In which boredom strikes and our heroine gets into trouble ...

Last night I had an amusing gmail conversation with a blog-chum which lead to my confessing that I am in fact ... a phantom jelly biter.

Yes, you did read that correctly.

It's a "quirk" of mine ... which I think is quite amusing and even rather endearing in it's own way. Sometimes when I'm in the supermarket, doing the deadly dull grocery shopping, just to relieve some of the boredom, I like to take a packet of jelly (see pic) and just gently bite it.

Don't say "Urrrghh!" like that!

I don't break the plastic wrapping! I just bite it hard enough to leave teeth marks in the jelly.

The reason I do this stems back to when I was a child. I was at my friend Kim's house, we must have been about 5 or 6 years old at the time, and her mum was making a trifle. We were at the table, colouring or something and chattering away, when suddenly her mum said "Oh good grief! Who on earth would do THAT?".

Being curious, as all small children are, we asked what the matter was to which she replied "Somebody's been biting this jelly and then put it back on the shelf!"

Of course, we demanded that she show us the offending jelly, which she did. And she was right. The jelly was pocked with teeth marks.

We thought it was the most excellent thing we'd ever seen.

And we thought it was hilarious. Reasoning that anything that disgusted a grown-up must be a very good and cool thing indeed.

We decided that there was a phantom jelly biter, lurking in supermarkets, probably with a mask and a cape, just like Batman but instead of a bat on his chest he'd have a big letter "J" or even better a picture of a big jelly, like you get when you use one of those moulds! And he was our hero!

The next time we were in a supermarket together we remembered the phantom and managed to slip away from Kim's mum and made straight for the jelly. We eagerly scanned the packets, looking for the phantom jelly biter's mark. But they were all smooth and pristine.

We were horribly disappointed.

Then Kim said "We should bite the jelly"

I looked at her, unsure. It seemed like a terribly naughty thing to do when we wouldn't even be buying the jelly. "He can't bite all the jelly" she explained, in some exasperation at my denseness, "He's not magic, like Santa". For some reason this made total sense. The poor guy could probably use some help, we would be the phantom jelly biter's little helpers. That was pretty badass!

And that's how it started.

Whenever we had the opportunity we would sneak off in supermarkets and bite the packets of jelly, giggling helplessly and feeling terribly naughty and daring.

As we grew older it became more about the forbidden side. We didn't believe there was a phantom jelly biter any more ... we had BECOME the phantom jelly biter, and it seemed like the most hilarious thing to do as teenagers. We wanted to do it just because we knew adults wouldn't approve and therefore it felt rebellious.

By our late teens and early 20's it had just become an in-joke, a little quirk we fondly shared in remembrance of our lost childhood.

Kim stopped doing it when she got married and had children of her own. I remember being round at her house one evening, we were sharing a bottle of wine and some memories when the subject of the phantom jelly biter came up. We laughed so hard at the memory of all the surreptitious jelly-biting we'd done over the years:

Kim: Aw, I do kinda miss it

Me: Don't you do it any more then??

Kim: (laughing) No, of course not! I'm an adult now!

Me: (nervously) Oh

Kim: (long pause) You don't still do it ... do you?

Me: (forced laugh) Me? God, no! I mean, that would be totally childish!

Kim: (Thoughtful, suspicious look)

Me: More wine?

Kim also told me that she'd be horrified if her kids ever did anything like that and strictly forbade me to tell them about what their mother and "Auntie Kate" used to get up to. I didn't think it appropriate to argue with her ... but let me tell you, just as soon as those kids get old enough, "Auntie Kate" is going to take them for a trip to the supermarket that they will NEVER forget!

Some traditions simply need to be upheld.

The phantom jelly biter WILL live on in the next generation.

Anyway, I digress ... today I just happened to go to the supermarket.

(you know what's coming, don't you)

Yes, I remembered the conversation from last night and nostalgically bit some jelly, just for old times sake. It felt ridiculously good. I was giggling and smirking to myself, wishing Kim could see me, wishing even more that I could see the look of horror on Kim's face when ...

"Er ... Miss? What are you doing?"

I froze.

I couldn't believe it! I'd been caught! For best part of 23 years I'd been biting jelly, and not once had I been caught in the act! Why now? I'd been appropriately sneaky, hadn't I? I'd checked to make sure I was alone in the aisle ... where the hell had that shop manager come from?

"What are you doing?" the voice sounded mildly imperative but I was also satisfied to hear a hint of nervousness, this guy was determined to do his job but he was also going to be ready to make a sprint for it if mad jelly woman decided to go loco.

I turned round, my most winning, dazzling smile stretching across my face,

"Just checking!" I said brightly

Now I was looking at him I could see the fear in his eyes (and the spots on his chin ... why are so many supermarket managers spotty adolescents these days?), he looked kinda weedy, I'm a total girlie wuss but I felt confident that I could take this guy in an arm-wrestling match. It gave me new confidence.

"Checking for what?" he asked, licking his lips nervously and checking for the nearest exit out of the corner of his eye,

"Oh, just to make sure it's fresh. It gets a bit rubbery if it's stale" I bullsh*tted.

He clearly didn't buy it and attempted a mocking raise of one eyebrow which just made me want to laugh at him, "You're going to have to buy that, madam"

I considered him for a second, it was so tempting to give in to my mischievous inner child and refuse to buy the jelly, even though I'd just been biting it, but then my conscience whispered in my ear, sounding suspiciously like my mother; it told me I'd been in the wrong and to give in graciously and just buy the damned jelly! ... and furthermore that it served me right that it was an orange jelly (which I hate) and not a lime jelly (which I love) and that I should have thought of that before I started playing silly-buggers in the middle of the supermarket!

Sigh!

It's a lowering thought to know that I'll never be a really bad girl. If I was I would have just laughed, chucked the jelly at him and said "Catch this, spotty" and run off, giggling. Instead I admitted defeat and was practically frog-marched to a till where I had to buy the awful, teeth-marked orange jelly.

Although it did give me some small satisfaction to know that there were 3 other packets on the shelf that he clearly hadn't seen me biting.

Muahahaha!

Maybe I am a little bit naughty after all :P

Ansel Adams & Annie Leibovitz Have Nothing To Fear Here ...

Well I found the dl cable for my camera ... turns out there's a reason why it was stuffed in the back of the draw ... it doesn't work. Tsk!

So I've had to use my phone-cam, which is totally rubbish (as you'll see), the quality is a load of pants and it won't let me alter the brightness or zoom size ... I effin' hate technology!

But I promised I'd post some pics of the super-dooper prizes Diane and Dominica sent to me and I'm not one to go back on my promises ... unless it involves not eating somebody else's chocolate (sorry Mum ... you shouldn't have left it lying around like that ... in the fridge ... tucked behind the eggs ... and that big container of homemade soup)

First though, just for my lovely US BFF Lopez, here's a pic of my awesome handiwork from yesterday, yes it's the notorious curtain pole. Doesn't it look spiffing? (btw: the camera is at an angle, that's not how I put it up ... honest)



















Here's my cat, Lily, giving me a typically superior and snooty look ...




















