Working out your differences

FOR a lot of people today, due to the impossible house-buying situation, it’s pretty standard to live with housemates before settling down.
And it’s crucial that they find the right people to live with. Renting a place with people whose hygiene is similar to a ripe camembert is never desirable; neither if they try to offer a packet of batteries and a pineapple as payment for rent; nor if their idea of interior design is based on making sure there is a small path through a wall-to-wall collection of carrier bags, old food, body hair and stuff found in skips. 

So when you have spent time and energy sorting that situation out, it must be even more frustrating when you realise you have very little say in the choice of work colleagues.
As we work for a vast percentage of our lives, it’s not surprising how such a little thing like who your desk neighbour is can have such a large impact on your state of mind.

I’ve encountered a practice I’m sure is used as a form of torture in some countries. 
A colleague, come rain or shine, will religiously switch a desk fan on.  And due to the scarcity of sockets, she has to have it situated about six feet away from her desk, aimed somewhere in her vicinity. The trouble is that it's also aimed at me. And no amount of angling it when she isn’t looking will change the fact that she’s creating a micro-climate similar to that of the Arctic right by my feet. 
It’s causing me to sport a rather fetching appearance of goosebumps all along my legs as well as develop an involuntary shudder. In short, I am freezing. 

I spent all of last winter wishing the weather would get warmer so i could shed the obligatory coat-in-office look and 100 denier tights that I had been shuffling about in for what felt like an eternity. 
And now, in mid August, I find myself digging out my winter wardrobe - already - because of one woman’s love of a bargain from Argos.  I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered buying a portable heater and placing it side by side with her fan.  Like two gods controlling the elements, we could have these dramatic battles as our power and energies clashed and threatened to cancel each other out of existence... albeit on a much more feeble and pathetic basis.  Infact probably the only spectator would be a very weary H&S officer whose main concern would be the number of electric cables lying across the office. 
 
But these special little eccentricities exist everywhere in the workplace.  I know of an office which went to the extent of issuing memos asking people who ate lunch at their desks, not to.  Well, it was specifically aimed at the fish and egg sandwich lovers.  The smell was upsetting their colleagues who had felt it necessary to complain to management.  True the aroma of some foods can be pretty revolting, but for the 7.4 minutes it takes to consume them, is that really enough to ruin your entire day?  Do you really return home in the evenings, fuming that the default scent surrounding your work area of perfume, lip gloss and coffee was rudely interrupted at 12.47pm for a short while, thus ruining the entire feng shui of your environment?


And it makes me curious to think how far these niggling habits from our workmates will stretch; how long before you'll hear someone bitching by the coffee machine that Maureen from Accounts creates too much fluff and dust on her desk and it's irritating their allergies. Will management then issue lint removers and exfoliating scrubs to every employee?


With people facing increasingly longer working weeks, perhaps working from home is the way to go. That way you can install a industrial-sized fan so your room temperature is constantly below zero; munch on a feast comprising of fish heads, raw onions and boiled cabbage; and then spend the afternoon inspecting every bodily crevice you have for flaky skin, pluckable hair or that inexplicable blue fluff and scatter your findings merrily into the atmosphere, not worrying that your habits are of any consequence to anyone.


That is, of course, until your housemates return home...

A wave of confusion

DOG owners generally develop some very odd habits; purposefully leaving a bit of whatever they eat to offer to their mutt, for example.

It becomes an automatic reflex, done at every mealtime without conscious thought - to the extent that some will do it in posh restaurants.  You'll spy them squirrelling pieces of meat and other tasty morsels into their napkins and then smuggling that into handbags.

But the habit which confuses me the most, perhaps, is something the village-based dog owner will do when out walking with their trusty four-legged sidekick.

You'll see it in little villages and parishes throughout the UK.

Drive past them, and 98 per cent of the time, the walker will stop with their dog, watch you pass, and wave at you.

For years I have driven past people in my local village, thought they recognised me and were just being neighbourly as they waved.

I now know this is not the case. Travelling through random villages from the comfort of my five-door hatchback, I  have witnessed owner after owner stop and perform this choreographed oddity. 

I have no idea why they do this. They don't know me.  They often look quite proud as they do it: "Yup, I'm walking my dog... got my pockets full of biscuits, and any minute now I am going to be crouching in the muddy undergrowth with a little sandwich bag clearing up the end result of feeding my dog too many biscuits."

