katiefinger.com

Update::: Naughty Stagecoach! How can I stay angry with you when you send me a lovely reply (and within two hours!) which tells me something not very many people know yet? Damn you! (Although I will now get to work about seventeen-hundred hours early, but ho-hum.)

I sent an email to Stagecoach this morning. What I wanted to say was,

Dear Stagecoach,

You’re (once again!) a bunch of incompetent muppets!

Love, KatieF x

What I actually said was,

Dear Stagecoach,

I would like to congratulate you on yet another timetable change which does little to reflect your assertions that “putting customers first is our priority”.

I regularly travel on the Route 83 bus from FlatHickTown to UniCity*, specifically the bus which passes through at about 6.43am. I travel on this route rather than the X2 Commuter Express because it’s more convenient, allowing me to alight just a ten minute walk from my place of work. However, from the 10th June the X2 Commuter Express will be the only option for those needing to use public transport from FlatHickTown to UniCity before 9am.

Yesterday morning I was one of at least eight passengers who were on the bus as it left FlatHickTown. These passengers are regular users of the route, and alight at WitchVillage, BabyCathedralCity, NoWhereNearABeach, SmellyLand and the SP. Presumably we all use this bus because the 7.43am wouldn’t get us to our destinations on time and because the X2 Commuter Express doesn’t go past any of these villages/stops.

Would you please explain to me why an average of eight passengers a day is not enough to keep the 6.43am bus running from FlatHickTown? This is no less (and possibly more) than the number of passengers who regularly use Route 69 to QuaintHistoicMarketTown between FlatHickTown and SomerLand, yet the 69 isn’t losing the FlatHickTown – SomerLand part of its route. I am also a little perplexed at the reasoning behind replacing it with an earlier bus which begins its journey at 6.23am in Boring, a village where it is very rare for anybody to get on (which isn’t to say that Boring should be removed from the route, just that it seems ludicrous for the route to start there and not FlatHickTown, which is just a couple of miles further along.) Likewise, the 5.45pm back towards FlatHickTown will now end its journey at Boring. Again, I realise the 6.05pm X2 Commuter Express will be useful for those travelling from UniCity, but this may affect those who work in BabyCathedralCity or any of its surrounding villages.

I am curious as to who creates the timetables. Do these people (I assume it is people, rather than a computer) ever travel on the bus routes they’re thinking of removing/changing? If they don’t, perhaps I may make the suggestion that in order to fully understand what it’s like to travel on the bus, and indeed to get a true reflection of regular passenger use, it might be useful to incorporate bus use into their job description.

Again, I would like to draw your attention to two quotes from your About Us webpage, neither of which you are going to be achieving once the new Route 83 timetable comes into effect. “Our services play an important role in helping people in rural and urban areas access work, education, health, shopping and leisure.” How does removing the 6.43am Route 83 from FlatHickTown play a role in accessing work and education when it will make work and education inaccessible for some people? “We are working hard to increase the quality, reliability and frequency of bus services to offer car users a realistic transport alternative and help cut congestion.” Except at important peak-times obviously?

I would like to end this email on a positive note though; thank you for reinstating the hourly service both to and from UniCity on Route 83, albeit during the day. It is also ironic that you’ve reinstated a much better service between FlatHickTown and ChavTown; a few months ago this would have delighted me because I worked part-time in ChavTown and getting home was often a major battle after you changed the timetable a couple of years ago. Now it simply amuses me as every time I get settled somewhere you seem to single me out and make my journey ludicrously puzzling.

Thank you for taking the time to read this email and I very much look forward to hearing your response as to why the 6.43am Route 83 through FlatHickTown has been axed.

, FlatHickTown

*names and route numbers have been changed in order to respect my privacy.

And obviously I don’t expect a response, even though I have emailed a copy to the Cheif Executive of Stagecoach, Brian Souter-muppet.

