The Optimist's Blog

Update

2012-01-22T09:16:00.006Z

Contain your excitement, lady and gentleman, this comes to you as a two parter:

Part 1: Saturday 14 January

H, he being the man I fancy, arrives to pick me up for our second drink. This one was also initiated by me, and it being a pre-arranged Saturday date, I've spent bloody hours trying to make myself look something approaching hot. Happily, he has made an effort, too, and off we go to a very lovely pub in the middle of nowhere with a huge open fire and a bevy of assorted local lunatics. All goes well. I have four beers, which embolden me slightly. He drives me home, and I invite him in for a cup of tea. He comes in, I light the fire (not a euphemism), we drink our tea on the sofa.

And there we remain, sitting so close we are touching, but not deliberately touching, talking and drinking tea until 2.15 am. At that point, I hit a slump of tiredness and the task of trying to work out whether he likes me or not becomes too much. Sensing my tiredness (possibly as a result of a yawn whose vortex took in half of the ground floor furniture), he suggests he should get going. There are cheek kisses at the door and I tell him to text me when he's safely home. I am at this point in complete confusion: He's here till 2.15: good. He didn't make a move on me: bad. Then I get a text thanking me for a great evening and telling me I'm an amazing girl. Win!

Fast forward to Friday the following week, and there have been a couple of texts, but nothing of any note, and, critically, no bloody suggestion that we do anything at the weekend. Well, I'm not the most patient woman in the world (yes, yes) and by this stage my frustration has reached boiling point. So I send him a text (the eighteenth version of one I began drafting on Tuesday, since you ask) which says:

"You're so polite I'm finding it very hard to tell if you're happy to spend time with me or just being kind. If you'd like to do something this weekend, let me know, but don't feel obliged."

I get an immediate response which says:

"I was just thinking about you. I think you're great, and I was hoping you thought the same about me. I am around, what do you want to do?"

Hoo-fucking-ray. Which leads us to...

Part 2: Saturday 21 January

Similar scenario to Part 1, only with added pressure now that we've established this is actually A Date. Go through the usual pre-date routine of shower, hair, make-up, perfume, seven changes of outfit strewn all over the arseing bedroom floor.

We end up in the same pub, and there is a different dynamic. Not in a bad way, but the mood is perceptibly different. About one and a half drinks in, H finally addresses the Messiah issue and asks whether he knows we are out. I confirm he does. He then tells me that he would have done something earlier, but the Messiah was away and, despite our assurances that we are just friends, he thought we might be more than friends and it would have been bad form to attempt to whip me out from under his nose. Or his nose in Shanghai, more accurately. Having got that out of the way, we proceed to have a lovely evening and end up back on the sofa in front of the fire.

There's a worrying similarity to week 1 proceedings at this point, and I am just wondering whether I should make a move when he takes my hand. We proceed from hand holding to arm stroking to lying in each other's arms to - finally - the first kiss. Now I've been worried that I've built this moment up in my head and he's a relatively shy guy, and what if he's not the best kisser, and what if it does nothing for me, etc etc. Well, he was a fucking marvellous kisser. There was an impressive moment when he was kissing me and had one hand in my hair, one hand in the small of my back, and another hand on my arse, but the arse hand turned out to be Dog, who had surreptitiously crept up onto the sofa. Anyway, once Dog had been dispatched back to bed, we continued with our adolescent snogging until 4.30 am, at which point he left and I went to bed, but found myself too excited to sleep.

So, there you have it. I am mooning around like a lovestruck teenager, wondering when I can see him again.

And really, really hoping I don't fuck this up.

The man I fancy

2012-01-01T09:48:00.004Z

I went out with the man I fancy on Friday night. I had spent the afternoon visiting my mum, newly discharged from hospital, who seems increasingly frail and small, for want of a better word. I found the visit very upsetting, so texted the Messiah to see if he was around for a drink. He wasn't, so I texted the man I fancy. Then I panicked, and texted him again to apologise and say it wasn't for him to cheer me up. He texted back to say he wasn't doing anything and would come and pick me up and take me out for a drink. He arrived with a bottle of wine and chocolates, drove me to a pub in the middle of nowhere, and sat and listened to me being upset about my mum, then patiently watched me get pissed and delivered me back home at 1 am.

I've no idea if any of this means anything, but, if nothing else, he's another lovely person I'm incredibly grateful to have around, in any capacity. And it warms my heart to know that he cares whether I am happy or sad.

Dog's Christmas

2011-12-25T19:34:00.001Z

Here's a nice photo of Dog with his Christmas present:

And here's another one taken 7 minutes later:

Aaaahhh, bless.Merry Xmas everyone.

Ho ho ho

2011-12-21T21:33:00.015Z

Here are the festive scores for the last two weeks:

Cards sent: 18

Presents bought: 15

Tequilas drunk: 1

Margaritas drunk: 1/2

Mojitos drunk: 1

Ports drunk through a straw (no idea): 2

Public snogs with 27 year-old solicitor at departmental do: 1

Links to seduction scene from The Graduate sent by boss: 1

Hours of departmental hilarity at my expense: 163 (ongoing)

Years spent on this planet: 45

Hours spent celebrating birthday in pub: 5

Pints of lager drunk: 362

Size 12 coats Messiah attempted to put on at end of birthday celebrations: 1

Size XXL coats I attempted to put on at end of birthday celebrations: 1

Friends wondering how we could possibly mix them up: 1 (sober)

Friends in complete agreement that they looked very similar: 5

Messiah's hands on my arse in an attempt to push me into taxi (it was a bloody people carrier from the Land of Arseing Giants): 2

Punters watching and cheering from inside the pub: 27

Minor injuries sustained on entering said cab head first at speed of light: 1

Birthdays lost to hangover: 1

Nights worked late due to insane workload: 14

Days sick with overwork flu thing: 4

Days actually taken off work: 1

Bonuses received: 1

Bonuses spent on late night sandwich: 1 (entire)

Friends lost to motherhood, and sorely missed: 1

Visits to own mother in hospital: 1

Number of lives possessed by mother: 9 (thank you god, or whoever)

Cards eaten by Dog: 1

Nights so far without Grump: 4

Christmas trees put up: 0

Heart shaped card received from man I fancy: 1

Hours spent wondering if this is significant: 231

Days left at work: 1

Total: I'm fucking knackered.

Grump discovers working out

2011-12-06T12:35:00.000Z

Grump, proudly exposing his midriff: "I'm getting a six pack!"

Me: "For Christmas? Who from?"

Both: "Ha ha ha ha ha haaa."

Ahh, the daily hilarity of life at Spacehopper Towers.

Predictably pissed texting

2011-12-04T12:29:00.016Z

On Friday we had our departmental Christmas do. This traditionally involves a bunch of London's finest legal minds and assorted hangers-on (me) getting completely over-excited at being in the presence of so much booze. For some inexplicable reason, the fun always begins between 2 and 3, with the result that most people end up working through lunch, instead of eating, so by 4.23 there isn't a coherent person standing in whichever classy venue has the great fortune to be hosting the festivities.

By some miracle, I managed to make my last train home on Friday. The captain of the Messiah's cricket team is often to be found on his last train at the same time, and we like to pass the journey comparing beer consumption and late night snacks over the text. Here is the thread from Friday:

Skipper:

Your mate, the last train.

Me:

Me too. I'm going to have to can from Tonbridge.

Cab, that would be.

Skipper:

I love to "can" from Tonbridge. I switched tonight and had a mcchicken sandwich. Crazy times.

Me:

Woo! Although, fuck the fuck off in takin you're making s loaf of sense.

Oh dear.

Skipper:

That is a classic text. I make sense thanks to your mate auto correct. All uber it.

Over it.

Fucks sake.

Me:

You and me both. I've no idea what I was trying to say before it went mental.

Skipper:

My train is pacified. I'm having to sit next to some fucker.

Train is packed.

Me:

And pacified?

Skipper:

This is the wonder of modern technology, Spacehopper. The fucking wonder. My train is very pacified, no rucks at all yet. Surprising seeing as it goes to Bromley.

...and so on. You can just picture two drunken idiots stabbing at their smart phones to produce this sophisticated level of communication; it must gladden the hearts of all the geniuses who've put this technology at our fingertips.

Fancy

2011-11-27T09:15:00.008Z

Something odd has happened. I have stopped loving the Messiah. As suddenly as I realised I loved him, I have realised I don't love him. I think in both cases the process was so gradual, I failed to notice, but here I am, in sole possession of my heart again.

I like it.

Post mortem

2011-11-20T00:27:00.005Z

So, the date duly went ahead and it was a night of firsts. It was, for example, the first time that:

1. the Messiah has expressed an opinion about my hair (better up than down, since you ask);

2. I have been walked to a date by another man;

3. I have observed a man get shorter when he gets up from his seat;

4. I have been on a date with someone camper than Liberace;

5. I have turned down a fifth drink.

I think it's safe to say that Liberace and I won't be the next great love story, but as dates go, it was entirely harmless, and probably a good one to start back with.

Update

2011-11-14T22:17:00.004Z

There's a date planned for Thursday this week. At least, there was, but the man in question seems to have gone quiet for the last couple of days. Who knows what's going on? Me, I'd be perfectly happy just to have a few pints with the Messiah, or come home and do the ironing, instead of pimping myself around the internet.

Still, my band of virtual admirers grows ever greater and today, lady and gentleman, I have acquired a sixty-six year old fan. Yes, sixty-six. I'm forty-fucking-four. I need to learn how to use Photoshop.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends...

2011-09-24T17:28:00.006+01:00

Yes, it's back to the virtual date-o-rama for me. Hooray!, I hear you cry as one. Quite possibly because you are only one. Well, Richard, I must ask you to contain your excitement for a little longer whilst I finalise my launch onto the poor unsuspecting buggers of cyberspace.

The Messiah returned from Shanghai in April and has headed back out there again for a few weeks. During his time back home, we slipped back into our routine of spending most of our time together on a purely platonic basis. He has expressed a wish for a wife and children and I, having been in sole possession of Grump for the last millennium, have done my utmost to talk him out of this lunacy. He's not to be deterred, despite the lamentable litany of Grump's hilarious escapades, so I have suggested he get looking. Whilst we spend all our time in each other's company, neither of us will meet anyone else, so, reluctantly, I must learn to share him, and he to share me.

My boss has recommended an internet site on which he claims to have had some success. This is a complete delusion. I know this because every story he has told me relates to women in various stages of madness. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I've signed up. I haven't actually handed over any money yet, but the first step has been taken and I have already acquired some admirers. Some of them are even under 60. I foresee humiliation, hilarity and an increased beer consumption. So not all bad then.

Grump discovers sex

2011-05-27T23:02:00.007+01:00

Yes, folks, Grump has progressed from number one porn downloader to horizontal sofa acrobat.

Unluckily for him, he hasn't yet mastered the art of lying convincingly, so when I came home and found him opening the living room blinds, I leapt gazelle-like to the conclusion that he was up to no good. Some incisive questioning ("Who's been round?") wrong-footed him to such an extent that he only went and told me the truth.

I can't remember if I shared the last blinds down experience, which took place a few years ago, and involved an open laptop on the dining-room table, some athletic Russian naturists and a red-faced Grump. You'd think he'd have learnt his lesson, but no, Grump remains resolutely set on the path of repeating past mistakes.

Anyway, his laptop was in the repair shop, no doubt crushed by the weight of filth it carried, and presumably Grump decided this was as good a time as any to try his luck in the real world. Unfortunately, his precocious ex seems to have been all too willing to help him fill the time he should have been spending on his homework engaged in a spot of practical sex education.

I only found out the full extent of his philandering when, as part of his punishment, I swept up all his gadgets, including his iPod and mobile. There are some things a mother should never see, and chief amongst those are sex texts between her son and his "ex". Dear God, let me never have to read the like of those again. Thank fuck I can't work his iPod so whatever's on there remains a mystery. Anyway, an email was despatched to the ex (finally, Facebook comes good) explaining that I had seen the texts and she would be well advised to give me and Grump a wide berth, unless she thought her parents would enjoy a full rundown of her antics. Funnily enough, she agreed to stay away.

More funnily still, she left my email open on the family computer, with the result that I got an 8am phone call from Mrs Ex demanding to know what was going on. Fortunately, she turned out to be both reasonable and nice, and a meeting has been scheduled to discuss the way forward.

Next time... Grump goes on a criminal spending spree at my expense. Again.

Spring

2011-04-04T21:42:00.007+01:00

Space Hopper Towers has been a hive of activity over the last few weeks. The study has been painted, blinds have been put up, the shed cleared out and the garden blitzed and replanted.

The scores are as follows:

Offers to assist from hairy idiot with thumbs = 0

Offers to assist from hairy idiot without thumbs = 3,653

Rambling roses attached to forehead, forearms and forelock = 2

Yelps emitted in trying to disentangle self from rose = 17

Howls of laughter from Grump at said yelps = 17

Offers from Grump to assist with disentanglement = 0

Expletives uttered = 0 (an impressive, yet short-lived record)

Outside walls painted white = 3

Enthusiastic inspections by Dog of painting = 27

Dog ears painted white = 2

Dog eyebrows painted white = 2

Dog leg painted white = 1

Garden benches assembled = 1

Wooden dowels missing from bench pack = 2

Wooden dowels discovered pulped next to pleased as punch Dog = 2

Wooden dowels cobbled together from twigs for assembly of bench = 2

Expected lifespan of bench = 37 minutes 6 seconds

Fennel tree uprooted from garden = 1

Unidentified rampant green things uprooted from garden = 11

Bruises to arms, legs and feet = 63

Cuts to arms, legs, face and feet = 56

Utterances of fuck, fucker, fucking, fucko = 7,389,211

Evil smelling lawn restorer scattered on lawn = 1 pack

Delicious smelling lawn restorer immediately scoffed down by Dog = 7/8th of pack

Measureable improvement to lawn = fuck all

Hand cream of choice = Savlon

Phrase du jour = “Hope I don’t get tetanus”

Ah, yes, it’s been great.

More family dramas

2011-03-10T22:10:00.007Z

My dear old mum has had another spell back in hospital. Hopefully, she'll be coming back out again tomorrow but for the last couple of weeks she's been quite poorly.

She has COPD which, for the uninitiated, is a degenerative lung disease which means her lung function is compromised at the best of times. An illness or infection on top of this underlying issue means that her lung function drops even further, and, to put not too fine a point on it, she's up the creek without a paddle.

This is precisely what happened and for a couple of days she was in a very bad way.

Grump and I went down to Hampshire to visit the day after she'd been admitted to hospital. She was hooked up to all sorts of monitors and drips and was quite a sorry sight. Grump, not being one to beat about the bush, immediately began asking what everything did. My mum explained that one monitor showed her blood pressure, another her blood oxygen levels, heartbeat, etc etc. Grump immediately deemed this "Cool." As her levels were skipping all over the place at that time, he then began saying "Oooh, 80, 130, 95, 93, 125, 74 blimey, Granny, that's a bit low." Ah, yes, ever tactful.

Fortunately, my mum is not of a sensitive disposition, so she found this quite amusing. When he turned to me and said "Let's guess the numbers - Blood Pressure Bingo!" she had a chuckle. When he threw his arms up and shouted "Full house!" she chuckled again. And when, having exhausted the Blood Pressure Bingo thrills, he suggested a game of Russian Roulette, whereby "We could switch everything off and see what number it stops at" she managed the biggest chuckle of the day. What a trooper.

Unlicensed activity

2011-02-05T12:01:00.009Z

Before Christmas I received a missive from the DVLA telling me that I had to apply for a new licence because my photo would soon be 10 years old.

In my last photo, they somehow erased my eyebrows, so I was quite pleased at the prospect of getting those back. The £20 fee was less exciting, but I had no choice, so off I went to the photo booth whereupon I was parted from £5 - yes, FIVE POUNDS - for a set of photos in which I was not to be "wearing spectacles, grinning, or raising my eyebrows". In other words, I should not look like an escapee from the local lunatic asylum, and/or a member of the local bellringers society.

