NotJustAHatStand

How To Use Sainsburys Self Service Check-out

2009-12-14T10:19:00.017Z

Step 1

Assess the queue at the main till, and weigh this against the number of items in your basket (3).

Step 2

Decide that scanning three items at the Self Service check-out can't possibly take longer than waiting in that queue and, with a frisson of trepidation, make your way to the Self-Service lane.

Step 3

Press Start.

Step 4

Remember the last time you used Self Service (when you were charged 5p for a bag to put one Fudge bar in). Select 'I am using my own bags'.

Step 5

Place your purple spotty shopping bag in the bagging area, as directed, so that the machine can 'verify your bag'.

Step 6

Become confused when machine cannot verify your bag. Wonder if perhaps the bag is an existential oddity, that appears only to you because you want it to be there.

Step 7

Decide to ponder this question at a later date.

Step 8

Push some buttons to try and force the machine to verify your bag. It's purple and spotty, how can it not be verified?

Step 9

Take a great sigh of relief when the machine appears to give up on verifying your bag, and allows you to continue.

Step 10

Realise that it's probably charging you 5p for a bright orange Sainsburys turtle-killer. Realise that you no longer care about the turtles.*

Step 11

Scan first item.

Step 12

Place item in your bag.

Step 13

Heave another sigh of relief, and allow yourself to start believing it's going to work this time.

Step 14

Scan second item.

Step 15

Cry, as the machine bellows 'unexpected item in bagging area', attracting the attention of everyone in the small, city-centre shop.

Step 16

Wait for member of staff to come over and press a button.

Step 17

Place second item in bag.

Step 18

Scan third and final item.

Step 19

Place third item in bag. Suppress rising hope that perhaps this will soon be over.

Step 20

Press 'Finish and Pay'

Step 21

Count out the required amount (£1.52 in this case).

Step 22

Put £1 coin in machine.

Step 23

Put a 50p then a 2p coin into machine.

Step 24

Wait for machine to recognise the 52p just introduced to machine.

Step 25

After 5 minutes, accept that machine is not going to recognise your 52p.

Step 26

Cry some more.

Step 27

Consider paying an extra 52p just to end the horror of it all, and go home.

Step 28

Decide that that's what the machine wants and press the Help button

Step 29

Realise that the queue at the Real Person Check-out is now composed entirely of people that came into the shop after you. And that every one of them is watching you fuck this up as they wait to be served by a Real Person.

Step 30

Explain your plight to the very helpful and understanding Sainsburys man, who looks at you pityingly.

Step 31

Wait for Sainsburys man to get the keys for the machine.

Step 32

Watch as Sainsburys man opens the machine, unlocks the cash box, extracts 52p, locks the cash box, and closes machine.

Step 33

Inform Sainsburys man that you would pay an extra 52p just to make it stop. (He looks uncomfortable and says 'there's no need for that, miss'.)

Step 34

Re-introduce the 52p to the machine, successfully. Thank Sainsburys man for his help. ('Can I help you with anything else Miss?')

Step 35

Muster all the dignity you can, and leave the shop with your head held high, clutching your precious cargo to your chest.

Step 36

Realise that in the time you've been in there, darkness has fallen, the leaves have fallen from the trees and Christmas is just round the corner. Vow to never ever again attempt to use the Self Service Check-out facility in any shop. Ever.

*This was but a momentary blip - I do care about turtles! Don't buy turtle-killing plastic bags!

Cheery Bus Man

2009-11-16T22:04:00.004Z

Written 15th February 2007

This morning I was driven to work by what may be the Cheeriest Bus Driver Ever In The World, Ever. I got on, and he trumpeted 'Good Morning Dear!' in a loud carrying voice, with a big happy smile on his face. I was a bit startled, as Lothian bus drivers tend to just grunt at you before 9am (which I completely understand, and do not blame them for), but I said good morning back, and proceeded upstairs to hide behind my Metro.

Some of the fancier Lothian Buses have new fangled PA systems, which the driver can use to tell the passengers things. For example, that the bus is approaching a particular stop, or that the bus has broken down and we should all get on the one behind, or that whoever is dinging the bell should stop this minute or they're getting chucked off the bus. You get the idea. The driver this morning had his speaker switched on, and he treated us all to regular updates about the next stop, and what shops and services we could expect to find in the vicinity. For example, 'next stop is Haymarket Station, where you can get on a train to Fife, Glasgow or Stirling. You'll also find a bank, coffee shops, restaurants and some bars, although it's a bit early for me! Next stop, Haymarket.'

I don't know if this was some kind of experiment Lothian Buses were doing, combining commuter transport with guided tours, or if this man was just eager to help. Either way, I liked it. But I'm glad he doesn't do that route every day.

Domestic, um, Harmony?

2009-11-06T08:59:00.006Z

Written 15th July 2007

The Boy and I have been a picture of domestic bliss today. We got up early and had coffee and croissants outside in the sunshine, then while I washed the dishes he went to Homebase to buy a edge trimmer. When he came back he mowed the lawn, while I did some weeding and raked up the leaves from the tree in our garden that thinks autumn lasts from October to August.

Then I did some housework while the Boy watched the golf. All very nice and civilised.

However, underneath this veneer of happy industriousness, runs an undercurrent of brooding menace. because at various points throughout the day I have been sorely tempted to use the Boy's new toy to surgically remove both his hands. I figure he would be tidier that way. I mean, if he was limited to only picking things up with his teeth, he couldn't leave ALL HIS WORDLY POSSESSIONS on the kitchen table. I wouldn't say I was houseproud but I like things to be in their place and I get a warm fuzzy glow from a clean, tidy surface, free from clutter.

Examples of things that have irritated me today:
I cleaned and tidied the kitchen (which is where all the clutter in our house seems to end up eventually) from top to bottom. The Boy comes in from the garden to unpack his strimmer. There are various plastic bags, some pieces of string, an instruction manual, some polystyrene, and a big cardboard box. He puts all this stuff onto the freshly cleaned kitchen table. AND LEAVES IT THERE. All day. I have to nag him to tidy it away, which he finally does about five hours after putting it there.
After finishing the kitchen, I go outside to start my weeding, and trip over the strimmer cable (narrowly avoiding breaking my nose in the process), which has been left strewn over the back step while the Boy has a fag break.
I find three fag ends while weeding. House Rule Number 3 states that all cigarette butts should be disposed of in a BIN.
I cleaned the kitchen worktops for the second time, and 10 minutes later the Boy spilled his coffee on them, and didn't clean it up.
I dusted the coffee table only to come in five minutes later to find a certain Boy with his BARE FEET (ew) up on said table, and a half-eaten chocolate digestive biscuit balanced on the edge, liberally dispensing crumbs.*
I moved a whole pile of random crap from the hall table, and put it all away neatly. Random crap now sitting on the hall table: a wallet, a small pile of 2 pences, a pair of sunglasses, a lighter and an ipod cable.
After vacuuming and mopping the floors, I catch the Boy tramping through the house with his grass-covered shoes on, leaving a trail of grass cuttings from the back door to the front.
I sometimes wonder if he does it deliberately. I constantly find things that need put away or tidied up, and I do it without even thinking. But the Boy? He doesn't seem to notice that he can only sit at one end of the sofa because there's a pile of stuff at the other end. He can ignore a dust bunny for days. Weeks even. He somehow managed to get chilli sauce all over one of the kitchen cupboards last night, and he didn't notice (I mean it was all over the door, at head height. HOW?). I cleaned it off this morning, and I said to him 'how on earth did you manage to get chilli on the cupboard', and he said 'oh, did I?'

Speechless.

*Who stops eating a chocolate digestive halfway through anyway? It's not like you need a break before you can face another two mouthfuls of deliciousness.

Night Owl

2009-11-02T21:41:00.002Z

Written 20th November 2007

2.07 am on Saturday. Other people might be staggering home from the pub, or getting some action. I have just finished one book and I'm just about to put the light out when I see At Large and At Small: Confessions of a Literary Hedonist on my bedside table. It's a collection of essays on various topics. I think to myself that I'll just have a quick look at the contents page and see what kind of topics these might be.

I'm not going to read any more, it's too late. Time to go to sleep. Hubby is snoring gently beside me, and has been for hours.

One of the essays is titled 'Night Owl'. Hmm, interesting. I'll just have a look at the first page, to see what it's all about.

2.29am. I finish the essay on Night Owls, and begin planning this post. Hubby lets out an almighty trump in his sleep, and I nearly fall out of bed I get such a fright. The squirt of adrenaline wakes me up, and I think to myself: 'I may as well just read one more chapter'...

Nablopomonopomomo

2009-11-02T15:57:00.007Z

Oh dear, I'm not doing very well with the old bloggeroo am I? I did intend to post regularly, but well, I didn't. As you can see.

I've even missed the start of NaBloPoMo. And (if I can just go off on a tangent here), I'm sorry, but that's just the worst name for a thing, ever. SURELY they could've come up with something better - something that makes a tiny smidge of sense, perhaps? Sorry, NaBloPoMo people, it's a good idea, but for anally retentive folk like me, who have to capitalise the N, the B, the P and the M, it's just irritating. I've already had to type it twice and it's annoying me.

Anyhoo, I've got numerous bits and bobs hanging around in my draft folder, but I've been lacking the will to hack them into something publishable (because really - I have some standards) but I might start posting the more polished ones when I remember.

Hm

2009-07-27T12:52:00.004+01:00

Well, this is new. Ish.

I've not posted anything for a long, long time. For no particular reason, other than that I didn't have anything to say (well, that's not strictly true, I didn't have anything that couldn't be said in 140 characters or less), and frankly I just couldn't be arsed. I still don't really, I just felt like dipping my toe in the water again. It may last, it may not.

For the last week or so, I've been waking up in the middle of the night with this weird thing that feels like a cold. My nose runs, I sneeze and I cough. It lasts for an hour or two (during which time I can't go back to sleep because of the aforementioned runny nose), and then it goes away. It just... goes away. Then, just as I get settled down and sleepy again, the FUCKING alarm clock goes off! Excuse my French, but it's most annoying. I come into the office with eyes like two pee-holes in the snow, and people say 'ooh you look tired' and I have to stop myself from battering them to death with the three-hole-punch.

So, in conclusion, nothing much has changed.

I'm still lazy.

I'm still grumpy before 10am.

I still overuse parentheses. (They're just so handy!)

(D'oh)

Only In Edinburgh

2008-08-05T13:26:00.003+01:00

Nowhere else in the world do you go out for a sandwich at lunchtime and:

Come back with a handful of flyers for shows you'll never go and see.
See a dance troupe performing on a traffic island.
Get flyered by the star of a show.
See a group of people (who are presumably in a show) dressed not only as cats, but as specific kinds of cats (namely Siamese, Persian and Calico).

Edinburgh really is a mad place in August.

A Return Of Sorts

2008-04-28T20:45:00.005+01:00

Yes, I know it's been months since I posted anything. And I know memes are the lazy blogger's answer to the need to post something (anything). But there was an open invitation at Sarah's, so start as you mean to go on I say:

1. The rules of the game get posted on the beginning.
2. Each player answers the rules about him or herself.
3. At the end of the post, the player tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they’ve been tagged and asking them to read his [or her] blog.

What I was doing ten years ago:

Probably sitting final school exams, in preparation for The Big Bad World After High School.

Five things on my To-Do list today:

1. Arranging travel insurance (I leave for Rome on Saturday).
2. Arranging for my various fuzzy bits to be waxed in preparation for my holidays.
3. Feeding my cat, who is watching me type whilst miaowing plaintively.
4. Becoming fluent in Italian.
5. Buying a new umbrella because my old one finally gave up the ghost (RIP, previously indestructible umbrella).

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:

I'd buy a nice house in the country (complete with gardener), have lots of pets, my own library and I'd give some money to charity.

Three of my bad habits:

1. Not opening my mail. Bills are boring.
2. Staying up far too late reading, then sleeping in and being late for work.
3. I don't have any others - I'm practically perfect in every way.

Five places I’ve lived:

1. A small village on the outskirts of Edinburgh
2. My first house after leaving the Parentals, with my best friend.
3. My second house after leaving the Parentals, 5 doors away from #2.
4. First flat with Hubby (previously known as the Boy). Where we got engaged.
5. Current house, that I love to bits.
(I know my answers to this are supposed to be things like 'London', 'Milan' and 'Kuala Lumpur', but I have lived a very un-exotic life)

Five jobs I’ve had:

1. General dogsbody in the food court of a shopping centre.
2. Call centre drone.
3. Temp in a mind-numbingly boring office
4. Boring Office Job #1 - adminny person
5. Boring Office Job #2 (current) - computery type person in a large HE institution

Five books I’ve recently read:

1. Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte (currently reading)
2. Animal Farm, George Orwell
3. March, Geraldine Brooks
4. Freedom in Exile: Autobiography of His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet, The Dalai Lama
5. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett

Five people or communities I’m going to tag:

No-one, because it's so long since I updated, I don't think I have any readers left.
(Except possibly Farty because he left a comment the other week asking where I was)
(I'm here! Updating!)

Death Of A Matriarch

2008-01-09T09:22:00.000Z

I've been meaning to write something for a few weeks now but due to a combination of computer problems (grr), Christmas, and new distractions, I've never got round to it. And I've not been up to anything interesting anyway.

But my poor granny died yesterday. She was 91, and she was suffering, so it's kind of a blessing, but I also feel terrible for being ever so slightly relieved that she's gone. She deteriorated quite rapidly in the last year, and if I'm brutally honest with myself, I dreaded going to visit her. A series of small strokes left her unable to speak properly so it wasn't so much a case of making conversation with her as it was thinking of things to say that didn't require an answer, and yet would fill up the silence that would otherwise descend, during which she would glare at you with baleful eyes, making the occasional signal that it was about time you passed her the box of Maltesers.

But the worst thing about it was that she was still quite sharp mentally, so she was aware of the indignity of what was happening to her. It was awful to see her trapped in this frail little body that was gradually falling to pieces, but she seemed to see this as an opportunity to vent her frustration on anyone that was around. It's like she was surviving on pure bile (and Maltesers). She threw things clear across the room, with incredible strength for a frail old lady. She tripped people up by sticking her foot out as they passed. She hit people with her cane. Up until a couple of days ago, she was still giving attitude to her carers in the nursing home. She called people names, including one incident that is memorable for all the wrong reasons, when she called one of the carers in the home a 'black bitch'. This prompted the manager of the nursing home to call my aunt into her office, and ask her 'is your mother a racist?'. Needless to say we were all mortified about this particular episode. I don't think my granny really gave a shit though.

But she was also incredibly strong, and I respected her hugely. Two weeks after she and my grandad got married, he went off to fight in the second world war. Imagine watching your husband of just two weeks going off to fight in a war, not knowing if you would ever see him again? While he was away, she worked in a factory that made Lancaster bombers. My grandad survived the war, and brought home a respectable bundle of medals. He died 20 years ago so my granny was a widow for a long time but had he still been alive 3 years ago they would have celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary.

She used to take my sister and I out shopping at the weekends, and I remember many happy hours poking about the toy department in Poundstretchers with a crisp £5 note courtesy of my granny nestling in my pocket, or watching old Laurel and Hardy films with her in her big draughty old house, eating her chocolate biscuits (of which she always had copious supplies). One particular incident sticks in my mind when we got caught in the rain without an umbrella - my granny pulled three plastic shopping bags out of her handbag, put one on her own head to protect her newly permed hair, and then proceeded to put one onto my sister's head, then mine. We were both mortified (granted we were dry, but still mortified) and desperately hoping we wouldn't see anyone we knew.

So although she was ready to go it's still sad. Her final years on this earth were not happy ones. She lost her son (my dad) 2 years ago. Understandably, his death hit her particularly hard. She couldn't make sense of the fact that her eldest son died before he was 60, while she was still here, particularly given the state she was in.

But she had a pretty good innings - 91 years, 40 of those happily married. Plus three children, four grandchildren and three great grandchildren, all of whom will miss her.

Rest in peace, Granny.

Lefty

2007-12-09T20:00:00.000Z

I think I've mentioned here before (but I can't find the post and can't be bothered to look for it in order to link it), that I'm a southpaw. And very proud of it I am too - who wants to be in the majority? I'd much rather be one of the 13% of people who are different. But it does have it's problems sometimes.

I've always had the usual lefty problems like squinty writing, ink smudges all over my hand, computer mice (mouses?) being on the wrong side and problems with right-handed scissors, but I thought that was about as far as it went. Until I signed up to the Left Handers Club* website. Ever since, I've realised that many of the everyday things that I find difficult or annoying, could be a result of being a lefty.

*Yes, we have a club. What of it?

For instance, the beauty salon I go to for various, erm, hair-removal procedures, likes to treat you like a visiting dignitary (this is before they make you remove your clothes and reveal your almost-naked body to them in all it's wibbly glory) and they always take your coat away and hang it up out of sight when you go in. When your ritual humiliation is complete and it's time for you to leave, they bring it back and attempt to help you on with it. I hate this part of the process even more than the ripping out of my hair by the roots, because no matter how hard I try, I CANNOT get my arms to manoeuvre themselves into those arm-holes without getting tangled up. The serene beauty on the reception desk smiles politely, but I know she's thinking what a unsophisticated klutz I am. I've always thought it was just me, but then I came across this section of the LHC website. Apparently, I am not alone.

One of the worst things for me, particularly at this time of year, is the problem of crossing other people's paths on the pavement. You know when you're walking down a busy street, and you and the person coming towards you both move to the same side to let the other pass, and then back again, and you end up doing a weird sort of dance until somebody takes the initiative and just picks a side and sticks to it? It happens to me ALL THE TIME. And I hate it. At this time of year, when the streets are so much busier than normal, and everyone is in much more of a hurry than normal, the problem is compounded. It happens once, and I shrug it off. Then it happens again two minutes later, and I start thinking about it too much, which of course makes it worse and it happens AGAIN while I'm busy trying to figure out whose fault it was that last time. Then, you'll get some nippy sweety like the one I encountered the other night, who huffs and tuts and ostentatiously steps round you as if you're a pile of steaming, fresh dog shit. And then you curl up into a ball in the middle of George IV Bridge and weep quietly at your own inadequacy.

So the next time you end up dancing in the street with an ink-smudged, harassed-looking person with one arm out of their coat sleeve, give them a wide berth (and perhaps an encouraging smile) for the chances are that other person is one of my left-handed brethren, and you are the 467th person they have got in the way of today, through no fault of their own.

Pillow Talk

2007-11-26T10:41:00.000Z

I'm a tea jenny. I like to have a cup of mint tea in bed before I go to sleep. It's become something of a ritual, and I now cannot sleep unless I have a cup of sencha green tea with natural mint and a chapter or so of my book. Conversation between Hubby and I last night:

Me: You made my tea too strong.
Hubby: Sorry.
Me: It's the colour of wee.
Hubby: What colour should it be? The colour of a watery wee?
Me: Yes! That's absolutely the colour it should be! The kind of wee you do after you drink 2 pints of water.
Hubby: Or six pints of beer?
Me (ignoring previous comment): I find that 4 or 5 dunks of the teabag is sufficient.
Hubby (sleepily): 4 or 5 dunks, gotcha.
Me: 4 or 5 good dunks though, with the bag fully immersed in the water.
Hubby: Can I go to sleep now?
Me: And if you could give the bag a wee shake before you dunk that would be lovely, just to get rid of the tea-dust, because it all sinks to the bottom of the cup, and I can't drink the last mouthful.
Hubby: So that's Point 11 of Teeny's Guide To The Perfect Cup Of Tea. I shall make a note of it.
Me: Well, I'm just telling you this so that you know for the next time. We're married now, so you're going to be making me lots of cup of tea in the years to come.
Hubby: [snore]

Marriage. It's a riot you know.

The Bright Side

2007-11-21T14:31:00.000Z

I saw a man on a bike this morning on my way to work. This in itself isn't unusual. What is unusual is that he was not appropriately dressed for the cold and heavy rain, and was soaked to the skin.

He was also cycling along at a leisurely pace (in rush hour traffic in central Edinburgh) whistling 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life'. For no obvious reason, he looked like he had his own personal little patch of sunlight, filled with rainbows and unicorns.

Maybe he just won the lottery. Maybe he got laid last night. Maybe he had just escaped from a secure unit somewhere and thought he was in the Canary Islands. Or maybe he was just enjoying his morning cycle in the rain.

Who knows, but it was a nice change from the usual grumpy commuters I see every other morning, and he brought a smile to my face. Which is an amazing feat before 9am.

Two Years

2007-11-12T20:57:00.000Z

Can it really be the 12th November already? I've had half a post written for about three weeks now, but I haven't been able to find the time or, more importantly, the words, to finish it off. It should've been easy, seen as it was all about my honeymoon, but I'm going through a bit of a dry spell, blogging wise. And that's probably a good thing, as I probably would have come off sounding smug and pissed everyone off. You can click on my Flickr badge for the photos if you like, and if I get round to finishing that post without sounding like one of those people you dread sitting down next to you at a party because you just know they're going to bend your ear with stories that start 'when I was in [insert exotic location here]' I'll publish it.

But just now I do have something to say, because tomorrow is the second anniversary of my dad's death. On this day two years ago, Hubby and I had a horrible falling out about the amount of time that we were spending with each other's family (i.e. we both wanted to spend more time with our respective parentals). Him, naturally and completely rightly, because his father had passed away six months earlier. Me because seeing Hubby's father dying of cancer had made me realise how lucky I was, and want to cling onto my own family while they were all alive and healthy. The following day, before we made it out to see them, my dad had the heart attack that killed him.

Ever since then, although I miss my dad terribly, I have tried really, really hard to keep thanking god, or whatever higher power made me, that I still have an amazing husband and family, and that they're all healthy and happy(ish). It's so difficult juggling our mothers (not literally thankfully, that WOULD be difficult), and we still can't believe the situation we're now in - both our mothers widowed before they're 60 - but it is how it is, and if my dad were here he would tell me things could be worse, and that I should stay positive. And he's right - there's no point dwelling.

But I still miss him.

Wedding Bells

2007-10-01T21:56:00.001+01:00

So. Where to start?

