My flat - a tribute

It may not look much from the outside, but I really really love my flat. It felt like home from the moment the estate agent walked me through the door. The buying process was a struggle - moving house and getting divorced simultaneously cannot be recommended - but living here has been instrumental in helping me recover from the divorce. The view alone makes me smile every single day and having a boat on the lake gives me the chance to experience the wildlife - and the methane-producing algae - close up.

My neighbours are fab: Ali opposite who sweeps me off my feet at Salsa every week and his flatmate Matt who's terribly polite, despite being the quietest man in history, who hasn't said more than 5 words since I've lived here (so the complete opposite of Ali);Tom next door who still holds out hope of catching one of the lake's wily carp (no chance mate!); Caroline & Spencer below who are getting married in a typical HUGE Irish wedding (don't think Spencer knows what he's letting himself in for); Rachel who used to rent my flat before buying the flat below Ali, who lives with her cats Richard & Presley and is having a terrible year; the Japanese (Chinese? Oh, that's terrible that I'm not sure) woman whose name I don't know with the gorgeously cute children who live upstairs; the Polish couple, with Kristian the baby, who live above me and are always so friendly but hate us having barbecues; Carey who lives on the top floor and has become Caroline's drinking buddy after she happened upon us all sat in my rather large paddling pool during one our regular impromptu barbecues last summer.

I've loved living by myself - well, more recently with the cats of course - and having my own space. It didn't need any work when I moved in because Belinda & Hilton, who I bought the flat from, had done such a good job. It's open plan and spacious: they'd knocked out a couple of doorways and, having seen some of the other flats which still have the original layout, I think it was exactly the right thing to do. Buying little bargains for it, such as my dining table and chairs has been such fun - eBay is king - and I'm grateful for all the donations I received from my friends, such as my sofa from Zoe & Phillip, leather armchairs (which are now covered in claw marks goddamn it) and my bed, both from Linda & Karl. I've loved building flat pack furniture - my bed, wardrobe, two chests of drawers and a shelf unit to date - and have even (shock! horror!) kind of enjoyed keeping it clean.

So now the great 'pack up' begins. My friends Debbie & Ian move in here the weekend after next while I move to my dad & step-mother's in order to save some money for my trip. I know it's for all the right reasons, but I'm going to miss the flat soooo much. At least it's D & I who are moving in, so I know it'll be well looked after and I can still visit. They're going to be looking after the cats too, who I'm also going to miss big time. I'm trying to have as many snuggles with them now as I can to carry me through. sigh.

Game on

Well, there's no getting out of it now. Got my visa [check], booked my flight [check], cacking my pants [check].

5th September 2007, 1500 hours: Vancouver here I come.

Erm....was I missing something here?

Serbia? Our, admittedly small, Eurovision party put that way down towards the bottom of the list in all catagories: dull song, uncharismatic androgynous singer and a frankly weird performance. Even the FRENCH entry was better than that. THE FRENCH I tells ya. So so so glad to see the UK did not vote for it at all, at least we have good taste. The Greek entry (Yassou Maria) was clearly the best song and was robbed of its rightful victory. Go on, give it a little listen, you know you want to. I did like one of the comments on the Radio 2 message board (yes, I am that sad):

All the UK needs next year then is a little fat Billy Bunter-a-like to belt out a funeral march and it's in the bag.

It was the Oatlands Village Fayre yesterday, which appeared to have upped the ante since I last went, by having a stunt show, culminating in a man setting himself on fire and jumping off a 100ft high tower onto a bouncy castle, which exploded. They also had a stall where, for £2.50, you could drizzle paint onto a piece of card and then spin it, which made it look way cool. I loved it so much I now have a complete series:

So how'd we do?

A rather excellent report from The Daily Show highlighting the self-congratulatory and demonising tendencies of the American media in the wake of the Virginia Tech shootings:


Oh and if you can still hear Will Ferrell starting up every time you visit my blog, I'm sorry. He's nearly off the bottom of the page now so it won't go on for much longer. Scoot down there and shut him up for me, will ya?

Bang to rights?

Just watched the Panorama programme 'Midwives Undercover', which aimed to highlight the problems in Britain's maternity units using secret filming by a journalist working as a volunteer. It was alarming stuff, but one of the problems with having a lay person looking for problem areas is that, unless you know what you're looking for, you run the risk of making an issue out of something that really isn't that big a deal and, as a result, missing the really important things.

Certainly there was a big fuss made over the fact that the journalist was asked to hold a baby's heart monitor transducer in place for a 20 minute period "without having any training at all". Now, it is certainly the case that interpreting a CTG (cardiotocograph) trace takes training and if mistakes are made, they have the potential to be catastrophic. BUT holding the transducer in place is a job more usually done by an elasticated strap. Only if the baby is in an awkward position, as presumably was the case here, do you have to angle it a bit by hand. The woman was not in labour, so it was highly unlikely that the trace would show anything requiring immediate action and the midwives were popping in to look at the trace every 10 mins or so, as they would normally have done. So is it really a major story that the volunteer was acting as an glorified bit of elastane? To my mind, it's far more appropriate that the volunteer was doing this, than the midwife who had plenty of better things to be getting on with.

The other thing that crops up time and time again, whenever anything is reported about maternity services, is the inevitable 'my baby died/had brain damage because of what they did' story. I apologise if that comes across as heartless, it's not intended to be. The fact is however that babies do die, they do get brain damaged, and whilst we should never become complacent about it, and we should of course do everything we can to prevent it, we will never be able to save every baby. I cannot comment on the two cases discussed on tonight's programme, for the obvious reason that I wasn't there and I don't have any of the details, but warning bells always ring for me when phrases such as "So & so was already having problems before they arrived on the ward" are heard. Many - if not most - cases of brain damage are due to antenatal insults, meaning that the care in labour does not directly contribute to the outcome, the damage has already been done before you get there without anyone being able to do anything about it. Proving it one way or another is often impossible though and often results in hospitals offering (substantial) out-of-court settlements to parents. Whilst I have a lot of sympathy for parents who are naturally devastated and seek to apportion blame in someone's quarter, but I also have a lot of sympathy for those involved in the care, who often did their best, with an outcome that was inevitable.

It is definitely beyond question that there is a shortage of midwives in most units though and, yes, this can contribute to the kind of problems detailed above. Much much more often, however, it contributes instead to women - or whole families - having a thoroughly miserable and rather crap experience. This may be the poor cousin of the catastrophic events we love to hear about, but if you ask me, it's a much bigger problem. Women who've had crap care are more likely to have had unnecessary interventions (expensive to the NHS, detrimental to women's bodies), develop postnatal depression, be overly anxious about subsequent pregnancies which results in more unnecessary interventions - if they go on to have any more children that is. I often wonder how many women never go on to have the families they would have wanted because they were badly treated the first time; I have a friend who is finally having her second baby now, 14 years after her first, because it's taken her this long to pick up the courage after having such a horrible time with her first.

Ah well. It's only a job, eh?

Not a member of the Breastapo

Much to my surprise, I was on the Five Live breakfast show this morning. I say much to my surprise, because I only got a call from my friend Adam, who's a BBC radio producer - though BBC radio Essex I believe - last night at about 10.30pm, asking if I'd talk about postnatal depression (PND) this morning in response to the Royal College of Midwives' statement today that PND may be twice as common as we thought it was. This is, I feel compelled to point out, after a survey of only 500 women, which is unlikely to be terribly representative, but hey. Anyway, they said they'd call this morning about 8.20am and that I'd go on air about 8.30am. Fine. I was in a study day from 8am but was happy to run out for 20 mins or so.