And now some shots of the said awesome prizes, starting with the message on the postcard Dominica sent with her parcel to me (doesn't she have beautiful handwriting? you can tell she's artistic) ...



















Dominica's gifts came wrapped up in the sweetest little parcel of green tissue paper with a pretty orange ribbon and stick-on flower, it was so lovely I saved it. You can't see them very well from this crappy pic, but that's two little brooches in the middle, which I absolutely adore ...





















Here's the rest of the prize, super-lickalicious lollipops, Hello Kitty (which I'm SUCH a big fan of, I have t-shirts and underwear with it on) stick-on tattoos, a chocolate face mask and a cute little cut-out of a gnome! (lol I love stuff like that) and the trendy postcard Dominica sent me ...





















And now the parcel from Diane, here's the message in the little accompanying card that she sent me, she also has lovely, curly writing which I think shows her warm, fun-loving character ...




















Some tights in lovely summery colours, the footless blue and yellow ones will look fab with my denim mini skirts, plus the pretty little card from Diane ...




















Slippers and foxy leopard print pashmina that makes me want to go "Purrrrr" ... my mum has her eye on that pashmina ... I shall have to hide it in a cunning place (I think that's a finger or thumb in the bottom left corner ... see, that's why I hate taking pics, I'm hopeless) ...





















I can't wait for summer so that I can wear this groovy little vintage dress! (sorry, didn't realise my cargo's had got into the shot until it was too late and was too frustrated with my phone-cam to take another one) ...




















Here's the uber-silky, uber-sexy vintage Victoria's Secret's nightie ... this was my absolute fave item of them all, I just love beautiful lingerie and I cherish the thought that some guy's gonna get a lot of pleasure from this one day :P





















I can't begin to tell you how excited I was when I got my parcels and I must confess that there was more than a little childish squeaking going on as I opened them, so thank you again to my two blog-chums and style Goddesses, Diane and Dominica for all the cool stuff and the smiles that went with them :) xx

In which our heroine engages in some DIY (demented, infuriated yelling)

One of the joys of singledom is being able to do all your own household repairs and alterations!

Did that come across as sarcastic? It did? Jolly good!

I HATE DIY!

I don't WANT to do it myself! I want some other poor sucker to do it for me!

When I first left home at the tender age of 19 my Grandfather was still strong and fit enough to do anything that needed doing (just another reason for my adoring him so), but over the last few years he has become very frail, Parkinson's Disease and my Grandmother's death has sadly left him just a shell of the man he used to be.

Which means that now, unless I happen to have a boyfriend who is handy and willing with a toolbox, I have to DIM (Do it myself ... how appropriate that the acronym for that is "DIM"!).

Now let me make it clear ... I CAN do DIY. I have my own toolbox and everything! And not one pink or glittery handled screwdriver in sight! My tools are the real deal. Proper hardware of the kind that makes grown men drool and stand in hardware stores for hour after hour (what's that about?). I've actually had guys compliment me on my toolbox, and a couple I even suspect kept the relationship going long past its sell-by date because of that fact alone.

I just prefer NOT to have to do DIY. I put jobs off for as long as possible.

Recently I've had a couple of minor leak issues, one in the toilet cistern and one under the kitchen sink ... all I can say is thank God for mastic!

A while ago I bought some lovely new curtains for my bedroom and a metal curtain pole. Then I realised the curtain pole wasn't going to just magically attach itself to the wall (where are all the poxy DIY fairies when you need them!) and so it got put in a cupboard and determinedly ignored, a combination of work and insomnia being my favourite excuse for not having put them up yet.

But now I have nothing to do. I have no excuse. So today I gritted my teeth and resolved to put the bloody thing up if it killed me (yeah, keep reading).

I got my trusty toolbox out, cleaned all the dust and cobwebs off of it, and then found all the tools I thought I might need for the procedure, laying them out on the window sill like an operating theatre's table. (This always amuses me ... I like to imagine I'm a brain surgeon or something and say things to imaginary colleagues like "Hammer and chisel , please Nurse Ratched" and "We have to hurry! I think we're losing him!" hehehe). I surveyed the curtain pole, and then the window area, considering the job at hand (I just realised, this whole post is a double entendre DREAM for the smutty minded ... oh well, the comments should be interesting if nothing else ... ).

I figured that in theory it should be fairly straight forward. All I needed to do was fix 3 brackety thingies to the woody bit on the wall over the window and then Bob's yer uncle, voila ... etc etc.

I started strongly. I measured the woody bit, found the half way point and marked it with a pencil, this is where my middle brackety thingy would go. Then I measured equal distances on either side of this middle thingy and marked them ready for the other two brackety thingies.

Easy!

Then I fell off the stepladder.

S'ok ... I wasn't hurt (much) it was just a momentary lapse of concentration on my part. I was embarrassed more than anything, I could tell the b@$tard cat was hiding a smirk by pretending to lick its paw.

Then, armed with my trusty braddle and a brackety thingy, I made all the preliminary holes for the screws to bite into.

This was going swimmingly!

I got the screws out of the curtain pole box and found a screwdriver with the right head (Handy Andy eat your heart out!). Ascended the stepladder again ... looked at the screws.

They were huge! I mean seriously big ... you could have screwed an overweight elephant with a thyroid problem to the wall with these screws. They'd even provided rawlplugs!!! Now I'm no expert (clearly), but that seemed a little unnecessary to me ... I was only mounting a curtain pole, for the love of Bob!

Then I realised the screws were too deep to just screw into the woody bit on the wall over the window.

Feck!

Now, I have an electric drill. And I can use it ... if I'm drilling into cardboard or chalk or something similarly soft. But I'd tried to drill into these walls when I first moved in and it simply wasn't going to happen. The walls are made of steel and I'm a total weed with little or no strength in my arms. If you imagine trying to drill into a diamond using only a paperclip you'll start to get some idea of what I'm talking about.

But I had a cunning plan! I rooted around in my toolbox, I never throw things like screws away and as a consequence the bottom of the toolbox was a bed of odd screws and nails and ... er ... toothpaste caps ...!! I managed to find 6 similarly sized screws and gave a little hoot of victory. I could do this, dammit!

It worked like a charm. Except for having Phillips head screws and a flat-edged screwdriver. Back to the toolbox. Yay me for having Phillips head screwdrivers too!

I got all those brackety thingies on the woody bit on the wall over the window in under 10 minutes.

Yay!

Then I slipped down the stepladder.

S'ok, I wasn't hurt (well my pride was ... the effing cat gave me a look that clearly said "God! You're such a retard sometimes!") ... grazed my shin a little which stung, but I was a big brave girl and didn't cry (much).

All that was left was to attach the actual pole to the brackety thingies, which I managed after nearly smashing the lamp shade and the window (hey! manoeuvring an 8ft pole isn't easy you know!! ... and yeah, yeah ... that's what he said. Stop giggling!).

At last it was done! I stood back and admired my handiwork.

Then I realised that all the curtain rings were trapped at one end of the pole.

#@%$£&*#


If I ever meet the man of my dreams he better have a PHD in DIY or I'm NEVER putting out!

