The Ministry of Embarrassing Exercises

IT'S been one of those odd days. For ages I've been mentally beating myself up over my lack of activity; looking back on a day and shaking my head in disbelief that another 24-hours have passed and still no effort has been made to raise my heart beat above resting level.

 Today that changed, albeit accidentally. Which is probably the best way to do it. Sneak up on yourself with some form of exercise before your inner monologue has a chance to make excuses and leave the room.

 At work I was invited to the Centre for Alternative Technology near Machynlleth. Knowing that a, it was built in the site of an old slate quarry and b, it was winter, I travelled to the centre, rather smug in the knowledge that I had packed my wellies in an act that suggests I'm prepared, I'm organised, I don't have to totter about in my four-inch heels feeling out of place.

 The fact that I was wearing a bright red coat with a huge purple corsage, and the wellies, which themselves were black with white polka dots didn't seem to matter until I arrived there and realised I looked slightly crazy.

 But my rather bizarre Mary Poppins meets Minnie Mouse outfit was the least of my problems. 

 CAT is built into the side of a hill, and in the past when I've visited, I've sat in the little train which carries you up there. But as it is winter, the train isn't working - a fact I did know but evidently my brain locks away all the useful information I might need and replaces it with songs and nonsense.  

 Which meant I was walking. Up hill, with lots of steps. My attempts to make conversation with the lovely people at CAT quickly fizzled out as my heart rate went into emergency spasms, unfamiliar with the physical activity I was subjecting it to. 

 I even found myself doing that shamefully obvious diversion tactic of stopping halfway up to "admire the view" as I waited for the stitch to subside. 

 But I made it up to the centre, and conducted virtually the entire interview glowing a vibrant shade of red. If it wasn't for the heavy eye make-up I'm pretty sure you would have had a problem distinguishing the outline of my face as it blended in beautifully with the postbox red of my coat. Classy.

WITH my legs sufficiently hating me for the surprise exertion I couldn't let my arms rest so upon my arrival back home I played my new Wii game, Samba De Amigo.

 I'm not sure it will ever gain a reputation as one of those cool games but it made me laugh.

 The idea is very simple; shake your Wii-motes in time to the music like maracas. With a brow furrowed in concentration I shook my funky stuff along to three or four songs before the other half made me switch it off. I think me trying to co-ordinate myself along to Mambo Number 5 was too much oddness for him to cope with. 

 The fact that I had also attracted a small crowd of neighbours outside the living room window, who had all slowed down to witness the car crash sight of me trying to samba with a couple of remote controls in my hands may have played a big part in his decision too I suppose.

Little hats hit the shelves

INDEED they have. As mentioned in a previous post I decided to knit as many little woolen hats as I could, which would be added to the tops of Innocent Smoothies and the sales would benefit Age Concern.

 Ignoring the question of why don't I just knit bigger hats to keep old people warm directly, I made as many as I could and proudly sent off 35 hats in assorted colours and yarns. 

 Feeling saintly following a trip to the post office to send off the little hats, I opened the local paper and read a story about a local group who had also knitted for the same cause. 

 My smugness at taking time out of my hectic schedule for charity was shortlived and dismay took over as I read about one member of the group, a 70-year-old, who had knitted over 300 hats. 

 Three hundred. I couldn't even fill a shoebox with my contribution, this woman probably couldn't carry all of her hats to the post office without dropping a trail of them behind her like a geriatric Hansel and Gretel.  

 Oh the shame, beaten by a little old lady. 

 Anyway should you find yourself at a Sainsburys, feel free to give a hat a home and help to keep the elderly warm, even if they do kick my arse at knitting. 

 

 

Driven to madness and back again

LIVING out of town has its benefits, but it also has its low points - like the impending village light switch-off by the local authority in a shoddy attempt to save money (Perhaps if they hadn't lost millions in Icelandic banks for starters...). Yet another issue the humble villagers lose out on to those living in towns - add it to the list along with the lack of decent recycling facilities - I could go on.

 But my absolute bugbear has to be the traveling to work.  I hate it.  It's less than 10 miles away but some mornings it will take forever.

