Sassy Secrets Society

Sigh.

2011-08-27T10:49:00.000+01:00

Go away, spammers *raises eyebrow*

Fed Up.

2011-07-22T10:29:00.001+01:00

I'm fed up with blogger being generally crap. I'm fed up with the fact that I can't think of anything to write about.

So, is this it? Most probably.

Childhood in the Past

2011-07-09T09:58:00.003+01:00

It would appear that, as predicted, there is something horribly wrong with the world. Earlier this week, a survey revealed that ten percent of children have never ridden a bike; most have never played hopscotch; and half have never made a daisy chain (presumably that's the boys, then). My heart breaks when I see the modern-day child who is completely devoid of imagination and a sense of adventure. Not to mention the number of them who are obese.

Back in the 80s, kids weren't obese. We had Get in Shape, Girl. I can't help but wonder how many eating disorders that is responsible for. To jog your memory (or to educate if you're simply too young to remember), here's one of the old adverts. I should provide a health warning in advance: it's embarrassing to watch.

I had one of those sets. I think I got it for my seventh birthday. It was the blue satin ribbon on a stick. The simplest of things bring hours of pleasure. Most of the time, it got used for anything but exercise (hitting big brother with?) but for when it did, it came with a glorious chart detailing all the exercises you have to do, complete with a tape with Muzak and some woman talking in motivational tones. "To the left, and up. Right, and up. Three. Four. Carry on until the end of the music. Almost there! Now breathe!" We didn't have time to be overweight! You used to wave your ribbon around unskilfully like I don't know flamin' what, and then collapse in the corner, dead.

I don't have the poster chart anymore. My friend Christie broke the ribbon (I never really forgave her, and we aren't friends anymore so I guess I don't have to). It's possible that I still have the tape, in with the rest of my antique cassettes. I really, really hope I didn't tape over it. I shall look and see what I can find.

Back to a Simpler Place and Time.

2011-06-18T10:43:00.003+01:00

If you leave the M6 southbound at junction 26 for the M58 interchange and negotiate the maze of a roundabout, you can see some houses hiding behind the trees in the distance. Thirty one years ago tomorrow, one of those houses was where I came into the world. Yes, unlike 99% of the population of Wigan aged between ten and fifty, the place I was born is still standing.

Apparently, I didn't cry much. We'll save that for later.

Having found myself back in Wigan quite often lately, for one reason and another, I always want to walk down the street and see the house where I was born and spent my formative years. Sadly, it's not exactly on a street that you'd just happen to be casually passing, so I've never really felt able. I had to make do with google street view. It took me a while to figure out which house I was supposed to be looking at.

Long time passing.

No, I Don't Know Where I Am, Either.

2011-06-08T11:06:00.002+01:00

On Sunday, I found myself in Birmingham once again. After all, if adventure does not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek it abroad! Thankfully, this visit didn't involve any sighting of the Cathedral Church of St Philip, or what might have been taking place in their yard. Once was enough.

True to form, I was approached at least three times during the course of the day by people wanting to know where the nearest bus stop is, or where Suchastreet is. Why does everyone gravitate towards me in these situations? Even if I did know the answer to their question, I wouldn't be able to explain it to them. I am the worst person in the world at giving directions. Naturally, the only response I could give was ""I'm sorry, I don't know." At this point, the person invariably switches to their default setting: I'm going to ask you again.

Is there something incredibly difficult to understand about I don't know?

My mind harked back to Vienna, when I was constantly approached to the point where I did actually make a sign that said "DON'T ASK ME. I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM" and gave very serious consideration to wearing it around my neck all day. Can these people not see that I'm just guessing at everything? The story of my life, that. Just guess at everything. Can these people not see that I'm just following this line they've painted on the floor for me? I don't know where I'm going, but I guess I'm about to find out.

It was then that I was approached by The Swiss Family (Robinson). Being Swiss, I didn't understand a word they were saying. "Flurky nurky yog." I did try to understand, but it was just totally beyond me. Miss Hall taught to us to say "ich bin hier Fremd" in such a circumstance. See, I did learn something at school! So I said that, for all the bleeding good it did. I was promptly asked again. "Flurky nurky yog?" I tried to think of something to say in reply, but all that came out was "kein Deutsch!"* So they asked me again. What am I supposed to do? Why do they persist in asking me? Why don't they go and ask that nice man over there who clearly works here? In the end, I actually had to resort to "no comprendable!" and running away.

Why does this always happen to me? Do I look globally local? Do I carry myself with confident assurance? Whatever it is, I wish it would stop.

* Me no speaky German

I Have Confidence in Confidence Alone

2011-06-04T09:42:00.004+01:00

Besides which, you'll see, I have confidence in me!

Oh. Help.

My name is Karen, and I sometimes blush.

When I say I sometimes blush, I don't mean that I positively glow at the slightest provocation. I mean that I sometimes blush a little bit but I can do little to hide it because of my pale, neon white skin. And please don't suggest that I should 'try to cover it with makeup,' because I would need such an industrial quantity that it would cease to be makeup and become a mask. It's not even a confidence thing. I'm quite confident, most of the time. I'm just ... transparent.

By and large, I've learned to live with it. After all, if you're talking to man you might find attractive, and you just happen to go the tiniest bit pink in the cheeks, it actually works in your favour. So, socially at least, one ought to embrace one's blushness.

Professionally, however, it would be infinitely better if the man I'm talking to didn't know that I might possibly find him the tiniest bit attractive. I'm supposed to be cool and business-like. Unflustered and unrattled. The Ice Queen. Not standing there, tugging at my collar, blinking shyly at the floor and thinking "quick, say something hilarious and then I have an excuse to throw my head back in hysterics!"

In light of this, a quick visit to google informed me that "If you are a young woman 15-30, do not get surgery or try to cover it up."

Great. I have exactly fifteen days to stop blushing.

Not Important, Please Ignore ...

2011-06-01T12:23:00.002+01:00

I never thought I'd say this. I'm quite missing Mr Saxophone Busker Man.

Today, we're being treated to Pavarotti and Dame Joan Sutherland again. It's really very good. What on Earth has happened to our regulars? I miss the wailing strains of The Godfather. I miss The Mongolians. I might even miss The Lone Ranger and Tonto, just a little teeny tiny bit (for pure comedic value).

What is going on in this town?

The End of a Friendship

2011-05-31T12:07:00.005+01:00

A few days ago, my favourite comic, The Daily Ailment, did a re-run of their favourite story: women being dumped by their friends and how the whole sorry experience is more painful than being dumped by a man. I'm not too sure about that. After all, I have never locked myself in a room, drinking beer and crying until I threw up, twice, about a friend leaving. Oh no. But then, I am something of a resilient soul. My first so-called adult experience of being iced out by a friend happened when I was sixteen. In fairness, it did leave me confused and with a certain feeling of emptiness for quite a few years when I would wonder what the hell I was supposed to have done any differently. This happened to the extent that I did actually contact the friend concerned a decade later, not wanting anything, just to make contact for its own sake. At this point, she claimed not to remember me. Now, I hope I'm not being too big-headed when I say that, unless she genuinely is suffering from end-stage dementia, she remembers me. It was then that I had the realisation that "if I knew then what I know now, I would do exactly the same thing again."

My friend had probably just turned sixteen when she became fixated on a boy we knew. He was nice enough, bit of a wally whilst paradoxically being quite a bright lad. I don't know where he got it from. A few weeks elapsed, and then one night, my friend turned to me:

- Will you go and flirt with him for me?
- Erm ... and how will that help?
- He'll notice me and then I can talk to him. Go on, please!
- But why would you want me to do it?
- You're better at it than I am!

There's a veiled compliment in there, somewhere, I guess. "Because you're a fucking trollop!" I can now see what she was in fact saying. "You go do this for me, I'll make perfectly good use of you, he'll get so excited that he'll cream his pants* at the prospect of talking to me, then I'll swan in and sweep up!" Before I knew where I was, I found myself walking up to him, being closely flanked by my friend, and feeling a fist jab into the small of my back.

Yes, you could say it went well, excepting the one factor that my friend hadn't taken account of in her reckoning. Boy doesn't want to speak to her. He wants me. Nobody filled him in on the plan. As a male of the species, he reverted to his default setting: take everything at face value. Let's be honest, here. Why should he not? That trait is, after all, one of any man's few redeeming features. I turned around to include my friend in the conversation, and he acted bemused and bothered. Far from springing into action to sweep her off into the sunset, he blanked her.

Following this incident, little was mentioned about what had happened for the next few months. In the meantime, my friend started seeing someone else (I cannot emphasise that enough), and something (I'm still not quite sure what) blossomed, beautifully, between boy and me.

Then I got a snide remark from her and she never spoke to me again.

We cannot spend our whole lives searching for what has been lost. There comes a time when we must accept that what is lost is now lost, and can never be found.

* Apologies for the expression. I'm not usually quite so vulgar.

The Social Scene is ... Average.

2011-05-15T13:47:00.002+01:00

I can well understand why men everywhere would be reeling with jealousy that they were born male. It means that they simply aren't privy to any of the wonderful ladies only social occasions that happen.

Every month, except for when we don't, we get a local newsletter/magazine type thing through the letterbox. This way, we can trick ourselves into believing that we live in an actual community. The publication is full of all sorts of gems, such as a message from our local M.P., a hedgehog update (really!), and a pets column. In the latest issue, the Women's Institute let us know what they've been up to at their meetings. It's when I read this that I become glad that I'm not yet old enough to join the Women's Institute. I'm told that it's for all ages, but when you learn more detail, you discover that it really isn't.

Just look at the exciting things they've done:

We were treated to beautiful and varied floral arrangements capably demonstrated by Hazel of (local florists). These were then raffled in addition to the club's own prizes. This was then followed by delicious tea and scrummy cakes.

Aren't you jealous, boys? We can have delicious tea and scrummy cakes. You can't. Actually, if there's one thing I can do well, it's bake a good cake. How ... scrummy.

On 6th April the church hall was packed when Stephen showed us The Art of Origami. After a brief history, he demonstrated a useful little square box with lid and a frog that jumps. After explaining the methods very clearly, everyone produced some very good entries that it was extremely difficult for him to pick out the 3 best for our competition ........ one of the best evenings for a long time, much enjoyed and talked about.

Crikey. Women get to make paper boxes and jumping frogs and no doubt other life-enriching paraphernalia. I hope the history was brief. What is most worrying, though, is that it's described as the best night they've had in ages. Clearly this is where I'm going wrong. I should obviously be arranging to hold origami parties where we can all make one of those flicky things that tells you who you fancy, and dine on scrummy cakes. In case men do get to do anything remotely exciting, they can keep it. I have found the pinnacle of living.

You Know You're in the South When ...

2011-05-11T19:24:00.002+01:00

I still have all the texts I sent home whilst I was in America saved on my phone. One, which I sent to my brother, says:

Is Atlanta Hartsfield Jackson the only airport in the world to play Bop by Dan Seals as background music?

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure (if not, why not?), here's the wonderfully cheesy video. I defy any of you to watch this without a stupid grin on your face.

As for my original question, the jury is still out. Answers on a postcard, please.

Proud Marketing Strategy.

2011-05-03T12:02:00.002+01:00

One of my pet hates is when you're alone in public, for example sitting on the train or walking down the street, and you see or remember something hilarious and you have to burst out laughing. So, obviously, everyone else then turns and stares at you as though you're hopping mad.

On my way to work this morning, I noticed that one of our neighbours has started selling those magnetic bracelets that supposedly cure every ailment under the Sun. The sign proudly proclaims:

MAGNETIC HEALING: 94% SUCCESS RATE

I thought to myself "94% success? That's ... crap." They might as well turn around and say "more than one in twenty people will notice no effect when using this treatment." Would you sell an umbrella or a picture frame and advertise that it has a 94% success rate? I was further amused when my mind harked back to a Tuesday afternoon in a former life. In the early days, before we had the shop, we started the business on a market stall. We shared a pitch with a man who sold exactly these bracelets, and soon got to know his sales patter off by heart. Apparently, there are different types of bracelet that you have to wear, depending on what your specific problem is. If you wear the wrong type, you can make your illness worse.

After listening to this speech one day, and the crowds had dissipated, he turned around to us and said: "I come out with such a load of crap sometimes."

I'm on the Way Up, How About You?

2011-04-30T10:16:00.004+01:00

I simply cannot let the events of yesterday go by without comment. The wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge took place at Westminster Abbey, and it seems a wonderful day was had by all (excepting the mean-spirited moaning minnies who are apparently extremely dissatisfied with everything in their lives). As my invitation was lost in the mail, I was forced into watching the ceremony with the rabble, by televisual means. The camera went through a sequence of three obsessions during the day. Firstly, Lady Victoria Spice and Lord David of Beckham, who arrived, not only wearing his George Cross (or whatever it is. I know it's not really the George Cross. I mean, honestly!) but wearing it on the wrong side. This is surely proof that some people simply aren't high-born enough to be attending such engagements. Secondly, we had the Duchess's dress, which was absolutely stunning. Then, we had the grumpy little bridesmaid on the balcony, covering her ears with her hands with an expression like she was sucking on a lemon. In her defence, she is only three so the whole day was probably one massive ordeal for her. I think I'd just turned five when I went to my first wedding. All I really remember now is several hours of "hurry up and wait!" followed by me falling asleep at the reception.

Anyway. It is so nice to see a couple actually getting married, instead of a life of constant "I live with my boyfriend and we have three kids. Jayden Tyreese is 3, Chardonnay Pooface is 2 and Ethan Jordan is 1. We're not getting married yet though because we're not ready for that kind of commitment". It's also novel to see the girl whose roots lie in "a family of miners in northern England," (said, somewhat disparagingly, by Huw Edwards) marry a prince. Yes, it's true. The Duchess of Cambridge's great-grandfather was a miner in the north of England. So was mine.

