tightly, not even a crowbar could prise them open.

She finishes off after some hours, and a brief discussion about symmetry. It is, frankly, a discussion I never expected to have.

I crawl, weeping, to the train station and glance at the clock to see how many hours I have been in this torture chamber.

15 minutes.

Ye gods.

See you on Tuesday, pray for me. Any god you like. They all know who I am, but they've been avoiding my calls.

Can You Keep A Secret?

2007-10-13T21:17:00.000+01:00

I know that blogging is like a big community; lots of friends who are always around to pick you up when you're down, to share their lives with you, to make you laugh. But can you keep a secret? Come a bit closer then - I'll whisper. A bit closer. Now wait there a minute, I'll be right back.

Are you there? I know that you've read the blog a couple of times, but I think it made you a little uncomfortable, like you were reading my diary. I don't think you've been back since though. Are you there now ? If you are, I think you'd better stop reading. I'm not going to say anything bad, but I don't think you'll want to read this. OK? Right then.

Sorry to keep you all waiting - I was just checking something. I was going to tell you a secret. I'm going away for the weekend, next Saturday. Until Tuesday. With a Someone.

You won't ever have hear me talk about dating. That's because I haven't done any. I haven't had a date in years. I haven't had a boyfriend since I separated from my now ex-husband. I wanted some time for myself, and my son. I wanted to know what I wanted from life.

I wanted not to make a mistake.

So, this going away business, it's a big deal, you know. For both of us I think. We've been friends for years. Really good friends. Always there for one another. Always making each other laugh. Always providing comfort when it's needed. Getting one another through bad times. We know one another really well. Better than if we had dated.

So we're going away for the weekend. To see how it goes. To see how we get on with each other in a different way. Just the two of us.

It might be the start of something. Or it might be the end.

Wish us luck?

My Inner Goddess Is A Long Way From The Surface

2007-10-06T22:09:00.001+01:00

I have been to the hairdressers today. I love going to the hairdressers. It is a good, positive, life-affirming experience. Mainly. Last time I went, I was very badly hungover. I slumped in the chair, and when my lovely hairdresser asked me what did I want today, I mumbled at him, made vague cutting gestures all over my head, and declared that the colour I was intent on trying out was 'Brown. No, darker. Darker. Darker. Less redder. Yeah, that one'.

Not today though. No hangover for me today. Not even from cough medicine. Take it from me, when you buy cheap cough medicine that doesn't come with a measuring spoon, JUST USE A DAMN TEASPOON. Don't, whatever you do, assume that 5ml is roughly equivalent to a large mouthful, straight from the bottle. Don't then look at the instructions, and realise that you have to take 2 of the 5ml spoonfuls, so that must be 2 large mouthfuls. Whatever you do, don't repeat that dose 4 times a day. If you do, you will end up with an empty bottle, and a raging headache. I'm just saying.

I arrive at the hairdressers bang on time, to find the lovely Sean waiting for me. A very sweet girl shampoos my hair very gently, then massages conditioner into my hair. Bliss! No colour for me today. I'm still brown, and unless you part my hair with your fingers in a nit-seeking expedition, you will barely get a glimmer of grey. Sean asks me what do I want today. I proudly produce my magazine and show him the picture. I then explain that I want it cut into the neck, with a little wispy fringe, quite long still at the sides. I realise this is not much like the picture that I have shown him, but he understands. The woman in the picture has the right shade of brown though. I need to remember that for next time. He starts trimming away, oh so gently, caressing my hair with his beautiful hands. I close my eyes, and leave him to his magic. I let my mind wander, thinking about what I still have to do today, thinking about the really funny blogs I read yesterday, thinking about the road trip with Swearing Mother, thinking about how I must tell Belle that her mum's jam is delicious and the only jam my son will eat, thinking about going away for a break, thinking about ...

'Is that OK on the fringe for you Tina?'

Beg pardon? Did someone say something? Where am I? I open my eyes, just a little, and see Sean, waiting for the confirmation on my fringe. I have fallen asleep. I AM ASLEEP IN THE HAIRDRESSERS! Have I been talking? It is not unheard of. Sometimes I chew when I'm asleep. (Don't even ask). What if I drooled? I check my face for wet patches, but it looks OK.

'That's lovely Sean, thank you'.

When he finishes, I look like a goddess. Well at least my hair looks like that of a goddess. My face, maybe less so. Unless we are getting into the realms of Gorgons. But today, I'm not very goddess-like. You see, I fell over on the way to the hairdressers. It is not the first time I've fallen over. It's not even the first time in the last 2 months. I have a problem with gravity - it pulls me to the floor harder than other people. There were no excuses. Or at least none I could think of. I'm a little scraped on the palm of my hand. My wrist is a bit sore. I'll probably have a bruise on my knee. And my left ankle is 3 times the size of the other one, and hurts like a holy swear word.

It's a good job I had my high heeled boots on, that's all I can say. If I hadn't had them on, there would have been no support for my poor ankle after I'd fallen.

Don't even say they were to blame.

Don't even think it.

Coughs and Sneezes are Diseases

2007-10-05T21:07:00.000+01:00

I am diseased. Don't worry, I don't think I have the sort of virus that you can get through your PC. Although, I'm not going to make any guarantees on that one. I tried to tell people at work this week that I had TB. They asked me how I knew, and I told them it was because of all the coughing. Of course it wasn't just a cough. I'm ill for goodness sake, can they not see that? I tried to tell Belle too, but she had me rumbled, and asked the important TB related questions. Had I written beautiful poetry? No. Had I written a novel? No again. Then it wasn't TB.

