I went to one of the armpits of England and nearly had a nervous breakdown

After being propositioned in Kuala Lumpur by an extremely good looking woman outside his hotel… “I give best blow job in Kuala Lumpur!”… Mr Ex eventually got to Australia (when he recounted this to me, I wanted to know if she came with written references and/or testimonials, otherwise she might have been, heaven forbid, lying. I also wanted to know if he was sure the extremely good looking woman was a woman. He looked a bit disconcerted at this question… heh).

But goodness me, time dragged its heels flew when I was bored witless having fun working in Mr Ex’s office while he was living it up on his first visit to the other side of the world.

Actually, from what I can make out, there wasn’t too much living it up done, because he was too busy.

Yes, he went, he saw, he… gardened. For almost the entire time he was there.

If you ask me, it’s a long way to go just to do a bit of digging and planting. But each to their own, I suppose. *snort*

Unfortunately I have to report that I didn’t train the pigeons outside his office window to do anything offensive - to be honest, I forgot they were there. I daresay I shall be kicking myself for this oversight at some point.

But hopefully not for too much longer.

I had my job interview on Thursday - hurrah! Actually, it wasn’t just an interview, it was an assessment day. I had to be at the place of assessment/interview for 8:30am and as it involved a journey of approximately seventy miles to get there (‘there’ being what I consider to be a town classed as one of the armpits of England), I took the decision to book myself a hotel room and travel the night before, thus taking away any stress.

I had a straightforward journey there on Wednesday evening; the M25 was hassle free – apart from the obligatory roadworks. Plus there were more roadworks on the other motorway I had to use. Meh. I checked into the hotel (six miles away from where I needed to be the next day), set out everything I needed for the morning, set my alarm for 6am and after having a cheeky beer in the hotel bar, went to bed.

During the hours of darkness, I woke up, looked at the time, groaned when I saw it was 4:45am, turned over, pulled the duvet over my head and went back to sleep.

A while later, I gradually surfaced into consciousness and just lay there waiting for the alarm to go off.

I laid there.

I laid there longer.

I laid there longer still.

Eventually it dawned on me that the traffic outside was increasing and seemed to be a bit heavy considering it was before 6am.

So I looked at the time.

6:20am

Shit! The alarm hadn’t gone off: even though it was showing the alarm symbol, and it was showing ‘Snooze’ it wasn’t making a sound. Feckin’ iPhone!

I jumped out of bed, ran into the shower and ran out again (body, water… water, body. No time for the luxury of standing under the water for as long as I usually do), then proceeded to get ready (taming my hair takes priority – no way was I going to attend an assessment day, for a job I really want, with even a hint of scary hair – sorry Mum, I know you prefer my hair in its untamed state, but a)I don’t and b)the people I was being assessed/interviewed by would definitely have taken a dim view).

My original plan was to be downstairs for breakfast by 7am and away from the hotel by 7:30am. In my hastily revised plan (and by ‘revised plan’ I really mean ‘panic’) I ended up downstairs at 7:15am. I had to wait what felt like forever for the girl to come out of the kitchen to take my room number before I could get my food (but was actually only about 45 seconds).

Just imagine, there was I, dressed to impress, hair and make-up done to perfection, sitting in the restaurant amongst other people, with my plate of food consisting of two rashers of bacon, one sausage, scrambled egg, tomatoes, mushrooms and a glass of orange juice, which I proceeded to bolt down in about five minutes flat.

Classy.

I then went back to my room to get my stuff so that I could check out but found my key card wouldn’t work on my door.

SAKE!

I stood there for a couple of minutes, inserting the card slooooowly, removing it just as slooooowly.

Nothing.

I tried putting it in and out really quickly several times.

Nada.

I tried threatening the door and the key card.

No response.

Sighing and starting to panic ever so slightly, I made my way back downstairs to Reception to seek help.

Yes, Reception where there was nobody in attendance.

Fuck.

I pressed the button to call someone and waited a couple of minutes.

No response.

Fuckers.

After huffing and puffing and pacing backwards and forwards in sight of the security camera to no avail, I decided to go back to the nemesis that was my hotel room door and give it another go.

Swearing under my breath, I stood at that door and eventually I managed to get it open.

I grabbed all my stuff and with an ‘Up Yours’ to the door, I closed it behind me, praying I hadn’t forgotten anything. I hadn’t, thank goodness. I walked out of the hotel to my car, unlocked it, opened a rear passenger door to put my small case in the back and heard a noise.

The shoulder strap on my handbag had decided to break.

