working towards perfection (and failing)

Tag: whinge (Page 1 of 3)

that was 2015 - New Year funny resolution 2014 wallpaper funny pics

2015 was the year of the Baby Niece. It was also the year of the spiralizer, but no, I don’t own one.

I flirted with the internet, using paying blogging platforms. One just upped and left with $48 of my hard-earned cash and the other is flirting back with me. I go by Poppylicious. My anonymity still means the world to me. I discovered survey sites and earnt lots of Amazon vouchers to spend on Christmas presents. I rock. Sometimes.

The Blokey turned the big Four Zero. Our kidney continues to do well.

I went to Wales. I went to Belgium. I lost weight with Dukan. I enjoyed a bit of Yorkshire hilly regions. We laughed with a real-life Bill Bailey. The boiler broke and then got fixed. The cats don’t argue quite so much anymore.

Work is slightly pants. It might get pantier, it might not.

Yes, I made that word up.

I am going to endeavour to write more here in 2016. I like writing on sites where I get paid, but I sometimes feel that I’m only writing or commenting to make money, and likewise, that people are only commenting on my posts to make a bit of extra cash. That isn’t what blogging is about to me. To me it’s simply about putting a little piece of myself out there, for the world to see. Or not. It makes me feel more valued, gives me a purpose. Besides, we’re paying for this domain; I should use it more often!

So, happy new year. I’ll be spending mine in bed, snuggled up with Blokey because he has Man-Flu. Huzzah!

Keep on rockin’.


the problem with facebook

They say that the eyes are the window to your soul.  I don’t really know about this because I’m an eye-contact avoider, finding it uncomfortable and intrusive.  I therefore know little about your soul, or anyone’s soul. However, it has become apparent to me that Facebook may be the new window to your soul. And – somewhat scarily, with a big dollop of ignorance and naïvety on the side – this window often has the curtains open for the whole wide world to be able to see what’s deep inside your very core.

Sometimes, it freaks me out. But on most occasions it makes me realise that I don’t know you at all, or that you’re a bit dumb, or that you spend far too much time attention-seeking, and then a multitude of other opinions go racing through my sweet little head, making me roll my eyes or feel superior and smug.

I’d like to introduce you to some of the statuses which have found their way onto my timeline in the past couple of weeks, with the punctuation and grammar they were afforded by the people who wrote them (unless paraphrased, and then it’s all my own mistakes.)

The text-talker: “Nightmare can’t put wellies on due to pain in broker toes and its going to rain at beacons” – There is a HUGE lack of grammar and punctuation here, and I myself would NEVER post a status without checking such things.  I realise I’m a bit of a grammar Nazi, and I may at times be overzealous with my use of the nifty little idea of the edit button, but I went to uni with you so I know you’re capable of more.

The bored housewife: “Taking daisy swimming” – Lovely. Why did I want to know that?

The internet addict: “I post-cross my Twitter oddities with my Fb timeline. That way you get to see parts of conversations which make no sense to you because I’m”

“indulging in a #tweetchat, which makes me super cool. #amazeballs.”

‘Nuff said.

The roundabout teller-offer: “Wonders why indirectly (or maybe it is direct) some people can be deliberately unkind – when it actually does not really solve matters??” – What my Wicked Stepmother wrote just after a weekend when my Mumsy got to spend an entire weekend with all her four children, their partners and her five grandchildren. One sibling had come over from continental Europe with his family. Said sibling had cut all ties with The Monster (Father) eight months previously. We know your game, Stepmother.

The greedy one: “All my friends are having babies. I want a baby.” – You already have one. Love her, cherish her and be thankful that you’re so blessed.  Some of us may never experience that.

The attention-seeker: “Some people make me sick.” / “I’m mad.” / “I’m sad.” / “I wish it wasn’t like this.” – I’m sorry but I refuse to fall victim to your focus on me status. Whatever it is, get it off your chest and put us all out of our misery you attention-seeking whore.  Also, offering to PM people when they inevitably ask, “What’s up, hun?” is very unbecoming and downright fucking rude.

The attention-seeker v.2 – feed my ego: “I’m currently on 218 likes [link hidden] which is someway from my next target of 250! So if you haven’t liked the page please go and do so and if you have liked and want to share my page it would be much appreciated !”– You post this every fucking week … enough! If I want to like it then I’ll like it, but please don’t beg me to like it.  Likewise with the “Sponsor me! Sponsor me!” statuses which you post nearly every fucking day beginning six months prior to the event. This just puts me off sponsoring you. A couple of requests is surely ample?