Anyway, I sent off my cheque, mug shot, old photo card and completed form, and this week my new licence arrived.

I don't know about you, but I was expecting something a bit more...together...for that kind of money.

Still, someone looks pleased with it.

They're not getting another £20 off me. I'll sign what's left of the signature box and, if I ever have to produce it, feign amazement at the havoc the lesser known Kentish paper-eating moths can wreak.

Language barrier

2011-01-30T10:06:00.001Z

The Messiah tried to buy a stamp yesterday. Having been directed to the post office by his work colleagues, he approached the man at the counter and, not being a speaker of Mandarin or Shanghainese, pointed at the space on the envelope where the stamp ought to be. The man yelled and pointed at another counter. The Messiah stood at the other counter and pointed at his missing stamp again. Once more, there was yelling and pointing. He moved to the third counter, and was about to begin his mime when a woman barged in front of him and the entire post office descended into a riot of yelling and gesticulation. He gave up and went home.

It reminded me of an incident when Grump was very small and we were travelling on the train into London, minding our own business, when a small Chinese lady suddenly started yelling at the back of my head. I turned around for an explanation and, in very broken English, she said - or, more accurately, bellowed - "I'll get it for you". At that point, she reached over and plucked a nit off my head which she then held triumphantly aloft with an enormous grin, for the viewing pleasure of the entire carriage. Turned out she wasn't cross at all; just being helpful. In her mind, at least.

I shared this gem with the Messiah and suggested he may have misinterpreted the yelling. He was having none of it and got one of his colleagues to write out what he needed on a piece of paper. The last time he did this, he asked someone to write "haircut". When he presented it, the barber fell around laughing, but duly obliged with the haircut. It turned out his bit of paper said "Make me look beautiful". I can't wait to hear what he gets at the post office.

More Bon Mots from the Funsters

2011-01-29T21:54:00.001Z

K, discussing various health and weight loss procedures:

"Have you ever done that colonic inauguration?"

Ceremonial enemas: the way forward.

The Messiah does a runner redux

2011-01-24T19:58:00.001Z

Yes, he's gone again. This time it's back to Shanghai for a two month stint. On past experience, this means at least two and a half months and, quite probably, three. He's promised he won't stay longer than that and, indeed, his visa expires after 3 months, at which point I anticipate he will be frog-marched to the airport and forced aboard a plane at gunpoint. By me.

In the meantime, however, I am bereft, not least because of the 8 hour time difference which makes it bloody impossible to Skype except at weekends. Although, given the Messiah's propensity for napping, the fact that one of us is asleep for a large part of the day isn't entirely unfamiliar.

Dog at one with nature

2011-01-11T20:39:00.016Z

The Messiah and I took Dog for a walk on Monday. Dog wanted a closer look at the geese...

...but failed to put the brakes on.

I swear I heard the geese sniggering. Still, he enjoyed his swim and later made friends with the biggest dog he'd ever met.

Good old Dog.

Happy New Year

2011-01-07T08:33:00.015Z

In an attempt to avoid being robbed blind and/or surrounded by youngsters having more fun than you could shake your fake ID at, the Messiah and I ended up in a small local pub on New Year's Eve.

There was a moment of anxiety when we got there and found a large couple perched on stools at the bar, she sporting a studded dog collar (of the canine, not holy, variety) and what can only be described as a fake fur tabard, and he in a mask. Imagine our relief when Papa Smurf appeared to serve us, and it became clear that we weren't about to be initiated into the local Kentish S&M Society, but rather were the odd ones out at a fancy dress themed evening. (Having said that, I've always thought Papa Smurf had something of the pervert about him - very tight trousers.)

There then followed several hours of fun during which the Messiah and I sniggered at the regulars and he worried about Scooby Doo (for it was he that the furry drunk woman was supposed to represent) who periodically gave him the once over. Or maybe she was just trying to focus between her inter-drink naps at the bar. Either way, he had the same skittish look in his eye which I fondly remember from our post-Thundergate days. Petrified.

There was a moment of relief when a jovial Deputy Dog appeared and greeted Scooby Doo with the immortal line: "Aaah, Chewbacca!", which earned him a filthy look from her and a large guffaw from us. However, shortly after 11, the Messiah turned to me and said:

"Shall we go? I'm worried about who I'm going to have to kiss if we're here at midnight."

I raised an eyebrow.

"No, no, not you: Chewbacca" (glancing nervously over his shoulder).

So, off home we went, whereupon we drank more beer, watched a bit of telly, and I buggered off to bed at 1ish leaving the Messiah with strict instructions not to let Dog up onto the sofa with him. So far, so sedate.

Unfortunately, at about 4 am, unbeknown to me, the Messiah began the first of many trips to the bathroom. I finally got wise to this when I emerged from the bathroom myself to hear what I can only describe as tortured groaning coming from the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" I called down, helpfully.

"No", came the reply. Or, rather, "No..ooo..oooo...oo..o." (Men, I ask you.)

Yes, the Messiah welcomed in the New Year with a bout of the winter vomiting bug. My own participation in his bathroom-based festivities was the fetching of sick buckets, the patting of his back, the stroking of his head and fevered brow, and the holding of drinks up to his forlorn and somewhat pissed-off face. When he could speak again, he indignantly expressed his disgust thus:

"This can't be down to booze. The preparation was flawless: we ate, we stuck to beer, and we didn't even drink that much."

Indeed.

Happily, he had recovered by mid-week, and tonight we are off to the Cricket Club Christmas do, which, I predict, will involve more booze and hilarity, not least at my efforts to understand the inevitable post-mortem of the Test Match.

Merry Christmas

2010-12-25T16:42:00.002Z

Today I have been the following:

1. A good mother;
2. A good daughter;
3. A good neighbour;
4. A good friend.

I am now about to return to the more characteristic state of being:

5. A good deal less sober than I ought to be.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

The return of the Messiah

2010-12-23T07:55:00.003Z

Today the Messiah returns from Amshterdam. Failing weather disasters, by 6 pm tonight, I'll be in the Old Red Lion listening to his stories, with a beer, laughing my head off.

It's everything I could ask for.

The party scores

2010-12-18T13:45:00.014Z

Alcohol units consumed: 709

Food consumed: 3 and a quarter chips

Dances with lunatic Irish boss who morphs into MC Hammer when vodka is added: 67

Knee injuries sustained during dance-off: 2

Shots consumed: 0

Hours lost due to alcohol amnesia: 0 (Aah-ha)

Fumbles with 24 year old paralegal: 371

Photos evidencing same: 1

Indelible ink stamp on hand which refuses to budge: 1

Lawyers found sleeping on pavement by prostitute: 1

Last train home: 0

Taxi home at cost of £90: 1

Hours slept: 4

Work done following day: 0

Laughs had at expense of everyone but me: innumerable

Not a bad result, I'd say.

Ow

2010-12-16T20:34:00.001Z

That's all.

Beer shame. Again.

2010-12-13T20:23:00.005Z

The Godmother's advice to me for dealing with the aftermath of Friday's departmental xmas party/my birthday do was this:

"Hold your head high and deny everything".

Sensible advice, so in I strode this morning with a cheery "Morning!"

"I've had three complaints about you already" replied Head of Department "Ha ha ha."

"Errrm.... ha ha...hm"

There then followed some casting about on my part in an attempt to fill in the missing parts of the evening, i.e. all but the first hour and 36 minutes.

Here is a list of questions which baffled me:

"What time did you leave?"

"What the hell were you bollocking on about?" (How rude, I'm sure it was riveting stuff.)

"Did you enjoy having everyone sing Happy Birthday to you?" (No, but it seemed churlish to stab you through the eye with the sparkler off the cake.)

"Was [insert any number of people's names] there?"

"D'you remember the salsa?" (Salsa? There was fucking salsa?!)

"What time did I call you?" (You called me? AND you texted me? And you say I texted back? Well, well.)

"Why did Rob have his shirt off?"

"What were you doing with that 24 year old paralegal?" (Hey, it was my birthday!)

Conveniently, I was able to answer all of the above with one handy question of my own:

"Do I need to apologise?"

The answer so far has been "no". I think I got away with it. Roll on Wednesday and the firm-wide xmas bash.

Thank God that's over

2010-12-11T17:55:00.004Z

My birthday celebrations went off with a predictable lack of dignity. There were sambucas, tequilas and gallons of beer. As a result, my recollection of the night is somewhat hazy, but I woke up in full make-up, smelling of after shave and feeling considerably older today than I did yesterday. Oh dear. Thanks to the Godmother for seeing me safely home and putting up with my drunken ramblings. I'm off for a little lie down now.

Ho Ho No

2010-12-06T21:21:00.017Z

Having made it back to work today, I got the good news from my sour-faced team co-ordinator (don't ask - meaningless) that I'd only be getting paid for two of the four days I had off last week. I had already offered to take one day as holiday, that being the day when I didn't fancy the rail replacement bus and 3 hour journey to work. You would have thought that would have been viewed as a reasonable gesture on my part. But no, apparently, the fact that there was no method of transport available to relay me from Kent to London should have proved no impediment to me appearing at my desk each day.

Sour-face actually attempted to present this seasonal cheer as a bonus, and one for which she'd had to crawl over several miles of broken glass, thereby, presumably, earning my eternal gratitude. An expectant look appeared on her face in readiness for the outpouring of thanks. I dare say it's still there.

As I made my way home tonight, having put in yet another unpaid extra hour, I consoled myself with thoughts of the lovely time Dog and I had last week.

So, here's another photo of him in the snow:

And here's one of him in uncharacteristically quiet mood, post snow:

The tight-fisted fuckers can't take that away from me.

They can't, can they?

Mid life crisis

2010-12-04T21:40:00.026Z

Next Friday, I'll be 44. Or 40-fucking-4, as I prefer to call it. There's no denying middle age now. Statistically, I'm halfway through my life, and that's not taking into account my stratospheric booze consumption. On that basis alone, I'll be lucky if I last another 7 minutes, but not for nothing is this called The Optimist's Blog. I'll type fast.

I think it's safe to say that I'm not living the life I, or my dear old parents, had anticipated. So, time for a little reflection on what I've achieved thus far.

Childhood:

The early part consisted of a loving and loved family; long hot summers spent outdoors; cycling over crushed oranges fallen from the trees; friends; short mild winters spent watching dubbed films in old cinemas; terracotta tiled pavements; swimming; my mother kissing me goodnight on her way out to another party, all glamour, perfume and jewellery; crushes on my brother's friends; mad, but lovely, pets; Beatles records played endlessly by my brother. In short, it was perfect.

Then, aged 10, I was shipped off, with my brother, to Edinburgh for A Good Education, and the sun went in, both literally and metaphorically. Suddenly, life became about bone-aching cold; the wrong shoes; the wrong bag; the ensuing spite that only children can summon; grey skies, buildings and faces; transatlantic flights; crushing homesickness; and an epic attempt on my part to eat my way to happiness. In short, "The horror! The horror!" Yes, that's what my expensive education got me: 18 months of being a porker, and the ability to quote Joseph Conrad in a blog.

Education:

See above: a good and expensive education which came to an abrupt halt in my first year at university, when I met a man. Who turned out to be an utter cock. Sadly, this derailing from the planned course due to my involvement with a man has been something of a recurring feature. Actually, so has the man being a total cock, now I think about it.

Career:

Hm. Having once been destined for great things, I have found, is not as good as having a degree. So, into a career of drudgery I fell. I moved to London (met a man) and there was a hiatus in my chosen line of drudgery when I worked for a while in PR. This was a fantastic time on many counts: I met some of my loveliest friends there; I was in my 20s in a city I loved; nights out were frequent and sometimes ended in bed with the office heartthrob; and, best of all, I was, once or twice, allowed to write as part of my job.

Of course, it couldn't last. They paid peanuts and I wanted to get a degree, so I went back to the drudgery for the money. And then promptly met Grump's father, which put paid to that idea (pardon the pun). Which leads me to...

Relationships:

Oh dear. Where to begin? The university boyfriend pretty much set the benchmark. It took me a while to realise his charm and good looks didn't make up for a fairly fundamental flaw in his character, that being his propensity for emotional and physical bullying, but I finally got there and dumped him.

There then followed a few unremarkable relationships, including the man who spurred the move to London, the city being the determining factor, not him. Not a huge surprise when we split up a few weeks later then. More unremarkable relationships until I met Grump's father, who at the time shared a house with the Godmother.

I got together with Grump's father about 24 hours before he got sacked from one of London's top advertising agencies, which turned out to be something of an omen. There was a whirlwind romance, a wedding, and very swiftly thereafter a dawning on my part that I had married a carbon copy of the university boyfriend. Only without the good looks. Sadly, that realisation coincided with the discovery that I was pregnant, so there were efforts made to make things work. My abiding memory of those efforts is a trip to Relate, which ended with a blazing row on Oxford Street, after which I and my large bump boarded a bus and Grump's father shouted from the pavement, all twisted face and vitriol, as I rode off. Which was as accurate a representation of the end of our relationship as you could hope for.

I then met the man I almost married. I loved him and he loved me back. It was good. Except that he was eight years younger than me and in fear of what his parents would think of his future wife being older, divorced and in possession of a small child. Turns out he was right, because the morning after we went out with his mother to celebrate our engagement, he was summoned to a meeting at which she detailed all the reasons he shouldn't marry me, starting with Grump's existence and my divorce. To his credit, he ignored her, but the damage was done; I saw a future stretching out ahead of me in which the old bat interfered in every aspect of our lives, and bailed. At least, that was the tangible reason; I suspect my commitment phobia played a sub-conscious part.

Friends:

Loveable idiots, to a man, and infinitely more reliable than the men in my life. Which is all the more remarkable, because the PR industry isn't renowned for its sincerity. I also got joint custody of a few of the ex fiance's friends, not least the Policeman, who I've mentioned before. Ahem. Anyway, a few of them are scattered about the globe now, but no less dear to me for that.

Family:

I've always considered Grump to be my best achievement, a fact of which I remind myself when my hands involuntarily reach out for a hold on his neck.

And I've always loved my parents, and been secure in the knowledge that they love me, despite the fact that we are a family of non-emoters. I miss my dad every day, and I speak to my mum most days. My brother is a trickier one. I love him, but he lacks empathy and he can't understand why I've, as he sees it, thrown away all the chances I had for a successful life.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter.

Conclusion:

I've seen a few of my friends' relationships implode, but most are still going strong. Quite a few of my friends are high-earners trying to juggle professional commitments with familial commitments. The solution seems to involve throwing money at problems which arise from a lack of time, thus needing more money to throw at the problems, thus leaving less time, and so on.

The couples seem content in each other's company and are sweetly supportive of each other. But my friends and the Messiah provide all the emotional support I need. My non-relationship with him continues to confuse everyone around us, but beyond knowing that I love him on some level, and that I am happier when he's around than when he isn't, I don't care to analyse. I think he feels the same. Having been on so many emotional rollercoasters in the past, I'm enjoying the peace. I'd quite like to have sex again before I die, mind you.

My conclusion is this: you make your own happiness, irrespective of convention. In my case, I seem to have achieved almost complete happiness with Grump, the Messiah, Dog, the Godmother and assorted friends. I wonder what the next 7 minutes will bring.

Snow

2010-12-03T21:46:00.016Z

Good old Southeastern. This week I've had four full days off work, thanks to their inability to run the trains. Still, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth I've made full use of the unexpected time off. Here's what I've seen.

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Days 1-4:

Marvellous.

Lost in space

2010-11-30T15:12:00.002Z

Although the Messiah's removal went relatively smoothly, there were some issues with the storage company. At the outset, they estimated the contents of his 2 bedroom flat would fit into a 50 sq foot room. The Messiah paid up for this, proceeded to pack up his flat and quickly realised there wasn't a hope it would fit into a 50 sq foot room. At which point he helpfully left the country.