If you happened to be driving past a hotel on a main road in a town regarded as one of the armpits of England on Thursday morning and saw a smartly dressed woman standing next to a car, banging her forehead on said car and shouting, “FOR FUCKSAKE!” that would have been me.

Anyway, I got to the place of interview on time, totally chilled out, and left that afternoon at about 3:30pm.

I don’t know the outcome yet, but hopefully it won’t be long before I do. In the meantime, it’s back to the pigeons.

Gah.

Oops, a day late, but what the heck

I’m probably stating the obvious, but WTF is a child doing driving a Ferrari?

Okay, he may be allowed to drive it legally, but it’s a damn powerful car for a 17 year old to be driving: a 17 year old who has the equivalent of five minutes driving experience.

And yes, okay, from reports his car was the one that was pranged by another, but even so…

…he’s a child.

Sheesh.

Blimey, Friday don’t half come round quick!

This week’s WTF? is directed at myself and is purely my fault.

At the time of Significant Other’s death, amongst lots of other things, I was left with two cars, three vans and four motorbikes. I’m now down to two cars, one van and two motorbikes.

Sigh.

The cars – the Beastie and the Workhorse - both get used, although I tend to heavily favour the Beastie. While I was in Australia the Beastie’s MOT ran out and on my return I decided to leave it on the drive for a while and use the Workhorse.

Now that decision has firmly bitten me on the bum.

Occasionally Bro-in-law borrows the Workhorse, as it has a towbar which he can tow his boat with. Yesterday, he came and took the Workhorse as he and his family are going to Cornwall for a holiday.

“No problem,” said I “Have a great time!”

Off he drove, leaving me with his car to use, until I get the Beastie sorted, which I now intend to do asap.

Why?

His car is a fucking Micra.

WTF? Friday

There are many things that make me think WTF? so, to nick adapt a theme from Kyna, and in an attempt to get myself blogging a bit more regularly*, I’ve come up with:

This week’s WTF? comes courtesy of Virgin Atlantic:

Weep warnings?

Seriously??

Are they having a laugh? When I saw this on Wednesday, I thought it was an April Fool, until I remembered that actually, it’s August.

Personally, I’d rather a warning on the toilet doors. Something along the lines of:

Weep warnings, my arse.

 

*Disclaimer: I might not.

London Riots

I’m not going to write a long post about what’s been happening across London (and now other parts of Britain) this evening – it’s still ongoing. But while monitoring the BBC News website, I came across this picture:

Picture courtesy BBC News

Click pic to enlarge

When I saw it, I was lost for words.

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The season you are looking for might have been removed, had its name changed, or is temporarily unavailable in your area.

True Blood With Cheese, Easy On The Dressing

After reading and thoroughly enjoying all the books in the Sookie Stackhouse series, Youngest Daughter and I have recently watched and become addicted to True Blood. And there’s nothing quite like watching butt naked sex scenes on tv, with one of your offspring, for a bit of quality mother-daughter bonding time.

We’ve only seen the first series so far and have decided to rename it (hence the post title), because it is very cheesy in parts and they get naked a. lot.

When Sookie and Vampire Bill did the dirty for the first time, on a fur rug no less (following a scene of pure made-me-cringe-and-laugh cheddar), Bill’s fangs put in an appearance, prompting us both to crack up after I drawled, “A’hm a l’il bit exciiited Sook-eh, mah fahhngs sure are miiighty pleased tuh see ya’ll”.

Watching it has also prompted speculation between us regarding which women have had surgery to enhance their *ahem* assets.

“Oh that’s easy,” I told Youngest Daughter, “See her? She’s had surgery.”

“How can you tell?” asked Youngest Daughter.

“Well, she’s laying flat on her back and her boobs are still pointing towards the ceiling and not trying to seek shelter under her armpits.”

Not being one for watching blood and guts type films or programmes, I can just about handle the level of gore in it, although seeing the effect of a vampire getting staked gave me a stomach turning moment or two.

I’m not entirely sure why, whether it’s the actress or the writing, but Sookie irritates me and she gets right up my nose. Maybe it’s because she’s not how I imagined her to be from reading the books. However, watching the show seems to have revealed a side of me that I’m a little bit embarrassed about.

I would so be a fangbanger.

Yup.

I have a major oh-yes-bite-me-bite-me crush on Vampire Bill.

A big, fat fascination for a fictional dead bloke.

Sheesh.

The power of suggestion is a scary thing

I didn’t sleep too well last night and when I don’t sleep well, I dream. The reason for my restless night was due to Youngest Daughter. One of the subsequent slightly disturbing dreams I had has made me come to the conclusion that I may be spending a wee bit too much time in Blogland.