All this means that there is a precedent in place for me to marry a man with blue blood (don't we all have blue blood if we stay in the fridge for long enough?). I wouldn't mind marrying someone who is about 2000th in line to the throne. Who are these people? What kind of life do they have? With some urgency, I checked the line of succession to the British throne. I could cope with living in a castle. It didn't take too long for me to choose. Count Johann Jakob von und zu Eltz gennant Faust von Stromberg. I hope he's still eligible, because I fancy him already. I've seen pictures of the family castle, and I approve.

I've even gone to the trouble of learning his name, which must count (get it? See what I did there? Count! Oh, never mind ...) for something, right? I can feel it in my bones that this has happened at just the right time, as Philipp Lingg, to whom I am not attracted in any case, is showing no sign of stumping up. Presumably, he just doesn't totally love me enough. Never fear, princess. With luck, Count Johann Jakob hin und zurück genannt Johnny von Fingerhut is still on the market! You shall go to the ball!

Disclaimer: Please don't take anything I write on this blog too seriously. But, you knew that.

Flying the Flag.

2011-04-28T10:10:00.003+01:00

As we've had double cause for celebration in England of late (oh, to be in England, now that April's there, and whoever wakes in England wishes they were somewhere else): that is, St George's Day last Saturday, followed by Billy finally making an honest woman of Cathy tomorrow ... I spent what turned into several hours last week making flags for the window display. I did English flags initially, as St George's Day was first up, with the intention of changing them to Union flags for this week. That plan has been cancelled as, believe it or not, I can't actually find any union flags, anywhere, and if you think I'm going to spend another six hours creating my own then you'd better think again. Anyway. The St George crosses do at least vaguely tie in with the theme.

I've made sixteen of them, all tied together with a ribbon. The project began with me cutting coloured paper and card enthusiastically, as a child at play. This was followed by a semi-rapid deterioration of my mood, as I thought "what did I ever decide to do this for?" and then, various outbursts of "oh, for fuck's sake, you fucking paper, why don't you just fucking do what I fucking tell you to?!"

In the time since, I have actually had several people come into the shop, asking if we "have any of those flags you have in the window for sale." I am both baffled and amused by this. Maybe I have missed my calling. Perhaps I should have made more, and it would have been a nice little earner. One lives and learns.

Ted? I'm Going Mad.

2011-04-23T11:27:00.003+01:00

I'm sorry. I'm going to have to make a permanent record of this, properly, on my blog, as a further illustration of what I have to put up with, on a daily basis.

A man walked into the shop, and began to pull all the fittings apart. With concern, but without wishing to seem aggressive or rude, I called out "hello? Can I help you?"

What happened next is best explained by my twitter stream (apologies in advance for the language contained therein).

oh. GOD.

Man in here, starts pulling all the fittings apart. "EXCUSE ME? HELLO? CAN I HELP YOU? HELLO?" *no response.*

he's still in here what the fuck am I going to do?

he's gone

What the fuck was that all about? He comes in, demolishes the shop, and is completely unaware to my calls of "HELLO?! CAN I HELP YOU?!"

I don't care how un-PC this is, there are some people who simply should not be allowed out on their own.

I swear blind, I actually cannot do this anymore.

An Evening with Kathrin and Peter.

2011-04-22T11:40:00.006+01:00

As you're sitting comfortably, it's now time for us to visit Vienna again. Poor Austria probably thought it had got away without me mentioning any of this. Sadly for them, youtube is such a fantastic tool that it is now impossible for me not to discuss my final night in Vienna in fond remembrance. Being a Friday, we staggered across to the local Spar, and then had 'dinner' in the hotel room. This is probably what all the locals do on a Friday night. They park themselves in front of the television, and stuff their faces on crisps, yoghurt and grapes. (There might not have been any grapes. However, in my defence, I did eat properly at lunchtime, with a real meal that came on a plate and everything!) In any case, I think I should be allowed to eat whatever I choose just for making it back to the hotel in one piece. Didn't we have a nice view from our window?

That is probably Austria's busiest junction, and let's just say that crossing the road (even with the crossing) is not for the faint of heart. The lights start doing something that they don't do here (I can't remember the details, but it was flashing purple or something), and suddenly, everyone floors it. It was like a jungle, not least of which because the first rule in the Austrian highway code seems to be "whenever you see another vehicle, you must sound your horn!" On reflection, this perhaps wasn't quite as worrying as the constant screeching of tyres. I almost bore witness to Heaven knows how many crashes as motorists braked sharply to avoid hitting the car in front of them, and stopped with a hair's breadth to spare.

Anyway. Back to the point. We sat and watched TV, which began with BBC Foreign or whatever it's called (The Weakest Link followed by Doctors). We then ended up watching QVC Germany, with the jewellery programme (isn't it always the jewellery programme?) complete with rings that looked like they came out of a Christmas cracker. Somehow, and I have no idea how, we ended up watching a programme that consisted of a couple riding bicycles (bicycles or a tandem? I can't quite remember) through the countryside, stopping off every now and then, here and there, to sing at us. I should point out that, as far as I can gather, this was a German programme, so it's not really fair to expect Austria to take responsibility for it. I often joke that the Austrians give the Germans a bad name. This was an example of the opposite taking place. In any case, all of this has to be seen to be believed, so without further ado, I present you with Peter and Kathrin:

Wonderful as it is saccharine, I laughed until I thought I might die at the idea of half an ABBA tribute band skipping around a field singing in German. According to their web site, Peter and Kathrin:

"eine Mischung aus sympathischer Ausstrahlung, Professionalität und echter Natürlichkeit. Sie sind Stars ohne Allüren und seit Jahren in der deutschsprachigen Musik mit ihren frischen Melodien erfolgreich. Sie gehen „Zusammen“ (Titel des aktuellen Albums) durchs Leben, sind verheiratet und haben neben ihrer Bühnentätigkeit viele gemeinsame Interessen. Heute singen zu Liedern wie „Wenn nicht heute wann denn dann“ oder „Tanz mein Leben“ Fans aus Rostock, Hamburg, Berlin oder Köln gleichermaßen mit."

that is, a mixture of something something, professionalism and real something that I know what it means I just can't think of the English word. They are stars without something and have been successful for years in German language music with their fresh melodies. They go together (Eh? that sounds a bit rude) through life, are married and have ... what? ... many interests in common?! Today, they sing songs such as blah blah blah ... and have fans in Rostock, Hamburg, Berlin and Cologne?!

"Die Story des Duos begann bereits in der 7. Klasse. Denn Peter schrieb damals bereits den ersten Liebesbrief an Kathrin. Sie wohnten im gleichen Ort und gingen zur selben Schule. Als Peter eines Tages vor Kathrin’s Tür zu Hause auftauchte, schickte ihn Kathrin’s Vater erst einmal mit den Worten „Komm in 10 Jahren wieder!“ fort."

The story of the duo begins in year 7 (I don't know how old that is.) Peter wrote the first love letter to Kathrin. (Aww. I think I'm going to cry.) They lived in the same area and went to the same school. When Peter turned up at Kathrin's door one day, her father sent him away with the words "come back in ten years!" (Don't you just love your daddy?)

It goes on. Their first hit was called "My Heart Goes Bum Bidi Bum" and got to number two in the charts?! You're having a laugh. Stayed in the charts for six months? No, I'm not having that.

In any case, I think the Holstuonarmusigbigbandclub's place in my heart is safe.

Disclaimer: I've only got an A-Level.

Royal Wedding Stuff.

2011-04-16T10:27:00.000+01:00

Most of you will probably know by now, that on the 29th of this month, Billy is finally going to make an honest woman of Cathy! I am beside myself with excitement at this prospect, as we get a day off and we might as well celebrate someone's wedding, yes? (A couple of weeks ago, my granny took her usual line of questioning with me "Have you got a boyfriend?" "I don't think so." "Oh but Karen, everyone else is getting married! What about Prince William?" Well, he's not my boyfriend; and on the contrary, the UK marriage rate is currently the lowest it's ever been since records began, so everyone else isn't getting married.)

Anyway, of course it wouldn't be a Royal Wedding without all the hysterical memorabilia, so have a look at this amusing book entitled Knit Your Own Royal Wedding. It's a strange idea, but the corgis are cute.

Is Kate Middleton marrying Postman Pat?

Just Patching up a Few Cracks that Have Appeared.

2011-04-15T09:54:00.003+01:00

Oh no. My blog is disintegrating before my very eyes. My most popular post ("I Just ******* Love Philipp Lingg - http://sasesoc.blogspot.com/2010/11/when-my-mother-was-young-her-best.html) has suddenly, and without any explanation, lost its entire meaning. From the title, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the entire meaning is I just ******* love Philipp Lingg, but I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I am not attracted to this man. Imagine if I were - it would be totally inappropriate.

No, the whole meaning was to illustrate the progression of musical popular culture from the era of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown to today. I began with a demonstration of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, for anyone reading who perhaps had no idea what I was talking about. It's obvious that The Crazy World of Arthur Brown has to be seen to be believed. To illustrate, I embedded a video from youtube (that's what the embed tool is there for), and learned yesterday that EMI have come along and taken the video offline. I wonder if the video really has any content belonging to EMI, or whether they perhaps just like to imagine it does. So, right from the get-go, my post makes no sense.

Fair enough, then. For those of you who aren't aware of the intricacies of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, and can't be bothered to ask your dad: Arthur Brown used to wear an upturned colander on his head, with lighted candles all over it. It's fair to say he looked a bit of a devil. He used to scream "I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE AND I BRING YOU FIRE!" and dance around like a maniac. They say if you can remember the 60s, you weren't there.

To close, on a similar note, you might remember that a few weeks ago I asked "if you walked into a shop that was playing Traffic's Paper Sun in mono, would you leave?" Let's just say I have my answer.

Evidence That Karen Has Finally Flipped.

2011-04-11T10:01:00.003+01:00

I hadn't long turned 15 when we took our annual family holiday in Minorca. For those of you who have never had the pleasure, Minorca is a marginally less English-Chav-Ridden island than its siblings, Majorca and of course Ibiza (pronounced Eye-beefa). We stayed in a sleepy ... hamlet I guess, called Cala Blanca. There wasn't a lot going on there, and in the evenings we were forced into watching the children's entertainment, just for something to do. This consisted of a clown dancing around to a selection of songs which were reminiscent of Black Lace's Agadoo, only worse. We used to joke that the clown was a brain surgeon on the mainland during the winter. Owing to this, for most of my life now, I have found myself spontaneously bursting into this:

iTunes is such a wonderful thing.

Karen's Sensible DVD Review. First One Ever.

2011-04-09T11:28:00.003+01:00

Dear Reader, it seems slightly cruel to leave you all hanging on a knife edge with regards to my opinions on the CD given to me by Music-and/or-Misery Man. As it turns out, it's not just your bog standard CD, it's actually a DVD. Which is even better, isn't it?

As it turns out, the Old Crow Medicine Show are perfectly fine, if a little much of a muchness. I can tolerate it for a short time before I find myself talking to the TV. "Shut up. Put that bloody fiddle away." A large proportion of the set was taken up with displays of "look how fast I can play!" which I hate in anyone. It's not big, it's not clever, it's rarely melodious and it's actually easier to play quickly than slowly. On the flipside, I did laugh until I thought I would vomit at the insincere, monotone, simple "thanks," with which the audience were rewarded for their over-enthusiastic display of appreciation for the banjo solo.

So, yeah. It was okay. I don't think I'd watch it again, and the Holstuonarmusigbigbandclub's place in my heart is safe.

Who'd Have Thought?

2011-04-06T09:48:00.003+01:00

Yesterday, I figured out what is wrong with the world. You can't buy a stamp. Honestly. What is the country coming to, when you can't simply go into a post office and buy a stamp?

I suppose I should begin with some form of disclaimer. In a former life, I used to work at the post office. I miss the banter, but that could be all. People have this crazy idea in their heads that working in a post office is easy, and you just stick stamps on letters all day. This isn't true. When you consider all the banking, bill payments, insurance options etc. that are dealt with at your local friendly P.O., there are literally hundreds of possible transactions you could be asked to do, and that you you have to know. Admittedly, buying a stamp isn't the most difficult of these.

Anyway. It would appear that my local post office is like your own private circle of stupidity hell. I stood at the desk.

"Could I have twenty 68p stamps, please?"

- Oh. But we don't have any 68p stamps in yet. You'll need to use a 67p and a 1p together.

- That's okay.

- Oh. So you want 68p stamps?

- Yes please.

- Right. Twenty 68p?

- Yes.

- Oh. But we've no 68p stamps. What shall we do? You'll have to use a 67p and a 1p together.

- Yes, that's fine.

*he then asks his colleague, whom I've never seen before, to help him organise this. The colleague grabs the calculator, and presses a long sequence of buttons. About five minutes elapses, and a queue is forming behind me.*

Me: It should be £13.60, if that helps.

Colleague: £13.60?

Me: Yes. The stamps are 68p each, so if there were ten, it would be £6.80. I want twenty, so you simply double £6.80 which is £13.60.

Colleague: Oh yes. £13.60.

Original Guy: £13.60, so you want thirty 68p stamps?

Me: No, twenty!

Original Guy (to colleague): Oh. Twenty 68p stamps. But we don't have any 68p stamps yet. What shall we do?

Colleague: You'll need to use 67s and 1s together.

Original Guy: But there aren't enough stamps in the folder.

I bite my tongue to stop me from snapping "try the other folder!"

Colleague: Oh. Will there be any in the safe?

Original Guy: We've no stamps in the safe.

Colleague: Oh. There might be some in this other folder ...

I finally received my stamps and pay for them. At that point, I was informed "don't worry, it's not you!" Torn between saying "I know it's not me!" and "I'm beginning to think it bloody is me!" I managed a "thank you," and skedaddled. Who'd have thought it would be so difficult to buy a stamp?