First of all, thanks for all the lovely comments on my last post (and over at Drama Queen's). I've become rather too used to people being nice to me and telling me how lovely I looked. It's lucky the Boy is here to keep me down to earth - he told me I looked wide the other day when I asked if a particular top looked ok or not. If he'd called me fat that would be bad enough, but WIDE? As in 'Caution, Wide Load'? I was most upset.

The wedding was ... amazing. Hard to describe without sounding overly sentimental and sickly sweet and smug-married-like. Suffice to say it went like clockwork and I enjoyed every second of it. The weather was beautiful. I managed not to fall over, or cry, or spill my dinner down my front, or any of the horrors I had imagined. I did fluff my vows slightly, but only a little bit, and the worst that happened was a bit of a stern look from the minister. It really couldn't have gone any better, and I feel very fortunate indeed that we had such a beautiful day. It was lovely seeing all our family and friends getting together for our benefit, eating and drinking and having a good time.

I wasn't nervous at all beforehand. I'm normally a bit of a worrier so this was something of a revelation. I thought the bridesmaids would have to scrape me off the ceiling come 2pm but I was calmer than they were. I got some butterflies when I realised that guests were arriving - somehow the only people I had considered were the immediate wedding party, I had completely disregarded the fact that 60 other guests were descending on the place, so when I remembered about them I got a bit nervy. But other than that, I was cool as a cucumber. Most unlike me.

The rest of the day went by in a bit of a blur. I couldn't finish my dinner (which I was gutted about), and had to go up to our room and take my dress off, as in eating nearly three courses I had lost the ability to breathe out completely. When the Boy came to find me for our big entrance into the evening reception and our first dance as husband and wife (which was to this version of 'Dream A Little Dream Of Me' if you're interested in the outcome of this argument), he was already a bit tiddly. By the LAST dance, he was completely trollied, and spent most of the song leaning on my shoulder, getting further and further down the longer the song went on. By the time all the guests had departed and we finally got back to our room, I had to undress him (and not in the good way) and put him to bed before he fell over. I, however, was sober as a judge but not for want of trying.

It all seems like a looong time ago now.

I feel like I should reward anyone who's still reading for all my bleating on about the wedding, so I'm breaking with tradition and posting some pictures of me and Hubby (hee!). So long as you don't tell anyone, okay?

I've decided (or rather it was decided for me), that I'm going to take the Boy's name after all. As everyone probably knew I would. I'm keeping my maiden name as a middle name, and the Boy has agreed to do the same, which is a pretty good compromise. I do feel old being Mrs Teeny, and yes, I do still immediately think of his mother whenever someone calls me by my married name, but I'm sure that will pass.

Won't it?

T minus 1.5 days

2007-09-05T17:21:00.000+01:00

I'm sure I should be doing something other than posting to my blog right now but all that's left on my to do list are things like 'clean bathroom' and 'wash dishes' and I've just had a spray tan so I can't get my hands wet in order to do any of those things (which I am GUTTED about). This means that the Boy will have to do them, especially because he has invited people round to the pigsty that is our flat tonight (but don't even get me started on that).

Roo's results came back from the vet on Saturday, and I am delighted to say that the lump on her leg was not cancer after all, but a mass of fatty tissue (niiice).

So. Everything is arranged, and all there is to worry about now are natural disasters, last minute changes-of-heart, or sudden and drastic weight-gain. I had a dream the other night that I weighed myself and the scales told me I was 17 stone. I had to go and try on my dress immediately to make sure it still fitted (it did).

I'm amazingly calm - I thought I'd be a gibbering mess by now. The ratio of nerves:excitement is leaning towards the latter. I'm super excited to put my dress on and see the Boy's face when I walk down the aisle. I'm looking forward to wearing my wedding ring, and going on honeymoon. I can't wait to finally, after seven and bit years, stand up, make my vows and hear the Boy make his. Because that means I can get fat and he can't escape.

I still can't believe that neither of our dads will be there to see us get married, but I'm sure they will both be looking down on us. And spluttering in horror at the wanton money-spending that has been going on in their absence.

As much as I'm looking forward to the wedding, I'm not going to miss the constant phone calls from people asking me what's happening about the cake/piper/catering/favours/flowers/minister. I'm not normally the most organised person and it's been a bit of a struggle being the person who co-ordinates everyone and everything. But I've managed it and so far there's not been any major disasters (there's still time though).

The thing I am most nervous about is the fact that, against my better judgement, I didn't get my passport renewed. I will have eight months left on my passport at the time we're returning from honeymoon - I know the rule is you have to have six months left on it at the time you're coming home, but I wish I'd got a new one, just in case. Two months doesn't seem like a very big margin of error. What if I counted wrong? What if the rules change on the day we fly out?

Ah well, it's too late now. My next post may be from a Malaysian detention centre.

See you after the jump.

T minus 15 days

2007-08-23T15:37:00.000+01:00

Roo has a cancerous tumour in her leg.

She was looking a bit peaky the day after my hen party - I'd stayed at my mum's house that night and when I got home the following day she was curled up under the desk in our spare room, staring at the wall. She wasn't eating or drinking, and she was holding one of her back paws up off the ground when she walked (which she was avoiding as much as she could). We took her to the vet the next day, and his verdict was that he thought she'd damaged her achilles tendon. There was a swelling on her leg which he said could either be bruising from tendon damage, or 'something more sinister'.

He took a sample and it turns out it was the something more sinister. The vet says her prognosis is quite good, although typically for our cats, it's quite a rare kind of tumour. I forget now what he called it (I was too busy trying not to cry to write it down) but it's basically sending little tendrils of cancer into the surrounding area of her leg. There is some good(ish) news, which is that the tumour isn't the kind that affects the bloodstream and permeates the whole body. Which is something.

She's going in for an operation on Monday. The vet will try and remove the tumour but if it's affecting her achilles tendon or is particularly advanced, he may have to resort to amputating her back leg. The tumour is in an awkward place where there's not much surrounding tissue, and removing enough tissue to get rid of all the nasty stuff will be difficult. It may be that the only way to prevent the cancer from coming back is to amputate her leg. If that's the case, her and Coco are going to look a right pair - one three-legged cat and one gammy-legged cat. But I don't care about that, so long as she comes through it. When I was little I always had a toy hospital on the go for teddy-bears with one ear and no eyes, or dolls with no hair and biro all over their faces. So as long as Roo is ok, I'm totally fine with missing limbs.

I've had a bad feeling about this from the beginning, and I'm totally gutted that I was right. I've been a useless lump all day at work and the Boy and I have to go out tonight, which I couldn't be less enthusiastic about. Hopefully Roo will be on the mend by the time of the wedding and the honeymoon because I don't know if I'll be able to go off to the other side of the globe for two weeks if she's not.

I'm sure plenty of people will read this and think, 'Jeez it's just a cat! Get over it...' but I love my little cats - me, the Boy, Roo and Coco are like a little family (albeit with one half being slightly furrier than the other, and a different species).

I can't imagine Roo not being there, purring like a little machine when I get home from work - happy to see me no matter what. I am keeping all available appendages crossed for her.

The Blogger, The Black Cat, and The Dangerous Driver

2007-08-17T10:57:00.000+01:00

Coco, my little black cat, crosses my path about a hundred times a day but I've never connected this to any particular episodes of good or bad luck. I'm considering revising this opinion after this morning's events, however. According to Wikipedia, black cats can be considered both bad and good omens, depending on where you live. As I live in Scotland, where 'if a black cat crosses your path it is meant to be a definite sign of good things to come'¹, I'm going for the latter, and thanking my lucky stars for my black cat, and the protective aura she cast over me before I left my house this morning.

I was a split second away from being hit by a car on my way to work this morning.

I was at the pedestrian crossing on the main road where I live (which is a major commuter route into Edinburgh). The traffic lights were at red and the green man had just come on to signal that it was safe for pedestrians to cross. A big truck had stopped in the lane closest to the pavement, I walked in front of it and was about to step into the second lane of traffic when I looked to my right, and saw a car come flying through the red lights at a speed that suggested the driver had no idea there was even a set of traffic lights there, let alone that they were at red. I felt the breeze of the car passing about a foot in front of me. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, the car behind went through the lights as well. So if the first guy hadn't got me, the second one could have a pop too.

Both of them were going far too fast and even if they'd been paying attention to the lights there's no way they would've been able to stop. If the driver in the first car had stopped suddenly, the car behind would have smashed into him.

As I stood in the middle of the road, in shock at the close shave, the driver of the truck honked his horn at the two cars to alert them to what they had just done, but they hadn't even slowed down and they both drove off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they'd been about a foot away from hitting a pedestrian. A pedestrian who would have HUNTED THEM DOWN AND KILLED THEM if they had ruined her upcoming wedding.

If I'd been just one or two steps in front of where I was he would've hit me full on. I keep thinking about what would've happened if I had stepped out in front of that car, and it's freaking me out. Would I have walked away unscathed? Maybe a broken leg? Fractured skull? Or would I be another statistic - one of those poor bastards that die on the road every day? Road casualties in the UK may be at an all time low, but you still hear stories in the news almost every day of someone who has lost their life on the road.

I don't know why the two cars didn't stop but I hope it was just a momentary lapse, and that they got as much of a fright as I did - maybe that will make them a bit more careful next time.

T minus 27 days

2007-08-10T22:52:00.000+01:00

It's approaching 11pm on Friday night, and I'm just back from getting my legs (and various other bits) waxed. The only appointment I could get was for 9pm. How bizarre. It was kinda nice walking about Edinburgh though, the Festival's just beginning and it's actually ok when you're not battling your way through the milling tourists to get to/from work.

The reason for this twilight waxing is that it's my hen party tomorrow. I'm having a kids party for grown ups - including hen-party bags, vodka-jelly and ice cream, and a naked butler. I wanted to get a bouncy castle but it was going to be too expensive (the butler alone is £180 for 2 hours!) so I had to abandon that plan. My sister (Chief Bridesmaid) is taking her job alarmingly seriously however, and has apparently arranged 'activities' so goodness knows what's going to happen.

I didn't want to do the whole weekend away thing that seems to be the norm these days. Maybe it's because I live in a city that's fairly popular with the hen/stag weekend market, and the thought of tripping round Newcastle wearing a hot pink sparkly stetson, or losing my passport in Prague, made my toes curl. Not that there's anything wrong with that - the Boy had his stag do in Newquay last weekend and had a ball*. But it's not for me. So I'm having the party tomorrow, and my workmates are taking me out for a night on the town at the end of August. That probably will involve some form of pink sparkly headgear but I can handle it for one night.

*With the possible exception of the hour he had to spend wearing a Borat style mankini, poor thing.

I'm nervous about tomorrow, in much the same way I used to get before birthday parties when I was little - 'what if no-one shows up', 'what if the people that do show up have a horrible time', 'what if something goes terribly wrong and my mum doesn't see the funny side of all the willy shaped ice cubes'. You know the kind of thing. But I'm sure a vodka-jelly shot will ease those worries riiight away.

Posting might be, er, sporadic for the next wee whiley. As you can see from the title it's not long till The Big Day and things are a bit hectic. I'll try and post a picture of the naked butler though.

Wish me luck.

Small Fry

2007-07-29T17:54:00.000+01:00

I'm not a tall person. I just asked the Boy to measure me, and I am the grand old height of 5 feet and 3 inches. I'm a little upset because I've always thought I was 5'4 but you can't argue with the statistics. My hands and feet are also quite petite. I'm normally a size 3 shoe but this varies depending on the shop and the shoe - I sometimes have to wear size 4, but I also own a pair of size 2 shoes that I bought for a friend's wedding. My hands are pretty small too. Freakishly small, according to some people whose names I will not mention, Boy.

Despite all this, I don't think of myself as being particularly small - I feel like a heifer standing next to the director of my department, who is truly tiny. And I suppose I feel only slightly smaller than the average person. Today though, my modest stature was pointed out to me by two complete strangers.

I bought myself a pair of new shoes. They're little ballet pumps, in my usual size 3, and for some reason the snooty girl in the shop didn't think they merited a shoebox. She was waiting for my receipt to print and I heard her mutter: 'I can probably just fit these into a tiny wee bag'.

And so she did. She put my pretty new shoes into a bag approximately the size of a VHS videotape. I didn't mind too much as the weeny little bag will be handy for taking random bits and bobs that don't fit into my handbag to work, but still - just because the shoes are little they don't get to go in a grown up bag? As Snooty Girl was handing me the bag, I could see the Boy's mouth twitching in an effort not to laugh. This has happened many times to me in shops - some implied comment about being short or the size of my feet or my hands.

After the shoe shop, we went to a jeweller across the road to try on wedding rings. I told the camp jeweller what I was looking for and he went mincing off to bring back some for me to try on. When he came back, he asked to see my engagement ring, and I took it off and handed it to him. He squealed and said 'oh my god look at it, it's tiny!'

Then: 'I wonder if you've broken my record!'

Cue more mouth-twitching from the Boy. I asked what his previous record was but I never found out. As he sized my engagement ring he said, with the air of a zoologist who has come across a new species of beetle: 'Wow, I've never sized smaller than a G on an adult!'

So there you have it, my dimensions appear to be significantly smaller than average. I suppose this is a good thing (it's certainly preferable to being significantly larger than average), but it does make it awkward when it's only 39 days till the wedding and your perfect, meant-to-be wedding ring is going to take 6-8 weeks to be ordered in the freakishly small size you require.

Ah well, worse things happen at sea.

Tangoed

2007-07-20T10:12:00.000+01:00

I have a typical Scottish complexion. For those of you who don't know, this means white. As in, milk bottle white. Pure incandescent white.

Now, my wedding dress is also white (actually it's ivory but, meh). The point is that my natural colouring means I blend in so well with the dress that you barely see me. So I went for a spray tan yesterday, as a practise run to see how I would look with a bronzed glow, in preparation for tomorrow when I get to collect The Dress, and prance around my mum's living room with it on.

So. I am instructed to remove all my makeup (gargh!) and am shown into a tiny room (really more of a cupboard) with a non slip floor, and a scary looking contraption with hoses and cylinders in one corner. The drop-dead gorgeous beauty therapist (why are they always supermodel material? Just to make you feel really inadequate?) tells me to remove all my clothes, gives me a plastic shower cap and a pair of paper pants to put on, then leaves the room. Why they feel the need to give you privacy when you're getting your kit off is beyond me - they're about to see you in all your glory anyway - but I'm sure they have their reasons.

So there I am, pretty much in the altogether, peely-wally in the bright glare of the spotlight directly above me, without the usual scaffolding and cosmetic enhancements of clothes and makeup, and all my wibbly bits and imperfections in plain view. Then Gorgeous Beauty Therapist comes back in looking, if it's possible, even more supermodelly. She fires up the contraption in the corner, and begins the process of turning me from pure brilliant white to healthily bronzed. She shouts various directions to me above the noise of the contraption - raise this arm, lift that leg, turn this way, turn that way, in, out, shake it all about. I feel like a Ford Fiesta in the garage getting a re-spray.

But by the end of it, I look more tanned than I have ever been in my life. When I go on holiday, I start off my natural white, then turn pinker and pinker as the week goes on. I then go ever so slightly brown, and by the time I've been home a week I'm white again. So it was a bit of a shock to see myself looking anything other than pasty white.

I got another fright this morning when I looked in the mirror. They advise you not to shower or wash until the next morning, so the actual tan, and the brown stuff they spray on you to make you tan, combined to make me look startlingly beige. Thankfully the colour calmed down a fair bit after my shower, so I don't look like I've been tangoed (hopefully). My colleagues didn't point and laugh when I came into the office this morning, so I'm taking that as a good sign.

I do have an amusing outline of pure white where the little paper pants were - I considered taking a picture of it, purely for comedy value, but I really don't think I can (or should) stoop to posting pictures of my arse on the internet.

Harry Potter and The Birds of Death

2007-07-18T09:34:00.000+01:00

I know it's all been about my wedding recently, and I also know that wedding arrangements are not nearly as interesting to other people so today I thought I would write about my favourite topic (which I haven't done for a while now). Reading.

It's the one thing I always make time for. No matter how tired/ill/drunk I am, I cannot go to sleep at night without reading a couple of pages. Although I am busier at the moment than I have ever been in my life, I have two books on the go.

In preparation for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows coming out on Saturday (squee!), I'm re-reading the Half Blood Prince. I don't care what anyone says about the Harry Potter books, I love them. I KNOW I'm supposed to read grown-up books, and I KNOW Harry Potter is written for children, but for a bit of escapism you can't beat it. I wish I'd gone to Hogwarts.

I've also just started 'The Birds and Other Stories' by Daphne du Maurier. I've wanted to read the short story ever since I saw the Hitchcock film, because it made a big impression on me. I'm a big girl's blouse when it comes to creepy films so it was quite brave of me to sit up late one night, on my own*, to watch The Birds and I was so glad I did. It's not a scary film, but you get a sense of creeping dread from the first few minutes, and the tension grows and grows until you almost can't stand it. It's disturbing, but in a subtle way - there are no gory death scenes, no psychotic murderers (not human ones anyway) or evil men lurking in bushes watching the pretty (but stupid) girl get undressed while they finger their axe. It's a masterpiece of tension and I loved it.

*The Boy has a bit of a problem with birds and flapping things, so he made his excuses that particular night.

So when I read the introduction to the du Maurier book, where Alfred Hitchcock is quoted as saying that he only read the book once before he made the film**, I didn't know if the short story would meet my high expectations. However, I was reading it on the bus this morning and I nearly missed my stop because I was so engrossed, and I can't wait to pick it back up again.

Suspense? Check.
Creeping dread? Check.
Flocks of murderous silent birds? Check.

And I'm only on page 20.

**The full quote is "What I do is to read a story only once and if I like the basic idea, I forget all about the book and start to create cinema. Today I would be unable to tell you the story of Daphne du Maurier's 'The Birds'. I read it only once, and very quickly at that."

It's safe to assume that any posts between now and 7/9/07 will be wedding related

2007-07-09T20:49:00.000+01:00

Dear oh dear, is it really so long since I last posted something to this here blog? I've been (as ever) busy sorting out the details for my upcoming nuptials (I love that word, nuptials. It sounds like a tasty treat!).

The invitations that we thought about so carefully, matched with the colour scheme and agonised over, arrived the other day. They were the wrong colour. And I mean completely wrong - they were green. They were not supposed to be green. Once I regained consciousness I managed to sort it out (turns out the shop had put the wrong code on the order form, a code that meant GREEN). The new invitations in the correct colour are now on order at no cost to us and should be here just in the nick of time to send out.

We've also been sorting out our gift list. We naturally ended up going for the selfish, grasping option of just having a gift list in John Lewis. And may I say, the process of setting up a gift list is worth getting married for - they give you a little scanner that you take round the shop, beeping everything that takes your fancy! It's like being given John Lewis, wrapped up with a big red bow.

I'm also trying to decide whether I should get my hair cut into a fringe or not.

I had planned for my hair to be back off my face for the wedding and I don't want to look like I don't have any hair in the pictures (the photographer will probably want me to face the camera, right?), so I've been toying with the idea of having a sort of sideswept fringe. Sort of like this, but not so... emphatic. Or like this blonde chick, but less... blonde.

Bearing in mind that it's 8 weeks on Friday* till the big day (i.e. not long enough to grow out any rash hair experiments), should I get a fringe?

*Obligatory panic attack ensues

The 10 Commandments of Bus Travel

2007-06-28T21:03:00.000+01:00

1. Thou shalt not skip the queue at the bus stop, unless you are old AND frail.* We are British, we are civilised, and we queue in an orderly manner.

2. Thou shalt not dither - make it clear whether or not you wish to get on an approaching bus, as soon as it comes into view.

3. Thou shalt have thy bus pass/fare to hand, not at the bottom of thy handbag. Some people need to get to work.

3. Thou shalt not sit next to me when the bus is half empty. There is Just. No. Need.

4. Thou shalt say 'excuse me' when you need me to let you out from the window seat. Do not just stand up and barge past me without so much as a by-your-leave.

5. Thou shalt not play music at such a volume that your fellow passengers can hear every word of the lyrics.

6. Thou shalt not put thy luggage in the Metro holder.

7. Thou shalt not hog the seat or bash your seat-mate (me) with your elbows while you read your paper.

8. Thou shalt not ding the bell more than once.

9. Thou shalt not attempt to read my book over my shoulder. It is rude.

10. Thou shalt NEVER pick thy nose on the bus.

*Just being old is not reason enough - there must also be a reasonable degree of frailty to allow queue skipping.

Things and Stuff

2007-06-25T18:50:00.000+01:00

Hoo-whee. It's been a busy old week (again).

First things first. I'm out from under my covers and I'm just back from a trip to the dentist.

Austin Powers has gone, and Teeny has returned. Woot!

I walked out of the dentist with a smile on my face today, for the first time in about three years. Despite my sore, bleeding gums and numb mouth, I actually smiled. I'm sure I was a pretty sight. Perhaps that's why children were hiding behind their mothers and saying 'mummy, I'm scared' when they saw me.

As I walked back up to the road, with a spring in my step, I could have started singing Zippity Doo Dah and doing that jumpy, heel-clicky thing. I maybe would have if my dentist wasn't in such a rough area, where exuberant singing of show tunes gets you, at best, a sovvy ring in the teeth, at worst, slashed. For the last three years I've been self-conscious of my teeth to the point where most people probably think I'm a miserable cow who never cracks a smile. But the feeling today of finally looking normal again, was worth all the traipsing back and forth to the dentist, the root fillings, the root canal surgery and, yes, even the Austin Powers temporary crowns.

So I'm very happy with my new wallies (which is a good scots word for teeth, Timbo!). I feel ready to face my public now.

Another significant development, which I'm afraid is wedding related - I had my first dress fitting on Saturday. Apart from it being too long (because I am short) it fitted me perfectly. And when I say perfectly, I do mean waist-cinchingly, bust-flatteringly, perfect.

And I still love it. I was worried that I was going to have gone off it as I couldn't remember exactly what the dress was like (which, I know, what a rubbish bride I am, other girls would have every last detail etched in their memory from the moment they first saw it. But not me). So that was a relief, because my mum has already paid for it.