Please Bear With Me While I Ramble A Little ...

Well I did it! After two weeks of enthusiastic boasting I have totally jinxed the English weather and I'm sat here watching as the rain and wind pelt against the windows. *sigh*

I don't have much to post about I'm afraid, it's been a fun but not particularly news-worthy weekend.

I did get invited to a job interview (HOORAY!) but it's not until the middle of May *deflated look* and it's only part-time *even more deflated look* and it's only temporary until November *couldn't look any more deflated if she tried* and the pay is lousy *lip wobble* ... oh, and it's a job working in the admin section of the psychiatric ward at the local hospital - a small matter they forgot to mention in the job ad *nervous swallow*.

So now I'm faced with the quandary of whether to attend the interview or not. On one hand it's a job, and it's an income and it's relief from the tedium I know is about to kick in any day now ... on the other hand I have to be honest and confess that it doesn't greatly appeal to me. I also have to admit that I'm the nervous, easily-spooked-wuss type and whilst I'm fairly sure I would have little or no contact with the patients it still leaves me feeling a bit edgy. But ... I have given myself a stern talking to and I think I'm going to go to the interview (it's all good experience if nothing else) and just see what they have to say. They might not think I'm the right person for the job (I know I'm not convinced) but at least I'll have given it a (albeit half-hearted) shot.

What else can I share with you, ummm ...

Oooh! I was given my first ever blog award today! YaY! The wonderful Mo Stoneskin endorsed my blog and officially declared it lovely! He said some really nice things too which was so kind of him. I'm a big fan of his blog, I've read all of his old posts and would readily recommend him to anybody. It's always so great to receive a nice, positive comment from someone who's taken the time to read one of your posts, and I'm so lucky because I genuinely think I have some of the coolest commenter's out there, but when you get recognition from someone you especially admire it means even more. So thank you Mo :)

And in the true spirit of these things I'm going to pass it on to ...

Sas at Sas' Magical Mystery Tour ... she's classy and very amusing in the most wonderfully cool and understated way. Check out her blog if you haven't already done so ... she's totally worth it.

and to ...

PrincessImp at PrincessImp's Pedestal ... She's a lovely person, with a great sense of fun and lots of style. She recently visited New York and it was just pure pleasure to read about her adventures and see her stunning pics (you always get plenty of food porn too, which is a definite bonus as far as I'm concerned) ... go see for yourself though

Ok ... now look at the pic at the top of this post. Do you know what those are? Yes, they're gorgeous shoes ... they're also made of CHOCOLATE! I KNOW!!!!! How effin fabulous are they? My lovely blogchum words words words found them (he knows me so well!) and said he'd buy them for me ... problem is, I wouldn't know whether to wear them, eat them or just spend hours gazing in awe at their wonderfulness (not sure that's a word ... but oh well, it should be) and maybe stroking them fondly on occasion. I have the nicest blogchums!

As you can tell, I'm starting to struggle here ... so I feel a meme coming on! Whilst perusing the Bloggerati's posts from the weekend I came across a meme on Sass's excellent blog Are You Sassified (I noticed J.J has also done it on her blog) and since it offered plenty of scope for sarcasm and gratuitous link-love, I thought I'd indulge myself. I don't really do tagging so I'll just follow Sass's example and say that if you fancy having a go yourself ... crack on!


8 Things I'm Looking Forward To:

• Growing out of my dimples

• Summer and hazy warm weather so that I can wear my groovy, little, vintage Budweiser "shooter girl" dress that Diane sent as part of her awesome prize (there is a post coming, I promise)

• One day meeting #1 blogchum Trinity and giving him a big hug (and then giving him a clip round the ear for being so annoying and mean to his long-suffering wife)

• Mr London Street FINALLY posting the infamous "Vaseline Story"

• Cuddling a Koala (it will happen one day, I just know it)

• Having children of my own and getting to enjoy our family's favourite pastime, affectionately known as "embarrassing your child at every given opportunity" ... instead of just being the hapless victim of it :(

• Meeting a great guy who makes me laugh and who will not only be able to appreciate me in the super-silky, super-gorgeous little nightie that Diane also sent to me but who will also facilitate the making of the said children to be relentlessly tormented

• The day Dr Zibbs gets unmasked

8 Things I Did Yesterday:

• Went for a walk on the beach with a couple of friends ... it was lovely and sunny but the coastal winds were evil, my ears were totally numb within half an hour and I have never wanted a pair of big, fluffy earmuffs more in MY ENTIRE LIFE!

• Had a most amusing conversation via the medium of e-mail with one of my favourite blogchums (yes, it was about YOU. You know who you are)

• Hula-Hooped (Note to self: NEVER hula-hoop again)

• Offered a tissue to the unfortunate lady who was standing next to me and who got pooped on by a seagull

• Managed not to laugh at the unfortunate lady who got pooped on by a seagull (Note to self: Sometimes, I'm so proud of you!)

• Had dinner with my grandfather, mother and the Silver Fox (This weeks joint of roast beef was christened Horace ... yes I know that's odd, but it's family tradition ... remind me to post about that some time)

• Successfully maintained a happy smile and did not yawn once during said family dinner (even when the Silver Fox told his "amusing" story about being sent as a gullible apprentice to buy some "elbow grease" by his mean employer, for about the 10th time)

• Took the dog for a walk in the park and then came home and bathed the little b@$tard (why is it dogs hate being bathed but will happily roll in mucky old puddles?)

8 TV Shows I Watch:

• The Love Boat: When Icebergs Strike!

• Dr Whodunnit

• American Prison Idol

• Menopausal Housewives

• Dr Quinn: Ridiculously Over-acting Woman

• Mildly Unattractive Betty

• Lifestyles of the Disgustingly Rich & Snooty

• Star Trek: Geriatrics

*Ok ... so none of these shows actually exist, but I don't watch much TV and it was just easier to make $h*t up.


8 Things I Wish I Could Do:

• Go and watch a real American baseball game and then get totally squiffy with Peggy, I bet she's SO much fun!

• Go shopping and have a girlie lunch with the two style goddesses Diane and Dominica

• Go to Italy and sight-see with Eric (lovely, creative man AND successfully learning the sexy Italian lingo) and Lopez (all-round gorgeous blogger) and then invite them both back to dear old blighty for tea and scones and a guided tour of London

• Go for a bitchin' night out with Greta, ultimate mum and rock chick (check out her blog btw, she's really funny and has the most hilarious picture on there!)

• Seduce Mr London Street's charming friend Darren into coming out of exile and take him to a church fete (and maybe get a cheeky smooch in too if I'm lucky)

• See the Hollywood sign from wordsx3's bathroom and then irreverently bounce on his new furniture while he cooks dinner for me
  

• Take a cross-country car trip with Vic and just sit back and enjoy as she amusingly mocks all the r-tards foolish enough to get in our way. (I imagine it to be something like Thelma & Louise but with a lot more sarcasm and a lot less driving over cliffs at the end.)

• Go redneck baiting and then shop for flip-flops with Phat Mama
  

• Go to Georgia with Pru Jones and Joyless Prole (that would provide me with enough material to blog for the next century at least ... especially if we took JP's rather unusual handyman with us)

Yes, I know that's 9 ... but it's my blog and I'll do whatever I bloody well please!