I Am a Music Man, I Come from Far Away

2011-04-04T11:35:00.004+01:00

On Saturday, I had a visit from another of those Favourite Customers Who Never Actually Buy Anything. David calls him Music Man. I call him Misery Man. I get the feeling he might actually drop down dead if he had to crack a smile. He gave me a poster to hang up on our community wall (read: Placate the General Public Wall) and a CD. I've not yet had opportunity to listen to this CD, but it's labelled 'OLD CROW' so make of that whatever you wish. The poster is for a gig at some foggy pub (I know. There's no such thing as a foggy pub in this day and age) in the next-but-five village.

I even went along to the web site, to learn about this in more detail. Aww, I want to go. But I don't want to see Misery Man there.

I'm getting the idea that I should just go, anyway. So what if Misery Man is there? It'll probably be too foggy and/or dark to see him.

Apparently, it's Americana. It's that word again! What on Earth is Americana when it's at home? It reminds of my later teenage years, when I would listen to Whispering Bob Harris or Andy Kershaw (I was a bit weird, okay?) into the small hours.

Maybe if I go there, I shall automatically become 18 again, except I won't be 18, because I'll know everything that I know now!

Or maybe not.

Just another manic Monday

2011-03-28T11:52:00.009+01:00

Well, that was an adventure. I have returned, discombobulated as always, from the most surreal three weeks of my life. During this time, I was asked for ID at the bar (cor, what a surprise!), experienced an aborted landing at Washington Reagan airport and had a Karin Slaughter moment on the MARTA (not to mention the Karin Slaughter moment you have when you exit the MARTA). It's all good stuff.

I am pleased that I managed to have the time of my life, in spite of getting off to the worst possible start. I landed in New York (seriously, I hate this place) and the immigration officer greeted me with an unspoken "oh, it's you again. Do come on in." What? No fantastical questions to keep me on my toes? You're telling me you're not going to keep me here and pry, and stare sternly at your computer and my passport for an anxious ten minutes, until I have to resort to using my feminine wiles to gain entry? What a disappointment! Additionally, rather than use one of the umpteen blank pages in my passport, he decided to stamp over the top of a previous one. "Enjoy your stay." Make it fun for me, then!

Culture shock, which I seem to suffer from more when I go to the U.S. than anywhere else, reached a new high when the airline ground agent, who was a woman of at least 45 years of age, called me baby. Twice. Ugh. Don't call me baby.

I had several hours to spare before my flight to Boston, so I went into leave me alone mode, curled up on a chair and pretended to be asleep, which turned into being genuinely asleep. I have vague memories of stirring to the voice of some American woman asking the man she was with 'do you think she's alright?' and his reply of 'she's ASLEEP!' Well, I was asleep. Thanks for that.

A month ago, Delta were my favourite airline. These days, I'm not sure they're even in the top ten. I'm not annoyed that the flight was cancelled. That could happen to anyone. It was the way it was handled. With Delta, once you get on the plane, everything's fine. It's great. But, good grief. At least half the ground staff seem to be a sandwich short of a full picnic. Of course, I should have known this already from previous experience with them. Once, whilst travelling with my brother, I was sitting at the gate, whilst he had habitually cleared off somewhere. Then the call was made for passenger (surname) to report to the desk. Unsure as to which one of us they meant (we were on separate bookings - long story!) I went to the desk.

- I don't know whether you mean me or my brother, but I'm (name).

- Are you David?

- No!

Christ on a bike. Anyway. Back to the issue. We all stood around at the gate for hour after hour. There are never enough seats to go around in these places, and don't you dare sit on an empty seat, in any case. Doing so will result in you being curtly informed by some manic American, something to the effect of "my ass was on that seat an hour ago, it is therefore ALL MINE forever and a day, I own it and you have no right of access!" (Right bloody selfish lot, they are.) So, we're all standing around nicely, as the one hour delay turned into two hours, into three, and so ad practical infinitum. Being alone and bored leaves me with not much to do except for listen to other people's conversations. I can't help what I can hear. The most interesting of these conversations involved an off-duty captain who was making various phonecalls to find out what exactly was going on. This was somewhat revealing, as through listening to this I learned that the flight attendant is, for some reason, at La Guardia and has to make the journey by road. If we don't get airborne by four minutes past eleven, she's not legal anymore. "The window is closing."

With six, maybe seven minutes to spare, she arrives. The Delta ground staff, in their infinite wisdom, then announce to everyone that we're going to board and set off now! Of course, everyone erupted into cheers, applause and general hysteria. Everyone except me. Now, it could be that the Delta ground staff are genuinely stupid enough to believe that six minutes is enough to time to prepare the plane, get everyone on board, get taxied out to the runway and off the ground ... but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and conclude that they aren't that dumb, they just did it to be evil.

Needless to say, the hoi polloi were not best impressed when, ninety seconds later, the annoucement followed that 'it's cancelled!' As I joined the back of the line of about seven hundred people waiting to re-book, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself about the irony of me booking a long connection on purpose, because I don't want to miss it, and then being stuck there anyway.

Almost at the front, some woman had a hissy fit thus: "hello? is anyone going to let me jump the line or not? I've been traveling (sic) for three hours!" Again, right bloody selfish lot. I nearly turned around, slapped her and said "well, for me it's been thirty and looks like it's going to turn into sixty, so shut your trap!" but thought better of it. Besides, it looks like everyone else is kicking off enough for us all. I waited and wondered what I was going to say. 'Don't let them push you around, don't be afraid to complain and make demands - after all, nobody else seems to be!' I thought.

My heart sunk to the soles of my shoes when I reached the desk and my fate was revealed to me. Three six dollar food vouchers (labelled with 'breakfast' 'lunch' and 'dinner' so only one of them was any use to me), and a boarding card to Atlanta at quarter past six in the morning were smugly dispatched to me. This guy's a native New Yorker.

"Is this everything?" I questioned, pointedly.

"That's all we can do," grinned the Cheshire cat. He couldn't have cared less if he'd have tried on purpose for a month. He looked at me with an expression of 'you'll just have to suffer.'

"American manage more than this!" I made sure he was aware. He laughed, and rather than punch him, I just gave up and slinked away. Stiff upper lip, old girl. Where's your Dunquerque spirit? In Dunquerque. 'I could actually cry now,' I considered. 'Well, go on then. It's not a crime. You might want to lock yourself in the toilet before you do, though.' So, I did exactly that, and five minutes later was looking at the situation much more clearly.

I went to find somewhere to spend the night. This is no easy easy task because half the room is freezing and you want somewhere quiet without being totally isolated. I thought I'd found it but then saw a mad woman dancing around in circles. I did a 180 and the security guard nearly died laughing. Eventually, I just picked a chair and sat in it. It's not so bad. Well, okay, it is. A hot pilot walks past and smiles at me. It's the 'I feel sorry for you' smile. Dammit. I smile back, wearily, and pretend I haven't just an hour ago been locked away, sobbing hysterically.

As it turned out, I did manage to get some sleep in my chair. And on the flight from Atlanta to Boston I was upgraded to first class, so my heart melted slightly. First class is an experience all of its own. At dinnertime, they don't just wheel a trolley down the aisle. They suddenly appear, and ask you what you want, and if you want soup with that. Then, it magically appears on a plate in front of you. That's when you've figured out how to get the table out of the armrest. You have to look as if you know what you're doing, you see. It's no good appearing inexperienced. You have to give the impression that you do this all the time.

Even so, I don't think I'd recommend any of this. In future, either fly direct, or don't go at all.

Adieu, I Shall Be Leaving You, Then.

2011-03-05T10:07:00.003Z

So, tomorrow is the big day, when I disappear off to the land of the indeterminate vowel: the United States of America. I'll most likely be gone about a month or so.

I am currently somewhere between a zombie and a nervous wreck. I have no idea why I should be nervous. It's not like I haven't done this before. I'm just dogged by the constant feeling that I've forgotten something really important (even though I know I haven't); that I'm running away from something; that I shouldn't be taking so long off work. Et cetera. These days, I'm not coping altogether well with anything that challenges my idea of normality. It doesn't necessarily help that customers and the staff in the bank who know that I'm going away have suddenly started speaking to me as though they'll never see me again.

Anyway, I'll try and check in at some point, but I don't know whether or not I'll be able. In any case, bis dann.

That Fine Etiquette Which Probably Used to Exist Between Ladies and Gentlemen.

2011-02-28T19:17:00.003Z

Much as I loved fair Vienna, a couple of things did disappoint me. What were they? Well, firstly, I was there for all that time, and I didn't see a single Viennese whirl. Not even one! I mean, who doesn't like Viennese whirls? Nom! You know, it wouldn't actually surprise me if Viennese whirls actually have nothing to do with Vienna, and the whole thing is just a marketing ploy designed by Marks and Spencer. It's not even like these Austrians seem to be into healthy eating or anything. They do everything you shouldn't: gorge on enough salt to fill the Dead Sea; stuff themselves with fat, fat and more fat; and chain smoke their way into oblivion. Yet, if you go into any of their cemeteries, you'll see exactly my point. If you die before you're 150, you're young!

The second thing to disappoint me was that nobody kissed my hand, nor did they even threaten to do so. Surely it was supposed to happen? I was constantly mithered in Rome, hissed at in Madrid, and downright molested in Paris. This hand kissing nonsense - it's all a con! I tell you! A con! In any case, though. What would I have done if someone had kissed my hand, or tried to? Jump through the bloody roof, I should expect.

Today, as well as Agricola Woman, I had to deal with Mafia Man at work. He says he's from Palermo and has close links with the family. This is what I have to put up with on a daily basis. He has the appearance of a slightly lower-class version of a tramp; his clothes look like he found them washed up on the beach; and his mouth foams rabidly with excess saliva, which is occasionally projected across the room when he speaks. He also doesn't understand the concept of personal space. Today, I slowly edged away from him, as he was telling me all about his mafia links, whilst standing about four inches away from me. He then said:

- Why do you always back away from me? It's like you're nervous of me!

I shrugged and said I didn't know, even though it was on the tip of my tongue to say "because you're too fucking close!"

I heard a little more about Sicily, and then, as he was leaving, he did his usual trick. He offered me his filthy hand to shake.

Am I missing something here? When did it become the done thing for a gentleman to offer his hand to a lady to be shaken? I don't want to shake your hand! I'm not being funny or anything, but I don't know where it's been. I'm all for gentlemen shaking hands between themselves. What they do in their own time is their business. But please, don't expect me to be an active participant. Can't we please have a bit more decorum? I've already suffered two disappointments. Don't let it happen for a third time.

The Lady is Mortally Offended.

2011-02-21T10:00:00.003Z

Yesterday, I found myself in Birmingham, for a get-together with some friends. After spending a chunk of the afternoon looking for Tony Hancock (it really is better if you don't ask) we meandered our way to Starbucks (other coffee outlets are available). On our way there, we took a short cut through the yard of the highly magnificent Cathedral Church of St Philip. According to the web site, this establishment has been the focus of Christian worship in Birmingham since 1715. St Philip himself was lucky enough to meet the great man, Jesus, at which point Phil told a friend of his to "come and see." Come and see, indeed. Walking through his churchyard, I wouldn't like to say what I saw.

There was a gentleman standing outside the vestibule, leaning against the wall. He appeared to be doing nothing, until the purple stocking of his accompanying slagbucket (TM)* appeared around the small of his back. This 'couple' were having sex! In the churchyard! In the middle of evensong! Closer inspection (if you don't want people to look, then don't make a scene) revealed (we've already had enough revelation) that she didn't seem to be enjoying it very much. Oh dear.

Am I just being old-fashioned (when you get to my age, it gets a bit like that) or is anybody else absolutely fed up to the back teeth with seeing the dregs of society copulating in public, be it on trains, on the street or in the churchyard on a Sunday whilst evensong is in progress? I have already borne witness to all these things. What happened to a bit of restraint and decorum? Animals wouldn't behave in such a manner.

*I know, it's not a very Christian attitude to call someone a slagbucket, but hey, if the cap fits, wear it. That's what I say. Judge not that ye not be also judged. Or something.

Classic FM's Contribution to Broadcasting.

2011-02-19T09:25:00.003Z

I'm fickle, but at the moment I'm listening to Classic FM to get me out of bed of a morning. I am unsure how much longer I am going to be able to abide it for, however. I swear this station gets worse and worse on a daily basis. Granted, we've moved on from the days of "relax! It's Classic FM!" but, even so. Is it a requirement to be a complete halfwit to present on this station? This morning, we were treated to Monti's Czardas (no change there, then), but not before the presenter had told us that "it sounds a bit baroque-ish!" What the hell? It sounds about as baroque-ish as T Rex. Then, after we'd listened to it, we were reliably informed that "it sounds all classical!" Great! We've just jumped a couple of ccenturies! Using words like baroque at 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning doesn't convince me that you actually have a clue what you're talking about.

Also, who is that idiot they have on who pronounces Dvorak as though it's written phonetically? It makes me want to smash stuff! I think he's the same pratbucket (TM) who keeps performing that dreadful doggerel at us, and then smugly departing with the line "just another terse verse." Why have you just invaded my life with that rubbish? There is, no doubt, a place for doggerel, but this isn't it.

In even better news, adverts keep on proclaiming that Classic FM Live is returning next month. By the sounds of it, it will last until Christmas as we're having Carmen, the 1812 Overture, Zadok the Priest, I Vow to Thee My Country (I mean, God. They're even calling it that) and Rachmaninov's second piano concerto, amongst others. I wonder if we'll hear the whole Rachmaninov, or just the Brief Encounter "All by myself! Don't wanna be all by myself!" bit. They never play anything all the way through! It's the equivalent of going to a Dolly Parton (I like Dolly Parton) concert and having them only play the introduction. Of course, let's not forget that we're also having Theme from Harry Potter. Oh yes. I bet the surprise encore will be Theme from Star Wars. After all, we can't reasonably be expected to survive for an hour without hearing da DAAA da-da-da DAAA daa!