So, off I went to the storage place and, after a mere 40 minutes of paperwork, the Messiah was upgraded to a 75 sq foot room, which storage man swore would be sufficient for his needs. Recalculating the cost led to a worrying amount of head-scratching on the part of storage man, whose arithmetical ability seemed to be on a par with Dog's, but finally a figure was produced, and onto my credit card it went.

On to moving day, when the padlock to the storage room came off, and a collective intake of breath issued forth from the removal men. Back to the office I went, and a 100 sq foot room was procured for the Messiah's possessions.

The Messiah was kept abreast of developments and emailed me yesterday to ask how much he owed me. I emailed him back as follows:

Storage - second attempt: £199.43
Storage - third attempt: £102.18
Removal: £349.56
Cabs all over the fucking place: £3,792.86

Total: £4,444.03

Unfortunately, I've lost the receipts for the cabs, so I'll settle for £651.17 (receipts attached).

The Messiah replied thanking me. Some time later, I received this further email from him:

I just remembered I paid £232 for my storage on the day. Does that mean I've paid £533? Is that right? When does that take me up to, the 2012 Olympics? Is the Ghana swimming team squatting in my storage cupboard for the duration of the games?

It does seem a little steep. I've passed all the paperwork to Dog and await clarification.

Project Move Messiah

2010-11-27T20:27:00.000Z

With exceptional bad timing, the Messiah received notice on his flat and the offer of work abroad within days of each other. He had two and half days in which to pack up and bugger off to Amshterdam, so I offered to deal with the removal of all his worldly belongings into storage. Today, Project Move Messiah was successfully completed. Had I not gone boozing with the Funsters last night, this would have been infinitely less painful, but, to his credit, the Messiah dealt with all the packing before he went, and left me some helpful notes.

There was a more specific instruction for me about the bed:

And a helpful tip for the removal men with regard to a cupboard:

We couldn't fail really, could we?

Road Trip

2010-11-20T23:14:00.002Z

Today Grump, the Godmother, Dog and I went on an exciting road trip. More accurately, we paid a visit to my mother in Hampshire.

Grump and I have made the trip many times, and each and every one has resulted in prolific swearing and u-turns. This is partly down to the AA Routeplanner, which appears to be sponsored by the Belgian Tourist Board. At least, that’s the only explanation I can find for the fact that, no matter what destination you enter, you are invariably sent via Antwerp. Having got wise to this, I switched to the RAC Routeplanner, which provides nice accurate directions. Unlike Grump, whose preferred method of direction goes something like this: “Mmmmmmthink that was the turning” as we sail past at 90 miles an hour. Very helpful, Grump. Maybe if you put down the DS/Gameboy/porn, we might increase our chances of exiting Kent before nightfall.

Anyway, today, Grump and Dog were relegated to the back seat, whereupon the excitement of the walk to the car caught up with Grump, who promptly fell asleep. Dog, seeing an opportunity for a sly piece of lap action, climbed onto Grump and did the same. Were it not for the smell, you’d never have known they were there.

The Godmother was presented with the RAC print-out and proceeded to provide clear and concise instructions which shaved a full 30 minutes off the journey. Well done, Godmother. In stark contrast to a previous episode, when she was tasked with directing us from London to Dartmouth. Back and forth across Devon we went, up and down A roads, B roads and no roads, until finally we arrived at the River Dart with an almighty sigh of relief. And there we remained, until the ferry appeared to convey us to the correct side of the River Dart, Godmother having failed spectacularly to achieve that. Aaaah, happy days.

I should point out, as the Godmother did when I reminded her of this incident, that the purpose of the trip was my niece's christening. Who is sitting her A levels this year. Time hasn't diminished my enjoyment of it, though.

Skype

2010-11-16T21:57:00.011Z

"What the fuck is that?!", I hear you cry as one. No? Just me then. Anyhoo, the Messiah being in Amshterdam now, I have been dragged into the world of modern communications. Ooh, the excitement.

Here's how it went. The Messiah texted me to tell me to sign on to Skype. Managing to download it had taken me to hitherto undreamed of technological heights, but in I went, prompted by idiot-proof instructions.

Anyway, I did what I was told (so many firsts in one evening) and there before me appeared the Messiah! I swear I heard a choir of angels, although it might have been the sound of Dog digesting the pizza menu he'd just scoffed down. Either way, Dog heard the Messiah's voice, too, and promptly lost what few marbles he has, searching hither and thither for his loved one.

Having failed to locate him, Dog promptly sat down in my lap, completely obliterating my view of the Messiah and, obviously, his of me. Funnily enough, the Messiah failed to object to this turn of events, and there followed a series of soppy declarations from him whilst Dog's head continued to spin like a top and I attempted a muffled conversation through a large pair of hairy ears.

I'm not convinced this is the way forward.

The Messiah does a runner

2010-11-10T22:49:00.011Z

The Messiah is off again, this time to Amsterdam. This is phenomenally good news for him because it means he can put on his silly Dutch accent and say "shuper shexshee girls" every three minutes, but it's pretty tragic for me and, indeed, the landlord of the Old Red Lion.

He's supposed to be gone for a month, but I predict it will be one of those extending jobs that goes on for months. I do hope not. I miss him already and he only said goodbye half an hour ago. There were misty eyes and lingering looks, long sighs and stroking of hair. Not for me. No, I refer to Dog.

I got a quick hug and the keys to his flat and car, which I am to look after in his absence.

Nice one, Messiah.

It's a family tradition

2010-11-10T07:38:00.002Z

Grump has put in his Christmas list good and early this year. I presume this is down to the extra time he has on his hands, as a result of all his gadgetry doing another stretch in the car boot. Here is an edited version of Grump's list:

1. a new laptop (yes, you read that correctly; he is already in possession of a laptop (sporadically, at least), but wants another.)

2. Call of Duty: Black Ops (sadly, not a reference to his familial responsibility to pick his socks up off the floor, but the latest murderfest for his travelling Xbox)

3. an iPhone

Once I'd wiped the tears of mirth from my eyes, I marvelled at the strength of the Gene of Hope which prevails in our DNA. And was the cause of many a gift disappointment throughout my own childhood.

There was the Boney M cassette handed to my brother in 1980, which couldn't have been less welcome had it been sprinkled in anthrax. And there was the biliously-hued scarf I was given in 1974, knitted out of a rare and magical barbed wire, cunningly disguised to look like lambswool. And who could forget the roller skates which miraculously time travelled from 1958 to 1978? Not me. Nor any of the neighbourhood kids who gathered around for a better look at the amazing antiques strapped to my feet.

Topping the festive disappointment charts, though, is the Christmas of 1976, when I had just turned ten, and my brother was eleven, and we asked for a pony.

This is far less posh than it sounds, as we were living in Argentina at the time, and you could barely walk down the street without tripping over some old nag. Or a horse. Or indeed a German pretending to be Swiss, but I digress. Horses were in abundance, and thus relatively cheap. We put the idea to our parents. The fact that my father didn't immediately put the kibosh on the idea gave us enormous hope, Dad not being one for hypothetical discussion on any topic, never mind unrealistic pet requests. The excitement mounted over the weeks, until finally the big day dawned. Downstairs we rushed, in the hope of finding some sign of the new addition to the family. And there we found a second-hand upright piano, whose sole resemblance to a horse was the possession of four legs.

Irony

2010-11-06T21:45:00.002Z

Whilst Grump was away for half term, I decorated his room. Happily I came across no White Lightning, fags or naked photos, but I did find a pack of cards I bought him a couple of years ago. I failed to notice at the time, but written in inch high letters on the front it says Low Vision Playing Cards, or rather LOW VISION PLAYING CARDS, and the cards inside bear life-sized facsimiles of kings and queens. Really.

I was reminded of this the other night as I watched a man in a deerstalker hat crossing the road. Now, deerstalkers speak to me of stealth, cunning and eagle-eyed attention. They are indelibly connected in my mind with the great Sherlock Holmes, master of noticing stuff. Imagine the hilarity then when I watched the man in the hat almost run over by a large van which had trundled slowly and noisily towards him.

Should've worn the stetson.

Christmas

2010-11-02T19:56:00.009Z

Good Lord, I hear you cry, is it that time already?

No. No, it bloody isn't. But some Covent Garden money-spinner has once again decided that we may as well bring the proceedings forward to the end of October. Well, who wouldn't be excited at the prospect of a full two months of Christmas cheer?

Me, that's who.

You know what I call it? That's right. A load of old balls.

Dog tired Dog

2010-10-31T21:23:00.019Z

Following on from the excitement of our day in London yesterday, Dog and I had a quiet day. Well, I say quiet; it started with a cacophony of bloody alarms, due to my failure to synchronise all timepieces/radios/mobiles and anything else which tells me it's time to get out of bed. There then followed a chore-fest, in which I was ably assisted by Grump, whose principal contribution was the eating of a sausage sandwich. I don't know how I'd manage without him, really I don't.

Having completed the chores, I took Dog off to the local park. The last time we went, Dog disgraced himself by stealing bread from a small child who was feeding the ducks at the pond's edge. Dog had hurtled off towards the toddler at mach 3, so I was quite relieved when he failed to catapult the toddler into the pond, and instead simply made off with his ill-gotten loaf. Still, there were apologies to be made to the open-mouthed parents and, unfortunately, no recompense to be made to the weepy child, Dog having made full use of his ability to scoff down vast quantities of food in the blink of an eye. No, just a shame-faced shuffle off and a long low burp. From Dog, not me.

Anyhow, the water's edge was scanned for small children and baked goods, both of which appeared to be absent. Dog was still showing signs of tiredness from yesterday's outing, so I took my camera out, and unleashed him. Here is the result:

So much for that.

Anyway, here's a nice photo I took of a fountain instead:

Ponces on Primrose Hill

2010-10-30T20:55:00.007+01:00

Today, Dog and I went up to London Town to meet the Messiah. We walked up to Primrose Hill, where Dog hobnobbed with all the posh dogs and pooed all over their nice park. I don't think he was too impressed with the poodle in the Barbour, and he didn't seem to know what to make of the chihuahua that minced past him. He did look a bit jealous of the cockapoo with the chic French owners who was having a good roll in the old fox merde, though. Not so chic now, mes amis, eh?

Speaking of merde, the whole of Primrose Hill was overrun with the Foreignese. You'll recall I have to traverse Covent Garden on a daily basis, so I prefer not to spend my weekends in multilingual swearing as well. There was consolation to be had, however, when three German chaps stopped us, and the following conversation ensued:

Kraut: "Excuse me, I am wearing a fancy dress costume and these guys think nobody will know what it is. Who do you think I look like?"

Messiah, after thoughtful pause: "D'Artagnan."

Kraut: "I am The Big Lebowski."

Sehr gut, Messiah.

More Bon Mots from the Funsters

2010-10-29T20:40:00.005+01:00

K: "What are those pens called for the nice writing? Starts with "a". Oh, yes, calligraphy."

K: "I can't believe we're in November!"
Me: "We're not. "
K: "Oh."

Irish boss, on learning the Good Ship Fun has been disinstructed by a very large and prestigious client:
"Ah, fuck it, I'm going back to the modelling, anyway."
(Irish boss is not modelling material.)

Head of Dept: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!"
Me: "Something wrong?"
HoD: "I just replied to an email and meant to put Bless You, but instead I put Blow You."

Boss tells K he has a date
K: "Oooh, where did you meet her?"
Boss mimes typing to indicate he has been internet dating
K: "On the piano!"

Wheelie cases on the underground

2010-10-25T20:15:00.012+01:00

The tube journey Grump and I had planned to make with Dog failed to happen, on account of our train being cancelled, reducing the time we had to cross London to bugger all. Fortunately, the Messiah stepped in and collected Dog at Charing Cross, so Grump and I were able to leg it, unencumbered by the furry one, and Grump was safely deposited onto his train.

An excellent result on several counts.

Firstly, there's the prospect of four whole days of peace and quiet in Grump's absence. Ooh, lovely.

Secondly, the hug and kiss I gave him on the platform had him squirming with shame as, unbeknown to me, a group of lads peered out the window and sniggered. Sorry, Grump. Well, not that sorry, if I'm honest.

Finally, on my way back through Euston, I got caught up in a wheelie case jam. There were so many of the bloody things that their wheels had locked together and the way was completely impassable. So I faffed along at a snail's pace, swearing under my breath, until I was finally able to hurdle my way to freedom. Up to the escalator I went, to be greeted by the sight of a sweaty-faced man running UP the down escalator. Unusual. Imagine my delight when the reason for his underground aerobics turned out to be his wheelie case, which had jammed on the edge of the escalator and thus failed to follow him when he began his descent. I found this particularly enjoyable given that he weighed approximately 17 stone and his wheelie case weighed approximately 5 ounces.

As if that weren't enough, the Messiah kept Dog for the day, allowing me to decorate Grump's room without Dog periodically running off with the paintbrushes, and returned him in the evening, at which time we went off to the pub and had a lovely time getting hammered.

Truly, my cup runneth over.

Summer

2010-10-22T23:19:00.011+01:00

Well, my wireless still isn’t working. This is particularly annoying as Grump has got his working a treat, whilst I’m attached umbilically to the phone socket. I probably should have another go at the instructions, failing which I’ll have to ask him to help me. Since that will involve a patronising half hour lecture, tripping over wires seems the better option for now.

So summer is over. I know this because my trains have been delayed or cancelled all week, a sure sign of the advent of winter. Or maybe just the wrong type of frost. Or air. Anyway, here’s a summary of things I enjoyed over the summer months.

1.Cricket.

Bit of a turn up this one, given that my dear old dad spent, quite literally, years trying to explain the rules to me, with a complete lack of success. However, the Messiah plays in a village league, so Dog and I spent every Saturday from June to September sitting in an unfeasibly lovely Kent field watching balls flying about, followed by some necking of beer in a local boozer.

Dog found this particularly exciting: the combination of balls, the Messiah (his favourite person in the world, including me, the ungrateful bugger), rabbit holes and (crucially) sandwiches and cake was all he could wish for. Other than the odd pitch invasion and the staring down of anyone in possession of a sandwich, Dog behaved very well and won over pretty much all of the team. He also made friends in every pub we went to and developed a taste for Twiglets and cricket balls. The latter didn’t go down too well. Or rather, it did, but then came back up over the next two days.

Anyway, either by osmosis or dogged perseverance on the Messiah's part, I now have a vague understanding of the rules of cricket and, better yet, an invitation to the cricket team's Christmas shindig.

2. Grump’s new Halo game

Well, not the actual game. No, no, I refer to the karmic vengeance visited on Grump after he, once again, told me to fuck off.

Being a bit of a stickler for detail, I pointed out to Grump that this wasn’t the appropriate way to address his mother. To underline that point I made off with his laptop and Xbox, and stored them in the boot of the car (Grump having already rumbled every hiding place in the new house).

It then transpired that he had pre-ordered the new Halo game, which even I understood to be a Very Big Thing in the gaming world, on account of the press coverage of less than usually recalcitrant youths camping out overnight in order to be first through the door to buy the latest kill-o-rama.

Picture Grump’s face, then, when his exciting new game arrived, pre-release, and all his equipment remained in the boot of the car, pending a thaw in relations. I arrived home from work to find him sitting on the sofa, all forlorn, reading the instructions to the game he was unable to play. How I laughed. And laughed. And, indeed, laughed again. Even Grump had the grace to attempt a sheepish smile when I suggested he probably regretted the old “fuck off” now. I allowed myself one further day of hilarity before returning the Xbox to him with a stern warning about his language.

It won’t make any difference, but that episode will see me through quite a few months and future fuck offs.

3. Dog’s impersonation of the Lady of the Lake

Once the cricket season ended, Dog and I were invited to spend a Saturday with the Messiah in London. Dog has been to London before, but only briefly, and not to the Messiah’s lovely flat. The loveliness of the flat was something of a worry, given Dog's hyper-enthusiastic approach to life. However, their relationship being what it is, I felt pretty sure any potential misdemeanours would be forgiven, so off we went. The Messiah picked us up at the station and Dog promptly tried to climb onto his head, which gave the Messiah the effect of wearing a Daniel Boone type hat whilst driving through central London. Natty.