 

 Tuesday morning was a perfect example.  The journey started like it does most days, trying to find my place in the rush of traffic, usually situated behind the slowing-moving obstacle, such as an oil tanker, lorry carrying a static caravan or a marching band. It was a steady journey until we were two miles away from town then traffic stopped dead. In these situations I initially remain the optimist, confident that cars will begin to more along soon.

 

 Fifteen minutes later I've only covered 100 metres and I begin to get twitchy. Still convincing myself I can make it to work in time if traffic starts moving again, I sit there tapping the dashboard as my irritation grows. Half eight comes and goes and I start trying to hone my psychic abilities in the hopes I can send messages telepathically to my boss to explain I'm late for reasons beyond my control. By now the little needle on my car radiator dial is rising - moving quicker than the traffic is and looking ahead you can see lorries pulling in to stop their engines overheating. Despite my panic, my rational side is still reasoning that if it's an accident ahead, my being a bit late is a much better situation than lying in a crumpled wreck of a car.

 

 And so, nearly 20 minutes after the time I should've been in work, I finally reach the source of the congestion; road traffic monkeys looking resplendent in reflective jackets and tea-cosy beanies blocking one lane of traffic at the roundabout into town, and pulling cars over in order to conduct a census. No warning was given about this. The reasoning from local authorities? They wanted to monitor the normal amount of traffic in order to gather accurate information about the road usage. Normal? Really? Creating a bottleneck and two-mile delays is normal? Well in that case, based on the information they must have gathered and the scenes of chaos they witnessed , I expect this time next year will see that A-road in a rural setting being transformed into a three-lane motorway complete with flyovers and Welcome Breaks.

 If I wasn't running so late already I would have cheerfully stuffed their clipboards where their little hats won't keep them warm.

Knit knit, Sell sell, Hitch a lift

I THINK there is a certain amount of irony in the world at any one time, and right now the God of Irony is finding me and my little life rather hysterical.

 Last week I had a lovely weekend in Bath on a mate's hen party; despite all my fears about swimsuits, strange people and shoestring spending, it went very well. Until it was time to travel home. 

 It turns out I wasn't making things up (see previous postings), my car was making noises and 45 minutes from home, it made about £600-worth of noise before dying at the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, just as it was getting dark. 

 Two hours later, after many tears, one-too-many useless breakdown people and an organised loan from the Bank of Dad, I was traveling home in a tow truck. 

 The cam belt has gone on my car, for those of you who don't know what that is, I have no idea either, except it provokes a sharp intake of breath and a grimace from those in the know.  It's bad news.  My trusty mechanic has reassured me he can fix it, but it'll take at least two weeks and will serve as a painful reminder

to my father that children are an expensive lifelong commitment (so, so sorry dad). 

  In the meanwhile finding a way to travel the nine miles into work in a rural area has been a constant source of worry for me, colleagues have really rallied round and I'm humbled by their kindness. 

 But it does amuse me that in the time I'm trying to avoid hitchhiking at any cost, publishing giant Penguin has announced that there will be a sixth book in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, and it is to be written by Eoin Colfer - the writer behind popular kids' book Artemis Fowl.

 Called And Another Thing, I'm approaching this news with caution. I first read Douglas Adams' inspired stories nearly 20 years ago and I'm not just sure anyone could even come close to the way he managed to combine humour, science and story-telling. It's mind-boggling. 

I'VE started selling CDs on Amazon. They belong to my other half - and before you ask, yes he does know. It's a good way to make cash and free up some space in our little wallpaper-frenzied house. In less than a month we've sold 12 CDs. Despite being in the middle of a supposed credit crunch it seems people are still keen to buy music. And through doing that I am developing a smug glow, knowing that I am supporting my local post office.

 In fact I've been to mine so often in the past week to post these CDs I'm sure they must think I'm only popping in for company. I'm almost expecting to receive an invite to their Christmas party this year.

IT'S that time of year again when my shameful knitting habit goes into hyperdrive as I attempt to make hundreds of little woolly hats. Why? Because a, I like knitting, b, it helps me clear my yarn stash (a collection of literally hundreds of half-used balls of wool which normally resides down the back of my couch under the optimistic belief that one day they'll be transformed into an afghan blanket) and c, it is for a good cause.

 Two days ago I could be heard squealing as I opened my post to find my information pack for the big knit; an annual fundraising event in aid of Age Concern. 