I started sneezing yesterday. People tried to tell me that this showed that what I had was a cough and a cold. A COUGH AND A COLD. Like it was nothing. It is something. It is something not very nice. You ask the woman who sat in front of me on the bus if she thinks it is nothing. She will say no. If she hears you over the noise of her hairdryer.

It was certainly something last night when I went to bed. I was tired and went straight to sleep. I then woke up, sat bolt upright in bed, coughed spasmodically, like a dog, then lay down and went straight back to sleep. At various points during the night, I woke up again, sat up in bed, and sneezed so violently that I nearly gave myself whiplash. (I don't know what the sitting up is for; it may be that my subconscious thinks I will drown if I keep lying down). I woke up again. There was a heatwave, and I was about to spontaneously combust. I took off my pyjamas, and settled down again to sleep. Only to wake up again, shivering, wondering why I had frostbite, and where the hell were my pyjamas? There was some squinting and rummaging, than I put on my pyjamas again. This was then repeated. Only once. I'm not a freak, you know.

I woke up this morning when my alarm went off. There was a strange feeling in the bed. I was almost frightened to look to see what might have happened. But at some point in the night, I think I had been visited by Paul Daniels. You see, the sheet was missing from my bed. The sheet from under me. UNDER ME. And it was on the floor. The strange feeling was because I was lying on the bare mattress. (YOU THOUGHT I'D DONE WHAT?!) I think that in the night, Paul Daniels had taken hold of one end of my sheet, and yanked it, without me moving at all. I never even heard him say "That's magic!"

The sneezing has been fairly constant all day. I came out of the railway station this morning, sneezing so profusely that I was momentarily blinded, and hurtled into a door.

It is no fun for me, you know.

Rediscovery

2007-09-30T21:05:00.000+01:00

Today, I have rediscovered the life before my degree. I've been studying for 6 long years, and I've enjoyed them. Who wouldn't? Reading books, looking at pictures, watching plays, with the odd essay thrown in every now & then to make sure you've been paying attention. How can you possibly go wrong with that combination?

I could have done another degree I suppose, but nothing's ever grabbed me like reading, as a hobby. Well, I suppose vodka & tonic might run it a close second, but that's not so much of a hobby, more of a stress relief, if you will. And I could read every day, but I couldn't drink vodka & tonic every day, I get terrible hangovers. Except if I drank every day, I'd never sober up, now would I? I'm going to write a new hobby list I think. I'm going to put that one above 'looking at the garden, to see what other people could do with it'.

It is very strange though, not studying any more. I'm drawn a little to looking to see what courses I could take in the future. Physics perhaps? No, I had a bad experience in Physics at school & leant too far back on my lab stool & tipped off the back. That sort of thing can put you off a subject for life. Let alone that I never understood a word of it. Italian? I like a pizza as much as the next woman.Especially if the next woman is Mrs PizzaHut. But when would I use it? I've only been to Italy once, Rome in fact. Got engaged by the Trevi Fountain. As I'm now divorced for the second time, you don't need me to tell you that THAT can put you off a subject for life, either.

So instead, I shall return to my first love. David Cassidy. No, I beg your pardon, I MEANT to say reading. As the lovely Belle has tagged me I shall endeavour to oblige, and then I'll have a meander around your blogs, so you can be IT too.

First up, my Total Number of Books. Well, goodness. I'm right by the bookshelf, so hold on for a minute. OK, I lost count after 63, because some of the spines look the same. Very clearly over 100, because they're all scattered around the house too. Probably around 150.

The Last Book I Read - this was Mercy by Jodi Piccoult. I love her books, and I whip through them at an alarming rate of knots. She writes the sort of books that make you curl up on the sofa, and drink hot chocolate, and then sit up in shock, wondering where the comfort has gone. And usually, where the day has gone too. Thoroughly recommend her, loved her book called The Tenth Circle, which was a take on Dante.

The Last Book I Bought - I'm a bit of an old skinflint with book buying, of late. I do love books, but I don't have so much money to spend so they become a guilty pleasure. I haunt the library instead, & try to avoid the men who smell of toilets. They probably try to avoid me too. I'm the strange woman, always in a hurry, who always walks with her head at a 90 degree angle to read the spines of the books. Barely even straighten when I'm at the counter. Which is a worry. And not just to me. So I most definitely know the answer - it was Don't Tell Mummy, by Toni Maguire. True story. Rips your heart out, and chews it. And makes you wonder why you don't have to be licensed to have children. Don't read it if you're easily upset, because it's true.

Five Meaningful Books - well now. This is a difficult one. I'll start with The Ripening Seed (Or Le Ble en Herbe) by Colette, which I read for my French A-Level. Gave me a lifelong love of poetic novels, and Colette. Next up, I'll have Little Women by Louise May Alcott. One of the first books I remember reading as a child & wanting so desperately to be Jo. I have a copy now, and have probably read it upwards of 7 or 8 times. Next we have to have To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. There just aren't words to describe it, read it if you haven't and you'll love it for ever. Next, I'm going to have Catcher In The Rye, by J D Salinger. The book every teenager should read, and every grown up too. Vivid, and utterly believable. And finally, I'm going to have an obscure one, Gone, Baby, Gone by Dennis Lehane. A great crime writer, fantastic stories, and meaningful for me for a whole host of personal reasons.

Phew, I need a lie down after that.

Time for a new book, I think.

Taking It Easy

2007-09-28T20:51:00.000+01:00

I've been here all along, you know. I've been to see all of your blogs, and I've loved reading them, just as much as I always do, but with the added delight of knowing that I shouldn't really be there. You see, I've been studying, like Rainbow and Belle. We've all been studying for the same thing. But now we've finished.