Having arrived safely at the Messiah’s flat, we made our way out for a walk along the Regent’s canal, at which point, Dog took on the persona of a skittish country bumpkin in the presence of London's gangsta canines. The big girl's blouse. Anyway, after dodging various joggers and cyclists and evil-eyed terriers on a worryingly narrow path, we arrived safely at Victoria Park, at which point Dog was liberated from his lead and allowed to run free.

We wandered around the park until we arrived at a large pond, and, Dog, being a fan of ponds, decided to have a paddle, so went and stood at the edge with his front paws in the water. He then took a step forward, at which point the water closed over his head and he was nowhere to be seen. In the time it took me to gasp, and the Messiah (rather more usefully) to leap to the water's edge, Dog reappeared, and was hauled out by the collar. Dog cheefully shook off the best part of the algae festooned about his head, and trotted off looking quite refreshed.

Back to the flat we went, with pungent green swamp monster in tow, and into the bath he went. I left the Messiah the task of fishing the pond weed out of his posh bath.

We are heading back to London tomorrow to put Grump on the train up to his father for half-term, which will entail a tube journey for Dog. I'm already anticipating the hilarity.

Update

2010-08-09T07:45:00.003+01:00

We have moved! This has necessitated interaction with estate agents, banks, internet providers, storage companies and all other kind of idiots. Needless to say, there is venting aplenty to be done, but it's taken me this long to unearth my laptop.

Venting Venting Venting

2010-06-01T21:20:00.008+01:00

I didn't receive my credit card statement this month, so rang my credit card company in an effort to circumvent the paper statement and just pay the balance with my debit card over the phone. After being batted to and fro between my bank and the credit card company, I eventually surmised that this apparently simple procedure was but a pipe dream, and asked for a statement to be sent to me.

On Saturday, a letter duly arrived from the credit card company referring to our telephone conversation. And enclosing a copy of their terms and conditions. No statement was to be found, despite an optimistic search and shake of the envelope. Back to the phone I went to call and explain what had happened. Here's how the conversation progressed:

Nitwit: "Can I just take your date of birth, postcode, first line of your address, favourite colour and cup size."

I give them.

Nitwit: "Can you tell me how much your recent payment to Very Expensive Storage Company was?"

Me: "Not exactly, no. It will be on my statement. I don't have the statement, that's why I'm phoning."

Nitwit: "What's your password?"

Me: "I have a password?"

Nitwit: "Yes, it will be your memorable word."

At this point various memorable words popped unbidden into my head, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have picked any of them as passwords.

Me: "Erm...sorry, I've never had to use it. I only want a copy of my statement posted out to me, and the person I spoke to last week said he would do this but..."

Nitwit, interrupting: "I'm sorry, but you've failed the security test, so we won't be able to help you."

Me: "But I just want a statement sent to my address. I don't need any information over the phone, I just want to pay you the money I owe."

Nitwit: "Sorry, but because you've failed the security test..."

Me, fed up with being called a loser: "Can't you ask me another question then? One I might conceivably have the answer to? How about my mother's maiden name? Go on, ask me another."

Nitwit: "No, I'm sorry, we can only ask 3 and you got 2 of those wrong, so I can't proceed.

Me: "But I just want you to post me a statement!"

Nitwit: "Fail."

I did elicit sympathetic murmurings from Nitwit's manager, who understood my irritation at being blocked from making a payment, and assured me no interest or late charge would be payable as it wasn't my fault. What I need to do, apparently, is go into a branch with photographic ID, my first-born, and a reference from the Pope. At that point, the bank teller will be able to positively identify me so Nitwit or one of her cronies can press a button and post me out a fresh statement.

From now on, I'll be carrying out all my commercial transactions by way of root vegetable barter. Turnips: they're the way forward.

Grump survives another year

2010-05-08T11:43:00.006+01:00

Grump had another birthday this week. Given his behaviour earlier this year, this was by no means a given, so congratulations were due all round.

We celebrated with a trip to the cinema in the company of some of his fragrant friends and the Godmother. Here's the tally for the day:

Cinema tickets (2 adults and 6 teenagers) £60+

Overpriced drinks and popcorn (for 6 apparently hollow teenagers) £20+

Money for the games arcade £10.

Even forewarned of the constant cash haemorrhage that constitutes a day out with Grump, this was impressive.

As my dad was fond of saying (with only the merest hint of bitterness), "Open your wallet, and say after me: 'Help yourself'."

Grump and the Art of Denial

2010-04-24T13:11:00.008+01:00

I finally have my laptop back after Grump didn't break it. Here's what he didn't do:

Dog is a chewer par excellence, so his surviving toys are of sturdy construction and, consequently, weight. These, obviously, present something of a hazard when airborne in a small house. Grump, being in possession of the ball skills of an angry chimp (as well as its table manners), has therefore been asked repeatedly not to lob said toys about. Naturally, he chooses to ignore this house rule.

Picture the scene then when, on my return from work, I open my laptop and find that the screen now displays something akin to a toddler's first go on an etch-a-sketch. There is a short, yet intense, period of swearing before the inquisition begins.

"What happened to my laptop?"

"MMmmdunno."

"What d'you mean you don't know? I went to work and it was fine, and I've come home and the screen's broken and there's a huge dent on the outside."

"Mmmmmwasn't me."

And so it continued. After a spell on the rack, he finally conceded that Dog's bone MIGHT have bounced off the floor near the laptop, but he was ABSOLUTELY SURE that it had DEFINITELY NOT touched my laptop.

Amazingly, the edge of Dog's bone fitted neatly into the dent on the laptop.

So, there you have it: irrefutable proof of what didn't happen.

Lights out

2010-03-10T17:47:00.012Z

After my rather slow day at work yesterday, I skipped in this morning all set for a day of productive hilarity with the Funsters. After a single cup of coffee I set to, and had been beavering away conscientiously for a couple of hours when all went dark.

Now, the Funsters, being in possession of some of the sharpest legal minds in London, regularly plunge us into darkness when one of them mistakes the light switch for... well, who knows what, but there are always cries of surprise when the lights go off.

So, we sat there for a moment in silence, waiting for the amazed "ooh" and the return of light. It was not to be. An eerie silence descended as the air-con gave out, followed by a synchronised "pfft" as all computer and phone screens went black.

To cut a long story short, having waited in vain for information and/or a return to normality, we buggered off out to lunch. And then returned to find everything as we left it. It transpired there was an underground fire in full flow around the corner which was responsible for the power outage and there was little chance of it being restored before the end of the day. Given that the entire office is run electronically, there was nothing for it but to go home.

Isn't progress great?

Great expectations

2010-03-06T21:21:00.008Z

It's that time of year again: with the first glimmer of sunshine out pop all the tourists, beetling slooowly around Covent Garden and making me late for work.

It has its merits, though; on Thursday I was accosted by a trio of French teenagers needing directions. This led to some very entertaining gesticulations from them and pretend confusion from me. Ah, entente cordiale.

Anyway, they wanted to go to Covent Garden. They were in Covent Garden. I tried to explain this to them, but either they were playing me at my own game, or they were mighty confused.

Now, I've never been to Paris myself (yes, yes, I know). Maybe every time you turn a corner you collide with a can-can dancer's frilly crotch, and men in stripey tops festooned with onions ride bicycles past toothless crones playing the accordion whilst puffing on Gauloises. I don't know. But clearly Covent Garden failed to live up to their expectations.

Which made me wonder what their expectations were, not least because right under their noses were a transvestite selling Big Issues and a man on a 10 foot unicycle wearing only his underpants. I might have a look at Paris after all - it must be bloody good.

The Dog's Bollocks

2010-02-17T08:58:00.009Z

Yes, literally. Today I have a day off work for Dog to have his nuts off. His pain, my gain, you might say.

I've previously resisted having him done on the following grounds:

1. He is unfailingly good-natured, as well as handsome, and it seemed a shame not to pass his sunny nature on to future generations;

2. He's never shown any signs of aggression, either with humans or other dogs, instead opting to be best friends with all and sundry. This doesn't always go down well; he's been snapped at by various terriers and, indeed, the Godmother, for his overenthusiastic approach.

3. He has lovely house manners and has never disgraced himself at home by marking his territory. Unless he marks his territory by chewing holes in it, in which case he owns most of the ground floor.

4. He's not a humper and has never shown any interest in sex.

Or so I thought. It turns out some manner of hideous canine porn has been playing out in my dog walker's rear view mirror, as Dog has taken a shine to his friend and has been trying to give him one on the back seat. Yes, "him".

This sexual awakening might account for his increased energy levels. Dog has always been either on or off - there's no real middle ground with him - so I'm used to his exuberant ways. The other night at feeding time, though, he got so excited that he actually left the ground. He looked something like this:

My head was level with that lower leg.

So, I've allowed myself to be persuaded that this is the right thing to do, not a barbaric mutilation carried out for my convenience, which will result in him feeling happier about life and allow me to dispense with the crash helmet.

Poor old Dog.

Happy VD

2010-02-14T12:00:00.008Z

And it's overpriced flowers and inferiority complexes all round.

Here's my day so far: two arguments with Grump, a continuation of the flu I've had for the past four days, and a load of washing completed. Ah, romance.

On the bright side, I have had a series of texts from the Policeman in Sri Lanka, who shared this snippet of information with me. The ex-fiance has just flown back to London for a few days, first class, whilst his wife travelled in economy. Now, if that isn't the very definition of romance, I don't know what is. Can you imagine the scene as they board the plane and he turns left and she turns right? It's almost Casablanca, isn't it?

God, I'm glad I didn't marry him.

Agents of Doom

2010-02-06T12:15:00.010Z

I'm trying to sell my house, the idea being to move somewhere with a bigger garden for Dog and more rooms for Grump to shut himself away in. The market being what it is, I've had to put untold effort into making the place look desirable, which has proved something of a challenge, given the presence, both physical and olfactory, of Grump and Dog.

Not half as much of a challenge as maintaining cordial relations with the estate agents, though. Last week I rang for an update on the various viewings which had taken place. Here's how the conversation went:

Agent, grumpily: "Hello?"

Me: "Oh, er, hello. Is that Estate Agents...?"

Agent: "Yes, can you hold on, I'm on another call."

Me, to nobody, having been put on hold: "Yes."

Several minutes later...

Agent: "Right, what can I do for you?"

Me: "I was just wondering how the viewings....?"

Agent, interrupting: "We've got a problem with the phones. Can I call you back? Which property is it?"

Me, giving name and address: "Yes, I just wanted an update..."

Agent, interrupting again: "What's your number?"

Me: "You've got my details, it's..."

Agent, interrupting again "Well, I've never spoken to you before, so can you give me the number."

Taking an uncharacteristically conciliatory stance, I give her the number.

Agent: "Okay, we'll call you back."

Three hours later...

Agent: "Hello. So you wanted to arrange a viewing."

Me: "No, I'm quite familiar with the property, thanks. I wanted an update on the viewings. I'm the owner. "

There ensued a long silence, during which a thought bubble presumably formed above Agent's head, bearing the legend "Oh, shit".

Most enjoyable it was. Still haven't sold the house, though.

Decisions decisions

2009-11-25T20:01:00.010Z

I've been experiencing something of a pre-christmas family drama. Here's what happened:

My mother, who is 78, had been feeling unwell for some time. Like most people of her age, she's medicated up to the eyeballs for blood pressure, heart, water retention, bla bla bla. Also like most people her age, she's of the view that doctors aren't there to be bothered at inconvenient times, and so she muddles along feeling crappy until her next appointment, at which point she's fobbed off with some lazy prognosis of balancing her medication.

Anyway, it's a measure of how crappy she was feeling that she was eventually persuaded to call out her GP, who promptly surmised that a 78 year old living on her own and feeling permanently dizzy might be something of a litigation risk, and advised her to temporarily check into hospital or move in with family. My brother - whom we shall call the Commander, because, rather cryptically, he is - volunteered to have her to stay.

During the move from her house to the Commander's house, my mother had a massive heart attack, and had to be resuscitated roadside over a period of 15 minutes. I was phoned when she was en route to hospital, then again once she was stabilised. Unfortunately, as she lives 95 miles away and I am single-handedly in charge of Grump, I was at something of a disadvantage in terms of getting to her.

So, I texted the Policeman. You may recall that the Policeman is the best friend of my ex-fiance, and is prone to chase me around after beer. He is, however, also a thoroughly decent human being, who immediately offered to take a day off work, drive from Surrey to Kent to collect me, drive me down to Hampshire and, crucially, shield me from the Commander's apparently unstoppable need to patronise and boss me. And so he did.

My mother, being of the tough old bird stock, has pulled through and all is as well as it can be, although her GPs should be shot for failing to diagnose a long-standing degenerative lung disease, compounded by a lung infection, which led to her heart stopping due to lack of oxygen. However, leaving aside the appalling service she received from them, her local hospital pulled out all the stops and have got her back on her feet in a mere couple of weeks.

Well, my life, obviously, wouldn't be complete without some complication of the male variety. After going through the emotional grinder of a day at the hospital, the Policeman kindly took me out to the pub. And offered me a bed, which I gratefully accepted. Unfortunately, it was his bed and he was in it at the time. So... I now find myself in utter confusion about my feelings for him and, indeed, his feelings for me. I've known this man for 12 years, and we've been close friends throughout that time. When I was with the Fiance, the Policeman was the one who took days off to help me move house, and generally was a better boyfriend than the boyfriend. He is, however, congenitally incapable of being faithful and an inveterate womaniser, albeit honest to a fault about his failings.

We have arranged a drink to discuss the situation. Unfortunately, most of our communication of late has been via text, and thus has been compounded by misunderstandings and misinterpretations, to the extent that I feel I am casting about in an emotional pea-souper.

My mother, happily, is now ensconced in a nursing home which apparently bears more resemblance to a hotel than a home. If I told you how much it was costing, it would quite likely engender a collective heart attack, so I'll refrain. She was, however, happy to tell me that all the loons are on the second floor - a case of going up in the world equating to precisely the opposite, it would seem. She is there for the foreseeable future, as she can't currently decide where and with whom she wants to be. I know the feeling.

Christmas

2009-10-26T19:49:00.009Z

Isn't it a little early for a Christmas blog, you ask? Why, yes, it is. But since every other bugger seems to think it's perfectly acceptable to bring the festivities forward by, oooh, about 2 months, why should I deny myself an unseasonal moan? No reason at all. So, here I go with my jolly list of things I hate about Christmas:

1. The adverts. I happen to be a fan of adverts, despite having been married to one of the industry's creatives (whose only really decent creation was Grump and, let's face it, I put in most of the work on that one.) For approximately 10 months of the year, I can happily sit through adverts and find them enjoyable, or at least interesting in the main. Right up until the bastards break out the poinsettias and grinning grandparents.

2. The music. Those insidious bloody tunes which go round and round in your brain until you'd cheerfully pick up the nearest reindeer antler and stab it through your forehead just to make the noise stop.

3. The enforced bonhomie. The only time I habitually find myself wanting to be friends with everyone in my ambit is after 6 pints, and that's swiftly followed by the urge for a nap. This seems entirely reasonable, and I shan't be changing my position just because some bearded do-gooder thinks I ought to. Unless he buys me 6 pints.

4. People. My walk through Covent Garden becomes ever more annoying. In addition to tourists in their idiotic festive hats, there are also large gingerbread houses to negotiate and strings of German sausages in which to entangle yourself. If you're a dog rustler, this is exceptionally good news; otherwise, less appealing.

5. Work colleagues. Specifically the ones who, by early October, "just have a couple more bits to get." Bully for you. Now fuck off, or at least have the good grace to shut up and let the rest of us continue in denial until closing time on the 24th.

6. The glitter. You can't move through a shop without setting off some cluster bomb of silver and gold glitter. By the time you exit the place, you'll be sporting more glitter than you could shake a figure skater at. And any attempt to remove it will simply embed it further into your clothing and outer dermal layer. Best change your name to Tinkerbell now and save yourself the bother.