Also, I'm not sure how their studio equipment is set up, but surely to goodness there is some sort of display that tells the presenter how long whatever it is they're playing has left to run? I'm fed up to the back teeth of having my enjoyment interrupted by some presenter bursting into an exclamation that's somewhere between a grunt and a shout in the middle of some really obscure piece like Für Elise because they didn't know it wasn't over yet! At least that way, even if the presenter hasn't a clue what's going on, they'd be able to check independently when it was their cue to start gabbling at us again.

Everything this station does is designed to demonstrate a lack of knowledge and willingness to irritate. How do they get away with broadcasting? Who listens to this rubbish (apart from me, and I don't listen to it seriously)? "Top yourself! It's Classic FM!"

Families

2011-02-18T11:47:00.002Z

A few weeks ago, my parents were bemoaning the frequency with which 'you'll be standing somewhere, there'll be acres of space around you, yet someone always has to come and stand right on top of you, pushing you out of the way!' My brother and I listened in confusion, and then said 'don't you guys stick up for yourself?'

'No,' replied mum. 'I think it's because me and your dad are both only ones, we've never been used to having to fight our way to the front of anything.'

My mind harked back to when my brother would steal my dinner (he didn't need to. He always had his own perfectly adequate dinner) and the time when he was getting on my nerves so much that I pushed him over into the nettles (Yes, I meant to push him over, I meant for him to get stung, but I didn't know he'd get stung quite that badly. My mother smacked me into the middle of next week). Maybe there is something to this birth order nonsense.

Truth be told, I can't imagine not having a brother, and I find it difficult to understand that there are people in the world to whom sibling relationships mean nothing. We have probably the smallest family in the world anyway, and the concept of a cousin is something entirely alien to me. What does one do with a cousin? I always felt as though I've missed out on something by not having any, despite my dad always telling me that I'm 'the lucky one.' (For the record, the best thing you could say about his cousin was that he was an alcoholic, and of his two sons, one was last seen on Crimewatch or some such, and the other just got so fed up with them that he packed up and left without trace one day.) I've met my other three second cousins once, briefly, at their grandmother's funeral (the younger two didn't seem to know who I was), and I remember playing with my crazy third cousin (yes, I've met a third cousin) Alison a few times when we were kids. Aside from that, there's nothing. It was always just us. And how I always wished for more.

Kids, Pay Attention in German.

2011-02-14T10:30:00.002Z

I begin this post, uncharacteristically, with a public service announcement aimed at all 17 year old German A-Level students. I know that at the moment, it's all a bit of a laugh, what with being asked to translate smutty sentences like "er kommt immer zuerst ins Bett." But, seriously. You learn your German properly (including your use of werden). It will open more doors for you than you can ever imagine.

Last week, I attended a major trade fair. It was fantastic in that a thoroughly puerile day was had by all. I nearly got the giggles in the middle of a promising meeting when I looked at the man's name badge and saw that his name was Mr Fukkink. Well, it's not my fault! He should get a new name that doesn't make me want to laugh. I was then walking down one of the aisles when two guys from Hamburg jumped out in front of me. "You! In here! Now!" I was ordered (or something to that effect), and shown some pictures. Or something. I don't quite understand what. I elegantly and skilfully pretended I knew what was going on, as I was laden with catalogues and business cards.

Later on in the day, I found myself actually having to do business in German. Again, elegance and skill were responsible for concealing a total lack of knowledge on my part, as I grabbed the pen to fill in the paperwork I'd been given, full of enthusiasm. I answered the first five questions, then apologised for not knowing what the rest of it meant. It can't have been too important. I'd already given them all the information they could possibly need to know.

In any case, it's not so much the language as the cultural difference. I love Germany and the Germans. As a general rule, my understanding of German culture is that it's everything you wish English culture was. You ask a German how they are, and they tell you. In the most minute detail. None of this "how do you do?" nonsense. There's no need to mingle with total strangers and pretend you are best of friends. They just get to the point.

What was that? They get to the point. In fact, they get to the point so quickly, that you miss it, because you weren't ready for it. As I was introduced to Herr Whateverhisnameis, I made some casual, throwaway, small-talky comment. I was met with a confused expression, so I backtracked with an unspoken "oh, I'm sorry. You don't do that, do you?"

At some point very soon, I am going to have to write an e-mail to this man. The thought fills me with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Excitement because it means it looks like I finally have a use for all my years of German lessons. Trepidation because I can't help thinking that I am to German what Helmut Kohl is to English. What if I find myself committing some mortal sin like calling him du by accident or something?! Even worse, what if he replies in German?!

So far, I've got as far as "sehr geehrter Herr Whateverhisnameis!" Then what am I supposed to say? And, more importantly, how am I supposed to sign off? I can't say "mit freundlichen Gruessen." To me, that sounds a bit like "I am your new best friend." "Hochachtungsvoll"?! I've never heard of that before! Tell me now and tell me honestly, does that sound stupid to you? To me, it sounds like a good dog.

Aufwiederbloggen.

Halcyon Days of Studenthood.

2011-02-04T11:23:00.004Z

I had the strangest dream earlier in the week, which took me back, unwillingly, to my time as a student. My biggest regret in life is going to university. Although I know that one day my degree just might come in useful, nothing can take away from the fact that that day hasn't arrived yet. I just can't help feeling that if I knew what I know now, twelve years ago, I wouldn't have bothered going at all. Anyway, the following day, I found myself logging on to the web site of my alma mater. It's nice to know what she's up to these days.

Memories flooded back as I visited my course homepage. Surfing past, I am caught by captions and snippets which say something to the effect that 'your degree course lasts for three years, but the experience will stay with you for life!'

Aye, too right it will. Psychologist, heal thyself!

They dress it up so well. The course seems to have changed a little in the years since I was there, but I nearly choked on my elevenses when I read the proud declaration that

"In Year Three you complete a double module research project on an appropriate topic, from any area within psychology. This can be the most exciting part of your degree because it lets you investigate a subject in which you have a particular interest, supported by one-to-one discussions with your supervisor. "

Would this be the same double module research project that almost drove me to a nervous breakdown? Would this be the same supervisor who might as well be Lord Lucan for the amount of disappearing he used to do? Keen to get as much of the project done and dusted as possible over the summer, I was one of the first in the year group to find and choose my new supervisor at the very end of year 2. The early bird catches the worm! If there's one thing the whole sorry experience taught me, it's that the second mouse gets the cheese.

My supervisor was a 'sophisticated' man who was also very highly qualified, with a specialism which fitted in with my project idea just perfectly. He used to use words like 'nebulous' and 'perfunctory'. When he wasn't stuck in boring old England, he was heavily involved in research with one of the American universities. For fear of giving away too much information, I won't say exactly which one, but it was Ivy League. My idea was something along the lines of stress and personality as predictors of symptom perception. My supervisor spent a great deal of time telling me that the idea is fine, but could do with fleshing out somewhat, why don't I study PMT? "You could ask people to keep a diary of their PMT symptoms for two months, and then combine those results with the results of a personality test and see what happens!" I was unconvinced. After all, if you give a premenstrual woman a telephone book of a questionnaire to fill in about her PMT, she's not going to do it. She's going to tell you, in no uncertain terms, what you can do with your questionnaire.

After a few days of this pestering, I finally relented. It wasn't a willing relent so much as an inner outburst of frustration in the form "fine! You want to do a study about PMT? We'll do that then, because who knows more about it, you or me?!"

"Excellent," he said. "Now all you have to do is to type the questionnaire out."

I went away and did that, then. The standard advice is to keep your questionnaire to four pages or fewer. Nobody wants to be overwhelmed by question after question. I re-configurated mine and formatted it every which way until I got it down to the minimum possible length - a mere thirty-two pages. My heart sunk in despair as the grim reality of the situation bit: coupled with the introduction sheet which comprised a more formal phrasing of "hiya, my name's Karen, would you mind just filling this survey in about your rags for the next two months? It would help me immensely if you would do it. Cheers!" I was going to be the bane of every female first year student in the Psychology department's life. I knew all along that it was going to be bad, but even I hadn't anticipated exactly how sickening it would turn out to be. Disconsolate, I returned to my supervisor and told him that, as I'd thought, the questionnaire is much too long to reasonably expect anyone to fill in.

- It can't be that long!

- It's thirty-two pages.

- Is it? Oh. I hadn't realised. Never mind, it won't matter! Wait there, I'll be back in a minute.

He left the room and I sat, motionless and sighed deeply as my face whitened with shock. My supervisor's office-mate smiled sympathetically at me, and offered me a packet of chocolate biscuits with the invitation to 'take a few!'

I don't think I slept for the next week. At the next Karen-Supervisor stand-off, it was to be discussed how to analyse the result of the personality test included in the questionnaire. Things went from bad to worse when Supervisor informed me that I needed to go and see another lecturer* for help with that.

- Do you know him?
- A little.
- Good. He'll be able to help you. Go and see him - now if possible!

With that, I was sent away, and I found myself walking the short distance down the corridor to this poor man's office to ask him. "I hope he's not there!" I panicked. "I mean, what the hell am I going to say to him?" ....
"Hello, I've been sent here by my dissertation supervisor who doesn't know how to analyse a questionnaire."
"Hello, I'm told you're the world expert at the Eysenck Personality Inventory."
"Hi! This is a little bit weird, but ..."

It was a relief to discover that my wish had come true. He wasn't there, and, checking the timetable, it was to be a whole two days before I would have chance to see him. That means lots of time to fret, but also lots of time to get my plan of what to say in action. On the day, I pretended I wasn't nervous as I walked up the stairs as slowly as possible. I know the guy's from New Zealand, but he's done absolutely nothing to deserve me turning up at his door, begging for help about something that is neither his fault nor responsibility. The door to the office was ajar, and I knocked in the way that a church mouse might.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I began. "I've been told by my project supervisor that I need to ask you, for some reason, for help with scoring and analysing one of the questionnaires in my study."

To cut a long story short, the poor man and the two other members of staff who volunteered their services/got roped into helping were aghast that I'd actually been advised to use this questionnaire in the first place, as it was far too lengthy and complex to even consider for a project that I have just a few short months to complete. His advice to me was "you need to go back and tell your supervisor what I've just said, otherwise you've got a serious problem on your hands!"

I did just that. Supervisor's reaction was somewhere on the border between surprised and apathetic, he told me to come back on Monday at half past two. On Monday, I saw him skedaddle at ten to two, never to return. To say I was bloody fuming is an understatment. When I confronted him about this a few days later, he outright lied to me and told me that he was there. "This room was in total darkness! Were you hiding under the desk?" I snapped. "Think very carefully, I have witnesses!"

At a complete loss as to what to do next, I went to see my tutor (Australian, not the anti-Christ) whom I'd recently convinced that everything was "great!" For some unknown reason, he agreed to take over supervising me. He looked through the work I'd done so far, and wasted no time dressing things up nicely. "There's no way of analysing these results. They're meaningless. If I can't think of some way to salvage this, you're looking at coming back next year. I don't know what your plans are, but I bet it didn't include that."

I went pale for the umpteenth time. "I even said to him at the time, I said is there a way of analysing all this because I don't see it happening? He waved his hand at me and told me 'oh yes! Yes!'"

At this point, he burst out laughing. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at the whole situation of the young undergraduate questioning the advice and judgment of the lecturer with a list of degrees from some of the most prestigious institutions in the world ... and the tragedy of the young undergraduate being quite correct!"

As if by some miracle, he found a way to save my report (change the hypothesis and re-write the introduction to pretend you're talking about something else entirely). I needed two extensions, but I got that project finished (and passed!) in the end. I can't even put my gratitude towards all those who had no obligation to help me, but did anyway, into words. The world isn't such a bad place.

* I wish I could name these people to thank them in public for all their beyond-the-call-of-duty help that they gave me that year, but I am acutely aware that they also have credibility to maintain. They know who they are, and probably think I've forgotten. I haven't. Thank you.

Sensible Things I Did in Vienna.

2011-01-29T14:39:00.003Z

Just this past week, I've found myself in a discussion in which it is becoming ever clearer that I am expected to provide some tales of Sensible Things I Did in Vienna. Well, where to start? I drew a total blank as my mind skimmed past visions of following my good friend Tracy as she crossed against the light, muttering that "you're going to get me into such a lot of trouble!" and Friedrich (1) the Boat Man. Of course, I'm not more interested in handsome men than the intellectual and cultural experience that Austria's capital has to offer. Imagine! In fact, I was reading an article on an Austrian ladies' web site entitled something like "Tips for Singles over 30." The use of the plural made my heart glow, as the implication is that I'm not the only one. Reading through their flirting tips, I can only conclude that I must have come across as a right trollop. It recommended such things as "smile!" and ask "do you come here often?" How wonderfully chaste! Anyway, at least now I know for certain why the expression on Friedrich's face was every bit "wer ist diese Schlampe, die ich gefunden habe?" (2)

Thinking in greater depth, though, I did have to be more sensible than it perhaps seems at first glance. Having got up at stupid o'clock to catch the early flight and feeling distinctly ordinary as a result, we were then treated to the lady captain (3) going somewhat overboard in her promotion of easyJet's latest offering from the magical trolley: baaaacon sandwiches (seriously, lady. If you don't shut up about bacon sandwiches right now I am going to puke all over your nice new Airbus!). We then landed in Vienna, like starving refugees, and took the only option available to us: McDonalds. Whilst nibbling our way through our McHeaven-Knows-What, half the room was suddenly evacuated and a police cordon appeared next to us. Surely McDonalds isn't that bad?

We glanced across, and a lone suitcase (undoubtedly belonging to one of the gormless Brits who'd just arrived on easyJet) stood in the middle of the floor, as a pelican in the wilderness (4). I said "should we leave? I don't think that bit of tape is going to protect us if that thing blows up!" I already knew what the answer was going to be. "There's nowhere for us to go, they've just trapped us all in here!" Then, the announcement came over the tannoy. "Argh. Urgh. Argh urgh urgh. Argh. This is a security announcement. A suspect package has been found. Don't nobody move!" I knocked half my drink back and mumbled something about how it's nice that they let everyone in that half of the room escape and left us lot in here as sacrificial lambs.