So, what grand plans does life hold for me now? I'm going to take it easy. There's no point rushing into things, you should look before you leap. I shouldn't look for instant gratification, I should instead wait and see. I should try to be patient, I know I should. There's nothing I can do to hurry things along, so I may as well just take it easy. And whatever comes along, I'm sure that it will be worth waiting for.

But please, couldn't things move just a little faster around here? I haven't got ALL DAMN DAY, you know...

I've had a lovely award from Belle, and she's right, I need to get back on here. You're going to be sick of me soon. I'm going to post 4 times a day... I need to have a think who I'm going to pass the award too, I guess while I'm taking it easy, I might just have another stroll around your blogs...

I'm So Sorry, My Head Has Just Fallen off

2007-09-10T20:28:00.000+01:00

Back to work today. Eventually. I've previously told you about my relationship with my alarm system in the morning. Today, in some kind of giant cosmic joke, it all went horribly wrong. I woke, with the sound of my trumpet fanfare alarm, at 6 this morning. I pressed click, snooze. And snoozed. BUT I DIDN'T PRESS SNOOZE. I PRESSED OFF! OFF! I opened my eyes, aware that there was no trumpet fanfare. And it seemed quite a lot lighter than when I had closed my eyes, just seconds before. BUT IT WASN'T SECONDS. IT WAS HOURS. TWO OF THEM TWO WHOLE HOURS!

This is a disaster. Most especially, because I had to wash my hair, blow dry it nicely, then straighten my hair. It is not a 5 minute job. It was easier when my hair looked like it belonged to Worzel Gummidge. That took less than 5 minutes. Less than 5 seconds, probably. I thought, when I was gasping for breath on the bus, that it would be really embarrassing to tell people in the office that I was late because I'd overslept. I thought I should try something unusual. I've just read a lovely funny post here about making excuses, so I know I can't be the only person that does it. I should maybe give it a go.

'I'm sorry, but the cat was ill.'

'The bus broke down'

'I lost my memory and forgot where I worked'

'Didn't we alter the clocks this weekend?'

'I lost my shoes'

They are all good excuses, I beg your pardon, reasons for being late. But I told the truth.

Telling the truth is meant to be a good thing. Indeed, when I did it, it wasn't too bad.

But the cosmic gods had a little snigger later on.

Damn that honesty.

Slumped

2007-09-09T20:02:00.000+01:00

I'm back at work tomorrow. This is very, very bad. I haven't been to work for 2 weeks, and I was quite getting the hang of it. I quite like not having to put the alarm on for a hundred times every morning, and waking up naturally, at the crack of noon. It suits me very well.

There are many, many things to do now my holiday has finished. Like washing and ironing, just for starters. And a bit of cleaning wouldn't go amiss. I've done the important things, like a whistle stop tour of the blogs I really like, just to see what people have got up to whilst I've been away. But now I need to catch up. What I don't need to be doing is sitting at my PC, blogging, instead of lots of really important things.

So, here I am. I have an essay to write. It is to be 3000 words, and from a very small pool of books, I have to choose which book is best, then write about it. There are some on there that are really good. But they are not my favourite books, so it is an exercise in futility. My favourite book, ever, in the history of everness, is Ripening Seed, by Colette. I read it in French for my French A Level, about a hundred years ago. It is not on the list. I am doing an English degree, not a French one.

I have lots of thinking to do too, which never suits me very well. it is not one of my specialities, like being able to blow bubbles with gum, or twitch my nose. It is my own fault that I have to do thinking now, because I should have done the thinking before, but I didn't.

I am not looking forward to the thinking, because once it starts, I have no idea when it will stop, nor what I will do if I ever finish with the thinking.

That seems like a good reason not to do the thinking at all, but I'm fairly sure that I have to.

That is why today, I'm a bit slumped.

Maybe I could pay someone to think for me. And maybe they could do a bit of washing and ironing whilst they're about it.

The Lady Vanishes

2007-09-08T22:11:00.000+01:00

and then returns. For the approximately seven people who read this blog, I apologise profoundly for leaving you with no knowledge of my whereabouts, or idea as to when or if I may be expected to return. Very rude of me, I'm sure.

I have, however, been living the high life for a week in Portugal, and have the bruises to prove it. Both arms, courtesy of the log flume at Zoomarine. (Mummy, can we go on the log flume? Of course we can. Chug, chug, chug, chug, whoosh, splash. Mummy, that was cool! Yes, it was!.....Dear god, I hate log flumes)

I appear to have problems with packing for holidays. I remember that in days gone by, when I was part of a husband/wife relationship, I used to be quite good at packing. Very methodical, very sensible. When my decree absolute came through, I appeared to exchange packing sense for freedom. I still think I got the better deal, but it is a little inconvenient for about an hour every year, when I'm packing.

I like to be prepared for evey eventuality, and assume that I'm travelling to a Third World country, where there will be no shops. At all. This is strange, as I've never been out of Europe on my holidays. And always to touristy places. The nearest I've got to off the beaten track is a single track road instead of a dual carriageway. I take enough clothes with me. Enough to clothe myself 3 times over, and a small family that I may meet and insist on clothing. I do the same for my son, who cannot understand why any person would need more that 1 pair of sandals. He is odd in that way. There is no genetic link on that point.

I am fortunate that my suitcase is not too big, which means that I am limited by its size. I pack in both halves of the suitcase, and then attempt a sort of clam shell snap of the 2 halves, so that I can get it closed. I had to sit on it to get the zip closed. Then I remembered that I couldn't keep lip balm in my hand luggage, because of the very clear terrorist implications of Body Shop Brazil Nut lip balm. I had to undo the zip just a little way, and poke the lip balm in with my fingers. Than I needed my son to sit on the suitcase, as well as me, so that it could be closed again.