Happy Monday everyone xx

A Little Slice of English Life ...

The weather was lovely again yesterday and my friend sent me a text first thing in the morning, suggesting we went out for the day to enjoy it. Being the total sun ho I am, I cordially agreed.

We didn't really know where to go though, so we decided to start by walking into town to get croissants and hot chocolate for breakfast. In doing so we passed the local church which just happened to be holding a Spring fete. It hadn't opened yet, but we calculated that by time we'd obtained and scoffed our hip-expanding victuals and done a bit of quality retail therapy it would have. So there was the plan.

The croissants and hot chocolate were delicious. So much so that my friend, who is a total extrovert, threatened to seriously embarrass me by re-enacting the fake orgasm scene from "When Harry Met Sally" (although I suspect it had more to do with trying to get the attention of the guy she'd taken a shine to at the next table).

The retail therapy was a little disappointing, I saw the loveliest pair of shoes, high heels in faux, magenta suede! Sigh! I think I might have drooled on them a little. But they didn't have them in my size :( Stupid, popular size 5 feet!! And then I saw the most divine little dress! Low cut at the back but not in a trampy way, it would have been perfect for any one of the numerous 30th birthday bash's I'll soon have to start attending, but they only had one in my size and it had a tear in the side that even if I was handy with a needle and thread (which I'm not ... I was actually removed from the Needlework class at school after breaking 3 sewing machines in a row and sent back for another term in Metalwork) would still look horrible. So I had a bit of a sulk and a pout and felt lots better.

We wandered back to the church, which is small and rather cute, not at all creepy like some churches, the ladies of the WI (Women's Institute for the uninitiated) had skillfully decorated the interior with spring flowers and the last of the daffodils which made it look warm and jolly. The fete was being held round the back and we followed the sound of children's voices and a dog barking.

It wasn't a big fete, but it had all the essential ingredients.

A couple of WI stalls, one sparsely spread with jars of things like homemade jam that you could probably use to cement the stonework of a large castle with and pickled onions floating in vinegar that looked evil enough to dissolve a lung. The other was the cake stall. The little old dears were clearly trying to impress the vicar and had pulled out all the stops; big slabs of dark fruit cake emitting enough brandy fumes to make your eyes water; plates of delicate little fairy cakes smothered with butter cream and multi-coloured sprinkles and brick-shaped lemon drizzle cakes that looked so stodgy you could probably build that big castle with them and use said jam as the cement ... it would stand for centuries, I'm sure.

There's always a definite sense of subtle yet steely competition amongst the WI ladies. They hover around the stalls in their matching twin-sets and with perfectly permed hair that even the deadliest tropical cyclone couldn't budge, huddling in cliquey little groups, critically eyeing each others offerings and muttering things like "I wouldn't be surprised if she uses lard, you know" and "always skimping on the cherries!"

Tucked away in one corner was the worlds smallest bouncy castle. Something to keep the children occupied (which btw is SO unfair! We always make a point of asking if we can have a go on bouncy castles and they never let us! Rotten ageists!) it's always a popular addition to any outdoor social gathering ... well, it is until one of the little darlings, all stoked up on coca cola and fairy cakes, empties the contents of their hyperactive little tummy all over it and several of the other tiny bouncers, then it's not so popular and clears like magic.

There was the obligatory tombola. A display of prizes with a raffle ticket number attached to each item, you pay your pound and get to pick a number from a barrel and win whichever prize happens to be attached to the corresponding number in the display. Sounds like a fun idea, doesn't it? It would be if the "prizes" weren't totally naff; ranging from tins of food with expiry dates going back to the last millennium, clearly harvest festival rejects that even the poor elderly folk of the parish had refused to eat, to crappy, plastic toys and things like glow in the dark toenail clippers that even the local pound shop considered old tat and declined to sell.

There was the old "Guess how many pennies are in this large jar" contest; you had to pay yet another pound for the dubious privilege of taking a guess, with the lucky winner receiving a manky box of Milk Tray that looked suspiciously like they'd been held back from the tombola.

There was a small tent where more WI ladies were serving small, Styrofoam cups of tea that was the same shade as George Hamilton's tan or plastic beakers of anaemic looking orange squash or cola that tasted very much like that crappy old Soda Stream stuff ... if it was watered down even further and left in the sun for a couple of days. Yum!

My eyes lit up and twinkled happily to see a small, used-books stall ... however they quickly dimmed again on being faced with a table depressingly full of Catherine Cookson and Sidney Sheldon paperbacks, plus a large assortment of what could only be classed as 70's soft porn, pulp fiction, with covers showing pictures of improbably bosomed, scantily clad nurses and air hostesses in rather unladylike poses and which looked disturbingly well-thumbed. The little old lady running the stall was either no where near as innocent as she appeared or she hadn't bothered to check the content of the books donated to the cause.

The highlight of the afternoon was being advertised by an adenoidal gentleman via a loud speaker system (which seemed even funnier given the size of the grounds ... he could have just raised his voice slightly and everyone would have heard him) as a heady combination of a dog show and a short speech by the vicar. Every time the Vicar was mentioned the WI ladies oohed and aahed like a bunch of elderly, blue-rinsed groupies.

The dog show turned out to consist of 5 pooches; one was a large, overweight poodle that hadn't seen a bath in months, a rather magnificent German Shepherd who didn't stop barking, 2 mutts of questionable parentage, (one of whom had a very cheeky face and a curly tail and immediately won my affection) and a small terrier who appeared to have a Napoleon complex and wanted nothing more than to have a good go at ripping the German Shepherd's throat out and schtup the poodle ... both of whom were a good three times his size.

It was most entertaining; the owners had to parade their dogs around a small enclosure for the Vicar to admire and judge accordingly, a simple, foolproof plan it would seem. But like all big competitions, all was at stake and it was destined to be full of drama.

The Poodle simply refused to move, one of the mutts had a weak bladder and stopped every 3 seconds for a quick jimmy, blatantly ignoring its owners frantic tugging of its lead; the German Shepherd decided to show his disdain for the whole affair and took a horse-sized dump right in front of the Vicar ... which the Terrier then took personally and launched itself into a frenzy of barking and snarling and had to be removed by his owner. My favourite, the little mutt went last and showed them all how it should be done, trotting around happily, shaking his tail so hard it looked likely to fly off his furry little butt and all with a big grin on his cheeky little face. It was inevitable that he would win ... and he did, amidst much enthusiastic applause and admiration, looking pleased as punch with himself and giving one smug little woof of joy.

I think Edie Brickell got it spot on when she wrote the line "Religion, is the smile on a dog".

The Vicar's speech was something of an anticlimax after all the canine excitement, he bumbled his way through it, using 50 words where only 5 were necessary etc, thanked those in attendance and the ladies of the WI, mentioning a couple of them by name which drew poisonously, jealous glances from some of the others, you just knew a Victoria Sponge would be viciously sabotaged by night fall.