I got the call at 8.20am, asking for my landline number. I gave it to them and asked for 1 minute to run down to my office. This I did, haring down 2 sets of stairs, to find the phone was ringing when I got there, and when I answered it I was told that I would be put on air immediately. Thus, if you choose to 'Listen Again' to this morning's show, you may hear me struggling both for breath and for thoughts, as I had absolutely no idea what they were planning to ask me. I winged my way through it, then headed back to my study day, whereupon my colleagues asked me what we'd talked about. I had absolutely no idea. I literally couldn't remember one question. Anyway, I listened back to it just now and it didn't sound half as bad as it felt at the time so that's okay.

The Porcs kick ass

I went to see Porcupine Tree at the Forum last night. Who? you might ask. I'm sure I've mentioned them here before but just in case: they're one of my fave bands and I've given you a little (fairly poor quality - sorry) taster here:



You might notice the camera jiggling slightly as I ROCKED OUT.

Speedy laptops & broken hearts

So firstly, thanks to Silas who helped me whip my laptop into shape last night. It has been getting soooooo sloooooooooow on start up it was in danger of being broken into many many tiny little pieces, so I started by transferring all my music onto my external hard drive, freeing up a whole 15Gb! Then I ran disk cleanup and defragged it all like a good girl. Then - and this is where I became very clever indeed - I added some more RAM (giving me 496 big ones in total - which, of course, is far less impressive than it might first appear) before, finally, requesting remote assistance from Silas who checked that all my...well...bits were in order. Because I wasn't entirely sure what all my bits should look like. But anyway, he said they looked good. So that was nice.

Secondly, I can't believe that Steph & Max have split up*. I mean, come on. I know Max accidentally-on-purpose run over and killed Cameron - though he thought him to be his evil twin Robert at the time - and then got his head screwed over by Elle (Cameron's sister) who kept moving his car and baby and so on so he went a bit mad, then run off and disappeared, later sending a message to Steph via the Salvation Army to tell her to move on, after which she fell in love with her best friend Toady, who'd been there for her the whole time and did try to save her from the bad guy Guy, who shot Toady in the back and now he lives with a fragment of bullet in his spine, which might move and paralyse or kill him at any point, so when he came out of his coma he and Steph finally professed their love for each other, just before Max turned up again after having been spotted and followed by Elle, who was now very remorseful about her behaviour and and so told Janae, who had approached him and asked him to come home, which he did, which meant that Steph had to give it another go with him, what with them being married and having a child together and all that, which left Toady heartbroken. But Steph & Max've been through so much together, what with hating each other at first, and Steph heading off on a round Australia trip with some other loser bloke then coming back because she realised she loved Max (best kiss ever in a soap) , pursuading Boyd and Summer that she wasn't trying to replace their dead mum and then eloping to get married in jeans and Steph getting breast cancer and subsequently recovering, then getting pregnant with baby Charlie (the ugliest child in television), then getting the cancer back and refusing treatment until she gave birth and recovering again despite no one expecting her to.... I suspect she'll get back together with Toady which will be nice for Toady because he's very nice and has had a rough time himself, what with his wife dying on their wedding day when he crashed the car with the dodgy brakes into the sea. Anyway, I just think it's very sad. And sloppy writing.

*yes, very sorry, I am talking about Neighbours

Trying not to let the bastards grind me down

Well, this has been a challenging week. Of my current team of four midwives: Debbie is on long-term sick with a dodgy knee, unable to walk without crutches, and is awaiting surgery; Sophie is building up her hours again after being on long-term sick after some heavy duty surgery but is on two weeks annual leave at the moment; Karen only joined up 4 weeks ago but has had 1 week on annual leave and this past week has been on the Trust Induction programme (this is what you do when the infusion pump makes this horrible noise/this is how you give someone a blood transfusion without killing them/this is what you do when you suspect someone is beating their child to a pulp/when someone threatens to kill you this is who you call. All thrilling stuff) so I've been all alone this week. This basically means being on-call 24/7 for all four caseloads.

I spoke to my manager and explained I'd be on my own and asked if I could get some help with the routine daytime work so I could concentrate on on-calls and emergencies. I was told that everyone was too busy so, basically, no. The previous week I had walked in on a member of another team- let's call her 'Rita' - slagging me off for always asking for help*, so my avenues were becoming rather blocked. I managed to rearrange most of my work till the following week and get 2 immovable visits covered, would just have to do the rest when I could.

Then the carnage begun. On Sunday, my car had broken down (overheating) so on the Monday, as well as helping my mum get up to Kings Cross so she could take the train home to Yorkshire, I need to limp it over to the garage to be repaired. As a result, I couldn't do a booking that afternoon and, as no one else would cover it either, poor hopalong Debbie took a taxi in to the hospital to do it for me. I spent the day fielding calls from one of Debbie's women who was in early labour. I returned from Kings Cross to find my car had been issued with a parking ticket, despite being parked perfectly legally**. I was called in later to look after the labouring woman, who had a nice waterbirth at 5am. The birth centre (midwifery-led, low-risk unit) was jammed though and my friend Nia, who was all alone there, had a birth which had a few complications so I was helping out. Labour ward (consultant-led, high risk unit) was also packed and I somehow ended up having a HUGE stand-up in-your-face shouting match with one of the co-ordinators from there, who was unbelievably rude to me and acting like a child. I got a call at 8am from one of my girls to say her waters had broken and I finally left the hospital at about 10.30am to go round and see her. I knew I had to hand my phone to someone as she may well labour during the day but, after catching Rita (who would have been the first choice to call) slagging me off, wanted reassurance from my manager first I was doing the right thing. I called her, only to have her have a go at me, saying that of course my colleague should be covering me, she didn't know why I was calling her, I should be able to deal with this. I cried for about half an hour. I then got a call to say my car was ready to be collected so when I got home I caught a bus which took an hour after going all round the houses and dropped me half an hour's walk from the garage. I got there to find it had cost £150 and I'd been blocked in by a van. I ended up shouting at a perfectly friendly man and crying hysterically all the way home. Finally got to bed at 3pm but woke again 3 hours later.

Got called back in that night to look after the girl whose waters had broken. She was only in very early labour but she had lots of family with her who were being a nightmare and refusing to take her home. I ended up being there with them all night till 9am, before we persuaded them that at 1cm, she really needed to be at home. I then went and found the (very scary) labour ward manager, who had been complaining about me starting this row with the co-ordinator the previous night by throwing my weight around and making demands (completely untrue), so I did my best to calmly sort out the disagreement. Called Rita to take my phone for the day only to be told she'd spoken to our manager the previous evening who had said that of course they shouldn't be covering my work and that if I was off, my phone should be covered by the hospital. This completely contradicted what I'd been told the previous morning and what I'd been shouted at for even questioning. My manager of course hadn't thought to let me know this new piece information however. I left around 10am.

Got woken at 3.3opm by the birth centre saying my woman was back in and they were too busy to take her so could I come in and look after her? Errrmmmm....no actually. I explained that if they couldn't take her, she should go to the labour ward (fate worse than death in my book but I had no option). I then spent the rest of the afternoon worrying about her.