I apologise to all of the people who may have expected me to bring them souvenirs from my holiday. I couldn't bring them unless I wore them, and I think you would draw the line at that.

Incey Wincey

2007-08-21T21:25:00.001+01:00

I don't like spiders very much. I understand that we are all God's creatures. I understand that they have as much right to exist as I do. I understand that (in the main) they aren't dangerous. What I don't understand is why they are out to get me. For goodness sake, there is no man in my house. Could they not go to someone's house where there is a man to get rid of them? Do they not know that they are not welcome in my house?

There was a spider in the bath this morning. It was a big spider. It was about the size of my head. If my head was about an inch in diameter, it would have been the size of my head. But it looked at me in a very challenging way when I went to turn the shower on. It is the only thing that I do turn on in this house. Or anywhere.

Anyway, it looked at me and dared me to dispose of it. I understand Buddhist principles. I understand that I shouldn't harm any living creature. But I am not a Buddhist. I turned the shower on and swished the spider round the bath for a bit. Until I thought I was safe. Then I swished it down the plughole. I was a bit wary - had it come up the plughole to get into my bath? Was that how it had arrived? Does that mean it can swim, or did it just wade? I've put the plug in the bath, just in case.

I know it is hanging under the plug, with its bristly legs, waiting until I take the plug out.

I am going to buy a flamethrower, just to be on the safe side.

I noticed that I had my first French visitor this week. I hoped they found what they wanted. Maybe it was a representative of Belle de Jour rather than Belle de la Maison.

Au revoir!

I should have listened more at school

2007-08-17T20:31:00.000+01:00

I was a girly swot at school, there is no getting away from it. I went to a tiny little primary school, which I loved, and I always did really well. Spelling, English, maths (stop laughing, those who know me - this is primary school we're talking about!). We had a little spelling test every Friday, and a little maths test the same day, and our teacher kept a graph for each child to show how they'd performed throughout the school year. Mine was always in a straight line, because I could spell, and I could do maths (then).

Comprehensive school was a lot different. It was HUGE. There were lots of kids there and they were really loud. And I was really quiet. (I've told you before, STOP LAUGHING. This was when I was little). So I stood out more, because in that sort of school, its not really cool to be a girly swot. At the end of my first year, my school report had a comment in it from the Head which said 'Could be a high flyer'. I bet she choked on that when I left school with only 2 O'Levels. Like I said, it wasn't cool to be clever, I'll tell you the rest of that story another time. I still learned a lot at school, and I've done lots of resits and further education, and now find myself in an almost respectable education position..

But I should have listened more at school.

Now, you see, there are huge gaps in my school type education. Not the sort of things that you learn in night school, or by distance learning. I went out with my son today, and we passed a birds egg on the ground. It was opaque white, shiny, about half the size of a hen's egg. My sons said 'What's that?' I told him it was a bird's egg. He asked if the bird was still in it. I didn't think so, because I could see a little crack in the egg and some gunky stuff at the side of it. Also, it was on the road, near the garages. Which is probably not its natural nesting place. I said no, and he asked where the bird was, I said it looked as though it might have died, because there was all that gunky stuff (Boys love gunky stuff, I'm not a sadist). He said it didn't look like a bird, I had to agree. Which is when I started to flap a little. Like a bird. Shouldn't it have looked like a bird? Even a little one?

On the return journey, we walked down our little path to the front door. My son stared at his flowers (snapdragons), and asked what that flying thing was in his flowers. I looked and told him it was a bee. I told him it was a good thing because it was collecting pollen. He asked me why it was a good thing that a bee was stealing pollen from his flowers to give to someone else's flowers. That's a good point, I thought. A bee is stealing from us. How can that be a good thing? I think it might be something to do with spreading pollen around, but I have no idea. What if I'm confused, and the damn bees are stealing from me? Is that why other people's flowers look better than mine? Because bees are stealing from me, because I don't know any better?

I need to go back to school and learn about birds eggs, and bees.

Or someone needs to give me the telephone number for the Bee Police.

What Was I Saying?

2007-08-16T20:06:00.000+01:00

I used to have a really good memory. In fact, I had a great memory. It irritated the bejesus out of some of my friends because it wasn't even affected by alcohol. I would go out with my bestest drinking friend, get completely slaughtered, as would he, then as we were trying to get over our mutual hangovers the next day, I would say things like "Do you remember when you flicked candle wax into my dinner at the restaurant?" or "Do you remember what you said about THAT person?", and he was always astonished that I remembered. At least for the first few times. After that, he got wise to me, and knew that if he told me something, he could never hope that I'd forget it.

Something has gone badly awry. It's no use telling me that I'm getting older. I'm not 40 yet, so don't be throwing that one at me. In the last two months, I figure to have lost 70% of my memory. And that's only 70% of the memory I remember having, it could be more than that, if I don't remember having the correct amount. In the last two months I've lost my watch because I can't remember where I put it, and think it's got thrown out with the rubbish. I've lost my slippers about twelve times, and I have to get my son to go and look for them, because I get so frustrated that I could weep at having lost my slippers AGAIN. Just this week, I've lost a loaf of bread. I remember that I bought it, because my son and I went to the shop to get some cheese bread and they didn't have any, so we bought a crusty farmhouse loaf instead, and we had about 4 slices off it, and now I can't find the rest of it.

Just how ridiculous is it to lose a loaf of bread?