 Organised by Innocent Smoothies, the little hand-knitted (or crocheted) hats will don the tops of the drink bottles when they are sold in Sainsburys.

 The two companies will donate 50p to Age Concern for every hat-wearing smoothie sold. 

 Over 25,000 older people die from cold related illnesses every winter, and in a society in which fuel costs are growing, that number could increase.

 So until 17 October I will be making as many little hats as I can, and older people aren't the only ones to benefit from this.  Whilst my needles will be occupied with the big knit, assorted friends and family can sigh with relief that I won't have time to create "useful" (read "unwanted") or "warm and practical" ("itchy and mis-shapen") items for them. Who says charity doesn't begin at home?

The gift of giving

THIS week was my dad's birthday, and it has got me thinking about the dos and don't of gift-buying.

 Every year without fail my father will meticulously write and send out a list of (mainly Bob Dylan- linked) presents he would like for the big day; listing the cheapest price and website we could source it from.  To be honest the only thing he hasn't started doing is attaching a link to the direct site and item in the email (although I bet he will now).

 I'll normally stick to the list, occasionally straying if my predominantly stunted candyfloss brain allows me creative choice. 

 However other family members will ignore it altogether, choosing to buy gifts that they have heard him mention many moons ago, or things they think he will like, or even more risky; items they think he needs.

 It's amazing what a minefield of awkwardness and complications the whole saga can be.

 As far as I can see, the problems are this:

•  Stick to the list: Easy, failsafe, however lacking in imagination and it is amazing just how many phone calls you'll make to other family members to check they aren't buying the same thing from the list. It's also been known to split families as they race to buy up the solitary three CDs - it's every man for himself in the quest to get Amazon to deliver the items to you first.  
  
• Buy things a person needs: These are gifts the birthday present receiver (BPR) will never ever admit to needing. You'll watch them cheerfully struggle to sweep a whole house of carpet with a dustpan and brush as they insist it's no bother -  anything to make sure their next paypacket doesn't instantly disappear on a 1850watt SupaVac. And also it's their one birthday of the year (unless you're related to the queen) - they don't want one of their three birthday wishes to go on domestic appliances.
• Buying the things you think they might like: This produces the most comical results because you are relying on the inner depths of your imagination, balanced out with how you view this person. Many a tear has been shed by the BPR as they rip off the wrapping paper to find.... oh. Most people will emit that response involuntarily. Those who are great at lying, have had botox or were a beauty queen in a previous life will manage to maintain a fixed, teeth-gritting smile and murmur that the selection of ski socks or pink fluffy teenage gifts (at the age of 34) was "just what they wanted". Expect a vast amount of resentment from the BPR as they suddenly realise just how you really view them. Observers to this moment may wish to have a camera at the ready to capture a day which you will all no doubt look back and laugh at... Well, assuming you don't suddenly lose contact with them. 
  

Seriously, I think there's a lot to be said for vouchers. And if you're having a birthday any time soon, go easy on the gift givers; becoming another year older will surely give you far less grey hairs than trying to buy a present. 

Supermarket sorrow

A LOT of my posts on here will no doubt be related to television - I do tend to watch a lot.

 However despite having literally hundreds of channels and programmes to choose from, my first post has to be about an advert.

 I won't name the supermarket, but honestly who ever thought the set of ads were a good idea should be forcefed supermarket own-brand grey non-specific species fishcakes. 

 I'm talking about the ones in which a bedraggled-looking woman turns up after a hard day's work and is complaining about her shoes pinching, to another considerably more smiley person - the latter turns out to be one of the said supermarket's employees (although seriously I've never seen anyone who works in a supermarket smile that much, or in fact at all) who welcomes the woman in to the supermarket.

 All the staff know her name and they indulge in a spot of banter before listing the special offers. See it as the Cheers of supermarkets if you like.

 There are other ads in this series, my particular favourite is the one in which another middle-aged woman is very pleased with herself as all the staff remark on what a lovely dress she is wearing; she gloats that her husband bought it and he will also be cooking dinner for her. 