I will admit I spend a fair amount of time in Blogland, seeing as I have no life quite a bit of time on my hands. I follow many blogs and while visiting different ones, if a comment’s been left that piques my interest, I’ll pay a visit to the commenter’s blog. And so on - I am a lurker extraordinaire.

Last night, Youngest Daughter was getting ready to go out and appeared downstairs to ask my opinion on what shoes she should wear. Totally ignoring the question, I managed to bite back the typically parental, ‘there’s no way you’re going out dressed like that,’ and settled for the slightly less harsh, ‘I think you forgot to put your skirt on.’ To give her some credit though, Youngest Daughter does follow the rule: Legs Or Cleavage, Not Both.

Anyhow, last night was spent alternating between Blogland and the tv, but as there was typically bugger all worth watching on the tv, the internet proved the stronger draw for my attention. I happily poked around various blogs for quite a while before deciding to go to bed.

As I was subconsciously waiting to hear of Youngest Daughter’s safe arrival home – which didn’t happen until 05:47 – a restless night ensued, resulting in a few dreams.

In one of them I was attending a dinner party, and while I was chatting to a friend - a dream friend, not anyone I know in real life - a man sidled up to me and said, “Hello Bub, I’m Mr Finnell.” *

WTF?!


*If you’re confused and don’t know what the hell I’m referring to, read the comments on my last post.

Oi! Come back!!

Aaaand This Is Why I Have Comment Moderation Enabled

“The Moon

shines

on a cat

Meow

As a native Swede, I am particularly proud of my love poetry suite Sonnets for Katie.

My Poems

My wallpaper art Babes!

Sexuality introduces Death to Being; and indeed Life simultaneously. This is the profound Myth of the Eden. The work of the Serpent. Bringing us out of "blessed" Standstill. So, in contrast to the mindless pietism of vulgar Christianity, my personal "Christo-Satanism" should be given serious thought by the Enlightened Few, the Pneumatics, the 1% Outlaws. The Light Bringer must be rehabilitated, beacause if not, the All of it simply doesn't make sense: true Catholicism is necessarily Meta Catholicism.

My philosophy

Poétudes

Fremde Gedichte

And: reciprocity: for mutual benefit, you will do me a favor promoting your own blog on mine!

Yours,

- Peter Ingestad, Sweden”



No, I will not do you a favour by promoting my blog on yours.

But thanks for the offer.

Trying To Go With The Flow

Hello to Sharon at Resistant But Persistent. ‘Daddy… my Daddy’ are amongst three of my favourite words to hear too, gets me every time. Other three-word combination favourites of mine are: ‘duck fat chips’ and ‘wine… large glass’. They get me each and every time, but not quite in the same way!

 

When Youngest Daughter left for the delights of Majorca earlier this year, after the initial oh-crap-my-nest-is-empty-wtf-do-I-do?-who-am-I? feeling, I adapted and readjusted to being on my own rather well.

She was only away for four months, but in that time I enjoyed the peace and quiet, the tidiness and…

…an abundance of toilet roll.

However, since she’s been back toilet roll has been disappearing faster than I can buy it. I'm mystified as to the amount that’s being used - a new roll lasts for what seems like minutes. WTF does she do with it? (No, I don’t mean that in the literal sense.)

Some people have things hidden away in their homes such as jewellery or money. Drugs even. Not me. Nuh-uh. I now have an emergency toilet roll stash. Every now and then I furtively check its hiding place, giving a sigh of relief when I find it’s still where I left it.

As for the rolls not in hiding, I’m giving thought to rationing it  - “Number one or number two? Hmm… okay, you can have three sheets for that.”

Kidding.

I think.

When I delicately questioned her about it - “WHERE THE BLOODY HELL HAS ALL THE FECKIN’ TOILET ROLL GONE?!?” (from behind the closed bathroom door, when… well, I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out, but my secret hoard began immediately afterwards) – she told me her body is readjusting to being home. So I told her to readjust by not using half a roll at a time, but a lot less politely than that.

I was feeling a wee bit stressed.

Thank God for kitchen towel is all I can say.

Youngest Daughter’s return has also meant the return of her boyfriend, Mr Pot Noodle - he’s a great bloke and he has my full approval (apart from his discarded-in-the-heat-of-the-moment-then-forgotten-about wrapper habit. Eww. I’m still trying to look him in the eye for longer than a few seconds. Failing).

According to Youngest Daughter, Mr Pot Noodle is the one who messes up her bedroom.

Of course he is.

And I was born yesterday.