Mog-cat isn’t a particularly affectionate cat.  Or rather, he’s a cat who knows what he wants and if he doesn’t want it you can bugger right off …

He gave me lots of affection that fateful Sunday morning.  He allowed Dora-cat to go out and then he crept into the bedroom and cuddled up to me.  He isn’t a cuddler.  He certainly isn’t a lap cat.  So when he sits on me and purrs away contentedly it’s the happiest feeling in the world, and makes me feel special.  It makes me feel loved.  He followed me down the stairs later that morning but refused to go out when I first opened the door.  Instead he jumped onto the hall window sill and looked at me as if to say, It may be sunny mummy, but I’m not going out! Perhaps he knew he wouldn’t be seeing me ever again.

Shortly after this I opened the door again and he poked his head round to look down the street.  I think I gently nudged him.  After he went out he sat looking at me but made no move to come back in even though I waited before shutting the door, just in case.

But I still feel guilty, for that gentle nudge.

People were enjoying their gardens; there was sunshine and neighbours were mowing their lawns, weeding and washing their cars.  We had a huge hailstorm a couple of hours later. The hail became heavy rain. And Mog didn’t come home.

He didn’t come home later that afternoon either.  I wasn’t too worried; he loves being outside, chasing leaves and checking his territory.  I wasn’t even too worried when he didn’t come in that night as he’s stayed out before.  But then he wasn’t waiting by the door on Monday morning, Blokey didn’t see him all day and he didn’t come home for his tea on Monday evening.

On Tuesday I went straight round to the Cat-Stealing Neighbours after work.  I was desperate for them to say they’d seen him.  Instead they told me they’d been getting worried as he hadn’t visited them since Saturday.  It was the first time I’d spoken to the husband and he seems a little less loopy than his wife.  In fact, he was quite lovely.

I’ve posted leaflets through doors, spoken to other neighbours, put leaflets/posters in shop windows and been up at ridiculous hours of the morning to walk around the neighbourhood calling him.  Birds are so very noisy at dawn, damn them.  I’ve contacted the environmental services department of the local district council and the vets and the local RSPCA … *sigh*

He’s been missing for 12 days now. The not-knowing is the worst thing.  If I knew he was dead I’d be able to grieve.  My biggest fear is that he’s still trapped in a shed or garage locally; it’s been raining daily since we last saw him and people won’t have been in their gardens.  But then I hold on to the fact that if he is trapped there will be spiders to munch on and rainwater may find a way in through a leaky roof or something … But he could be dying slowly and I can’t get that out of my head.  I burst into tears at random.  I still call him a few times a day and everytime I glance out of the window I expect to see him under Blokey’s car (where he waits as he can see the front door) or trotting down the road without a care in the world and the biggest of cat grins on hs face.

I know that the night I don’t call him in before bed will be the night I’ll have accepted he isn’t coming back, but right now I can’t see me not calling him.  And I know he’s only a cat, but he’s my cat … he’s my baby.

Blokey says he’s gone to Reading.  It wouldn’t surprise me, even though it very obviously isn’t true.  He does have a thing for getting into cars … And it’s nice to imagine that he’s having an adventure somewhere, that he’s happy and enjoying life.

Come home, Moggly-Moo …

Last Wednesday Blokey attended Hospital again for his hernia operation. I haven’t slept well since then; I don’t think I ever do. Partly because I don’t like being on my own (although I’m used to it) and partly because I worry about Blokey.

I spent most of Wednesday evening panicking that Blokey would forget to take his immunosuppressants as there was nobody at Hospital to nag him. Mumsy was about to ring the ward to enquire when Blokey suddenly replied to my texting/ringing and I was able to stop crying.

We toddled off to see him on Thursday. He was in oodles of pain and very groggy. Occasionally he coughed. When they later discovered that his temperature was a little over what it should be they panicked him by suggesting that he had an infection and thus would need a chest x-ray. He had the chest x-ray at one in the morning. Stupid O’Clock. Friday saw his drains and catheter being removed, and he was cough free.