They could be doing it to thank me for not hitting their dog with my car I guess. But surely it would make more sense to wave in advance, just to make sure I have noticed and can swerve away from them if needs be?

Absurdly, I will wave back. It's like a rather rubbish, canine-related, two-man Mexican wave. And just like a Mexican wave you get swept up in the moment and then feel a little bit disorientated and grubby afterwards.

I've joined friends walking their dogs who will wave at traffic, then turn to me and ask: "Who was that?" I just stare back at them in disbelief. 

Nobody knows what is going on, we are all just waving (not drowning) and all the while the dog is blissfully unaware of this social situation and currently his sole purpose in life is to follow the human who hours before, filled his pocket with a napkin full of meat and has forgotten. Ahh it is indeed a dog's life. 

Be bold, be British

WITH the release of the second Sex and the City film on 27 May there will be a collective sigh across the land and a lament from women everywhere that they want to be styled by cool fashionista Patricia Field.
"I wish I could dress like that all of the time - I wish I could take my wardrobe to a whole new level," a friend of mine said this week after seeing the film trailer.
And she wasn't talking about the designer labels either, but the combinations of colours, styles, patterns and the ever-refreshing twist given to each outfit seen on Carrie and co. 

True these are New York ladies with money to burn but apart from that, are they really so far removed from us? 
Is their eclectic fashion ever suitable for us mere mortals?
Actually, I would argue that as a Brit, you have more encouragement than most to dress like that.  Last week my French mother told me about a middle-aged couple she had seen walking down the street; he was wearing a burnt orange cord suit, she was in a long tutu with a raincoat slung over the top.
As other shoppers stopped to witness the spectacular sight, mum smiled and told me later: "It's only something you would see in Britain and I love it." 

And she has a point. As a nation we are known for being eccentric (bog snorkelling and cheese racing anyone?), but cool Britannia is still a phrase commonly heard too and I think the two ideas are very closely linked.
After all, when was the last time you saw someone in comfortable jeans, shapeless sportswear top and bland trainers and felt a deep respect and admiration for them?

It's our ability to be eccentric which has earned us a place on the fashion radar. 
There doesn't have to be any hard and fast rules about fashion so when you choose your clothes in the morning, the last thought you should have is: "Does this top stand out too much?" or whether the colours clash.  Sure you can dress accordingly to the occasion, whether it's office wear or a weekend look with friends and family, but don't for a minute consider that you are confined to blending in with the background or that you don't deserve to look good.

Clothes aren't about how much they cost - they are about how much they make you feel.
And if that feeling is less than £1million, then don't bother with it; your country needs you goddammit.

The tweets and the bees

I NORMALLY get the hang of social networking sites very easily, MySpace? Yup. Facebook? Yup. Bebo? No, I'm not 14. 

So after a news-training course at work, I was feeling particularly inspired to sign up to Twitter (yes I'm aware I'm about two years behind the rest of the world). The benefits for keeping up-to-date and looking out for potential stories were highlighted and I thought it would be very exciting. Uploaded my photo, linked this site to it, hunted down celebrities to follow and wrote a couple of tweets.

Within a day I had three random people following me. Fantastic, going by those statistics, I should have an army of followers within a month.

However a few days later I had lost two of them. Clearly they weren't impressed by my tweets: "Why are there so many bumble bees this year?" and "I keep finding glitter on my skin, maybe I lose it through my pores."  So for a day or two after that, I was suddenly scared to tweet - just incase I lost my one remaining follower.  And I felt ashamed, I did want to announce my new Twitter profile to my Fbook friends but then worried that they would laugh at the one-follower freak.

I searched through other tweeters - and I'm still failing to see the difference between my bumble bee observation, and someone else who has nearly 200 followers and their latest tweet was about buying asparagus. And the person wasn't even famous.

And that's another can of worms: you can follow celebrities.  You can literally keep up to date with what they are doing daily. If I tried to follow them in real life and watch them pop into Asda for a packet of Nik Naks or try to climb in the same black cab, I would have a restraining order slapped on me in no time.  The cynic in me asks how long will it be before some American wins a legal case against a celeb for stalking them because they were already posting that info on a tweet anyway?

Obviously the celebs have high numbers of followers and it's a good way to keep fans updated; I can see how Twitter works from that perspective. 