The situation continued whilst a group of security staff stood chatting in the corner and drawing lots. The poor guy who lost then gingerly walked over to the pelican suitcase, opened it at arm's length, and threw all the contents on the floor. A huge sigh of relief was then breathed as the cordon disappeared. We never did find out exactly whose bag it was.

It says a lot when the most sensible thing that happens to you is when you could very possibly have met your death.

(1) Probably not his real name.
(2) Who is this slapper I've found?
(3) She must be good.
(4) Thank you, Thomas Hardy.

Random Conversations with my Brother Meets ITWA (It's That Woman Again!)

2011-01-27T10:12:00.000Z

I was talking to my brother about this and that (as we occasionally do), and he told me that he'd been struck by a thought, a memory springing out on him earlier in the day. Many years ago, in a former life, he did a course in Economics at college. I vaguely remember him mentioning this to me at the time, but he said that there was a random old woman in the class who used to sit by the wall and make absurd contributions that had nothing to do with anything. This situation continued for a few weeks until the lecturer asked this woman to leave, as she wasn't even actually registered on the course. My brother told me that he'd been suddenly struck by the thought that that woman was Agricola Woman!

(You surely must all remember Agricola Woman. I have, after all, blogged about her on several occasions already, but to refresh your memory: she is the one who gets burgled every Wednesday by someone who steals all her books; and who thinks that in 1992 there were fifteen months, because the tide came in twice.)

If this is true, then she's been a bit loopy for a while. Her insanity predates my shop, so it can't have been me that sent her that way. On the other hand, if she's been crazy before, that hasn't stopped her from being drawn to me, like a moth to a flame. Why am I a magnet for these people?

An Update.

2011-01-25T10:46:00.004Z

What can I say to describe the week so far? It feels decidedly grim. I have spent what seemed like about sixteen hours (in reality, it would have been nearer to sixteen minutes) cutting the fat off enough bacon to feed the French Foreign Legion (a task at which I am capable, but inefficient). My granddad was a master butcher, but I think that particular gene must have skipped a generation when it comes to me. Every time I have to take the fat off bacon, I grumble about my ineptness to him, and hope he can hear me without being able to see me.

In other news, I am wondering whether my little car will have to be put down. She was ill, so last week I had her made better, which worked, for five days. I know she's just fibreglass and some other stuff, but the idea of saying goodbye to her breaks my heart. My brother informed me that "it's just a car," but men don't think about these things the same way we women do.

Anyway. Why dwell on the negatives? Following my recent diatribe about the 'music' in Next, I decided to give some real, prolonged thought to what I play in my own shop. I can't help it. I'm a psychologist (yes, I do know everything you're thinking ... ) and it's true that you can really affect the behaviour of your clientele!

Given that my clientele are mostly 82 year old women called Doris, and some younger folk who, to put it mildly, have a screw loose anyway, I'm not sure where I should be aiming for. I listen to Desmond Carrington on Radio 2, and, spurred on by someone standing in the middle of the shop, laughing when ABBA's Ring Ring (Swedish Version) came on, I decided to conduct a straw poll on what the general reaction to various songs would be. The first question I posed was:

If you walked into a shop that was playing Traffic's Paper Sun in mono, would you leave?

The answers I received were "eventually," "what's traffic?" and "yes!"

Now, look me in the eye and tell me honestly. Am I doing it wrong?

Regional Dialect

2011-01-23T12:56:00.002Z

I don't really sound like this.

Say these words:

Aunt, Route, Wash, Oil, Theater, Iron, Salmon, Caramel, Fire, Water, Sure, Data, Ruin, Crayon, Toilet, New Orleans, Pecan, Both, Again, Probably, Spitting image, Alabama, Lawyer, Coupon, Mayonnaise, Syrup, Pajamas, Caught

Now answer these questions:

What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?

What is the bug that when you touch it, it curls into a ball?

What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?

What do you call gym shoes?

What do you say to address a group of people?

What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval shaped body and extremely long legs?

What do you call your grandparents?

What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?

What do you call it when the rain falls while the sun is shining?

What is the thing you change the TV channel with?

http://fire-exits.blogspot.com

Mary Portas's Secret Shopper, Karen's Secret Shop Staff Thoughts.

2011-01-21T11:37:00.003Z

This year, Mary Portas has changed tack slightly from her old programme about fixing failing shops. She is now examining failing customer service on the high street, which involves her going around shops in a wig and filming staff secretly, and then coming up with plans on how to improve where they're going wrong. Apparently, if you work for one of these chain stores, you can stand behind the counter, telling your colleague that "it's Sunday and I'm going to be fucking sick," and your customer service training consists of being given a sheet of drawings of facial expressions with what they mean written underneath them, and a note on the toilet door saying "it's your job to ask!"

I'll be the first to admit that we have a sign on the till drawer that proclaims: "REMEMBER: CUSTOMER DELIGHT IS KING." It serves no useful purpose other than as a store of blu-tack (you always know there's some there when you need it). More importantly, though, I would be offended if I were given a sheet of "human expressions and what they mean." I am cursed with the affliction that I can read people in an instant and can see their motives often before they themselves even know what they are. Before you go getting the wrong idea and thinking that I'm one of those people: there's nothing mystical or extraordinary about it, I simply pay attention. I say cursed because I often wish that I couldn't see. It's not always pretty. All this makes it ever the more infuriating when people get me wrong. If I'm not going around as though I have a permanent coathanger in my mouth, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm not happy!

Although I'll be the first to admit that I find it rude beyond belief when you're in a shop, being served, and the member of staff serving you continues their conversation with their workmate (usually about what they're having for dinner, or whom they slept with last night) without so much as blinking in your direction, I can't help but wonder if Mary Portas is going to do a similar show about poor customers. Just this morning, I nearly blew a gasket for the umpteenth time, about our latest wally, who left the following feedback for us:

It was ordered for Christmas, but didn't arrive until afterwards.

Upon further investigation, I learned exactly when the order was made. I wonder if you can guess. Go on. Have a try. There are no prizes, except for the warm and fuzzy sense of personal satisfaction that you will get from knowing that you got the right answer.

Yes, that's quite correct! Ten past ten at night on 22nd December. Bearing in mind this would make the earliest possible dispatch day 23rd December, Royal Mail are still snowed in, and there is no post in any case beyond the 24th, would you, dear reader, consider it a likely possibility that the order will arrive in time for Christmas? Of course you wouldn't, but having said that, you're probably not a total spanner. There is only a certain amount of customer service that shop staff can engage in, if the customer's brain isn't serving themselves.

When One Door Closes ...

2011-01-17T11:01:00.014Z

A few years ago, someone cleverly made a 'metamorphosis' of Dragons' Den (a programme formerly about business enterprise, latterly about "I want to be on the telly!") and the Getagoddamnlife Factor (official name The X Factor, both formerly and latterly about "I want to be on the telly!"). The end result provided hilarious viewing, and I don't think they could have picked a better Getagoddamnlife Factor contestant to play around with. This seemingly delusional man, who sadly appears, judging from his accent, to be somewhat local, did not progress on the show, despite his protests of "I'm a singer, and I am a dancer!" Enjoy.

In view of the fact he's apparently talentless, what could have happened to him in the years since this footage was taken? Has he gone onto great things? Is he on stage in the West End? Is he selling fruit and veg from a wheelbarrow down the high street? No, neither. Ladies and the singular gentleman, I have found him, presenting for Austrian television. Don't believe me? Take a look.

If you're anything like me, you thought "what's up with him?" He's a funny colour. Not to mention the suspicious floodline just around his collarbone. He talks at us for a few moments in what I think must be German. "Argh. Urgh." Don't expect me to know what he's talking about. I've only got an A-Level in this "Argh. Urgh."

Oh, how we laughed. I remember next to no German, but I do remember all the crap we used to laugh at, for instance being asked to translate "er kommt immer zuerst ins Bett" for our homework, and what Gina and I thought it meant. Er = he. Kommt = comes. Immer = always. Zuerst = first. Ins = in, in the. Bett = bed. Well, what do you think it means?!

I passed. As I departed my final lesson, Ralph, the teacher, told me that I've "been a pleasure to teach, but I never want to see you again!" On results day, Babs (the other teacher) hugged me when she learned the news of my (moderate) success. Presumably, she too was overjoyed that she would never have to see me again.

So, back to the segment. We then cut to the main event, which is a lot of people singing up a mountain, just like in The Sound of Music. Then they have the cheek to say it's not realistic. Why are Austrians in denial? Anyway. Who are these people? Ah, it's the Holstuonarmusigbigbandclub again. The good news about them is that, despite the best efforts of some thoughtless, cruel people, they are no longer being sent to compete at this year's Eurovision. I appreciate that Austria have been out of the loop for a few years when it comes to all things Eurovision, but, even so, it's cute that they still think it's about songs. This news should hopefully come as a huge relief to all concerned, as the thought of having to share a stage and green room with Jedward is too much to bear. They have done nothing to deserve this. Say what you like: in my country, you get less for murder.

Now what's happening? Ah, we're talking to Philipp Lingg, fluently, in Argh, Urgh. Do you know, I was reading an article in one of the posh papers about how women are very often attracted to men who look like their fathers. I mean, really. Not that this has anything to do with anything, but we need to test this theory. If you can imagine for a second that I find Philipp Lingg attractive, and then consider whether he looks like my father. The answer is clear. I am not attracted to this man, and he looks nothing like my father. My father doesn't have that much hair. And I am not a stupid woman. Argh. Urgh.

Anyway. Moving swiftly on. Is there anybody there?

Next, we go to speak to Andreas Broger (who seems like such a nice boy), again in Argh, Urgh. It looks like we're in the pub. I'm guessing it's not just there for decoration.

Maybe it pays to appear on the Getagoddamnlife Factor. Even if you're sent packing with a flea in your ear, you never know the greatness that can await, just around the corner! I'll leave you to study the clip in its glorious entirety, and contemplate all the missed chances that life has offered you.

Most Embarrassing Moment

2011-01-14T12:27:00.003Z

Part of being a writer is giving yourself permission to write rubbish. There really is no such thing as writer's block. There is always something to write about. It might not be any good, but there you go. Hence, I have been invited to write about my most embarrassing moment.

I'm in two minds about whether I should be mentioning this or not, as I feel that this particular moment was much more embarrassing for my friend than it was for me. Worse still, the whole sorry scenario was entirely my fault.

When I was 14, I was a bit hideous. I always used to think of myself as a bit of a goody-goody, but looking back, I see nothing but primary evidence that I wasn't. Every few days there seemed to be some kind of brush with some kind of law. I just so rarely got caught. I should point out here that I was only ever a threat to myself. In any case, all this goes to show that there's only one thing worse than a 14 year old girl, and that's three of them.

One fine evening, my good friends Emma, Roz and I were innocently minding our own business, walking back to Emma's house through the park, where we had been playing on the roundabouts and swings and singing Live Forever by Oasis. There was a jogger approaching in the distance, he got closer and, as he passed us, he grinned at Roz and said hello. Emma and I (I refuse to accept full responsibility for this) were a little bit daft in the head, and took it upon ourselves to start whistling and shouting random remarks after this poor bloke. After about half a minute of this, I noticed that Roz's mouth had clamped shut, and she had turned a disturbing shade of puce.

"What's up, Roz?" I asked, bouncily.

"That was my PE teacher."

I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at Emma straight in the face. After a few seconds, I said "well, you might have said so!"

"I tried, but it was too late!"

Emma was already in hysterics. I don't think Roz ever quite forgave us for that day.

So, what's the lesson? Even though it was a quite mortifying experience for all concerned, some good moral has to come out of it. Hmm. My only suggestion is that you should never say just "hello" to anyone you meet. Say something along the lines of "hello, Mr Smith, my PE teacher!" That way, at least you can be sure that nothing will go wrong, and that in sixteen years time, you won't be reporting your most embarrassing experience on your blog.

Australia Floods

2011-01-13T17:00:00.003Z

I'm sure that by now you've all heard about the devastating floods in Queensland. I just can't help but think that if this had happened in some third world country, the begging bowl would have been out long ago, but because it's happened in Australia, to whom we in the UK owe a fantastic debt, on some news bulletins it isn't even the lead story. These people have lost everything. The fact that third world countries aren't in a position to help themselves in times of need is not Australia's fault.

If you feel so inclined, you can donate at the Queensland Government web site which is http://www.qld.gov.au/

Exams for Kiddywinks.

2011-01-11T12:26:00.005Z

Last week, I read an article about how the national entrance exam for schools is now going to be conducted online. At least I think that's what the article was about. As soon as I read the words entrance, exam and school my brain seized up, my spine turned into ice and I started to cry just a bit. Apparently, sitting the entrance exam is too stressful for the little ones. I concur wholeheartedly.

I still haven't forgiven my parents for this, but when I was seven years old, I was made to take the entrance exams for two schools, the second of which it was actually planned for me to go to; the first of which was merely a practice for the second. Being seven at the time, I didn't understand the idea that for the first school "there's no place at the school for you anyway, they just want to take our money, even if you do pass this exam you're not going there because we don't want you to, it's already been decided that you're going to go to School II, we just want you to take this exam as a rehearsal for the real one". I just thought I'd failed.

That Saturday morning is forever stamped on my brain. It's a traumatic monster that won't leave me alone. I went into the strange, frightening school and waited in the classroom with many others who were anxiously expecting the same fate. Maths was the first test. A blank sheet of paper and My Little Pony pencil sat in front of each of us, and the headmaster stood at the front of the room, and explained that he would tell us the questions, and we had to write nothing on our papers, except for the question number and the answer. Then, he began.

"One billion, five hundred and sixty five trillion, eight thousand and eighty two times ten to the sixth minus eight hundred and ninety five trillion million thousand four hundred and thirty one."

I stared at him, grimly. I wrote a neat "1" in the margin, thought for a few seconds and put down a "3" next to it. "Next question!" he announced, smugly, and repeated a similar string of incoherent numbers. This cycle continued for the next half hour, by which time I felt like a dead fish.