On Saturday the Delectable Dr. Neph, Phwoar! came round whilst I was there. He’s our favourite kidney doctor, although Blokey’s reasons for liking him are probably different to mine. He snuffed the idea of there ever being any infection and decided that their idea of intravenous antibiotics was a tad over the top, prescribing tablets instead. He also listened to Blokey when he said that he needed to take a loading dose of warfarin, agreeing that Blokey knows how his body works. The one brilliant aspect of being treated reguarly in the same Hospital is that you get to know the people treating you and, perhaps more importantly, they get to know you. It can make a huge difference when you suddenly feel as though you’ve got someone on your side.

Anyhoo, the Delectable Dr. Neph, Phwoar! made a note that he was happy for Blokey to be discharged, poo-pending. The surgeon still has to agree, but twenty-one hours later Blokey is still waiting to see him. And there is still the matter of the pending-poo, which is refusing to be forthcoming despite laxatives and suppositories declaring war on Blokey’s anatomy. I have been reliably informed that there is lots of wind though! I imagine the issue is a psychological one; Blokey doesn’t want to strain his tummy and find that POP!!! there’s the hernia again!

As of now, I have no idea if he will be home tonight or tomorrow. I have fluffed up the cushions and stocked the cupboards with soup in anticipation. I’m just unsure as to whether I should hoover or not. Or even if I need to hoover. Ack, that can wait. I might make myself a badge reading ‘Nurse’ ready for the next two weeks (which nicely coincide with my Easter hols from work). Perhaps I should have splashed out on a nurses outfit too …

This week I’ve sat in a recording studio whilst media students have recorded their radio scripts, partaken of a twenty minute cheerobics session during a health and social care lesson about healthy lifestyles, enjoyed listening to some performing arts students singing their little hearts out in rehearsals (instead of having to listen to them grumble about the written work they usually have to do with me) and had another member of staff gush longingly in the direction of my DM boots.

I even managed to coax a smile – AND some work – out of a disillusioned eighteen year old art student who thinks the whole wide world is out to get him.

I’m really loving my new job.

It has come to my attention that there are a huge amount of folk who are completely missing out on a whole world of pleasure.  I use public transport (mostly buses) on a near-daily basis.  I find them cold (in the winter), hot (in the summer) and interesting (because of the variety of people who use them).  I also find them annoying, stupid, boring, headache-inducing and occasionally painful.  However, on my last adventure with buses I opted to sit on the top deck.  This isn’t something I do very often, partly because I’m a paranoid worrier who is convinced the bus driver won’t stop when I press the STOP! button, which then results in me tumbling down the stairs in my efforts to get off where I want to get off …  On this occasion I was going to the very last stop, so I happily climbed the stairs, hit shuffle on my iPod and watched the world fly by.

About half-way through the journey I realised that I was enjoying it.  Yes, I was enjoying my bus journey.  I wasn’t seeing it as a means to an end, waiting for the next person to sit on my lap and the teenager to stop blaring his music in my already music-hearing ear.  Instead, I was ooh-ing and ahh-ing in wonder at the world beyond (or beneath) my (dirty) window. 

Granted, I am an exceptionally nosy cow anyway.  I like winter because people leave their lights on without drawing their curtains and I get a glimpse into the world they reside in.  If a conversation sounds interesting I’ll start listening in, even when I’m wearing headphones and have to turn my music down.  I don’t always mind queueing because I can see what other people are buying (why in the heavens does he need condoms!?)  and I can spy on people in parks when sitting on benches.  Oh, and my dream is to spend an entire day just sitting on the tube with a flask of tea and a notepad and pen …

If I hadn’t been sitting on the top deck of the bus I wouldn’t have known the river was directly behind those houses.  I never would have seen the dove pigeons sitting on the roof, nor the heart-shapes in the shutters gracing the windows.  I was inches from some souls bedroom window and could have reached out to grab the curtains fluttering in the breeze (if there wasn’t a dirty bus window in the way).  I wouldn’t have missed the lady at her front door, deceiving the world with her airs and graces, but I would have missed the dreadful clutter that was her conservatory.  I may have even seen your pink frilly knickers hanging on the washing line, the line you thought was safe from prying eyes behind a high brick wall.