Came back in to labour ward at 10pm to take over. Her care had been somewhat shambolic but I managed to pull this back in order. The whole family were exhausted, having been awake for nigh on 72 hours, even though we'd all made it perfectly clear for the previous couple of days that she wasn't yet in active labour and the best thing they could ALL do was to get some rest, but instead the poor girl had had 4 people standing round staring at her for the whole time. No wonder the labour took so bloody long to establish. It took every ounce of my strength to remain the very epitome of calm and supportive to every last one of them. This notwithstanding, her tired and stressed mother - who kept telling me she'd had 5 children and really should have known better - ended up shouting at me that she "didn't care about the baby!" and I can't tell you how close I came to walking out. I didn't though and, despite the best efforts of the doctors and her family to interfere, she had a nice normal birth at 4am. The mother immediately backtracked and said I'd been "very brave and very patient". Managed to do a quick turnaround with the paperwork and left around 6.30am. Got to bed at 7.15am and then up again at 12pm, racing into London to meet my cousin Camilla who was over from Denmark for a couple of days and was leaving that night so only had that time to catch up. Came back from London to go to the opening night of the new Gourmet Burger Kitchen in Walton, which was guest list only and I practically fell asleep in my (free and delicious) burger. Come 8pm I was supposed to come back on call but realised I was not fit to look after a flea. Called a lovely colleague on the birth centre who agreed to take my phone that evening. Went home and slept - aaaaaaaahhhhhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Next morning I found out that my girl had gone into the high dependency unit over night with breathing difficulties, which turned out to be nothing, but if my phone had been on I'd undoubtedly have been called in. I spend the day running around trying to sort her out and fit in all the visits I hadn't been able to do all week, before heading into London to go to a friend's Hen night at The Sanctuary and FINALLY TURNING MY PHONE OFF FOR THE WEEKEND.

It might amuse you to know that, to add insult to injury, I had just finished writing this when my computer decided, for reasons best known to itself, to delete it all and I had to write it all out again.

Anyway, I can quite honestly say that if I wasn't leaving in August, I'd have handed in my notice this week. It's one thing working hard and feeling tired all the time, but quite another to have to deal with a face-full of abuse from all and sundry at the same time. Sometimes I really hate my job.

*Unsurprisingly, since I've not had a full team of six for a YEAR now and for the past 6 months have been running the team with a maximum of 3 and often only 2 midwives. What does she expect me to do?
**I appealed, supplying lots of photos as support and had an email on Friday saying it had been issued in error and had been cancelled. Finally, some good news.

You pay now bitch!

So good it hurts.

Not hydrophobic at all

Rudy is such a daft bugger. I love him.

Brookie

Yesterday, my mother & I took a quick trip on Concorde. Not that it left the ground, you understand, but it was damn good nevertheless.

Brooklands Museum has one, 30% of which was actually built there, and they've done a really good job with it. You buy a boarding pass and meet on the transfer bus for a briefing, then up into the cargo hold (tiny!) to see some information about Concorde's history and the story of this particular vessel. Then, you pass up through the cabin where there are original seats from the 70s, 80s and 90s/00s, before taking your seat at the front of the plane and experiencing a full take-off and flight experience (lasting 10 mins!) . Very good indeed and surprisingly emotional.

The rest of the museum is well worth a visit too. To my delight, I got to sit in one of Ayrton Senna's F1 cars although I am sorry to report that my hips are obviously wider than his were. A fact that the (rather advancing-in-years) museum assistant was not slow to point out, in some detail in fact, even going as far as to speculate on my dress size. Which he got wrong. The insulting way. He then tried to guess my weight, which he also managed to get spectacularly and not-a-little humiliatingly wrong. Hmmmm.

Nifty gifty?

That's it, I've bailed out. I'm sorry, I know I've let you all down, but I just couldn't hack it anymore.

I've gone back to a litter box.

Basically, a combination of Rudy's pathological fear of any kind of hole in the disc over the toilet and refusal to use it if he discovered one (or, worse, choosing alternative locations) and his penchant for trying to bury his litter to China, resulting in litter and - let's be frank - poo all over the bathroom floor every day has meant that my patience has finally waned. I'm not saying it's not a great idea to toilet train your cats, because it is, and if it was just Gertie I'm sure she'd be well away by now but Rudy's such a bloody wuss. He's sat on my lap as I type this but it's okay, he can't read. But honest to God, you should have seen the mess this morning.

Not that I've gone for any litter box. There are so many plastic monstrosities on the market - I tells ya if I had my time again I'd start up a company that produced nice and stylish products for pets rather than cheap-looking tat and stuff covered in cartoon cats and dogs that are clearly supposed to be cutsey but are actually horrendous beyond belief - but I don't want my flat to be a shrine to the cats (sorry - bad mummy) so I've gone for something a bit more...well, maybe you should decide. It looks at first glance to be an ordinary (possibly slightly rubbish) plant pot and (not too bad looking) fake plant but no! Inside is a cat toilet. Rudy took to it straight away and peed in it within minutes.

Now be honest. Is this actually quite cool, or is it unbelievably naff? I can't decide, but I think that I think it's quite a nifty solution. Either way, eBay truly is a goldmine for the weird and wonderful.

Time in a Bottle

As you may already be aware, this is one of my favourite songs of all time. Just so's you know, in case any of you are still hanging around by then, it's what I want played at my funeral. Yes, of course this version.

Russian Roulette

I like to play Russian Roulette. Not with guns, because they're illegal and I don't know where to get one, much less fire it, and I'd probably get arrested. Although if I did it with guns then I'd have to do it on telly and become famous and Derren Brown would want to meet me and obviously we'd fall in love and get married and have lots of lovely beardy children and live in a house full of stuffed animals. Sigh.

But instead, I like to play Russian Roulette with food. Every so often I'll forgo my usual brand of whatever and buy the 'basics' 'value' 'savers' 'no frills' version and see how it does. When it works, finding you only have to spend 13p on a can of chopped tomatoes in the future can be immensely gratifying. This week's purchase was Sainsbury's Basics Corn Flakes. For the record: nasty.

Did you see Baby Faced Bodybuilders on BBC3 tonight? Now I knew that body builders have long used fake tan to 'highlight' their muscle definition but it seems that nowadays they just look like something out of the Black & White Minstrel Show. You'd think the PC brigade might have something to say about that.

Very nice news indeed

Congratulations to my dear friends Sarah & Andy who had a beautiful 7lb* baby girl at home in their kitchen on Tuesday. All went very well, and the midwife was absolutely brilliant apparently...**

They've just got to name her now, because the nickname she had during pregnancy, Little Barry, doesn't seem quite so apt now.

*'medium-sized' according to Andy
**well, it was me, so of course she was

Well of course NOW it works...

Thanks Silas!

Legacy

I've just rediscovered Mansun - no, not Marilyn Manson - but the wonderful popular beat combo from the late 90s who made some really rather excellent records. I have, happily, managed to find one of my all-time fave songs/videos on You Tube. Watch it, quick, before it's removed due to legal discussions about copyright laws... Then download Wide Open Space from whichever is your preferred music source because it's mint, or rad, or book, or whatever the young people are saying these days.

(All you html dudes out there - why will Blogger not allow me to embed videos from YouTube on here? It keeps saying the tag isn't closed. What bloody tag? In fact, it always gave me this error message in the past but went on to publish it anyway - Blogger Beta (or whatever we're on now) won't publish it at all. What do I do?)

Winging it

It's Friday night, so obviously I've been sat in by myself watching Green Wing - I've found a place on t'interpipe where you can watch them all for free, yippee! - and am genuinely alarmed by how much Alan Statham reminds me of me. Apart from the obsession with sex of course. But otherwise: uncanny.

To sleep perchance...

When I happen to mention to other cat owners that I shut my cats out of the bedroom at night, they tend to look at me with a piteous look and make noises that are supposed to make me feel like I'm missing out on one of life's great pleasures by denying myself the opportunity to snuggle up with these fluffy bundles of joy.