It was a nice afternoon on the whole, although nothing particularly exciting it had pleasantly occupied us, allowed us to glory in the lovely warm weather and given us plenty to talk and laugh about. We walked home feeling happily drowsy from sun saturation and a bit giggly from all the sugar we'd consumed, but most of all we felt satisfyingly English.

Because there is simply nothing more English than a church fete, it shows up and highlights all our best and most endearing eccentricities, it glories in our ridiculous love of everything naff.

On days like that I love being English and wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.

A Real-Life Character ...

Have you ever watched something on TV or read a book where there's a character that makes you think "Nobody's like that!", a character so over the top that they're more of a caricature of a person than the real thing?

I've thought it hundred's of times, especially when I've been reading something like Dickens who crammed all his books with the most wonderful, full-blooded characters ever dreamed of.

The really cool thing is that actually there ARE people like that out there in the real world. They're rare, but they're out there, just waiting to be discovered and enjoyed. They're not always pleasant characters. but they're larger than life and unforgettable.

The "ladies wot lunch" were lucky enough to encounter one of these "characters" this afternoon.

There's a pub down by the waterside in town that we'd all heard of but on discussion realised not one of us had actually been inside. One of my friends mentioned that she'd heard it was also known to be a hangout for singles and so with our curiosity hooked (and since our regular haunt was packed with elderly tourists) we decided that it was the perfect time to explore. And off we tottered.

Have you seen that film "American Werewolf in London"? If you have ... think of the little Yorkshire pub the two American guys go into just before they're attacked on the moors ... that'll give you some idea of what it was like inside. If you HAVEN'T seen that film (why haven't you seen it??? It's awesome! Go buy/rent it now!) then imagine a cross between the Woolpack and Tubbs' shop ("This is a local shop!") from League of Gentlemen ... the kind of place that is dimly lit and smells funny and has the sign of the beast on the wall.

We couldn't see any gorgeous single men, we couldn't see anybody at all other than the 3 old codgers sitting by the fireplace who looked like they'd been sitting there so long they should have had cobwebs on them, and who all stopped talking and looked at us suspiciously when we walked in.

We all looked at each other, trying not to laugh, silently asking if a speedy u-turn out the door was in order, but before a decision could be made we heard "Good afternoon, ladies!".

It was the landlord. He looked a bit like that old caretaker bloke in the Harry Potter films, (you know, the bitter old squib with the manky looking cat that grasses on the students?) and he was standing behind the bar polishing glasses that looked like they hadn't been used in centuries. "What can I get you?"

We all shuffled nervously on our heels a bit and looked at each other again, "Oh God!" hissed friend #1, "We're going to have to stay now, let's just have one drink and then we can get the hell out of here!". So we went and sat at the bar, uncomfortably aware of the codgers watching us and the landlord looking us over in a rather unappealing way.

Before we'd even ordered drinks he launched into a speech that clearly was a well-used one:

"Right! Now I'll tell you what I tell everyone what comes in this pub ... this is a NICE pub, a RESPECTABLE pub ... and that's how it's gonna stay. I don't have no scumbags in here, anyone looking for trouble will find it if they mess with me ... and then they find the door with my boot up their arse. Ladies are safe here ... and I mean LADIES not TARTS ... I can see you're not tarts because of the way you're dressed, you haven't got your tits on display (friend #1 looked a bit disappointed and down at her chest, clearly wishing she'd put the other top on) and you're not wearing too much make-up. If I see a tart come in here I soon tell them to piss off. But not you, you're welcome, I can see you're nice girls. And you don't need to worry, you're safe in MY pub ... put your drinks down, go to the ladies ... you won't get your drinks spiked in MY pub! No funny business. No disrespecting the regulars (cue smugly grinning codgers) and we'll get on fine. Now! You know the rules, we all know where we stand ... what are you drinking? Oh! And that's another thing ... I don't sell beer or whisky to women ... if you're the sort of woman who drinks beer or whiskey then you're a tart and you're looking for trouble and you can go find it in some other pub ... you ain't gonna get beer or whisky in MY pub!"

There was a stunned pause as we struggled to take all this in, "Is he serious?" whispered friend #2 as friend #1 started humming the "Twilight Zone" theme.

We played it safe and ordered white wine which seemed to meet his approval. Friend #2 suggested we go and sit down somewhere (away from the bar and him) but before we could answer ... "I'll tell you where to sit" we were informed.

At this point friend #3 excused herself to the bathroom, clearly about to have a serious fit of the giggles, ("leave your drink here" came the order, barked at her in the best drill sergeant style, "like I said, there's no drink-spiking in MY pub" to which friend #1 muttered "Chance would be a fine thing!").

Friend #2, ever-polite and kind-hearted (i.e. stupid) asked where we should sit, ("about a mile down the road?" I suggested under my breath) which won a gleaming if somewhat toothless smile "Sit upstairs" he said "this way".

Off we dutifully trooped, up the most dangerous set of stairs we'd ever seen which weren't secured to anything but seemed suspended by some very flimsy looking bicycle chains which caused it to rock in the most alarming way as soon as you stepped foot on them.

Upstairs there was a sprawling, open-plan seating area with tables and chairs; boat memorabilia adorned the yellowing walls and the ceiling had been decked with what appeared to be fake grapevines. "Best view in town up here" we were told proudly as he switched on some lights, and indeed it was. Overlooking the river with the gulls swooping low and a few boats sailing idly down it, it was picture postcard material, as we all hastened to tell him, mostly afraid of what might happen if we didn't. We later agreed that on a warm summer's night with someone special it could actually be quite a romantic setting ... but we were just a group of girls looking to relax and have a laugh on a rather overcast and chilly lunchtime, without coats, in a large room that had all the charm and temperature of a clapped out old refrigerator.

At this point friend #3 rejoined us having figured out from our distant voices that we hadn't done a bunk and deserted her as she'd first feared but merely gone upstairs (she told us later that she'd asked the codgers where we'd gone and they'd just stared at her, slack-jawed).

"Nice view" she said "bit bloody cold though, isn't it?". We stared at her in horror and waited nervously for our hosts reaction to this criticism. He seemed to weigh this up, looking at her through slightly squinting eyes that even Clint Eastwood would have been proud of, "It really IS a lovely view" said the ever diplomatic friend #2, which had the desired effect, the suspicious squint disappeared and with a slightly defensive shrug of his shoulders he thanked her. However, friend #3's slight on his precious pub clearly hadn't been forgotten for he soon looked back at her and said "I never turn the heating on up here, nobody's complained before". I swiftly kicked her under the table and gave her a meaningful glare. We could all see her calculating the potential entertainment value of winding him up further but three pairs of pleading eyes made her smile and graciously apologise to him instead, which frankly he was the only one fooled by.

Fooled he was though and with feathers unruffled he told us that it was too expensive to heat such a large, open area, which we made all the required sympathetic noises to, "and personally I don't feel the cold" he added "I'm a hot body" and I could see friend #1 shaking her head and mouthing "He SO isn't!". He then told us how he always felt burning hot, even on the coldest day and couldn't bear to wear coats or jumpers, "Summer or Winter, I only ever have a thin sheet over me at night" he added, "and do you know, every morning I wake up and the sheets are soaked! Soaked through they are! There's a me-shaped stain on the mattress!"