The attention-seeker v.3 – my boring life: “This is my blog” – Okay. I’ve read it, it’s a bit yawn-inducing and for a qualified solicitor your English is appalling.

My kidz are better than yours: “This is a picture of my daughter, and another, and another …” – I know you love her and cherish her, but twelve photos of her wearing the same dress, sitting in the same spot? Really?

The ponderer: “Who would have thought trying to upgrade a mobile phone would get you thinking” – Everybody … if you’re upgrading your phone you need to think about lots of things, numpty.

The attention-seeker v.4 – i want to be seen to be more popular than you: “It’s my birthday in however many days.” – So? Oh … you want lots of people to say, “Happy Birthday, Attention-Seeker!” so that you look popular and amazeballs? Got it! Oops, forgot to say, “Happy Birthday!” Sorry.

The sheeple v.1 – if everyone else believes it i need to believe it too: “I’m sharing this picture/quote/link/video. It’s about something I feel really strongly about and I’m completely appalled/saddened/happy about it.  However, I haven’t checked the validity and so I don’t know if it’s correct, but you must see or read it.” – This applies mostly to anyone who shares a link from the Fb group Britain First (you do know they’re a very racist group, ja?) or shares those pictures which claim Fb will give money to save the dying baby/dog/seal for every share it receives (they won’t, idiot). Your internet connection can offer you more than just games and sheeple activities … try Snopes!

The sheeple v.2 – of course i care: Anything which ends with “I know 97% of people won’t repost this, but my friends will be the 3% that do.” – Nope. I won’t. Don’t guilt-trip me and my emotions and make me feel like a bad person. I’m a good person and I don’t need to prove it to you, or anyone.

The superiority complex: “I’ve never read or seen this, but I heard such and such about it, which must be true, so without basing anything on my own views I’m telling you to avoid it because if I think it’s shit, it must be shit and you’re a fool if you think otherwise. LOL Dumbass.”  – Um … okay. I’ll read it or see it if I want to, and then I’ll come back and tell you whether I think you’re right or wrong and if I think you’ll enjoy it.

The religious nutter: “God has blessed me with <insert something here>. He is wonderful.  Without him my life wouldn’t be the same.” I suspect it would, love.

bah, humbug.


I LOVE Christmas, but this doesn’t stop me from whining about it.  In no particular order these are the Top 5 things which truly annoy, baffle, frustrate and irk me …

1. Happy Holidays!

Um, nope. I think you’ll find it’s Happy Christmas! A holiday is something I go on when I travel to a place that isn’t my home and do some sightseeing. Christmas is something completely different to that scenario. I think it’s an Americanism because it’s also said at Thanksgiving, Easter and Hallowe’en and over here we only really celebrate one of those.

[Edited to add: I’m wrong; it’s only said as a way to incorporate all religious festivals at this time of year. It is still an Americanism though and it still irks me. *grin*]

When the entire English-speaking population of the world has succumbed to Happy Holidays! America will rub its hands in glee and know they have finally become Masters of the Universe.

2. The Round Robin*

We all get at least one every year stuffed inside a card, and they can be summed up in the following ways:

i.  I’m friends with you on Facebook and haven’t missed a single one of your status updates. Why are you sending me this?

ii. I haven’t seen you since 1652. Why do you think I care about what little Cyril did when the bird pooped on his head?

iii. Gosh, my family is so inferior to yours. Excuse me whilst I go and do something tragic/amazing (so that my family have something to write about next year.)

(*with apologies to anyone who sent me one this year)

3. Family

Christmas can bring out the worst in people. It’s also a time of year when some have to bite their tongue and just go with the flow to avoid those terrible arguments, which will have repercussions well into the first eleven or-so months of the new year. Christmas should be about family, but only if you have a family or indeed, a family that you want to spend time with.

I’m a tongue-biter, go with the flow kind of gal.

My BiL has spent every Christmas Eve and the following Christmas Day at my MiLs since the year my FiL so tragically passed away.  He got married this year and obviously wants to spend the night/day with his new wife, who in turn wants to spend the day with her parents because a) she always has and b) her grandmother is very poorly this year. When MiL Dearest heard about this she threw a Very Big Fit.

Christmas is for the family! she said. My boys should be spending it with me! she said.