I'd like to tell you that's got it all off my chest, but I've barely scatched the surface, so consider this the introductory chapter. An advent calendar of mutterings, if you like, which - like Christmas itself - will span a whole two months. You lucky, lucky people.

The worm turns

2009-10-13T20:51:00.007+01:00

Exciting news from Kent: Grump decided to assert himself, with predictably joyous results. Having an extremely short attention span, Grump's plan was one of non co-operation: rather than try to actually take the lead, he was content simply to refuse to co-operate in any way, shape or form. A policy of dissent by inactivity, you might call it; how very teen aged.

Anyway, last week things had reached such a head that Grump and I decided that he should go and live with his father. Given that Grump thinks his father is a supreme being who can do no wrong, rather than a selfish layabout who can do no... well, work, for starters, he was extremely keen on this idea. Growing up with two families has unsurprisingly given him the suspicion that the grass might just be greener on the other side. Or the Dark Side, as I prefer to call it. So, over to the Dark Side Grump decided to go.

There was just one small problem: when it came to putting his money where his mouth was, Grump's father failed to deliver (which makes me wonder if there isn't a job for him with the Royal Mail, but I digress). This, of course, came as no surprise to me, given the monthly disappointment I experience on checking my bank statement. For Grump, though, it was a nasty shock.

Unfortunately, that disappointment added to Grump's unhappiness and led to a further outpouring of vitriol. There was a vague air of dissatisfaction present in his manner, which manifested itself in him telling me to fuck off whenever I asked him to do something, such as brushing his teeth or picking his clothes up off the floor. Onerous tasks, I'll concede.

Eventually, I called in the big guns. Yes, Grump was dispatched for a night with the Godmother. Whether it was waking with a horse's head on the pillow next to him or her kindly words I couldn't say, but a gradual improvement in behaviour began and I'm hopeful that it will continue. On his return, Grump and I had a long chat during which he finally gave voice to all his doubts and worries. I hope I reassured him as well as you can reassure any hormonal teenager. He hasn't told me to fuck off for a week, which I'm taking as an extremely good sign.

Teenagers: can't live with them, can send them on a fishing trip with the Godmother.

Update

2009-09-20T16:49:00.008+01:00

The Messiah will be missing from the end of this week. Being a creative genius and, more to the point, unattached and thus able to fly off at the drop of a hat, he has been summoned to Shanghai for a month. Despite our extremely inauspicious start, he has become a favourite friend, particularly given the Godmother's paired up status. I suspect he realised that the only way to reduce his phone bill was to move to another continent and, indeed, time zone and thus availed himself of the opportunity with gusto. Anyway, we went out on Saturday night for a farewell drink, got slightly pissed, insulted all and sundry, swore like troopers and generally had a lovely time. The only consolation to his departure is that I'm already looking forward to his emails, which I know will be things of beauty and hilarity. I'll miss him though.

In the meantime, on Wednesday I have a date with a TV Editor. He is as yet untried, but has proclaimed himself "the colossus of conversation". Additionally, there are two further new lambs to the date-slaughter, but I'm struggling to summon up much enthusiasm for either. This doesn't strike me as the best foundation for a beautiful relationship, but I'll be persisting because I am a trooper (witness the swearing, by way of proof).

Venting Venting Venting

2009-09-15T20:06:00.011+01:00

Last night I set off for home on the 6.28 from Charing Cross. I was equipped with my iPod and P G Wodehouse, and was happily engrossed in both when I noticed a certain lack of activity from underneath me. No, this isn't another dating tale: the train was stationary. I unplugged one ear but no information was forthcoming. Ten minutes later, I unplugged again. Still nothing. Later still, I became aware of puzzled looks on the faces of my fellow commuters. I unplugged once more and heard the guard giving an explanation about our lack of progress.

I say "explanation", but it would be more accurate to say he was spontaneously uttering the following phrases: "upward tracks", "downward tracks", "three minute something", "nine minute something". We all dearly wanted to know why we were paused outside Sevenoaks when we should have been tucking into dinner; instead we got a monotonal lecture, the likes of which hasn't been heard outside of the Standard Gauge Appreciation Society's annual fundraiser.

Eventually we moved off. Slowly. Then stopped. More slow movement. More stopping. And thus it continued. At 8.15, we arrived at Sevenoaks station where Guard Gibberish announced that the train would be terminating, but there should be another train along shortly. We all trooped off. It was dark, windy and cold. The information boards appeared to be scrolling through the entire Southeastern timetable whilst periodically flashing "Correction" in an encouraging way. No announcements were forthcoming.

And then, at 8.30, amid great excitement, a train arrived. On we all got and settled down. And there we remained for a further 15 minutes until an uncharacteristically helpful rail person came and suggested we get off and take the replacement bus to Tonbridge because "I'll be honest, in the past 2 1/2 hours no trains have gone south from here, but there are trains running from Tonbridge."

Another 15 minutes were spent muttering obscenities in a queue of pissed off commuters before finally boarding a coach. As anticipated, the coach driver was a lunatic (presumably on account of this being all that is available at short notice when the entire rail network goes tits up) who took the scenic route at speed. I was past caring if we ended up in a ditch or not by this point, so put my iPod back on and fiddled about trying to find a suitable soundtrack for the crash (Don't Fear the Reaper, since you ask). We arrived at Hildenborough station. A solitary passenger was waiting for the coach. And there he remained, as the lunatic slowed down just enough to give him hope before accelerating away.

We finally arrived at Tonbridge at 9.10 and trooped off the coach. Only to be told that there were no trains running and we would have to get a bus to Tunbridge Wells. To be precise, the same bus we had just got off, which was now filling with a fresh batch of stranded commuters.

I finally got home at 9.45, a full three and a quarter hours after boarding the train in London, which is approximately 35 miles away. I could have got to Paris quicker. And, frankly, I'd have probably have enjoyed the driving better AND been able to make more sense of their rail announcements than our pitiful efforts.

Normal service will resume later this week.

Point scoring

2009-09-10T21:56:00.014+01:00

Now that I've got into the swing of the internet dating thing, I've noticed a minor flaw in the system: people lie. And not just small ones. Hell, no, there are great big whoppers drifting about in the ether, which would made Pinocchio blush. For example:

Photos
As well as the terrifying "topless in my bathroom" photos which a lot of men feel compelled to upload, there are what can best be described as "historical" photos which haven't seen the light of day since 1986. You might divine these aren't current on account of the fact that a 44 year old ought not to look like a 20 year extra from Top Gun, complete with stonewashed jeans. Which leads me to...

Age
Even the Messiah lied on this front: his 41 internet years are actually 45 real years, albeit he came clean prior to our non-date and shows no sign of the staggering amounts of beer he has put away over the years. Nonetheless, it's probably safe to whack an extra 5 to 10 years on to anyone's given age. At least.

Marital Status
Separated. Hmm. Divorced. Hmm. Happily, you can spot the real divorces because there's invariably some snippy reference in their profile to a need to "be accepted for who I am". To say nothing of the fact that "total honesty is a must". Ah. Moving along...

Education
Well, I know exams are getting easier and an A* GCSE isn't now worth the paper it's printed on (whatever and A* or, indeed, GCSE might be), but if you claim to have a Masters degree in English it's probably best to at least use the spellchecker before boasting about it. Just a thought.

So, I propose an Ebay-type feedback system, via which hapless victims can rate their dates, using the following criteria:

Age - 1 to 10 dog years
Family - 1 to 10 prams
Marital status - 0 to 10 rings
Build - 1 to 10 pies
Drinking habits - 1 to 10 pints
Smoking habits - 1 to 10 ashtrays and/or bongs
Smarts - 1 to 10 alphabet spaghettis
Accuracy of photo - 1 to 10 photoshops

And having said all that, I am now 38 years old, an occasional drinker and Grumpless. I've never felt better.

Update: The Mountie

2009-09-07T20:56:00.008+01:00

I went for a drink with the Mountie on Saturday. I very sensibly opted for an afternoon drink on the basis that I'd be less likely to overwhelm him with beer-fuelled "enthusiasm". It was an extremely sound theory, ruined only by the fact that I'd not made it home on Friday night and was nursing the most monumental hangover. Fortunately, he was a little worse for wear, too, so I wasn't required to apologise too profusely for my eye bags.

And, despite our respective lack of spark, we got on very well. The Mountie was extremely entertaining - not quite as funny as the Messiah, but then he is the Messiah. Anyway, he came a close second and, having recently moved to England from Switzerland, was able to share his opinion of what's wrong with Britain. Which is: everything. In the most charming way, the Mountie managed to convey that nothing works as it should, if at all. When I pointed out that the Swiss were a hard act to follow he spoke this immortal line:

"It's worse than Italy."

Bugger me, that is bad. It got worse:

"There are South American countries that run better than this one."

Well, I've got experience of South American countries and, let me tell you, that's no idle insult.

When I pressed him for examples, a plethora poured forth, from the Tube, to self checkouts, to broadband providers. It was frankly embarrassing, not least because I could only sit there nodding sympathetically, whilst optimistically suggesting we might have a head start on the Bolivians when it came to oyster cards, and I was pretty sure there was an Amazon tribe with slower broadband than Tiscali's.

On the bright side, we are apparently extremely friendly in pubs, unlike our continental cousins who keep firmly to themselves whilst having a drink. I suspect the devil is in the detail - specifically "a drink" being the issue here. We, of course, are more likely to enjoy a round dozen drinks, thus rendering ourselves outstandingly friendly. That's the royal we. And now that I know that my drinking is actually a diplomatic counterbalance to the crumbling infrastructure of Great Britain, it seems only right to keep up the good work. Don't mind if I do.

Situation Vacant

2009-09-02T20:01:00.013+01:00

The Messiah and I are friends. I think it's safe to say that I've ensured we'll never be anything more than that, but he's proving to be a good friend, in possession of a knack for saying exactly the right thing in any given situation. He also has a rare ability for splicing together obscenities in order to describe people I dislike whom he's never met, or, for the most part, previously heard of.

I've fully tested the Messiah's credentials as a friend on account of the Godmother finally making some poor bugger an offer he couldn't refuse. Yes, she acquired a boyfriend, whom we shall call The Moll, on account of my not knowing what the male equivalent of one would be.

As a result of this unexpected divergence from the norm, I suddenly found myself without my drinking companion of choice, which was obviously extremely bad news for me, if a welcome break for the Godmother from being picked up off the floor following another collapsing bar stool episode (no need to thank me, really.) However, like the trooper I am, I rallied forth and tried out some replacements.

The Messiah

Obviously he'd had a trial run and passed with flying colours. I, of course, had done nothing of the sort and, as he positioned himself next to the exit and laced up his running shoes, I think he may have questioned his decision to give it another shot. Happily, I was able to demonstrate an extremely normal ability to down several pints and remain not only compos mentis, but also fully clothed and out of his bed. Well done, me.

The Policeman

AKA the-man-I-almost-married's best friend, who periodically offers to come round and give me one. Well, it's nice to be wanted and he's a handsome chap who invariably has some amusing police anecdotes to share. Unfortunately, after several pints he is prone to chase me in figures of eight to speeded up music, which can get a bit tiresome. The Godmother only ever did this after tequila, which we were subsequently careful to avoid.

The Boss

The Boss is having a thing with one of his colleagues. He is convinced that nobody knows about this and I am sworn to secrecy, following an earnest confession down the boozer. Of course, the entire firm knows exactly what's going on, but now that I've been officially let in on the secret, I'm unable to join in with the gossip. This, you may have guessed, is not entirely in keeping with my normal behaviour, and thus is fooling no-one. Today, he upped the ante by telling me about a date he went on with someone else entirely (which merits a blog in itself), so I am now having to mutter unconvincing gibberish to both my colleagues and his bit on the side. Given my rare talent for gaffes, this will inevitably end in disaster.

The Mountie

This is the latest discovery on the internet and as yet entirely untested, but lined up for an outing in the near future. A non-date has been agreed and timings are being worked on. The Messiah has advised against attempting to mount his steed after several pints. I concur.

So, there we have it. Turns out the Godmother is a harder act to follow than even I had anticipated. Applications welcome.

Redemption

2009-08-19T19:38:00.005+01:00

Yesterday I got a text from the Messiah who had the day off work and found himself in the square outside my office at lunchtime. I went and met him and we sat on a bench and laughed at various people. Primarily me. He filled in some more of the missing Thursday evening for me and I apologised some more. I offered to reimburse him for the beer-swilling I had done at his expense.

I am assuming that the Messiah's presence in the environs of my office at lunchtime was no coincidence and he either (a) wanted another look at mental old me so he was better able to avoid me in future, (b) wanted his money back, or (c) accepted that my evening of madness was uncharacteristic and thought I might be an entertaining person to have in his life in some capacity - comic drunk, perhaps.

Given that his recollection of the evening seems annoyingly comprehensive and he refused my attempts to pay him back, we'll go with (c). I think it's a bit early to suggest another beer, but I hope we'll get there eventually. Needless to say, I'll be on my best behaviour next time but there is something very comforting in knowing that he's seen the absolute worst of me - it's uphill all the way.

Lost cause

2009-08-15T14:50:00.015+01:00

I had a non-date the night before last. I was very much looking forward to it because the non-date and I had been emailing for a couple of weeks and he was both intelligent and immensely funny. He also could spell, and knew where to put an apostrophe. As you'll have gathered, in internet dating terms, this makes him the Messiah. He was also good enough to tell me that he wasn't looking for a relationship with the parent of a pre-owned teenager, so we were meeting on strictly platonic terms.

We arranged to meet at a pub round the corner from my office at 6.30. Given that I was in a somewhat heightened state of excitement/nerves, despite the platonic slant of our non-date, my boss kindly agreed to come for a quick one before I headed off to meet the Messiah. Unfortunately, he failed to communicate to me that he really did mean a quick one and I had to sink a pint in 15 minutes. Sinking a pint is never a problem but even by my lowly standards, that was kind of quick. Still, it helped with the nerves and off I went.

The Messiah turned up on time and we were soon merrily exchanging stories of the respective idiots we work with, dating horror stories, family backgrounds, and swearing like navvies. In short, it was going swimmingly. We drank several pints then moved on to another pub around the corner. At this point, he offered me his spare room so I didn't have to leg it back to Kent. I rang the Godmother, who was in charge of Grump, and she kindly gave me an overnight pass. (My sole recollection of that conversation is her parting shot: "You owe me." Not a statement you want to take lightly from the Godmother, I think you'll agree.)

Anyway, I settled in for more beer. And then I woke up yesterday morning in the Messiah's bed alone. I went downstairs to get a drink, returned to bed and there he was. Grumbling about the fact that I had distinctly assured him that I wasn't a mad drunk, yet had gone on to exhibit all the signs of a complete fucking loonster the previous night when I refused his spare room and - I quote - "thundered up the stairs" to his bedroom and refused to budge. Poor Messiah had to wait until I fell asleep before creeping downstairs to the spare room for a quiet sleep. Thankfully, I was at least clothed and, presumably, at some point on Friday morning, he decided I was a safe mentalist and decided to make his way back to join me in his own bed and regale me with tales of my madness, whilst I mumbled apologies and tried not to throw up. Or maybe he just hoped I had left. Anyway, the Messiah was good enough to walk me to work and there were some texts throughout the day, culminating in an exchange last night which he initiated. I hope this is an indication that our nascent friendship isn't over but there's no escaping the fact that I've cocked up, good and proper.

I discussed my behaviour with the Godmother on the train home last night. It's inexplicable. Whilst you'll possibly have gathered that I'm quite fond of a beer or two, I'm not usually given to losing large chunks of the evening, to say nothing of my dignity, in such spectacular fashion. I'm particularly irritated that the one person I've recently met whose opinion actually matters to me is the one I've managed to alienate with a massive helping of crazy. And not even characteristic crazy - no, this is madness without precedence.

On the bright side, the passengers on the 6.04 all went home with their eyebrows somewhere up in their hairlines and their mouths forming perfect o's, which almost made it all worthwhile. Almost.