So I don't know how much longer I will keep tweeting. I'm confused by all of the little symbols you need to use; and the fact you have to shorten links; and I'm already feeling trapped by the 140 character limit; and generally for something which offers the virtual spacial equivalent of a Post-It note, it is causing me so much more stress than I had expected.

Perhaps I'll just concentrate on answering the great bumble bee question and keep my thoughts to myself. 

Caffeine? Only in a traveller's dream.

I AM cursed. Doomed to wander this lonely planet of ours without the single thing which keeps me relatively sane; caffeine.

Alright technically it's not wandering on foot, it's by rail. But no matter what train I travel on, my sheer presence ensures the immediate disappearance of the drinks trolley or a functioning hot beverage machine.

The last journey I undertook, is a prime example. Despite assurances from the over-friendly driver ("Hey there! Call me Nick - just checking out your ticket sweetlips!") on the first of three trains that the snacks cart will board at the next station and will serve hot drinks and a selection of 'lite bites', it never materialises.

On the second train there is a buffet car. Grabbing a seat near-by in eager anticipation, my caffeine dreams are shattered as some nasal voice overhead announces the hot drinks machine is out of order. Damned straight it is.

The third train is as empty as my expectations by then, three quarters of the way into a six hour journey and so far not even as much as a used teabag or empty sugar sachet to prove the existence of a hot drink has made it onto a train. My cynical side questions whether it might just be the Fates' way of suggesting I'm not made to travel and perhaps a life of agoraphobia and collecting Persian cats would be preferable. Just live my days out watching through windows, clearing up furballs and shopping via the web.

It isn't just my quest for caffeine which raises these questions. I book my tickets in advance like the adverts cheerily suggest; Coach D, seat 50A. I board the train, wander through coaches A, B, C and... E. I ask staff for directions to my seat (just incase it's a bit like Harry Potter and I should be jumping into some gap between platforms or something); with a reassuring smile they inform me that coach D won't be running today so I can sit anywhere... Anywhere except - as they clock my appearance and distinct lack of laptop, Blackberry or terribly important briefcase - first class.

I take my rightful place between a family of pale-pink sportswear-clad chavs and a woman struggling with a cello.

The stations are once more a reminder that I'm not a born traveller as I get stuck at virtually every ticket gate. The machine rejects everything I offer it, from valid tickets to old ones, Boots Advantage cards and petrol receipts. As a crowd of frustrated commuters gather behind me, bouncing off in other directions, confused that their very regular and rigid flow of people - like a line of ants following each other - has been disrupted, I am made to stand to one side.

The line of commuting army ants recovers and continues onwards as I explain to a very official-looking man with a walkie talkie how exactly I had escaped my little town and made it this far into the big wide world without being stopped before now.

Eventually I am allowed to get on my train and as it pulls away I observe two characters called Teko and Zarx have been very busy bees. For at least a mile or two from the station their names are spray-painted in graffiti on every wall, electricity box and even a forgotten wheelbarrow.

For just a fleeting moment my caffeine-starved brain seriously believes that next time I dare to join the railway elite, I should offer a sacrifice of coffee beans to the Train Gods, Teko and Zarx. After all, they have perfected the celestial skill of omnipresence; well, for a mile or two anyway.

The lighter note in a heavier world

EUROVISION: Always an event to get people talking.

Whether you love it or hate it, there are always moments which will get you thinking about the state of the world and the questionable condition of the human thought process. 

This year Norway were the clear winners, gaining more than 300 points with catchy tune Fairytale.

Everything about it was sugary sweet, from the backdrop images of a quaint storybook village, to the enthusiastic fiddling of the main singer Alexander Rybak, who quite frankly looks like the main hero in a wholesome Disney film. 

The two blonde backing singers in pastel maxi-dresses provided harmonies which would make the most angry of people calmer and for those few minutes, the world was a perkier place.

Which is perhaps why it did so well. Are people looking for escapism in a moment when current affairs, whether it be the crumbling economy, war, or swine flu, aren't offering too many light notes?

The entry from the United Kingdom was created the way most celebrities seem to be born these days, through yet another reality show.

The whole process was led by Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber, who had decided that it was in need of a re-vamp in order to be successful and he was right, Jade Ewan came fifth overall with their offering. 