She’d been invited to spend the day with my YASiLs family and we were going to spend the night before with her and have breakfast.  I was looking forward to us then heading home and cooking my Blokey a fabulous Christmas dinner, with all the proverbial trimmings.

It’s not to be.

It is probably never to be.

I am destined to a life of Christmas Day boredom with my MiL on an annual basis.  We’ve agreed to staying with her for Christmas dinner but I put my foot down about staying into the evening for tea. No! I said.

It isn’t so much that we have to spend it with her; it’s the assumption that we will spend it with her and the blatant disregard of the fact that both I and YASiL have our own families too and we might one day want to spend time with them on the actual day itself.

I must try harder to get pregnant in 2014; a baby is the only thing that will stop this malarkey. Yes, my baby will just be for Christmas. Yes, I expect I am destined to be childless. It will be my punishment for some minor misdemeanor I don’t remember committing.

4. Festive Charity Givers

There are people all around the world who need help every single day, not just for/at Christmas. Hidden amongst the adverts for food, alcohol and toys (both grow’d up and for children) are the pitiful visual representations of crying children, freezing homeless folk, blind cats and diseased reindeer.

Give to charity! they scream. We want your money! they beg.

I don’t have an issue with giving to charity. I do have an issue with people who only give to charity at this time of year and who shout it from the rooftops so that everybody knows. I assume I’m supposed to give them a Big Thumbs Up? I don’t.

Connected to this is those people who come into the office (or wherever) and say, Oh, I’m not giving out Christmas cards this year. I’m just going to give the money I would have spent to charity.’They rarely tell you which charity though.  I think most of them are just a bunch of tight-fisted Scrooge’s. The same applies to people who just send an ecard at Christmas. What’s the point in that? I can’t put it on my non-existent mantlepiece, can I? I’d much rather people were honest and just said, Look, I really can’t be arsed to spend an afternoon writing out Christmas cards and then spend oodles of money on stamps so they get to the right person at the right time. I have much more respect for honesty.

5. Santa Fuck!ng Claus

Who IS he? When I was a child we didn’t have Santa Claus.  We had Father Christmas. Father Christmas is jolly and huggable and just lovely. Santa Claus sounds strict and like some creepy uncle who you don’t really want to see, but have to.  He probably has a scratchy beard, quite unlike the fluffy cotton-wool one worn by Father Christmas.

Santa Claus is an Americanism (and this isn’t an America-bashing post, honest) which found its way to America courtesy of the Dutch and (much later) Coca-Cola. Father Christmas was originally part (as Father Winter) of the Midwinter festivities celebrated in Europe a very long time ago. In recent years Santa has started infiltrating the British Isles, emblazoning his name upon wrapping paper, cards and gift tags and sneakily permeating our quaint little media so that his name can be shouted through the airwaves.

I wish he’d just fuck off. I don’t mind ‘Santa Claus’ when uttered by an American (they know no better) or as a character in a (n American) film, poem or book. But when I hear a native of this fair land saying Santa Claus it quite gets my goat.

When the entire English-speaking population of the world has succumbed to Santa Claus America will rub its hands in glee and know they have finally become Masters of the Universe.

Just call me Mrs Scrooge.

Happy Christmas!

Tales of my MiL


You have met my MiL before. She’s the woman who attracts bitterness and negative thoughts.  She oozes food from her pores and embraces arguments with people who are merely doing their jobs.  Her way is the Right Way (and please, don’t forget it).  She sits atop a goldmine, yet cuddles her bag with a ferocious glare when it’s time to pay the restaurant bill.  She has no friends and never does anything.







Biting of tongue.


When we saw her yesterday she didn’t disappoint. She rarely disappoints.

Yesterday’s offering to the gods of Oh, woe is me came courtesy of the impending marriage of BiL and YASiL.

I don’t understand, she seethed, why we have nothing to do with the wedding.


Blokey is going to be an usher.  I’ve been asked to do a reading [whoa, where’s my comfort zone?].  What more does she want?  I later said to Blokey that if she wanted more input into the wedding perhaps she should have had a daughter. Or maybe offered to donate some of the money which just sits gathering dust in her many bank accounts.

When Blokey and I married, BiL was Best Man.  We had a small, family only, intimate ceremony so it made sense.  BiL and YASiL are inviting one hundred guests to the ceremony/wedding breakfast and BiL has asked his best friend of many (many – since school) years to be his Best Man. This wasn’t an issue for us.  Blokey doesn’t like talking in front of lots of people (the speech) and he didn’t want to have to organise a stag do (he’s not very good at coming up with ideas, coupled with our life of not really knowing how Our Kidney is going to behave) and well … he just didn’t really care.  But I think this is the MAJOR issue for my MiL.