Lies, lies and more lies

2009-08-03T21:37:00.005+01:00

More gems from the world of internet dating:

"I suppose its would be fair to say that I'm an intelligent, attractive and successfully guy, although it always sounds a bit wrong when you say it yourself."

It does sound a bit wrong. It also looks a bit wrong. Hold on, it IS a bit wrong.

And in the real world, there's another date tomorrow night. Expect tales of horror and woe later in the week.

Man... Book... er... Prize?

2009-08-02T09:07:00.000+01:00

Continuing my shameless mockery of the internet daters, here's a reply to the favourite book question on one man's profile:

"a noval, about a famaly in the east-end of London during the 2nd world war."

Mmhmm. I don't know about you, but there's a small part of me that questions the existence of this tome.

Still, let's move on. Here's a new admirer, let's see what he has to say for himself.

"i a chef looking for fun and someone who likes going out and looking for some one who dont care what you look like..."

Okaaaay.

"I enjoy going out haveing fun doing things that I don't normal do..."

Does that work? On any level? Admittedly, I am slightly thrown by the complete lack of any punctuation and the longest sentence in the world.

"I like to go fishing with friends have bbq and a deer..."

Now that's a real man talking. A bbq and a deer - no doubt freshly slaughtered with his own bare hands.

"I'm a sort of man that's cares about what u are feling and what sort of day u have had I all way there when u need me because I might need u there when I need u..."

Yup, that makes sense. U never know when u might need u to need....erm....u... me....no, u... um...

"I think that's all I can say at the mo so emali me or wink I will get back 2 u when I check my emali Don't be put off by no pic"

Well, the lack of picture is a bit of an issue, if I'm honest. And it was going so well up until that point; I was almost tempted to emali him.

Still, look what the matchmakers have to say:

"he Winked at you!
What a compliment!"

Uhuh.

Fight Club

2009-08-02T08:35:00.002+01:00

A less enjoyable aspect of my week's carousing has been the bruises and mysterious cuts which have appeared on various knuckles, and the surprising amount of cash I seem to have spent.

The only explanation I can come up with is that after several beers I am dabbling in a spot of bare knuckle fighting, betting on myself, and finding out the hard way that I'm a bit crap. It makes perfect sense.

On the bright side, I'm still well down on the amount I spend when Grump's around. Fewer bruises too.

Beer shame

2009-08-01T12:21:00.000+01:00

Grump has gone off to Norfolk for the week with his father and brothers. Obviously, this is great news for Grump, but his absence has brought advantages for me too.

For a start, my weekly supermarket bill reduced from £115 to £36 with his departure. And only a small part of that saving was made by the lack of requirement to self-medicate in the beer aisle.

Also, I have been out more often in the last week than I have in the last six months. Even The Godmother looks a bit nervous, and she's not one to balk at a full bottle. This spontaneous social activity has been lovely, but the last time I was in this situation for any period of time I was considerably younger. About ten years younger.

There were work drinks on Thursday, so I took advantage of my ability to drop by for a quick one before heading home. As I crawled up to bed at 1am I questioned the wisdom of that decision. As I did again, six hours later, when I dragged myself out of bed. Particularly when I remembered that, due to holiday commitments, I was in charge of 14 Funsters for the day. I got through the day on a cocktail of sympathy, coffee and emailed hilarity from The Godmother, who kindly fed me OBO comments from the Guardian website. And then I went out and did it all again last night.

Tonight I shall be found on the sofa with a cup of tea and Dog, who has made plain his disapproval of my hedonistic lifestyle by managing to convey with a single look that not only have I let him down, I've also let my colleagues down, but, most of all, I've let myself down.

The shame.

Poison Arrow

2009-07-22T19:05:00.002+01:00

Another gem from one of my virtual admirers, who has relayed a long and convoluted tale about a trip abroad. He finishes with this question:

"So how about you, any good antidotes?"

I fear there's no cure.

Update

2009-07-22T11:38:00.007+01:00

Last Friday I descended from my holy perch in virtual dating heaven and went on an actual proper date. Grump was in a heightened state of excitement at the possibility of having a bloke in his life. I, of course, have experience on my side, so was taking a slightly more realistic view of proceedings.

Anyway, off I went, emboldened by a couple of beers. I even put on a new top for him. We met, we chatted, we drank. He was very nice, if somewhat more subdued than I had expected. Towards the end of the evening, when we had exhausted the hot spots of Tunbridge Wells (actually, we'd done that by about 8.45) we discussed where to go next. After discounting both Davinchi's and Beluga (no, I'm not making it up), I proposed we head home for a drink, having made it abundantly clear that a drink was all I was offering and Dog was primed to take a bite out of the nether regions of anyone who failed to understand this. He looked a bit nervous, but agreed. We ordered a cab. Then, at some point between ordering the cab and it arriving, he muttered something about our not having much in common for the long term and suggested perhaps he should go home. Now "long term" is a subjective concept - in my case it equates to a period of between 8 and 16 hours, so we were, by my standards, old friends. However, you can't argue with blind terror, so I let him go.

The next day when I was retrieving a load of washing from the machine, I pulled out the top I'd been wearing the night before. And discovered it was completely transparent. I can only assume that, in Date's mind, top + suggestion of drink at home = pole dance.

No wonder he looked frightened.

Holiday lie-in ruined

2009-07-13T08:33:00.009+01:00

Venetian blinds: so called because you will be blinded by the resplendent sunlight burning into your room at sunrise o'clock, despite having forked out a ridiculous amount of money for said window treatment.

I might as well wake up under the Saharan midday sun with a searchlight shining in my face. Bah.

Site for sore i's

2009-07-07T21:21:00.016+01:00

You may recall some time ago the Godmother put together my profile for a dating site. You could be forgiven for thinking that life with Grump and Dog was exciting enough but, like a fool, I've ventured once more onto the dating scene. Well, actually, just the site so far. And judging by some of the emails I've received, that's as far as I'll be going.

Take this choice example received the other day, which began:

hiiiiiiiiiii :)
Oh God.

My admirer goes on to tell me a bit about himself, including this fascinating fact: traveling is not my middle name yet my first :).

Heavens, you must spend your entire life spelling that one out for people. "Traveling...that's T-R-A-V-E-L - no, just the one L..." So many i's, so few l's - it's a Scrabble nightmare.

On we go: I use to be very into marital arts, but stopped now and only practice to be in shape and not forgetting the moves.

Where to begin? The prospect of him practising his "marital arts" shapes and moves is almost more than I can take, and we're not even past his first paragraph. Talk about over-sharing.

Let's leave the man with many i's and move on to the next one. We shall call him Arsenal 0147 because that, my friends, is what he has called himself, the hopeless romantic.

The subject is: Hi Baby. There goes lunch - no need to confine myself to a small salad tonight, after all.

And here he goes: Hi pretty. I was just going through your profile when my heart stop beating because your profile has a beauty that captivated me, and as long as my heart beat i will seek out your soul and be fullfiled. Is there a doctor in the house?! An English teacher then?! For the love of God, this is an emergency!

Too late, he's off again... You are like God's dove, so beautiful, so pretty, with good hobbies and everything about you match with my style

Hmm, I'm not sure my hobbies of necking lager and dribbling down my chin are entirely in keeping with my position as God's dove, but who am I to argue with such eloquence? Amazingly, there's more:

the greatest gift to every Man's eye sight is having their eye set on a woman like you. Eye sight, eye set - anyone else confused? But, hey, a gift's a gift, right? That takes care of birthdays and xmases - "What d'you mean present? Feast your eyes, Grump, THIS is a gift."

I suspect I shall remain single for the foreseeable future.

Holiday season

2009-07-02T21:48:00.007+01:00

One of the more irritating traits which the Funsters exhibit - and, let's face it, there's a quite overwhelming choice - is their habit of returning from holiday with chocolates.

I used to find this baffling, on account of the following:

1. My own holiday thoughts are entirely devoid of even the most tenuous connection to work.

2. The Foreignese are incapable of producing confectionery which doesn't taste like dung. Apart from the Swiss who, inexplicably, aren't content merely with being top horologists and assisters of suicide.

3. When passing through Duty Free with the prospect of a return to work, I ignore anything less than 70% proof.

Nonetheless, the emails keep coming:

"Chocolates in the kitchen from Vegas"
"Goodies from the Seychelles"
"Sweets from China"
"Chocolates from Singapore"

It's finally dawned on me that it's all a big exercise in one-upmanship and an excuse to brag to the entire floor about where they went on holiday, the uppity buggers.

Do they still sell Space Dust?

Whistle while you work

2009-07-01T20:48:00.002+01:00

Having got rid of the Loose Cannon, I'm a bit short of work whinges. To be clear, this is a Very Good Thing.

Today, though, I enjoyed a small resurgence of work horror. Here's what happened:

I was at my desk putting together a table of High Court proceedings for a colleague. I did this out of the goodness of my heart, he being a bit cack-handed on the computer. As he stood behind me directing the proceedings, I heard a dull thunk. Actually, it was more of a 'tink'. Why, what could that be? I thought, casting a glance in the direction of the noise. And there on my desk sat a false tooth. The colleague proceeded to calmly retrieve it and pass it from hand to hand, whilst he continued his chat, apparently oblivious to my open-mouthed gawp at the cavernous gap which had appeared in place of his front tooth.

I enjoy a good tune as much as the next girl, but really.

Perils of Summer

2009-06-08T18:43:00.009+01:00

In my rush to embrace last week's balmy weather, I spent several days trekking between Charing Cross and Holborn in flip flops. Partly this was down to vanity: the last time I wore my comfy walking trainers with a summer skirt, a Big Issue appeared on my desk, together with directions to the nearest free pitch. Given that these directions were left by "the colleague who knows not where Lausanne is" they were something to behold. Suffice to say, I wouldn't have arrived in Covent Garden any time this month. And certainly not without a Kazakh visa. Anyway, the result of my seasonal footwear madness was a blister on the ball of my foot the size of Paris.

Now, I don't consider myself a particularly whiney sort, but it stung a bit. Naturally, I attacked it with any sharp implement to hand, which possibly didn't speed the healing process. It was Moby Dick to my Captain Ahab. Each night a ritual stabbing went on and each morning it was back - fully inflated with extra pain. I tried to hobble without putting weight on it but this is, of course, impossible. Possibly you were aware of this already but I've never had occasion to investigate previously, so it was a revelation to me. And not a good one.

Nor a cheap one, as became clear when I found myself forking out for cabs to ferry me between the station and the office for three whole days. Now I'm not averse to paying to be whisked at speed away from work, but I can't say I've ever felt the need for an expensive rush to work. Christ, no.

On the bright side, though, I've been lucky enough to enjoy chats with some of London's finest black cab drivers. The last one went something like this:

Captain Ahab: "Holborn, please."

London Cabbie: "Where've you come in from then, love?"

CA: "Tunbridge Wells." [that well-known port town]

LC: "Oh, I used to work there in a tailors, bla bla bla, used to be on the High Street, bla bla bla, Pantiles, bla bla bla, don't know if he's still there?"

CA [sharpening harpoon, thus not paying attention]: "Oooh... er....I've not been there long, I wouldn't know."

LC: "Where'd you live before then?"

CA: "Crystal Palace" [boating pond - say no more]

LC: "Oh, he used to play there before he became a tailor."

CA: *??????* "Really?"

LC: "Yes, bla bla bla, football, bla bla. What d'you do in Holborn then?"

CA [undercover]: "I'm a PA for a law firm."

LC: "Oh, my wife was a PA. She came over from New Zealand and in 1981 she won the World Typing Championship - 116 words per minute."

CA: "Blimey, that is fast."

LC: "Yes. My neighbour's a lawyer, he...."

CA: "Ooh, just here's fine, thanks."

I decided that the pain in my foot was considerably less than the pain of being the captive audience of someone who has a story he can relate to every single word that ever leaves your mouth.

The trainers are back.

Aaand relax

2009-05-16T20:09:00.004+01:00

Now, having got that off my chest, who thought Hazel Blears should have had her cheque supersized for the cameras?

Swine Flu

2009-05-16T18:54:00.013+01:00

What a week it's been for the Westminster troughers; just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, out came another jaw-dropping revelation, followed by either a simpering mea culpa, complete with lottery-winner-cheque-waving photo op, or a sulky denial of any wrongdoing, on the basis that it was "within the rules". I am sadly familiar with the latter, it being the favoured response of Grump's father to any request for a contribution to Grump's upkeep.

Yes, despite being the owner of three properties with a combined value of approximately £1million, he is out of work and therefore has no income. Because he has no income, the veritable apogee of intellect that is the CSA has decreed that he need pay nothing for the upkeep of his son, irrespective of the fact he is sitting on approximately £500,000 of equity, runs two cars, and appears to have recently acquired all the necessary constituents for a small petting zoo.

I did suggest to Grump's father that he might sell one of his properties, in order to ease his financial situation and enable him to continue his pitiful contribution to Grump's upkeep, but his reply was this: "I'm not selling my house: that's my pension." Excellent answer - really, what's not to admire? (Lest you be harbouring any feelings of sympathy for his unemployment, you should know that he has been sacked by most major players in his chosen field over the last 15 years and the recession has merely given his latest spell of unemployment a veneer of respectability, having put him in the company of people who genuinely have had no control over their employment or lack of. You might also have guessed that this is not the first time that maintenance has been withdrawn on risible grounds.)

On the bright side, I imagine there'll be a few openings for MPs and, given that he appears to possess all the attributes necessary for a glittering career in politics - viz a quite staggering lack of morals - perhaps Grump's father could fill one of those vacancies. In which case, Grump and I will be in clover which, frankly, would be an improvement on the shit we currently find ourselves in.

Bitter? Why yes, since you ask.

Normal Service Resumes

2009-05-07T19:33:00.012+01:00

Early last week, Grump and Dog disgraced themselves. Leaving for work, as I do, a full hour before he drags himself off to school, Grump is unavoidably in charge of locking up. This entails closing and locking the back door and making sure that Dog is incarcerated and not able to roam the house freely with a hungry eye and a slobbery chop. Despite my misgivings, Grump usually manages these two small, yet vital, tasks.

Last Wednesday, a midday call from the dog walker alerted me to the fact that Grump had failed to do either. Here is an edited version of the conversation:

"Is your back door meant to be wide open? Is Dog supposed to be lounging on the sofa? By the way, he's eaten a cushion and the doormat."

On my return home that evening, once I'd hoovered up bits of hessian and searched in vain for any trace of my cushion, I had it out with Grump. I explained the importance of locking up home and Dog. He had a half-hearted stab at denial, then apologised. He assured me it wouldn't happen again.

The following day, I received a call from the dog walker. That's odd, I thought; I'm pretty sure we had this conversation yesterday and I swear I impressed on Grump that if there were to be a repeat of the situation he would be tarred, feathered and rolled down our street in a fluorescent barrel.

The damage this time was a pile of Private Eyes, a corner of the rug, more doormat and a dirty protest (too much roughage, presumably). Once again, Grump and I had a chat. Fire and brimstone rained down upon him and he swore on everyone's life (bar his own, now I think of it) that it would never happen again.

"Have you been faffing about on your Xbox and leaving late, so you don't have time to check you've done everything?"

"NO!" came the reply, in tones of outrage not heard since Uncle Patrick propositioned the vicar.

The rest of the week was uneventful (due in no small part to the fact that I was at home), and was spent in familial harmony. Following the charm offensive of the weekend, however, there has been something of a relapse.

On Tuesday there was train trouble on my line. Naturally, I was unaware of this when I bounded out of bed at 5.45 and made my way to the station in time for the 7.24. I was not alone in my ignorance: when I unexpectedly reappeared at home when I should have been hurtling at speed towards London, Grump was caught red-handed and slack-jawed at the controls of his Xbox, whilst Dog surveyed the living room in anticipation of his mid-morning snack.