By the way, your guttering is broken and that roof tile looks a little loose.  And I do LOVE your bedroom.

I could see random rubbish strewn on the top of bus stops, lost balls in overgrown hedgerows, beautifully landscaped (and some not so beautifully landscaped) back gardens and a reason for having net curtains.

It’s not very exciting, in the grand scheme of things, but it made me happy.  I was seeing what you weren’t seeing; I had my eyes open to a world which few people inhabit and it gave me a brief sense of power and knowledge.

And then I arrived at my destination and life continued as normal.

In my early years I just couldn’t understand the fascination with vampires.  They were blood-sucking evil pointy-teethed undead folk who needed to be driven away with garlic and holy water.  I couldn’t understand how they could exist and so I deemed them to be unworthy of my precious time.

To be fair though, I always had a problem with anything which seemed fantastical and beyond the definition of ‘normal’.  Musicals?  I liked them, but couldn’t get my pretty little head round why the characters within them felt the need to break into song every three minutes; the stories tended to be fine without the music.  To this very day I find it difficult to watch anything where the characters enjoy the sounds of their own (often truly irritating) lyrical sing-song voices. I LOVE Glee, but always fast forward through the songs because the show works well as an insight into the wacky trials and tribulations of being a cheerleader/teenage parent/geek/idiot/narcissist; why spoil it with songs and random dancing in odd places like shopping centres and coffee shops?

I was never able to get into fantasy books either.  On my first attempt at reading a Discworld novel I gave up in disgust after just four pages.  I think I’ve now read nearly all of them, but it wasn’t until I met Pratchett fan Blokey (and had a couple of Harry Potter books under my belt) that I was able to begin liking them.  He let me borrow a book he knew I would enjoy, and I did, so it made me hungry for more.

In my early teens I became obsessed with horror.  I don’t mean gruesome, ghoulish, your head has twisted all the way around and your dreams can kill you horror … I became obsessed with what I would term as ‘real-life’ horror; that which I believed could actually happen.  Vampires couldn’t really happen so they were completely off my radar.  To digress slightly, one of the only films which truly scares the poopy out of me is Halloween.  It gives me chills and forces me to sleep with the light on.

It will come as no surprise therefore that when Buffy started I didn’t watch it.  This was partly because I was in my early twenties and so it wasn’t directly aimed at me, but it was mostly because of the whole vampire malarkey.  And I really didn’t get vampires.  And then something most peculiar occured; vampires became the Next Big Thing.  I wasn’t dragged into the Cool Club kicking and screaming.  I didn’t even meander slowly into it. I simply woke up one day and realised that actually vampires were okay because they were everywhere. 

True Blood, Being Human, The Vampire Diaries, Twilight … I suddenly realised that I was enjoying the whole vampire concept.  I am nothing if not a follower of fashion.  Ho-hum.  I will be honest though; I think it has something to do with men.  True Blood has Eric, Being Human had Mitchell, The Vampire Diaries has Damon and Twilight has Edward (yes, so shoot me.)  They’re all easy on the eye, and verily delectable. My perfect vampire would have to be Damon’s personality in Eric’s body with Edward’s intense love and Mitchell’s dress sense. 

*drools*

Last summer Syfy decided they were going to show Buffy in its entirety on a daily basis, from the first episode of Season 1 through to the final episode of Season 7.  As I’d just taken voluntary redundancy and had months of nothingness looming ahead of me I decided to throw caution to the wind and see what all the fuss was about.  And I became well and truly hooked.  I didn’t really like Buffy herself, nor Angel, but I did have a soft spot for Willow and Xander, Anya and Spike.  Oh, and I fell very much in lust with both Seth Green and his character Oz (despite the fact that I didn’t like it when he turned into a werewolf.)    Some of the acting was rather wooden, the fighting laughable and the make-up ridiculous but I still couldn’t tear myself away from it.