Then, we were all to have a break, during which we would be force-fed orange squash that had been diluted to within an inch of its life, and have the opportunity to mingle and make friends with the other children. As an introvert, I had absolutely no wish to mingle with some group of peevish kids whom I will never see again, so I went to sit down in the corner of the cloakroom. Whilst I was mulling over my depressing mathematical debacle, a member of staff came to sit next to me. "So," she said. "Might you be coming to this school, then?"

I think manners prohibited me from saying the "I hope not!" that I was thinking, so I smiled weakly and replied "perhaps." The conversation continued in a similar vein for the next few minutes, as I dolefully considered the fact that the morning was not yet over. I consoled myself only with the reminder that Maths is over, and it's English next. "You like writing stories," I thought. "It might even be fun."

We all took our seats in the classroom again, and when the clock struck eleven, the headmaster told us to turn our question papers over. What fantastic story can I write and wow them with? What title and subject matter have I been given?

"A Day in the Life of a Pencil."

My heart sunk through the floor. A pencil doesn't have a life! It's a pencil! For anything exciting or newsworthy to happen to a pencil is beyond my wildest imagination.

If I ever have kids, there is no way I'm putting them through that.

Who's in Charge of the Music in Next?

2011-01-09T17:30:00.002Z

So. On the one day off I have in the whole week, I decided, for some reason, to go traipsing around the shops. I don't think I will be doing again. It's a thoroughly excruciating experience. I am in semi-desperate need of a new coat, but once you hit thirty, nothing's suitable anymore. It's just like you've been crossed off the list of people who matter. This, coupled with the fact that I couldn't actually find anything that didn't look as though it was pre-owned by Worzel Gummidge, contributed to a largely dissatisfying afternoon.

The worst thing, however, is that you can't go in the shops nowadays without having your eardrums assaulted by some godforsaken 'music.' I use the word music in its loosest possible sense, as a pneumatic drill would sound infinitely more appealing. Of course, not all shops are like this: indeed, I am complimented on a frequent basis on the music I play in my shop (I don't know what they're going to say about what I have in store for them this week ...). But, I think it says a lot when you're in Next and you actually have to leave, because the incessant, grim thumping which deteriorated into Madness's House of Fun is so unnerving that it's actually making you feel physically sick.

Who's in charge of the music in Next? For pity's sake, get it sorted out!

Shake. Shake!

2010-12-22T09:58:00.003Z

Last night, I was tired so I had an early night. Picture the scene (well, only if you want to). I was lying in bed, eyes closed, waiting to depart to the Blissful Land of Nod. I was then rudely stirred by a book falling off the shelf and landing on my head. You might think that a paperback book falling on your head wouldn't hurt a lot. You'd be wrong.

I exclaimed my best quizzical, irritated "Oww?!" (into which I managed to fit five syllables), and threw the book back onto the shelf. "I hate books!" I muttered, and curled up, whimpering. My head's really sore now. The spine smacked me straight in the eyebrow! How did this happen? That book has been there for months, and wasn't precariously balanced or anything. There are two possibilities, I thought. Either we've had an earthquake, or I'm being haunted by the ghost of Ötzi the Iceman. Only one of those explanations is sane.

Sure enough, I was awoken this morning from my coma by the newsreader on the radio informing me, in her Queen's English, that there had, in fact, been an earthquake. But it's alright, because there were no injuries.

Excuse me! The only reason you say there have been no injuries is because I elected not to contact the British Geological Survey until I'd slept for a few hours.

You'll all be pleased to hear that although I now have a massive bump on my forehead, I have contacted the BGS and filled in their survey. I just love BGS questionnaires. This is the third one I've filled in in recent memory. "Where were you?" "What were you doing?" "Did the Earth move for you?" I'm hoping that now I've reported my experiences, all the news reports will be changed and it will be marked down in history that "on 21st December, 2010, an earthquake measuring 3.5 on the Richter scale struck Coniston. One woman sustained a head injury."

That Damn Phone!

2010-12-21T11:17:00.004Z

*ring ring. Ring ring*

- Good morning!
- Hello. What's the weather like?

You. Are. Half. A. Mile. Away. From. Here. The weather is the same here as it is outside your front window.

It rung again, ten minutes later. I let it ring. So, hang me.

Is This What Alex Bell Had in Mind?

2010-12-17T11:37:00.003Z

I've long suggested that the telephone should be legal only for calling blood relatives and 999. Anything else is just infuriating in the extreme. I'm thinking of taking that phone off the hook in a minute. So far this week, I have endured:

"Hello, I was just ringing to see if you're open!"

"Hello, I ordered a book last week, is it in yet?"
"Which book is it?"
"I don't know. But I ordered it last week."

Something to the effect of: "Hello, I can't be bothered getting off my fat ass to come in, but do you have this book?"
What if we do? You're not here to buy it!

"Hello, can you tell me how much this book is?"

The invention of mobiles hasn't made things any easier. Now, everyone has 500 minutes a month, which have to be used, whether they need to be used or not. People divide their time equally between walking down the street, bellowing "Hello! Oh hiya! I'm on the high street! What are you having for your tea? I don't know whether to have McDonalds or chicken nuggets! Last night, me and Thompson had cheesy chips. I don't know. I'll have to make my mind up. Yeah. I don't know. I might just have the chicken nuggets and get the chips from McDonalds because this morning I ran out of cigarettes. Yeah. I know! Alright. Well if you can let me know what you're having and then I can decide. Bye sweetie!"

and thinking "how should I use my 481st minute? Oh, I know. I'll ring that bookshop for no reason whatsoever." People have forgotten what it means to have silence. Won't somebody please ban telephones?

No Terry and June This Year.

2010-12-14T10:14:00.003Z

So. A favourite regular customer told me "I'm just going to look for some books to buy because I've seen what's on TV over Christmas and New Year, and it's rubbish!"

Take that back! The Sound of Music is on. The review in the magazine incorrectly said that "Christopher Plummer sings Edelweiss." Um, no he doesn't. Someone else sings it for him. I hate to disappoint, but Captain von Trapp can't sing a note.

I'll gloss over the scheduled showing of The One Ronnie. How depressing is that? I grew up with The Two Ronnies, and the idea of The One Ronnie breaks my heart clean in two. Anyway. Not only are they showing The Sound of Music, with Julie Andrews. They're showing To Kill a Mockingbird with Gregory Peck, The Italian Job with Michael Caine and Annie (which I can't bear to watch all the way through) with Aileen Quinn. What's not to like?

Can't Somebody Please Do Something About That Racket?

2010-12-11T12:53:00.002Z

At last! The Daily Ailment have made me smile.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1337573/North-Yorkshire-town-prays-Silent-Night-truly-appalling-Romanian-busker-adds-Jingle-Bells-repertoire.html

This charming article reports that, finally, it seems that others are coming around to my way of thinking. Some of these buskers are so dreadful, they could easily drive someone to suicide. I've mentioned our local buskers before. We have the Lone Ranger and Tonto, here seen in fair Manchester (the Lone Ranger isn't there, but that little guy, I think it's the same Tonto that pitches up all day long, directly outside our front door and 'plays' at 500 decibels, whilst we patiently wait for the police to move them on, which they do every time):

Then we have Mr Saxophone Busker Man, who knows only two and a half songs: Theme from Love Story and That One from The Godfather ... and half of Green Onions. None of these are played particularly competently, and are interspersed with hours of random notes which serve no purpose whatsoever.

Then we have The Mongolians, comprising a guitar, a squeezebox (I of course mean an accordion that's being played badly ... very badly) and a caterwauling man. The caterwauling man alternates between How Great Thou Art and Amazing Grace, whilst the squeezebox player plays The Bluebells of Scotland.

I mean, it's not all bad. We also have Lad With the Accordion (who has a genuine talent) and Doktor Hotfingers (who is inoffensive; I gave him 5p once) but most of them ... sheesh.

I'm glad that people are finally realising that it might be a good idea to make people audition for busking licences.

'his ability with the accordion is said to be 'shocking.' '

'it’s driving us round the bend. We can’t wait for Christmas to be over so we don’t have to hear Jingle Bells again.''

'I pass them on occasions making what I regard as a horrible racket.'

'There are some eastern European in Southport who seem to make every tune sound the same. I remember watching a news item from a town centre and I heard this terrible noise, and knew right away that they were in Southport.'

'We have a similar problem in Preston. It sounds petty, but actually something like this can make you feel like you're going mad! I'm constantly popping pain pills from the headache our local buskers induce. It's truly awful.'

'Thats nowt people should come to halifax were the worst bagpipe player in the world turns up twice a year and plays robin hood riding thourgh the glen and his version of the william tell overture is something one never forgets.'

'Incompetent buskers really are annoying and depreciate our standard of living, especially when they are so loud.'

'This is also an issue in my city. There is a woman who simply strums her guitar-like instrument for hours on end. No chords or songs are played, simply strumming is performed.'

I leave you with this, in honour of bad buskers everywhere. If you can identify the song before 0:20, you beat me!

Feminism - The Great Mistake.

2010-12-09T11:56:00.002Z

Championing womanhood is not always easy. A few days ago, I found myself hiding in my own home. I was sitting in the kitchen, eating dinner, and I heard noise from outside. What's that?

Oh, crap. Next door are fixing the fence. What am I going to do? The fence needs to be mended, they're starting it, I'm a woman, it's 2010 so I can't plead "I'm just a little girly" anymore. I hope they don't expect me to help them! I don't know which end of a fencepost to wallop. I'll be more of a hindrance than a help! I've already said - I'm not very good with my hands. I'm just a little girly.

I went and hid behind the settee (I know - I show my background using a word like settee) in the other room. Feminism sucks. Gone are the days when women could go through life without having to do crappy jobs like fixing fences. What is the point of men anymore? These days, women are expected to be able to do everything. Well, I can't do everything. I do ovens, hobs, vacuum cleaners, sinks and irons. I don't do fences.

Yes, It's Happened.

2010-12-05T13:19:00.002Z

I have officially gone mad. I've just taken to singing There's a Hole in the Bucket on twitter.

There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza dear Liza
There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza a hole ...

What? Would you prefer Ten Green Bottles?

Slowly Going Mad.

2010-12-04T15:48:00.002Z

Please, make it stop. The Christmas tree and window display had to go up on Thursday. Amazingly, I didn't injure myself in the process of assembling it, which is what usually happens. If the good Lord had intended me to clamber over frames, racks and window sills, He'd have given me opposable toes. Of course, that means that from now until the foreseeable future, we can't play normal music at work. We have to get into the Christmas spirit and play crap like Paul McCartney's Wonderful Christmastime and the highly irritating Merry Christmas Everyone by the one and only Shakin Stevens.

Please, make it stop. I think I'm actually going to go mad.

Best Days of Your Life.

2010-11-29T10:43:00.003Z

Well, Hello Austria! I am. It seems that 99% of my traffic is now coming from Austria. I can't imagine why. Anyway, so that means best behaviour, then ... and no making fun of DJ Otzi.

*taps foot* Hmm.

Last week, I bumped into an old friend. We've been pals since starting secondary school, about ten thousand years ago. Apparently, her son is currently milking his broken thumb to get out of PE for as long as possible. This led to us exchanging (happy) memories of our own PE lessons, which include 'being hit on the head with a lacrosse ball' and 'being hit with a stick by the teacher during cross country. (I wasn't running fast enough for her. Evil cowbag.)

School was a whole different world, wasn't it? I still have my old reports. They make for terrifying reading. "Karen is a polite/helpful/reliable/sensible member of the form." Pff. I've got a C in Latin! How did I manage that?! I mustn't have been bothered at all, because the exams were so easy. It gave you the question, followed by 'HINT: the answer is _____'. Apparently, "Karen needed to make more effort for the exam. Some answers were very thin."

Well, so-and-so to that.

The deeper you delve, though, the more you find yourself wondering: what planet are these teachers on?

Take PE, for example. I've been given a 1! The teacher's comment is "Karen has some difficulties with this subject, but always works with enthusiasm and enjoyment."

What on Earth?! Enthusiasm? Enjoyment?! I hated it! This woman must have a seriously messed-up idea of enjoyment. Perhaps that's what made her become a PE teacher in the first place.

I always used to do well in music, except for when Mrs H was on maternity leave (for the 700th time). The supply teacher we got in has given me a C! I'm devastated. He remarks: "Karen tries hard to overcome the difficulties she finds in this subject."

Oh, no. That's not difficulty. It's boredom. We had to spend weeks on end composing a 'tune' using C, D and E only, to the lyrics "John Smith, fellow fine, can you shoe this horse of mine?"

"Can I play with both hands if I want to?" I asked. The answer came in the negative. "C, D and E on the one hand - only."

Christ on a bike. Imagine the young Wolfgang sitting down. "Please may I use the black notes today, daddy?" Daddy Mozart admonishes the young Wolfgang for daring to suggest something so preposterous. Now play your John Smith!

Schooldays are the best days of your life? My left foot they are.

Lancashire Day!

2010-11-27T10:45:00.001Z

Happy Lancashire Day (with apologies to Handel)!

I love my home county.

In Defence of The Sound of Music.

2010-11-25T11:22:00.003Z

One of my most favourite films ever is The Sound of Music. What? It's a true story that's set to beautiful tunes and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. And it ties in slightly with my Hello, Vienna Calling. Hello report. I know it's not about Vienna, but the Captain does go to Vienna in the film and comes back with a bit of stuff, and announces that they are going to get married. Then, they all sit together in the hall and sing Edelweiss, and then his bit of stuff realises that the Captain should actually be marrying Maria, so she says to Maria something to the effect of "you have him, and have a happy life together, and I will return to Vienna." Aww. I'm not spoiling the story for you, am I? And who can fail to be uplifted by Liesl asking the nun for dating advice?

I nearly died of shock, therefore, when I came across this scandalous webpage on the world wide super nets:

15 Pretty good Reasons to Hate The Sound of Music.

I know. How could anyone even think in those terms? It's just wrong!

