Keep on running

I don't usually go in to work on Wednesdays, but tomorrow I'm making an exception because we're having the company Christmas lunch (paid for by the company). Usually it's held on the last day before the seasonal shutdown (which is extra to annual holiday) but because Big Boss is going to Oz for a month starting on Friday it was decided to have it early. His absence has caused a flurry of activity in our office, because he's the only one who knows how to upload stuff onto the website, so we've been trying to get as far ahead of ourselves as possible to hopefully avert disasters. Today we have at least been taught how to generate puzzles so with luck we shouldn't be scraping the barrel by his return. To be on the safe side we've made notes of Boss's mobile number and server-manager's mobile ....

Anyway we're off for a curry at lunchtime tomorrow. Unfortunately Biggest Boss won't be able to be there, and he's the one with the Company credit card. I predict that towards the end of pudding people will start making their excuses and legging it.

Clap your hands in the air

Our bedroom telephone extension is now functioning again! Conversation with certain individuals who came up with innovative suggestions has resulted in my no longer having to thunder downstairs starkers in the middle of the night to answer the phone before the dogs start howling like a pack of timber wolves summoning the leader to their midst. By using pure logic (and a touch guesswork combined with hope and bluff) my chum decided which coloured wire should be attached to which terminal, thus removing the necessity for me to try all possible combinations in turn (no I haven’t worked out the number of options, and I have no intention of doing so).

It pains me deeply to say this, and it goes against almost everything I’ve held true in the past, but sometimes a person has to bite their lips, grit their teeth (quite challenging to do simultaneously and at the same time) and come out with an unpalatable, and almost entirely unbelievable statement. So I beg you all, take a large swig of something restorative, brace yourselves and take it on the chin: Simon is great.

*has large mouthful of raw spirit to rinse mouth*

Oh why can’t we talk again?

Botherbotherbotherbotherdamn! Sometimes I surprise even myself with my downright stupidity. I think I’ve even out-stupided Simon this time, which I feel is a remarkable achievement. A couple of days ago our phone started playing up, and the Internet kept crashing. We attributed this to the BT engineers who were tinkering in the green boxes to coax a broadband facility to the village. When the phone went completely dead I mobiled BT to see what was happening, and they ran a line check and said it was fine. So we unplugged all the umpteen connections and checked the linebox. That was working, so it was a fault within the house – our responsibility. By a process of elimination we found that everything worked fine until we plugged in the extension line to our bedroom; that killed the lot. Bugger. The line for that runs under the floorboards upstairs and we didn’t want to take up the carpet and boards to replace it. So I’ve bought a new lead which will run in an unsightly way up the wall, past the banisters, around the skirting board, over doorframes, down the other side and through the bedroom wall. So I’ve unscrewed the box, disconnected the cable and pulled it almost all out. There’s a short length jammed in the ceiling of the understairs cupboard but I can live with that. Anyway, I’ve spent several hours this evening poking the new cable through random holes in the walls, tacking it to any available bits of woodwork and finally connected the wires to the terminals (possibly not the right ones because the colours of the actual wires are different to those of the instructions) in the box on the bedroom wall.

It still doesn’t work. Turns out it’s the 50p multisocket in the kitchen that’s faulty.

Wider still and wider

Ooooh! Broadband has arrived in the village! Now all we have to do is work our way around the minefield of forms and sign up with our chosen supplier of such delights. But how on earth do we find out if our computer has got all the right sort of stuff, or whether all the extra oomph will make it go poof?

Blue is the colour

Ned is quite, quite mad. Yesterday he got up at stupid o’clock and set off with his equally loony chums to Snowdonia, to go for a walk. The roads were still sheet-ice when I got up several hours later but still before daylight to take the dogs out before work. As usual I assumed that no news was good news, and the fact that I hadn’t been phoned from an A&E department somewhere on the Welsh border they had probably arrived safely. Luckily I was right, and when he phoned this morning he was delighted to discover that he and I make a really good team. Because I’m still on the ABs I haven’t had a drop of the hard stuff since last Friday, so to wake up with a hangover was a tad annoying. But apparently it’s all right – Ned was very, very drunk last night (ooh, surprise) but feels fine, so I must be taking his punishment. What a lovely wife I am. He’d had a nice day yesterday; they climbed Snowdon and it was very cold. But disappointingly they didn’t have any woad on, which is after all traditional when you get snowed on on Snowdon.

Should I cool it or should I blow?

