You Can't Hide From Me

I decided it was time for people to know what I look like.

This is me on one of my better days.

Today’s post is dedicated to a new follower.

Why?

Because you drove me nuts.

Let me tell you how this happened - the process took place over a few days and was as follows:

Woop, woop! New follower! *punching air with fist*

(Blogging is like Facebook; Facebook + 1,000,001 friends = I’m so popular! Blogging + 1,000,001 followers = I’m so popular!

*hanging head* I’m so shallow.)

Then:

Hmm, they obviously don’t mind reading about (in no particular order) my occasional insanity, my swearing, my mouth before brain exploits and the occasional rant. Cool.

(At this point I could rant about the journey I took on Saturday. The one that should have taken me an hour and a half. The one that ended up taking me four hours. But hey, that’s the M25 for you – well known as the world’s biggest car park - and I probably got off lightly, so I won’t.)

Then:

Hmm, who are they? *holds mouse over picture* Hmm, matchison. Okay, matchison, let’s be nosey have a look at your blog. *click on picture*

Then:

Oh. Bugger. They haven’t linked to their blog. I can’t see their profile; all I can see is who they’re following. Okay, let’s peruse their list.

Ooh, we have two in common. Hmm, let’s see if matchison has left a comment somewhere – I’ll see their little picture and their name next to the comment, then I can click on that and get to their blog that way. Plan. *high five self*

Okay, nothing there. Let’s try another blog. Okaaay, nothing there either. Let’s try another one. Nope. And another. Noooo.

Then:

Hmm, lemme think. Is that matchison, ma tch i son, mat chi son, match is on? Ooh, that sounds promising. What match? Are they a sports fan? No wait, apart from me and one other, the others are gardening blogs. Hmph. *frowning heavily and tapping chin with finger* Why am I even going down this path? It's not going to help.

Then:

Aargh!

WHO ARE YOU? WHERE’S YOUR BLOG??

Then:

Uh Bub, calm down okay? Aaand breathe. Go do something else.

(At this point I could tell you about the argument my next-door neighbours had the other night.

The one where Mrs Wotshername was going on and on at Mr Wotshisname. The one where things got quite heated.

The one where I nearly dropped the glass I was holding against the wall to hear better I got quite concerned after hearing something being thrown.

The one where I thought their baby must have been drugged I was very surprised because their baby didn’t wake up. But unfortunately it wasn’t in English, so I won’t.)

Then:

Okay, let’s have another go, matchison must have left a comment somewhere. I need to find out who they are. I don’t like this feeling of not knowing. I have to know.

Then:

Okay. Match. Is. On. Literally. I’m going to find your blog. I AM GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN.

Then:

I can’t find you. *sobbing quietly*

Then:

Uh Bub? Step. Away. From. The. Computer. You’re getting a teeny bit obsessed. Go out.

(At this point I could tell you about the get-together I went to. The one where I mainly went because the friend whose house it was held at has a video of me performing a very drunken Dancing Queen karaoke duet and who threatened to post it on YouTube if I didn’t go. The one I was really looking forward to going to.

The one where the obnoxious when drunk slightly inebriated husband of one friend accidentally kicked the one of the legs of the cheaply made fire pit, causing it to give way.

The one where the fire pit tipped and nearly set fire to a seventy-nine year old woman. The one where the also drunk tipsy owner of the fire pit tried to pick up the burning logs from the patio wearing a pair of oven gloves.

But after telling the old lady she should enter the long jump at the 2012 Olympics the old lady was thankfully unharmed, and those of us who weren’t as pissed as a fart under the influence stopped the man with the oven gloves, therefore all was okay, so I won’t.)

Then:

Right. I can do this. I will find your blog. I’m just gonna chill out about this. *clicking on and reading random comments*

Then:

Ooh, who’s that? *click on profile* No, I don't think... Wait a minute. Ohhhh. Gotcha! *standing up, doing a victory dance*

So, welcome to Marguerite at Canoe Corner. I eventually found you, even though you don’t use the same picture or name on your profile as the ones displayed when you follow someone. I must admit that so far, I haven’t read through your blog yet, because my brain hurts. However, I promise I will. But *muttering darkly* I know where you live*.

*I’m a pussycat really, wouldn’t hurt a fly - honest. Actually, flies I do hurt, but you know what I mean.

I Have A Theory

Before I get started, I have something I have to get off my chest first.

Ohmyflippinggosh!

I have a new follower – one I’m not related to, or one that I don’t know personally.

How exciting!

I know there are people out there who aren't bloggers who read this, but a genuine willing-to-follow-me-who-doesn't-already-know-me-follower - wow.

Welcome and pleased to meet you, Is the Wiz – may the reading of my posts not traumatize you.

Not too much anyway.

The Beastie is a little unwell. When I put my foot down, it doesn’t so much go like shite off a shovel, more like snail with a hangover up a gentle slope. I discovered this when attempting to show off overtake an old lady driving a Micra. Old ladies drive Micras verrry slooowly - round here they do anyway. Not just on a Sunday either.