 I know the supermarket is obviously trying to show that they are nice and welcoming, but to me it just shows it's a sanctuary for tired aging women; that this is as good as it gets. Their only friends are the staff who humour them as they turn up time after time in slippers/pinching shoes.  Their only glimmers of hope involve getting their lazy teenage sons to do the washing-up, or that their husbands will finally return from the high-powered job to offer a bit of home cooking and attention - an offer which she has evidently been nagging him to do for ages. Seriously, is that it? Is that all there is to middle-aged life for a woman? Somebody pass me the fishcakes.

Waiting for what?

THIS year sees the 60th anniversary of the NHS; a point which the media has chosen to celebrate by highlighting just how far services have come.  Taking a rest from countless reports of cash shortages, ward closures, failed targets, filthy conditions, and superbugs, journalists are instead covering tales such as the first baby born on the NHS. 

 Regardless all of the media coverage, good or bad, you never really get an idea of the state of the NHS until you experience it, which is what has happened to me this year.

 I'm not sure how, but my hearing in one ear has gone. Not completely - don't feel you have to shout at me - but generally some days all I seem to hear is a noise a bit like listening to a conch shell, an airy distant hum which will get louder or quieter depending on how much my ear wants to try my patience. 

 So as a smaller, more private celebration of the NHS I decided to brave my fear of doctors and see if I could get my hearing sorted. 

 After waiting for nearly six months I saw a lovely man who tested my ears, listened to me and lectured me on inappropriate shoes before sending me onto the next specialist. 

 The second couldn't be any more different. He may have been the Ear, Nose and Throat doc, which I can only assume in his book meant there was no need for eye contact. Or conversation. 

 Glancing over my hearing results he took a relatively small breath and in one sentence said that yes I was partially deaf in one ear but that shouldn't disrupt my life and that actually what was wrong with me was my concentration levels. He slowed down at that point, probably to make sure I was paying attention. 

 He stood to usher me out of the door; my 30 seconds was up.  Six months of waiting for a 30 second diagnosis, that's about six days per second. 

 Desperate for answers; I sat still - a move which triggered copious amounts of eyebrow raising between the ENT doc and his secretary/nurse/token female bystander. 

 Before they could reach for the alarm I pointed out that his diagnosis was as lacking as my hearing (and supposed concentration levels) and demanded further tests. 

 Sighing, he referred me for an MRI - effectively an X-ray of my head. 

 And so, according to test conditions, in a splendid outfit of elasticated waistbands and blandness and sporting not a scrap of make-up, I attended the hospital again this week. 

 Past the polished lino floors and immaculately painted corridors, I followed the signs to what can only be described as the shantytown equivalent of hospital wards.  The waiting room of eight chairs was crammed into a space suitable for three chairs where we all sat knocking knees, praying that the person opposite didn't suffer from a contagious scabby knee condition, and wondering who would crack first and begin reading the extensive selection of caravanning magazines circa 1995 placed in the waiting room. 

 An hour later I'm still sitting there when my name is called by an Indian man sporting a clipboard.

 Tripping over the other patients who by now look like they are playing an involuntary game of Twister as they try to find space for various limbs I follow the man out of the ward, down a corridor... and out across a car park before entering a tiny trailer. 

 Some other poor sap is still lying on what looks like a bed placed in a large white doughnut - and I'm sat there staring at the x-rays of her skull. 

 Soon it's my turn and I'm led over to the bed, given headphones and a large panic button and my head is then restrained in a cage before I'm moved into the centre of the doughnut; a tiny space which prevents me moving even my arms.

 Closing my eyes, classical music is being piped through the headphones. Between the heavenly choirs and the enclosed space I desperately try to ignore that this is probably what it's like to be dead and at one point sneak a peak to check I'm not, in fact, in church.

 The image fades quickly as all sound is replaced by that similar to a pneumatic drill.

  Something tells me not even whale singing would transform that experience into one of calm and serenity. I open my eyes to see the next patient waiting for his test - we've become a part of some giant production line which is so rapid it makes you question why the long waiting lists - what is the hold-up? Because it certainly can't be down to the staff dragging their feet. 

 I now face another wait for the results - I wonder if the NHS will celebrate another 60 years before I get my diagnosis? 

