working towards perfection (and failing)

Tag: whinge (Page 2 of 3)

wot no title?

I want a new settee and armchair. I’ve wanted a new settee and armchair for the last three years.

We’ll get them when we’ve finished paying for the display cabinet, says Blokey.

Blokey wants a spankingly brand new car. He’s wanted a spankingly brand new car for about a month.

Let’s get one now, says Blokey.

This morning we toddled off to the Skoda garage to chat to a man about a car. We were going to pop to the Amazingly Big Tesco afterwards but Blokey had forgotten the ‘triple points!’ voucher, so we made do with the Little Piddly Tesco near the Skoda garage instead. Somewhere between entering Tesco and arriving in the milk aisle Blokey became ill.

Ill tends to be sudden with Blokey. Obviously he IS ill, always. His body is constantly fighting waves of poison and waste that us ‘normal’ folk get rid of without a second glance. But when he becomes ill, it is sudden. Scarily so. This morning it was probably dehydration, but we can never be sure. He was out of breath, pale and feeling dizzy.

So I opted for snarkiness, and lots of huffing and puffing down the frozen aisle.

I am a bitch.

I don’t mean to be. It’s partly because I get scared; it’s terribly horrid to have to live with the fact that the person you love is – technically – at Death’s door and everytime he gets a pain or feels sick or feels out of breath the thoughts that go through my mind tend to be edging to Morbid Side. It’s also partly because it annoys and frustrates me. I feel as though I do everything. I am nursemaid, cleaner, laundress, chambermaid, pet-feeder, wheelie-bin operator, cushion plumper, chef, shopper, gardener …

Blokey does the dish-washer.

I don’t mind. Genuinely, I don’t.

What I do mind is that his brand spankingly new car is more important than my settee and armchair, and that on the one day we’d actually agreed to go and look at a new settee and armchair Blokey’s body decided that it was going to go skewy, but only after we’d been where he wanted to go, to talk about something we can’t really afford.

Cheers, Blokey’s body! I ? you, too.

Sometimes I just want to act like a two-year old and have one of those unfussy tantrums, where after five minutes the sobs subside into hiccoughs and everything is very-nearly hunky-dory again. Instead I have to act like an adult, and bite my tongue whilst gently stewing in my own anger.

I’m very good at it.

(We’re going to the furniture shop tomorrow, but only if Blokey’s body is being good.)

tales of the cat-stealing neighbours, chapter two

I rang her doorbell last night, despite my belly being completely tied up in knots (for I loathe confrontation and I’m shy too.)

Hi, I’m looking for my cat. I’ve been calling him for an hour. Have you seen him?

She turned away from me and headed to her living room to ask her husband where my cat was. As she did I poked my head round her door and spied my cat looking deliciously warm and cosy, cuddled up next to the radiator.

He’s just … [she gestured towards the radiator]
I know, I can see him. May I pick him up? [what the f*ck! he’s my cat, why did i feel the need to ask!]
It’s his favourite spot, she smiled.

I turned to go, but paused.

May I ask a favour?

She looked at me and nodded.

Could you stop letting him in?
Oh, she gushed. He comes in the back with the dogs.
Oh, well just kick him out when he does.

I could see her frantically thinking and seconds later she responded with,

But sometimes he’s sitting on the bin just waiting for us to let him in.

I smiled pleasantly.

That’s ok. Just don’t let him in.
She nodded. Okay, I won’t let him in. I’ll kick him out.
Thank you.

I told Blokey that she was lying. I am cynical for all the right reasons. This afternoon I arrived home from work and called my Mogglie. My Mogglie failed to come running. A few minutes later I called him again. He still failed to come running. I made a point of putting some rubbish out. Upon going in I was sneaky and peeked out through the window of my front door. Her door opened and promptly closed. Seconds later my Mogglie appeared.

I glared at her house and mouthed rude words in her direction.