I did end up buying different shoes, shoes that are not evil foot-munching bear traps, so I have to go back for a second fitting tomorrow.

But that's ok cause I get to play dressing up again.

Stupid Vain Girl

2007-06-15T10:21:00.000+01:00

Warning - this post is filled with indulgent self pity. You may wish to come back next week.

I had my first appointment yesterday to get my front two teeth crowned. My dentist had warned me what to expect - that it would be a long appointment (an hour and a half, yuck), that he'd have to file my own teeth down to stumps, then take impressions, and then fit temporary crowns while the permanent ones are being made up. And he warned me that the temporary crowns 'aren't that great'. Those were his words.

The actual appointment wasn't too bad. It wasn't exactly my idea of a fun afternoon, but still it wasn't as bad as you might think. There was lots of drilling - they don't actually use a file to reduce your teeth to stumps, as I naively thought, just a nasty old drill. He also had to screw in a steel post to strengthen the tooth that I had the root canal surgery on, using what seemed to be an unbranded Black and Decker electric screwdriver. It wasn't nearly as much fun as the root canal surgery.

Anyway, after an hour and a half I made my way home, with my mouth shut tight the entire time. I had sneaked a quick peek at my compact mirror while I was waiting for the receptionist to set up my next appointment, and wished I hadn't. My gums were all swollen and everything just looked a bit nasty. The temporary crowns looked horrendous. I figured it must be because I was literally just out the chair, and that by the time I got home it wouldn't look so bad.

I got home. I looked in the mirror. And it was just as bad. In fact, it was worse. The crowns looked worse than I remembered. They stick out like a sore thumb. They're plastic, to begin with, so they look completely different from my own teeth. They're also a different colour and shape to all my other teeth.* They just look hideous. I was prepared for them not looking great but I honestly thought they couldn't be any worse than my existing teeth. How wrong I was. I would gladly have my one slightly discoloured tooth and one slightly cracked tooth back right now.

When I looked at myself in the mirror I burst into horrified tears.

The Boy was in the loo when I got home, which I was quite glad about because I didn't want anybody looking at me before I'd got a proper look at the damage. He came in to see how I was, and found, to his bemusement, a sobbing mess. I wouldn't look at him, or even turn around to face him - I just told him to leave me alone. I shut the blinds, climbed straight into bed, burrowed under the covers, and continued crying. It was all very teenagery and silly but all I could think about was that I have to look like this for the next 10 days.

You're probably thinking what a stupid vain girl I am - it's only 10 days for pete's sake, but I'm 100 times more self conscious about them than I was this time yesterday. I was paranoid enough about my teeth anyway, and I kind of thought that they couldn't look any worse - that even temporary crowns would look better than my own teeth, and that it wouldn't matter if they did because it was for a higher purpose and would be worth it. But now, after the various problems and treatment I've had, it's a bitter pill to swallow that I should look like a female Austin Powers for the next 10 days, albeit with slightly better taste in clothes. I know it'll be worth it in the end (it fucking well better be), but at the moment it feels like 3 steps back.

Stupid, vain, and overly sensitive I may be, but I'd hide under my covers for the next 10 days if I could get away with it.

#weeps#

*Thankfully. If my own teeth looked like that I'd have em all yanked out and replaced with a set of wallies.

Small Cog

2007-06-07T21:47:00.000+01:00

I work in the Old Town of Edinburgh, and occasionally someone takes it into their head that North Bridge is as good as place as any to end it all. Or just to have a think about ending it all. One person took this course of action on Tuesday. North Bridge is a major thoroughfare in Edinburgh, and it's also unfortunately a popular spot for 'jumpers'. When this happens, the authorities close the roads to stop rubberneckers from gawping at what's going on. It all looked a bit chaotic from my office window - the traffic was diverted along Chambers Street, pedestrians were turfed out, and the emergency services were all over the place. Thankfully, they managed to persuade the woman down. The road was reopened after a couple of hours and everything returned to normal.

Until 4.30pm today, when a colleague rang to say she'd heard there was another jumper and that North Bridge was closed again.

I normally go home via North Bridge, but today I thought I'd nip to the shops before going home (as I knew the traffic would be chaos), so I walked down Fleshmarket Close to Market Street, intending to cut through Waverley Station.* When I emerged at the bottom of the Close, there was a police barrier, and a big crowd of people milling about and staring upwards. I looked casually up at the Bridge, and there was the man standing on the ledge of the parapet right in front of me (the bit in the very centre of the picture below), gazing down at the crowd of people below him.

Although I knew there was a jumper on the bridge somewhere, I wasn't expecting to see him so closely and I felt like a bit of an intruder. I heard people around me saying 'if he was gonna jump he'd have done it by now' and one girl on her mobile saying disgustedly to someone, 'no, he's not even jumped'. I didn't hang around. It felt a bit gruesome - the crowd, and this solitary man standing on a ledge above.

I was reminded of an incident back in April - the Boy and I had gone to the Scotsman Hotel (the building at the far right of the above picture) for a drink one Saturday afternoon and I looked out of the window and saw a man standing at the very edge of the parapet, staring straight down at the ground below. I got a bit of a shock and was in a bit of a tizz about what to do (I'm totally the kind of person you want around in a crisis), when I noticed lots of high-viz jackets on the bridge, and realised that the police were already there.

On that occasion the man stayed on the ledge for two whole days. Alan Sharp, of Random Burblings, wrote about this at the time and managed to take a picture of the jumper-who-didn't-jump. In the end the fire brigade managed to pluck him (the jumper, not Alan) to safety after he'd fallen asleep.** They apparently weren't sure if he ever intended to commit suicide, or if he was staging some kind of one-man protest.

Anyway call me mental, but this dude today looked familiar and I wondered if it was the same person. As I walked through Waverley Station I tried to imagine what was going through his mind as he perched up there on his parapet.*** I wondered if he really was some poor tortured soul who saw no other way out of his problems, or a bored anarchist with a penchant for clambering about on high ledges. Or just someone who enjoyed the feeling of power that inevitably comes from watching a major city thoroughfare closed off just for you and the ensuing disruption at the busiest time of day.

I don't know which he is, but I certainly hope he gets down safely, whatever his motives were for going up there in the first place.

*For those of you who don't know Edinburgh, North Bridge overlooks Market Street and Waverley Station

**How anyone could fall asleep on a tiny ledge 100 feet above an enormous glass roofed structure is beyond me, but I guess he must've been knackered after two full days on a ledge.

***I also wondered if he was going to come crashing through the glass roof above me and kill me outright too, but that's neither here nor there.

Blog Burn Out

2007-06-04T22:43:00.000+01:00

I've kinda lost my blogging mojo recently. Real life seems to have gotten in the way slightly, and I've not had much time. The time I have had, I've been, err, having a bit of a fling with Bebo. It just happened, I'm sure you understand. It didn't mean anything.

I am also a little freaked out about the whole anonymity thing. I've not long registered on Bebo and Facebook and I found a referral in my sitemeter that scared me - someone searching for me by name, and coming across this blog. And I'm not sure I like that.

#peers over shoulder#

In other news, I got a phonecall the other day to say that my wedding dress has arrived. My wedding dress is somewhere in Edinburgh, right now. The thought scares me a little. But only a little, mostly I just want to squeal and clap my hands. I've not been to try it on yet. To be honest, I've kinda lost my gym mojo as well, so I'm a teeny bit worried that I've morphed into the Goodyear Blimp, and the dress isn't going to fit. But I may be slightly overreacting. I hope so, anyway. I'll keep you posted.

I had planned to write a good long post tonight, with a topic and proper sentences and everything, but I had the beginnings of a migraine - I managed to head it off with some drugs (legal ones, natch), but they also made me feel a bit queasy and light headed. So the good long post will have to wait till tomorrow. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, as it gives me more time to think of a topic. And I know you'll be on the edge of your seat till then.

A Very Boring Update

2007-05-30T10:17:00.000+01:00

Hm, the holiday pictures I promised last time may be some time. I've lost my camera. The camera that broke 2 days into my holiday. So when I eventually find it there's a good chance that there aren't actually any pictures on it. And if that's the case then I'll have to steal pictures from my mum. And she has lost HER camera.

So, yeah... Don't hold your breath waiting for the snaps.

In other news, I've been pretty much stressed out the entire time since I got back. There was the wood pigeon incident of course (I have a horrible suspicion it may be back as well, I heard cooing coming from the chimney last night), and then some wedding related stress which I can't go into (suffice to say that I'm maad).

Ack.

I've also become dangerously addicted to Bebo. I've been in contact with a few people that I've lost touch with. My productivity at work has taken a serious dent, but more importantly I've still not caught up with all the my blog reading.

It's hard you know, juggling this many balls.

Karma

2007-05-26T23:56:00.000+01:00

Thanks for all your comments on my last post. We only got back earlier this evening (so I'm still to catch up on all your blogs) but I had a lovely holiday, and a fab birthday on Tuesday. To celebrate my being one step closer to thirty* we went to the Three Chimneys for lunch, which was A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.

*I didn't think turning 27 was necessarily something to celebrate but I wasn't given a choice in the matter.

To start I had breast of wood pigeon with crispy tattie scones, and a port and red lentil gravy. Then for my main course I had grilled loin of lamb with spring vegetables and a rosemary jus. I enjoyed my first two courses so much I had to have dessert too, so I had the Three Chimneys Famous Hot Marmalade Pudding with Drambuie Custard. It was all absolutely delicious, and I would thoroughly recommend the Three Chimneys if you're ever on Skye. It's not cheap, but the food is out of this world, the service is impeccable, and the location is unbelievable.

However.

I regret eating that starter.

We got home about 8.15 this evening, intending to get straight into our jammies, and eat pizza in front of the TV. The cats were pleased(ish) to see us - Coco sulked and wouldn't cuddle me until I gave her a KitBit - and the house was fine. We unpacked the car, and I went into the living room to make sure everything was ok. I noticed that our fireguard had been moved. I then saw something white in the fireplace. I went to have a closer look and saw a pile of soot, debris and feathers sitting on the coals of the fire, and more of the same all over the fireplace, and the floor just in front. I then looked a bit further up, to the beginning of the chimney, and saw a pair of feet.

A pair of birdy-looking feet. Attached to something that looked distinctly bird-like.

I nearly crapped my pants of course, and I shouted for the Boy to come and have a look. He agreed that it looked a bit birdy, but was of the opinion that it was dead (he was unable to explain how on earth a dead bird would manage to perch in our chimney however). He went for something with which to poke the bird, for that is what it was. Now I should be precise here, it wasn't just a bird, it was a pigeon.

A WOOD PIGEON. One of these. One of THESE. In MY LIVING ROOM.

The Boy poked the pigeon with the end of a broom. It was most definitely NOT dead. The poor thing got a terrible fright - it squawked and flapped its wings so hard trying to escape from the nasty poking man that it dislodged yet more of the crap that was in our chimney, and did another enormous shit on our lovely living flame gas fire.

The Boy agreed that the bird was not dead and suggested, most unhelpfully, that we turn the fire on. It was at this moment, when he suggested roast wood pigeon instead of pizza for dinner, that I realised this was karma. I ate one of this bird's cousins. Possibly even more than one (I don't know how much meat you get on a pigeon, but I'm guessing not much).

I was in a bit of a state. I didn't know what to do - I kept saying to the Boy 'but what do we DO?', while he stood with his hands in his pockets looking at the fireplace, much like a plumber who looks at your boiler whilst trying to figure out how to break the bad news. In the end, we did what we always do - we phoned our mums ('But what do we DO?!').

However, neither of them were any help, so I phoned the SSPCA. We were lucky that the only animal inspector in Edinburgh and the Lothians was able to pop in on her way to another job - she dove straight in without a moment's hesitation, and after much flapping and flying of sooty feathers, the inspector pulled Priscilla the Pigeon from our chimney. She looked a bit bedraggled and indignant, and her tail feathers were in a sorry state, but she was otherwise ok (hurrah!). The SSPCA lady said she'd take Priscilla into the wildlife centre for a few days, to let her recover from her ordeal, and make sure her missing tail feathers would grow back ok, and off she went.

I took some pictures before I cleaned away all the mess the damned pigeon made, you can look at them here. It's nearly midnight and only now am I starting to calm down and relax after a long journey home from Skye, and an unexpected welcome from a wild creature in my living room. I think I need another glass of wine.

I'll put some of my holiday pictures up in the next couple of days.

Intermission

2007-05-18T19:09:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow morning me, the Boy, both our Mums, and Boris The Dog are leaving for the bonny Isle of Skye. I'm praying for sunshine, or at the very least an absence of driving rain and howling wind, which is what I remember from my last trip to the island about 13 years ago. However, this being Scotland, I'm packing my waterproofs. And remembering that at least it looks atmospheric when the mist comes down:

Coco and Roo are staying here to hold the fort, and our friendly catsitter is coming every day to make sure they're not having any wild parties in my absence (also to water my carrots, which are going great guns by the way).

I'll be back next Saturday, hopefully tanned and relaxed, but more than likely knackered and midge-bitten.

Keep an eye on the place, won't you.

Abnormally Funny People

2007-05-17T22:09:00.000+01:00

I got on the bus today, a bit weary and headachey after a busy day, and realised with dismay that I'd sat down in the middle of a telephone exchange. The posh girl in the seat next to me, the drunk girl behind me, and the woman in the seat across the way who was clearly still working, were all talking on their mobiles. Loudly. I attempted to read my book (The Three Musketeers, if anyone's interested - it's great!), but after half a page I realised it was pointless trying to read with the din they were making, and just as entertaining to listen to the three conversations going on around me:

Posh Girl: 'So Bunny's moving in with Avril, and Tibbs told me that Miranda is going to be HOMELESS after term finishes because she can't find a flatmate and her parents can't even afford to buy her a flat' Oh, shut up.

Drunk Girl: 'I've just necked five pints but I'm cone-stold sober' Riiight.

Working Girl: 'I think you and I need to get together to hash this out, because the project timescale is slipping and we need to refocus' Isn't this what offices are for? The whole bus doesn't need to hear abour your slippage. Also, your perfume is rank.

Then a young mother of about 18 got on the (already packed) bus with her buggy. Now, Lothian Buses have a space for one buggy/pram/wheelchair, and a sign saying that other passengers must vacate the space for people that need it. There was someone sitting in the space, so this girl approached him and asked him if he would mind moving to another seat, so that she could get on with her buggy.

There's nothing noteworthy about that really, and you're probably thinking 'what a polite young woman', except that the man in the disabled space was blind.

He had a guide dog. He gets on the bus regularly, and always sits in the same seat, and even without his cute canine assistant, it's immediately clear that he's blind. He obviously didn't want to move, because he took ages answering the girl (I suspect he was trying to think of a more polite way to get rid of her than telling her to piss off, which I was hoping he would do). She asked if he'd prefer to stay where he was (well, durr!), and he said that actually, yes it would be easier for him. She then made a big show of saying 'well, ok, I'll just get off then', and starting to turn her pram round. So of course the poor man had no choice but to say that he would move.

Another passenger then had to help him move to another seat (with the whole bus watching by now of course), where he and his dog looked very uncomfortable and squished. The girl made herself comfy in his seat, eyeballed all the people that were staring at her incredulously, and didn't bat an eyelid.

I was horrified. So was Posh Girl next to me, as she gave a running commentary of what was going on to Bunny ('Oh my god, some awful girl is forcing a blind man out of his seat on the bus').

Of course people with buggies and prams should be able to use public transport, and it's good that it's made as easy as possible for them, but surely disabled people should take priority over able bodied people, even those with children?

Shouldn't they?

A Little Bit Of History

2007-05-14T22:25:00.000+01:00

I had a bit of a shit weekend. What was supposed to be a relaxing couple of days spent with the Boy, ended up being a stressful, rubbishy, wet weekend. None of it is really worth talking about, just irritable wee things that all combined to make it, well, just a bit shit.

Maybe I've got PMT. I definitely feel narky, which is a sure sign. I bumped into a colleague at lunchtime, who asked how my weekend had been. I snarled that it had been shite, and launched into a rant about something or other. He looked a bit scared, and started backing away slowly from me, much as you might carefully retreat from a rabid dog.

The highlight of my weekend was seeing my grandad on Saturday afternoon. His wee face lit up when he saw me coming in, and he told me lots of stories about his exploits during the war. Some of the stories I've heard many times, but he treated us to a couple of new ones, and showed me an old black and white picture of himself that I'd never seen before. It was taken while he was in Saudi, wearing traditional Saudi headgear and looking for all the world like Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. Except without the mascara.

His favourite story of the day (by this I mean the one he repeated more often than any other) was of being on the bus going down to Malvern to be inducted into the Navy, when the news came through that the war had ended. My grandad, 18 at the time, thought he'd get there, get his kit, and be sent straight 'back up the road again'. It wasn't to be though, and he served aboard the HMS Volage for 3 years before coming back up the road.

He realised he'd been talking about the war for a while, and he actually apologised for it - I had to reassure him that I was interested, and that I liked hearing about his experiences. It saddened me that he thought I wouldn't be interested. He risked his life in the Navy - he was on board when the Volage was shelled during an engagement alongside HMS Saumarez. Three crew were killed, and five wounded, and they got off quite lightly compared to the Saumarez. But one of those three could easily have been my lovely, cheeky, funny grandad, and I wouldn't have been sitting here now typing this.

My grandad thinks no-one wants to hear his memories of the war, but I'm fascinated by them. I suppose I'm trying to store up all this information because I know he's not going be here to tell his stories forever. And no-one tells em like he does.

Coincidentally

2007-05-10T19:05:00.000+01:00

My first job was in the food court of a shopping centre, picking up people's dirty dishes and cleaning up their mess (and before I go on, I must say this: The Public are DISGUSTING).

There was a couple who used to come in on a fairly regular basis, and Gay Best Friend at the time would comment on them every time they did - neither of them ever looked particularly happy but the woman in particular had a seriously soor face, which seemed to bother GBF for some reason. I (inexplicably) stayed in that job for a few years, and was in my first year at uni by the time I left. The miserable couple had continued to come in every so often the whole time I worked there.

When I started seeing them in the canteen at uni, I didn't think anything of it. Uni wasn't far from the shopping centre where I used to see them, so it made sense to see them in the same part of town. It was just a coincidence that we ended up at the same campus of the same university. If they were students attending that university, the shopping centre was a convenient place to go for lunch, so this was all this perfectly normal and not without the realm of possibility. However I continued to see this couple every so often, always together, even after I'd left uni.

I still do. A few times per year.

I now work in a completely different part of the city, and I saw the man when I was out at lunchtime today. He was without his soor faced companion (maybe he dumped her in favour of someone who cracks a smile occasionally). I've also seen them in various places across Edinburgh, and once in a completely different town.

I don't speak to them. They don't know me. And they don't know that I know them. At least, I don't think they do. But I see them, regularly. There was a period of a few months when I started to think maybe they were following me, that I was a pawn in some Orwellian kind of game, and that somebody somewhere was having a laugh at my expense. But now I think maybe I was just smoking too much weed.*

I know Edinburgh is only a wee small city, and it stands to reason that you're going to bump into people - why, just the other day the Boy and I bumped into Petifilou and her Pol in Tesco (thankfully there was no farting controversy or toilet brush related fallings-out for them to witness). I'm beginning to wonder if this couple and I have some kind of cosmic connection. If it wasn't guaranteed to sound totally absurd I might go and ask them if they agree the next time our paths cross. But there's just no good way to ask that question without coming across as a weirdo stalker who's been watching a random couple for the last 6 years (4 months and 17 days).

So; is it just me? Does anyone else have random strangers that turn up like this? Am I really a crazy stalker?

*Luckily, however, I gave that up a long time ago.

Weekend Update

2007-05-07T23:17:00.000+01:00

Gah. I thought of a stonkin' post topic earlier, but I didn't have a notebook/back of envelope/shirt cuff to write on, and now I've forgotten what it was. I think it may have had something to do with pavement sweepers.

Maybe it's best forgotten.

Anyway, I had a nice weekend - drinks after work on Friday, shopping for Mother of the Bride outfits on Saturday (including lunch at Valvona and Crolla courtesy of my sister who had a bit of a windfall) then dinner with the Boy at our favourite Mexican restaurant, and finally, a nice walk in Roslin Glen on Sunday.

I've left it a bit late to write this (hence it being a bit shit), because I've been watching the final of the Snooker World Championships tonight - I'm cheering for John Higgins. I like snooker, it's nice and peaceful (there's no screaming like there is with football) so I can keep an eye on it and still be able to concentrate on a book. But it's getting late, and I'm up early for the gym tomorrow so I'm off to bed.

Night night, internets.

God I'm SO Attractive

2007-05-03T22:44:00.000+01:00

I've made it to the gym the past two mornings. As I said before it's difficult for me being organised at 6am in the morning (it's difficult for me to be anything other than asleep at that time, mind you) and this morning I had a nagging feeling that I'd forgotten to do something. I wash my hair, pack my gym bag with undies, towel, clothes for work, make up etc before I go to bed, so that in the morning all I have to go is stick my joggies and vest on, and go.

However.

I was happily doing my warm up exercises this morning, and I happened to look down during the course of a tricep stretchy thing. It was at this moment, that I realised what I had forgotten to do.

I had forgotten to shave my oxters.

Now, being a brunette and a bit on the peely wally side, I cannot get away with this. I was hardly doing a Julia but oh god I was mortified. I snapped my arms back to my sides, and surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone was within oxter-stubble-viewing-distance. Thankfully they weren't, but I was unable to finish my arm stretches, and I spent most of my time in the weights section casually lounging on the machine, trying to look as if I was just taking a break, until the current passerby had moved on. Sigh.

Anyway, I also went to the dentist today for a preliminary check up before I get my teeth crowned. He said I can go ahead with the crowns, and booked me in for two appointments - the first is an hour and a half long. That's the equivalent of a feature length movie (Benny and Joon is 1 hour 34 minutes!), in the dentist chair. Ack.