The introduction wrongly refers to The Sound of Music as a 'tacky musical' which is unknown in Austria (which, to be fair, is true) and is a 'genuinely bad movie'. Take that back! It also suggests that people go to Salzburg just to see the Sound of Music house, which must be entirely untrue, because apparently, you have a job to find it. Here, I am going to systematically bulldoze each and every one of these fifteen so called reasons to hate The Sound of Music.

1) Many people from abroad think that Edelweiss is an Austrian folk song or even the national anthem.
No, we don't. Because that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life.

2) The Salzburg festival is shown to be an amateur folk music competition.
The von Trapp family singers are no amateurs!!!

3) The folk dance is done completely differently in Austria.
Well, boo hoo. This is the point. I don't care if people don't really skip around Salzburg in dirndls singing 'when you know the notes to sing you can sing most anything!' in real life. The point is, I want to see people doing that. And if I want to see it, then I want to see it. Real life doesn't count.

4) The real Maria was never a nun.
Well, just imagine if she wasn't a nun in the film. Liesl wouldn't have been able to ask the nun for dating advice.

5) Maria was not hired as a governess, and Liesl was actually a boy called Rupert.
Well, imagine if Liesl was Rupert in the film. You can hardly have Rupert asking the nun for dating advice. It just doesn't look good.

6) They really escaped the Nazis by getting on a train to Italy, rather than hiking to Switzerland.
If they'd have got on a train, how boring would that have been? It wouldn't have been able to go 'climb everyyyy mountainnnnn' would it?

7) Switzerland is played by Mount Untersberg.
And? Christopher Plummer wasn't really a captain in the Austrian Navy.

8) The music sucks.
Take that back! It goes 'how do you solve a problem like Mariaaaa?' What's up with that? It's better than DJ Otzi, anyway.

9) The children can't pronounce their own names correctly.
Liesl is really pronounced Liesl and not Rupert.

10) The plot sucks.
It doesn't. Sister Maria, the wayward nun gets sent to be the governess of the von Trapp children. Captain von Trapp is a cold, aloof widower who has lost his love of music ever since his wife died. Maria asks the Captain if she may have some fabric to make some play clothes for the children. He says no. One night, it thunders and the children and Maria huddle together in the bedroom and sing about their favourite things. Maria vows to make the children some play clothes from the old curtains. Captain von Trapp disappears to Vienna, for reasons I've forgotten, and the children and Maria have an excellent time skipping around Salzburg and falling into the pond. Captain von Trapp returns and is livid to find the children and Maria having a good time. He announces that he is to marry the Baroness from Vienna. Somehow, they all end up singing Edelweiss in the hall and the Captain rediscovers his love of music. Liesl has fallen in love with the postman and asks Maria for dating advice. Meanwhile, Maria, devastated by the Captain's forthcoming marriage to the Baroness, flees back to the abbey, where Reverend Mother tells her to 'climb every mountain.' Maria returns to the von Trapp house, there is a big party, the children sing and the Baroness returns to Vienna. Captain von Trapp is called up by the Nazis but refuses to go, he and Maria marry in the abbey. They go to sing at the festival, and to avoid being caught by the Nazis, they pretend the car has broken down. (? This is where my memory gets a bit fuzzy.) They all sing Edelweiss and then run away. They are chased through the abbey by the Nazis, who include Liesl's boyfriend, the postman. They finally escape by hiking to Switzerland.

That is not a plot that sucks.

11) It feeds the distorting, romanticising image of Austria.
What's wrong with the image of Austria?

12) The acting sucks.
It's Julie Andrews.

13) The abbey scenes were filmed at Universal Studios.
So were a lot of other films.

14) The dialogues suck.
- I'll shoot you!
- You're just a boy.

- We had to give all our dresses to the poor.
- What about the one you're wearing?
- The poor didn't want this one.

15) There are more deserving films in the world.
This does not make The Sound of Music less deserving.

The Sound of Music is one of the best films ever made, and every single one of those fifteen reasons to hate it can be invalidated in one fell swoop. Try again.

I Just ******* Love Philipp Lingg.

2010-11-04T19:21:00.004Z

When my mother was young, her best friend was half French, so she spent one summer with her, staying at her grandmother's somewhere in deepest, darkest France. My granny would write to her every day, even when it was quite clear that she had nothing to say. One of the letters begins with the announcement "I know you asked me to cut the hit parade out of the paper and send it to you, dear, but I can't find it. All I know is that awful Fire Fire thing is number two. It's dreadful."

She surely can't possibly be referring to the crazy world of Arthur Brown?!

I am leaving the comments section open so that my good friend Tracy will hopefully elaborate with her story of meeting Arthur Brown from the Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Apparently, it has to be seen to be believed.

Of course, we are referring to an era where anything went, so perhaps it's not fair to single out Arthur Brown for being ... outlandish. Indeed, just take a look at this clip of Manfred Mann, fronted by Mike d'Abo, with the classic Ha Ha Said The Clown. Why don't they make them like this anymore? We begin with a lengthy shot of Mike Hugg looking like the guy who lost a pound and found a penny, and follow swiftly through to a shot of Mike d'Abo wearing impossibly tight trousers and dancing around the stage as if he definitely doesn't care who's watching.

Something must have happened (probably the Getagoddamnlife Factor) but it's just not allowed to do this kind of thing anymore. Except, of course, in Austria.

Far be it from me to make fun of the Austrians. If it's any consolation, you should hear what I say about the Germans when they're not listening. The song that all Austrians are currently talking about is, surprisingly, nothing to do with DJ Otzi (I mean. Really. What was that all about?!). It's about a chap who's moaning about his sore feet. And it's fantastic. There are, of course, mumbles about sending HMBC to the Eurovision Song Contest, which seems kind of cruel to me. Anyway. All of this led me to this little gem on youtube.

I just fucking love Philipp Lingg. He makes Arthur Brown look ordinary. No, I'm not sure what the significance of plus fours and football boots is. And I know you're thinking 'when was the last time that shirt saw an iron, lad?' And I know you're thinking of Christopher Plummer in the doorway as he stares broodily into the middle distance. And I know you're thinking that he's got going at 0:51. He hasn't.

And I know that at 3:12 he's thinking "God. That hurt."

4:03. Have we finished? 4:06. Op, no. This is what we need more of. We don't need the Sad Factor. We don't need Simon Cowell telling us what to like! We need a return to the glory days!

Public Transport Etiquette and BBC Weather.

2010-10-25T14:47:00.003+01:00

Once again, I find myself beginning with apologies for my extended blogging absence. I have been crying myself into a stupor about the imminent departure of Tomasz Schafernaker from our screens. Even so, I had no idea people take this so seriously.

Anyway, so I feel absolutely compelled to blog about the state of the country today. It just so happened that, on Saturday, I was on a train. It will probably come as no surprise to any of you, but this particular train eventually got so full that people were probably struggling to breathe. I've no idea where the whole British 'stiff upper lip' stereotype comes from. I'll tell you something for nothing - we can't half chew when it suits us. Firstly, we were treated to five or ten minutes of some woman complaining that "it's ridiculous! Children are sitting whilst adults are standing! It was like this last week! If they know it's going to be busy, they should put extra carriages on! People have to stand up! It's so ridiculous!" And so ad infinitum. This was only half the story, though. After about thirty seconds, a chap from Glasgow decided he was going to join in, making it his personal crusade to stand up against ... people having to stand up on trains.

We heard it all. "I've paid for this, and I have to stand up! When I arrive I'm going to get straight on the phone and complain! I shouldn't have to stand on a train! I was in Borstal in 1982 and I shouldn't be standing on a train! It's pathetic! They can't surely expect me to stand up on a train when I've paid to come in! People have to stand up because there aren't enough seats to go around!" This continued for a good twenty minutes, his protest gradually increasing in intensity. It's a good job we weren't in the trenches: then these sorry, pathetic souls might actually have had something to complain about. I rolled my eyes in exasperation as he purposefully flung his body across the carriage every time the train moved even slightly, as if to make some sort of pathetic point that he couldn't possibly be standing up in case he fell over.

I was one of the lucky people to have a seat. I know. I didn't give it up for anyone, because all those who were standing were either younger than I am, or an able-bodied Glaswegian man who's getting on my nerves. I have a seat, you don't. That's bad luck for you.

I was a little dumbfounded, then, when the said Glaswegian man proceeded to sit on top of me. Hello? I am actually here. Oblivious to my existence, he continued to swing his arms around, nearly smacking me in the face. At this point, quiet, timid Karen spoke up. I said "would you like to sit down, and I'll stand nicely?"

He refused my kind offer, much to my disgust. To be honest, I'd rather stand on a train than have some filthy Celtic fan sitting on top of me and flailing his arms around violently. I can't cope with this.

The moral of the story is, if you have to stand on a train, then you have to stand on a train. Do so, and shut up. Because if tha dun' stop bluddy chewin, al gi'tha summat fot' chew abar'.

The Return of Karen's Driving School, with Karen.

2010-10-11T10:30:00.002+01:00

I don't even know why I'm writing this, as the offenders are most unlikely ever to read my blog. However, in some way it will probably be useful therapy, so I am going to do it anyway.

I'm sure you all remember the Highway Code. Yes, that little book that you probably glanced at once before taking your driving test, that you've never once clapped eyes on since? It told you all the little things that you're supposed to do and not do when you're pootling along in your little car? Well, guess what. They meant it.

I am taking this pertinent opportunity to remind everyone of rule 92, that is:

The horn. Use only while your vehicle is moving and you need to warn other road users of your presence. Never sound your horn aggressively. You MUST NOT use your horn
while stationary on the road
when driving in a built up area between the hours of 11.30 pm and 7.00 am
except when another vehicle poses a danger.

You'll note that it says 'must not' in huge red letters, which means that for you to do so would be a specific offence rather than just a suggestion of such. You'll also note that the dispensation is "except when another vehicle poses a danger." Not "except to call out to your friend: ellurh! Are you going to the car boot sale as well? What a coincidence! So am I!"

Sunday is currently the one day of the week when I don't have to get up and start watching the clock and rushing around here, there and everywhere. I actually quite enjoy sleeping as late as I damn well please on a Sunday. When I doze off on Saturday nights, it's nice to do it without having to set the alarm clock to wake me up at heaven knows what hour. Do not expect me to be impressed when you, as a gormless car boot sale attendee, lean on the horn and numbly shout 'ellurh!' to your friend, at 6:20 in the morning. It's not fair, it's not right, and it's against the law.

ITWA - It's That Woman Again!

2010-10-02T09:54:00.002+01:00

We interrupt our Hello, Vienna Calling report (there is probably more to come on that) to bring you ... drumroll please ...

Another tale about Agricola Woman!

Thankfully, I wasn't around to witness this, but I have it on good authority that it actually happened. I just can't let this go by without blogging about it.

Yesterday, Agricola Woman returned. She actually came into the shop a couple of weeks ago, but there were quite a few other people in there as well at the time, so she just skedaddled. Mercifully. Anyway, so yesterday, she was standing at the counter, going off on one of her random speeches, and she actually said:

"I don't know if you were around then, but I think it was 1992 when there were actually fifteen months in the year. They did this because the tide came in twice."

Please send me a pretty postcard with a picture of your local town by night, on which you explain to me what the hell she is on about.

I'm unfortunate enough to remember 1992 quite well. I can assure you, beyond all doubt, that there were only the standard twelve months in that year. What does she think the extra three months were called? Agricolary, Womanary and Ohholyfuckary? What planet is she on?

I have also dwelled by the sea since I was eight years old. Before that, I spent practically every weekend and every school holiday here. I can assure you that the tide comes in twice each day as a matter of course. It doesn't even matter whether there's an R in the month! It happens independently of how many months are in a year. It doesn't care about such details.

I should perhaps give her a break. A couple of months ago, a customer, who was aged about seventeen, asked:

"how many months in a year?"

The world's going dafter, I think. There's some bloody weirdos around. Or is it me?

An der hässlichen, grünen Donau.

2010-09-14T19:15:00.009+01:00

As well as stairs, I bring all sorts of bad karma to boats. I don't want to go into details just now, but let's say that past experience has convinced me that I am going to meet my death in some kind of boating disaster. Nevertheless, whenever I go anywhere, I always have to go on a boat. It's almost like I'm testing myself, just to see how bad it feels.

Vienna, in Austria, not Australia, was no different. We have to go on a boat, even if it's only so I get to sit down for a bit and not be constantly approached by people wanting to know where the nearest bus stop is, and which bus is going to be the next one to arrive. So, we took ourselves off to DDSG Blue Danube Schiffffffffahrt and took the plunge (I am pleased to say, not literally). We spent a leisurely hour and a half sailing up and down the Danube canal, which, unlike the natural Danube, is not blue and it's not beautiful. We observed the sewerage works (seriously. Did this lose something in the translation?); a tramp wearing a hat made out of newspaper; and a somewhat strange man who was apparently fishing. I don't know what he was intending to catch. Cholera?

Anyway, I mustn't be too rude, because the man was hot. Friedrich (who probably wasn't actually called Friedrich, but sometimes, if you don't know someone's real name, it becomes necessary to invent one. In any case, names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Of course, I probably couldn't go much lower in his estimation anyway, as my good friend Tracy engaged him in a long, starry-eyed conversation, culminating in "tschüß!!!!!!" followed by me thinking, "oh God. Get me off this boat. Thank you." I reverted to my default setting: blush and run away.

Further inspection, however, has taught me that we perhaps went on the wrong trip. What we should have done is go on one of the fancy-dan cruises they have, with real, live music! Austrians and their music. How, how, how, how, how can the country which gave the world Mozart and Schubert also give the world DJ Otzi? How?! Anyway, particular favourites seem to be Bettina and Hannes. I feel a little sorry for Hannes, because I get the impression he's hidden away in the background but is actually the one who does everything, with no glory. I bet he's the roadie.

Bettina

Hannes

Oops, sorry ...

Hannes.