As an aside, my Mogglie is very well loved. He has cuddles, favourite spots and plenty of toys. He enjoys his food and LOVES his milky. He has only once spent a night outside, and that was because the bathroom fitter forgot to check he was in before locking him out. He has special Mummy & Me time every morning in the bathroom (don’t ask!) and is allowed treats of meat when Tabatha is out. He really craves chocolate! Mog is currently fast asleep on the chair next to me, purring contentedly. Last night he slept underneath the radiator in the bedroom. Yesterday evening he curled up by the radiator in the living room for hours. He is not a cat who doesn’t know where his heart is and he always comes home. He is just a cat who knows he’s onto a Good Thing when some dotty old couple let him in to a warm house in winter and presumably give him treats. Let a cat in, feed it, and it will always come back for more, however much it loves its home. It isn’t that hard to understand.

Stupid dotty fecking old lady.

tales of the cat-stealing neighbours, chapter one

There was a knock at the door late last night (I say late, I mean about ten thirty). We opened it begrudgingly, letting the very cold air into our warm cosy home. A little old lady stood on the doorstep and in her arms she had a big fluffy cat.

I’ve brought your cat home, she stated.

We weren’t sure what to say.


It’s my fault, she continued (although I’m not sure what was her fault). We know you’re both at work all day and so when our cat brought him home we let him in and feed him. Now he comes round all the time.

We still weren’t sure what to say.


*puzzled look*

She handed him to me and went on her way. We were a tad perplexed. Why didn’t she just put him outside instead of bringing him all the way home? Did he kick up a fuss when she told him it was time to go home last night, maybe acting like a teenager and/or clinging on to the front door whilst painfully mewing something along the lines of, Noooooo! Don’t make me go back there!

I have two theories …

1. She wants him and thinks we’re cruel owners for being out all day and obviously not feeding him because he’s always eating at theirs (no wonder he’s getting fat, lounging around on his arse all day eating too much food, when he should be out hunting and doing cat things, like acrobatics.)

(she can piss off.)

2. He’s been chewing her electrical cables and she’s a tad miffed. I have only one thing to say about that: GOOD!

She’s a daft bat. We have all the cats in the neighbourhood turning up on our doorstep (for I am so lovely and they ? me muchly) but I never let them in, and I certainly never feed them because a) they may not be allowed certain foodstuffs (Tabatha isn’t allowed wet food because of her teeth), b) they’re not mine, and c) they’re bloody cats … give them food and you’ll never get rid of them; they’ll always be around pestering you for more.

She’s actually made me quite angry. He’s a cat! He’s fine to be out all day! And he’s not out ALL day. I only work part-time and he’s usually around when I get home, begging for (more) food. She’ll be taking all the independence out of him and turning him into a spoilt brat. But she caught us unawares so we forget to tell her not to feed him (and not to let him in her home) as she toddled off, presumably believing she was doing us a favour.

No love, you weren’t.


go away, please

I wouldn’t normally, but I really do need to get this off my (ample) chest.

(you might want to put your fingers in your ears because I’m going to shout this VERY loudly)


(fingers may be removed from earholes; shouting is done)

I haven’t seen my Father since the May of 2007. I don’t particularly want to see my Father because I have very little to say to him which doesn’t revolve around family history (he has found a branch which doesn’t exist, the fool) and how completely doolally my nana was.

I don’t actually know my Father. I certainly can’t claim to love him. In fact I think that since the age of five I’ve felt every emotion for him except love, from pity to hate.

My memories of him are decidedly negative. I can remember not wanting to go to school because he was arguing with Mumsy on the phone and she was crying. I have a vague recollection of him standing at the front door, arguing with Mumsy. He made me go to stay with him when I didn’t want to, and Mumsy tried to tell him that I didn’t want to. I remember him slagging my wonderful Mumsy off constantly and I remember hating him for that but being unable to say anything because I was only a tiddler. He tried to make me call my step-mum ‘mummy’ and that broke my own Mummy’s heart. My step-sisters called him ‘dad’ and he took them on family holiday’s to Spain and America, but didn’t tell us. He grumbled about paying maintenance and paid a pittance for the four of us, which decreased each time one of us turned seventeen and the courts didn’t make him pay anymore.

I can remember being fifteen and him phoning and saying he was in the area and was going to pop in to see me with my little half-brother. I remember being scared of him and desperately not wanting to be alone with him. That was the last time I saw him for six years.