I always used to think Sunday Drivers were a myth. But they’re not - the flat-capped, leather driving-glove wearing male, motoring along at a reckless speed of 24mph with hands in the ten-to-two position on the steering wheel, in his spotlessly clean, highly polished, garage kept Ford Fusion, being tail-gated by a tractor pulling a trailer loaded with hay bales on the dual carriageway - can be regularly spotted. Hmph.

After painfully crawling past the old lady in my wannabe Micra, I eventually got home and phoned the local garage to book The Beastie in for a going over.

(Speaking of old ladies, my birthday is approaching – I live alone, I’ve got cats, I’m already mad - all I need to do now is trade The Beastie in for a Micra, start stinking of piss and I’m all set - old ladydom, here I come!)

A couple of days later I drove to the garage at 9am sharp as requested, walked into Reception and was greeted by a young lad, who (whoa, wait a minute. Wtf? Since when did I start saying ‘young lad’?!) looked about twelve years old. Turned out he was one of the mechanics.

The Boy Mechanic took The Beastie’s details and key, then asked me for a contact number. To be on the safe side and to ensure I could be contacted, I gave him home number, mobile number, fax number, email addresses (two of) and an emergency number. Just kidding. I didn’t really give him an emergency number.

Boy Mechanic then asked for my name.

Me: Bub
(I’d like to point out here in case you were wondering, 'Bub' is not the given name on my birth certificate. Just sayin’)

BM: B… er, B… erm, I don’t know how to spell that.
(Eh? My name, although not particularly common in this country to the best of my knowledge, really, really, really isn’t difficult to spell.)

Me: B – U – B
(I wondered if my name were Chantelle or Tiffany (Tiffnee) he would have had any problem with spelling.)

BM: Thanks luv.

Now I don’t know about you, but I find it a bit disconcerting to be called ‘luv’ by someone who’s not developed enough growth hormones yet to start shaving, and who probably hasn't even grown underarm hair. Perhaps it’s just the way I see it and it doesn't bother anyone else. Hey ho.

I hope he’s better at mechanics than spelling.

After saying a fond hasta la vista to The Beastie, and a bog standard ‘bye’ to the semi-illiterate Boy Mechanic, I inserted my earphones, pressed play on my iPod and began my forty-five minute walk home.

Forty-five minutes sounds a long time, but it’s preferable to waiting for the ‘one every fifteen minutes’ bus service. Every fifteen minutes my arse. Youngest Daughter waited an hour and a half for one once.

It’s actually quite a pleasant walk – listening to bird song, or not in my case, as I had the iPod on, but you know what I mean. I could have listened to the birds, I chose not to though. On this occasion I preferred to try and deafen myself instead.

(Note to self: When listening to your iPod, just because you have music blaring out into your ears, doesn’t mean you should shout “MORNING” at the man pushing a buggy with his grandson in it. Saying it in a normal voice will be fine – you will be heard, and you won’t frighten any more toddlers.)

Wait.

(Another note to self: Just because you have Lily Allen’s The Fear blaring out into your ears and you know all the words, does not automatically mean you can sing. You can’t sing. You can only sing when drunk and in the company of other drunk people - they won’t give a toss what you sound like. Sober people who are out walking their dogs will.)

Wait.

Oi! Glastonbury Grafter (you brave soldier), see above! Please note I don’t just listen to Michael Bublé and big band stuff. But I’d also like to add that I don’t swoon over Lily Allen. I like her bangin’ choons. That’s it.

I walked past green fields, passed under the branches of leafy trees, nodded hello to riders atop their horses, watched out for rats (which I’m assured are there by my friend, Wise One, who does the walk most mornings), saw a fox darting across the road and generally thought how jolly darn lovely and pleasant it all was, tra-la-la, when I stopped in my tracks, ever so slightly gobsmacked.

I whipped my camera out of my handbag (carrying a small camera is something instilled in me by Significant Other – an avid photographer) because this is what I saw:

The road has a speed limit of 40mph, which drivers generally stick to.

Apart from this one apparently.

It’s not a Micra, so I think it’s fairly safe to say no old ladies were harmed in the making of this accident.

And it’s not a Ford Fusion, so it can’t have been a Sunday Driver either.

Unless...

          hold on...

                     let me think...

                                       gimme a minute...

                                                               ok...

                                                                    I think I have it...


It was a Sunday Driver taking the old lady out for a spin in a borrowed car.

Because it wasn’t actually a Sunday, his shiny Ford Fusion wasn’t allowed out of the garage. He couldn’t drive her Micra, because as everyone knows, they only have two gears - slow and slower.

Hence the borrowed car.

He then drove at a wilful and irresponsible speed of [gasp] 27mph, blatantly staying under the speed limit, and lost it on a straight bit of road because in a moment of hot-headed rashness, didn't have his hands in the ten-to-two position, thus ending up in the ditch.

