A few (lengthy) thoughts of the day …

As we all know, there is now a veritable buffet (I like to pronounce that “boo-fay” in the French style, rather than the more standard “buff-ay” … just because it makes me fondly think of Phoebe Buffay, who often made me laugh with her kooky inanity, and because it sounds more grandiose and you can have more fun saying it that way) of web applications and software which we can use in various ways to shun and avoid real life, human interaction to the best of our ability. I’ve tried a few of them over the past few years (I’m not a big people person), I’m initially intrigued and easily lured by hype and the “keeping up with the Jones’” phenomenon.

 

Luckily for me, and my laptop, I also bore easily, and have the attention span of a mentally deficient magpie. If said piece of software/application doesn’t stay metaphorically sparkly I soon lose interest and use the “Uninstall Program” facility unhesitatingly and without remorse. Or (as long as it’s not using up valuable disk space) I just abandon it to die, like a rabid hedgehog on the interwebs superhighway.

 

I have stuck with Windows Live though. Not because I think it’s particularly good, but because I’ve always used it, it has as much information on there as I want it to have (i.e. my name), it provides for all my pathetically limited online needs, my email is set up on it and because, frankly, I’m too lazy to change to anything else. 

 

I’ve used it for a while but, shockingly, it was only today that I noticed that Windows Live has a rather unpleasant attitude:

 

 

Apparently, the above is what you’re faced with if you try to access my Windows Live network, uninvited. Now, to be fair, it’s a little bit your own fault for even trying, because if I wanted you on my network, I would’ve invited you, wouldn’t I? But then, I never invite anybody (ha!), so don’t feel too bad. And I have to say that the whole snide and slightly aggressive tone of Windows Live is rather harsh and uncalled for, in my opinion,

 

“Kate isn’t in your network” … you just know it’s silently adding “Billy-No-Mates!” onto the end of that, with a sly, poisonous little sneer.

 

“Add Kate” … as it gives a malignant snicker, thinking “Like she’s going to add YOU! Loser!”, I imagine it sounds like Beavis or Butthead or possibly Perez Hilton

 

“This person’s network is empty (or maybe they’re keeping it private)” … it doesn’t get much crueller than this, why not just go ahead and say “Yeah, right! Keeping it private? She has soooo blocked you! You are TOTALLY uncool, she just thinks you’re a creepy stalker! Baahahahahaha”

“What’s new with Kate – Kate hasn’t done anything new lately” … so it’s not even just YOU it’s mocking! It’s ME TOO! Whilst you are trespassing in the name of nosiness and therefore warrant a bit of a telling off, I’m the fecking owner here!! And it’s giving me a whole bunch of ‘tude, like all the meanest playground bullies rolled into one nasty, spotty faced, uber-tard, who’s flicking bogies at me and chanting “YOU’VE GOT NO LIII-IFE! YOU’VE GOT NO LIII-IFE”.

 

Well I’ve got news for you Windows Live … I’m reviewing the situation, a la Fagin! A strongly worded email is on its way to poxy Bill Gates, I don’t really care whether he’s personally responsible or NOT, he LOOKS guilty, and he has PLENTY of other crap to answer for. And yes, I’m sending it via Windows Mail, so bite me! I intend to tell him exactly what I think of his e-equivalent of a wedgie, and will take great pleasure in reminding him that the first rule of thumb in any business is THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT (unless you work for the … er … Ministry of Gigantic Fibbers, or <insert political party of choice here> … or something ). I bet Gmail doesn’t pull this $hit!

 

~@~

 

I like to keep an eye on the news and regularly scan two or three websites in order to read about what’s going on in the world. One of my favourites is the Orange site, and I like it for two reasons, and two reasons only: the “Quirkies” news section, and because the way they present their news headlines often means that they leave a tantalising trail of ellipses which prompt me to make up my own endings (which, in my own mind, are infinitely more interesting and slightly more amusing than the real story):

 

 

 

 

And whilst we’re on the subject of news, I have a couple of entertainment (and I use the word ‘entertainment’ in a totally ironic sense) headlines which caught my attention:

 

 

At first I couldn’t stop laughing at the first headline … he has “warned” that he will stop releasing albums? Like we’re going to be anything but jubilant about that! All I have to say is Critics of the World Unite! Make us proud.