Frankly, this was more than any of us could bear. I've never seen four women down a glass of wine as fast as we did. Making our excuses (we had imaginary friends to meet) we left post haste. Even as we were rushing out the door we could hear him shouting his thanks, telling us to come back soon and that ladies were always safe in HIS pub.

I think we did well, getting 10 yards down the road before collapsing with hysterics.

I just really hope he didn't see us, because if he did he probably thinks we're beer-drinking tarts now.



Ps: I got my prize from Diane on Tuesday :D ... it was pretty damned awesome! Chock-full of goodies! I'll be blogging about it just as soon as I find my stupid camera dl cable.

Clubbed to Death ...

Urgh! Do you know what the worst thing about being nearly 30 is?

It's having friends the same age as you.

Friends who are panicking about the fact that they will soon be leaving their 20's behind and suddenly feel a desperate urge to recapture and hang on to their "youth".

This afternoon I got an e-mail from a friend who is turning 30 in a few weeks and wants to celebrate.

Whats wrong with that, you grumpy bugger? I can hear you wondering to yourself. It's a milestone, right? Who wouldn't want to celebrate it?

It's not that I mind celebrating, in fact I'd be rather put out if we didn't ... it's how she wants to celebrate that I have the problem with.

She wants to go clubbing.

*weary sigh*

I'm so over clubbing. I started going when I was barely 16 (I looked mature for my age and never got asked to provide I.D ... which is a bit disturbing when I think about it now) and by the time I reached 21 I was totally sick and bored of it. I do it once in a while now, mainly to keep my friends off my back, but I don't really do it by choice. Clubbing holds no attraction for me, it's hardly the height of my social ambition to spend an evening wedged up against total strangers, sipping a tepid cocktail whilst being deafened by the sound system and ogled like a piece of prime steak! I'd much rather go for a nice meal and drinks in a bar.

Now before I get accused of being a killjoy and old fashioned I would like to say in my defence that I like to have a good time as much as the next 29 year old, single, woman. I like to have the occasional drink (or three), I like music and I like to chat and I LOVE to dance! But clubs (at least the clubs in this town) prohibit the enjoyment of any of these activities.

Wait! Maybe I should briefly fill you in on the 'club' situation in this town before I continue?

OK, there are basically three main clubs, all within walking distance of each other but all attracting very different clientele. The first is the acknowledged hang-out for teenagers and early 20's, you can recognise it by the thumping dance/techno music, heavy presence of police cars, broken glass and puddles of vomit outside.

The next is the 'swingers' club, this is where the middle aged flock to at the weekends, dressed like mutton they spend the night flirting with the bar staff and doing the "embarrassing mum/dad" dance to old 60's and 70's tunes, generally kidding themselves that they've still 'got it' while contradicting this delusion by saying things like "Hey! We can still show the kids how to party!" or "They don't make songs like this anymore!"

Third and lastly you have the club I ended up in. This is where the late 20's and 30-somethings congregate, packed like desperate, horny sardines, battling off the fear of impending middle age by trying to convince themselves and everyone else that life is still one big party, all to a soundtrack of classic 80's, 90's and 00's music.

It never ceases to amaze me that so many people put themselves through this ritual week after week, just by looking around you can see the discomfort and panic in their eyes. THAT'S why people drink so much, it's liquid courage to deaden the senses, otherwise it's all one big awful ordeal. So why DO they do it? Because they all realise that they HAVE to put themselves through it week in, week out, in order to find the partner who will free them from this social torture for ever.

Anyway, back to my bitching ... yes, you can drink in a club ... if you take out a small bank loan beforehand or are willing to risk "Rohypnol spritzers" from strange guys; yes, you can chat ... if you're skilled in the art of shouting and/or lip reading and yes, you can dance ... as long as you consider dancing to be shuffling restrictively from one foot to the other whilst getting pushed and jostled by all the drunken louts who are flailing around without any regard to the welfare of others, all the while wilting into a soggy, unattractive mass from the heat of the lights and the bodies of your fellow club-dwellers.

I mean seriously? Is that fun?

And if all that wasn't ghastly enough, I have to deal with my friends thinking that all they have to do is get me inside a club and I will magically find the man of my dreams, when the truth of it is nothing is more unlikely. Being quite shy, (shocked? it's true) especially around men I find attractive, it's difficult enough under the best of circumstances, let alone with all the previously mentioned horrors to contend with.

I mean let's face it, you don't exactly get the cream of the male crop in clubs. And before people start booing and hissing at me for saying that ... I acknowledge that no doubt there are some truly lovely men out there who club regularly, (my best friends met in a club, were married 3 months later and are still extremely happy after 7 years), it's just not MY experience.

Let me share one of my experiences with men in clubs from a previous night out:

The scene: crowded club, I'm sat at a table with a couple of female friends the others having gone to buy drinks or to go to the bathroom etc, feeling pretty dispirited, not to mention bored and tired; he's clearly very drunk, not at all my type and has been trying to catch my attention all night despite my rather obvious disinterest. Failing to catch my eye he catches my friend's and uses that as an excuse to come over (clutching a bottle of beer in both hands, most of which seems to be down the front of his shirt and on his shoes ... at least I prefer to assume it's beer):

Him: Alright ladies? (said whilst staring at me, or rather my breasts)

Friends: Yes, fine thank you

Him: What's your names? (still staring at me)

Friends: (general mumbled responses while trying to catch my eye, obviously thinking the whole situation hilarious)

Him: (pointing at me with one of the beer bottles) What's your name?

Me: (with a very heavy sigh and pained look gives name)

Him: that's a fucking average name

Me: thank you!

Him: Why you so fucking miserable?

Friends: (hearty snickering)

Me: (mentally say's "Because I have a drunken schmuck in my face who is making me extremely uncomfortable") I'm just tired

Him: You should cheer up! (belches) You're a pretty girl! You've got great tits!

Me: thank you!

Him: Come and dance

Me: No thanks

Him: What?

Me: I said no thanks

Him: Why not?

Me: Because I don't want to

Him: You need to fucking cheer up, come and dance with me

Me: I said no

Him: Why not?

Me: I'm not in the mood, and it's too crowded and warm

Him: Well let me take you somewhere else (belch)

Me: No, thank you! I'm not interested

Him: Why not? We don't have to have sex straight away

Me: I said no!

Him: You just need a bloke to sort you out

At this point I gave my friends the filthiest look I could manage and hissed that unless they got rid of him I was leaving. Fortunately the men of the party returned and he stumbled off having been squared up to by the largest and most intimidating of them.

That's the small town, Norfolk club scene.

But what my friend wants is to go clubbing in London. Specifically to a club called The Church which was where we celebrated her 21st birthday. Going with the whole church theme it's open on Sunday mornings/afternoons, allowing hardcore clubbers the opportunity to be smashed off their faces for the entire weekend if they so choose.

Now to be fair, as far as I remember, it was actually quite good fun. If I have to go clubbing then I would much prefer to do it in London and I was half-heartedly accepting my fate as not being so bad, when I received another e-mail.