Plus, because the tooth that I've had all the trouble with is essentially dead tissue (isn't that a lovely thought?) he's going to have to insert a steel post into the root, to strengthen it. Which means I'm already shitting myself at the prospect of more horrible dental work. And I'll probably set off the metal detectors at the airport.

But, hopefully my new wallies will be worth it. I'll be able to smile again! Woot!

The Good Thing About Being Busy...

2007-04-30T10:35:00.000+01:00

...is that it provides plenty of material for your blog.

I barely stopped all weekend, apart from Saturday night when I sat on my sofa in my jammies with a curry, watching The Queen on DVD.
On Friday night, the Boy and I went to visit my granny to wish her a happy 80th birthday. My grandad, who normally lives in a care home, was spending the day at my granny's house so it was nice to see them both together. My grandad suffers from dementia, so he can be quite hard work sometimes, but at other times, he's just like his old self. His sense of humour has always been razor sharp and this is one thing that hasn't been affected by his illness. As we were leaving, my uncle was taking my grandad into the lift and I said we'd take the stairs. Quick as a flash, my grandad retorted 'make sure you put them back'. It's moments like that you see that he's still the same man. He may ask you five times in the space of an hour what your name is again, but he still has a wicked sense of humour.

On Sunday we went to my cousin's daughter's (does that make her my second cousin?) christening. I've only ever been to a couple of christenings, so I don't really know the etiquette, but I don't know if the minister tipping holy water into the font from an Evian bottle is normal? Apparently he'd consecrated the font and hadn't noticed that there was no water in it - cue lots of rooting around in cupboards to find holy water with which to christen the baby. At least it was Evian, and not Tesco's own I suppose.

After the christening I took the opportunity to speak to my uncle to ask if he would give me away at my wedding (did I mention I was getting married this year?). I never thought I would have to ask someone to do this - of course I always assumed it would be my dad walking me up the aisle - and it was odd having to ask my uncle. When the Boy proposed, one of the first things I thought about (once I'd gotten over the shock, natch), was who would give me away. My dad's brother was the obvious choice for me - he doesn't have any kids of his own, and I think he'll be good at keeping me calm on the day. He's a fireman, so he's good in a crisis. It might be a bit weird because my uncle is my dad's double, but it was always going to be weird whoever was giving me away. Anyway, I'm glad I've asked him now, as it's the one thing on my To Do list that I've been dreading.

Oh, and he agreed by the way, so the bridal party is complete. Well, as complete as it will ever be, with the two great gaping holes left by both of our fathers.

So after all that, I was so tired this morning that I couldn't drag my sorry arse out of bed to go to the gym (#boo, hiss#). I did feel a tiny bit guilty about it, especially when the Boy ignored my attempts to persuade him not to go, but then I snuggled back into my pillow and felt a bit better.

There's Nothing Wrong With Bullet Points*

2007-04-26T22:31:00.000+01:00

Things I have been doing:

Planning a good long post, that has a topic and is thought provoking (ish). That is not this post.
Freaking out about the hee-uge list of questions our wedding venue expect us to answer.
Feeling quite smug about my every-other-day gym attendance, but rather dismayed at how much of my evening it takes up - I have to go to bed at a NORMAL time, and I have to be ORGANISED. These things do not come easily to me.
Shopping for gifts - my granny's 80th birthday tomorrow, and a cousin's christening on Sunday. And I'm effing rooked.
Realising that it's just over four months until I get married. FOUR. MONTHS. Jesus H. Christ.
Writing a To Do list that is actually almost as long as my arm. I do have short arms, but that is still A BIG LIST #whimpers#
Randomly capitalising whole words, apparently. This is not a good sign.
Planning a bit of an overhaul of the blogroll (lots of new people to be added) and possibly a whole new template. (HA! Like that's gonna happen anytime soon - Ed)

So, in conclusion - busy, tired, and a teeny bit stressed.

P.S. I have been keeping up with everyone's blogs, even if I haven't left many comments.

*Except that they don't show up in my template so I had to do a numbered list instead.

Ow #2

2007-04-23T14:50:00.000+01:00

A month and a half after I joined the gym, I have officially begun my fitness regime. I had a session with a(n) (evil) personal trainer yesterday, who figured out a programme for me.

Evil Personal Trainer asked me what my goals were. I told him I wanted to get rid of my bingo wings before the wedding (he sniggered). Then he devised a punishing* schedule of cardio work, and resistance training, including lots of fitnessy type terms like chest presses and iso-ab work, none of which mean anything to me. But he also gave me an Idiot's Guide to the Gym, on which he drew little stick men to remind me how to do each exercise. He clearly had my number because this was before I told him about falling off the cross trainer. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut about that though as, instead of laughing like everyone else I've told, he just looked at me a bit strangely and said that none of his clients had ever done that before... Maybe he thought I wasn't taking things seriously enough. Or maybe he was concerned about leaving me unsupervised in the presence of dangerous equipment. Oh well.

*Well alright, it's probably quite tame. It is about 4 years since I got off my arse to do any exercise beyond walking to the kitchen.

He then showed me how to do each exercise, and made me practise it so he could tell me what I was doing wrong (turns out I wasn't clenching my buttocks with enough zeal). One of the exercises he had me doing involved lying on my back with my legs in the air, bringing them in to my chest, then raising them again. It was, if you'll excuse my language, really fucking hard! I was terrified I was going to let out a little trouser trump with all the exertion. Thankfully I managed not to disgrace myself.

That was yesterday, and then this morning I got up with the Boy at 6am (!), got to the gym for it opening at 6.30, and was warming up by 6.35. I did my programme (and was grateful for EPT's little stick men), then got myself ready for work and was at my desk 15 minutes earlier than usual, starving and in pain, but happy. It's 3pm, I can now type without wincing, and I feel good for getting my toosh in gear and doing some exercise. I'm aiming for at least two visits a week, ideally three.

This means I can go home tonight and eat chocolate with a clear conscience - I burned nearly a whole Crunchie on the cross trainer alone.

Bleak House

2007-04-19T21:19:00.000+01:00

There's a house round the corner from here that makes me sad. It's a pretty little bungalow, on a nice street, with a wee patch of garden at the front. It makes me sad because it's so neglected.

I thought the garden in our rental flat was bad, but that was nothing compared to this place. There's a waist-height garden wall, and beyond that... weeds, weeds and more weeds. The weeds are level with the wall. And densely packed. They are established weeds. They could almost be classed as shrubs. There are some wild flowers growing in one patch, which are actually really pretty and if the rest of the garden wasn't a complete wilderness it would look kind of Victorian-kitchen-gardeny, but as it is it just looks neglected. The tall hedges on either side crowd in and make the front of the house dark and gloomy.

The house itself is a bit tumbledown too - the whitewash is flaking away, and the woodwork round the windows is all scabby and looks rotten. There are mouldy-looking curtains hanging haphazardly from all the windows, which never seem to be opened. They look like they would dissolve altogether in a stiff breeze mind you, so maybe it's a good thing that they're untouched.

All the other houses on the street are well looked after, and you see the inhabitants out at the weekend, mowing their lawns, or washing their cars. But this wee house looks dark and lonely, and a bit creepy - even in daylight. I always imagine some reclusive Miss Havisham-like character lurking inside, peering out at all the happy people going about their lives and cursing them for it. Every time I walk past I look for signs of life because I'm really curious to find out if the house is inhabited, and if so, by whom. Only once have I seen any indication of it being lived in - I was walking past one night and there was a faint light coming from one of the windows...

It was dark and windy, it was just me and my overactive imagination and this was the first time I'd seen any movement. You might be expecting me to say that I boldly marched up the path and chapped on the door to find out the answer to the burning question, but I didn't.

I scuttled off quick-smart, checking over my shoulder all the while to make sure I wasn't being pursued by an angry hermit.

Sunday Night Syndrome

2007-04-16T21:28:00.000+01:00

I have real trouble sleeping on a Sunday night. It's probably a combination of sleep patterns getting messed up over the weekend, the prospect of another working week, and thoughts along the lines of 'it's Sunday night, I never sleep well on a Sunday'. Any other night I happily pass out not long after my light goes off. But not a Sunday, and most especially not the Sunday after a busy weekend involving two very late nights.

Last night was particularly bad. I read for a while, and snuggled down in the lovely fresh sheets about 11.45. The Boy was already asleep (as, freak that he is, he gets up at 6am to go to the gym before work). I lay, yawning, listening to his deep breathing. He started snoring gently. I was still wide awake. I did my first check of the clock.

Midnight.

I figured out that if I went to sleep in the next fifteen minutes, I'd get exactly seven hours sleep before I had to get up.

Fifteen minutes later, the Boy was still snoring, and I was even more wide awake than I had been half an hour before, because I was thinking about it too much. Like when you go to type in your PIN number at the cash machine - if you stop and think about it too much you can't remember the number.

I tried to turn over, away from the noise from his flapping tonsils, and remembered that I'd walked into a door handle that day, and bruised my ribs. Ouch.

By now it was 12.30, and I was starting to get ratty. Less than seven hours sleep, but only if I went to sleep in the next fifteen minutes!

I started doing yoga breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth), and picturing the sea gently lapping the shore of a beautiful white beach. I felt myself getting a bit sleepy....

Then, 'nnngggghhhh', a loud grunting snore from His Nibs.

I gave him a gentle nudge* but he didn't stir. The last time I remember looking at the clock was about 1am. (If I go to sleep NOW, I'll get 6 hours!)

Then, bang on 5am this morning (a full 2 hours and 15 minutes ahead of schedule!) I woke up.

Ting! 'Good Morning!' Said my brain. And that was me.

I lay quietly for a while, trying not to lie on my sore ribs, hoping that I'd drop off again. Then the birds started with the singing. Then the Boy's alarm started going. Then HE jumped out of bed, refreshed after a good night's sleep, and happily skipped off for his workout.

Meanwhile I stumbled into work late (because of COURSE I fell asleep just before MY alarm went off), bleary eyed and dopey, wearing shoes that didn't match my outfit and with eyeshadow on only one eye.

Nighty night #yawn#

*Ok I kicked him, hard, in the shin and hissed 'shut it!'

Oy vey

2007-04-15T09:46:00.000+01:00

It's been a busy ol week.

I saw my mammy on Wednesday night, as I do every week. On Thursday night we had an unexpected trip to the vet with Coco, who was looking decidedly peaky.* On Friday I went to see Swan Lake on ice (which was spectacular), and yesterday afternoon we went to a lovely stationery shop and met the nicest girl ever, who's going to make wedding invitations like the ones I fell in love with, for a fraction of the price. I'm considering asking her if she'll marry me, instead of the Boy. She wouldn't fart in Tesco and blame it on me.

*She's fine now. In fact, she was fine about 10 minutes after we got her home from the vet, the little bisom.

Last night I went out with the Drama Queen, and what seemed like half the population of Brussels, to celebrate her birthday. I met the lovely Petifilou, and Phoenix (currently blog-free but hopefully not for long). It was the first time I've met other bloggers - Queenie doesn't count as she is a pre-blog friend - and it was lovely to meet them and put a face to the online persona. I was a little nervous because it's a unique experience - it's weird to know so much about people you've never met, and for them to know about you, and then to be in a room with them for the first time. But it's nice too, it kind of felt like the four of us were part of a secret society. Apart from Queenie and the Boy, none of my friends know about my blog so I didn't really know what to expect, meeting other bloggers in the company of people who don't know about this part of my life. But it was fine. And then of course, I had to start talking about farting didn't I - one area where my online persona and my real personality converge.**

**Honestly though, there was a guy in the pub on Saturday night that must've had some kind of condition. One drawback to the smoking ban - BO and other people's farts. Bleeurgh.

Today the Boy and I pottered about the house and garden and ate lots of nice food. I'm pleased to report that my carrots have sprouted. I went out to water them with my pink elephant today (which is not a euphemism, my watering can is shaped like an elephant), and was highly excited to see some green shoots coming through. Hopefully the shoots are actual carrots, and not weeds, but we shall see. I meant to take a picture as proof but by the time I remembered it was dark, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

My bed has fresh sheets on it, and I'm about to start a new book. If only I didn't have to get up for work tomorrow it would be perfect.

Farty Pants

2007-04-10T16:25:00.000+01:00

The Boy and I have been together for over seven years now, and have known each other for ten. While we do try to retain some mystery, it's kind of hard. We've lived together for the last four years, so he's seen me puking, fainting, weeing and, once, laughing so hard that tea came out of my nose.

There are some things that we just don't do, one of those is leaving the door open while we go to the toilet. Having a wee is one thing, but the other thing is done behind closed doors, and we prefer it that way. Having said that, we're not above a bit of toilet humour. A wee trump is good for a laugh and we quite openly break wind in front of each other, and have a giggle about it. Frankly, if we were one of those couples that 'take it to the toilet' then we'd hardly see each other. But bear in mind this is only when we're on our own, not in any other company (apart from maybe my mum).

So the other day in Tesco, when the Boy sidled past me with a shifty look on his face I knew he had some devious plan - he has previous for this kind of thing so I should've seen it coming but alas for me my guard was down. We were standing near the end of an aisle in the home section, which was empty but for us and a well-to-do couple talking to a Tesco employee about buying a TV.

As he reached the end of the aisle he paused and, with absolutely perfect timing, released a loud, prolonged fart then disappeared round the corner, leaving me horrified and unsure how to salvage any dignity from the situation.

In the end, I loitered for a few seconds with my head down, trying to make it seem as though I was above suspicion (my thinking was that if it had been me who farted, I wouldn't be hanging about). As soon as an appropriate amount of time had passed, I scuttled round the corner without looking at anyone, and found the Boy helpless with laughter in the next aisle. As soon as I saw him I dissolved into giggles as well (which impeded the accuracy of my punch unfortunately) and we both scarpered.

This is why I can't imagine being with anyone else.

Mary Mary Quite Contrary

2007-04-07T17:52:00.000+01:00

My garden seems to have noticed that it's spring, and is growing quite enthusiastically. It was starting to look a bit wildernessy so we went out this afternoon and attacked it with the lawnmower and various other implements that were lurking in the back of the shed (most of them housewarming gifts, all of them untouched since we moved in). Despite our lack of any horticultural skills we managed to beat the triffids into submission, and make it look half decent.

Then I went all housewifely and did lots of washing, which I hung in our newly-tidy garden to dry, picked up all the grass cuttings that the Boy had tracked between the front and back doors, and then cleaned the kitchen. So much for a holiday weekend. I'm bloody knackered - my arms feel all weak and wibbly, and my back is aching.

But look!

No silver bells, or cockle shells and certainly no pretty maids all in a row, but don't it look tidy?! And aren't I just the little domestic goddess?! The only fly in the ointment is that Carrot Watch 2007 is in danger of grinding to a halt. No progress whatsoever. Not a sausage! I would post a picture if there was anything to report. Instead, here's what I found when I came in from the garden, hunched over, shiny faced, and covered in grass stains - my cat Roo having a snooze on the kitchen table:

I know it doesn't look like it, but she has a really hard life you know.

(This is her pitiful, 'deprived cat' pose, the one she adopts whenever someone new comes into the house.)

Bleach

2007-04-05T10:57:00.000+01:00

I've decided not to go ahead with any scary bleaching techniques. I realised how lucky I am to finally have healthy(ish) teeth, and that I shouldn't jeopardise that for the sake of vanity, especially when my teeth don't really need whitened. If I looked like a female Shane Macgowan then I could justify spending in the region of £500 on my gnashers, but thankfully I don't. I've just had too many cups of tea. The photographer has already said he'll subtly touch up everyone's teeth in the pictures anyway.

So I called my dentist and made an appointment. He wants to see me for a check up before I can make the appointments for the crowns, so it's going to be a good couple of months before I'll start looking gorgeous again.* But I'm glad I've made the decision, I now feel like there's light at the end of the dental-trauma tunnel.

*Ha!

In other news, I've fallen in love with the most expensive wedding invitations I've seen in my search thus far. They are custom made letterpress invitations and they are absolutely stunning. Unfortunately they're also twice the price of any other invitations I've looked at, and I don't think we're going to be able to afford them. Well, when I say 'we can't afford them' I actually mean 'the Boy won't let me have them'. But I truly have fallen in love with them - they are totally in keeping with the wedding venue, they match my colour scheme exactly, and they are SO PRETTY.

Stupid budget.

Steep Incline Ahead

2007-04-01T23:17:00.000+01:00

Have you ever tried to dance a Gay Gordons uphill?

It is not easy. I know this because I was at a wedding reception on Saturday night, in a marquee which had been put up in a field with rather a steep slope.

It's a strange experience, dancing uphill, and I had my doubts that it was safe after watching numerous guests lurching dangerously close to the flimsy back wall while doing the Dashing White Sargeant. One lady in particular had to be rescued at the last moment by her dancing partner, as she nearly ended up in the loch behind the marquee. I spent most of the evening sitting down, because I didn't trust myself to walk on the dancefloor without falling on my arse. I struggle to wear heels at the best of times, but the combination of a squint floor plus a few V&T's was just a recipe for disaster.

The first comedy moment of the evening went, appropriately, to the bride as she and her new husband joined in a lively version of Strip The Willow. He birled her round like there was no tomorrow, causing her train (which had been hoiked up into a bustle) to come loose. She took out the whole first row of the ceilidh band, knocking over all their music stands and sending their sheet music everywhere. To their credit, the band managed to keep the dancing going - the accordion player carried on without his music while his bandmates picked up the stands, gathered all the music together, then jumped right back into the song.

Later in the evening, a drunken guest at the next table provided more entertainment by attempting to sit on a chair that was approximately 2 feet to the left of his arse - he stayed in a sitting position as he fell, and ended up on the floor with his legs in the air. He did at least manage to stay inside the marquee (which was lucky as he may well have ended up in the loch due to the steep incline and our proximity to the water). He was an elderly gent and wearing the kilt - thankfully I didn't get to see if he was a true Scotsman or not.

It was a good night, if a bit unconventional. But then who wants to be conventional? The bride and groom enjoyed it, which is the most important thing. Although I suspect he might have got a bit of an ear-bashing about the incident during Strip The Willow.

The rest of my weekend passed by in a flash, and I don't really have much else to report. I'm finding it a bit difficult to blog regularly as I'm in the awkward position of being busy, whilst not doing anything interesting enough to write about...

I'll have to goad the Boy into having a row or something.

How very dare you!

2007-03-29T10:46:00.000+01:00

Note to the red-jacketed woman at the bus stop, who waved on the number 41 bus I was trying to catch: You will burn in hell, you evil witch. I know you saw me.

Note to the bus driver of the number 41 bus: Your job is to COLLECT passengers, not splash them with a puddle and drive off whilst laughing maniacally. I know YOU saw me too.

Note to the queue-skipping man in the cafe: It is NOT ok to blatantly jump the queue. I don't care if you're late for a meeting (you shouldn't be stopping for a latte if that's the case). You came into the shop behind me, therefore I will be getting served first, thankyouverymuch.

Note to the nice man behind the counter in the coffeeshop who served me first despite Queue Skipper: You are a true gentleman and will get your reward in heaven.

Note to self: Next time stay in bed.

The Joys

2007-03-26T19:02:00.000+01:00

Well, hello. I've missed you. I'm sorry I left you - it doesn't mean I don't love you.

I've not really been up to anything in particular - I've just been doing things. The kind of things I could do easily at any time of day if I didn't have to sit at a desk looking busy for 8 hours a day. Like cleaning my house, co-ordinating the wedding plans*, cooking a batch of fajitas of which the Boy ate so many he nearly made himself sick, and, let's be honest, sitting on my arse watching DVD's.

*Which at the moment seems to involve various people saying 'have you thought of this' or 'what are you going to do about that?' and then leaving me to sort out the actual doing side of things.

Maybe it's because spring is in the air, but I'm feeling quite restless at the moment. I feel kind of... cramped. My job is ok, it pays the bills, but it doesn't exactly set the heather alight. I love our house, I feel like I've lived there for years, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't love a big house in the country. I love my cats, but I am desperate to get a dog.

In short, I just feel unsettled.

I have no reason to be unhappy - and I'm not, at all, I know how lucky I am to have what I have - I suppose it boils down to the fact that I wish I could find a more fulfilling job.

I'd love to be a writer, but I have terrible trouble extracting the little straggly bits of stories that float around in the dark emptiness of my brain, and putting them down on paper. I love animals, but there's no way I could work with them because I'm allergic to most of our furry friends (and I think I'd have a breakdown if I ever had to put one down). I'd like to be my own boss but I have no skills that I could easily utilise, and no money to start a business. Roll on the sweaty listlessness of summer, when I can just be glad that I don't work in the kitchen at McDonald's.

In other news, I've also taken my first shaky steps on the road to becoming green fingered.

Behold, the first installment of Carrot Watch 2007:

These will hopefully become my first crop of home-grown vegetables.

I may have run out of compost by the time I got to the second tray, and I may only have a watering can in the shape of a pink elephant with googly eyes, but I am determined to produce something. Even if it's only one carrot, it's something to build on. Of course, if I only yield one carrot per crop it's going to be a long time till dinner.

Secret Ending

2007-03-22T09:34:00.000Z

Picture the scene:

Me, freshly fed, bathed and pyjama-ed up. The Boy, glass of wine in hand. Both of us settled cosily on the sofa under a blanket, in anticipation of the Johnny Depp film we were about to enjoy, courtesy of Blockbuster. The lights were out, the candles lit.

Now, I can read any scary book, but I'm not a big fan of scary films - I can't deal with horror movies as I have to sleep with my light on for weeks afterwards. However thrillers are ok, so long as I have someone to clutch onto or something to hide behind.

So we start watching the DVD, and for about the first half hour everything is peachy. The scenery* is lovely, and it's not too jumpy-outy. There was a bit of unpleasantness with a doggy, but I hide behind my cushion and the Boy helps me through it by shouting at the most inopportune moment that the psycho is RIGHT THERE (which he wasn't). Then it gets to a creepy bit. Johnny's looking suitably freaked out, the music is cranking up the tension, and...

And...

The DVD stops.

This happens on a regular basis with Blockbuster and normally the DVD just needs a good clean. So the Boy gets up, muttering profanities, cleans the DVD, restarts it and gets it back to the bit we were watching. We settle back down and get past the creepy bit. The tension start building again.