 

And then I saw the second headline and thought … bugger! :(

 

 

 

Of course, the news is currently dominated in England by the impending General Election, and it would be remiss of me to not mention it. I did consider providing you with some kind of informative guide to the political parties and their policies, but I’m not sure whether you are labouring under the false impression that I have some small degree of intelligence or not? If you are then I prefer to keep it that way, if you’re not then screw you you already know I’m incapable of anything that intellectual and I needn’t bother.

 

However, I do think it’s a terribly important time for our country and anybody who doesn’t exercise their right to vote is a bit of a “Silly Billy”.

 

But I would like to contribute something, maybe to help those of you who can’t quite make up your mind who to vote for and can’t be bothered to read all that dull stuff about policies, blah, blah, etc, etc.

 

First, I had intended to do a mesmerising piece on “What the party leaders’ ties say about them”, but having since perused numerous photos of the three main men in question, I realised that in fact they seem to be wearing the same three ties (pale blue tie; pale lilac tie; pale colour-that-can-only-be-described-as-anaemic-baby-poo tie … or maybe taupe?) between them and are just rotating who wears what on a daily basis.

 

So then I thought … hairstyles! Yes! Until I looked at those photos again and realised that the only statement made by any of the three ‘Do’s was … “I am a giant knob politician”. Move along. Nothing to see here.

 

So finally, I’ve focused on a common factor which I think is going to prove really pertinent and useful …

 

KISSING

 

Yep! Let us take a look at our leaders in all their puckered glory. Because after all, you can tell a lot from a person’s osculatory habits, and what’s more, politicians and kissing go together like … Sweeney Todd and a big ol’ batch of somewhat dubious tasting pies!

 

 

 

First up, we have David “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Cameron …

 

 

 

About to kiss a … puppy. (Somebody call the RSPCA! Stat!) The puppy doesn’t look that chuffed about it, does he? It’s rather – disturbing unusual to say the least, but on the plus side at least he didn’t go for that tired, old political cliché and kiss a baby! *derisive snort* Hahaha!

 

 

 

Anyway, next we have Nick “Naughty Boy” Clegg …

 

About to kiss a … ah! Ahem! Oh dear.

 

(Side note: clearly it was his turn to wear the light blue tie that day)

 

 

 

Moving swiftly onwards, least and by all means last, we have Gordo “Gissa job kiss” Brown …

 

About to snog the living daylights out of Angela Merkin, Marxist, Milky, a German lady … look at that pucker action! Yeah, baby!

 

Gordo’s really going for it now! It doesn’t look as though the German Chancellor is interested though … maybe she’s just not that into him.

 

 

So there you have it, hopefully I’ve given you food for thought … I’ll leave you now to weigh up the gentlemen’s various merits with regards to technique, originality and victim subject. As our Graham from ‘Blind date’ would say, “The decision is yours!”

 

Of course, you could just do the responsible thing, ignore all of the above nonsense, familiarise yourself with party policy and then make an informed decision about who you want to vote for … and who has the nicest tie.

 

~@~

 

Just quickly, before I go (I know, I know … my posts are way too long, but you’ve been bitching about how I should post more for months … now suck it up and zip it!) …

 

Big thanks to J.J over at The World According to J.J in L.A. for my “Sunshine Blog Award”. Apparently I bring a little ray of sunny goodness to her day, which is a lovely thing to say! … But then she hasn’t been very well, poor love, she may even have been slightly delusional due to pain and meds … so that could explain it. Anyway, glad you’re all better now, J.J! :)  I’m afraid I’m not going to play and pass it on in the time honoured tradition though, because A) I’m too lazy, and B) I’m too much of a procrastinator to decide which five of the many blogs I enjoy, bring me the most pleasure. I simply can’t do it. Just know that if your blog appears in the list to the left (“to the left”) then you are one of my little sun hunnies, and if you would like the award then feel free to take it and shine.

 

Having said that … I’m now going to shamelessly plug another blog. Because I think it’s really good and just because I can.  So if you like witty, English girls who talk about anything and everything in an amusing, self-deprecatory fashion, you should go and check out Lady of the Manor’s blog “Madwoman in the Attic”. She’s only just getting started but I can honestly say I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every one of her posts so far. But don’t take my word for it, click on the link and go see for yourself.