A couple of weeks ago, when things were getting very much out of control, I told the boss (not Big Boss, just the intermediary) that things weren’t going too well, and if I hadn’t managed to get things into better balance by the end of the month I was going to resign. That was accepted, and things started improving as a result of my reprioritisationing, which partly consisted of compartmentalising my life: no thinking of Home when at work, and no thinking of Work when at home. Then this week I’ve been off poorly, as you know, so I phoned in on Monday to explain that I was going to see another doctor, certainly wouldn’t be in that day, probably not Tuesday either but would aim for Friday (those being the only days I work there). That was fine. I phoned in again on Tuesday morning, saying that the New Doctor had thought it unlikely I’d be fit before next week, but that I was still hoping to get in on Friday anyway.

“Oh dear, I’d hoped you would be in today. I’m off on Friday, and on holiday all next week, and then it’s the time you said you’d make your decision. I wanted to talk to you today to find out what you thought the decision was going to be.”

Well I’m sorry, but I think a hurried decision due to pressure like that is as likely to be wrong as right, so I’m sticking to my guns. If I could see into the future and knew how things would be going in a fortnight’s time there’d be no problem. But I can’t, I don’t, and so I won’t be rushed. But I feel all stressed again, because I’m at Home, thinking about work, which is what the problem was in the first place.

Wee'll meet again

We’ve had better weekends. Friday night was perfectly fine; then when I went to the lav last thing before bed I thought I was passing battery acid. It smarted just a tad. But I still felt as though I needed to go. And so it’s gone on since. Saturday morning, having been up to the loo every 15 minutes or so, I started getting washed but had to lie on the bathroom floor before I passed out. By this time it was light and I could see what I was passing (I don’t turn on lights at night) and I know what colour urine is meant to be. Red isn’t it. So I made an appointment with the out of hours doctor at A&E and spent a fun time there in the afternoon. Result – one nasty infection. So I was given some lovely antibiotics which made me nauseous and gave me stomach cramps as well, so I had to also take the high-strength painkillers I was given when I had my foot operated on a while back. By this morning there was no improvement so I’ve seen another doctor and got some new ABs, as it seems I’m resistant to the ones that work best on these things. It’s really really horrible. All the time I feel like I’ve had a gallon of water and not been to the loo for 5 hours. Even when I’ve just been, I’m still bursting. Not fun. And every time I go, no matter how fruitless, I have to drink a glass of water or cranberry juice (yuck!). Ned's been a star, but if I don’t get some sleep soon I might lose my sense of humour.

You'd laugh and say 'nothing's that simple'

And I'd reply "Yes it is"! (Should the exclamation mark go before or after the quotation marks? Or both?)

Anyway, I'm at last free of the complusion to blog regularly. I don't feel guilty if I miss a day, or even two. One more pressure off. I can confidently predict a time when I'll be me again.

And I think that's good. :) :) :)

I wonder who it will be tomorrow?

Phew, that was close. A reasonably thorough stock-take has been carried out; delegation (assisted – thanks!) of essential (to me) stuff and downgrading of the merely important to the status of trivial appears to have got things back on a more even keel. I still hate being a ‘weekend wife’ despite sharing the same house; it may be normal for a lot of people, but it isn’t for us. I’ve learned I’m not Superwoman, and trying to be all things to all people is not only impossible, but also terribly self-destructive. So I’m stuffing myself with metaphorical chill-pills, and they seem to be working – I can now stop doing housework as early as 9pm, rather than after midnight. A step in the right direction, at least.

Flash! Aaahhh!

Guy Fawkes’ night (or weekend) passed far better than I ever dared hope. That desensitisation CD seems to have worked wonders. They all noticed that the fireworks were going off, but even Piglet wasn’t as totally panicked as he used to be. True, he was sticking to us like glue, and trembling, but he didn’t wet himself, and Beattie just lay with her head on my foot instead of trying to dig through the floor. Friday night was the worst because everyone was having their own private party, but on Saturday, when the Junior School two fields away was having its big display, it rained. Oh dear. *chuckles*

Who do girls like they're boys

I received this in a RiddleMule PM.

"P.S. I realize you must be Bean something from the last PD."

Does this mean s/he thinks I'm a 6'9" 18 year old male? Oh dear. Oh deary deary dear. *adjusts make-up*

Crash! Tinkle! It fell to the floor

That’s the sound of my failure to keep all my plates spinning. So in a major prioritisationary reshuffle some of the elements of my life are being shelved. I’ve made a list of the things I do that I want to do, and also of the things that I need to do. Unfortunately, to enable me to do the things I need to do properly, it’s the things I want to do that have to be shelved. All work and no play … I know, I know. But needs must. Dullsville, here I come.

I've been working like a dog

What a shame that nobody realised that my Hallowe’en story was not a work of fiction but did in fact happen. Never mind.