Now, I'm not denying that during daylight hours, the gentle chirruping, chasing each other back and forth across every stick of furniture I own (now all ruined by a million tiny claw marks but hey ho) and tossing balls up in the air then pouncing on them with all the enthusiasm of a hungry lion on a wounded gazelle, amuses me no end. The affectionate moments, where they spreadeagle themselves on my lap in order to receive the exact required amount of petting but absolutely no more than that is also very sweet and I will happily deny myself any drinks or snacks I'd otherwise like to have until they have moved off of their own accord so as to avoid disturbing them.

But at night time, call me old-fashioned, I like to sleep. It is, I believe, a basic human need and, as has been discussed here previously, a hugely enjoyable exercise. Additionally, my job of choice does occasionally necessitate my getting up in the middle of the night to attend births and having had even a small amount of sleep can be a considerable advantage. And having two cats running around me, fighting, or padding slowly over my wishing-I-was-comatose body, often with paws - and indeed a pause - on my head has a tendency to interrupt this process. I've tried, I really have. In fact, last night I left my door open and by 5am, when I was lying awake, having found it necessary to contort my body into an highly unnatural, and indeed uncomfortable, position in order to accommodate the two now repose cats, who had spent the rest of the night trying to eat my hair and trying to reduce my Ikea chest of drawers back to splinters, I ended up chasing them from the room and shutting the door with relief.

Blast from the past

As you may have heard, Gareth Hunt died last week. Those of you who've known me for donkies will remember that Gareth was one of stars of Side by Side, the sitcom I did when I was 17/18 years old and he was such a lovely bloke. Although we hadn't kept in touch, I was really sad to hear about his death. Then I saw Alex Walkinshaw, who played my 'lurrrve interest' in Side by Side, on This Morning last week talking about his role in The Bill and his new son, Jack. It got me to thinking about Louisa Rix, who played my mum in the series and I ended up googling her. It only bloomin' turns out that she lives 10 mins away from me, so tonight, after work, I took a detour round to hers to surprise her (it did!) and ended up having a lovely cup of tea with her and Richard Ommanney, her husband and the writer of Side by Side, who now works as a writer on The Bill! Phew! She also gave me the details of Gareth's funeral next week so I will head over there to pay my last respects.

Is it too early for me to go to bed? I say this because as I write, it's 9.25pm and, having just finished indulging in a lovely long soak in the bath, I want tuck myself straight up.

This happens more and more as I get older. I find that the evening is all about biding my time until I feel it's socially acceptable to go to bed; I look forward to it for hours. A cup of milky coffee, a hot water bottle, a good book, the cats for company, and away I go. A pair of clean pyjamas is a lovely treat too. Oh dear.

I do realise how this sounds, I really do. I know I need to get 'out there' a bit more but sleep is just sooooo nice...

Bust

No, I haven't gone and got one.

I am referring, of course, to companies who supply me with goods and then deliberately go bust in order to get out of having to actually repair their shoddy handywork.

Last year, when I found my grill wasn't working, I attempted to contact the oven manufacturer, Arrow, only to discover that they'd gone into liquidation. After much searching, I finally managed to track down one man on eBay who had a stock of Arrow grill parts (why?! But I'm immensely grateful) and got the part, which my dad duly fitted and now I have a working grill. Hurrah.

For the past few weeks* the lock/handle on the window in the kitchen has been broken and I've had to wedge my knife sharpener behind it in order to secure it against burglars (who know knife sharpeners could be so useful?) I have put off getting it repaired because, well, because I didn't know who I should call about it to be honest. I mean, it wouldn't be an electrician, not a plumber, not a carpenter - so who? A window cleaner?

Today I decided I really needed to get it sorted if I'm going to rent the flat out so I look through the paperwork the previous owners had left me and found that the windows had been fitted in 2001 and had a 10 year guarantee! Excellent! Only it was with Bryco and the bloody bastards went bust in 2004, as I discovered when I tried to call, then google, them. Anyway, what I managed to do was find out the manufacturer of the lock mechanism (logo on the underside of the lock - would have had to hang out of the window (first floor) to see it but instead had the bright idea of getting my camera and taking a picture of it so I could read it), then looked up the manufacturer on the old interpipe**. I not only found the parts in question, I also learnt what they were called. Very important when trying to talk to repair men (because conversations that go "you know the bit that looks like a very thin pencil, that fits inside the other bit, the bit shaped like a piece of macaroni, that's not going in properly" tend to lead to comedic-type misunderstandings I find). Incidentally, the handle is called an Espag Handle and the lock is a shootbolt. Obviously. Now I can converse about window mechanisms with the best of them.

So then I call the manufacturer and they give me a list of local stockists, one of whom I call and she says someone is in my area and can be with me in half an hour. Cue some frantic cleaning of said window area, including using a toothbrush to remove the many years accumulated gunk from the lock. Half an hour later, two burly gentlemen turn up, take the handle - sorry, the Espag - off, fiddle around, put it back on and all is fixed. We then have a discussion about the handles themselves, decide they're rubbish and since I wasn't ever given a key for them either, decided to get them all replaced for what I consider a fairly reasonable sum (less than three figures anyway) so I'll be all properly secure again. They'll be back next week with the parts...unless they go bust in the meantime, that is.

*okay, months
** my favourite new word for the internet

"It's not normal...

...and some people say I shouldn't be using the word 'normal', but I'm using it quite deliberately." Kathy Goble, Professional Complainer, on the lesbian kiss on Eastenders.

"How can he refute the Bible, which he's supposed to live his life by, and bring God into the act of Sodomy?" Kathy Goble, Professional Complainer, on the Bishop who conducted a live gay wedding shown on This Morning

"It made me feel physically sick." Kathy Goble, Professional Complainer, on the Channel 4 series 'Queer As Folk'.

"Did you hear who they were all calling for? 'Oh my God oh my God oh my God'" Kathy Goble, Professional Complainer, on Derren Brown's Seance.

"But there's no question about the fact that Jesus was All Man" Kathy Goble, Professional Complainer, on Jerry Springer The Opera.

(X-Rated: The Top 20 Most Controversial TV Programmes)

She was absolutely great. Comedy gold. I want my own little Kathy Goble doll, that will spout bigoted rhetoric whenever I squeeze her boobs.

In her honour, I would like you all to go here and watch Paedogeddon! The Brass Eye Special (it's in 3 parts). I hear it's one of her favourites.

Rocket man

William Shatner takes acting to a whole new level. His own level. Right up there. Only he can travel there; high, high above us mere mortals. It must be lonely up there in space.

Going, going...

Here is my rather modest efforts from the lunar eclipse last night - I was out at dinner and just happened to have my 4m pixel digital camera with me, no tripod, so these were taken free hand. The last shot was taken on a long exposure, but took 5 attempts resting on a brick wall to get one without too much wobble! Still, not too bad considering.

And Happy Birthday Dad!

Should I stay or should I go?

Although some people clearly have too much time on their hands, I rather liked this.

Megan pushes off for good

(L-R) Jo, Kat, Megan, Sarah, Yours Truly.

We went en masse to Heathrow to make sure Megan definitely left the country today. Escorted her off the premises, as it were. We'll all really miss her, but at least I get to see her in six months time - hurrah! In the meantime, we've got messenger so we can always catch up.

Last weekend Megan came to stay with me and we tried to pack in a whole load of stuff so she had some good English memories. We went to see Hot Fuzz, where we laughed our arses off. By the power of Greyskull! Back home for some spaghetti bolognese (my own special recipe) and I made Megan watch the first episode of several classic comedy series. Green Wing, The Office (UK version - she'd only seen the US version), Nighty Night, The Mighty Boosh, as well as some clips from the League of Gentlemen and Nathan Barley. By the way, if you have any suggestions of other must-see comedy series I should educate her about, let me know.