She has this ‘thing’ about family.  Blokey doesn’t have a big family and those that do exist don’t see each other very much.  There are a lot of oldies (aunts and uncles of my beloved FiL for the most part), most of whom I’ve never met, and Blokey and BiL probably haven’t seen them since they were nippers in short trousers.  She insisted that BiL and YASiL sent them invitations and then made sure they received them.

Who does she think she is?

She’s having an outfit made for the wedding.  It’s costing her five hundred smackeroonies and a little part of me hopes that it’s truly horrendous (because I am the evil DiL.)

Nearly every year since Blokey and I have been together we’ve spent New Year’s Day with my MiL (and my FiL before his untimely death … why, oh why and please come back and all that jazz). When we get into routines with my MiL (and a routine is established after a thing has been done once) she expects it’s going to happen.  She doesn’t ask, she simply assumes.  I have worked hard to break many routines (I’m struggling with the trips to CigaretteTown in Belgium, but I WILL get there) and this year I am (we are) breaking the New Year one.  We’re going to London, to stay in a fancyish hotel near Buckingham Palace.  We know that she’s going to grumble and we’re actually scared to tell her.

How ridiculous are we?


Tomorrow we’ll be spending the gloriously sunny Bank Holiday Monday cooped up inside her cigarette-fragranced, stinky house.  And yes, we are prepared to take bets on how many minutes we’ll be there before she moans.


Time for crumpets!

Me and Maths


I don’t suffer from Dyscalculia. I know this not because I’ve been tested (I haven’t) but because I checked the symtpoms on the most trustworthy of sites (Wikipedia) and I suffer from very few of them.

I can tell the time with both analogue and digital, I find basic mental arithmatic to be quite easy, I only very occasionally get muddled between right and left, I can navigate using a map exceptionally well, I’m punctual, I can guesstimate distance and measurements and I remember names and phone numbers. In fact, the only three points on the list to which I can relate are:

  • Often unable to grasp and remember mathematical concepts, rules, formulae, and sequences
  • Inability to concentrate on mentally intensive tasks
  • Low latent inhibition, i.e., over-sensitivity to noise, smell, light and the inability to tune out, filtering unwanted information or impressions. Might have a well-developed sense of imagination due to this (possibly as cognitive compensation to mathematical-numeric deficits)

Maths completely and utterly scares the proverbial out of me and I genuinely don’t understand it. I can learn about mean, median and range till the cows come home, but it goes in my right ear and tends to make a quick exit out of my left. Pythagoras theorem? Well, I can spell it. Does that count? Shove an ‘x’ and a ‘y’ in my face and I’m likely to try to turn it into a word instead of try to solve a problem. Part of my issue with Maths is that I don’t need to know it. I can gage if I’ve been given the correct change in a shop with a single glance and I can find my way from A to B using a timetable. I can set my alarm to get me up at the right time and I know that it’s going to take me ten minutes to walk to the bus stop, so I leave fifteen minutes prior. In any given day it isn’t important for me to know which of mean, median or range is the equivalent of being an average (why can’t it just be called average?) because I know how averages work. My mind goes topsy-turvy when I think of having to study Maths or support someone in a Maths lesson and everything gets muddled. I imagine that it’s similar to what Dyslexics have to endure, although at least mine is more liveable with.

I think therefore that Maths was created to make some people seem more intelligent than they are. Maths is hard for me because someone made it hard for me. It doesn’t need to be hard and I shouldn’t need to prove that I can do equations and algebra and work out ridiculous angles when I’m never going to bloody use them.

*stomps feet in despair*

Yesterday we had a mini-training session (one hour) on how to best support students in using the 4 Rules of Maths. We went through ‘re-ordering’ (um, I don’t think so), ‘partitioning’ (what the f>ck?!), ‘bridging’ (okay, now I just want to run from the room) and ‘compensating’ (nope, you’re just throwing numbers in my direction and they mean nothing so I will switch off and enjoy the wandering rambles of my imagination). Having looked at addition (I can do that) and subtraction (I can do that too) we turned our attentions to multiplication. And at this point I became unstuck again. A grid method on the PowerPoint made absolutely no sense to me. My brain couldn’t work it out. I’m looking at the slide on the handout right now and my brain is threatening to implode. It actually makes me want to cry. And when we got to division? I completely switched off. I’ve NEVER EVER EVER learnt how to divide using that bus-stop thingy. And long division? No thank you. P!ss off, please.