Marks for effort had to go to some countries who had tried to blend tradition into a modern pop song - I'm thinking Moldova here as their dancers had to move at lightening speeds to keep up with the music.

Denmark's song was written by Ronan Keating - and boy could you tell - as the singer Brinck imitated his singing style to a tee (and I suspect had also raided his wardrobe too). 

Germany tried to add raunch to their act with burlesque cutie Dita Von Teese - which I guess from their low scoring didn't really appeal too much to the family audience - although in my opinion not as shocking as the singer's awful silver skintight trousers.

As usual there were some performances in which you spend the entire time with furrowed brow trying to work out what was going on in their head when they decided to do that. 

Albania featured a nice normal female singer, accompanied by some dancer decked out in a sea green bodysuit complete with mask, looking like he's just arrived fresh from an audition for an toilet cleaner advert. Mad as a fish.

Runner-up has to go to Ukraine whose dancers were dressed as Gladiators. Again no reasoning.

Maybe that's another point as to why Norway's song was so popular; it summed up the whole ethos of the Eurovision Song Contest.

In love with a fairytale? You would have to be to sit through this collection of eccentricity and multi-cultural madness.

The day the pig flu over the world

AS with most things discussed in the press, the reported cases of Swine Flu are provoking two common trails of thought.

There are those who switch on their TV, radio, log on to the web or open a paper and read about the situation, believing it all; develop a fearful look in their eyes as they clear the fridge of sausages and bacon and stock up on tissues and anti-bac hand spray.  That little bottle of hand cleaner coupled with fitful gasps by the owner as they witness other people sneezing next to them on public transport has replaced those huge "The End is Nigh" sandwich boards normally worn by skinny, slightly feral looking men with beards who used to frequent busy city centres.  They accept that whether it is Swine Flu, Bird Flu, SARS, whatever, it is going to get them in the end and that nobody will escape. 

The second type are those who find it easier to believe that it isn't actually happening, and is just the result of a quiet news week.  Somewhere in a top secret location, without anyone knowing, all of the world's press got together and decided that this week was the right time to create mass hysteria about something which is after all, never going to be as deadly as the much maligned Man Flu.  After single-handedly being responsible for creating the credit crunch, the savage messenger boys have now turned their attentions to destroying your sanity by making you believe there is a new kind of deadly flu.  And in fact it all began because an old person situated in a quiet corner of Mexico died shortly after sneezing. Probably. 

My opinion?  Well I imagine there will be indentations on my behind due to the amount of sitting on the fence I do, but the media are just doing their jobs, and complying according to demand.  If you weren't interested, you wouldn't read about it, would you? Most of it may well be sheer sensationalism, but if nobody ever reported it and the flu continued to spread, the public would start whispering about cover-ups and question of why they were never told about it.  As a journalist, it's a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't. 

The days of intellectual types admitting they agree with the press have long passed and it is fashionable to belittle and criticise journalists regardless of what they report.  I imagine Swine Flu probably won't take over the world, and will soon be consigned to the list of forgotten world threats.

But not shooting the messenger? That'll be the days pigs fly. 

Never shop under the influence of a bank holiday

BANK holidays do funny things to shoppers.

Technically it's one or two days where you might not be able to access a supermarket, and despite the fact that you may never normally visit a store for a whole week, it puts the fear of God into you.  What if you run out of mixed herbs or fishfingers in the meantime?  You have cupboards crammed with food but guaranteed the one thing you want is the very thing you will run out of, just when access to supplies is being denied.

And so this very basic and irrational fear seems to be part of the human nature, evolved after centuries of incompetence.  Everyone, no matter how sensible they may be the rest of the time, will make a mental note to pop into the supermarket before a bank holiday to stock up on bread: "Three loaves should be enough, shouldn't it dear?" You'll hear people mutter.  "Are we okay for carrots?" and classic behaviour includes stocking up on burgers and buns ready for the "traditional" Bank Holiday Barbeque which never happens because the typical British weather will put a stop to that.

So as normal I fell prey to this behaviour and found myself in the supermarket on the Saturday before Easter Sunday, and witnessed a truly spectacular incident. 

My way was blocked by two trolleys as their drivers (can you drive a trolley?) went to war.

How it started? Nobody is sure, but people were certainly sticking around to discover how it was going to end. 