The following morning we began proceedings with a full English breakfast, naturally. Then we drove over to Windsor and took an audio trip around the castle, which is excellent by the way. A spot of shopping followed, natch, then home for a cup of tea and some syrup waffles then we watched Strictly Ballroom before making eggy-bacony-pasta-y thing (the clue is in the name) and then eating it to the tune of Monsoon Wedding. Superb.

So Megan, in the words of Rupert Graves: "You'll remember that, anyroad." (fabulous prizes available for guessing the quote)

Little things

Wow, these photos are so clever! No idea how they do that but it's very effective.

Heard a great story the other day. My friend had a baby 5 weeks ago and last week her sister came to stay, so her partner and her took the opportunity to go out to dinner, leaving her sister to babysit. She said she felt like her arm was missing, but still. They had a nice meal and returned home around 10pm. Then, they realised that it was still quite early and that her sister probably wouldn't expect them back for another hour or so, so while they were alone they decided to do something they hadn't had the opportunity to do for some time...

So they parked up around the corner from their flat, put the seats all the way back, set an alarm...

...and had an hour's sleep.

Megan's send off

My lovely friend Megan is heading home to Canada on Thursday (boo! I'm going to miss her so much that I'm following her hahaha!) and last night we had a leaving do for her at The Defector's Weld in Shepherds Bush. It started off as a rather sedate affair but six bottles of wine later became rather raucous. I should point out that - if you look closely at the above picture it shall provide proof - I was strictly on orange and cranberry juice as usual. There was much photo-taking of cleavages, mainly because our friend Kat has an incredibly impressive one. So impressive in fact, that at one point, that in the spirit of frivolity and in an attempt to prove that not drinking does not equal boring, I buried my head in it. It was very comfy, so I think Cornershop were probably right - everybody needs a bosom for a pillow. Anyway, later in the night two classic drunk scenarios occurred: firstly, Megan spotted a man in a kilt and decided to see what was underneath it. The usual. The second involved the misappropriation of a traffic cone for comedic purposes. Ah the old ones are the best, are they not? A jolly time was had by all. The only thing that was bloody annoying was that somehow I managed to get a sodding parking ticket, so my otherwise frugal night actually ended up being more expensive than if I'd taken a taxi and got plastered. Bugger.

Shere luck

A couple of days ago, I had a hankering for a bit of countryside and decided to drag David with me. The weather wasn't all that great, but hey, you takes your chances in old Blighty, don't you? We started at Silent Pool, a beautiful spot which comes with the added bonus of a highly improbable ghost story. If you've been there you'll know that the water is so crystal clear - due apparently to the close proximity of the lake to the source spring - and so you can see very clearly that it's definitely not deep enough to drown in...

Once we'd had our fill of the lake, we headed off Newlands Corner, one of the most spectacular views in Surrey. Or at least it should be. In fact, due to the drizzle and general bleughness of the day, it actually looked like this:

A quick wander out of the car to see if the view could be improved upon (it couldn't), resulted in slipping in the mud and getting my jeans very dirty, so back in the car for a quick trip over to Shere village in search of a cream tea. We found one at the Lucky Duck tea rooms, where we could also buy some local farm eggs. Nice. There is also a ford in Shere (a bit where a stream goes over the road and you have to drive through the stream - remember to test your brakes afterwards!) which I delighted in going through twice for no particular reason.

On the way back I spotted a sign for Bocketts Farm, so off we went, hoping to find some animals to pet. And we found them! Lots of lambs, two of which had only been born that morning and there was still a bit of blood in the pen to prove it. Too much info? Ach come on with you, we're all born you know. We also went to watch the pigs racing. My pig - Frankie de Snorter - ambled in last, while Curly Sue romped home.

All in all, an enjoyable, if rather damp and mucky, day.

For my family: Cow Lick.

Update on the cats: We've temporarily gone back to the red disc for Rudy's sake, as he was struggling with the concept of the hole in the amber one. Gertie had no such reservations, she's been perching over the hole and doing her 'business' right down into the loo. I find it bloody hilarious! But given that Rudy went over 24 hours without peeing - despite clearly being desperate to do so - and peed for about 2 mins the moment I replaced the red disc, I think we probably need to give him a bit more time.

Problems with my comments

My comments server is playing up, so sorry if you can't comment at the moment. Am trying to work it aaahhht.

Saw Hot Fuzz last night by the way: fabulous.

Potty talk

Quick update on how the cats are doing with their toilet training. The amber disc is in place and both Rudy and Gertie have used it although, as expected, it's been a bit hit and miss.

Gertie gets full marks: I was worried when she went over 24 hours without either weeing or pooing, but then suddenly jumped up onto the toilet completely unprompted and gave a text book demonstration of how to poo straight through the hole. She then turned around and gave my howls of obvious delight the most withering look possible, as if to say "Well naturally I could do it all along; I simply chose not to." She chose to do it perfectly again today - 1s and 2s - but only time will tell whether she will continue to humour me.

Rudy is a slightly different story, gawd bless 'im. He has pooed on it twice: the first time I was there and physically repositioned him correctly over the hole once he'd started - he wasn't happy about that, but there you go - and he did seem quite chuffed with himself afterwards. The second time it was at some point early yesterday morning and he did manage to get it on the disc, but not actually through the hole. Today he chose to wee in my pot plant instead. Still, he is a boy, and males of all species tend to take a while to control their bodily functions. I'm going to keep trying until he learns.

Too much information? Don't care. I'm like a new mother regaling all and sundry with tales of the colour and texture of each nappy. You're welcome to play the part of the glazed-over, secretly uninterested and slightly disgusted friend.

Revealing my evil plan at last

So, for those of you who haven't had to suffer me going on about it, I'm ready to reveal my plans for this year. I'm buggering off, leaving the country, and bollocks to the lotta yer. Only joking. About the bollocks part that is, but I am indeed leaving ol' Blighty for a while to stretch my wings and see what else is out there.

Sad thing is that for most places (like Australia, for example) I'm already too old to get a working holiday visa (ageist bastards) and that's what I want, because I want to take a break from midwifery and do a bit of bar work or whatever for a while. My friend Megan is Canadian and is heading back out there in a couple of weeks (boo!) so I started looking into visas to visit her and found out that there was a tiny allocation of non-student working holiday visas available for those up to the age of 35. I called on the off-chance and they said that, although they had a few left, the allocation would be full within a week. I applied there and then and secured myself a lovely big fat visa.

So the plan, at the moment at least, is: rent out my flat, move in with my dad & step-mum (thanks guys!) and start saving money. Leave work at the end of July to go on a months' annual leave prior to leaving (I'm going on a 'career break' so keep my pension entitlements - woo hoo!) and maybe work a few bank shifts (like temping but in the NHS) during August to save more money. Leave for Canada in early September, fly to Vancouver, hopefully meet up with my good friend Megan and spend a few days in Vancouver then take the train over the Rockies to Edmonton, where Megan lives. Stay there and bum around for a month or so finding my feet. October: go to Banff on a job hunt. November: start work and learn to ski/board. If like it, stay till March/April, if don't, go back to Vancouver to work. March/April: travel round Canada, maybe hop over to the States for a visit to Seattle or Boston or some such place. July: back to Vancouver for Megan's wedding, then leave for Thailand. Spend a month in Thailand and then on to Malaysia & Borneo. Always had a thing about Borneo. Not sure why. Think it may be because of this: Might go somewhere else - Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos? - if I have enough money/fancy it. Then back home via 2-4 weeks in Japan. Then, who knows?

Comments and suggestions welcome...