That’s my theory anyway.

I Really Don't ♥ eBay People

I have noticed that my not-very-high-in-the-first-place tolerance level is getting lower regarding stupid people (conveniently overlooking the fact that [ahem] I can be one of them at times).

I’m currently selling the spiral staircase on eBay.

I have a real like/dislike attitude towards eBay. A lot of this stems from Significant Other loving it to the point where eBay would be the first port of call when we needed something, seeing it as a way of recycling unwanted items - he totally embraced the concept of recycling. (I dreaded him taking stuff to the dump, because he’d always come back with other peoples' unwanted, broken crap.)

Cameras, trainers, batteries, sofas, fish tank, cars, computer parts, motor bikes, watches, cement mixer, sirens, fridge, dodgy tv, dodgier van, well dodgy boat and plenty, plenty more – you name it, I’ve probably got it. As far as he was concerned, eBay was always the ‘solution’. Pfft.

It got to the point where I used to mutter, “I just want something new for a bloody change”, or more often than not, “what on earth do you/we need that for?” I don’t feel I was being unreasonable.

You might be sitting there wondering why I didn't put my foot down to stop the stock-piling of shite. The answer is that I fairly quickly learnt to choose my battles.

This being a prime example:

Quite.

I pointed out that we didn't live on a property with fifty acres, our neighbours in the East London terraced housed road we lived in would be justifiably cheesed off, and that marital rights would be withdrawn indefinitely, with no room for negotiation if it was purchased.

I think it was the fact that we didn't live on a large enough property that swung it in my favour.

A few years ago, our washing machine packed up and after consulting Haynes Washing Machine manual, Significant Other decided it was destined for the great launderette in the sky a.k.a. the dump.

Ebay was then pored over and he found a washing machine. It was duly bid for, won and collected.

After getting it home, Significant Other then decided it needed going over, so he took it apart on the living room floor. People who knew Significant Other will fondly laugh knowingly.

For the rest of you non-believers:

It was there for a week. [Sigh] If we’d had a new one, it would have saved me from schlepping to the launderette and it would have had a warranty and we wouldn't have kicked bits of washing machine guts around the headache inducing carpet. On reflection though, I was lucky it was just a week - he once bought a car and it was six months before I could drive it. Six bloody months.

(And people wonder why I'm as mad as a bucket of frogs - it's a highly developed, finely tuned coping mechanism.)

Anyway, my eBay listing for the spiral staircase clearly and bluntly states there is no Buy It Now Price, and any cash offers to end the listing early will be turned down. In fact my exact wording is:

Please note this is an auction.

There is no Buy It Now price.

Also, offering me a cash price, with collection being quicker than a gnat can fart to end the listing early, will be politely declined, so to save you the bother of typing it out, I've already answered it.

I can see seasoned eBayers nodding, because they know exactly where I’m coming from on this.

I thought I’d covered all bases.

Apparently not.

I was contacted by someone who provided me with their phone number, saying they wanted more information about the staircase.

Being the mug polite and considerate person that I am, I phoned, only to be asked the question by the timewasting tosspot potential bidder what price I’d be willing to take for it.

Feckin’ stupid twat.

My politeness went out of the window and I left him in absolutely no doubt as to what I thought of his question. I also have no doubt that if he was a serious bidder, he won’t be now. My loss. Shame. Not. And I withheld my number (heh, I'm not that stupid).

Unfortunately, because of the sheer amount of stuff I’ve been left with that needs selling, and eBay is oh so convenient in oh so many ways, I’m going to come across plenty more of these jerks dipshits morons fuckwits dumbasses  people.

Let’s see how many more pillocks I can alienate.

Bring it on.

I’m ready.

I Can Live With That

It has been brought to my attention that apparently I am as mad as a bucket of frogs.

It was originally a bag of snakes, but when I objected, due to my fear of snakes being far, far worse than my fear of worms, it quickly got amended to frogs.

My friend was quietly reserving judgement I think, but the comment about not eating spaghetti (because I viewed it as a plate of worms), tipped the scales.

Do I mind being thought of as mad? Nope - better to be thought of as mad rather than boring.

I can live with that.

I’ve also been told by three friends, on separate occasions, that I am a Diva.

This was for something I did (not opera singing), which I’m not prepared to divulge because my parents read this blog (Mum, Dad, don’t worry; all you need to know is that it didn’t involve drugs, sex or rock ‘n’ roll. Oh, or anything illegal, but it earned me BIG respect).

Just so you’re clear about what a Diva is, I looked it up for you. Apart from the female opera singer bit, this is its definition:

The word entered the English language in the late 19th century. It is derived from the Italian noun diva, a female deity. The plural of the word in English is "divas"; in Italian, dive [‘di:ve]. The basic sense of the term is "goddess”. (source: Wikipedia)

Deity?

Goddess?

Oh yes.

I can live with that too.