In which our heroine does some gardening and goes to the cinema ...

It was a bit of a mixed day, today.

The sun continues to shine on this little corner of England so I walked over to see the Swiss Family Manson first thing this morning and had breakfast with them.

I've been promising my Grandfather all week that I'd help him with some gardening, for some bizarre reason he ordered 500 plants this year, (God knows why! It already makes Kew Gardens look like an allotment) they were delivered last week and he's been in a fever of worry about getting them planted. Unfortunately the whole garden, which is a decent size, needed to be weeded and have the soil turned, blah, blah, etc, etc before any new plants could be put in.

I hate weeding. Actually, I pretty much hate gardening. I love to see green things growing but I'm the Grim Reaper of the plant world. No plant survives for longer than a week in my home, I either forget to water it or water it too much. Resistance is futile. My Grandmother was a plant whisperer, she would lovingly coax the dying plants I'd systematically tortured back to health and then find the perfect spot for them in her home, where they'd shame me by leading long and propserous lives. Now she's gone I just don't buy plants any more and make do with enjoying the beauty of my Grandfather's garden. The only problem is that in our family, there are no free rides. You're expected to participate. Which is a bit of a nightmare when you hate gardening.

Actually, that's not entirely true, I like mowing the lawn, especially with one of those groovy ride-on mowers! (I'm probably the only person who envied Forrest Gump his day job) I also don't mind pruning, I like to wear a big floppy straw hat and carry an elegant basket, pretending I'm the Lady of the manor as I delicately nip at rose stems and daydream about Pimms and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. That's my idea of gardening.

My Grandfather's idea of gardening however involves me spending what feels like neverending hours weeding and digging stinky compost into the soil!

Within a couple of hours my back feels like it belongs to a geriatric Quasimodo with a nasty case of arthritis, my beautifully French manicured nails are broken and caked with soil (and I dread to think what else), and I'm so bored that the prospect of watching paint dry has become something of an erotic fantasy.

I also suspect I might have pulled up more plants than weeds, but it'll be fine, I hid them well underneath the pile of nettles and dandelions etc, I'm pretty sure nobody will find out.

The only light entertainment offered was provided by the dog, who managed to get a plant pot stuck on his head and then panicked and wouldn't stay still long enough for any of us to remove it. He finally ran into the fence and was dazed enough for us to grab him. Bless him, he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, so to speak.

By lunchtime I'd had more than enough, so made my excuses and wandered home for a long soak in the bath.

I'd made arrangements with a couple of friends to go and see the new X-Men film this afternoon, so I toddled into town just after 4pm to meet up with them.

One friend didn't show up but sent an apologetic text explaining how a rather unpleasant stomach bug made it imperative for her to be within 10 feet of a toilet at all times, and also demanding a full description of Wolverine's bum (and preferably his "meat and two veg") when we got to that glorious part of the film. I sent her a text back suggesting it would be detrimental to her recovery to get too excited and therefore refused to meet her demands, good friend that I was and having only her welfare in mind. I won't say what she sent back, it wasn't terribly polite.

So my friend Alan and I went on our own, first taking out a small bank loan to pay for the drinks and chocolate raisins that we feel is an integral part of the cinematic experience.

But when we got to the kiosk ... they didn't have any chocolate raisins!! *DA DA DAAAA* They weren't just out of stock either, some dimwit had made the decision not to sell them any more!!! We stood dumbfounded, staring at the girl behind the counter like she'd just stepped out of an alien spacecraft. We demanded to know what kind of cinema didn't sell chocolate raisins, to which she flatly replied "This one".

We're seriously considering boycotting the cinema now and taking our business to one of the big, multiplexes. They might be soulless, money pits, but they're soulless, money pits with chocolate raisins.

The film was good, the special effects were cool and Wolverine looked lickable as ever. The only thing that marred a pleasant couple of hours were some of the other people in the cinema.

Why is it that wherever you sit you always get surrounded by the most cretinous of your fellow viewers?

There was a family of five, all extremely large, including two children who appeared to be 3 and 5 years of age. Of course the film held no allure for them so once they'd stuffed their fat little faces with enough sugar to bring on several diabetic seizures they spent the duration of the film running around the theatre, screaming and shouting at each other and their family members. The parents didn't say a word to them, the father sat completely absorbed in the film, staring agape at the screen as he shoved popcorn, crisps and chocolate into his mouth with the regular movement of a robot. He started eating and drinking as soon as he sat down and was still eating when he left. The mother spent most of her time playing and texting with her mobile phone, which she hadn't even bothered to set to silent. The whole film was punctuated with the most annoying beeps and jingles known to man.

Then there were the group of teenage boys, their dirty trainers resting on the back of the seats of the people unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of them, who decided that what the audience really needed was an "amusing" running commentary. I think they were the only ones who found it funny though. I DID find it funny when at the end of the film they all piled out, clearly considering themselves cooler than a penguins bum, and one of them tripped up the stairs and nearly took two others with him.

And of course, no cinema experience is complete without the couple who barely see ten minutes of the film because they're too busy eating each other's faces off. The worst bit is they're always sat in a position that makes it practically impossible to ignore them. Then at some point one of them happens to glance up and sees you watching them and say's indignantly "Do you mind?", to which their partner tut's and mutter's "Pervs!". This drives me insane! I want to say "Actually, do YOU mind? I came here to watch a film, instead I have to watch you two play tonsil tennis and I can't hear the film because it's drowned out by you slurping all over each other! Now go get a room, FFS!"

Just to top it off, as we were leaving the cinema I bumped into one of my ex's. Our history is a most unpleasant one and my stomach turned just to see his face again. I hate that he can still reduce me to feeling that way. He saw me and tried to talk to me and when I ignored him and tried to walk away he followed me and wouldn't leave me alone. Alan rather bravely stood up to him, which I loved him for, but it took several long, painful minutes for my ex to give it up and let me go. It put a bit of a downer on my day and has left me rehashing things I thought I'd put behind me a long time ago.

Oh well, it's nearly bedtime and as Scarlett O'Hara said "Tomorrow is another day".


Ps: Hope all my US blog-chums have had a lovely Mother's Day :)