I don’t actually like him. It’s a terrible thing to say about your own Father, but I truly don’t.

But he has a FB account. And he asked me to be his friend (this was a couple of years ago.) I accepted, knowing that he wouldn’t be on it much, and he wasn’t. But for the last month he seems to have been on constantly and it’s really upsetting me. He writes silly comments on status updates and walls, in an attempt to be funny and I just read them and scream inside.

I don’t want him in my life anymore. I can’t stand it. But I can’t de-friend him because there’s a part of me which thinks it would cause problems, but the problems I think it will cause, it probably won’t. It will probably be other problems.

So, I shall fester in a world of my own making, not wanting to hurt anyone else, but allowing myself to be hurt because that’s just the kind of idiot I am.

but that’s my fault


After a disappointing first lesson with two fifteen year old shit-stirrers who obviously spent the summer receiving lessons in evilness in the bowels of hell, I walked into the staff kitchen and whined, I really hate my new job! to anyone who would listen. In this instance it was the nice little Iron Lady. Oh KatieF! she smiled.

Then the bus from ChavTown just missed the bus in Quaint Historic Market Town, so I had to travel all the way to maC and get a bus back out to FlatHickTown. Fourteen miles became about forty. But that’s my fault for not being able to drive.


Still, I just caught it today (although in my haste to get off the bus in Quaint Historic Market Town I bumbled into a rack of bus timetables and they all tumbled onto the floor) and the lovely bus driver promised he’d have a word with the other bus drivers, who all work the direct route that I get in the morning and used to get regularly in the evening.

Oh, I’m a teacher now. I feel that I was rather bullied into it (but that’s my fault for not being able to drive) and I feel completely out of my depth because a) it’s been six years since I last officially donned a Teacher’s Hat, and b) it’s not my specialist subject (although I have been ‘teaching’ it for the last six years.)

The one perky advantage I have is that it’s part-time (0.5ft), so I officially only have to be in work for three hours twice a week, three and three quarter hours another day, and one whole day. I still get my middle of the week day off. Huzzah!

Not so Huzzah! about the shite bus service in this area though.

But that’s my fault for not being able to drive. I can’t stress that enough.

*rolls eyes*

I don’t think you’re selfish

Sometimes I get ever-so slightly irked. 

(… this statement is false; I often get very irked)

In this instance I get ever-so slightly irked by those who spout forth with self-righteous indignation about the selfishness of people who don’t want to donate their organs following their death. 

(… there was thread on, but I can’t find it now)

Once upon a time I had a real issue with organ donation.  I was adamant that when I die I didn’t want any of my organs to be used, and I certainly didn’t carry an organ donor card. 

But if you ask me why I felt that way, I can’t give you a reasonable excuse response.  I don’t think I ever had a reason … not a good one anyway, and if I did have a reason I certainly can’t remember it now, or put it into a sentence that doesn’t sound pathetic.  However, I was not selfish – I am completely sure of that. 

Organ donation is an incredibly personal choice.  The one thing we exclsuively own (usually) is our body.  We can choose to treat our body like a temple, or we can choose to neglect/harm it.  It belongs to us, and we have the right to say what happens to all the bits that make us who we are, even (or especially) upon death.  Other people may not like that, or appreciate it, but to be so judegmental and rude (calling someone selfish is rude) doesn’t make them a better person.

So, I do get irked when folk start calling other folk selfish for choosing not to donate. 

How very dare you!

The main argument seems to be well, you can’t take them with you!, which I usually associate as being said with a smug grin. 

I won’t be able to take my money with me either, but it doesn’t mean I can’t choose what happens to it after I die.

*smug grin*

A few months ago I popped online and became a registered organ donor.  I now have a card, which I carry with me in my purse at all times, and the people who need to know, know.  I am content with my decision.  It doesn’t make me selfless.

As an aside, I didn’t tick the ‘eye’ box.  I have a ‘thing’ about eyes and it’s the one part of me that I can’t bear to imagine being used.  Yes, it is partly because I’m squeamish, but I think it runs deeper than that and until I psycho-analyse myself I won’t be able to say how deep or why.  This doesn’t make me selfish.