I hate Maths with a passion and I’m not scared to admit this. What’s Maths going to do? Bop me on the head with an octagon? I am an intelligent (but not clever) woman, with a 2.1 Honours Degree, a teaching qualification, an insatiable thirst to keep learning (but not Maths or nerdy-Science based stuff, thank you) and a desire to keep my brain active. I shouldn’t be made to feel sub-intelligent just because my brain isn’t wired for some of the more ridiculous Maths problems; I will never understand some of the more complex Maths problems, or even some of the more simple ones. I’ve tried to and I will continue to try to if I need to (dependent on classes I support in) but I am not Mathematical and I never will be. It saddens me that there is so much emphasis on the fact that so many adults don’t have even the most basic mathematical skills, and yet they’re having their heads forcibly filled with mathematical concepts which they will not need (dependent on vocation chosen) and this is just odd.

Maths, I don’t like you. And I refuse to change my mind, although I quite like you when puzzling through my Soduko.

i do think you rock, but … *


I do, truly I do. Giving up a little bit of yourself to ‘save’ the life of a stranger is amazing and I would have joined in if anything had happened to Blokey prior to our transplant.

I do resent the fact that you’re somehow superior to me, or better in some way.

It also irks me that maybe you don’t want to know how the recepient is, and you feel no responsibility. The fact that you don’t want to know who they are because you don’t want to begin judging them (I’m sure you didn’t mean it to sound like that) is worrying.

Did they explain to you that it’s a treatment not a cure? Are you aware of the percentage of transplants that reject within the first year? Do you have any understanding at all of what it is like to live with a transplant, to have these feelings day in, day out, to know that one day (maybe tomorrow, maybe in fifty years) it will begin to reject/fail?

And those first few months after the transplant may not all be plain sailing; there will be hurdles to jump over, the kidney may not take immediately and may never work as well as it was expected, there is the kerfuffle of getting the meds right and the anxiousness about ending up on haemoD again or getting a cold …

You give a wonderful, life-changing, gift but you don’t have to live with the aftermath. You do an amazing thing, suffer through some pain, go back to work, get pats on the back, give interviews on tellyvision and to newpaper-men (do you get paid for that?) and then you continue with your life. Maybe you raise awareness of the need for live (and dead) donation. I’m sure that sometimes you wonder how your kidney is doing, where it is, the adventures its enjoying …

Perhaps you just move onto the next Big Project, the next Big Pat on the Back.

You are brilliant, but perhaps you need to live with what happens next … just for a day, if you really want to gain a little bit of an understanding.

(* this is for the non-directed altruistic donors who seem to say the wrong thing, to those who seemingly do it only for the accolades, for those who appear not to really care or understand … it is not written to all non-directed altruistic donors.)

oh, feck off! (getting it off my chest)

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.


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 …)

MRSA week

We are currently embarking on a week involving much celebration of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (or MRSA as it’s more commonly known.) 

The Washing Machine will find itself to benefit the most from this, whilst Blokey’s nostrils will enjoy the thrill of having a cotton bud stuck up themselves thrice-daily.  Gosh, even the Shower may find itself to be more in demand.


About three weeks ago Blokey arrived home from haemoD to announce that his monthly swabbage had shown positive for MRSA.  Not to worry; they’d taken more swabs and were testing again.  These ones came back negative.  But they had to test again because they need three positive results or three negative results in succession before they can declare ‘Nay!’ or ‘Yay!’ 

Negative again … a 2-1 result in favour of Negative.

But, oh yes, the next swabs showed a Positive result.

2-2 … a draw. 

Despite being completely flabbergasted about this positive/negative malarky, and being unable to work out where he’s got it from if he really does have MRSA (nobody else at haemoD appears to have it) the good doctors have prescribed the Seven Steps of MRSA Obliteration.

The only person who really suffers with this is Me.  And Washing Machine.  Blokey becomes extra clean and SuperBug free, but I have to spend the next seven days stripping and scrubbing.  Clean bedding and clean pyjamas EVERYDAY, plus the clean towel and clean washcloth and clean clothes.  I’ve therefore banished Blokey to the Land of Single DuVet; I refuse to struggle with King DuVet everyday so I’m having that all to my little self.  Oh, he can stay in our bed, but if I’ve only got to worry about his pillowcases, the sheet and a single duvet cover then I’m happier.  And it means that I get to snuggle up in our lovely cosy king-size duvet all on my tod. 