I think that I've probably cleared all sorts of wrappings and boxes and everyday rubbish off the worktop and thrown the bread in the bin. But what if I haven't? What if I find it somewhere bizarre in the next two years, and I only find it then because I've had to call in the Environmental Health and they say to me "Well Tina, I think the disgusting odour you've complained about is because you have a 2 year old loaf of bread in your electric meter cupboard."

I'm worried that I'll lose something important next time. Like my house keys, my phone, my handbag,

Or my mind.

But to be honest, even my bestest friends would say that they haven't seen it for a long time.

School Holiday Casualties

2007-08-14T21:12:00.000+01:00

I am off work this week. Hurrah! Hence the lack of posts, although I confess I've missed it. I'm off with my son, in his school holidays. Sadly, there have been a number of casualties so far this summer holiday. I shall run through them, for your ease of understanding

My son's fish died while he was on holiday. The fish doesn't live at my house, so I needn't feel any guilt over that particular incident. He was left with his vacation block whilst son & father were away on holiday, but sadly he has shuffled off this mortal coil. Rest in peace, Homer. Join your brother, Bart.
The skin on my son's knee. He was riding his bike with his father on Sunday, skidded off it on some loose gravel, and has ripped lots of skin off his knee. It is apparently a 'road rash'. Very Tour de France.
A healthy diet. Normally, I eat quite well, at least for a person that lives on their own for half of the week. I don't sit and eat Frosties, like a student. I don't eat peanut butter out of the jar, like a student. I do cook myself a nice evening meal, every evening. Sometimes it will be chicken and vegetables, or fish and vegetables. In case you've wandered into this blog by mistake, the name's Tina, not Nigella. Tonight it was pizza and chips. But they were oven chips, not fried ones. And I had a banana today, so all is not lost.
A vertebrae in my neck. It appears to be broken, I'm not a doctor, but it feels like it might be C2, if I were to put a label to it. I'm typing remarkably well under the circumstances I know. I'll see how it goes tomorrow. It happened when my son (8 years old, and only 7 inches shorter than me - he's tall and I'm short, just in case you think we're a family of Borrowers) sat on my shoulders to get a better look at the jigsaw we're attempting to complete on the living room floor. And then fell off, forwards, taking my head with him.
Any limits as to television viewing. I'm not letting him watch unsuitable programmes, certainly not. But today, there has been a fair amount of TV. What can I say? It was raining. And we're going out tomorrow. It never did me any harm. Mea culpa.

I love the school holidays. And I love being off in the school holidays. I love being off in the school holidays with my son. This week, I've laughed like a drain. My son has an ongoing joke this week, I'll share it with you, in case he grows up to be the next Peter Kay.

Son: (waves arm furiously in the air) Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!

Me: Have you got a question?

Son: I just want to say something.

Me: Go on then

Son: You smell.

It's a riot here this week.

The medical marvel

2007-08-06T21:39:00.000+01:00

I wished I'd had the foresight to put one of those voting buttons on my sidebar, then I could have had visitors to my blog vote for what they thought was wrong with me. Medically speaking, rather than just a free-for-all - I'm all for constructive criticism, but that's a step too far! The latest phone call to get my blood test results resulted in the proverbial trying to get blood out of a stone, henceforth to be known as "trying to get blood test results out of a receptionist". First she told me they were all normal. Marvellous!

Then she had a bit of a think about it and said that 2 of them hadn't been looked at yet. I asked if all of the results were back (they did take the proverbial Tony Hancock armful, it seemed!). She said yes they were, and told me the results she had. I thanked her very politely and put the phone down. I gave myself a few minutes thinking time, remembering what was on the form that had been requested - she hadn't told me about a couple of things. Is it maybe me, I thought? Did I listen properly?

I phoned back, asked some specifics about these 2 results. "Ah" she said. "Ah", I said in return, to be companionable. She didn't know, she couldn't see it. She'd have to talk to a nurse and call me back. In fairness, she did call me (I was a little sceptical by this time!). She'd asked the nurse, they couldn't see those results. Were they still waiting for them, I asked. She didn't know. Had they definitely been tested for those 2 things? She didn't know that either. I made an appointment with the doctor, to be on the safe side, my faith lost.

I don't have a very important job, I know that. I work for an insurance company, and I look after a team that deals with injuries on motor claims. We strive to get things right, but when we don't, the standing comment from a couple of my team is "well, it's not like we're finding a cure for cancer". And they're right, they're not.

Somehow, I expected better from the NHS.

Educating Tina

2007-08-05T22:59:00.000+01:00

I just watched Educating Rita on the TV. It's the first film that gave me a clue that just because I'd messed up at school, didn't mean I couldn't go back and try again. Julie Walters, I think, does the same course as I've done in the past, and when you've been there, you can see how easy it is to get swept up in the new world that you have, quite literally, at your fingertips.

What she learns, and what I learned, is that sometimes the knowledge itself isn't important, it's the choices that it gives you. You can choose to do something with your education, or you can choose not to. Because choice is the most important gift.I haven't just learned about literary criticism, I haven't just learned how to analyse a novel, a play, a poem.

I've learned about myself, I've learned confidence, I've made friends, and I've learned how to pass this gift to my son. I don't care what he chooses to be when he grows up. The best gift I can give him is the gift of choice.

Holidays

2007-08-04T22:17:00.000+01:00

My son is going on holiday with his dad tomorrow. Just for a week, but I'll feel as though my arm has been cut off. There will be less blood shed, but that will be the only difference. He loves his holidays, doesn't care where he goes, loves playing on the beach, riding his bike, typical boy.