This morning I still had four episodes left to watch.  This afternoon I have none.  Yes, I shed a tear when Buffy told Spike she loved him and yes, I was pretty annoyed that Anya’s death barely registered.  I REALLY detested that girl who threw herself at Willow, but I LOVED that Spike turned all lovely and world-saving.

This post is a very long-winded way of me saying that I’ve had to learn that reality can be suspended for an hour or two each day.  I still don’t ‘get it’ and I have no intention of trying to wrap my head around it but I don’t need to understand it in order to enjoy it anymore.

I’m a big girl now. 

*smile*

It was a bit of a shock to discover that a world exists before 6am. Voluntary redundancy in the summer, with no position to go to due to scheduled major surgery and a need for recovery, means that I’ve had a whopping five months (+ a little bit) of getting up at a time to suit me, with the sole intention of doing things just to please me (visits to benefits office are not included in the ‘please me’ list of activities.)

I feel a trifle odd right now; I should be in work, working. I shouldn’t, of course. I’m only part-time and only working MTW (< that’s a throwback to haemoD days) but I feel as though I’m being naughty by not going into work.

It is a HUGE place. It takes me five minutes just to walk from the main reception area to the shared desk in the departmental staff-room. For someone who is used to being able to chase teenagers around a whole building in a matter of seconds, this is an amazingly awe-inspiring thing. The novelty will wear off, I’m sure.

My role is a supportive one, and I’m going to have to get my head round that because I’m used to being a bit more proactive and taking on a bit more responsibility in my past positions. I’m part of the support team which covers the entire college, but I’m also working within two separate departments so I feel as though I have three hats, which is likely to give me a headache.

My colleagues are friendly and approachable, although it’s clear from the training day that there are ripples amongst and between certain folk. I thought that Further Education might be hugely different to working in the KS4 PRU but actually, it isn’t. Lessons are slightly more relaxed, but the nature of the students is very much the same. They are still bolshy, still needy and still wanting to get away with doing as little work as possible! They are slightly taller, but it seems that between leaving school at the age of 16 and starting FE college three months later very little actually changes, mentally. And to be fair, those students who are 18 or 19 still tend to act like the 16 year olds.

It makes them seem so very young! I must be getting old.

Good Thing/s: Student who said thank you for the support I gave him; student who said, Hello katieF! In the corridor when I’d never even spoken to him before (I’d been introduced to the whole class a couple of hours earlier); finishing early on a Wednesday!

Bad Thing/s: Boring lessons; student who got irked with me; the paperwork.

I *think* I’m going to like it.

I used to think that I was the most miserable woman in the world. 

And then I met my MiL.

My relationship with her was practically non-existent before my FiL passed away.  After his death we grew closer, but I still find her very difficult and (on some occasions) can barely even tolerate her.  This sounds mean, but it isn’t.  She is a very demanding woman, not least because her days are taken up with … nothing. 

My Mumsy will celebrate 70 grand years on earth next year.  Her social life is amazing.  She’s always off on mini-breaks with her friends, she has church and related prayer-groups, she does voluntary secretarial work twice a week for her minister, toddles off to WI every month, pops into the coffee morning every week, cooks lunch for her friends when she can see they’re a bit overwhelmed with activities, goes for long walks and she makes time to fit all her children into her busy schedule (we range from 50 miles to 1,300 miles away from her).

She never expects people to do anything or be anywhere.

My MiL is the complete opposite.  She’s seven years younger than Mumsy and her social calendar (despite our best intentions and gentle nudges) revolves around seeing my BiL one night a week – and every Saturday when he takes her shopping (that’s a whole post on its own) - and having a visit from her SiL once a week for an hour or so.  Oh, she might go to see the doctor, or buy a paper, or pop into town for some things, but she has no interests and no friends. 