The upshot is that Grump will forego all fun. Or so I had planned. Unfortunately, once I'd swept downstairs with what I believed to be the vital components of his Xbox, I discovered I was holding some headphones, a controller, a phone charger and an extension lead. I have no idea what, if anything, I've disabled. When did punishment get so complicated?

Man Overboard - Hide all Life-saving Equipment!

2009-05-06T19:08:00.007+01:00

Exciting news from the Good Ship Fun: I am rid of the Loose Cannon! Hurrah Huzzah!!!!

Yes, I have had to exchange him for two extra bosses, and I suspect I have used up all the goodwill I have accrued over the past thirteen years with my other boss, but that seems a reasonable price to be rid of the alcoholic baboon.

So, do join me in a very un-British WHOOOOOOOOO-FUCKING-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(Normal service will be resumed later in the week.)

Grump Has a Birthday

2009-05-04T09:36:00.016+01:00

This weekend Grump celebrated his birthday with a small gathering of friends. I took Friday off work and bought in enough food to see a small hamlet through a siege, booked a bowling lane, booked the cabs to get us to the bowling and, crucially, made sure there was enough beer available to see the Godmother and I through the day.

Party day dawned bright and sunny for the planned BBQ. This was obviously extremely good news, given that five fragrant teens wafting around the house was a decidedly less attractive notion than five fragrant teens getting a good airing outside. I cancelled the Rentokil booking.

The friends arrived and we made our way to the bowling alley. I had reservations about whether a bunch of teenaged boys would find bowling too childish and/or boring, but they embraced it with gusto. Good job, too, given that I had just handed over the best part of £50 for one game and five drinks (on reflection, a small price to pay for keeping them out of the house).

Some observations:

1. Bowling and the wearing of low-slung jeans should be mutually exclusive activities. There was more crack on show than at a Harlesden drug bust, and it was a deeply unpleasant sight. Youth of today, take note.

2. Cash is apparently the birthday gift of choice: Grump's liquidity is currently greater than that of the US banking sector.

3. If one of your friends is a vegetarian, it is best to mention this to your mother in advance of a BBQ, rather than allowing her to find out from said friend on the drive back to the Meatfest. This is particularly true if your friend also doesn't eat fish, seafood or eggs.

4. It's amazing what you can do with a potato in a crisis.

5. Grump and his friends provide exceptional entertainment. Given that I spend a disproportionate amount of my time rolling my eyes at Grump's surly behaviour, it seems only fair to record what a joy it was to spend a day with him and his friends. They were enthusiastic, polite, intelligent and, above all, hilariously funny. I'm considering forming them into a small variety act and touring the country with them.

In fact, the only bad behaviour came from the Godmother and I when we visited the pub the following day for a post-party tipple. Oh, dear...

Loose Cannon still on Deck

2009-04-30T22:00:00.013+01:00

There were work drinks last Friday. Never let it be said the Funsters don't know how to show us a good time: a full £1,000 was put behind the bar for someone's leaving do. Despite the fact that a modest number of people turned up, the money was gone by approximately 9 pm, which says a lot about the type of venue the Funsters favour. Suckers.

Anyway, I did manage to corner my boss at said event, in an increasingly desperate attempt to rid myself of the Loose Canon. Given that I had imbibed a couple of beers, he went into his usual routine of wild-eyed backing away, whilst attempting to quieten me down with shushes and hand gestures which give him the look of a deranged puppetteer. Anybody would think I scared him. Sadly, there was no real progress on the riddance front; despite a good number of London's finest legal minds being on the case, they appear to be unable to come up with a solution. My solution being of the "no going back" variety, Boss was disinclined to agree to it. Spoilsport.

Mayor Boris: Optimist of the Year

2009-04-17T21:47:00.017+01:00

Several years ago, whilst crossing the road, a man appeared between my legs. Not an entirely unwelcome proposition normally, but the presence of lycra and a helmet somewhat took the shine off the experience. Plus I got stuck on his handlebars, which was embarrassing for both of us (shame, really, because it had all the makings of a dazzling circus routine - all it lacked was a back-flip and some plumes).

So, it was with some trepidation that I read that Mayor Boris endorses a plan to allow cyclists to jump red lights in a bid to cut the number of serious accidents involving cyclists. There is a proviso that they make way for pedestrians, you'll be pleased to hear. And, really, the Mayor's faith in cyclists is touching, albeit he appears to believe that the average London cyclist is an elderly lady with a basket full of homemade jam, or a large albino fop in a rumpled suit on a penny-farthing. The lunatics I encounter on my walk to work don't make way for cars, buses, pushchairs or Sherman tanks, never mind pedestrians.

My feeling remains this: rather their serious accident than mine.

In the meantime, I shall be working on my flying dismount, just in case.

Happy Families

2009-04-16T19:24:00.014+01:00

I am distracted. The dishwasher is making a sound I last heard on a viewing platform at Niagara Falls during a storm, and I fear it is only a matter of time before Moses will be required to grant me safe passage to the staircase.

This will not be the first time the dishwasher has caused havoc. A few months ago every socket in the house went dead thanks to a slug finding its way into the electrics and frying itself to a gelatinous pulp. Unfortunately, being a special forces slug, its mission remained top secret and the cause of my electrical failure had to await the arrival of the electrician a full 24 hours later.

Now, I'm a bit of a luddite; I have neither interest nor aptitude when it comes to technology. There have been evenings when I have toiled through instruction manuals, but only out of necessity when the technical help has been sent to bed for rudeness and/or disobedience. It is not, shall we say, my forte.

So, really, how bad could it be? The oven is gas and the lighting is on a separate circuit. Other than the fact it takes nine times longer to make a cup of tea without a kettle, it should be business as usual.

Out came the radio, the books and the cards. Grump was forced to join me, being without his electronics, and thus having reached the end of his attention span within approximately 8 minutes. We gathered around the wireless like a small 1930s family (small in number; in stature, we probably looked like we had eaten a 1930s family, the tiddlers.) There was talk of board games. This might actually be fun!

A further 8 minutes later I thanked God for a laptop and found an unsecured network I could use for internet access. So much for that.

Easter Bunnies

2009-04-11T13:23:00.021+01:00

When I was four years old we lived in a large and busy city. Friends of ours had a holiday house in the mountains, which was considerably less grand than it sounds, the only running water being available from a nearby stream and lighting coming via paraffin lamp. Anyway, off we would go for weekends; four adults and seven children.

Our friends had two pet rabbits and, after much whining, it was agreed that my brother and I could also have a rabbit each, to be kept as pets at the mountain house. Cue great excitement. Off we went to the rabbit farm with my father, and a short while later we had chosen our rabbits (mine a fluffy black thing, my brother's a fluffy grey one). It was agreed that we would do some shopping and return for the rabbits in half an hour.

We duly returned. Two small and excited faces peered over the counter and the rabbits were produced with a flourish. Skinned, filleted and wrapped in brown paper. Whilst my brother and I exchanged puzzled looks, my father did a spectacular mimed routine in which he managed to convey that two identical rabbits were to appear forthwith and, being required as children's pets rather than culinary ingredients, should come complete with fur and beating hearts.

It was a veritable rabbit resurrection.

Am I boring you, Darling?

2009-04-10T10:02:00.028+01:00

I find myself at something of a loose end. Not having to contend with the roller-coaster of Grump's mood swings, nor the non-stop hilarity provided by the Funsters, I have time on my hands. Disappointingly, this has not led to the fun-fest I had anticipated, rather I have achieved a level of procrastination which ... ooh, tea, lovely...

So, in an attempt to galvanise myself into action, I produced a list of things to do which ran to approximately 12 entries. Have I worked through my list, ticking each off with a smug little smile? I have not. Instead I have buggered about on the internet, specifically, on Twitter.

My conclusion is this: unless you are Jonathan Ross, who really does appear to lead a life of impossible glamour, you ought not to bother. Stephen Fry - intellectual, comic genius, British Institution, no less - has been rendered disappointingly ordinary by his posts, which mostly relate to hanging around various airports and strength of mobile signal. If Twitter can do this to him, what hope for anyone else? If only he were tweeting as General Melchett.

Talk is Cheap (Peanuts/Monkeys)

2009-04-08T19:00:00.014+01:00

Quotes from, and conversations with, my esteemed work colleagues:

K: "Where's Eritrea?"
----
S: "It's un... unhear... unhear..er..able...er... what's that word?"
"Inaudible."
Boss: "Adult Literacy Class?"

---

Boss: "... he's very funny - profoundly deaf, married, has about four children..."

"Couldn't hear his wife saying no."

---

K: "Where's Nottingham?"

---

K, suffering from persistent pins and needles in feet: "I'm going to google this to find out what's wrong".

"Go to the doctor. Don't google it, you'll only pani..."
K: "OH MY GOD, I've been POISONED!!!"
---
K: "Where's Burma?"
---
K, after visit to doctor: "Guys, I might have typhoid."
"Typhoid?!"
K: "Yes, they've done some blood tests to check my typhoid."
---
Boss: "I'm at the hotel and they have no booking for me."
K: "I booked it yesterday."
Boss: "They have no booking - what's the reference?"
K gives reference
Boss: "They say that's not their reference."
K: "Yes, it is: Fancy Hotel, Geneva."
Boss: "I'm in Lausanne."
K: "Where's Lausanne?"

Hobo United

2009-03-31T19:51:00.010+01:00

The Funsters have issued an edict: tomorrow we must be in mufti, lest some rabid peacemonger has his wicked way and ... and...well, it's anyone's guess, but who needs an extra trip to the dry-cleaners, really?

We used to participate in Dress Down Friday for charity: each week someone elected a charity of their choice, we dressed down, paid our £1 and everyone was a winner, not least the charity, given that 200+ thrill-seeking souls sail the good ship Fun. But then someone decided that the dress down concept was being taken too literally by some of the Funsters and a decree went out that jeans were not to be worn, nor were tennis shoes, and nor were T-shirts. You may ask what aspect of dressing down remained. The answer is none: we now enjoy the snappily-named Charity Friday which nets about £2.76 in coppers and extraneous items of broken stationery.

The slovenly oiks responsible for the end of casual attire are, of course, still slopping around the office looking like they've come straight off a shift at the docks, despite an average chargeout rate of £400 an hour. The idea that they might further dress down in deference to those dangerous lovers of democracy who feel inclined to exercise their right to free speech is mind-boggling. So, if you should happen to find yourself in Central London tomorrow stuck behind some shuffling vagrants, resist the urge to buy them a cup of tea; you'll only make them late for the partners meeting.

Road Rage

2009-03-28T14:21:00.008Z

As I walked through Covent Garden on Friday, I was distracted from my tourist dodging by the following:

"Wankaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Excellent; some hapless foreigner had the temerity to attempt to use a pedestrian crossing whilst a van driver was using the road. Really, where do they get their ideas from?

There's a lot of driving profanity around the piazza, but my favourite of all time occurred about 18 months ago, when the early morning quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting yell of:

"Faacking Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaant!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ooer, I thought, looking for the poor bugger who'd incurred the wrath of the man in the van. But there were no other cars around, just a middle-aged pedestrian, smiling serenely and responding with a cheerful "Morning!"

Say what you like about Ken Livingstone, but he knew how to take an insult.

And Tonight's Winner Is...

2009-03-09T19:53:00.011Z

I had an inkling something was awry when I got to Charing Cross tonight and found it busier than usual. Oooh, a flash mob - what fun! But no, no fun to be had here - nope, just a vertical 37 mile journey home. Hoor...mmh.

An announcement was made to the effect that the chaos was due to a fatality and a vehicle striking a low bridge. This one moves to the top of my Selfish Arses who Top Themselves on the Railways During Rush Hour Leaderboard.

Anyway, I managed to jam myself onto a train and got as far as Waterloo before I was driven off by several small children who literally walked onto and over my feet, and their large father with his larger rucksack which he didn't have the presence of mind to remove. Call me picky, but I don't normally allow a man to goose me before he's stumped up for a Tennants Extra, so I opted to get off and allow the Von Trapps to continue without me.

At this point I attempted to make contact with The Godmother, on the basis that we may as well be standing in a bar as standing on a train, but she was sadly unavailable, so I was forced to board another train and stand all the way home. This was particularly enjoyable as I was positioned next to a freakishly tall cretin who proceeded to shuffle ever closer to me and read my paper. My free paper. Which is freely available to anyone who cares to pick one up. For free.

Anyway, despite this trying journey and my discovery, on finally arriving home, that Grump was on top teenage form making sense like only he can, my beneficence knows no bounds. And here's the explanation: Loose Cannon is out of the country until Friday. Hoo-fucking-ray.

We Love Work

2009-03-05T20:31:00.006Z

Have I mentioned how much I love my job? Well, the mentalists I work for have come up with a new wheeze: everything is now urgent. They are cruelly curtailing my fun by making me speed through their work, without so much as a pause to enjoy the finer nuances of their instructions. Where once remarks were made about Japanese prisoners of war lurking within dusty files, now they expect the work to be turned around within hours of receipt. What spoilsports.

Hilariously, as he fought his way through the piles of work I already have, the Loose Cannon told me today that I must come and remind him to give me the work which he forgets to give me on account of having too many things on the go at once. I foresee a couple of problems with this:

1. Lack of ability in subliminal messaging.

2. Inclination.

3. Inclination.

On the bright side, another couple of files and I reckon I've got enough to build myself a den, in which I can listen to my iPod and read a good book while the mentalists wonder where their support staff has gone. (Obviously, I use the term loosely.)

Beer Goggles

2009-03-02T18:49:00.003Z

Grump had a sleepover on Friday, so The Godmother and I went out. The last time we went out together was New Year's Eve, so excitement levels were high. Well, mine were - she gets out more regularly which is either due to (a) not having a Grump of her own or (b) being more popular. In keeping with every other aspect of my life, I blame Grump for my lack of social life, so we'll go with (a).

Anyway, we ordered a cab and she collected me en route. The conversation went like this:

Cab Man: "Where are we going then?"

The GM: "The Grapevine"

Cab Man: "Excellent choice. Bla Bla Bla" [I've only lived here for two years; the two of them have years of bar experience about which I know nothing. Well, I know plenty about bars - of course, I do - just not these ones.]

Cab Man: "So d'you go there often?"

Me: "No, I'm usually home with my son but he's got a sleepover tonight so I've got a night off. I've packed him off with his pyjamas and toothbrush."

Cab Man: "Is he watching the rugby then?"

Odd question. "Um...I don't know. They're probably up in Friend's room scoffing pringles and playing on the Xbox."

Cab Man, sounding very confused: "Your other half...?"

Well, I'm quite prone to a bit of talking at cross-purposes myself, but the pyjamas and toothbrush reference makes you wonder about Cab Man's domestic arrangements, doesn't it?

Once in the bar, chaos arrived with a bunch of 14 year olds, who apparently were all 20 (I conclude there's an expert forger at large in the area. Old Master, anyone?). The 14/20s announced their arrival with a crash of glasses which continued throughout the evening as they proceeded to drop drinks and trip up and down the stairs, possibly due to the very stylish Kanye shades they were sporting. Most entertaining. To add to the evening (more, you say? Why, yes!), there were two handsome men behind the bar. Now, normally, The Godmother and I are not on the same page when it comes to men. Where she sees this:

I see this:

And vice versa. But on this occasion, we both saw this:

Told you there were a lot of spilt drinks.

Deep Breath

2009-03-01T21:24:00.000Z

Grump refuses once again to write the English essay that should have been in last week. Yesterday World War III broke out, during which I bundled up half the contents of his bedroom and put them in carrier bags for Poor Children Who Are Less Ungrateful. I have withdrawn all privileges, treats and even a few essentials. Next up: air.

Missing

2009-02-28T10:34:00.007Z

This is the seventh anniversary of my dad's death, so this one's for him. Being a Scot, he could seem a tad dour and unemotional, but he had a very kind heart and was, by a mile, the most intelligent person I've known (hmm, yes... but anyway). Thankfully, he never allowed intelligence or kindness to impede his enjoyment of a bit of lowbrow humour.