It was from another friend from the list of those the original e-mail invitation had been sent to.

It said:

"OMGOMGOMG! We HAVE to talk her out of this ASAP! Went last year with friends and it is a DISGUSTING DUMP"

I groaned out loud. Now I was going to get put right in the middle of a dispute about something I didn't even want to do in the first place. But ever the diplomat I e-mailed friend #2 back and said that I reluctantly had to admit that I'd had fun the last time, and if that was what friend #1 wanted to do then maybe we should just bite the bullet and indulge her.

A reply soon came whooshing into my inbox.

Apparently the club we went to in 2000 has radically changed. It's moved location for one thing, and whilst it's still the biggest haunt for hot Aussie guys it's also full of misogynistic a-holes whose idea of a fun time is to drink until they barf over each other and anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby, groping and molesting any female that takes their fancy, while a DJ plays substandard music and a resident stand-up comic demands that the female clubbers get their tits out. Throw in a middle-aged stripper, who my friend described as "such a skanky ho, she makes Amy Winehouse look like Shirley Temple" and there you have all the ingredients of my worst clubbing nightmare.

Urgh! I'm getting too old for this!

I think I might have other plans that weekend if we can't talk her out of it.


On a side note ... I don't remember all the details of my friend's 21st celebrations, however I do remember vividly what my friends and I now refer to as "The Magnificent Poo Incident"

*Warning: If you happen to be eating whilst reading this, you might want to look away and come back later

Having spent a rather tipsy weekend in the capital we started to make our way home by train. As is often the way I was convinced before getting on the train that I didn't need to use the bathroom. I felt fine.

Ten minutes into the journey my bladder started to twitch.

By the time we got to the underground station near my friend's house, approximately 20 minutes later I was fit to burst and only prevented an accident by hopping from one foot to the other, uttering the mystical chant "IneedtopeeIneedtopeeIneedtopee", which everyone knows gives you 5 vital extra minutes before embarrassing yourself.

I dashed off the train at the speed of light straight into the ladies toilets, and slammed into a cubicle.

What I saw there made me stop in my tracks. My straining bladder all but forgotten.

On the back of the toilet cistern, almost the same width as it, was the most humongous poo I've ever seen.

Whoever had done it had obviously been so proud of their handiwork that they'd wanted to share its magnificence with everyone. They'd laid a line of toilet tissue on the top of the cistern and then lovingly placed the poo on top of it, displaying it to glorious effect.

I was stunned.

I looked to see if I'd wandered into the Gents in my haste, surely no woman was capable of such a thing! But no, it was the Ladies alright.

It was too good/heinous not to share and I dutifully called my friends in, and I figured it was what the woman (built like a Russian weightlifter in my mind) would have wanted.

We stood there slack-jawed in awe for a couple of minutes.

It's magical spell was only broken by one of my friends gasping that she thought she was going to throw up.

And so it passed (pardon the pun) into legend.

Job Hunting; A Near Encounter With Jack the Ripper; The Great Scone Debate Gets Settled Once & For All ...

It's been an interesting day.

I had an appointment with an employment agency this morning, they phoned yesterday and said they really liked my C.V. and thought they could put quite a bit of work my way (Hoorah! Yippee! w00t! etc). So I donned my favourite suit, grabbed my passport and N.I card (they need to make sure you're not an illegal immigrant before they can put you forward for jobs ... although I'm fairly sure my accent is a bit of a giveaway on that front), a copy of my C.V and qualification certificates and headed into town.

The glorious weather hasn't abated yet and I happily wandered through the park, admiring the daffodils and blossoming trees and said hello to the ducks (I like to do that, I know they can't reply but I think they appreciate the gesture all the same).

On reaching the employment agency's office I was given a pile of forms (Dostoevsky's work again, I think) to fill in. It's amazing, I can remember all my times tables and all manner of other useless facts and figures and yet even after being asked at least 5 times for my mobile number and rooting around for it on said mobile, I STILL couldn't remember it!

I then had to do a couple of tests; pretty basic stuff, and then there were yet more forms to fill in whilst the consultant went and checked their database for any jobs they might be able to put me forward for, so I figuratively rolled up my sleeves and settled down for the long haul.

The office had a number of cubicles sectioned off, for people like me to write their autobiographies in and for the consultants to be able to interview clients in private. Only problem was, they weren't at all private. The walls were clearly incredibly thin because I could hear all of the conversation from the next cubicle. It was a gentleman, well spoken and middle aged by the sounds of it, who clearly wasn't having much success with temping:

Consultant: "It's getting to the stage now where I really don't know how much more we can do for you"

Man: "There must be other jobs"

Consultant: "Well yes, there are ... but you must admit that it has proved almost impossible for us to find something that you're happy to do".

Man: "I don't like filing"

Consultant: "No I know, but filing is often a basic requirement of office work"

Man: "And I'm not very good with computers"

Consultant: "In this day and age no office is going to be without them"

Man: "And I don't like speaking to people on the telephone"

Consultant: (starting to sound just a little bit irritable) "We're quite aware of what you DON'T like to do, Robert. We've put you forward for 11 positions in the last six weeks, 5 of them you refused to even consider, 4 of them you lasted less than a week and the other 2 ... less than a day! What is it you DO want to do?"

Man: "I'd like to work in an abattoir"

Very long pause

Consultant: "Robert, we are an employment agency specialising in office support"

Man: "Do you know anyone who might be able to get me a job in an abattoir?"

It was kinda creepy listening to him, even with the paper-thin walls between us. I imagined him carrying various tools of torture around in a doctors bag, stalking through the Norfolk streets with a big cape and top hat, looking for hapless pigs to slaughter whilst muttering "sausages" under his fetid breath.

I found myself torn between wanting to catch a glimpse of him, (just so I'd know what he looked like and could give him a wide berth if I ever found myself within a 50 mile radius of him) and hoping he'd have left by time I did, he creeped me out that much.

Fortunately he had and I left the premises unmolested and with an assurance from the consultant that they hoped to find something for me soon. Big sighs of relief on all counts then.

I was supposed to meet my mum for lunch but she'd gotten caught up in extreme retail therapy and asked me to amuse myself for another half hour. I grumpily agreed and wandered off looking for adventure. Which I soon found in Sainsbury's of all places!

I went in with the aim of buying some bananas and cat biscuit (not to be consumed together, btw) and having meandered down the aisles I soon found the bakery section.

Now if any of you read Mr London Street's blog (which I certainly hope you DO, because the man is truly gifted) then you will know that a debate on scones has been verily raging amongst him and his many friends and followers. First there was the all important question of pronunciation ... is it scone, to rhyme with "Gone" (yes, it IS, btw) or to rhyme with "Moan" (his choice of rhyming words, not mine)?

Secondly, and far more contentiously it seems, was the question "What comes first? The jam or the cream?" (Answer: Jam first, because jam by its very nature needs to be spread and how can you possibly spread something onto a non-solid, flumpy mass such as cream?)

Anyway, there's been a lot of argument from clearly misguided souls who haven't the first clue about scone etiquette, so when I saw some cream scones twinkling at me from the refrigerated shelving unit I decided to seize the moment and settle the matter once and for all.