Just as Johnny's in a most compromising situation, involving a pickaxe and a man in a stetson, the effing DVD cuts out again. We went through the same rigmarole about three times and eventually gave up. So what was shaping to be a good film was totally ruined by the stupid bastards at Blockbuster.

Part of my weirdness with watching even slightly scary films is that I have to know how it turns out - I have to see the scary baddie either get killed off or arrested, or I can't sleep. The annoying thing is, because the film wasn't a new release our local Blockbuster only have one copy of the DVD so we're going to have to buy the damn thing - I have to know what happens.

Gah.

*By which I mean Johnny

The Rule Of Three

2007-03-19T19:00:00.000Z

As promised, the meme that Cat tagged me with on Saturday, because I know you've been sat on the edge of your seat, all blinkin day waiting for this.

Three (ok, four) Things That Scare Me:

Being involved in a car crash.
Losing my sight and therefore the ability to read. An audiobook just wouldn't be the same.
Being attacked by a lion.
Oh My God Childbirth.

(I couldn't pick between childbirth and the lion thing)

Three People Who Make Me Laugh:

My best mate.
Dave Gorman.
Bill Bryson.

Three Things I Love:

Reading a great book for the first time. Then re-reading it.
Springtime. Oh the joys!
Handbags. Just because.

Three Things I Hate:

Spelling mistakes by people who should know better. There's just no excuse.
Rudeness.
TYPING WITHOUT REALISING YOUR CAPS LOCK IS ON and having to re-type, dammit.

Three Things I Don't Understand:

How on EARTH George W Bush ended up as the President of the USA.
The fact that any rubbish blowing about our street always ends up in my garden.
How so many beggars can afford Paul Smith jackets.

Three Things On My Desk:

An empty tea cup.
A tiny ceramic owl bought for me by my sister, whom I have named Hedwig.
A tube of Dove Regenerating Night Cream for my INSANELY DRY hands.

Three Things I'm Doing Right Now:

Listening to the purring sound of my cat, who is sitting on the desk watching me. (What is it with the watchers in this house?)
Wishing I had another cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
Resisting the urge to lop off all my hair with the kitchen scissors. It's driving me maaad.

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die:

Write a book.
Retire.
Travel.

Three Things I Can Do:

Pick out a spelling mistake at 20 paces.
Kill a houseplant in record time.
Make a mean lasagne.

Three Things I Can't Do:

Tell my left from my right.
Subtract.
Play Scrabble.

Three Things I Think You Should Listen To:

The advice your parentals give you.
The news.
The doctor, when he tells you not to interfere with the wound.

Three Things You Should Never Listen To:

Anyone who says 'I'm not being funny but...' or 'I'm not racist but...'.
That L'Oreal ad with Eva Longoria - are we honestly supposed to believe she colours her hair herself?
I'm with Cat - Keane. Or the Manic Street Preachers. Yawn.

Three Things I'd Like To Learn:

How to drive. In my own time and when I am ready, thankyouverymuch.
How to play the piano. Sadly I have small hands with short fingers so I don't think it'll ever happen.
How to grow my own fruit and vegetables.

Three Favourite Foods:

Homemade lasagne.
Hot buttered toast.
M&S Very Berry Cheesecake.

Three Shows I Watched As A Kid:

Hartbeat.
Chocabloc.
Stoppit and Tidyup.

I'm not going to tag anyone (except, of course, the fragrant and lovely Drama Queen) so if you're stuck for a topic today, knock yourself out.

Mixed Bag

2007-03-18T22:23:00.000Z

I've had a busy few days. I'm pooped and it's Monday tomorrow... Gah!

We went to the kilt shop yesterday for the Boy to try some stuff on. He tried on what will probably be the outfit he'll end up wearing on our wedding day and he looked so handsome, I couldn't stop grinning at him. My image of the wedding is much clearer now - I can really picture it all coming together on the day. I'm hoping this means my eye will stop twitching now.

And poor old Scotland, getting bumped into bottom place of the 6 Nations... It was an exciting afternoon, but I was glad I wasn't Irish - there must've been some sweaty palms/brows/buttcheeks over there. I really don't think we deserved to be bottom, but of course I'm biased. We may have got the wooden spoon, but I stumbled across a nekkit picture of Sean Lamont (beware, there is an actual naked picture here, don't click if you're at work) completely by accident.* I suppose I'll just have to make do.

I've been tagged by Cat and because I have no problem with being a lazy blogger I will be posting my answers tomorrow...

In other news, the Big Book of Blogging is out. I'm not in it, but that's no reason not to buy it - it is for a good cause after all. I ordered mine on Friday, you can too by clicking here.

*Ok not COMPLETELY by accident.

The Watcher

2007-03-16T00:44:00.001Z

I made the mistake of buying The Boy Football Manager 2007 for Christmas, and ever since I've had to fight to get access to our PC when he's in the house. He either hovers around, peering over my shoulder, trying to figure out if I'm nearly done yet, or he comes and sits in the spare room with me. Watching me. Waiting until I nip to the loo or go and make a cuppa, so that he can sneak on and check the score.

He's watching me right now - he's just sitting there smoking a fag and (as if that wasn't bad enough) watching me. It's freaking me out because I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. He's willing me to hurry up and just let him onto the computer already. I don't know if he can read what I'm typing from his side of the room.

If you can read this Boy? STOP WATCHING ME. You know I can't concentrate when you're just ... HOVERING... Go read a book or something. Oh, and while I've got your attention? The kitchen's a midden, and it's your turn to clean it.

I want a laptop. That way he can manage a fake football team to his heart's content, and I can sit on the sofa and write my post from there in comfort, peace and solitude.

We've got the day off tomorrow. We're not doing anything in particular, other than taking Coco to the vet for her booster. This means I have to wrangle her into her box first thing in the morning, which I am not looking forward to - she may only have three functional paws, but she makes good use of em when she's determined.

However, forcing a small unhappy cat into a confined space is much preferable to going in to my office - the tension I mentioned in yesterday's post escalated today into full blown huffs and histrionics, and I SO can't be arsed with that on a Friday. They can fight it out amongst themselves tomorrow, and I'll tune in for the office bitch-fest on Monday...

Air Con Wars

2007-03-13T22:48:00.000Z

I work in an air-conditioned office. This causes regular problems, as I'm sure it does in offices the length and breadth of the country.

The age range of my colleagues varies from 26 (me being the youngest, huzzah!) to mid-50's. There is also a pretty even split of warm people and cold people. As far as I'm concerned, it could ALWAYS be cooler in the office. I'm a hot tattie and I prefer to be cool*. Unfortunately, there are others who would sit in a centrally-heated house with a hot water bottle and a blanket**. These people complain bitterly any time the air con blasts out a bit of cooler air to regulate the temperature. I, on the other hand, wait for these blasts like a spaniel with it's head out a car window on a hot day - tongue hanging out limply, panting.

*I can only imagine what I'll be like when I hit the menopause. The mind boggles.

**Over their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers.

It's unfortunate that the two coldest people in the office sit under the air con vents, so I understand that it does get a bit chilly for them. It's also unfortunate that my beloved corner seat by the window is a bit cosier. I'm afraid though, that I will have to be dead or retired before I give up my corner seat. Apart from the fact I can keep an eye on all the goings on, I HATE HATE HATE having my back to the room - it makes me nervous. I never know when someone is going to creep up on me and give me something to do. Where I sit now I can see them coming and have an excuse prepared.

But anyway... Today the Air Con Wars reached new heights of ridiculousness. There is one particular person who is always FAR! TOO! HOT! She is a medical anomaly. She walks about outside, in winter, with a cardi over a t-shirt, and maintains that she is perfectly comfortable. She gets funny looks from people in the street who think she should be in a secure unit somewhere.

Unfortunately for everyone else in the office, she's also an overbearing, self-important loon (but don't tell anyone I said that) who thinks the air conditioning unit is there just for her. It is set at a fairly comfortable temperature for everyone, but every so often someone takes it into their head that they're cold and changes the temperature or fan speed - this is unacceptable to Warm Colleague. She checks the A/C unit every time she passes. If it's different to the usual 21C/mid-fan-speed, she changes it. She doesn't ask anyone if it's ok, she doesn't even break stride, she just changes it.

Today, one of the Cold People snapped. She was delirious from cold (so she told me anyway, I think she was being a tad overdramatic), and she changed the temperature to 22c. Two minutes later, WC walks past the display thingy with the buttons, and changes it back to 21c. Cold Person calmly walks over, says 'I'm cold, does anyone mind if I change the temperature?' No-one did, so she changes it. Two minutes later, WC changes it back, again, without asking if anyone minds. CP turns puce.

And so it went on. For an hour.

It would be easier to just switch the effing thing off.

Dental

2007-03-09T22:20:00.000Z

When I was eight I was riding my bike down the hill at the end of my street. I decided to show off, and took both hands off the handlebars. Then I stuck my legs out.

Then I fell off.

I flipped over the handlebars, landed on my face, and skidded along on that for a few feet before coming to halt in a whimpering bundle of patheticness.

I did TRY to break my fall, but unfortunately I didn't do very well - I broke my wrist, and still I didn't manage to stop my front teeth coming into painful contact with the road. I burst my upper lip open, chipped one front tooth, and cracked the other. It's fair to say I was a bit of a mess. Once my mum and dad got over the shock of seeing my messed-up face, they took me to Accident and Emergency and I got patched up (I also bit the doctor when he tried to find out if I'd damaged the roof of my mouth). I got a cast put on my arm, my upper lip healed perfectly, and the dentist put a veneer on my tooth to cover up the missing chip.

Then, about 3 years ago, I noticed a lump in my mouth, in the gum above the tooth that had been cracked when I fell. My dentist told me the root of the tooth was infected, probably because some bacteria had gotten in through the hairline crack. Over the course of the following year I saw more of my dentist than I did some members of my family, as he gave me root filling after root filling, trying to get rid of the infection. Eventually he admitted defeat and referred me to the Edinburgh Post-Graduate Dental Institute. I then spent the course of the NEXT year going back and forward to the Dental Institute for increasingly unpleasant root treatment. It didn't work. The last resort was an apicectomy, which I've talked about here before, and which was possibly the least fun afternoon I've ever spent. But it did the trick - my tooth is now infection free.

After all this trauma, I've been left not only with an obsession for flossing, but with a discoloured front tooth. Which is awkward because, as the more perceptive of you may have picked up, I'm getting married in September. I'm one of those people who runs away whenever a camera comes out, mainly because I'm so self conscious about my teeth. I figure there's little point spending lots (and lots!) of money on a photographer if I'm dreading the pictures being taken, so I'm going to splash out on some cosmetic dentistry before the wedding.

I plan to have either crowns or veneers fitted to my two front teeth, but I thought I might as well go the whole hog and get them whitened too, so to this end I went to see a private dentist on Friday to ask about tooth whitening. She was, to say the least, a little odd. I explained why I was there, and she had a look at my teeth. She then spent a good 10 minutes going 'hmmm' and 'errrr' and staring off into space, apparently thinking, while I sat watching my lunch hour ticking by, and thinking about the £25 I had paid just for a 15 minute consultation.

Her conclusion was that my discoloured tooth could be whitened using a different bleaching method, which involves opening up the back of the tooth and inserting hydrogen peroxide, thereby bleaching it from the inside. This doesn't sound like something a sane person would volunteer for, but she assured me it wasn't so bad. She said I could also bleach my teeth in the usual way (using trays filled with bleaching gel that you wear at night), so my poor, delicate front tooth would be getting blasted by bleach, both inside and out. I'm a bit dubious about this - it's taken the combined efforts of my own dentist and the Dental Insitute two years to get rid of the infection - is it wise to go opening it up again and stuffing it full of chemicals for cosmetic reasons? Weird Dentist assured me this wasn't a problem, but went on to say that the treatment would probably end up costing somewhere in the region of £500.

I did say I would splash out but I hadn't imagined it would take quite as much... splashing.

Weird Dentist also said that just sticking a crown onto the problem tooth could weaken it even more (to fit a crown they have to file your own tooth down to a point). So now I'm even more confused than I was before, and worried that whatever option I go for is going to weaken my tooth. However I refuse to have my picture taken without having this tooth fixed - I want to look PLEASED about getting married, not sulky and self-conscious, which is how I look in every picture of me that's been taken in the last 20 years.

Nothing's ever simple...

Topic? What topic?

2007-03-08T21:55:00.000Z

I had another scary wedding dream last night - probably because of all the gift list chat yesterday, and the fact that I am ever so slightly freaking out about how much I still have to do.

I dreamt that I was all dolled up this time (unlike the last one where I had to get married in a pair of jeans and a manky t-shirt), but no guests had turned up. There was no minister to marry us, no flowers and no band. I'm taking this as a sign that I need to pull my finger out and get busy with the wedding plans, if only to ensure I can sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat and shouting 'stationery!'.

Otherwise, I had quite a good day - at lunchtime I picked up the shoes I ordered at the beginning of the week. I've coveted them for a while now, so I was glad to finally get my grubby little paws on em. Then the Boy took me to the shops after work and bought me a new springy jacket. I think he was feeling guilty about watching football EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. this week and was trying to keep me sweet. I hate football, but if it means I get presents he can watch as much as he likes.

Unfortunately it's now pissing it down and blowing a gale so it's unlikely I'll get to wear my green springy jacket tomorrow. Ho hum.

Still, at least I wasn't on this bus today.

I'm off to have a relaxing lavendery bath.

Bottom Drawer

2007-03-06T21:08:00.000Z

So where do people stand on the whole wedding list issue?

Because I am having a MORAL DILEMMA, people.

The Boy and I already live together. We're lucky enough to have a nice flat, filled with lovely things. Sure, there are a few things in the likes of, oh I don't know, say John Lewis for the sake of an argument, that I would LIKE to own. Like this. Or this, if people were feeling especially generous. Ooh, or these! And this would be perfect for hoovering the crumbs off the Boy when he falls asleep on the sofa after dinner. But that doesn't mean to say I NEED any of this stuff. It would be nice, but we don't need it.

I feel kind of mercenary asking people to not only turn up on our wedding day in their sunday best, possibly take time off work (as it's a Friday) and book flights or train tickets to be here, but to buy us cool stuff that we don't need as well.* So I don't know what to do. On the one hand, I'm dazzled by the pretty things, but on the other I don't want to start off married life with a great big dollop of bad karma. This is my chance to make a difference. To do something selfless.

*Not that we would be ASKING people to buy gifts, of course. What do you take me for?

Wedding gifts are supposed to give you a leg up in your married life. But we don't need a leg up as much as some. Judging by the amount of money we've spent on other people's wedding gifts (which is not grudged), if we went for an Oxfam wedding list we could potentially provide a whole herd of goats. I mean, who needs a revolving spice rack to make their life complete? If that spice rack were in Zimbabwe or Mozambique it would be a revolving dust rack, and what use is that to anyone?

But, there's always the chance that people will look at the Oxfam list, chuckle and say 'Goats? Those kids! What will they think of next?' and go off to John Lewis and buy us a toaster anyway.

So what to do? Could we compromise and have both? Is it stupid and confusing and just plain WEIRD having two lists? Should I suck it up and go for the warm fuzzy charidee one, or the mercenary look-at-all-this-STUFF list?

#whimpers#

Monday Already?

2007-03-05T09:52:00.000Z

I've been choked with the cold since Friday. This morning I struggled out of bed (and it was a struggle, believe me) and into work, to be told that ALL our systems are broken. The main system I use is down for routine maintenance anyway, but our emails are now playing up as well. In fact, the only thing that seems to be working is the Internet (praise be), and Word. And I never use Word. But the good thing about having a stinking cold is that no-one is giving me any work to do - they don't seem to want to get too close to me...

Every time someone comes into my office they recoil in horror and say 'oooh, you look awful'. Which is nice. But I do look awful, so I'll forgive em.

My weekend seemed to go by in a flash. I ordered my bridesmaid's dresses on Saturday, and for most of the day yesterday I huddled on my couch, oozing and feeling sorry for myself. I then got pissed off with the state of my flat - it really was a midden - so I hoovered the whole place and mopped the floors. I cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, and tidied my bedroom. Then I collapsed in a sniffling heap on the (sparkling) floor. The Boy tried to cure my cold with a chicken curry that was almost combustible (it didn't work) while we watched Top Gear, and by then it was time for bed.

On a completely unrelated note, I've had to turn on word verification as I've been getting lots of comment spam. I've been reluctant to switch the word verification thingy on as it always, ALWAYS takes me at least two attempts to submit a comment. I don't know about anyone else, but my brain seem to have trouble translating the letters in front of me, to the correct keys on the keyboard. It started off that I'd just get the odd comment, but now I'm getting bombarded with meaningless comments from people trying to sell vicodin and convert me to Scientology. So word verification is GO.

Is it time to go home yet?

One Book Woman

2007-03-01T22:08:00.000Z

I used to be a one-book-woman. I'd start one book, and I wouldn't crack open another until I had finished the first.

These days though, I'm much more promiscuous.

I currently have three books on the go - Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift (which I carry back and forwards to work with me because it's a good handbag-sized book), The Old Curiosity Shop by Dickens (which sits on my bedside table), and the first part of The Lord Of The Rings (which also sits on my bedside table).

I read Gulliver's Travels when I was little, but it must have been a childrens version. I remember being fascinated by the illustrations of the tiny Lilliputians clambering over Gulliver when they discover him asleep in the countryside, but that's really all I remember. So when I started reading it again recently, I was a bit taken aback. Swift apparently wanted to piss some people off with Gulliver's Travels: 'to vex the world rather than divert it'. The blurb on the back cover, which I am just reading now, explains my feelings exactly: "'Gulliver' is a book to which the adult reader comes back with surprise and a fresh respect". You said it mate. It's not a kiddie's story about tiny people and giants - it's a satire. And a good one too.

The Old Curiosity Shop is my 'serious' reading. I am woefully ignorant of many classic books that I should have read long before now, so I'm trying to read as many as I can.

But I often feel the need for a bit of escapism at the end of a long day, which is where The Lord Of The Rings comes in. It's World Book Day today, and to celebrate the 10th anniversary they have compiled a list of 10 Books You Can't Live Without - LOTR came second.* Higher than the Bible, which came 6th. I've never read the bible, but I've read LOTR many times, and I suspect I'll read it many more times in my life. So I suppose it is one of the books I couldn't live without.

I do still get a wee twinge of guilt that I don't focus completely on one book any more, but if I'm going to get through the books on my shelves by the time I collect my pension (which will be a loooong time yet the way things are going in this country) then I'm going to have to step up the pace.

Maybe a book in each hand...?

*And I see the people who compiled this list are unable to spell 'Tolkien' properly. Good stuff.

Tag, You're It

2007-03-01T14:13:00.000Z

Dammit.

Just as I was getting ready to write today's witty, thoughtful, well-crafted post, I get tagged by The Goth. Oh well, I'll have to just tell you what the first 10 songs on my iPod are:

1) Love Rollercoaster - Red Hot Chili Peppers
2) Even Fallen In Love? - Buzzcocks
3) All Along The Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix
4) Why Do You Love Me? - Garbage
5) Jammin' - Bob Marley and the Wailers
6) End Over End - Foos
7) The Bends - Radiohead
8) Love Her Madly - The Doors
9) Alive - Pearl Jam
10) Supermassive Black Hole - Muse

These are the first 10 songs that come up when I set it to shuffle, hand on heart.

Conclusion? I need to branch out, music-wise.

Apparently I have to tag 5 people to do the same, so here goes:

Stacey
Sarah
Elisabeth
James
Random Reflections

Sorry people, he made me do it.

Doneness

2007-02-27T17:55:00.000Z

It's my sister's birthday today, and the Boy and I went out with my mum, sis and her boy to a lovely French restaurant in Edinburgh. The food was all delicious, the service was good, and the surroundings were comfortable. I had crusty bread with olives and feta cheese to start, followed by lamb with a redcurrant and rosemary jus, french fries* and seasonal vegetables.

Just one problem.

My lamb was still bleating when my plate arrived.

Now, I know it's supposed to taste better if it's a bit pink in the middle, but I just can't eat something that is oozing blood onto my plate. The waiter warned me when I ordered that the lamb would be medium-rare, so I asked for medium. The only reason I didn't ask for it to be well-done was that I knew I would get disapproving looks from both Sister and Sister's Boy (who are both major foodies - Sister's Boy works in the restaurant trade). But I wasn't expecting it to be quite so pink.

Sister's Boy ordered a rare fillet steak, and I couldn't even look down at his end of the table until he'd finished. He practically had to spear it with his fork to stop it scampering off his plate and back to the field. It looked fine when it arrived but as soon as he cut into it it became apparent that it was really just a hunk of raw flesh that had been briefly introduced to a hot pan.

I know this betrays my extreme ignorance when it comes to food, but it just seems wrong to me. When I cook at home I'm always paranoid about NOT cooking meat properly, so it just seems unnatural to me. And my lamb was more than slightly pink. Bill Bryson writes in 'Notes From A Big Country' (one of my all time favourite ever books, EVER) that 'a barber will give you the haircut he wants to give you, and there is nothing you can do about it' - it seems that French chefs will give you the steak they want to give you, and there is nothing you can do about it.

But despite my squeamishness, the lamb was lovely. The best thing was that there was enough of it that I could eat round the pinks bits, and still be full at the end of my meal. Not so full that I couldn't squeeze in the creamiest, most delicious creme brulee I've ever had in my life, thankfully.

*Yes, I went to a fancy restaurant and ordered CHIPS. I'm a pikey.

Blogiversary

2007-02-24T21:47:00.000Z

So one whole year ago today I popped my cherry and started this here blog.

Things I have done since then:

Moved house
Moved house again
Organised approximately 50% of a wedding
Alphabetised my bookcases

Umm....
That's kind of it. It's been a quiet year.

Things I have learnt:
Always read ALL the instructions on home hair dye kits
Never believe the instructions on home bikini-waxing kits
Even when you don't have anything to write about, you can still talk some random crap
Virtual friends can be just as lovely as real ones

And finally, when you can't come up with actual sentences lots of links* do just as well.

Here's to another year.