She is also a Scrooge (despite having money running into six figures just sitting in the bank).

Blokey does do a lot for her.  She wanted a new tellybox.  She has our old one (2004) and held out as long as she could because she didn’t want a ‘thin’ one.  Now she has no choice because her tellybox is going a tad iffy.  So Blokey spent some time researching tellyboxes and the best place to buy them, etc.  And last Thursday we took her shopping, with three tellyboxes in mind to view.  We took her to a Foodstuff & Computer Planet store and showed her two of the tellyboxes (they didn’t have the third).  She ummm’d and ahhh’d a little, and wibble-wobbled them (‘they’ll fall down!’).  I could tell from the look on her face that she wasn’t happy. 

Now, we had no intention of buying from Foodstuff & Computer Planet because we knew we could get a better deal at John Smith’s (plus a free five year warranty).  We’d taken her to F & CP because it was out of town with free parking and the intention was then to buy the telly online once she’d seen it in the flesh.  But she decided she wanted to look at the third tellybox so we got in the car and tootled off into town to fight the crowds of Christmas shoppers, get into scraps with other cars and pay extortionate city centre parking fees. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Whilst in John Smith’s she spied a tellybox she liked.  It was ugly and pudgy … and CHEAP!  Blokey was looking for another tellybox so he missed the expression of pure delight upon her face as she noticed the price tag.  Oh, it’s not the price, she informed me.  I just think it looks nice.

Pffft.

She then wibble-wobbled some more tellyboxes and when she wibble-wobbled the one that had caused her to nearly orgasm she only tentatively touched it.  Sly old bag!  Really!  It took us a good ten minutes to convince her not to buy it.  I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, that’s how angry I was with her.  Blokey put lots of effort into researching the perfect telly for her, plus he drove her to see/buy one and he’d sourced a Blu-ray player to go with it.  If it had been my mother I would have had very stern words and walked off. 

It took her another ten minutes to umm and ahh between the other two tellyboxes, with both Blokey and I praising one over the other.  They were exactly the same price but one was a Sony Bravia and the other a Samsung.  The Sony was a Smart tv (‘I really won’t use iPlayer’) and far superior.  She wibble-wobbled them again and opted for the less superior Samsung even though we’d told her she’d be better off with the other.

I think she does it deliberately.

Afterwards we went to Pizza Yummy Yum and when Blokey got out his cash to pay she said, Oh, I was going to pay! but failed to elaborate on this further by leaving her bag safely cocooned in her lap and her fingers tightly clasped together on top of it. If our intentions were to pay we would at least have made an effort to get some money out, but not her.  Oh no.

Fast forward a few days, to yesterday.  We took her to see her other SiL, her niece and nephew and their families (about eighty or so miles away).  I don’t mind doing this.  It’s the one day of the year that she sees them, and besides, I like Blokey’s cousins and they give us Christmas presents to come home with!   

Whilst talking about Christmas decorations she suddenly announced, I’m not putting mine up this year.  I really can’t be bothered.  I don’t feel at all Christmassy.  She said this with the sourest look on her face.  This is the woman who has already excitedly bought and wrapped her presents and has said how much she’s looking forward to spending Christmas Day with us.  Oh, you have to at least put your tree up, I said.  Well, I can’t anyway.  It’s in the loft; I don’t know when BiL will be there to take it down.

And that’s what it boils down to.  She feels hard-done by.  For nearly thirty-five years she had a doting husband who did EVERYTHING for her.  Now she has to rely on two grown-up sons.  One of those sons lives thirty miles away and is (to all intents and purposes) ill.  The other only lives down the road but leads a very busy life with a very busy girlfriend (who is allegedly possessive; she isn’t, she’s just very active and probably wouldn’t mind having a lie-in every Saturday with her boyfriend rather than have him get up at the crack of dawn to take his mother to Tesco.)