Our bathroom is now the proud owner of MRSA Busting soap/shampoo, toothpaste, dusting-powder (talc?) and nostril cleaner.  Blokey must remember to pay special attention to that bit between his legs.  We have instructions and everything …

(if washing machine chooses this week to go bonkers i’m going to be one well mardy cow)


I am the biggest (and bestest) worry-wort in the entire kingdom of Earthdom. I can, and will, worry about anything. I am also the biggest (and bestest) ‘head in sand’ burier.

As a rule, ‘worrier’ and ‘if I can’t see it, it will go away’ do not compliment each other.


I am currently worrying about the hoover (it broke), the shower (it broke, came back to life and broke again), my job (which won’t be my job from September, regardless of whether or not they accept my application for voluntary redundancy), Mog (he has a new friend and they were accidentally introduced a tad too early), our new car (the alarm went off on Saturday night and we don’t know why) and … hmmm, gosh. Everything really.

But we’re going to buy a new hoover, the man should be coming to look at the shower, I hate my job, Mog barely even flinched when he bumped into Dora, and the alarm hasn’t gone off again and was probably just being overly sensitive and picking up a lorry thundering past on the main road half a mile (as the crow flies) or so away.

I wind myself up and create little knots of tension all over my body. I live with a constant feeling of nausea in my belly. I’m an idiot. I need a massage, but I’ve never had a massage and so I’m not actually sure that do I need one. Of course, why have a massage when all I’m going to do is worry about it?

I often wonder how – and to a lesser extent, why – people can be so laid-back and easy. Other folk would laugh about the hoover. They wouldn’t think of the worst-case scenario with regards the (five month old) shower, they would just get on the phone and get someone round to sort it. Hate your job? Good for you for leaving! Mog is a cat, not a child; he doesn’t need to be molly-coddled. They would simply take the car back to the dealership and demand it gets fixed if the alarm is too senstive.

But they’re not me, and I’m not them. I don’t know how to fully relax and let the weight of the world simply wash over me. Relaxation is a completely alien concept; if I have nothing to worry about then worry about nothing I will. Or I’ll make something up to worry about.

Did the house just make a strange noise? Yikes! It must be falling down!


*slaps self*

the redundancy cake

I am a cake and you want to eat me up, yummy-yum-yum.

My recipe is:

One teaspoon of bewilderment
A mugful (preferably just on the verge of overspilling) of numbness
A jelly-mould of anxiety
Seventeen droplets of crazed laughter
A bucketful of anger
A dash of selfishness
Three miniature bottles of matyrdom
100g of sugar (because I’m not sweet enough)
And a liberal dosing of grumbles

Oh, and a teaspoon of vanilla essence (to taste)

My method:

Go to a meeting where your colleagues are grumbling. Sit there amused and (inside your mind) shake your head and make snarky remarks about their inability to realise they are not affected by changes. Fold their comments sagely, making sure to pick out those that are worthy of remembrance and keep them aside for tastiness later. As you sit there beat all the ingredients together veryveryvery stiffly with as much strength as you can muster.

Let it fester.

Whilst it festers, enjoy a good sob (on the bed is best, not to mention very comfy.)

Come back to it a short while later (or whenever you can be arsed) and give it another good beating. In order to make the mixture as effective as possible be sure to think of things you really don’t like as you do this; your Boss or … your Boss.

At this point you may imagine scenes where you are rude to your Boss. You may do this safe in the knowledge that you will never publicly say these things. This will help the cake to rise.

Leave the mixture for a few days whilst you amuse yourself with the cake-making abilities of other people. Refrain from telling them the truth and instead keep your comments internalised, except for a few close friends. Realise at this point who your friends are. Make a mental note to do as little as possible for those who don’t matter over the next few months. This won’t affect the loveliness of your cake.

After a few days you may start baking your cake. You can bake it for as long as you want at whatever temperature you feel is best. Nobody really gives a toss about that.

You will know when your cake is ready for nom-nom because it will appear relaxed and peaceful. However, do be aware of a bitter after-taste that may linger on your tongue for a while because appearances can be deceptive, don’t you know.

Now, get thee baking!

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