*That last one was just because. Oh. My. God. What. Happened. To. Harry. Potter.

Bikini Waxing

2007-02-23T23:50:00.001Z

This is the video I sent from YouTube last night while I wrote about my torture at the hands of Veet. There was supposed to be a witty segue along the lines of 'Waxees ye be warned', but something went wrong somewhere. Some poor bastard at www.jesuslovesyou.blogspot.com will probably be excommunicated because a video of a woman getting her pubes waxed appeared on their site.

Hey ho.

Wax on...

2007-02-22T21:52:00.000Z

I work in an office full of women. Today the topic of Britney Spears going back into rehab prompted a discussion of the shaved hoo-hoo that she decided to flash to the world a few months ago, specifically why she would want to do that. Shave it, I mean, not let people take pictures of it. I looked at those NSFW pictures of her undercarriage and it wasn't pretty - stubbly, lopsided, and with a lovely caesarian scar to top off the whole sorry mess. If she wanted to show off her area what was wrong with dying it pink or something?

So this brought us onto bikini waxing. Only three out of the seven women there had ever had a bikini wax, which I found quite surprising. And I was one of them.

It's a strange experience, being in a room with a near-stranger, clad in only your smalls. The woman I used to go to was a tiny blonde lady whose innocent appearance belied her sadistic streak. She seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on her clients and was completely unsympathetic to any pain you might be feeling. The good thing about her was that she would happily tell you about all the weird clients she had, in order to distract you from the hot wax she was slathering on your ladyparts and then ripping off with gay abandon. She told me once about a woman who lay there in just her bra and asked Sadistic Bitch for a hollywood.* She then apparently, ahem, enjoyed the pain that that causes. If you know what I mean.

*Which is, for those of you who don't know, the full monty. The bald eagle look.

ANYWAY, I don't go there anymore. I'm too skint to pay a small person to rip my body hair out by the roots on a regular basis so I wax my legs myself, which is actually quite easy to do. I think the nerve endings in my legs have been deadened by all the years of waxing by Sadistic Bitch, so it doesn't hurt too badly either. Unfortunately this doesn't extend to the bikini line. I tried once to wax that myself and it was Hell. On. Earth.

I used a hot wax kit. The wax was nice and warm, ready to be 'smoothly applied to the area' and I was standing by with the linen strip, ready to remove it 'in a swift and decisive motion'. But someone neglected to tell the marketing man at Veet that it is IMPOSSIBLE to remove a wax strip from your own sensitive area DECISIVELY. There's a REASON that waxers are sadistic bitches! I pulled that strip with all my strength, and it yanked HALF of the wax off my skin and NONE of the hair. Which left me in the awkward position of still having a (now very tender) hoo-hoo covered in wax, but without the strength of will to try another linen strip. I ended up having to sit in a nice warm, baby-oiled bath for a while to remove the wax. And by the end of it there were about three less hairs than there had been to begin with. Next time I need to be neat I'm going back to Sadistic Bitch.

Ladies, if you ever get it in your head that waxing your own bikini line is a good idea - my advice to you is don't do it. Step away from the Veet. It's not worth it, really. Go to the salon.

Charity Shopping

2007-02-19T19:00:00.000Z

Hoo-wee, it's been a while since I updated... I've been rather busy being a domestic goddess and generally not doing anything worth blogging about.

However I have realised that I've become worringly enthusiastic about shopping in charity shops. In particular, charity shops that have a large book section.

You may find this surprising in view of my previous purchases, as the books you get from charity shops are not necessarily the prettiest or in the best condition. But it doesn't bother me. I like my books to look like they've been loved and if they're a bit dog-eared then so much the better. However I noticed a sign in the last charity shop I was in that gave me pause - it said 'Buy them, read them, return them to us!'

But... but... I don't want to return them.

I don't have to return them do I?

#panics, clutching books to chest#

Ahem.

When I moved house I unfortunately put myself in very close proximity to perhaps the largest concentration of charity shops in Edinburgh and I've taken to poking around in them at the weekends. As a book-hoarder who loves the thrill of coming home from the high street with a pile of new stuff, this is awkward. My already overstuffed bookshelves are now tottering under the weight of my numerous bargains. The Boy's suggestions that I seek help are becoming increasingly stern and scary.

But it's ok, because I don't limit myself to books. Why, this very weekend I bought myself a (new) pegbag*:

And my mum bought me this Hobbs handbag, bargain of the month at just £8:

I also bought Human Traces and Middlesex for £2 each, but that's beside the point. For one thing it helped Cancer Research, and for another I needed a pick-me-up after spending the morning at a wedding fair with both mums, fighting off Bridezillas for the last bit of cake.**

*I know - a PEGBAG. All I need now is a pinny and a piping bag.

**Mmm, cake.

Hallmark Holiday

2007-02-14T14:09:00.000Z

The Boy and I don't really make a big fuss over Valentine's Day these days. We try not to kill each other every day of the year, we just make a special effort on February 14th.*

We're not doing anything tonight, but we're going out for dinner on Saturday, which is enough for me. I don't need boxes of chocolates, teddy bears holding boxes of chocolates, bouquets of flowers or bunches of balloons delivered to my office by a barbershop quartet. That's not to say I would turn any of these things down of course**, but I don't need them to know that the Boy loves me. Anyway, because he's not the type to make these kind of gestures (he's more of a behind-closed-doors man), I would feel like he'd been forced into it, and it doesn't mean anything unless it's been his own idea and is something that he wants to do. I once guilt tripped him into sending me a bunch of flowers, and I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as the time he did it off his own back.

He bought me a diamond, he can dine out on that one for a couple of years yet. No flowers necessary.

Happy Valentine's Day Smelly.

*I'm kidding of course

**Well, except maybe the barbershop quartet...

Update: I wrote this on my lunchbreak, and when I got home he had bought some nice food from M&S (including pudding!) and a bunch of red roses. Bless. He did forget my card, which is currently sitting on his desk at work, but you can't have everything.

An occasion where my blog might come in useful...

2007-02-13T21:39:00.000Z

I don't really have much in the way of news. My cat pooped on the sofa. I've got a lovely spot appearing on my chin. I have been unable to stop singing show tunes for the last two days (thanks to SpanishGoth). I feel like I should be wearing a tophat and swinging a cane around.

On a kind-of-related note, Fiance and I have been trying to pick the song to which we will dance our first dance as a married couple. It's really quite difficult (read: effing nightmare). We don't have 'a song' that means anything to us (well there is one but it's not appropriate for the occasion*), so we're having to pick one that we both like, that is easy to shuffle about a dancefloor to, and that won't make our mums cry too much. They're going to anyway, but we want to minimise the blubbing as much as we can, for obvious reasons.

The Boy wanted Highway To Hell, which I felt was a bit of a negative way to start our married life. It's probably fairly appropriate but my granny would be horrified. We don't want any Robbie Williams/Whitney Houston cheesefest shit, so far our shortlist consists of the following:

Something by the Foo Fighters (possibly an acoustic version of either Big Me, Everlong or Best of You or well... any Foos song to be honest)
Tonight Tonight, Smashing Pumpkins
Follow You Down, Gin Blossoms
Time Of Your Life, Green Day
Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

It's not really a shortlist though, because we can't agree on any of these songs, and none of them have really knocked our socks off as 'the one'.

Any ideas?

*He used to play Magic Bus for me when I used to go (on the bus, natch) to visit him when we first got together way back when. He would sing the irritating falsetto bit as well (#too much, magic bus#). You're going to be singing that all day aren't you?!

# Neighbours, everybody needs good Neighbours #

2007-02-11T11:17:00.000Z

Mr Neighbour came over again on Friday night to exchange insurance details, and it turns out he's 80 this October. He's also had 4 heart attacks and triple bypass surgery in the last 3 years. Now, I'm not a doctor, nor am I a driving instructor (or even a driver), but surely, SURELY he shouldn't have a licence that allows him to operate a piece of heavy machinery that can travel at speeds upwards of 80mph?!

Mr Neighbour also said that when he calls his insurance company he's going to just relay the facts, and not make any comment or admission of guilt. The facts speak for themselves:

Fiance's car was safely parked and stationary.
Fiance was not in the car.
Mr Neighbour was reversing out of his drive in the immediate vicinity of Fiance's car.
Fiance's car has a mashed-in door (the chassis is fine by the way).

So there can be no explanation other than that Mr Neighbour hit Fiance's car, which means his insurance company will have to pay for the repairs - £1000 worth according to the estimate. But why did he say that he wasn't going to make 'any comment or admission of guilt'? I don't know what to make of this. He seems like an honest man - he came and told the Boy he'd bashed his car in the first place after all. So why would he not say the same thing to the insurance company? Are we going to be framed by our 80 year old neighbour?!

What would Harold Bishop do?

Being Neighbourly

2007-02-09T10:33:00.000Z

We got a nice visit from the wee old man across the road last night. He lives directly opposite us, and occasionally has some trouble reversing his car out of his drive. When we moved in, one of the first things he said to us was to ask if we had a big car. Fiance, a little taken aback, told him he has a Renault Clio. Mr Neighbour was very relieved to hear this as the man who lived in our house before us DID have a big car, and Mr Neighbour always found it difficult to get his car out of his drive because of it. It would have had to be pretty big to stop him getting out of his drive on the other side of the street though - maybe it was a Hummer.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when Mr Neighbour came to the door last night to tell us that he was on his way out for dinner but that he'd 'had a wee bump' with the Boy's car. I think he must've got a bit of a fright as he was all red in the face, and he looked really embarrassed and a bit shaken. He's very nice, but he's in his mid-70's at least (therefore approaching the age where he should probably be thinking about giving up driving) and it takes him about half an hour to back his car out of his garage, up the drive, and out onto the street.

Anyway, Fiance went out to investigate and discovered a caved-in passenger door, and the trim-thingy hanging off. So it was quite a bit more than 'a wee bump'. But Fiance told Mr Neighbour to go out and enjoy his dinner, and not to worry about it. The boy thinks he'll need a whole new door.

In other news, I'm guest-blogger over at Drama Queen's Palace today.

Hopefully her readers won't tear me to pieces... Not straightaway anyway.

Ow

2007-02-06T21:49:00.000Z

I finally made it to the gym tonight. You may give me a round of applause now.

#applause#

Thanks, you're so kind.

I may need a hoist to get me out of bed in the morning. My arm muscles are already protesting, loudly, whenever I lift my arm above shoulder level.

I only went for a swim tonight, but once I have a session with a Really Fit Instructor who will show me how to use the machines I'll be doing a workout and a swim. I've made a fool of myself in the past by falling off a cross trainer (an experience I am not keen to repeat) so I'm going to wait for them to show me how to use these new fangled contraptions before clambering onto one of them in public.*

But I enjoyed the exercise - I swam 20 lengths of the pool, and came out feeling energised and proud of myself for actually getting off my arse and doing something.** I did start to get a bit sick of being splashed full in the face from the freak of nature in the lane next to me though. I was in the slow lane, doing my breast stroke/doggy paddle hybrid ©, and this dude in the fast lane next door kept splashing me right in the face. I'm sure he did it on purpose. And he was like the effing Duracell Bunny, he just kept going on and on, so I couldn't even time it so that I didn't have to pass him. It wouldn't have been a problem (I do realise that I was in a swimming pool, and it's therefore ok to get wet), but I had forgotten to take my make up off before I went in and had been trying not to get my eyes wet so that my mascara wouldn't run. But it did of course, courtesy of Duracell Swimmer, and I came out looking like Alice Cooper in a tankini.

Other than that it was a success. It's going to hurt in the morning though.

*Not that falling off the cross trainer was a result of inadequate training, just inadequate co-ordination on my behalf. So being shown how to use the machines won't stop me falling off, but at least I'll know where the emergency stop is this time.

**We also walked home but this was the Boy's idea - I was all for getting the bus and complained bitterly about being tired, cold, hungry and needing to pee during the 20 minute walk home. Fiance has learned to just tune it out I think.

Gie It Laldy

2007-02-04T14:16:00.001Z

I've been going to the same hairdresser for a few years now, and I really like it there. It's a nice place, but it's not one of those salons where everyone looks like they're sucking a lemon and they look down their nose at you because you committed the cardinal sin of wearing shoes that don't match your belt/handbag/hair accessory.

At my hairdresser, as in salons everywhere, it's always been the case that once you've spoken to your stylist about what you want, one of the juniors, a wee 16 year old girl, washes your hair for you. However, in the last couple of years I've noticed that all the juniors are male. It's at least 4 cuts ago that I last got a female junior. Which is fine - the boys are just as nice. They chat to you when you've got your head in the weird sink with the hole that's supposed to be comfy (but isn't because whose head is shaped like THAT?), and I've never noticed any real difference between them. I'm sure it says something trenchant about industry and society and so forth, that more boys are opting to be hairdressers rather than engineers.

But that's not my point.

I went for a haircut on Friday, and got a new boy that I'd never seen before. He sat me down, and gently tucked a towel into my collar to stop my neck getting wet. He switched the water on and waited till it was the right temperature. He asked me a number of times if the water was too hot. He then applied the shampoo and started lathering me up. And by god, he applied himself to the task of washing my hair with every bit of muscle and sinew in his upper body. Of which there was considerably more than wee Chantelle has in her upper body, let me tell you.

This boy gave new meaning to the phrase 'gie it laldy'.

He had lots of beaded bracelets on his wrists, so in addition to feeling like my head was in a washing machine on spin cycle, there was a racket right in my ear from all his jewellery clinking about. I was sure the rest of the salon could hear the noise over the hairdryers, ringing phones, chattering and general hullabaloo. My neck was aching from the effort of trying to keep my head in the general vicinity of the sink, and the robe they put over me was sprayed with shampoo. It was the single most vigorous wash my hair has ever had. My hair has responded by being very unruly all weekend. It's obviously rebelling against the rough treatment.

The worst thing was that while I was in the chair I found the whole thing hilarious. This poor boy was doing the hairdresser thing, asking about my holiday plans and what I was doing at the weekend, and I was desperately trying not to laugh because all I could think about was that it felt like he was wanking my head.

If you'll excuse the expression.

Half-decent Samaritan?

2007-02-02T14:20:00.000Z

I was rushing to catch my bus as usual and upon getting to the main road I passed a cyclist waiting to get out onto the main road. I saw him, didn't pay any attention to him, and kept walking in my pre-9am fog, whilst keeping an eye out for the bus. As I passed the cyclist I heard a crash and lots of swearing. I don't know how he managed to fall off, but fall he did. The poor man was lying tangled up in his bag, his bike and the traffic cone he had fallen on top of. He was struggling to extricate himself and I'm rather ashamed to admit that for a moment I considered leaving him to get on with it and catch my bus. (In my defence I'd been late for work already this week, and missing that bus meant I was going to be late again.)

But my conscience got the better of me and I went over to give him a hand. I helped him up, and picked up his bike for him while he got himself sorted. I asked him if he was ok. He said he was but I think he whacked his shoulder off the kerb upon landing, which must've hurt. He said he'd walk for a bit, but that he'd be fine. He then limped off, pushing his bike. He hadn't thanked me, or if he had I didn't hear him. Maybe he was embarrassed. Or maybe he saw my moment of indecision, and didn't think I deserved thanking. Whatever it was, I didn't think of it at the time - I was just glad there wasn't any blood or broken bones to contend with, and that I could finally get on my way to work.

But I missed the bus of course, and got into my office at 9.15. I explained why I was late, and was met with sceptical looks from my colleagues. I don't think they believed me! The cheek of it... My track record in that area isn't good mind you, but if I'm late I don't lie about it!

I've also been keeping an eye on the Metro all week for any 'to the girl who helped me after I fell off my bike' messages, but nothing doing. How rude. I'm not expecting a medal or anything, but a bit of gratitude would've been nice. I did miss my bus for the bastard after all.

Ah well, maybe I'll get my reward in the shape of some good karma.

Two Peas In A Pod

2007-02-01T21:42:00.000Z

Email exchange between Fiance and I this afternoon:

Fiance: You wanna go to the gym tonight?

Teeny: Ok. I'm really motivated to get fit this time. I'm determined to get in shape and I think now's a good time to join the gym - while we have a goal to work towards. We can have a workout and go for a swim afterwards? Then come home and cook a healthy, balanced meal.

F: Sounds good to me. You're right, we should strike while the iron's hot - there's no time like the present. My body WILL be a temple once again.

T: Plan.

Conversation between Fiance and I this evening, upon arriving home from work:

F: How about we go to the gym another night?

T: Ok.

F: Fancy a takeaway?

T: You betcha!

He's a terribly bad influence on me.

60 Years Young

2007-01-30T14:03:00.000Z

Today would have been my dad's 60th birthday. When I was little, I thought that 60 was OLD. And I mean, cardigan, slippers and pipe OLD. But my dad wasn't old. Far from it.

He used to take a kite up to St Andrews and fly it on the beach. He owned, and loved, all the Harry Potter books, and he read The Hobbit and the Lord Of The Rings for the first time when he was in his 50's (after I pestered him about it for months). He owned a set of Boomwhackers, which he took to teambuilding sessions he was running (presumably to the bemusement of his colleagues). He said it was for breaking the ice, but I suspect he just enjoyed having a muck-about with them. He loved larking about with the cats, and if he'd lived to see any grandchildren he would've had a ball with them as well. He gave anything a go, and he was very into gadgets and new technology. Despite having a posh car for many years, he took the bus to work in his last job, listening to his trusty iPod and reading. He loved every second of it, and marvelled at the iPod and how it had revolutionised the way he listened to music.

He definitely subscribed to the notion that you're as young as you feel.

I remember the day he died like it was yesterday, but one of the most vivid memories I have is of driving back from the hospital along the M8 to Edinburgh, in the dark. Although it was the 13th of November, the good people of Broxburn and Uphall hadn't yet got bored of setting off fireworks, and all I could see for miles were fireworks of every description exploding silently in different colours. In the darkest moment of my life thus far, I was fascinated by them and how pretty they looked from a distance. I watched, thinking of my dad and his next great adventure. For I think that's how he would have viewed it.

Happy Birthday Pop.

This is a Test

2007-01-29T14:05:00.000Z

Nothing to see here. Move along now, move along.

Evil? Moi?

2007-01-29T12:43:00.000Z

You Are Bert

Extremely serious and a little eccentric, people find you loveable - even if you don't love them!

You are usually feeling: Logical - you rarely let your emotions rule you

You are famous for: Being smart, a total neat freak, and maybe just a little evil

How you life your life: With passion, even if your odd passions (like bottle caps and pigeons) are baffling to others

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

Who Needs Topic and Structure?

2007-01-28T17:47:00.000Z

...When you can have randomness and lots of links?

It's been a while since I updated. I've had a busy old week and ordinarily I would have made myself sit down and post something. This may not be the best approach, given that when I do so, I end up writing something like this. Or this. And office-trumping, testicle-chomping posts are of no interest to man nor beast, are they now?

Anyway, this time I do have some news items to announce.

#clears throat#

We booked our honeymoon on Thursday. And I have refrained from posting about it, for THREE FULL DAYS. I will not become one of those brides that talk of nothing but their wedding and expects other people to find it as fascinating as they do.* However, the honeymoon is acceptable blogging fodder, as it's really just a fancypants holiday, and why spend all that money on it if you can't make people pig-sick hearing about it?

We're going to Malaysia (as I was hoping we would), or rather to an island off the coast of Malaysia, in the Langkawi Archipelago. The hotel we're staying in has a Reading Room stuffed full of books, where they serve high tea in the afternoons, including home-baked scones and jam. And there's a big empty beach on the doorstep where friendly little waiters bring cool drinks and palm leaves to fan you with**. Could it be any more perfect for me? I suspect Fiance may have to drag me out of there by my feet when it's time for us to leave. There's a big ol' patch of jungle to explore, and ancient limestone caves housing colonies of bats.*** There's also a lake that supposedly helps barren women to conceive. Given my near-pathological fear of childbirth, I'll be steering well clear of that one.

So it's all booked and sounding wonderful. We just have to pay for it now.

In other news, I went to see Casino Royale last night. I wasn't expecting to like Daniel Craig as Bond but I was surprised. He did a fair bit of pouting, which irritated me a little, but then (warning male readers: gratuitous torso-shot) he took his top off and all was well. Yes he's fair haired, and Bond was dark in the books, but hair colour isn't exactly central to the character is it? And anyway, a change is as good as a rest - Danny Boy gets the thumbs up from me. Judi Dench was typically good as M, the Bond girls were glamorous, and the bad guy was suitably creepy. The plot ticked along nicely, although I reckon they could have lost 15 minutes off the end. My rear was getting a bit numb by the end.

On the way home we had our own Bond moment when my mum was surprised by a large speed bump in the road, which she went over at approx 40mph. We nearly took off. In her defence, it wasn't marked with the white arrows you normally get and there were no signposts. However she was so surprised that she went over the next one at nearly the same speed (thankfully the road was deserted).

*Please tell me if I begin to display ANY symptoms of morphing into Bridezilla. Please. For my own good.

**Maybe I'm expecting a bit much with the palm leaves?

***I love those little guys! Although the Boy keeps reminding me they're probably the kind that attach themselves to your face with a vice-like grip in order to suck your blood, and not the cute little critters we get here in Blighty.

The Rellies

2007-01-23T22:54:00.000Z

I'm currently re-writing my maternal grandmother's life story. There's only one paper copy that I know of, which was written years ago on a typewriter by my dad, so I'm preserving it electronically.

Things I have found out that I didn't know before:

My great-grandad used to work in Deuchars Brewery (strangely, now A Certain Boy's favourite beer). He got a splinter in his finger from the beer barrels, and this caused an infection. He was sent to the Royal Infirmary, where they decided to amputate his finger. In Outpatients. He then walked home. (They were hardy men in them days.) For the rest of his life he would complain of pain in the missing finger.
My great-granny worked as a cleaner in the Oddfellows Hall on Forrest Road. (I came along later, when the Oddfellows Hall was a pub called Bar Oz, and got thrown out for being too drunk. Bar Oz has recently changed back to being Oddfellows, and I pass it most days on my way to the sandwich shop.)
My great-granny's family in Brora, Sutherland, used to send rabbits down on the train. They would be taken to the butcher to be skinned, and stewed for dinner.
My great-grandad was in the Home Guard during the Second World War, one great-aunt trained as a joiner, the other worked in a munitions factory, and my great-uncle was in the RAF. He got shot down over enemy territory, and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal and a parachute, from which his sisters made many blouses and scarves. My granny, being a bit younger than her siblings, worked in a factory preparing cat-gut for use in surgery on the Field Hospitals.
My granny was engaged to another man when she started seeing my grandad.
I knew that my grandad wasn't present when his first child, my mum, was born, but I didn't know this was because he was at home, sleeping! Priorities eh.