In the red corner: a chav in her early 20s sporting stereotypical sportswear in various pastel shades which clashed with her bleached blonde and chocolate brown highlights. In the blue: a menopausal woman with too much eyeliner and a backcombed hairdo she hadn't changed since she first looked on at the cast of Dallas in envy in 1988. 

Such was their need to get their shopping sorted before the store closed in six hours, they were getting angry, something to do with the chav not moving out of the way for 80s woman.  The chav unwisely made some rude comment to her mother about 80s woman and that was it. The elder opponent launched into a tirade of very, very loud abuse. 

"Look at your hair!" the elder said.  The case of pot calling kettle was revealed for what it was as the Chav retorted: "Look at my hair? Look at your hair!"  It was never going to be a winning put-down, like two fat kids mocking each other's size.  With morbid fascination people began to gape like goldfish, unable to tear themselves away from the floorshow of bad taste.  Had it really come to this? People so desperate to make sure they have enough milk to get through the weekend were resorting to public humiliation.  And once started, they then realised they had no grounds for an argument but determined to win, they had stooped to commenting on appearances. The 80s woman then stormed out of the store declaring she would never, ever return to such a place.

The thing is, of course, that after the catfight had dispersed, people shook their heads, paid for their shopping and almost certainly left without the one item they came in for.

And now for someone completely different

I'VE been writing for years and some things you will never be prepared for, such as meeting one of your comedy heroes.

How do you react when you unexpectedly get to interview a man partially responsible for providing the very foundations of your sense of humour?

Whose work, together with his comedy partners, was impressed on me from an early age, and I could usually be heard laughing as my father and I mis-quoted their catchphrases and sketches.

This week I  got the chance to meet Terry Jones, and almost met Michael Palin. 

Unless you are from a rather serious, and sheltered planet, you will know I'm referring to two members of Monty Python.

They were in town for a special screening of Monty Python's Life of Brian, a film released in 1979 which prompted much controversy with religious types and therefore prompted a rumour that it was banned in Aberystwyth.

Like all good rumours, nobody is quite sure how it started, and as with a lot of old policies, rules, or decisions taken by local authorities, nobody was able to confirm whether the film was actually banned and on what grounds.

 Perhaps it just a passing thought a county council officer had once whilst standing in the work cafeteria, which he muttered faintly to his PA and then promptly forgot about it as he contentedly dug into his shepherd's pie and beans.

Either way, the Mayor of the town, who played Brian's girlfriend Judith Iscariot in the film was determined to get it screened for charity.

And it was a jolly good reason to entice some of the Pythons to the area.

I was unable to attend the screening, however my photographer was lovely enough, in between jostling with 17 other photographers for that elusive picture, to ask Palin for an autograph for me. 

My joy was doubled when he then presented me with a pic of Palin writing said autograph - it was almost like I was there. And he had to write my name so now he must have heard of me... right?

So it was all I could do not to spontaneously combust when, some nine hours later I found myself at a second charity screening of the film, but this time in Machynlleth.

And Terry Jones was there too! 

Before I know what's happening, I'm whisked over to interview the great man, and have to fight to maintain even the smallest degree of professionalism, when in fact all I want to do is quote lines at him, play him the video clips of our pet cockatiel whistling 'Always look on the bright side of life' and show him how my ringtone is in fact a soundclip of him as Brian's mother in the film shouting "He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!"

Despite the fact he lives in mid Wales, I think I must have asked him at least three times what he thinks of Machynlleth and each time he patiently explained that he probably knows the town better than I do.

After about four minutes of my shambolic interviewing, I eventually give in to my inner Python and just ask for his autograph, a request which both of us look relieved at.

But he was lovely and I still can't believe I've met him - even if my interview was more ridiculous than the Ministry of Silly Walks.

He's not the messiah. But he is the closest thing to a comedy god I've ever met.

Sunday morning - It's just a restless feeling by my side

I CANNOT sit still. I don't know why. I get like this normally as we welcome in a new year but it soon dwindles. I make these massive statements that this will be the year that...(insert fantastical idea). It soon fades as I get caught up in everyday life. 

It hit me again about a week ago and has yet to subside. In a ploy to channel my nervous energy I keep cleaning the house. I don't mean doing the dishes or having a quick hoover round the living room, it's more extreme than that. 