 

And finally, I want to say a mahoosive congratulations to #1 blogchum Trinity and his wife Diana, as they are expecting their first baby in October. I couldn’t be happier for them and I just know that little ‘Peanut’ is going to be one lucky little boy or girl. 

 

That’s all for now … have a lovely day x

In which our heroine enjoys a night of friends, hula-hoops & clichés

I had fun tonight. I wasn’t expecting to, but then isn’t that always the way?

 

As myself and two other friends have all recently turned 30 and because, for various reasons, we have been unable to get together as a group to celebrate these momentous episodes, another friend decided it was time to make the most of the nice weather and have a belated birthday, garden party (any excuse to get squiffy, really). The barbecue was duly liberated, vast quantities of meat and alcohol were purchased, invitations were issued (well, a text message was sent, stating “Party at mine. Sat. 1 May @ 6.30pm. Be there or be called a miserable b@stard”) and the best crockery, and anything else of a valuable and/or fragile nature was carefully hidden away.

 

The weather has been lovely for the last few days … except for last night, when it phissed down … and I’d spent the day watching the sun stream hazily through the window, whilst texting reassuring messages to our prospective hostess who had convinced herself that the mother of all storms was only waiting for 6.30pm before gate crashing her party.

 

Now, I don’t know what it’s like in other countries, but the English will whip off their long-johns, idiot mittens and chunky sweaters at the first glimmer of sunlight, and don their skimpiest summer outfits, consisting of many an off-white vest, Crocs, shorts which reveal a multitude of sins and crop tops which you can’t help but wish were at least 2 feet longer. It’s really quite disturbing. 

 

Anyway, I had that ages old dilemma, unique to the female of the species, i.e deciding what to wear.  

 

Here’s a picture to prove how old this fashion quandary really is: this is poor old Joan of Arc, way back in the 15th century, throwing up her arms in dismay as she wonders why she didn’t go for something more fitted (not to mention less flammable), that didn’t make her hips look the size of a chateau and better hid le bingo wings …

 

 

 

Fortunately, I’d given myself several hours to deal with said dilemma and was eventually only 30 minutes late, which I thought was rather commendable. Sashaying my way out the door in white trousers, checked strappy top, arctic fleece and sandals.

 

Yes. I said arctic fleece. I’m no dumb bunny, and though I may have been mercilessly mocked on my arrival at the party … I was to have the last, smug, WARM laugh later on.

 

But I’m jumping ahead of myself …

 

It was lovely to see everyone. We haven’t all gotten together in months and there was lots of catching up to do. Lots of congratulations on promotions and new jobs, new partners to meet (and critique), old partners to say good riddance to (and admit that we never really liked in the first place), one new car to gently mock (it’s a “Ka” and the driver is male, allegedly, and over 6’) and a boob job to avoid staring at. 

 

A fellow guest nervously pointed out a karaoke machine, that was lurking menacingly in a corner of the conservatory, I just blithely smiled (I still can’t speak very well at the moment and am therefore automatically exempt from all singing-related, group activities) and started to look forward to an evening of unmitigated derision.  I found myself a comfy sun chair with a handy, 270° view, sipped my Pimms and settled in for the ride.

 

Alas, I was not destined to be left in peace for long.

 

It turns out that the host’s sister had been visiting earlier in the day with her midgets children, who had rather unfortunately left, amongst other things, a hula-hoop.  One of the other guests, being male and therefore unconcerned by the need to achieve sartorial perfection, had arrived unfashionably early and made an impressive start on the wobbly pop. He had also discovered the hula-hoop and was busy challenging everybody to a “Hula-Hoop-Off”.

 

I sank down into my arctic fleece and prayed that it also doubled as an invisibility cloak, but the party Gods were apparently too busy doing the conga and spiking people’s drinks to notice, and sure enough, my turn came. 

 

I sat for the longest time, seeing what effect silence and a dignified yet icy stare of contempt would achieve,

 

“You got something in your eye?” was the only response I got, so with a sigh, mumbling about how people who pick on helpless invalids should have their private parts slathered with Tiger Balm, I got to my feet, took the hula-hoop, probably not very graciously, and assumed the position.

 

The time to beat was a not very impressive 2 minutes and 24 seconds.

 

I managed an equally unimpressive, but victorious (and that’s all that counts), 2 minutes and 41 seconds. Yesssssssss!