When I was his age, I had been to the same place on holiday for as long as I could remember. We'd go on the coach to a place on the East Coast called Sutton on Sea, We'd stay in the same little guest house,just across the road from a bigger hotel, and when you crossed the road to go to the beach, you'd walk pas this hotel and see the crab pots still glistening and wet. Then you'd climb some steep pebbled steps to get to the sea front, and all the way up the smell of the sea got stronger and more salty. When you got to the top, there was a row of beach huts, my mum and dad hired one every year, it would contain deckchairs, a kettle, a sink that was always gritty with sand. They didn't have any water, but they all contained a huge water bottle which I begged to be allowed to carry to the tap near the steps. When you turned it on, the wind would blow so hard that the water came out almost horizontally.

I've not been back since I was maybe 11 or 12, but I know that I could find my way round if I went tomorrow. It's not a very big place, I don't suppose it has the the "right" sort of requirements for a summer holiday any more. But one day, I'll take my son there.

And we'll both love it.

I can't wait for him to get back, and he hasn't even gone yet.

Click. Snooze

2007-08-03T18:44:00.000+01:00

There is no getting away from it. I'm a very heavy sleeper. In the past, I've slept through thunderstorms, traffic noises, and once, a very minor earthquake. On occasions, my son still creeps into my bed, if the night demons have been out to get him. At least, I assume he creeps, he may leap and shout. I know that sometimes, I'm surprised to see him & wonder why I'm hanging off the side of the bed. If I'm worried then I can be awake for tortuous hours in the night. If I'm not, or if I'm just too tired, then I could make the Olympic team for sleeping.

Because of this, I've taken to having 2 alarms to get me shifting in the morning. I have a little old-fashioned alarm clock, which has no snooze facility. And then I take my phone to bed with me too and set the alarm on that. When it goes off, it plays a little trumpet fanfare. It is usually somewhere near my head. I scrabble round for it blindly, then squint at it. I get 2 options - Turn Off, or Snooze. In the past, I would allow myself 1 snooze, then I'd be up and out of bed. Recently I've discovered that with 1 simple click, I can snooze for another 9 minutes.

Whilst I've been feeling unwell, I've learned that after an hour, my phone thinks "Lazy moo. She is never getting up. I'm turning the alarm off and she can stew." In turn I've discovered that if I then set a new alarm, we can repeat the whole process.

It is turning into a battle of wits between me and my phone. I'm not sure who the smart money should bet on.

I'm also not sure how successful you're going to be if you try to wake me up to tell me that I owe you betting winnings.

Click.

Snooze.

Successes and Failures

2007-08-01T22:55:00.000+01:00

How will I know if I am a good mother? In my job, I'm given targets that I must meet, objectives that I must achieve, tasks that I must complete. My progress is reviewed monthly, I'm given feedback. I'm told if I'm succeeding or failing. And I do the same for others. I observe them, I ask other people what they think, I ask them to give me evidence of what they've done. If I'm doing well, I'm told to maintain my performance. If I can improve, then I'm advised how to do so. And I do that for people too. So they know how they're doing.

I live on my own, my son is with me for half of the week. My own mother lives 50 miles away, my friends - the other side of town. Much of our time together is spent with just each other for company and we both delight in that. But how am I to know if I'm succeeding or failing?

Does one look for the positive? Does one mentally review progress? Yes, my son is always courteous and polite. That box is ticked. Yes, my son does as he is told, that box is ticked too. Yes, my son can spell 20 words of my choosing, that box is ticked. Is that how I will know?

Or instead, do I look for an absence of the negative? At a certain age do I say my son does not smoke? My son does not get into fights? My son is not in debt? Is that how I will know?

This morning, my son held out his hand in front of me, palm up. His finger was sore, could I see it? I told him that I couldn't see anything at all. Then I glanced up, and saw a fleeting, crestfallen expression drift across his face, vanishing as quickly as it came. But I had seen it. I asked for another look, maybe I had been looking at the wrong finger? Oh yes, I could see it now! That must be very sore. We went into the kitchen, where I have a small cupboard filled with plasters, bandages, creams, lotions and potions. Everything a mother could need. I opened the cupboard door, very slightly, and whispered "Magic cupboard, do you have anything in there for a sore finger?" The whispering was drowned out by the infectious giggle of my son, who seemed pleased that, once again, his mother was prepared to make a fool of herself, just to make him laugh. I put some cream on his finger, infections banished, the status quo restored. My son cherished.

We left the house in high spirits, the mood set for the day. My son asked if we could play a game on the way. Of course we could, that would be lots of fun. What game shall we play? We could have a quiz, he suggested, you ask me some questions and I will ask you some questions. Of course, I answer, what sort of questions would you like? About my favourite cartoon, he says. The one we watched last night, and the one we watched last week. And the week before that too. The one which has been on in the background, whilst I have thought of other things, grateful for a moment's respite, relishing the silence. I tried - I didn't get any of my questions right. And I could only think of one question for him, at which he snorted, complaining that it was too easy.

How am I to know if I'm succeeding or failing? How will I know if I am a good mother?

A Different Approach

2007-07-31T21:14:00.000+01:00

Ever since I started to feel unwell (& admitted to it), many of my friends have been more than sympathetic, taking time to ask me how I feel, what am I doing in work (you know who you are!) & if there's anything they can do for me. All very lovely, & very much appreciated. I have, over the last couple of days, noticed a slight change in tactic from some people. They have asked me if I think it is stress. Or do I feel stressed. Or they once suffered from stress, & they had all sorts of symptoms which came down to stress. I swear, the next person who asks me if I'm stressed, I'm going to summon whatever small amount of energy I have left & knock you right down. If I then very suddenly feel well again, I shall stop to lift you up & declare you were right. But I don't think there is much chance of that happening - if you want to gamble though, I'll play right along.