I have tentatively put the wheels in motion to be a living donor for Blokey.  This isn’t selfless, and it isn’t heroic. 

In fact, I’d probably say the opposite; my reasons for wanting to do it are incredibly selfish

In an ideal world we would live in a society where we had to opt-out of organ donation, but we don’t yet live in that society and I refuse to think of someone as selfish for not choosing to pop online and become a registered donor.  I don’t even have the right to question somebody on their reasons for not doing so. 

(I suppose I might try and educate them though …)

And it makes me mad that some pompous people think they do have the right.


don’t flatter yourself, love

I participated in a very angry conversation on the bus this evening.  It was with my boss and took place entirely in my head.

My boss is an odd one.  She doesn’t like people whom she perceives to be ‘weak’, partly because I don’t think she understands them.  She’s the type of person who has far too much energy; she survives on about four hours sleep a night, which may be fine for her, but it’s a bit much that she doesn’t understand that most ordinary people can’t.

I have no idea what happened.  I was absolutely fine.  I had some issues with a couple of things, but it was nothing that a good whinge wouldn’t fix.  But then Dotty came in and said we could go home early, and I just burst into tears. 


And then my boss got wind of it, and she came crashing into the room babbling on about stuff (pressure mainly) that didn’t actually have anything to do with why I was upset

(I don’t really know why I was upset, and the thing she thinks is upsetting me, isn’t)

and I couldn’t find the words to tell her nicely to ‘piss off’, so I just turned my back on her and grunted once or twice.  Now she thinks I’m weak and rude (probably).

I need her to know that I wasn’t feeling pressured, I just want to be prepared.  Why does she assume everything is about pressure and not having the ability to cope? Tsk.

Sometimes I just need a damn good uncontrollable sob and the weight lifts, the mist clears and everything is hunky-dory again …

In happier news, I’m partaking of a trip in a big scary metal bird in February (to Prague with Mumsy, to see my Big Brother and finally meet my littlest niece) … Will I cry with fear this time, or won’t I?  Oh, of course I will … *grin*

Christmas Day

My husband is fast asleep on the settee. I’m not sure if he’s suffering from restless leg syndrome or just letting his foot jig along to the music I’m subjecting his drooling state to.

(Robbie Williams, if you’re interested.)

I had no intention of writing a post on Christmas Day itself, but we’re being lazy (in preparation for two consecutive days of familial mayhem, which will begin with a visit to dialysis at 6.30 in the morning) and EastEnders doesn’t start for another twenty or so minutes.

I was a tad irked earlier in the week, but that simply serves me right for allowing myself to read the ridiculous views of ridiculous people on Have Your Say (which can be found on the BBC website, somewhere.) I love Christmas. I love buying and receiving presents. I love watching other people open presents. I love clapping my hands in excitement and giggling like a child. The anticipation and exhilaration that Christmas brings is a truly fabulous feeling, despite the fact that it doesn’t last long. I spend Christmas Eve wanting to desperately open my presents, and Christmas Day putting it off as long as possible.

And I hate (or maybe not quite, but pretty close) those people who spout forth with silly things about giving their money to charity to save the world by not buying cards, or who give vouchers or money, or who proclaim that some adults are childish for expecting presents when presents should only be for children.

Sheesh folks! Who took your sense of wonder and stamped on it?

I have nothing else to say. The Champagne is making me sleepy.

Merry Christmas!

in a funk

I’m becoming increasingly disillusioned. This isn’t with life itself, or my marriage.

It’s just my job.

I’ve been in my current position since the September of 2004, which is the longest I’ve ever worked anywhere.

Go me!

For the most part I love like it.  I don’t have to think too hard, I get a day off during the week – which I need, both emotionally and psychologically (and because I’m lazy), and I don’t have to bring work home with me. 

But just recently there have been things happening which really irk me.  I’m expected to be an all-singing, all-dancing, super employee, an expectation which is both demoralising and ridiculous.