 

It was how I imagine it must feel to win gold at the Olympics … maybe for synchronised swimming or clay pigeon shooting.

 

I put my outstanding victory down to the fact that I have hips and therefore had something to better balance the hoop on. I bet Joan of Arc would’ve been ace at hula-hooping.

 

By 8.30 most of the gatherers were on their way to happy, drink-fuelled, befuddledness and the meat had reached that perfect barbecue state of being tougher than a Pirelli tyre on the outside whilst somehow managing to retain a pink, gelatinous spawning ground for E. coli in the middle. Thankful that I’d had the good sense to eat before I came out, I sat nibbling on a bagel, a secret little smile on my lips, and tried to guess which guest would get a bad case of the squits first.

 

Night soon fell and so did the temperature. My friends started to shiver in their shorts, as their fingers and toes turned an interesting shade of blue, whilst I snuggled into my sensible arctic fleece, feeling most satisfied with myself. Proud in our hardy Englishness, and since the hostess is a little bit scary had gone to a lot of trouble with fairy lights and candles, nobody dared suggest that we move the party indoors, even though it was rapidly reaching a temperature that would have had Captain Oates walking off, having first politely informed us all that he might be gone some time.  

 

Well, nobody dared that is until the hostess herself shouted the memorable words,

 

“Oh screw this! I’m freezing my tits off here and you’re all just sitting there, you bunch of bloody, amphibious freaks! Can we PLEASE go inside?”

 

And that’s how we ended up in the conservatory,  with the other guests all desperately trying to ignore the dreaded karaoke machine.

 

The poor fools didn’t stand a chance.

 

Why do people fight against singing karaoke, battle and protest with literally every shred of energy in their body, only to finally admit defeat and then elect to sing a power ballad totally beyond the vocal range of anybody, excepting maybe Mariah Carey or a howler monkey?

 

The ladies (and I use that term in the loosest sense of the word) can always be guaranteed to squeal out “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera, “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, “If I Were a Boy” by Beyonce and “Without You” by said howler monkey Mariah Carey.

 

The men prefer singularly un-rousing versions of “Creep” by Radiohead, “With or Without You” by U2, “Starlight” by Muse and … “All Out of Love” by Air Supply (!!!!).

 

It was fabulous. I’ve never come so close to doing myself a mischief of the pee kind since i was eight four. And even though I nearly coughed up a lung and spat a half chewed raspberry over my white trousers (and we all know, as sure as Oompa Loompa’s buy cheap tanning products, that by putting on anything white we are jinxing and condemning ourselves to giddy new heights of staining), it felt really good to laugh.

 

It also made me realise how much I miss being able to sing (from the safety and privacy of my own home, I hasten to add). Earlier there had been dancing, I’d had a go and elegantly jiggled along to a couple of songs, I’d even participated in an impromptu recreation of “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls (they said I could be “Posh” and therefore no singing and very little dancing was required, I just had to stand there pouting, looking sulky and useless), but I soon realised that dancing without singing is a bit like having Alphabetti Spaghetti for dinner and not using the letters to spell out rude words that make your mother give you disapproving looks throughout the rest of the meal, i.e. pointless.

 

Anyway, as we and the evening grew older and brain cells were lost forever to an onslaught of cheap booze, things started to mellow. People slouched contentedly on the squishy sofas and companionable conversation was our only means of entertainment. Things took a disgustingly deep and meaningful turn when it was decided (not by me) that we should take it in turns to reveal what we all thought we’d be doing in 15 years time. Oh God! The wet, fetid tongue of unease and panic started to lick it’s way along the edge of my earlobe as I frantically tried to think of something urbane and witty to say before it got to my turn. Meanwhile, we discovered that people saw children, big houses, glittering careers and oodles of money (seriously … Prime Minister??) in their futures, along with adultery (that did NOT go down well), trips to the jungle and … er … Dolly Parton (!).

 

Eventually, inevitably all eyes, somewhat blearily, turned in my direction, and suddenly I felt like I had somehow slipped into an episode of ‘One Tree Hill’ or ‘The OC’ or one of those other ghastly generic and clichéd US teen shows. It was truly a bizarre moment, and suddenly I wanted to cry (mainly because of the whole ‘One Tree Hill’ thing) because all I could do was shake my head and admit that I didn’t have a clue, that I honestly couldn’t see that far ahead. And because that was a little bit scary. There was an uncomfortable silence, followed by a cackle of laughter and a chorus of fond voices affectionately shouting “Loser!”, which did actually make me feel better and brought me safely back to my own little corner of the universe, where I belong. 