Here are some of the best things about him:

He used to push Grump (aged 3 or 4) around his garden in a wheelbarrow (with Grump's encouragement, I should add).

He referred to any woman who was less than intelligent as "a daft bint".

He made a gin and tonic which warmed your entire body, starting with your chest.

He loved the Goon Show.

He got me started on beer, by letting me sit on his knee, aged about 7, and drink the froth off his beer when he came home from work.

He loved dogs and professed to dislike cats, but over the years owned both and showed no favouritism.

He was quite deaf, particularly when driving. On one occasion, when offered a sweet, he replied: "Ten past three".

He was a gifted sportsman, particularly when it came to rugby and cricket.

He was the only one who would come on Space Mountain with me and, during the ride, split his trousers right up the seat.

He loved gardening and I always associate daffodils with him, which I love because they're so sunny. (The irony of this wouldn't have been lost on him: he'd have been the first to admit that wasn't the first word you'd associate with him.)

He studied Greek and Latin at school, so was a fantastic reference for cryptic crosswords.

By contrast, he had no time for Scrabble but enjoyed periodic surveys of the board and suggesting rude words. Usually high scorers.

He used to call me "Pet".

He had the loudest sneeze in the world. Ever.

He and I happened to be watching TV when the very first Blackadder came on. My mother heard a rumpus and came through to find out if we were okay.

He referred to the larger lady as being "built like a Russian steveadore".

He used to play golf every Sunday until somebody blew up the club house and consequently his clubs. (My mother claims it wasn't her).

So, there you have it: my lovely dad in a nutshell.

The Long Way Home

2009-02-26T20:11:00.013Z

Tonight I travelled home with The Godmother. This is a rare treat as normally we travel home separately, so we celebrated with a couple of beers. We had a lovely chat, which our fellow commuters appeared to enjoy too.

Here are some pictures of them:

Oh, wait... no, that last one's her Travelcard photo.

Venting Venting Venting

2009-02-25T20:44:00.012Z

Most lunchtimes I like to sit at my desk and wait for the non-eaters to phone and put special lunchtime work my way. Today, however, I very selflessly forewent my hour with the Funsters and went to the building society to pay two cheques into Grump's account. They were Christmas cheques which somehow missed the previous paying-in trip, and one of them was from Grump's father. Given the excellent news about his finances, I thought I'd better pay it in before Grump ended up with a bouncing Christmas gift which wasn't ball-shaped.

So, off I went at 12.3o, hoping to miss the queues, and promptly found myself behind nine people waiting to be served by two tellers. I waited. Nothing. I waited some more. Still nothing. More waiting. Nothing. Then... oooh, a shuffle up the queue! But no, it was a pretend feel-good shuffle: nobody moved up, we all just ended up standing closer together. (Which makes me deeply uncomfortable, but more about that another time.) I waited and waited and waited, wondering what interesting paying-in scenarios could be taking so long.

Twenty minutes later, when I could make no more anagrams from the Savings leaflet sub-headings, my turn finally came and I handed over my cheques.

"Mmmmmm mortgage". Even with my advanced fluency in Mumblerese, developed under Grump's sullen tutelage, I was lost.

"Pardon?"

"Do. You. Have. A. Mortgage?" (Picture an adult talking to a particularly dim child.)

"Er...yes."

"Who's your lender?"

"Sorry, what does that have to do with...?"

"Oh, we're just trying to save our customers some money."

My thinking is this: Time is money. Those cheques I was paying in weren't very large. I waited for twenty minutes to pay them in. I estimate my cheques were used up by 12.38.

Save money indeed. Cheeky twat.

Nein? That is a Lot!

2009-02-24T19:01:00.001Z

The Godmother almost had a German boyfriend once (imagine that - a Tarantino movie waiting to happen, if ever there was). I still haven't forgiven her for not making it work, thus denying me the opportunity to make German jokes every hour on the hour. I did my damnedest whilst it was still a possibility, but she cruelly shot me down in flames before I really got going - Red Baron-like, you might say.

I was reminded of this grave disappointment on my walk through Covent Garden this afternoon when I ran into a group of German students. Yesterday it was French students. Tomorrow it will quite likely be Italian students. By Saturday it will resemble a teenage EU summit, all hair and braces and HMV bags.

Imagine such a thing if you can:

Teenagers: the walking dead who couldn't move quickly even if their heads were on fire. Who are also...

Tourists: dimwits who like nothing better than to cause a pile-up of locals by stopping unexpectedly to take pictures of themselves in idiotic headgear. Who also...

Don't Understand English: so don't react to "Excuse me, Beavis and Butthead, I have a train to catch" and instead stand there open-mouthed, goggling each others' screamo emo CDs.

Dear God, and it's not even spring yet.

Missing: Sense of Humour and Index Finger

2009-02-22T13:21:00.013Z

Grump surpassed himself this week: he actually stabbed me. As I ran around screaming and bleeding, he pointed out to me that he hadn't in fact "stabbed" me; rather he had "sliced" me. Excuse my lack of preciseness in describing my knife injury; possibly it was due to the fact that all the blood had rushed from my brain and out of my finger. For a good half hour.

In fairness, it was an accidental stabbing, in that Grump was pretending to stab me (is there a sweeter vision of domesticity?) and I asked him to stop and took hold of the knife. It being a serrated dining knife, when he decided to yank it out of my hand, there ensued a small blood bath, the result of which was that I was lucky not to lose an entire finger.

Grump, of course, was very contrite. "Mmmmorry", he mumbled, before regaling me with a full and detailed explanation of the difference between a stabbing and a slicing. He then asked me if I felt faint. With boredom? Absolutely. On examining my wound he was positively thrilled to see that he had gone through skin and into actual flesh. Woohoo! I spoil him, really, I do.

Disappointingly, I have healed nicely and am able to type, so no permanent disability retirement for me. I will, however, have a permanent scar which will be making regular and shameless appearances during any future conflicts that Grump and I engage in.

Banksy Eat Your Heart Out

2009-02-17T21:33:00.028Z

I got an unexpected lie-in this morning. I enjoyed approximately thirty seconds of bliss before it dawned on me (pardon the pun) that at 8 am I should have been on the train to hell, not having a stretch in bed. There followed a period of intense activity, during which Grump roused himself after only one shout, possibly alerted to a break from normality by extraordinary levels of profanity. Amazingly, I was able to leave the house a mere thirty minutes after waking, which does make me wonder what on earth I'm doing every other morning.

Arriving at the station a full hour later than usual, all the Suits were gone, and the Loafers were out, by which I mean anyone who works in a creative industry and can wear jeans to work and pitch up pretty much any time they fancy (Bitter, you say? No, no; not a bit of it). Grump's father falls into this category so I speak with some experience, although of course at the moment he's turning up extra super late, i.e. never. ( I say again: Bitter...?)

Anyway, I was rather hoping for a bit of a rest after the exertion of performing my ablutions at mach 6, so I was less than impressed to find all the free papers gone and the train full of jabbering kids on their half-term break. Particularly when I found myself travelling backwards opposite one particularly nasal specimen. So, I did the sensible thing and turned my iPod up to an obnoxious level and looked out of the window. This made me feel better on two counts: firstly, I have age and deafness on my side so am able to endure stratospheric levels of volume and avenge all those irritating tch-tch-tchs I've had to sit through on countless journeys. Secondly, I saw this graffitied on a building outside London Bridge: "Big Dave's Gusset".

I can't explain why, but it made my day.

Illustrations

2009-02-17T14:14:00.007Z

I felt it was unfair to laugh at Grump behind his back, so have shown him the blog and, as a result, am able to laugh in his face with an entirely clear conscience. By way of compensation, I offered him the chance to take his revenge by providing some illustrations. Other than giving me a full beard and very thin legs, his pictures are really very accurate and, I think, works of genius. Here they are:

Dog:

Notice how Grump has perfectly captured Dog's intelligent expression. Uncanny.

Grump and the Skateboard Incident:

I appear to have been killed off in this one. Hmm.

Great Leader and the Godmothers Have a Drink:

Who'd have thought you could express disdain via a stick man? I say again: genius.

Stock, the Chicken:

Yum.

Grump's Pratfall:

Very accurate: Grump's hair never moved throughout his adventure.

Full Flavoured Cox:

What is there to add?

Grump Eats

2009-02-15T19:17:00.026Z

Last night, I had Grump's godmothers round and, as a result, I drank too much, and have spent most of today dozing on the sofa. Grump has been extremely helpful, which makes me wonder what he's up to. He hasn't drawn a moustache on me or shaved off my eyebrows, so perhaps he availed himself of my snooze to go internet shopping with my credit card again.

Now normally I'm out and about so not a witness to the heart-stopping thrills which Grump crams into his day, but from my vantage point on the sofa today I've seen it all and, let me tell you, he never stops. Eating. His level of activity otherwise is negligible, so the only explanation for his skinniness can be the endless trips to and from the fridge.

Here are some food-based quotes from Grump today:

"Full flavored Cox. Haaa ahahahahaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

When asked to put back the umpteenth piece of food heading towards his mouth:

"I can't, I've licked it", promptly licking it.

G: "You ate two - TWO - kiwis, you greedy pig!"
Me: "I offered you one and you didn't want it."
G: "Yes, but I would have eaten TWO if I knew I could!"

Floored, once again, by Grump's unshakeable logic.

Loose Cannon on Deck

2009-02-13T22:35:00.003Z

I have been given a new boss. Living with Grump, gifts are a bit thin on the ground, so pretty much anything is welcome. But not in this case. No, I have been given the Loose Cannon. Here are a few choice facts about Loose Cannon.

1. He failed to turn up on his prescribed start day because he was on holiday in Turkey, a fact which had escaped his attention at the time of signing his contract.

2. When he did turn up (two weeks later, with tan) he spent his first afternoon having a sitting-up sleep at his desk.

3. He explained said sleep was a result of a "concussion" he had suffered when his head became stuck in a tube door.

4. One week later, he sent his briefcase on an overnight round trip of London in the back of a cab. It cost approximately £60 to reclaim his briefcase or, more accurately, the papers within it.

5. He suffered another bout of the snoozes at an evening reception hosted by the firm, whilst seated at the dinner table amongst clients. He was surreptitiously pelted by colleagues with crudites in an attempt to wake him, to no avail.

6. He uses such progressive terms as "Babes" and "Hon" when addressing the ladies, usually whilst having a personal scratch.

7. A post lunch audit of his chin will reveal at least three condiments and an array of crumbs and garnishes.

8. Despite possessing all the stealth of Barney Gumbel (as well as his table manners), he is consistently missing from wherever he is supposed to be.

I am hoping there is a receipt with which I can return my unwanted gift, but I suspect it was acquired at a discount and I will be stuck with it.

Grump Attempts to Pull a Sickie

2009-02-11T19:41:00.015Z

Grump had a stab at pulling a sickie the other night. It was almost endearing in its amateurism, and went as follows:

Grump sits down to supper. Grump proceeds to scoff down supper with all the temperance and finesse of a hungry gibbon.

Grump begins his nightly routine of insulting his Great Leader (me). Grump gets a friendly warning. Grump presses on with his mood, apparently oblivious to all the subtle warning signs I am emanating, such as shouted threats to withhold food, water and liberty if he doesn't cease and desist immediately. Grump eventually gets the message and expresses his appreciation of my regime by performing his chores with extra noise and enthusiasm. Grump stomps upstairs to shower.

Five minutes of banging later Grump returns to the top of the stairs and joyously announces:

"I've been sick. TWICE!"

"Really? Where?", ask I (the epitome of maternal concern)

"In the toilet and ON MY BEDROOM FLOOR! I've left it so you can see!" (Truly, I doubt Magellan himself felt more triumphant on spying dry land than Grump did at that moment.)

"I'll pass you the bucket and mop then" (And this would be the point at which the great explorer noticed the hungry locals with the big pots, and decided to re-think the beach picnic.)

It took one finely aimed question to get to the truth: "Did you stick your fingers down your throat?" His shock that I could even guess at such a cunning ruse was such that he folded immediately and confessed all.

He forgets that I was once his age. Schoolboy error.

Chicken Feed

2009-02-10T20:26:00.024Z

Here's the thing: I wasn't ever going to write about Grump's father because Grump loves his father, and I love Grump, and I was always taught that unless you had something nice to say, you really ought to say nothing. However, I was also taught that beer was best left to the boys, and you should see my personal re-enactment of the Oktoberfest on any given weekend.

So, picture the scene: Grump is on half-term next week and has asked his father if he can spend the week with him. By way of background, his father is remarried, has a further three very lovely boys whom Grump adores, and is out of work, this latter point being a recurring feature of life with or, indeed, without him. After various chasing phone calls Grump got a decision last night which went thus: his father cannot have Grump for half-term on account of not being able to afford the petrol to drive from his home in Northamptonshire to London and/or Kent to collect Grump. And there was more good news for Grump to pass on: Grump's maintenance payment would not be arriving this month, again on account of a lack of funds.

So far, so lame, you may be thinking. Except that Grump's father owns two houses and one flat. And here's a shopping list of things he has bought over the last couple of months:

1. A (pre-owned) Volvo estate;

2. An acre of land behind his house;

3. A dog (labradoodle/cockapoo/you've been suckered/expensive mongrel);

4. Some chickens;

5. A shotgun licence;

6. Some idiotic Maddona-esque country gent outfits.

Given that one of the chickens was bought for Grump, I'm very tempted to ask his father to shoot the bugger and send it to us so we can boil him up once my funds run dry. Grump was told to think up some names for him. I suggest Stock.

Communing on the Commute

2009-02-09T21:07:00.026Z

It's nearly 2 years since I moved out of London and into the back of beyond. I did this purely so Grump could get a good education, at great personal sacrifice to myself, a fact of which I like to remind him on a bi-weekly basis. And due to his grammar school education, he is now able to reply with such erudite gems as "mwhummummer". Still, move we did and with the new house came a new and lengthy commute for me.

This commute brought several surprises, not least of which was the eye-watering cost of my annual season ticket, which is six times the cost of my car. I haven't yet worked out what it is, but I know there is significance in this fact (possibly that I should spend more on a car than I do on make-up, but needs must.)

Next up was the discovery that a herd of llamas grazes in the Kent countryside. Even Grump emerged from under his hair for a look, although his interest was swiftly replaced by shame as I jabbed the window shouting "Llamas, llamas!" Pardon me for being enthused at an unexpected deviation from the indigenous fauna.

Anyway, after a year of watching the changing seasons instead of graffitied concrete, I was beginning to find the journey a tad long and, dare I say, dull. Enter my friend, The Godmother (to Grump, not concrete overcoat style), and owner of the sluggish connection (see Jan 12 below). The Godmother followed me to the back of beyond (on account of property prices, rather than my animal magnetism), and thus began our commuter commune.

There's nothing the passengers on the 7.24 don't know about our lives. There's no doubt much they wish they didn't know. Starting perhaps with the full details of The Godmother's gallbladder operation, discussion of which led to a recommendation for a specialist from the man sitting next to me (a random act of participation, said man not being a regular. The regulars, naturally, were livid at this encouragement.) I doubt they've fully embraced our shared enthusiasm and love of our respective jobs, or the defamatory remarks about assorted members of staff. I suspect The Godmother's ability to lose items of luggage on any journey exceeding 40 seconds is getting tired, to say nothing of the subsequent attempts to recover said items and/or replace them via Ebay. And, of course, my interminable tales of the Grump have them reaching for their mobiles, fingers poised over the Childline speed dial.

Interestingly, when in the company of other verbose commuters, we are likely to join in with the eye-rolling and newspaper rustling. (Although, to be fair, I once had to suffer a fifteen minute one-sided mobile conversation about root vegetables, which almost had me weeping. The temptation to rip the phone out of the gimp's hand and yell "Parsnips - choose parsnips!" was overwhelming and I am to be commended for resisting.)

So, it's surely only a matter of time before one of our fellow commuters stands up and shouts "For the love of God, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" Possibly it will be The Godmother. Again. But until then, I shall continue to enjoy the commune and can only apologise to our fellow passengers.