Anyway, after my little rant and a couple of days off I’ve finally managed to complete the RiddleMule, without too much outside assistance, and I feel much better for it. Those last couple would have nagged and nagged at me if I had just left them. I still loathe and detest 5.18; 5.19 was somewhat better, and 5.20 was really quite fun! Now that’s out of the way I can concentrate on modding and answering the umpteen PMs I get a day – over 60 yesterday! It’s nice when people are polite enough to thank you for helping – they’re more likely to be helped in the future! Enough of that though. I hope my pics of Saturday's select gathering post okay.

Come on, Talis - show us your blog!


Talis and Rich 


Simon, Carol, JG and GordonRogers 

Close your eyes and hope that this is just imagination

It being Hallowe'en, Simon suggested that the BlogRing chums should each write an appropriate story ...

Vera didn’t know whether the fluttery feeling in her middle was due to nervousness or excitement at meeting George’s family in their own home. They had met and spoken fleetingly at several of the parties she had attended that season; the parties where she and George had fallen in love. Now they were engaged and so she was invited to spend a weekend in the country at his parents’ large house. Although George’s family was very wealthy they were also very kind and accepting of her, a mere doctor’s daughter. George had told her about the family home (which in Vera’s imagination was a veritable palace) and she hoped desperately that she wouldn’t make a blunder and embarrass George, or his parents – or even herself! As the car which had been waiting at the station to collect her turned into the drive and pulled up outside the house Vera tried not to gasp. Although not vast, it was an impressive building and it was hard not to feel overawed. But there was George, and, swallowing her nerves, she smiled as he held the door for her to get out of the car.

George’s family were, she was delighted to discover, genuinely pleased for her to be joining their family, and she was soon more relaxed in their company. Later that evening at dinner she asked why the maid who had shown her to her room had seemed reluctant to linger there. It seemed to be an ordinary enough room, pleasingly decorated and equipped with the usual furniture and a very attractive looking-glass over the washstand.

Was it her imagination that the silence which followed her question seemed a little uneasy? Then George’s mother laughed and explained that, like all old houses, this one also had its share of stories of ghosts, but there was nothing to be concerned about, anything that had happened had been a long time ago. The conversation turned to general stories of the unexplained draughts and creakings that gave rise to tales of ghosts and haunted rooms, and then moved on to easier topics as the evening wore on. Much, much later, as Vera tried to hide her tiredness, the party broke up and everyone went to bed.

Her bedroom, as she entered it, was welcoming and warm. There was a small fire in the grate, her bed had been turned down and warmed, and her nightdress lay waiting. She undressed and washed, then thoughtfully brushed her hair while she thought about how the day had gone. As she sat there she glanced into the mirror, and screamed. There, looking back at her, was a man! Vera dropped her hairbrush and fled out of the room in horror. George’s family had heard her scream and came running. George’s mother hugged her as Vera sobbed out what she’d seen, and was aghast at the matter-of-fact way it was explained that a previous visitor had hanged himself in that very room, and occasionally made his presence known in this way.

It would perhaps be too easy to round off the tale with the ending that despite this shock, Vera and George married and lived happily ever after. But it wouldn’t be true. Vera went home the next day after a very uncomfortable night in a hastily-made up bed in another room, and George soon after joined the army and went off to France in 1914. He was killed quite early on, and like many other girls of that time, Vera (my mother’s aunt) never married. Following the deaths of George’s parents some years afterwards the house was sold, and later demolished. Nobody knows what happened to the mirror.

The sweetest thing

I’ve got a lovely husband, you know. He drives me to meetings and sits and chats and drinks umpteen pints of tonic water cos he’s driving and lets me drink umpteen pints of 6X (Ooh, was it 6X?) till I’m nearly horizontal and then he takes me home and he doesn’t get cross with me and he doesn’t expect me to cook so he gets a takeaway and I’ve got a lickle bit of a headache so I think I’ll go to bed. Piccies tomorrow perhaps. Night night.

Yield it, yield it

There’s a saying in the world of animal husbandry that you should never ‘over-face’ an animal in training. This means that the tasks they’re given to overcome, whether it’s a show-jump fence for horses or a down-stay with a dog, should never be too much for them to cope with. Of course this varies from individual to individual, which is where the skill of the trainer is tested. With a horse, you don’t go from popping over a bale of straw straight to the puissance wall at the Horse of the Year Show. Likewise a dog who can manage a down-stay for 10 seconds shouldn’t instantly be expected to cope with a 5 minute one. You gradually build them up, stretching them slightly then consolidating the progress. If they’re over-faced they lose all confidence and may never achieve much again.

I’ve been over-faced. Now please don’t think this is a personal rant against my chums, it’s a rant because I need to let it out. We all have our individual strengths and weaknesses, and what one person finds easy another will completely fail to grasp. It doesn’t mean that one person is worse than the other, just that they’re different. My great strength at school was spelling. I was never brilliant at maths. I learned enough to be able to pass my O-level, but that was over 30 years ago, and I’ve only needed to use basic arithmetic ever since. So now when I’m finding myself faced with questions which are post-A-level standard maths, I have no idea where to even start, and to be honest, I have no intention of taking extra tuition in order to be able to do them.