 

I felt comfortable again … until one of the newbie boyfriends brought out a fecking guitar (I still have no idea where he’d had that thing concealed all evening) and proceeded to strum and sing in a rather wistful, beer-soaked voice, which in itself wasn’t too much of an ordeal, but he seemed to be playing every song on my “V Sad :(“ iPod playlist, which freaked me out. By the time he started on “Nobody Knows” by Pink he was seriously messing with my mellow and I knew it was time to go. I’d had a fun night, one I’ll probably remember until Monday for a long time and I wanted nothing to spoil it.

 

I cast one last, loving look around the room at my friends: there was Claire, born to be the hostess and truly one of the most frightening women I know, but who is a human fun machine, and the only person ever to have made me laugh so hard that I squirted Cherry Coke out of my nose. Andrew and Nita, made for each other but who say they will NEVER get married because Andrew only ever wears shorts, even in deepest Winter and Nita, though a very elegant drunk, would never make it past the first congratulatory glass of champagne at the reception without sliding into the nearest corner. There was Sophie, quirky, creative, hopelessly romantic, who can’t decide whether she wants to own an old fashioned sweet shop and ride around on a bike with a basket on the handlebars, or just get married, have loads of kids, live in a big, draughty, old house and wear long skirts and a bustle. There’s Damon, who looks like he should be in Oasis and is shockingly rubbish with hula-hoops, but who always uncomplainingly fixes the stuff we break and who has had a massive crush on Sophie for as long as I can remember and makes a really poor job of hiding his despair now that she’s got a boyfriend again. There’s Samuel, sleepy-eyed, way too obsessed with football and an Arsenal supporter (aka: tosser) to boot, but who sometimes catches my eye and gives me a reassuring half-smile which makes me feel as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as clearly as though I were holding my thoughts aloft on cue cards, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ style. And finally, there’s Lorraine, who is most definitely better in small doses, who can be stroppy and obnoxious and could probably incite full-on riots in paradise, but who would also do absolutely anything for her friends if they needed her.

 

Standing there, watching these people, I was suddenly reminded of that saying “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves” and for the first time, really felt the truth of it.

 

As we’d already established, I have no idea where I’m headed, but I think I might know who’ll be keeping me company along the way.

 

I had a fun night. And I was STILL home and in bed by 11:30pm!

Breakfast is a Cabaret, Old Chum …

You may remember me very briefly mentioning that my Grandfather is a one-man cabaret act during breakfast time and promising to fill you in on the details? You probably don’t remember, but either way the time has now come for me to share this unique form of entertainment with you.

Because, frankly, if I have to suffer it … so do you. That’s the deal. That’s what blogs are for, offloading your frustration, irritability and family-induced mental instability onto complete strangers.

Are you sitting comfortably? Well stop that! Sit up straight and don’t slouch. How do you expect to give me your full attention if you’re all laidback and relaxed?

So, as you know, my Grandfather has, amongst other things, a slight case of dementia. Let me stress, he doesn’t have Alzheimer's (thank goodness), he’s just quite old and his brain is slowing down, and the main symptoms of this are forgetfulness and repetition. Normally I only catch the Breakfast Show at weekends, the rest of the week I’m up for work and out the door before he’s even gained consciousness and has had time to shuffle out of bed, looking like a tortoise that swapped his shell for a pair of brushed cotton pyjamas and has crazy bed hair.

But since I can’t work at the moment I experience it on a daily basis. And. It’s. Driving. Me. Slowly. Insane.

My Grandfather has always loved music and I can’t remember a time when he didn’t whistle, hum or sing to himself when he was working or doing something. It’s one of the things I’ve always identified with him and loved him for. But in years past he gave us variety, there were certain songs that you knew he particularly liked and he would often return to them, but now it’s different.

I think, because his memory is hazy and jumbled now, that in his mind he often goes back in time. That’s the only explanation I can find for why he seems fixed on songs that come straight from the dark ages. Plus, he sings in what can only be described as a “30’s warble”; you know like in films? When they play records on those old gramophones and the men all sound like they’re singing from the bottom of the sea with a plum in their mouth having just had a testicle surgically removed? Well that’s how my Grandfather sings now and, depending on which song he’s singing, it can have varying degrees of making you want to rip your own ears off and stuff them in the nearest blender.