I'm it

My friend Lisa has 'tagged' me - I thought this was some kind of modern technical thing, but is actually just naming me on her blog - to tell you five things about myself you didn't know. So here goes:

1. Sometimes I just eat Angel Delight for dinner, coz I'm a grown-up and no one can tell me not to.

2. I am currently teaching my cats to use the toilet. Yes, the actual, real, human toilet. I'm using the Litter Kwitter system which I got free from the Daily Mirror (my sister Toni reads it, not me, honest). They're only on the 'red disc' stage at the moment, and they're doing fine with that one, but we did try amber for a day or so last week and it didn't go too well. Gertie got stuck in the hole and then pooed on my duvet in protest. We'll see how attempt #2 goes later this week.

3. I have my own page on the Internet Movie Database. I have on occasion considered submitting a photo but have decided that that would be really very sad indeed.

4. I am terrified of never having kids.

5. I'm so excited about the new Harry Potter due out later this year I'm considering taking a couple of days off work just to read it.

I'm supposed to 'tag' five people to carry this on, but I don't know that many bloggers so I'll just tag my sister Jenny and the inimitable Silas.

Rachel is a Yoghurty God

I'm totally addicted to this: I can't stop eating it. I'm getting through about one big tub every couple of days. If you haven't tried it, you have to. Yum yum yum.

Tax does, it seems, have to be taxing

A couple of weeks ago I got notification, passed on to me via Tudor, that I needed to complete a tax return. I ignored it, obviously, because I'm PAYE and shouldn't need to complete one, plus they hadn't actually sent me a tax return. Then, a week or so ago, I decided to double check and found out that, low and behold, I do need to return one. As it was only a short time till the deadline, he suggested that I complete it online. So, a week ago I went to do just that but found I had to apply for a PIN code to register, which they had to send me in the post.

Today is 31st Jan. Deadline day and I risk a £100 fine I don't get it in. Didn't receive my PIN yet so couldn't do it online. Instead I had to print it off and complete it by hand, now I have to drive off to hand it in to the nearest tax office, which is Twickenham. There is, of course, industrial action today and I can't get hold of them by phone so I can't confirm with them that a) they're open and b) they can take receipt of my return. Fingers crossed I don't have a wasted (and therefore expensive) journey.

Add that to the fact that it's all bloody maths, which makes me stressed to the gills, and I'm pissed off with the fact that, despite £450 worth of expenses, the calculations say I'm only entitled to a £97 rebate. How the hell can that be right?! Bloody Inland bloody Revenue.

More bargains

I went shopping with Megan the other day in Kingston. It was a bumper day for the bargain hunter; the last dregs of the sale is always my favourite time to go a-looking. I got: three tops from Kew, two soft think jumper type things (one red, one charcoal) and one long blue t-shirt, which looks great with the turquoise belt I also picked up. In Gap, I was looking at a grey jumper which was not, of course, in the sale. I then spotted a different grey top in a very soft t-shirt-type material and decided that, since it was a bit cheaper at £14.50, I'd get that instead. Took it up to the counter and...you guessed it...they said 'That'll be £2.99 please". Fabulous. Uniqlo next, where I found a big thick warm cardigan with a fleecy lining for half price. Then over to Primark to get some new socks and spotted a plain black halterneck bikini for a bargain £5, which - I kid you not - makes me look like a Bond girl. I'm heading off to The Sanctuary tomorrow evening for an evening spa and Nourishing Kyphi Scrub and I bet that no one there will guess that I'm such a cheapskate.

Add this to that the fact that I had my hair done on Saturday at johnbaxterhill in Walton. I went as a model for the trainee again and had a full head of highlights and a cut & blowdry. It was a top job (I had some more red streaks put in and it now looks like the picture I have on my profile again!) and cost me the bargain price of £30 all in.

All in all, a very satisfying weekend.

Have just been forced to switch to Blogger Beta (new version) so am hoping that my blog doesn't disappear or do anything strange. Please let me know if it does.

The wonderful Marillion played a gig at Koko in Camden last night; I was there, of course. If you remember, the last time I went to Koko was to see The Buzzcocks with my friend Suzie and I discovered a 'secret' balcony right at the top where there was a row of comfy leather sofas. I thought then that a gig watched while sat on comfy sofas, with a practically private bar and a good view of the stage was almost perfect, and would indeed have been perfect, if the band had been Marillion. Well, last night, I had the opportunity to put this to the test and I am pleased to report that it was as good as expected. My friend Megan and I queued up early in the cold to make sure we were first up there (judging by the crowds that followed us later it seems it's not so secret after all) and managed to secured the centre sofa. Bliss.

The band were, as ever, musical genius incarnate, and I sang my little heart out start to finish. The only slight sticking point came when I noticed that, directly below us two floors down, stood Tudor and his girlfriend Lindsey (we haven't met), right in front of the sound mixing desk, naturally. I'd recognise that bald spot anywhere. Tudes spotted me too and we waved hello. I knew they'd be there because I know Lindsey knows the wife of Marillion's keyboard player Mark Kelly, but a bit of an odd feeling nonetheless. Still, fortunately there was plenty going on on the stage throughout the evening to distract me, so that was good at least. Tudes texted me later to say he'd met Mark Kelly. Lucky lucky bastard. Anyway, nuff said on that one.

Messing with my head

So - lookylikies. I was directed to the Fake Faces website by the wonderful Geoff Show and, not only does it have some of the loosest definitions of look-a-likes that I've yet seen, but I have also discovered a very odd chain of events.

If you go to the Paris Hilton look-a-like, you will note that it is none other than Celebrity Big Brother 'non-celebrity turned real celebrity' winner Chantelle Houghton, who has apparently been a Paris Hilton look-a-like since before her CBB days. On her page, it suggests that you might like to hire her alongside Preston look-a-like Ben Edwards. What?! So, you hire someone to look like Paris Hilton, but then hire someone who looks like the look-a-like's real-life husband to have alongside her? Does that not suggest that you're hiring Chantelle and Preston look-a-likes instead? But with the REAL Chantelle and a FAKE Preston? But wait - there's more. On the Preston look-a-like's page, it suggests that you might like to hire him alongside Chantelle look-a-like Dani. So let me get this straight. You can hire the real Chantelle to impersonate Paris, a fake Preston to accompany her and a fake Chantelle for...spares?

Just weird.

Winter wonderland

It was very exciting to wake up to all that snow this morning - the view out of my window was second-to-none. I got up and went for a walk down by the lake and took about a hundred photos, some of which I've posted here for your delight and pleasure.

Do I live in one of the most beautiful spots or what?!?

A bit on the windy side

My dad's shed blew over!

Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery

I bumped into my old tutor from uni yesterday at work and she looked rather bemused as she said she wanted to show me something. She opened up something in her hand and asked me if I recognised it. Well, yes I did, it was some work I'd done for my 'management portfolio' when I'd been doing my degree - several very dull pages about management theories which had been a bugger to read and summarise - and also some stuff my friend Claire had contributed. She asked me if I was sure it was mine, to which I replied I certainly was because you don't forget stuff that boring.

Turns out that it had been submitted by a current student as her own work, and what's more, apparently this piece of work has been plagiarised by TVU students several times before! This particular time, it's a girl they've suspected of plagiarism in the past, so wanted to have proof to confront her. Still, I'm rather flattered that my work is still doing the rounds...

Oh and I got the results of my Examination of the Newborn course (the course I did last year to enable me to do a detailed examination of babies once they're born to confirm they're healthy, usually done by paediatricians). I got 87%! Rather pleased with that, so In Your Face paediatricians of Queen Charlotte's. Now give me an opthalmoscope and I'm away...