This worries me.  The future worries me. Her reliance on other people, her miserableness, the fact that she expects us to take her to Belgium for cigarettes (she doesn’t ask anymore, it’s just a given that we will), her snide comments and her deliberate attempts to ignore any and all advice.  If she’s like this now what does a future with possible job opportunities further afield and the joy of (grand)children bring?  Misery, that’s what. Misery and grumbles.

It all makes me want to scream.

(I realise that once written down this seems trivial; I think you have to be there and know about the tiny little things which build up and up and up and up … But thanks for letting me get it off my chest …)

As a socially-inept person I absolutely detest interviews. However, it appears that being dosed up on strong painkillers can be good for you.

Fifteen days after donating my kidney to my husband I went for an interview. My Mummy had to take me because of my discomfort/pain, so I felt a bit like a child. I felt that the interview was pants. I admitted that I didn’t have a clue about one of the questions they asked (about the equality and diversity act) but managed to come up with an answer for it anyway. I thought I came across as quite flustered. They must surely have thought that I wasn’t interested in the position because I didn’t want a tour of the vast facilities (I did explain why). My interview only took half as long as the chap before me!

So you can imagine my surprise when they phoned this morning, one day later, to offer me the job. Apparently the interview went very well and they were impressed with my honesty. Mummy says that I looked really nice too, so that probably helped!

Huzzah!

I start after Christmas. In effect it’s just a TA position, but it’s with post-16 year olds instead of secondary age students. It’s less hours and thus less money than I’m used to, but there will be the opportunity to advance and rise.

And hey, it’s a job in a world where jobs can be somewhat competitive to actually get into so I’m not going to grumble. Not to mention that when I saw the position advertised the first thought that came into my head was,’ Oooh, I want that!’

Who’s a Happy Bunny then?

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a girl used to get a bus.

You could sense her discomfort as she scanned the seats, looking for one that wouldn’t cause her humiliation or pain. Ideally the bus would be near-empty and the girl would be able to sit alone, wrapped up in her own cosy little world, ignoring the sniggers and whispers of others. But often the bus would be crowded, and the girl would have to stand with fifty pairs of eyes potentially staring at her. Humiliation would radiate from her in boundless bouncy waves. The bus was a personal nightmare for the girl, even though she very obviously loved the safety of it and the people-watching opportunities it afforded her.

A contradiction.

But the girl who used to get a bus began to change. It was a gradual process, not noticeable on a daily basis, but a definite change nevertheless. With this change the girl who used to get a bus had a very apparent, newly-aqcuired, zestfulness. Little things (which had once been big things) stopped being so significant and instead began to blend into the daily life of the girl. Some days she’d suddenly stop whatever she was doing and grin to herself as she realised that once upon a time, not so very long ago, she would have struggled to do the insignificant thing that she was indulging in.

The girl had rarely been honest, either with herself or with other people. You could feel her squirm as she looked for the loopholes that would allow her to skirt the issue and be who she really was, without having to admit who she really was. She was embarrassed.

She still is embarrassed. But perhaps less-so now. She doesn’t recognise the girl she used to be, but she doesn’t recognise the girl she is now either (which is somewhat worrying). She is still the same person, this girl who used to get a bus. Her personality, her dry, sarcastic wit and her brilliant taste in music haven’t changed. And she still hears the whispers and the sniggers, and the looks that she gets must be looks of disdain and disgust, for she is not attractive. The girl in the reflection is not our girl; it can’t be our girl, who used to get a bus.

One hundred and twenty one pounds lost.

And she’s still not half the girl she used to be (but very nearly).

(Last night a girl was standing in front of me in the line at Weight Watchers. She was a slim girl, slightly shorter than me, with a shape I would die for. I had a sneaky peek at her card. She was eight pounds heavier than me. In my head, I will alwaysalwaysalways be a fatty boom boom chumbawumba. And I will linger long-time over the publish button – I don’t want you to think the worst of me, yet I need to be proud and brave and … less fat. Oh, and my ample bust is not so ample anymore. *sigh*)