In order to explain I also need to first tell you that my Grandfather sings in medleys, two medleys to be precise which in turn consist of two or three snippets of different songs all mashed up together with zero rhyme or reason. He also sings according to his mood; one medley is positively perky and playful and other words starting with “P” (just think of an early 20th century version of Steps to get a mental image) and the other is so ridiculously gloomy that it has you staring blankly at a wall in seconds, questioning the necessity of life and the futility of your own miserable existence.

The cheerful medley consists of “Daisy”, “Leaning on a Lamppost” and a truly bizarre song involving a bird and a worm! It goes something like:

“I’m leaning on the lamppost at the corner of the street in case a certain little lady comes by, ohhh meeee, ohhh myyyy, I hope that little lady comes by, Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do, She was only a poor little dicky bird, tweet, tweet, tweet she went, I’m half crazy all for the love of you, she was one of the early birds and I was one of the worms”

The gloomy, lets-all-kill-ourselves-with-Kool-Aid-and-rat-poison-smoothies medley is a mash up of “Danny Boy”, “Edelweiss” and a song I’ve never heard of, but which I suspect depressed millions some time at the turn of the last century, it goes:

“I’m a..lone, be-cause I loved youuu, I loved you with all my heeeeart, the summer’s gone and all the flowers are dyyying, Edelweiss, Edelweiss, every morning you greet me, and if you come when all the flowers are dyyyying, and I am dead, as dead I may well be, yes, I’m alone because I loved you, bless my homeland for-eeeveeeeer”.

And that’s what we get every morning. He has a breakfast routine of epically OCD proportions, he has the same thing each day (two shredded wheat with warm milk and two slices of wholemeal toast with apricot jam, for those of you with an demented inquisitive nature), he does everything in precisely the same order, in precisely the same way, it takes him 20 minutes just to make toast, and the whole time he is preparing his breakfast he is warbling one of the mentioned medleys over and over and over again.

He actually reminds me of that old boy in the film “Forget Paris” (which I personally thought was pretty awful except for him), you know, Debra Winger’s father? He kept muttering “You asked for it? You got it! Toy-O-ta!” No? Well here’s a clip … and when you watch it, just mentally superimpose my head onto Billy Crystal’s body, because as ashamed as I am to admit, I do, do that thing with the silent screaming … and, er, the knife … sometimes. Although I would hasten to assure you that I DO actually adore my Grandfather, I just forget that I do occasionally, mainly during breakfast.

He even does that toast scraping thing occasionally, too.

(I DO love my Grandfather. I DO love my grandfather. I DO love my Grandfather)

He also has a double act going on the side with the dog. You see, the dog is neurotic and barks hysterically at every little goddamned noise, i.e when somebody walks past the house, when the phone rings, when a leaf falls off a tree three streets away whenever anybody knocks at the door. Unfortunately, my Grandfather is also a little hard of hearing and convinced that he is always right about everything. So what we get is a constant round of:

Dog: Woof, woof woof woof, woof, woof

Grandfather: Be quiet Jack, there’s nobody there.

Dog: Woof woof, woof woof woof woof

Grandfather: Jack! Shut up! There’s nobody there!

Dog: Woof, woof woof, woof woof woof WOOF

Grandfather: SHUT UP JACK! THERE’S NOBODY BLOODY WELL THERE!

And this goes on and on, throughout the day, every day. And what’s worse, is that sometimes there really IS somebody there, it’s just that my Grandfather automatically assumes that the dog is barking for no reason and sees no point in actually bothering to look and see whether anybody is at the door. So of course, since I can hear from upstairs that there IS somebody at the door, and since I can’t shout to tell him to open the effing door, I have to slowly make my way downstairs, muttering and cursing under my breath about Grandfather’s and dog’s and stupid, inconsiderate people who like to knock on doors at all times of the daytime, and by time I get there they have of course gone.

Gah! Can you say “Infuriating”? I can’t even scream, which seems terribly unfair.

I’m thinking of buying them matching, spangley gold outfits and selling them to a carnival.

What can I say? I’m not a morning person.