  

Mechanics, milk bottles and moronic behaviour

THERE are three things in life which when found should be held on to tightly or the loss will always be regrettable.  The perfect-fit jeans is the first (once found, buy as many as you can afford that day), the second is your place in a queue in the supermarket - don't risk jumping to another seemingly shorter queue - because that solitary old lady standing there will pay for her weekly shopping in loose change whilst insisting on sharing all of her various ailments, contagious or otherwise to the cashier.  The third is a decent mechanic.  I learnt that last one this week after what can only be described as a traumatic experience for all concerned.

 I'm fairly neurotic when it comes to my car; I listen out for any rattle which might signify the tyres have fallen off, or the seat is about to eject itself, taking me through the roof, never to be seen again.  I'll interrupt all conversations with my passengers, however important they might be: "So the doctor said it might be terminal..." "Mmmm did you hear that banging noise - I wonder if that's my exhaust?"

 And so this week has been like any other ; a trip to town with the boyfriend and a backseat full of plastic milk bottles ready for the recycling bank.  Then it happens: a car noise that is actually heard by someone other than me.

 By the time we reach town I'm sufficiently freaking out and swerve into the nearest multi-national garage - a location I find about as desirable as headlice.  They are magnets for a combination of young spotty greasemonkeys who smirk a lot and tired old spanner dogs who call you 'luv' and always look severely annoyed you've entered their world - in their day women weren't allowed to drive.  A quick look at the driver's door and a kick of a tyre is enough to tell the garagefolk my car is fine and I really am as dumb as I look but just to be safe I should run it over to the local Renault garage. Of course, take it to another garage.  What did I expect? It's half four on a Friday, of course nothing is wrong with the car.

 And so to shopping, where I obeyed the queuing rule.  Just over an hour later I return to the car and decide to open the bonnet, except it's already been unlocked.  With shaking hands I unhook it and lift it up... my eyes rest on the windscreen washer fluid container and its lid open and hanging off.  Then my other half points to a pipe connected to the engine, or rather half connected and it feels as brittle as French toast. OH MY GOD. How have I managed to drive anywhere with the car like this? I contain myself long enough to speed-dial a local independent mechanic, who normally has to subdue my annual MOT panic attacks.  It's 5.45pm but he answers and after listening to my incoherent nonsense agrees to come out and look at the car.  The boyfriend is by now looking longingly at the bags of food shopping and mentally debating the perception of him eating a dry loaf of bread slice by slice in a public place.

 

 The mechanic arrives chirpy as ever and humours me by making eye contact as I relate my tale of woe.  He looks under the bonnet, sees the pipe and says that it's fine, not a problem.  Offering to take it for a test-drive to hear the mystery noise, I clamber into the passenger seat, and my only other witness to the noise slips into the backseat as the clatter of 30 or so milk bottles causes the mechanic to gasp at the sight of so much supermarket-bought dairy containers.

 "We're not milk freaks," I hear myself saying, "I was taking them to be recycled."

 With a degree of hesitancy in his voice the mechanic responds: "Erh yeah..."

 The pressure is on as the mechanic drives my little car around town, we all silently hold our breaths incase that prevents us hearing the mystery car noise.

 "There is a slight rattle but nothing major - is that the noise you heard?" I shrug my shoulders, seriously beginning to doubt my grip on reality.

 The need to find the sound begins to get to me and I resort to defensive behaviour; humour. "Okay when I tap the dashboard I want you to perform an emergency stop," I tell the mechanic and begin to manically laugh.   I feel a kick from the back seat and a clatter of milkbottle as the other half tries to shut me up - the response from the mechanic is one of confusion.

 Back in the car park, the mechanic patiently looks under the bonnet again for me and in a soothing tone explains that nothing is wrong.  I eventually get it; the car is fine.  Which is more than could be said for my sanity as I hear myself confess to the mechanic with all seriousness that what I actually thought had happened was that the engine had blown up at some point without me realising, removing the windscreen washer fluid cap, the pipe and popping the bonnet open in the explosion.

 The mechanic, who has maintained composure up until that point, starts laughing, advises my other half never to be left alone with me and gets in his car to leave.

 I ask how much I owe him for the callout after 5pm on the Friday before a bank holiday - by now I will quite happily pay any amount to cover the shameful behaviour - he just laughs again and shouts across the car park: "Are you kidding? The entertainment value alone has been priceless."

 I think there's a lot to be said for public transport.