Lost

2007-07-30T20:15:00.000+01:00

In the television show of the same name, I believe (despite the plane crash, the polar bears, and the Others), they all seemed to be lost on a rather splendid beach. And the weather was nice too. Me? I was lost in New Cross Hospital today. Twice. And that's just inside. I was lost outside too. Twice. My sense of direction has always proved a delightful old giggle to my less geographically challenged friends, but today I was on my own clutching only a yellow piece of paper that entitled me to a chest X-Ray, commissioned by Dr Coocachoo, in his ceaseless bid to find out what is wrong with me. I got to the hospital with no problems at all, the legacy of my absolute clumsiness and being the mother of a fearless 8 year old has meant that I can at least find my way to A&E.

I walked confidently to the site map which told me You Are Here. And the Radiology Dept was a very long way away. Next to the Dermatology Dept. And not in a straight line. I tried looking at the map with my head at a 90 degree angle to see if this would give me a clue. It didn't, but I set off anyway. I walked in what I hoped was the right direction, through 3 car parks, past the neurology block, the diet & nutrition block, and some portakabins. No sign of either Radiology, or Dermatology. I tried a shortcut(!) but then cam back again when I got to some dustbins. I passed the maternity block & thought about going in there, not because I needed them, but because they must be accustomed to hormonal women who have gone a bit daffy & therefore might help. I decided I could sort it out myself. I rambled a bit more & found a side exit to Dermatology! This must be the way! I followed it, saw a sign to Radiology and followed that too! I ended up in a Loading Bay.

I retraced my steps, saw where I'd gone wrong and finally got into the Radiology Dept. I followed some people up the stairs, after having seen that X-Rays was on the 1st Floor. There seemed to be a lot of stairs. I came to the top, ambled up & down the corridor, walked almost into a ward that appeared to house heart & lung transplant patients & walked swiftly away again. I stopped to ask a nurse who said it was right down the other end of the corridor. I duly walked there & saw a sign for X-ray. Interventional X-Ray. I don't know what that is, not helped by me misreading it & thinking it said International X-Rays. But it wasn't where I needed to be. I stopped & asked the receptionist who told me I needed the floor below. That explains all the stairs then.

I tried the lift this time, got to the right department, just had to wait a little while, & was then shown to a little room where I was invited to strip to the waist. Ah, now HERE is the life that late I led! I was a little nervous about the gown if I'm honest. I know they're very skimpy & they don't always meet at the back. I did as I was told, to find that it could have wrapped round twice & it was longer than the skirt I had on. I am such a floozie! X-Ray done & dusted, I was pointed in the direction of the Way Out sign. Seems very straightforward. I ambled about for about 15 minutes before becoming involved in this little snippet of conversation:-

Me (spying a porter in the distance) Excuse me! Excuse me! Could you just tell me please where is the Way Out?

Porter: Which Car Park are you looking for?

Me: I'm not looking for any car park.

Porter: Where is it you want to go?

Me: Out

Porter: Just out?

Me (finally overcome by the stupid getting lost business) Yes, just out. I've been walking up & down for ages & if I can't find my way out, then I'm just going to slump in the corridor, & then I'll end up being admitted & there's nothing wrong with me, apart from the fact that I'm lost.

Porter: It's just there, madam.

Ah. I see it now. I find my way to the fresh air. I never thought I'd see fresh air again. I walk confidently in the direction I believe the bus stop to be in. And end up by the bins again. But I think they were different bins this time. I walk the opposite way & finally find the exit. I'm free! I'M FREE!

Dear lord, I know you don't hear from me very much at all, or in fact hardly ever, but if there is to be something wrong with me, please don't let it be the sort of something that I have to go back to the hospital for...

Growing up

2007-07-29T10:19:00.000+01:00

Growing up for me was fairly easy - I barely even knew that I did it. I was a shy little girl, wouldn't say boo to a goose, frightened of my own shadow. Then I became a teenager, not a terrifically rebellious one, no smoking, no drugs, I'd like to say no drinking except I'm looking out of the window and it's apparent that today is the day when I could indeed be hit by a thunderbolt. I may have stayed out a couple of nights without letting my parents know where I was, and on one of those occasions my mother did indeed feel it necessary to call the police. But I maintain that on the whole I was a good girl. My glimpse of rebellion was to turn vegetarian, a concept that my mother never got to grips with. Sundays was always a proper roast dinner, which I had minus the beef, so not too bad there. Strangely the problem was mainly salad - I must have told my mother 50 times that "just because ham is cold, it doesn't mean that it isn't meat!". In the end it didn't matter, because I fell into the temptation of a bacon sandwich, and despite my ethics I've never really looked back. Something strange must have happened, because by the time I went to sixth form college to resit nearly all my 'O' Levels and do some 'A' Levels, I'd turned into a young woman who had an opinion on anything and everything, and for a while was a political animal. The outspokenness has never really left, but I like it, it defines the person that I am.

Maybe you don't see the growing up that you do yourself because it's too close, but today I saw it in my son. He left this morning with his dad, so grown up, ready to be an usher at his aunt's wedding. He's going to be wearing a cravat, and telling people where to sit. ("I know what to tell them mom, I'm going to say do please sit here and spread out. No, not there! THERE! No, that's too close! I SAID SPREAD OUT!"). And today I'm so proud of my little boy that my heart could burst.

Tired, very tired...