Yorkshire festivities

Christmas! This year, my dad & step-mum rented a cottage in York, so everyone bundled round there for Christmas day. As you can see, I went as Widow Twanky in best panto tradition. There were 13 of us for Christmas lunch (Dad, Jackie, Jackie's mum, Jackie's sister Jenny, her husband David, their son Charles, my mum, my sister Jenny and her daughter Liddi, my sister Toni and her two sons Benj & Barney and...oh hang on, who have I forgotten? Oh yes, me) and we ate a veritable feast, including a goose stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a pheasant stuffed with stuffing. Pork I think. We opened an obscene amount of presents as usual, and I had organised a quiz: Family Not University Challenge. It were great. Then the kids and me settle down to watch Starsky & Hutch and then we all watched The Vicar of Dibley. So, your standard Christmas fayre, I suppose. The kids especially enjoyed it:

It wasn't my day today. A combination of traffic, slow tube trains and annoying dawdlers meant that I was four minutes late getting to BAFTA to meet my friend Sarah (she's a member - get her) to go and see The Holiday and BAFTA don't let you in if you're late. I ran hell-for-leather from Green Park tube, up the stairs to the BAFTA reception and asked the receptionist if I was too late. She confirmed I was, so I asked if I could sit on the stairs for a bit because I thought I was going to vomit*...at which point I received a text message from my sister. Let me explain: it's my nephew Barney's 18th Birthday today. He didn't want presents because he's saving for a computer so I sent a card with some £40 in it - probably should have sent a cheque but...well, I didn't. So the text from my sister was asking if I meant to put a cheque in with the card? Yes, you've guessed it, the cash was nicked in the post. The card had been re-sealed and apparently looked untampered with, no idea how do they did it. The fuckers.

After a few minutes of me sobbing on the stairs, the receptionist kindly told me there was a nearby toilet I could clean my face up in...

Anyway, I did what any sensible woman did when they are depressed. I went and had a hot chocolate and bought myself a small glass lobster.

Later, Sarah & I went back into BAFTA to see Infamous, the as-yet unreleased film about Truman Capote which, although covers similar ground to the recent Capote, is by many accounts a better film. To be fair, I haven't seen Capote, but can confirm that Infamous is fabulous and the portrayal of Truman by English character actor Toby Jones is astounding (he was there for a Q&A after the film and was a very articulate and interesting bloke). Tragic that he won't win an Oscar for it, because Philip Seymour Hoffman already did. It has the most amazing cast and both Sandra Bullock and the terribly 'now' (and rather gorgeous) Daniel Craig deserve a most honourable mention. Oh do see it, really do.

*I had told Sarah to go in if I didn't get there in time so she hadn't just abandoned me

Spam with neighbours

I went to see Spamalot last night. Now, I've realised over the years that I'm really crap at writing reviews - they normally boil down to 'it was great' or 'it was rubbish' - but I'll have a go.

A re-working of the classic Monty Python & The Holy Grail, Spamalot has much to offer lovers of the original film as well as those who are coming to it with fresh eyes. A host of hilarious new songs sit alongside the more familiar 'Knights of the Round Table' and the inevitable 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life'....oh bugger this. Play = great. Tim Curry = excellent. Jokes = funny. View = bit rubbish, because we were quite literally up in the Gods. In fact I was sat between Thor and Zeus*. Anyway, highly recommended.

eBay has come up trumps again. Today I received my PVR - a 'personal video recorder' for those not technically-minded. Basically Sky+ without the Sky. Freeview+, if you like. I didn't exactly mean to buy it, but it's great nonetheless. The story goes like this: last week I got a bit carried away and ended up bidding on something that I thought was a DVD recorder, because, to be fair, it was in the DVD recorder category. The auction was about to end and it was going cheap...well, you know the rest. It was only after I won the auction in a flurry of excitement that I double-checked it and discovered that I had a PVR instead. Anyway, thems the breaks, and anyway, for a rather good price I've got a very nice bit of kit which enables me to pause live TV and will record Neighbours for me every day without having to be asked! What more can you ask for?

*I'm well aware that Thor is a Norse God and Zeus is of the Greek variety. I'm just hedging my bets.

Oh, meant to say, I also made stock from the chicken carcass. STOCK I tells you. I'll be making meringues with left over egg-whites next.

Inappropriate Cleaning

So picture the scene: you have your dad and über-clean step-mother coming round for Sunday lunch in 1 hour's time. The roast is in the oven but the rug has trails of cat litter on it and the piles of paperwork on the coffee table need sorting through. The washing up needs doing and then your face needs a bit of a re-work. This is the exact time you develop a compulsion to do a round of 'inappropriate cleaning'.

Girls will, I'm guessing, to be sexist for a moment, recognise this phenomenon more readily than my dear gentlemen readers. It is while getting the vacuum cleaner out that you realise you absolutely HAVE to reorganise the storage cupboard. And clean the shelves thoroughly to boot. Or you pop into the bathroom for a quick wee and discover that the inside of the window frame needs a good wipe down and BANG! Five minutes before they ring the doorbell you find yourself covered in mould and mildew remover with the cleanest inside bathroom window frame you could wish for...and a flat that still looks like the 'before' bit on How Clean is Your House? Or you go to create an ambient light-scape (a.k.a. switching on a few lights) and spot just how grubby the underside of the light switches are! Quick, get the vinegar and a j-cloth and let's tackle the top of the door frames whilst we're at it...

I find myself getting more and more 'Monica' as the years go by. But only - only - when I have guests coming round and don't have time.

Goodbye to the Normals

Who said English kids can't act? Well, me, to be fair, but I'm revising my opinion based on the impeccable performance of this little ginger.

Lights and action

Finally - finally - got to see Borat this evening. I have never found anything so painful to watch in all my life and actually only got to see half the film because I had to watch most of it through my fingers. Still, any film which has two naked men running into a Mortgage Advisors' Conference chasing each other with a fist-shaped dildo has to be purest genius. Even without putting Pamela Anderson in a sack.

In other news, the light fitting in my bedroom blew in a most spectacular fashion a few months ago and the metal part of the lightbulb remained firmly wedged in the apparently burnt out remains. Haven't got round to doing anything about it, obviously. Well, I returned from work today to find that David had fixed the whole thing using only a potato. Honestly, those Irish can do bloody anything with a tuber.

I had a slightly strange start to the day today. At just before 7am I heard some banging which woke me up, but I wasn't sure at first if it was the kittens knocking something over. Then I heard the doorbell going and some more furious banging, so I got up and went to the door and it was my neighbour from downstairs, Rachael, who was in a real state. Her boyfriend had just collapsed outside the front of the flats, fallen backwards down a few steps, and was lying in a pool of blood outside, having cut his head open. I called an ambulance and grabbed a clean flannel to stem the bleeding till the ambulance arrived, all the while trying to reassure them both. He has cancer and I suspect that was the reason for the fall. The ambulance arrived very quickly and they were great. Once they'd gone I got a bucket of water and cleaned away the blood outside, so the neighbours weren't greeted with the sight of it when they got up (mind you, with the hailstorm that came a few hours later I probably needn't have bothered), fed the kittens and then slumped back into bed...

When I woke up a few hours later I wasn't sure if I'd dreamt it!

I'm a famous tranny

Last night the fabulous Geoff Show on Virgin Radio gave me an honourable mention. I had entered a competition to win a Sony Bravia HD ready LCD tv and Sky HD package - well, who wouldn't? In order to do so I had to submit an invention - the feasibility of which was irrelevant incidentally - which went as follows:

Remember when you were a kid and you used to collect fake tattoos from bubblegum wrappers? You placed them on your arm, rubbed it, and it tranferred onto your skin? Well my idea is to update this idea for the busy modern woman. Why not have make-up transfers? You could have a whole face shaped mask which you placed over your face, give it a gentle rub, and it would transfer the ready-blended eyeshadow, rouged cheeks and even lipstick to your face in a matter of seconds!