I’m covering for one of our Science teachers who is on long-term sick.  I can’t do Science.  I’m the idiot who only got a DD in her Combined Science GCSE.  This has been since May, with no information as to when the teacher will return.  I’m also having to deliver some Maths (which I hate), some English (which I love) and some ICT (which I quite like) on my regular timetable (which changes three times a week, quite literally).  On top of that I have to cover for absent colleagues, usually unexpectedly so work isn’t always set.

I don’t mind the variety in my timetable; I just wish it was based more on my strengths.  The issue is more to do with the fact that there are so many changes and the students see me in so many different roles that it’s confusing for everybody (me included).  I have put my foot down with regards covering reception when our receptionist is off; I’m not an admin worker and I don’t do phones.

Why are you teaching me English when you’re a Science teacher?


Oh, and then there’s Little Miss Perfect, Arselicker.  I’m unsure as to why her lack of qualifications, courses and experience made her a better option than me for a particular role (one day a week) to cover for a colleague who left.  I suspect that the fact she a) can drive and b) doesn’t mind talking on the phone were her only strengths over mine.  And if I find out she’s getting paid for that day at a higher rate I shall be mightily pissed …

Maybe it’s time to start looking for a new (better) position, but I earn quite good money and like my day off.  On the other hand I could just stop whinging like a sour puss.

It used to be fun in my place of work … now it’s just a bitchfest.  (Although that can be quite enjoyable too …)

the problem with folk

I have a problem with people. I don’t always ‘get’ them.

In my idealistic little world I enjoy thinking the best of people. I can’t help it. It’s almost like a need to believe that deep down all human beings are – simply – nice. So I find it difficult to understand why people are filled with so much venom for situations they had no personal part in, involving people they have never met and will never know.

Take the Jamie Bulger case. What happened to that poor defenceless toddler was inexcusable. He suffered in a way that most of us will never experience. But the perpetrators were two little boys, at least one of whom was also suffering in a way that most of us will never experience. I’m not excusing his actions; I’m just stating the facts. Once they had served their time they were given new identities … why on earth would they not be?

But this isn’t really about the Jamie Bulger case. It’s not about the Soham murders. It’s not about the thousands of little kids who get abused, day in and day out, or the elderly folk who speak to nobody for weeks at a time, or the mother who lets her husband beat her to protect her children.

This is about the pathetic folk who randomly react with exaggerated disgust because they believe it makes them look like caring individuals.

Nowhere is this more apparent than Facebook. As a popular social networking site it has the ability to reach into the minds of millions of people, young and old, and everything in between. People start groups within Facebook for all sorts of reasons, whether they be for fun, to whinge, or to keep in contact with particular people.

And occasionally they start groups because they’re so disgusted by something.

I do understand the disgust. I understand where it comes from and why people feel disgusted. But it annoys me. Pathetic people in their cosy homes raising their voices in the hope that they can appear more outraged than the previous commentator.

“I’m more disgusted!”

“No! I am!”

Apparently Hollyoaks are doing a storyline which is loosely based on the Bulger case. If it’s lightly based on the Bulger case it must also be lightly based on the case of Mary Bell, yet I hear no cries of indignation for her victims. What really irked me were the ridiculous comments about how wrong it was for a soap to take a real life event and loosely base a story about it.

“Think of those involved!” screams one commentator.

Soaps portray life, albeit in an often surreal and very exaggerated way. Children get abused, women get raped, extra-marital affairs are commonplace, men hit women, people get murdered, houses get ravaged by fire, planes crash, alcoholics live in pubs, kids get bullied, girls seduce teachers, people commit suicide, women lie about the father of their children … it all happens in soaps. It also happens in films, and we see similar stories every single day on the news.

So what makes one persons suffering more important than the next persons? Why are all the faceless thousands who suffer from terrible things immune to seeing these things portrayed daily in forms of entertainment? Where’s the indignation and disgust on their behalf?

Why do we choose to be so outraged about incredibly rare and tragic events whilst turning a blind eye to all the terrible everyday events which leave lifetime scars which will also never heal? Because that’s what happens … the ridiculous pathetic-ness of people who can barely spell or wRiT liK dIs 4sum reason on boards which can be read by anyone … and then they switch off their computers and forget about it.

It just strikes me as odd. And I’m genuinely curious as to why it happens …

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