2007-07-28T22:03:00.000+01:00

Well, last week, somehow it just sort of got away from me. Spent the whole week feeling like crap, turns out I haven't got a thyroid problem after all, so it looks like it might be old age. Can a doctor sign you off work for being old? I think not. I struggled into work every day, faced a barrage of tellings off every single day from my well meaning friends who clearly love me very much, but strangely couldn't wait to get shot of me. I could feel eyes gazing at me all day, either willing me to keep going, or just hurry the hell up & keel over, I can't decide which. Wednesday was the worst day, no sooner had I arrived than I was being eyed up for a lift home - I'll grant you I was a bit wobbly, but really! It had taken me over an hour to get in, I wasn't going to turn round & go straight home again!

The old books have come out again, in the brief moments I can keep awake, which I'll grant are very few & far between. I'm currently looking at Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, it's a book I never expected to like, but did. I'm a million miles behind on my studying, but I'm so near now, I refuse to give up. And I know I'm stubborn enough to keep going.

I watched Heroes today that I'd taped in the week - that was so fantastic! I want to be Clare, the cheerleader - indestructibility, now that's the super power to have. I've had many discussions on this subject before (Tina Tangent!), and in the past I've always gone for flying or invisibility, but I was so wrong!

Hello World

2007-07-22T11:05:00.000+01:00

Good morning world, I'm very glad to have your company this morning! Although quite what I'm doing here, instead of writing my essay, which is what I'm meant to be doing, is anyone's guess. For those of you wondering what I do in my spare time, apart from grumbling about being poorly, I study too. I'm doing an English Lit degree with the Open University and this is my last year. Hurrah! Next year will see me up on a stage somewhere, in my little gown (no mortar board!) getting my degree & then the world is my lobster! Actually, I'm not sure if it is or not, but I'm hoping so. A degree is meant to be like getting a key to the door I think, it should take you to places that otherwise wouldn't let you in. SO whatever doubts I may have about my career (!) at the moment, they should all be answered then. I'd love to be a teacher, but it doesn't look as though finances will run my way on that, there's lots of hoops to jump through, like getting a teaching qualification for starters, and there's no way on God's earth that I can afford to give up work & do that for a year (which is why the lottery keeps being done every week). And anyway, it's going to be a moot point unless I do my essay, so I'm off. Bye for now!

It's Raining Men, Hallelujah!

2007-07-20T22:38:00.000+01:00

It just isn't, it's quite simply raining, but lord, if it was raining men, I'm sure that 1 would have taken my fancy by now. Do you know what sort of man I'd like? He has to be taller than me, that's obvious. Also fairly easy, cos I'm not exactly blessed on the height front. He has to be kind, considerate, strong, faithful, and he has to love me till the end of time. (Did a bit of Meatloaf creep in there? How spooky!) Looks wise? I don't care what some of my friends say - I maintain & I always have done, there has to be some sort of physical attraction. If I met a man who filled all the characteristics, but there was no spark when I looked at him, would it work? I'm sure it would for some people, but I don't think it would for me. So he has to be blonde, have blue eyes, and good strong shoulders. I know that probably sounds a bit freaky, but it's really important! Strong shoulders make you feel safe - when a man takes you in his arms, you want to feel secure. Well I do anyway.I'm a supportive woman, and I'm a strong woman too, but I still want a man to make me feel as though I'm taken care of. I'm quite independent, and I imagine that there's a billion women out there who just shivered at my denunciation of feminism. It's really important to me, I don't want any man to make me feel like an idiot, if I'm with a man, he has to respect me, and the person that I am, but I don't want to be the boss in a relationship. I do want my voice to be heard, and I want us to have mutual respect for each other, but I want him to protect me too, just like I'd protect him if he needed me to. So I say let it keep raining, let it bring me the man that I want. I know he's not far away, even though sometimes it feels like a million miles. Today, he feels close.

Hope springs eternal

2007-07-19T17:06:00.000+01:00

I was convinced when I went to bed last night that today I was going to feel better, really I was. Sadly, I was wrong, which always comes as a shock! But, no today I'm still off work, still suffering, & hoping for a better tomorrow. Sounds like a song? Maybe next time!

Yesterday

2007-07-18T13:04:00.000+01:00

When all my troubles seemed so far away? Except they didn't really, not at all. Yesterday was the day after Monday (lord, how clever I am!), which is the day I went to see the doctor about the problems with my throat. A few questions later, and he appears to have diagnosed me with a thyroid problem. Now, forgive me for mentioning this, but is this not the sort of thing that you get when.... well, when you're older than 39 for goodness sake! In the last month, I've had to start wearing glasses for the first time, now my thyroid's gone on the blink, and at this rate I'll need a stairlift by Christmas. So yesterday, I was fairly exhausted, not very well at all, but today at least I'm out of my bed without passing out (always a good sign!) and I've made it to the doc's for a blood test. I only have to wait for the standard NHS 7 days and then I'll know if I have a thyroid problem, or if my body has gone into some sort of meltdown. I'm very much hoping that this isn't going to be a blog about various illnesses that crop up - where is the life that late I led?

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

2007-07-15T18:23:00.000+01:00

I wonder how many other people have this as the title of their blog entry for today? Sundays are never my best day. My son goes back to his dad on a Sunday, before the morning has barely started, leaving me bereft when I should be taking advantage of the day stretching out in front of me. Sunday sees me alone when I need to be with people, but that's never the way it works, is it? If I were talking to a friend, I'd tell them of how wondrous it must be, to have a day to spend as they choose. But mothers around the world, whose children aren't with them on Sundays, know better than that. They know how your heart stops you from living, when it's the only thing that keeps you alive.