I've loved reading about my great grandparents, and my granny's life before my grandad came along. My grandad has also written his life story, which I intend to read as soon as I can get my hands on it. I hate the thought of my grandparents taking all this knowledge and all these stories with them when they go - if we don't record it now it will be gone forever, and that would be a sin.

The Best News A Girl Can Get

2007-01-20T17:24:00.000Z

As if I needed any more proof that there really is no going back now, I bought my wedding dress today. And the deposit cheque we sent the venue has been cashed.

So, um, I guess I'm getting married then...

#puts head between knees, breathes deeply#

Buying the dress was a bit of an anticlimax to be honest - I'd already decided on the one I wanted, so it was just a matter of trying it on one more time* and getting measured for it. I had been dreading that last part as I've put on a bit of weight in the last couple of years but I was pleasantly surprised.

*It's still beautiful.

Obviously you see women of all shapes and sizes trying on dresses in bridal shops, and I realise that I'm at the smaller end of the scale. This doesn't help however, when you go into the harshly-lit changing room, your sales assistant following you (looking like a walking mountain of silk, lace and taffeta) and she comes right into the cubicle with you. Then tells you to strip down to your undies and stands, waiting, until you do it.

I didn't realise they did this, so I was very grateful to a friend of mine for forewarning me. God only knows how I would have embarrassed myself if she hadn't. But it can be quite humiliating standing there in nothing but bra and knickers, with someone you only met 2 minutes before (and who is not a medical professional), no matter what size you are.

Anyway, the lady who measured me today owned the shop, and she designs and makes her own dresses as well as stocking lots of other designers (although mine isn't one of her creations). So I suppose you could say she knows her stuff, and after comparing my measurements to a little chart she announced, to the whole shop, that I was a '...perfect size 8! Except smaller in the bust.' I knew I was smaller in the bust than, well, most people, however I DIDN'T know that I had a 26" waist.

So what did I do after receiving this information? I went and celebrated with a piece of cake.

And now I am crowing about it on the internet. Because I figure I should make the most of it - I reckon by the time I hit 30 all the chips and cakes and bacon rolls I have eaten in my life (and there are A LOT) will catch up with me and I'll look like the Goodyear Blimp.

But for now? Perfect size 8, thank you very much. I may have a badge made.

Take that, high-street retailers*, with your tiny sizes and skeletal models!

*TopShop, I'm talking to you.

And the prize for Worst Fiancee Ever goes to...

2007-01-18T21:30:00.000Z

...um. Me!

The boy called me at work today to ask what was for tea. He does this every day. My answer is always 'dunno', so it really is a pointless exercise. Except today he also wanted to remind me that we'd forgotten our anniversary again this year. Generally we remember a few days too late, both feel a bit guilty for a day or so, and then forget about it until a year later and we realise we've forgotten again. This doesn't bother me too much, because a) it's kind of traditional now and b) it's not really a REAL anniversary. I mean, it's not like it was our first date or anything. Or the first time we... you know. YOU know.

It's just the day we bumped into each other in the pub.

But when he told me this today, I had a sort of niggly feeling in my head. Like there was something else I should be remembering. It was only about half an hour ago, that I realised what it was.

Our anniversary is the day after the night I accosted him at the jukebox.

Tuesday, it was. The 16th January.

The day I posted this.

High School Sweetheart

2007-01-16T21:41:00.000Z

Drama Queen, Elisabeth and Petitfilous look like they're having such fun on the how-i-met-my-boyfriend bandwagon, that I'm jumping on (also because I'm tired and can't think of anything witty to write). Feel free to skim.

The Early Days

When I was a schoolgirl I used to have Maths on the ground floor. The classroom faced out onto the path to the unofficial smoking area, taken by the bad people on the way for a fag. There was one boy, in the year above me, who had a free period at the same time as I had Maths, so I'd see him sloping past with his mate for a sly cigarette. I used to point out to my friend Jenny that this boy was passing: 'ooh look it's C!' (she must have got so bored of this -literally every week) that is was blatantly obvious I fancied the pants off him. He was in the year above me, and he was one of the rebellious crowd who smoked and drank loads, spoke back to teachers (gasp!) and skived lessons. I meanwhile, was part of a group that, while we weren't angels, went to classes, didn't smoke (at least I didn't), and only drank as much as we thought we could get away with (which admittedly was a fair bit, but still, you know what I mean). We had no mutual friends really, as our two groups didn't mix.

I'd been going out with someone for a few months, and had only just plucked up the courage to end things with him (which consisted of avoiding him, and not phoning him for long enough that he guessed and made it pretty easy for me to dump him), when a friend of mine said that immortal line to me: 'I know someone that fancies you'. Assuming it was going to be another of the geeky guys of my own age I had attracted thus far, I wasn't all that excited.

But then she told me that the person who fancied me was, in fact, C. The one who taunted me every time I had Maths, with his heady mix of bad-boy-smoker and cute-bespectacled-boy-with-big-blue-eyes... And apparently he'd had his eye on me for a couple of months (he'd spied me during our Higher English exam. He later told me what I had been wearing that day. He could still tell you what I was wearing - the one and only time he's ever paid any attention to my clothing!).

Anyway, I was completely gobsmacked as I had no idea he even knew I existed. When I heard this I looked over to the Other Side Of The Common Room (territory of those in sixth year), and there were those big blue eyes watching me from behind an upside-down copy of Vogue. He lowered his magazine and gave me a wee smile. I smiled back, and from that moment on I was smitten. I told the friend that yes I supposed she could give C my phone number. I wasn't fussed really. Trying to play it cool...

'OhmyGOD, C wants MY phone number!'

It was just too bizarre. By the time I got home that day I was convinced it was all a cruel joke. But I was to be proved wrong - half an hour after I got in the door, the phone went. I answered it, not even thinking that it might be C. It was of course, and I sputtered and 'emmm'ed my way through the call. We arranged to meet up the following night. And for the next six months, I was deliriously happy - we were like Cory and Topanga, but not quite as preppy. And not American. But it didn't matter because I had managed to bag the man of my dreams.

The In-Between Days

Then it all went horribly wrong. He called me up out of the blue, not long after our six month 'anniversary' and DUMPED ME. He said he didn't want a girlfriend. And that was it - over. I was heartbroken.

Later that year my friends and I went on a girly holiday where I was, truth be told, a bit of a tart. I then started uni, and had a few boyfriends, but nothing serious. I was in my second year at uni (a year or so after The Dumping) when my friends and I decided to go to our local pub in the town where we all went to school. It was a popular weekend haunt for lots of people our age, but I'd never bumped into C there. I saw him that night, for the second or third time since he'd binned me.

We'd been there a while, and it was getting close to last orders when he stoated in and went over to join his mates on the other side of the pub. After about half an hour of agonising 'will I/won't I' (with my friends cheering me on) I saw him go over to the juke box. Seizing my chance I walked over, heart pounding (the eyes of my own friends boring into my back, and his friends watching me from the front), to say hello. I remember my first words because they were so stupid, and a little nippy:

'Are you not speaking?'

He answered that of course he was speaking, and how was I doing? We chatted until the pub closed. It turned out that he'd gone out for drinks in Edinburgh after work, and for some reason he'd decided to come to the pub instead of going home as he would normally have done (he lived close to the train station so the pub was a bit of a detour). He invited me round to his house the following night and I agreed, trying desperately not to look too eager (the bastard had DUMPED me after all). After spending that night wide awake and the following day bending my best friend's ear with 'it was meant to be!', I went round. Within about five minutes of me getting there I had abandoned any pretence and we were most definitely back together. He opted to dispel any doubt about this by kissing me soundly for most of the rest of the night.

Today

That was nearly eight years ago, and we're now planning our wedding (which I think I may have mentioned...?!). We've had our ups and downs like everyone else, and we nearly called it quits a couple of times, but I love my bespectacled boy. He knows exactly how to make me feel better when I'm down, and he doesn't laugh at me when I cry at nature documentaries. I can't imagine my life without him.

So there you have it, our story so far...

The Accidental Tourist

2007-01-15T21:26:00.000Z

I occasionally do something of such monumental stupidity I stagger even myself, but this one takes the biscuit. And as I've had something of a theme going on recently, I thought I'd continue it with this post, taken from my archive of back-up posts...

When I was 19 my best friend and her sister were going to stay with family in Boston for a couple of weeks, and they invited me to go with them. All my family holidays had been in the UK and I'd had one girly holiday in Majorca, so I was rather excited - America seemed much more glamorous. As it would only be my second trip abroad I was quite glad we would be staying with grown ups who would make sure I didn't get on the wrong flight home and end up in Estonia instead of Edinburgh.

The friend's uncle and aunt lived about an hour outside of Boston, so they suggested we stay in a hotel in the city for a night, to let us do some shopping (and give them a bit of peace and quiet probably).

We took them at their word and shopped. A lot. We had exhausted the shops in the Harvard Square area, so we went off to a shopping mall a bit further afield. Once we were done we hailed a yellow cab to take us back to Harvard Square. Now for some stupid reason I had my passport with me in a little backpack, along with most of the money I had left. I also had lots of shopping bags. You can probably guess what's coming. When we pulled up outside the hotel I gaily hopped out of the taxi, making sure I had my precious shopping bags (new jeans! precious!), and the taxi drove off. It was at this moment that I realised my backpack containing my passport and money was disappearing round the corner in the back of a yellow cab.

I mouthed something incoherent whilst pointing and looking horrified, which alerted my friends to the fact that something was terribly wrong. I then found my voice and shrieked 'MY BAG!'

The minutes after this went shooting by like a film that has been speeded up - we saw the taxi turn right and because we knew we were in the middle of Harvard Square, figured there was a decent chance of flagging the driver down on the other side if we ran in the opposite direction. So we tore off at full tilt down this busy street, until we came out onto the street where we expected our taxi to emerge.

We came out onto the street, which was a sea of yellow cabs, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Of course they were all identical, all possible contenders for the one we'd just been in - it was like a scene from a movie. When I saw this I was sure all was lost, and that I was going to have to ask my friend's uncle, who was already being very kind by putting me up, to take me to the Embassy to get another passport. I had no idea where the Embassy was, or how much I would have to pay for another passport. Or even if they would GIVE me another passport, as I clearly should not have been in a foreign country without being accompanied by a sensible adult.

Thankfully the driver of our cab had indeed pulled out onto the street we were on, recognised us (I don't know how because by that time we were shiny-faced, wild haired and ever so slightly freaking out) and pulled over - for which I will be eternally grateful. He opened his window and drawled 'all right girls?' but before he'd finished the sentence I'd already dived into the back of the cab and retrieved my precious bag. I may have kissed him, I don't remember as I think I was in a mild state of shock at how stupid I was.

Thankfully, this ranks highly in my moments of stupidity, and I've never actually boarded the wrong plane, or asked a suspect-looking gentleman with a fake beard to take a picture of me with my lovely new camera.

But I'm still young(ish). I have plenty time for new and ridiculous adventures.

Another of my not-so-clever moments

2007-01-14T20:16:00.000Z

I made macaroni cheese for dinner tonight. I make it with red onion, course grain mustard and bacon so I always have a few saucepans on the go. Tonight, my smartness got the better of me and I had a bit of an accident. I was sauteeing the onion, whilst frying the bacon and stirring the cheese sauce, and I had the macaroni in the big saucepan, ready to be cooked once the cheese sauce was ready.

All ok so far.

So there I was, stirring my cheese sauce, and it seemed to be taking a while to come to the boil. I turned the heat up a bit to hurry it along (I was hungry and the Antiques Roadshow was on*).

Stirring, stirring, stirring. Nothing doing. I turned the heat up again.

After a couple of minutes, I started to smell something burning. I thought it was the onion. No, the onion's fine. I thought it might be the bacon. Nope, bacon's fine. It wasn't until smoke started pouring out of the big saucepan holding the dry macaroni, that I realised why my cheese sauce wasn't coming to the boil.

Yes, I came (too late) to the same conclusion that you probably came to 4 lines ago - I had the wrong gas burner on. I had the dry macaroni over the biggest gas burner, which was on a high heat. For about 10 minutes. The kitchen filled with smoke, and when I put some water into the saucepan to prevent it from catching fire, the water boiled. Straightaway.

The macaroni is black and there is a layer of it welded to the bottom of my most-used medium sized saucepan... It's currently soaking in boiling water, but I'm not holding out much hope - did you know burnt-on macaroni is like effing concrete?! Well, you do now. I tell you, it's lucky I'm here to find these things out for you - thanks to me regular readers now know that human hair can withstand a chemical bath in hair dye developing fluid, and that burnt-on macaroni can stop bullets.

And, my friends, that knowledge is priceless.

*I know, I shouldn't admit to that but I don't care - I LOVE the Antiques Roadshow!

Not Just A Medical Marvel

2007-01-13T23:48:00.000Z

It seems my cat Coco has been hiding something from me. I've always thought she was a bit daft (her brain can only be about the size of a ping-pong ball judging by the size of her head), but she's proved me wrong, for she has been keeping a stash.

Last night I was watching TV and I saw Coco at the food bowl. Nothing unusual there, but the next minute I heard something rattling along the wooden floor. This normally means she's playing with something she's not supposed to play with (nails, cigarette lighters, earrings etc) so I went over. At first I thought she had been sick, but then I realised I was looking at a pile of fresh cat food, hidden behind the scratching extravaganza (which was a Christmas present for the cats from Fiance's mum).

I had caught Coco in the act of adding to her stash. I don't know how she managed to transport it over there -the only way she could do it is by carrying FOOD in her mouth, and NOT EATING IT. Coco has NEVER, to my knowledge, had anything even vaguely edible in her mouth without eating it. For pete's sake, she eats dust bunnies from the floor if I don't hoover often enough!

So I'm looking at Coco in a whole new light, wondering what else is going on in her wee head. I don't even know if cats are capable of such forward planning as to hide food and keep it for a rainy day, midnight snack or whatever. Maybe she's part squirrel.

I'm also wondering why she's taken to doing this - we feed the cats twice a day and more often than not they also get a DentaBit at some point as well (not to mention the dust bunnies and wood lice she eats off the floor), so it's not like she's underfed. Who knows, but it gave me a laugh last night and if it keeps Coco happy it's fine with me.

I thought this was a good opportunity to make use of the Flickr account I set up about a year ago, so I have made up my very first set, telling the story of my little genius cat and her stash of extra food. Be warned though, it only has three photos in it. It's a short story.

(I'm all better now by the way, still a bit snotty but I don't look or feel quite as hideous as I did yesterday. Which is a good thing, as the boy was starting to recoil from me in horror.)

And today...

2007-01-11T17:33:00.000Z

...I am ill.

I have what I sincerely hope is a cold, and not the 'respiratory virus' that seems to have infected everyone south of Inverness. At the moment I just feel like I have one of my many colds, but I hear that that's how the nasty bug starts, so hopefully it doesn't develop any further. I wouldn't be surprised if it does end up being a virus though - we spent most of our night with the neighbours on Friday being coughed upon by the lady next door, who sounded like she might hack up a blackened lung at any moment (which really put me off my sausage roll).

Despite feeling crap when I got up today, I went into work and spent most of the day dreaming of lying under a blanket in front of a roaring fire. At lunchtime I took a break from staring moronically at my computer screen and went out for a bit of fresh air, thinking it would help. Instead I got rained on, and stepped in a big puddle. For the rest of the afternoon I sat at my desk and tried to look busy, whilst sniffling and applying Vaseline to my poor red hooter. I really am quite pathetic when I'm under the weather.*

*Fiance will vouch for this. I guarantee it.

ANYWAY, we booked a holiday last night!

I know, it's exciting isn't it?!

We'll have our honeymoon later in the year (which ISN'T booked yet) but C and I both felt that we couldn't wait till September to have a break. We're going away for a week with both our mums and the dog to a pretty little cottage on Skye. We plan to do some walking, lots of eating and drinking, and generally just chill out away from Edinburgh and any wedding-related stress. I'm really looking forward to it. I wasn't sure I would be - I love both mums to bits of course, but it can sometimes be difficult having two grieving widows to think about - but I genuinely am looking forward to going away with both of them. It helps that both of them seem to be quite positive and cheery now that the festive season is over.

The only slight downside is that I can't take my little cats with me. I'll be enlisting the help of the catsitter, Alison, to take care of them while we're gone. Roo and Coco love her - she jokes that it's because she rolls in catnip before coming round but I'm not so sure she's joking. I think they like Alison more than they like me.

Hopefully I will live to post another day, but for now I have a date with my sofa and a blanket.

Rocking Robin

2007-01-09T22:43:00.000Z

Two posts in one day! The Ambassador is spoiling you.

It was reported today that Robin Cook's epitaph refers to his opposition to the war in Iraq, including the words 'I may not have succeeded in halting the war, but I did secure the right of Parliament to decide on war'.

Robin Cook always makes me think of my dad. He knew Robin quite well (we used to get a Christmas card from him every year with a picture of the Houses of Parliament on it, which I remember being very impressed by). My dad was heavily involved in the Labour party for many years, long before Tony Blair became leader of the party, and Robin came to our house a number of times. I remember having a serious conversation with him about our goldfish.

I respected Robin for his stand against the Goverment (once I had grown up of course, and moved on from worrying about my goldfish), and I know my dad did too. My dad never really said much about Tony Blair and his Government, which was very unlike him - he wasn't backward at coming forward (as my granny would say). He stayed a member of the party long after he had given up on the campaigning side of things, in fact he was a member until the day he died, but I think he was disappointed in them and the fact that they had become mired in all the same sort of shite that the Tory government before them had.

Robin died in August 2005, and my dad in the November of that year. My dad wasn't able to go to Robin's funeral, which I think he was quite upset about. And if Robin had still been here in the November, I think he might have come to my dad's. It's strange, they were very similar in a lot of ways - both highly motivated achievers with a real social conscience - but their paths in life were very different, meeting for a period of a few years in the 1980's. Neither suffered fools gladly either - if their roles had been reversed, my dad wouldn't have stood for Tony's nonsense either.

The world lost two good men in 2005.

It's De-Lurking Week! Throw off those raincoats and come out into the open! Although hopefully not with your man-parts showing...

2007-01-09T18:40:00.000Z

I saw this via Miss Zoot and thought to myself: 'what better way for the writer of a small blog with no real theme or meaning to find out who her regular readers are, than by asking them to leave a comment as part of De-Lurking Week 2007*'. There are the usual suspects of course, Drama Queen, Sarah, Elisabeth, Stacey, and Cat, but on the assumption that more than five people read my blog, I want to know who the rest of you are. Even you over there, picking your nose (I'm not fussy, I'll take anyone).

*which is an American thing but it's also a blogging thing so who cares'

So, if you read NotJustAHatStand, leave me a comment to tell me how talented you think I am, and that you are the head of a large publishing house and want to sign me up for a three book deal. Or... Not. If you're not going to offer me a book deal or a large sum of money, just say hello - that's fine too.

Because look! Look how much fun this lady seems to be having!

She's pretty and all 1950's-like, she has lots of virtual friends, and I bet her husband has a really big schlong.

If you leave a comment, I faithfully promise that I'll visit your site (if I haven't already) and leave you lots of comments too! We can all give each other a lovely virtual hug and maybe make a few new virtual friends in the process.

My Three Year Plan

2007-01-07T18:21:00.000Z

Fiance and I went to visit friends of ours today, who have a 1 and a half year old boy. The wee boy is lovely, and our friends have a ball being parents - they've both taken to it like the proverbial ducks to water. We always have fun playing too (the baby got Weebles for Christmas! Remember Weebles?! They wobble but they don't fall down!), and when we leave their house I always say to Fiance 'aww, isn't Baby cute, should we have one?'.

In the days when we had only been going out for 5 years, weren't even engaged yet, and our friends were tearing their hair out because Baby wouldn't sleep through the night, Fiance used to look really freaked out by this and say 'Umm, err... ooh look - a bird'. Now however, he actually considers the question and then he says, yes, at some point he would like to have a baby. At which point I say 'Whoa, hold on there Mister, I was JOKING!'

This happens every time we go there. I know what Fiance's answer will be, I know that I am pretty much in the same place as him (i.e. I'd like one, but I'm not ready for it yet), but it's kind of a ritual now. The damn baby's just too cute - he has this effect on me.

Anyway, today the in-car discussion actually got to the stage where we were considering whether my maternity pay plus his wage would be enough to cover our outgoings, before I said 'Whoa, hold on there Mister, I was joking!'. This is progress for me.

But then I realised that having babies straight after we get married will render my dream of taking a career break and spending a few months travelling completely impossible. I'm coming to the conclusion that although I do want to have children (and I've always thought 30ish is a good age at which to procreate), I also have other ambitions that I'm not quite ready to give up yet. I know they always say that you can get out and enjoy the world when your children have flown the nest, but erm, I don't want to wait that long. What if I get landed with wastrel kids who don't leave home till they're 45? Or what if I get hit by a bus on my 60th birthday, the day before I'm due to leave on my round the world trip and I never get to see Uluru, Victoria Falls or the Great Barrier Reef? WHAT THEN? I will have died a poorly travelled person (albeit one who has left a genetic legacy on the planet for when the mothership returns) who has never fulfilled her wish to see the Grand Canyon before she dies.

So I've worked out that I have three-and-a-bit years (I'm 27 in May) in which to:

a) Get married. I can pretty much tick this one off already but you never know what's gonna happen. Fiance might find out about my criminal record.

b) Save up, take a career break, and travel the world for a few months.

c) Get home without being eaten by a lion or falling into the Zambezi, and get up the duff.