Friday night: people everywhere are either getting ready to go out and have fun, or just winding down and relaxing. I didn't do either; I washed the skirting boards instead.  And before that, we were about to watch a film, suddenly the boyf hears a clatter in the kitchen to find me lugging the large microwave to the floor so I can anti-bac the surface it normally stands on. 

During the week, before I went to bed, I started moving all the books and DVDS off the shelves of the bookcases to dust it.  And what is odder is that I'm now lying to the boyf about it. In the morning he quizzically stared at the duster and polish by the book case, trying to work out if we had cleaning elves in the night. He questioned me and I denied it - saying it was there to remind me the room needs cleaning - regardless of the fact that there was no longer any dust to be seen and the room had a fresh lemony smell to it. It's becoming some weird shameful secret. 

Earlier this week I got up from the couch during the normal evening of wall-to-wall TV, claiming I needed some paracetamol.  Twenty minutes later I'm still in the bathroom, using an old toothbrush to clean around and under the sink. 

And today is no better, I started washing doors. Even Kim and Aggy would be freaked out by me right now.

I have tried to channel the energy into other stuff. I bought three books. And then read them all back to back in the space of 48 hours (which also included time to sleep, eat and work). I've had to ditch that idea until I find my library card, or it's going to prove very expensive. 

So now I'm writing. And it seems instead of cleaning I'm now writing about cleaning. But I keep getting distracted by the fact I can see dust on my keyboard... Now, where was that cloth?

Revenge of the citrus fruit

LIVING by the sea you begin to view the weather like that nursery rhyme 'There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.'  The weather tends to swing from extremes and in winter can seem very bleak.  I tend to get by with a decent winter coat, the hope that it will soon be Spring, and an endless supply of satsumas to snack on in a vague optimism that they will stop me a, indulging in fatty comfort foods, and b, venturing out in the cold to find said comfort foods.

Quite bizarrely, my favourites, tangerines, have disappeared off the supermarkets' radars - you cannot buy them any more. There isn't even a space on the shelf where they used to be - I only assume there must be a big tangerine cover-up by the government - and any supermarket staff who are so bold as to enquire when the next delivery of tangerines is likely to be are taken into a small hidden room and beaten with their own name-badges until they forget the fruit ever existed.   I now have to make do with the pip-laden satsumas, the unpeelable clementines or the ambiguous 'citrus fruit'  - some tasteless substitute for the fantastic tangerine which is that bland it doesn't even deserve an exciting name.  Nevertheless I have an unwritten rule that five or more of these must be within grabbing distance - a snacking device which has horribly backfired on me.

 

 My car has been smelling bad recently - I suspected it was due to a forgotten satsuma or even worse - citrus fruit - loose in my car somewhere and rotting.  Having searched under the seats I couldn't find anything and put the odd smell as being the window de-icer sprays I had bought; they were on offer so I got carried away and bought enough to keep 20 greenhouses defrosted for about two years.  With the snow last week I congratulated myself in being organised enough to buy this spray in advance and with a certain smugness ran outside before work to get the car cleared in time.  I mentally high-fived myself for my preparation skills, stuffing the car with a fleece blanket and a shovel. I hasten to add this was advised by people on the TV for anyone braving the snowy conditions and not because I wanted to shift a dead body as suggested by a suspicious neighbour.  As I opened the car boot I could hear heavenly choirs sing in celebration of my triumphant ability to be ready for the snow as I grabbed my wellies (which had sat in the car since my death-hike up to the Centre for Alternative Technology).

 Car running? Check. Snow cleared? Check. Blanket and shovel ready for snowy (not murderous) conditions? Check. Wellies on? Almost. Wearing the obligatory three pairs of socks required for wellies-in-snow situations I jammed my right foot in a boot... And screamed.

 Soaking through all three pairs of socks was what used to be a citrus fruit. A very mouldy, soft and smelly citrus fruit.   Source of bad smell in car identified? Check.  With no other option for practical footwear I cleaned the inside of the wellie as best I could, changed the socks and spent the entire day smelling like a rotten bowl of fruit and squelching when I walked. 

 

 How did the fruit get in my boot in the first place? I have no idea - probably linked to my carrying them for snacking with me all the time. But I just can't shake off the vision of a government official sitting at his large mahogany desk somewhere wringing his hands, smiling to himself and muttering: 'That'll teach her for asking questions about tangerines.'

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.