Oh.

A word of advice.

If you ever find yourself in the position of having to use kitchen towel in a place that’s not the kitchen, be careful…

…it’s scratchy.

They Have Got To Be Kidding

I went up to Derbyshire on Sunday, and while at Chatsworth House I bought a book – The Most Amazing Places To Visit In Britain - the 1000 most unusual, beautiful and captivating spots in Britain (their words, not mine).

Only I would go and buy a book that has nothing to do with the place I visited.

Much like going to Bakewell, home of the Bakewell Tart, going to the Bakewell Pudding Factory and ordering a slice of coffee and walnut cake. I really don’t know what I was thinking – I love Bakewell Tart. And I didn’t have any, or buy any to bring home. What a twat.

Also like being in Bakewell, going into one of the gift shops and coming out with a fridge magnet which is not in any way, shape or form relative to Bakewell. Once again, my inner moron took over.








Anyway, back to my book. I only gave it a cursory flick through before I paid for it. Had I have seen one of the places they’ve recommended before I’d parted with my cash, I think I’d have replaced the book back on the shelf, and bought another irrelevant-to-the-place fridge magnet and a slice of carrot cake instead.

This particular recommended ‘most amazing place’ has now made me doubt their judgement about the majority of the other places they’ve included.

The only explanation I can come up with for the inclusion of this place, is that the researchers got up to 999 places then developed Unusual, Beautiful and Captivating Fatigue. They’d had it. They were just too weary to go and find the thousandth place. So out of desperation and because they were probably up against a deadline, they included…

I can’t do it.

I don’t want to type it.

It’s just wrong.

You can’t make me.

I need wine.

Forget that, make it a large single malt.

[swig of malt]

Okay.

Here Goes.

The place included is...

[deep breath]

[another swig]

It’s...

[wail]

Southend Pier.

They have got to be kidding.

In the introduction of the book it says, and I quote, “…we have found 1000 amazing places where you may see or learn something to make your jaw drop.”

Oh yeah, Southend Pier’s inclusion made my jaw drop alright, and not in a good way.

The description in the book says, “The Pier is a breathtaking spectacle at first sight…”

Breathtaking? I really don’t think so. Whoever wrote that should be done for gross misrepresentation.

Once again I quote, “In spite of enormous changes in holiday habits, Southend Pier remains a magnet.”

What - like shit sticks to a blanket?

I’ve a good mind to write to them and tell them if they think Southend Pier is worthy enough to be included, then so is my front garden - they could, and should, include it in future revisions of the book.

I do not claim my front garden to be beautiful or captivating, but it could take one’s breath away.

My front garden currently boasts:

two vans (one with a broken window – visitors can marvel at the way the glass is hanging on in there, and for a few pence can take a small piece of glass home as a souvenir – I’ll even bubble wrap it);

two motorbikes (although SORNed, they could be rigged up to provide a fairground-type ride – hah! Southend Pier doesn’t offer that);

scaffold poles (could be used for ride – see above);

a ten foot long steel lintel (good for the kiddies, test their balancing skills);

an old garage door (could be propped up and used as a graffiti wall – byo spray cans);

a couple of nearly empty bulk bags – one with ballast in it (good for an archaeological dig – “ooh look mum, I found a pebble!”), the other with gawd knows what in it (I’m not looking – there’ll probably be all sorts of nasties in there – but excellent for a minibeast hunt);

a cement mixer (three possible uses: 1. another ride for small children (under adult supervision), making sure they haven't eaten before getting in - otherwise they'll puke; 2. a polisher for any pebbles found during archaeological digs of the bulk bag; 3. if puke is present, bung in pebbles to create Polished Pukey Pebbles™©).

Running next to my front garden is a ditch – which during the summer months tends to be dry – so I feel this would provide opportunities for a bit of a trek. During the winter, after prolonged heavy rain, white water rafting could be a possibility.

If visitors want to feel the fear, instead of looking down between the planks on the pier to see water below them, for a small fee, I’d open the door to the garage to show them the heap of shite that’s in there. That’s real fear.

At the moment there is also an added feature:

A bird appears to have spontaneously exploded – this provides a chance for any forensics amateurs to hone their skills.*








*Disclaimer: I (The Management) cannot guarantee this attraction will always be available – it depends on the local cats.

If the compilers of the book genuinely think Southend Pier ought to be included (and they obviously do because it’s in there) then, as I typed earlier, on that basis, I seriously think my front garden should be in there too.

In future when visiting any places of interest, I will give myself a good talking to, take firm control and buy something relevant to where I am.

Southend Pier, my arse.