Well, this went down VERY well on the show, with my use of the word 'rouge' (carefully chosen I hasten to add) leading to much speculation about whether I was a transvestite. I think Geoff thought I was a clear winner but sadly the listeners' vote put me at joint last place! Damn their unGodly eyes. Even Geoff asked what was wrong with them?

Anyway if you want to hear the whole encounter then you can listen to it here or download the podcast for Thursday 16th November. It's about 25 minutes in... But be quick! Podcasts aren't available for ever!

Please be seated

In order to avoid those terribly embarrassing everyone-standing-around-
the-table-and-bending-their-
knees-to-eat moments, I decided to buy some folding chairs to go with my lovely folding table. I managed to pick up four of these little babies from eBay for £21.01. So now my guests no longer have to brush up on their pilates in preparation for my dinner parties...

A creative period

Stuck for a gift? Want to make good use of what you have lying around the house and utilise your creative talents? Here's your solution. Make me something nice for Christmas, won't you...?

Jen? I want to see your Christmas tree covered in these little gems.

Bargain of the Month #3

Because everyone who's been to my flat for dinner has had to eat off their knees, I've been looking for a dining room table but, as those of you who have been to my flat for said dinner will know, I have sod all space to put one. I have therefore been looking for a fold-up/gateleg table but had yet to see one that was a) small enough or b) cheap enough for the task. Then I spotted Habitat had quite a nice one (I've been trying to upload a couple of pictures but blogger is being 'gay', as the young people would say, and won't bloody do it) which folded up really small. It was £119, which frankly I don't have at the moment, but pretty reasonable for a table so I put it on the back burner for when I have a windfall (haha). Then, whilst browsing on eBay the other day I spotted just such a table, 2 years old but in good condition. The auction finished last night and, after persuading my dad to do the bidding for me because I was at Ruedawang, I managed to secure the table for the bargain price of £26.01. I thank you. Just need to find some cheap eBay chairs now...

Ah, can upload piccies now:



By the way, these are the pictures from eBay so no, this is not my kitchen!

Oh and I just had my bedroom carpet cleaned and the clever chap managed to remove the mysterious stains that have been there since I moved in. Hurrah!

Pumptastic

Happy Hallowe'en! For those who haven't seen the pumpkin I usually carve, here's this year's efforts:



Doesn't look too impressive, huh? But when you turn the lights off it gets much much better:



Oh and Liddi? In your face...

That's Numberwang!

I went to Salsa tonight, but instead of doing 'normal' salsa, we were doing Rueda this evening. For the uninitiated, this involved a sort of salsa-in-the-round, where you all dance in a circle and are constantly changing partner. The instructor shouts out 'calls', such as "Abajo!" or "Peluquería!", which tells you which move to do next and the whole thing flows like a big and beautiful wheel.

Or at least, that's the theory. Of course, if you've never done it before - as I hadn't - the instructions are meaningless and I was horribly reminded of this causing me to spend most of the class in hysterics. Quite ruined the effect.

Although I am now the proud owner of a Darkplace DVD, sadly, it is not a signed copy. My friend Megan and I arrived at Virgin only to discover that every weirdo in London (and let's face it, that's a lot of weirdos) had turned up ahead of us - even the Virgin staff were saying they hadn't anticipated anything like it. They sold out of the DVD! Anyway, Megan and I said sod this for a game of soldiers to the 4 hour wait and went for a pizza instead. We did however get to stand just a couple of metres away from the boys and Richard/Dean/Thornton almost kind of looked at me, so that was nice. Naturally, I discovered I had absent-mindedly taken my camera out of my bag the previous evening so could only record the momentous occasion on the very crappy camera on my phone:


It is them, I promise...

Did anyone watch that 100 Greatest Albums thing on Channel 4 last night? What the HELL was Paul Weller wearing?

So...excited...can...hardly...write...

Hurray hurray hurray!

Not only is Garth Marenghi's Darkplace FINALLY coming out on DVD on Monday, but Garth himself, his manager Dean Learner and the actor Todd Rivers will be signing copies of the DVD at Virgin Megastore in Piccadilly Circus on Monday from 6pm.

And, as if that didn't feel like all my birthdays had come at once, a new series from the makers of Darkplace will be starting on Channel 4 on October 20th. Watch the trailer here.

As a small taster, here's a play in one act, written by Garth, to celebrate the DVD release (I nicked this off his site - sorry Garth):


DARKPLACE REVISITATUM
A PLAY IN ONE ACT BY GARTH MARENGHI

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
GARTH MARENGHI
HELLHOUND 1
HELLHOUND 2
THE KEEPER

GARTH ENTERS THE STAGE. HE APPROACHES A GATE. TWO HELLHOUNDS STAND SENTRY.

HELLHOUND 2
Your name?

GARTH
Garth Marenghi.

HELLHOUND 1
Your business?

GARTH
The business of horror.

HELLHOUND 2
How might others know you?

GARTH
By my scripture o' blood i.e. Slicer through to Retch, my latest hardback release. Hellhounds! Why are your faces blank?

HELLHOUND 2
What need have we of faces when we have no souls?

GARTH
Fair point, makes sense. What call they me?

HELLHOUND 1
Some call you prophet

HELLHOUND 2
Others don’t

GARTH
Where do I stand?

HELLHOUND 1
At the doorway to your mind.

HELLHOUND 2
Do you want to come in?

GARTH
Open the door!

THE HELLHOUNDS MIME OPENING THE DOOR. GARTH WALKS THROUGH IT.

GARTH
Begone!

HELLHOUND 2
Shall I close the door to your mind?

GARTH
No, leave it open.

THUNDER. WE HEAR A VOICE FROM THE GODS.

KEEPER
I am the Keeper. Who is this that interrupts my slumber?

GARTH
Do we have to go through this again? What are the hellhounds doing? This is bureaucracy gone mad.

KEEPER
State your business.

GARTH
I have come for the Darkplace DVD. The time is now…

A BONY HAND DESCENDS FROM ABOVE. IT HOLDS THE DARKPLACE DVD. LIGHTING FLASH. HELLHOUND CHORUS HOWLS.

Tableau. Slow Fade.

Girly Vader

Ha ha ha ha


Funny Videos

Celebrity Wife Swap: McCririck v. Currie

John McCririck. I'm well aware that saying he's the most repugnant human being ever to have set foot on the planet, I'm not really giving you any earth-shattering news. It's pretty much a given, isn't it? From his habit of referring to his wife as 'The Booby', his point-blank refusal to do anything for himself at all (cooking, cleaning, washing himself - bleugh), to his habit of spending most of his time writhing in his own filth in bed - including eating his dinner there every night - any sane woman would commit hara kari at the thought of spending an evening, let alone a life-time, with him.

What is fascinating, then, is that he has found a woman who is prepared to put up with him. Surely that is proof, right there, that there is someone for everyone. Whilst most of us would forcibly drive a sharp implement through his skull at the first opportunity, she happily puts up with his disgusting behaviour. Amazing. Indeed, if you watched the E4 programme 'Wife Swap: The Aftermath'*, you'd have seen her justifying his behaviour time and time again, and criticising Edwina Currie for her perfectly reasonable frustration. I couldn't help be reminded of a few other individuals who have managed to brainwash others into believing their questionable or unsavoury views were reasonable: David Koresh, Marshall Applewhite, Adolf Hitler...

*really I wouldn't normally watch these sort of things. Honest guv.