Until that moment in time, I had never appreciated just how tricky it can be verifying whether a scone has jam or cream first when it's neatly packaged in a little box and with several aged folk staring at you as though you just escaped from Bedlam. I wanted to take some photos, but the elderly become amazingly hostile when they see scones being tampered with, so I left it.

Simple answer though: Jam first (Ha!)

I had planned to leave it there, but I know how pedantic and troublesome some people can be, big bunch of doubting Thomas' that you are, I just knew you would say it was inconclusive proof.

So I went to Tescos. Where I nearly had to wrestle a wrinkly for the last box. (It's such a good job I'm younger and faster).

Anyway, their scones had jam first too (Double Ha!)

But "let's be fair", I thought ... "best of three".

And then I went to Marks & Spencers. (Where I was rather snootily asked if I intended to buy the scones after I'd finished manhandling them, by a lady with the most outrageous leopard print coat, beehive hairdo and painted on eyebrows)

And guess what? It turns out that M&S scones have jam first too. *smug, superior grin*

And this isn't just delicious little rounds of stodgy goodness, slathered with the finest strawberry preserve and thick, heart-attack inducing Devonshire cream ... this is grossly overpriced delicious little rounds of stodgy goodness, slathered with the finest strawberry preserve and thick, heart-attack inducing Devonshire cream; this is food made especially for middle-class snobs.

So there you have it! Totally conclusive. Three out of three. Jam first.

The matter is now closed.


Ps: Guess what I'm having for dinner?

If I Had A Time Machine ...

It might look something like this.

Hmm. Looks a bit flimsy, doesn't it? Do I really want to go hurtling through space and time in this contraption? Although the chair does look rather comfy and I bet you get an awesome Sky reception. Maybe even Channel Five! If I just added some sporty spoilers and painted on some streaking flames down the side, maybe hang some fluffy dice up or get one of those nodding dogs ... it would probably look alot cooler!



Better than a poxy plutonium-guzzling DeLorean anyway.



And better than this .........









So where (or rather when) would I go and what would I do?

I would go back to biblical times and check out Jesus, suggest a goatee and a less girly hairstyle and then warn him about this sicko ...

I would go back to Roman times, steal Nero's fiddle and toga and bring them back for Eric, a small consolation prize for his not finding any worthy treasures this weekend (other than the enormous cockerel).

Author's Note: Check this out ... this is genuine Roman graffiti, depicting said Nero! Either the graffiti artists were totally shite in those days or he was one WEIRD looking dude! AND there weren't any fiddles in Nero's time ... so if he was fiddling whilst Rome burned, well then he was probably a dirty perv too.

Go back to Elizabethan England and try to catch one of Shakespeare's shows at the Globe ... then hurry back to present day because the Elizabethan's were kinda smelly.

Go back to 16th century Florence and tell Leonardo da Vinci to either not bother painting the Mona Lisa or make it much bigger and have her wear an amusing hat and maybe have a couple of dinosaurs in the background

Go back to Regency England, try on some pretty dresses, go to a couple of fancy balls, try to find a real-life Mr Darcy and then flirt outrageously with him. Maybe get a snog too. (I'm re-watching the Colin Firth version of Pride & Prejudice atm ... it's all J.J's fault)

Go back to the 50's and tell Elvis to lay off the pies and spangly catsuits and to include more kung-fu moves in his live performances

Go back to 8am this morning ... when my hair actually looked ok

Go forward in time to my funeral, see who's there, make a note of any no-show'ers and anyone not wailing piteously with grief, come back and remove those mofo's from my Christmas card list and Will

How bout you?

Today I Will Be Mostly ... Grumpy

That's right! Grumpy.

But don't be scared, I'm not big-time, shotgun-wielding, homicidal grumpy, I'm just a little bit grumpy, and shall spend the day moping around, pouting and saying "bleh" a lot.

Why am I grumpy?

I'm tempted to tell you to mind your own business ... because I'm grumpy and that's what grumpy people do, but then I guess it wouldn't be much of a post. (Tsk! I so didn't think this through) So ok, I'll indulge you this once ... but please can you imagine me telling you this with a scowl on my face and a with a slight attitude in my tone?

Thanks!

There are a number of reasons why I'm grumpy today and I shall now list them for you (in no particular order of irritational merit, they're all as grump-inducing as the other):

1) Sleep.
Or rather lack of sleep. Insomnia sucks big hairy badger bits. Know what I was doing at 4am this morning? I was alphabeticalising (is that even a word? I'm too tired and grumpy to care) my cd's and categorising my dvd's and books by genre and author alphabetically. NOT my idea of fun.

2)Neighbours.
B@stards. If they're not bonking for Britain (why can't they just move the bed AWAY from the wall?) then they're screaming abuse at each other. And then at 8am this morning, ON A SUNDAY, they decided that what they wanted to do, more than anything in this world, was some DIY. Cue loud, prolonged drilling and continuous hammering.

3) Teething.
That's what I said. I'm 29 and I'm fricking teething! And it hurts! I got conned into helping my mum do the grocery shopping this morning, I was sulkily pushing the shopping trolley while she piled in enough food to feed a small army when we bumped into a friend of my mother's. She had a small child with her, red cheeked and looking almost as grumpy as I did. We moodily stared at each other, a sulky stare-off if you will (he looked away first, so I like to think I won). My mum was trying to cajole a smile out of him by tickling his cheek and talking nonsense to him, he looked like he wanted to bite her finger right off. "Oh dear" said mother sympathetically "he doesn't look very happy, does he!", the woman replied that the child was teething, I looked at him with new, resentful understanding, "Oh!" chirped mother, "so's Kate! Poor dears! They get so irritable with it, don't they?". And just like that I was reduced to toddler status again.

4) Lotto-Not-D'oh!
#1 Blog-chum Trinity, convinced that his luck would prove better than mine, talked me into getting a lottery ticket this week, thoughtfully providing me with a set of numbers he mystically channeled from a cardboard box he just happened to have in front of him at the time. I checked the winning numbers this morning ... I hadn't got a single one of them.

So I'm still poor.

Poor and tired.

Poor and tired and teething.

Bleh!


Author's Note: In the interests of fairness, I must admit that it's not all doom and gloom; I won two blog competitions last week, the first on the lovely Diane's blog, Cooking Blind and the second on uber-cool Dominica's Faces & Places of Antwerp. Surprise prizes are winging their way to me, which I'm ridiculously and childishly excited about ... it's even better than Christmas! YaY! And yesterday I got a card with Peeps on it from said #1 blog-chum Trinity, which made me smile and quietly chuckle to myself (QCTM). Plus, I may or may not have a hot date with the Blogfather, Dr Zibbs ... if his wife let's him.

So I guess I DO have something to smile about.

Maybe I will in a little while.

Maybe the comedy blog legends that are Mr London Streets and Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin will write hilarious posts that will make me guffaw against my will and make my bad mood disappear like autographed photos of the Pope at a nun's convention.

Maybe!

But for now, I'm still grumpy.

*scowls and pouts*