Should be easy enough, I reckon.

Outdone by 92 year old - a new low for me

2007-01-06T00:13:00.000Z

This is going to be a short post.

Our upstairs neighbour (who is the 92 year old referred to in the title) invited us up for a drink tonight, as we hadn't seen each other over Christmas and New Year, and she was having a couple of other people in as well. We haven't actually gotten to know our neighbours yet, as a lot of them are... how do I put it... of advanced years, and our busy lives mean we're not around during the day when they're all out and about. So we said we'd go up for about 8, thinking that we'd be home by 10 at the latest because they'd all want to get to their bed.

Hah!

It's after midnight, and we're just in.

I've not had a cup of tea since this morning because everyone else was drinking and I didn't feel like I could ask for a cuppa instead of an alcoholic drink! The 92 year old looked like she was settling down for another whisky with her pal from next door after we'd gone. This woman has more energy than I do! I think she may be on some kind of illegal sustance.

I'm so ashamed of myself and my lack of stamina.

2006 Meme

2007-01-03T12:55:00.000Z

This has been doing the rounds and I thought it was a good way to reflect on 2006 without actually having to form too many sentences. And I couldn't think of any other topics to write about so here goes nothing:

1. What did you do in 2006 that you’d never done before?

Started a blog. Ummm... That's really it. Ooh no wait - I got engaged! (Readers, in chorus: No! Really?!)

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I didn't make any resolutions for 2006. I just wanted to make it to 2007 to be honest.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes! My best friend had an unexpected but beautiful baby boy, and another good friend had a planned but also beautiful baby boy. Both are now pregnant again.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No. Makes a nice change.

5. What countries did you visit?

The most exciting place I went was the Lake District in England. I plan to make up for this with my honeymoon later this year! (Oh my god, THIS YEAR)

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?

Enough bookshelves to house all my books.

7. What dates from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

12th February, the day Fiance proposed to me in the bathroom of our last flat. Have I ever posted the engagement story? I can't remember. Must check. It's a page turner, I tell you.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Not having a nervous breakdown and going outdoors in my pyjamas.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I don't know, I think I've blanked it out.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Not really - only about 43 bouts of the cold, which is good for me.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The lovely cream jacket I bought on a whim, and promptly spilled coffee on.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Mine of course! Not really... Fiance has been a tower of strength to me, but that's his job.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Britney Spears. How hard is it to put some knickers on woman?! I don't WANT to see your fanjita.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Clothes and books.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Finally getting my hands on a diamond.

16. What song will always remind you of 2006?

Dani California by the Chilis.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder?
Happier (not difficult)

b) thinner or fatter?
Fatter (oops)

c) richer or poorer?
Richer (but only a wee bit)

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Exercise! Writing! Exfoliating!

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Eating shit, watching shit and buying shit.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

This meme has obviously been doing the rounds since before Christmas... Anyhoo, I spent it with family.

21. Did you fall in love in 2006?

Yes. Fiance and I have had a bit of a time of it in the last year, and it's taken it's toll on our relationship. We've now reached the end of the tunnel, and are basking in the light...*

22. How many one-night stands?

None! I'm a soon to be married laydee!

23. What was your favorite TV program?

Lost. Until the bastards at Sky poached it from Channel 4, meaning plebs like me couldn't watch it.

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

I hate George W. Bush a bit more than I did this time last year.

25. What was the best book you read?

I loved 'Saturday' by Ian McEwan. And I read 'Rebecca' (Daphne du Maurier) for the first time too, that was a good read. And 'Never Let Me Go' by Kazuo Ishiguro. And... I could go on for hours. Will stop now.

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I didn't discover anyone, but Muse's new album is fab - cannot get enough of Knights of Cydonia. LOVE. IT.

27. What did you want and get?

A bay window.

28. What did you want and not get?

A little dog. Boo.

29. What was your favorite film of this year?

I didn't see that many, so I'll say Pirates of the Caribbean part 2. I like escapism. And Johnny Depp.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 26, and I went out for dinner with my family.

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Being able to move straight into my new house, without having to live in The Hellhole over the summer.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?

Cheap meets Lazy.

33. What kept you sane?

Knowing that I can come home to Fiance, shut the door behind me and laugh/cry/scream/do whatever makes me feel better, and he'll still love me.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Sawyer from Lost #drools#

35. What political issue stirred you the most?

The hoo-haa over whether people from new EU member states should be allowed to come and work in Britain. I'm sick of hearing about 'the bloody Polish' coming in and taking our jobs. The population of Scotland is FALLING, people! We should be welcoming em with open arms.

Ahem.

#steps down off soapbox#

36. Who did you miss?

My dad.

37. Who was the best new person you met?

I didn't really meet any new people, unless you count the virtual people I've met through this blog. If I can count those, it would be Sarah, who is lovely.

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006.

Not to immediately lose my temper during an argument. I now build myself up to it.

*#gags#

Stupid is as stupid does...

2007-01-02T19:08:00.000Z

I tried to dye my hair last night. Not to drastically change the colour, just to give it a bit of a lift and cover up the odd grey hairs that are beginning to sprout.

According to the instructions, I applied the stuff from the bottle marked 'A', and left it for the required 25 minutes. I thought it was a bit odd that the dye didn't look like it did in the advert (piled effortlessly on top of the lady's head, held in place by it's own gloopiness), and that it didn't lather when I came to rinse it, but I thought 'never mind, how often does something look exactly like it does in the advert?'. Warning bells should have been ringing by now but my warning bells seemed to be malfunctioning last night, and I blithely carried on.

Once I'd rinsed it through I allowed myself to look in the mirror. And what colour was my hair? Exactly the same as before. This didn't worry me, as the dye was called 'Cocoa', and therefore not dramatically different from my natural colour, plus my hair was wet so it was hard to tell. 'Still,' I thought, 'surely I should see a little bit of a difference...'

Then I applied the after-dye conditioner. I thought it was silly of them to label it 'C' when I'd only just used 'A', so I checked the instructions, and there was no mention of a 'B'. My skewed logic kicked in again and I convinced myself it was a typo or they were just stupid. I left the conditioner on for the recommended 5 minutes, then rinsed again. By now my hair felt wonderfully soft and I was sure it was going to look fab when I dried it - shiny and bouncy like Davina's (Nutrisse means Nourish!). It did look shiny, but the colour? No change. Diddly squat. I felt rather cheated - I had been promised Cocoa, and I wanted Cocoa coloured shiny hair, dammit!

So I went to get the leaflet from the box and when I picked it up, was surprised at how heavy it was. How could it be so heavy when all there was inside it was empty bottles and those enormous gloves they provide (presumably so that giants don't get hair dye under their fingernails when colouring their hair)...

And then the penny finally, FINALLY dropped.

There was a full bottle in that box, containing the actual HAIR DYE. The bottle marked 'B' funnily enough.

I had missed the ENTIRE FIRST PAGE of the instructions, which explained how to mix the dye with the developer. All I had applied to my hair was the developer, and left what is presumably pure chemicals on my poor hair, formerly my crowning glory, for 25 whole minutes. At this realisation I freaked out and ran, in my knickers, to the living room where Fiance was watching TV, shouting 'Oh my god what have I done?!'. Fiance got a bit of a shock as well, poor lamb, but he managed to keep his head, and he gave me a slap to bring me to my senses (ok he didn't really, but I think he wanted to).

I didn't sleep last night because I was sure I was going to wake up bald on a pillow covered in chemically damaged hair. I didn't, thank GOD, but I'm now waiting to see if it's going to turn green.

First resolution of 2007? Read instructions carefully. TWICE.

Happy New Year dear readers.

The Digital Revolution

2006-12-30T21:31:00.000Z

There seems to be a peculiar electromagnetic field in this house that prevents electrical equipment from working correctly. Either that or all our gadgets are staging a revolt.

In the last couple of months, we have brought a games console, portable TV, and DVD recorder into the flat, in the hope that we would be able to use them for the activities intended by the manufacturer.

So far, the games console requires you to switch it off and back on again approximately 4 times, before it will load the disk you have inserted. The portable TV (which is new) doesn't work at all in the bedroom, but works perfectly in the kitchen. And the DVD recorder worked perfectly (by which I mean we plugged it in and a little light came on), until we tried to watch a DVD on it. At this point it decided it wasn't necessary to show us the pretty pictures, and that the soundtrack should be enough for us. I mean, pictures? Honestly, who needs to see Johnny Depp when you can hear his voice?!

So Fiance has spent the last couple of weeks switching things off and back on again, alternating cables, checking sockets, changing plugs, digging around for instruction manuals, searching geeky internet chatrooms for solutions, losing his temper and kicking things. We haven't watched any of the DVDs we got for Christmas yet, and I wasn't able to record Time Bandits this afternoon, godammit.

I think Fiance suspects I'm casting some kind of spell to turn him into a raving loony*.

*It's working - bwa-hahaha! He's developed an eye twitch, and shudders whenever you mention the word 'xbox'.

Ahh, Christmas!

Googling

2006-12-29T18:26:00.000Z

I've recently discovered the wonder that is SiteMeter, and I check it on an embarrassingly regular basis. Occasionally when someone Googles some random phrase, they (inadvertently I'm sure) get directed to my blog. SiteMeter shows you the search terms and these are quite telling, and in some cases, worrying.

A selection:

'Fiance trouble' (errrr, Cam? Don't go delving into the archives, kay?!)
'Putting a buster collar on my cat' (My advice? Don't even bother trying)
'Mic Martin' (my weird crush, which I now wish I hadn't disclosed on my blog)
'Two cats making banging noises' (What. The. Fuck?!)
'Keeping us warm in the night pooh' (Again, WTF?!)
'Ian McEwan bookworm' (ok, I get this one, but the previous two?!)
'Take my fiance's name' (I'm saving further discussion on this topic for the New Year)
'Minky Dusting Dog' (courtesy of Sarah)

And my personal favourite (and by far the highest in the rankings):

'Big schlong' (I have nothing further to add)

So the themes seem to be the Fiance, cats, books, obsessive cleaning, and just plain weirdness. Sounds about right.

Maybe I need to branch out.

Christmas Round Up

2006-12-28T21:18:00.000Z

Some Christmas statistics:

Number of presents under our tree by 10am on Christmas morning:

Approx four hundred million.

Extravagant presents from Fiance, for me, in addition to books, perfume and a jacket:

One, in the shape of a mini LCD TV for our bedroom. Love. That. Boy. But damn him for spending too much, when I stuck to budget.

Guilt Presents bought for Fiance, by me, on Boxing Day:

One.

Small black bunnies with white socks and a rambunctious personality in my stocking:

Zero (waah!).

Rashers of bacon burnt to carbon by me whilst cooking breakfast:

Two.

Burnt rashers of bacon consumed by me in the kitchen when no-one was looking:

Two.

F-words uttered by sister's drunk boyfriend in the presence of both mums and an aunt:

Twenty three before I lost count.

Naps taken by sister's drunk boyfriend on Christmas Night:

One nap. Enforced by mortified sister.

Christmas quizzes won by the author and her mum:

One. Whee!

Christmas Traditions established:

One. 'Cam's Christmas Quiz' was a riotous success (despite accusations of match fixing, because the Quizmaster's Fiance and future Mother-in-Law won), and next year's is already in the planning stage.

Like last year, there were great gaping holes where our fathers should have been but there always will be, so we just have to make the best of things. Fiance's mum has two foster children staying with her, and their story (taken away from their parents and staying with strangers over Christmas) made us all feel a little luckier in what we still have.

Tis the season to be ... pooped

2006-12-25T00:12:00.000Z

My plan today was to get all the shit done that I needed to get done (much wrapping of presents, MUCH housework and MUCH MUCH tidying up of our piles of crap) EARLY, so that I could have a nice relaxing Christmas Eve for a change. Every year I'm full of grand aspirations to sit down to dinner in a clean and tidy house, with a pile of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree, but no matter what I do I end up battling with ribbons and bows and glittery paper into the wee small hours. I'm just incapable of being organised for Christmas. As with so many of my plans before, today's got royally fucked as well, and I have only now (at 00.14, Christmas Day) sat down, for the first time since approx 11am Christmas Eve morning. I look and feel like Quasimodo, as I've been hunched over wrapping presents for the last 3 hours, and was hunched over scrubbing everything in sight for the three hours before that.

Bleh.

Anyway, everything got done in the end, and I'm just heading off to bed with a cup of tea and my book, so all is well.

Merry Christmas everyone!

The Christmas Miracle, and my new man

2006-12-22T09:29:00.000Z

Fiance and I made it round Tesco, including the toilet brush section, without arguing with each other or being rammed by any trollies. And he let me buy the £7.99 toilet brush, instead of the 48p Tesco Value one.

But before we went to Tesco last night, I fell in love.

He's black, with beautiful big brown eyes, and he's very laid back. He also has big feet and floppy ears... I was in the pet shop buying cat food and a Christmas present for the cats - Fiance was late meeting me so, very unwisely, I was then left to wander around the pet shop myself, where I was chatted up by a rabbit.

I had already bought the stuff I went in for and Fiance was still on his way, so I was standing watching the guinea pigs and rabbits in their run. This little black rabbit with the floppy ears was running around the cage, munching on hay and jumping on the other rabbits, but every so often he would stand up on his hind legs and peer at me, twitching his little nose. He did this about four or five times, and by the fifth I had fallen in love with him. He then fell asleep on his back with his legs in the air. It was at this point that I decided he would fit right in in my house, and that I was taking him home.

Unfortunately, Fiance turned up just as I was about to ask the assistant to box Peter up (yes I'd already named him), and put his foot down. So poor little Peter is still in the pet shop, where he will stay, over Christmas, unless I can persuade Fiance to let me have him.

I'm not holding out much hope; my Fiance has a Heart Of Stone when it comes to my rash impulses. This isn't always a bad thing as I do tend to get ideas in my head (especially when it comes to fluffy animals) but still, I hope he reads this and feels terribly guilty.

Poor little Peter.

Scared

2006-12-21T16:46:00.000Z

Tonight I have to brave the terrifying world of Tesco. We're going to stock up on bacon, sausages, coffee, croissants, and a toilet brush (I don't care what he says) in preparation for our Christmas Breakfast.

I am DREADING IT.

It doesn't matter what time you go to our local Tesco (and it's a big one, so it's open 24 hours), it's heaving. I've been there at 11pm before and still had to queue for a good 10 minutes at the check-out. It also seems to turn even the sweetest, most polite people into rude, obnoxious bastards who WILL ram you with their trolley to get the last bag of parsnips before you. God only knows what it's going to be like this close to Christmas.

I'm sure the Christmas Spirit will be in short supply...

The hell with substance! Let's talk clothes.

2006-12-19T21:58:00.000Z

In a fit of bodaciousness a couple of months ago I bought a pair of skinny jeans. I never got round to wearing them because I couldn't find anything to wear with the bastards, top or bottom, that didn't make my arse look like the back end of a bus.

Nearing desperation, and with Fiance's voice ringing in my ears ('But WHY haven't you worn those expensive new jeans yet?') I submitted a question to Amalah's Advice Smackdown*, not really expecting to get an answer. So I was thrilled to have my question answered a couple of weeks ago, and I have since worn the skinnies, outside. To my Christmas party at work, no less. When I got home from the party I was a little squiffy, and decided to obtain some photographic evidence of my sartorial triumph. Scroll down if you think you can handle some close-up shots of my lower thigh.

*Having bought Philosophy's Purity Made Simple cleanser on her recommendation and LOVING. IT.

Note my bargain £10 shoes, working well with the skinnies:

Coco: 'Not a good angle for you darling - lift your leg so your thigh doesn't look so enormous'

Teeny: 'Nnnrrrgh!'

One of those days...

2006-12-19T11:24:00.000Z

I'm a bit out of sorts today. I had a bad start this morning (nothing worth writing about, just the usual morning-from-hell where nothing goes right) so I'm feeling a bit ... meh. I also feel quite overwhelmed by the festive season (despite my holiday cheer last week - I think I peaked early), and certain things in my life are kind of stressing me out. I may write about these things sometime but today isn't the day for it.

I've been finding it quite hard to keep coming up with light-hearted things to write about. My blog has never been an outlet for any of my deepest darkest feelings - when I started writing it it was mainly an avenue for writing stupid observations and jokes, but increasingly I've been feeling that I need to write something with a bit more substance. Maybe this is the start of the long-awaited BWN (Booker Winning Novel), or maybe it's a sign that I could do with some counselling too. Either way, it's got to be good for me.

Anyway, I've written and deleted four posts about various things, and it turns out I can't get my head together enough to write anything coherent enough to publish, so I'm not even going to try.

Weird crush of the week:

Mic Martin, the scary trainer from my new favourite programme: Dog Borstal on BBC3.

Bits and bobs

2006-12-14T19:03:00.000Z

I've written about the Metro and it's less than serious reporting before, but today I thought they were winding me up. I was reading a story about the benefits of male circumcision in relation to contracting HIV/AIDS and actually snorted out loud with laughter, prompting strange looks from my fellow passengers. Obviously AIDS isn't something to laugh about, what made me publicly embarrass myself on the bus was this:

"'It [male circumcision] has the potential to prevent many tens of thousands and perhaps millions of infections over the coming years,' Dr Kevin de Cock of the WHO said."

#double take#

I'm sorry... what? Dr de Cock? Seriously?! Yes, seriously. The BBC don't lie.

I certainly needed cheering up after my disastrous day off yesterday. Fiance and I had both taken a holiday to do some shopping and various other things and it turned into the kind of holiday that makes you wish you were back at work. We had an appointment to meet our wedding photographer in the morning, which was fine, but we came out of his studio to find that we'd been given a parking ticket. Now, Fiance is very careful with his money and it enrages him no end when he has to pay out money unnecessarily so he did not take this news well. Especially given the fact that we had bought a ticket from the machine across the road (the one that said 'Parking Tickets Here') and parked next to LOTS of other cars, none of whom seemed to have been ticketed.

Things didn't get much better for the rest of the day - I had an appointment with our new GP at 3pm, so we had to come home from town in the middle of our [decidedly unsuccessful] Christmas shopping expedition. When I got there the receptionist told me that they didn't have me down for an appointment - the person I'd spoken to that morning hadn't booked me in. And they couldn't fit me in at all that day. So back into town we go, in the howling wind and lashing rain, where we wandered kind of aimlessly for the rest of the day, too disheartened to even argue with each other.

In other news, Fiance's birthday dinner was a success, although slightly marred by the strange behaviour of my little cat Coco. Coco is normally a very active, vocal and friendly cat, so when she sat in the same spot all night* without eating, drinking, climbing into anyone's lap or jumping on Roo, we started to get worried. She was also drooling, which can apparently be a sign of a sore mouth or throat. Just as I was starting to worry that she'd ingested a Christmas bauble (and envision an emergency trip to the v-e-t), she seemed to throw off whatever was making her feel bad, and by the time I went to bed last night she was back to her old self, thankfully. Roo didn't seem quite so relieved however - I think she enjoyed the peace and quiet for the day and a bit that Coco was under the weather, and is now back to having her tail relentlessly pursued by a small, very determined, black Bombay cat.

*In the presence of both her grannies. This is unheard of.

Happy Birthday Big Fella

2006-12-12T12:49:00.000Z

It's my Boy's 27th birthday today. I forgot to say Happy Birthday to him this morning as I was still sleepy when he left for work, and I grunted at him when he kissed me goodbye.

I'm cooking tonight for us and our mums - I'm doing chicken fillets poached in white wine, with potatoes/parsnips/carrots roasted with rosemary and garlic, and tenderstem broccoli and caramelised shallots. Wow, that sounds like I actually know how to cook doesn't it?*

This means I have to fly home - via the shops as I forgot to buy fresh rosemary - and get peeling the mountains of veg. Then I have to clean the bathroom, hoover up the copious amounts of fur that my cats shed (you could stuff a pillow with it all, I don't know how they're not bald), cook the rest of dinner, make myself look halfway decent and then be the hostess with the mostest for the rest of the evening.

But - much like the lady in the L'Oreal ad - he's worth it.

* I don't - this (and the odd lasagne) is about the extent of my repertoire.

Noël

2006-12-11T11:20:00.000Z

We bought a Christmas tree yesterday, so I'm feeling rather festive today. We braved the weekend crowds and atrocious weather at a garden centre near Stirling and managed NOT to kill each other or anyone else. I think this deserves some kind of award because the people in that garden centre were not displaying any of the goodwill towards their fellow man that you might expect at this time of year.

The new tree is not real unfortunately (I love the smell of a real tree) because our cats would probably eat the needles and get sick, because I hate hoovering and because real trees are a bit more high maintenance than the fake kind. But all the same, it's lovely - it has twinkly little white lights all over it, and I bought some fancy new red and silver decorations for it. I'll upload a picture tonight if I can get a good one. Coco was verrry interested in the big green thing that suddenly appeared in the living room. Unfortunately she seemed to think the best way to investigate it was to chew the ends of the branches (where the twinkly little lights are wired on) so I spent most of last night chasing her away from it with the Dustbuster, which is the only thing that she's scared of.

Every Christmas for as long as I can remember (and, I'm reliably informed, before that as well) I spent at my mum and dad's house. Until last year, when everything in my life changed irrevocably. None of us could face a Christmas at home because my dad died in November 2005, so we all went up to my sister's. It was lovely (my sister and her boyfriend put on a good spread), but different in so many ways to the last 24 Christmases I'd had. And this year it's going to be different again. My sister and her boyfriend are coming down to Edinburgh, and everyone is coming to OUR house for Christmas Breakfast* and present-opening and then we're going to my future Mother-in-Law's house for dinner.

I'm actually really excited to be having everyone round - we're so happy in the new house it's not going to be a chore at all. We're going to work really hard to get it looking lovely, make lots of lovely breakfast food, and spend the morning in our new house with our VIP's (our mums, my sister and her boyfriend and my wee cats).

I was dreading it last year, so it's nice to be looking forward to Christmas Day again.

*Because a) although we'd like to we don't have the room to facilitate Christmas Dinner and b) the thought of dealing with giblets makes me want to vomit.