I’m spent. This is doing me no good at all. I’m stressed out, and trying to keep so many plates spinning all at once has broken me. My sense of humour has eloped with my enthusiasm and may never be seen again. Waking at 4am crying is generally a sign that all is not well, and when it strikes you that the reason is due to something that is meant to be fun, you realise that somewhere along the line things have taken a wrong turn, and have assumed unnatural proportions.

I think this may be where a certain quadruped and I part company. I know there are only two more questions to go, but there’s no pleasure left for me. There’s no “Aaahhhh!” moment when I get the answer; only time to heave a sigh of relief that it’s done. It’s become something I fear. I know the sayings “A winner never quits, and a quitter never wins”. Yes, I know I’m weak, I’m a loser, and I despise myself for it, all right? I don’t need it rubbed in, thanks.

Maybe this is just a bad day. I hope so.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?

The senior moments are becoming, if not more frequent, certainly longer-lasting. In my lunch break today I rushed up the town to get a card for a chum - nothing too sick-making - and eventually found a suitably obscene one. So I queued patiently, and it wasn't until I reached the 'Please Pay Here' till that I realised that I hadn't seen my purse since I put it into my caching bag on Sunday. The tillgirl (who looked about 12 years old) blushed as she looked at the card, and I blushed as I apologised and left the shop cardless. I'll try again tomorrow.

Always should be someone

I think I’ve discovered the reason why the population of our village is growing so fast. When Ned first moved up here from Sussex in 1980, ‘rush hour’ involved three horses and a tractor moving slowly down the road. Now there are several ‘dormitory’ estates, smallish maybe, but still generating a lot of traffic, so now you actually have to look both ways before you cross the road. In fact there are so many new houses that the council was forced to put up street name signs, which until about 5 years ago weren’t needed – there weren’t enough roads to warrant it. Roads were named according to the town or village they led to: Warwick Road, Banbury Street and Southam Street, or to features on the road, such as Bridge Street. Okay, there are three Mill Lanes (and only one mill), but if you keep going round you eventually find the right bit.

Anyway, the village has grown, and the roadsigns have proliferated, much to the delight of the local kiddiwinks, who’ve discovered that the letters can easily be scratched off, with sometimes unfortunate results. In opposite directions from the bus shelter (aka Youth Club) are the villages of Wellesbourne and Gaydon. Or, as the edited signs now read, L*sbo and G*y.

Just a jealous guy

I'm in two minds what to blog about tonight. Both (or all three if my Shift key doesn't buck its ideas up and start doing its job properly) are rants to a certain degree. One concerns a relative (or should that be relation? I always get the two confused) who has upset some of the family, and the other concerns a friend's relation (or relative) who is a waste of space. Eeeny, meeny, miny ...

Okay, tact demands I slag off the friend's kin (ha! An escape from the dilemma!). We were watching, squint-eyed because tonight reception for BBC1 has been rubbish and programmes are being transmitted in a snowstorm, Rod Stewart in concert. Now I like Rod Stewart. He reminds me of when I was a giggly teenager and Life and the Future were optimistic blank canvases on which to make our marks. His voice, though not brilliant, has a raw power that says so much more than a classically-trained operatic voice. What's more, you can understand the words.

This particular bloke is so insecure in his marriage that he has forbidden his wife to listen to Rod Stewart because she liked him when she was single. Who's placing bets on how long that marriage lasts?

It's a very very ...

There was a weird bloke in Tesco today. We did our little bit of shopping (two boxes of cereal and a sack of potatoes) and queued at the '10 items or less' till, behind a bloke and a basket. The bloke had a basket, you understand, but there was another one on the floor. So the long queue shuffled forwards as the opportunity arose, with the basket being kicked along too. Then all of a sudden this weirdo comes along, smiles and winks at me (Grrrrr!) and steps in front. I give him a Hard Stare while Ned pretends to be elsewhere, and the weirdo offers to toss a coin for the place in the queue. In fact, he insists on tossing a coin, despite my refusals to join in. So he chooses heads for me, and I win, so he starts pushing me forward ... until Ned steps in, pointing out that the basket on the floor was in front of us all the time ...

So I snarl sweetly at the loony and let him go first, and he gets his shopping checked through the till, then realises he's left his wallet in the car and only has a few coins about his person. The till-girl refuses to start haggling about his shopping, he hands over his £1.80 and rushes out of the shop, leaving behind a couple of the things he's paid for.

Harmless, but barking.