Go on. Have a listen. You know you want to.

At 6:20, surely I'm not the only person to want to burst into "the first ... the last ... my everythingggggg and the answer to allll my dreams!" The trip we went on, well it was okay. But how much better would it have been to be able to jump around the deck like a maniac. "My kind of wonderfullllll ... that's what you are!" Is this what Friedrich has to put up with? "I know there's only one like youuuu ... there's no way they could have made two!!!!!"

I'll say we certainly missed something special.

Don't Believe Anything You Read, and Only Half of What You See

2010-09-06T12:26:00.002+01:00

Guidebooks are the bane of my life. Just when you're supposed to be on holiday, relaxing, doing not much of anything, they come along and tell you to "go here. Do this. Look at that." Why can't they just leave me alone?

Anyway. Whilst in Vienna (which is still in Austria, not Italy), I'd been advised both by real life people and my book not to miss St Stephen's Cathedral. This seems fair enough to me. After all, it doesn't exactly sound like the kind of place it's possible to miss, anyway. The poxy, self-righteous guidebook also informed that taking the 343 stairs to the top of the tower is 'well worth it.'

343 stairs doesn't sound too many. Even though I bring all sorts of bad karma to stairs, we decided that yes, as it's worth it we might as well go up there.

I won't lie. I actually thought I was going to die. Of course, the beginning was fine, and it's not until you get to about the thirtieth step that you realise you're going up a spiral staircase in the dark with no handrail. I reached out and leaned against the wall to steady myself. Come on, Karen. Only another 313 steps to go! And it's well worth it!

I soldiered on, to be met by somebody coming down the stairs. There's barely enough room for one person to stand, let alone another to pass. I balanced precariously on the edge of the step, clinging onto the wall with nothing between me and a plummet to certain death. Then, it's time to start climbing again, and I actually feel like my heart is going to explode. I reach out to the window, expecting there to be bars there, like there are on the rest of the windows. My fingers grab fresh air. You're never too old to want your mother.

We finally reach the summit, to be met by a gift shop (indeed), some poor bloke working there who presumably has to walk up and down those steps all the time, and a defibrillator.

I'm not disputing that the view's a good one. Apparently, you can see the Czech Republic, but I don't know which direction I was supposed to be looking in. Anyway. This is all beside the point. If you're ever in Vienna, and are thinking of going to the top of that tower, don't. It isn't worth it. You can't see anything from the top of there that you can't also see from the top of the adjacent tower, that you go up in a lift, with the lift operator who I hope gets the chance to do other things as well sometimes. The last thing you want is him to be wondering what crime he committed as he goes up and down in that lift all day, every day.

"Greeödüau!"

2010-08-29T18:05:00.007+01:00

For seven (long) years, I learned German. Of course, that isn't to say I speak German, as the A Level course (and exams in which it culminated) were so traumatic that as soon as it was over, I went through the virtual shredding process of every piece of German information in my mind. Indeed, the only parts of the course I can remember were being made to read extracts of Hamlet in German and then write a summary (it's enough to make you cry), and the final speaking exam, which involved me sitting opposite the examiner (who may or may not have been actually German), desperately fumbling around in my mind for a satisfactory answer to her question: "but what do you think of Switzerland's contribution to European history?"

I should have been well prepared, but I wasn't. The event had been preceded by years of weekly conversation lessons with Frau J, who was actually German. I can think of few things that fill me with more dread even to this day. Frau J was a terrifying woman, who seemed, dare I say, to be perpetually drunk. She had a stern, angry voice which delivered praise and criticism alike, and seemed to think that a good way of getting me to learn the German word for extractor fan would be simply to stare into my eyes for five minutes without blinking. Lady, I'm not picking anything up psychically, here. "Look. I don't know."

So. A few weeks ago, I was in Vienna. That's in Austria, not Italy. I was nervous about whether I would cope linguistically. Ralph, a German teacher of mine, would frequently tell me, in exasperation, that I "speak good Austrian" (there's a veiled compliment in there, somewhere) but that was quite a few years ago, now. What if I really have forgotten it all, along with Switzerland's contribution to European history?

I had a baptism of fire. I must look Austrian, or at least like I know what I'm doing, because I'd been there for the grand total of twenty minutes, and been asked at least ten times for help. How does this machine work? Which train do I get on? My personal favourite - where am I? Somehow, I managed to answer them all. The Austrian was okay, but I'm not sure about the facts.

Soon, I found out why everyone seemed to be asking me. Vienna's great. You speak to them in German, and they answer you in Welsh. I've not seen so many Welsh speakers since the day in Bangor (if you're ever thinking of going to Bangor, don't). "Grüß Gott!" I greeted a lady in a shop, hoping not to receive a reply of "if I see Him." I needn't have worried. The reply sounded like an insult, although I don't think it was. "Greeödüau!" I smiled sweetly. "Ja."

Conclusion: seven years and I'm still rubbish. I don't think I can even say I "speak good Austrian." Clearly, I don't. Ralph would be either elated or distressed.

Sky Shall Shortly Find This in Their Intray.

2010-08-25T18:42:00.003+01:00

I'm a little trigger happy when it comes to letters of complaint. I often write them without sending them. Occasionally, I send them. Once, I sent one and regretted it, because, to be fair, I was a bit over the top in that one. However, SKY shall be getting a copy of this, and not a moment too soon. I have never been so insulted in all my life.

"Dear Sir,

It is with regret that I have to complain about the thoroughly insolent attitude of a cold caller representing Sky whom I have just received at my home address. As a young woman at home alone at the time, I was uncomfortable with opening the door to a strange man (which I don't think is entirely unreasonable). Therefore, I asked the caller who he was through the closed door, at which point he waved a piece of card, barked that he was from Sky and told me to "open the door!" I said I would not open the door, as I didn't know him, and asked why he was calling. His reply was "why don't you open the door, you weirdo?" At this point, I terminated the conversation and walked away, just in time to see him trample all over the front lawn (we have a perfectly good driveway) and stand laughing and mouthing something at me.

This boy (I hesitate to call him a man) was the worst example of a salesperson I have ever seen in my life. Surely it doesn't take a genius to figure out that there are many people who are going to be unwilling to answer the door to strangers. I do not subscribe to any of Sky's products, and this minimally-trained, overly-confident member of your staff has seen to it that I never will. Obviously as he is clearly the kind of person to shout insults I did the correct thing in not opening the door. Had I been elderly, what would his attitude have been? I trust the matter will be dealt with accordingly, and following that, Sky will never darken my doorstep again.

Yours faithfully"

I neglected to mention that the imbecile concerned was wearing brown shoes with a black suit, but still. This is an example of Sky's customer service. Make a note of that. SKY'S CUSTOMER SERVICE.

You Will Shoot Me, Won't You?

2010-08-14T10:51:00.002+01:00

Sometimes, I hear voices outside the shop, and my first thought is "please, God, don't make them come in. They'll only stress me out if they do!" I had that feeling just this morning, when I heard "oh, this is where they have all the angel stuff. Shall we go in?"

It wasn't too long before the old lady approached the counter, asking if we had any Buffy and Angel books left. I'm sure such things are long since out of print. Anyway, I offered to see if we could order them for you, but she said no. Then, she started raving on at me about David Boreanaz or whatever his name is. "I have a huge picture of him on my wall at home."

It wasn't really a "good!" moment, so I reverted to my other stock phrase. "Riiiiiight."

"I'm 70, and he's my toyboy!" My eyes glassed over. She got her purse out, and showed me. She carries a picture of him in her purse?!

"He's my toyboy. And why not? You can have anyone you want, can't you?"
"Riiiiiight."

Not that there's anything wrong with carrying pictures of loved ones in one's purse. I know my dad still carries a picture of my brother and me in his wallet. I was four when it was taken. But of someone you've never met and are never likely to meet? And to introduce him as your toyboy?

On the offchance that I ever end up like that, you will shoot me, won't you?

CommonSenseNanny.

2010-07-26T12:11:00.000+01:00

So. Yesterday, I had an epiphany.

In spite of myself, I was watching Supernanny. Yes, I have absolutely no idea why, except that it was Sunday lunchtime and I was a captive audience. I see enough feckless parents and their absolutely vile offspring ("but Chardonnay Pooface has ADHD...") every day in real life without having to see it on TV in my free time. Still, watch I did.

Flippin' 'eck. Why are these people allowed to breed? You think you've seen it all when they wake their baby up at all hours of the night, for a 'feed', and then complain "he doesn't sleep at night!" (For the record, we had none of this when I was a baby, and I slept through from day one. Coincidence? I think not.) Ladies and gentleman, Supernanny reveals everything that is really going on out there.

Yesterday's grand revelation, that I wouldn't have known unless I'd have tuned into Supernanny was ... now wait for it ... and do make sure you're sitting down as I wouldn't want to be sued for injuries you might sustain whilst fainting in shock ...

If, at dinnertime, you serve the 4 year olds their main course and ice cream simultaneously, they aren't going to be interested in the main part of dinner. They are going to go straight for the ice cream.

I am convinced that during the birthing process, it's not only the baby that gets removed from the mother's body. In many cases, it seems the brain is expelled, too.

Having said that, though, I question Supernanny's judgement on many instances. All too often it's "DON'T SET THE COUCH ON FIRE! DON'T THROW THE TV ACROSS THE ROOM! THAT'S NAUGHTY! GO AND SIT ON THE STEP FOR FOUR MINUTES!" The magic cure for everything seems to be the magic step for four minutes. Magic step my left foot. A damn good clip round the leg would make them stop. What? It never did me any harm, especially when accompanied by my mother's stern voice informing me "that's so that when you're older, you don't end up in prison and not know why you're there!" Somehow, I doubt sitting on a step would have had the same effect.

Please, Stop Drinking.

2010-07-09T11:01:00.000+01:00

Oh, for love of God.

- I ordered a book for Christmas, he wrote it down in a book, and I never collected it. It's called Stop Drinking for Life or Slim Fast or something. I don't have the receipt, though.
- Right, when did you order it?
- The week before Christmas.
My eyebrows practically hit the ceiling.
- I know! He wrote it down in a book.
I get the (very old) order book out. - I'll have a look for it, but if I can't find it, then I can't do anything, really.
I eventually find it in the book. Ordered 7th December, 2009. Two hundred and fourteen days ago. It hasn't been collected, and there's a note saying 'if we can't get it - refund at the end of January!'

To be fair, he didn't say which January.

She lights up. - That's the one!
- Do you have your receipt? Without it, you see, I don't know how much you've paid.
- No, I can't find it.
- To be fair, it is getting on for eight months ago.
- I know. It's amazing how time flies, isn't it?

Yes, amazing when you're in a state of perpetual drunkenness and fail to notice that all the snow we were eleventy feet deep in at the beginning of the year has melted; leaves have re-appeared on the trees which then blossomed; we've been baking dry for the past two months and the hosepipe ban starts today; we are now stocking the first small batch of our 2011 calendars and some, sorry, most of us are a year older.

Zing What?

2010-07-07T13:05:00.000+01:00

I have just received an e-mail from one of our wholesalers, inviting me to buy some ZingZillas books. For the uninitiated, these are apparently Zingzillas:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/zingzillas/

What on God's Green Earth is that supposed to be? It would give you nightmares! They look like some third world version of the Fraggles only not as intellectual.

I'm not stocking that.

I'm Your Friend, As Long As You Fail.

2010-06-16T11:18:00.000+01:00

Aren't women brilliant? Back in college, I became close friends with another girl: we would see each other every day; never have to explain what we were thinking because the other always knew; and bug the hell out of each other in class. In hindsight, perhaps a little less of the bugging would have been a positive force in my education, but, we were young and stupid. We remained friends for two years, which was probably one of the few things that actually got me through college.

On A-Level results day, we all stood nervously in the library, awaiting the arrival of out little brown envelopes, which contained our fate. As it turned out, the note in my little brown envelope informed me that I'd passed. Hers informed her that she hadn't - at which point, she came out with such a spiteful remark and I never saw nor heard anything of her again. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to pass.

It's good to have seasonal friends.

People hold you back. I don't know whether this is simply a cultural thing, but we certainly live in a society where success is derided. People can't seem to manage if you have something they don't. They don't realise that you very rarely get anything handed to you on a plate - everything we have is because we've worked for it. All the time, they just want to beat you down. I hope they have fun with that.

Is Russia!

2010-05-31T16:19:00.000+01:00

This holiday Monday, I would like to pay tribute to the rightful (if not actual) winner of the 2010 Eurovision Song Contest. This is the Russian offering: Peter Nalitch and Friends singing Lost and Forgotten. They were the subject of much unfair criticism, and were actually booed several times over the course of the contest, which, of course, isn't in the name of sportsmanship at all.

I'm not sure what the good citizens of Europe have done to deserve such a dirge of a Saturday night. But - doesn't it have its own unique charm? They've helped the homeless by walking the streets of Moscow and rounding up all the vagrants to give them their chance of glory on the stage. Listeners are given the chance to drunkenly yell 'woah!' every so often. You get to see a photo of his rather strange looking ex-girlfriend. On reflection, it is simply marvellous.

The actual contest result didn't seem to agree with me. As for the number of votes the UK received, all I can say is thanks for nothing, Malta. We'll have that George Cross back now, please.

Sisterhood, My Left Foot.

2010-05-28T10:01:00.000+01:00

What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice and all things nice
That's what little girls are made of!"

What a joke that turned out to be. Which delusional person actually came up with that idea? Women are dreadful, and probably the meanest creatures to stalk the Earth. Being around a plethora of women and girls at school made me see at a glance exactly what makes them tick.

Let's just say that I learned how to spot a bully the hard way. Nothing horrendous happened, but from being 11 to being about 14, one particular girl would go out of her way to make my life a misery. Fault-finding was the name of the game, and at times, barely a day would go by when she hadn't come up with something mean to say to me. It went on for so long, and I tried everything to make her stop. Ignoring her didn't work. Giving as good as I got didn't work, as, dare I say it, she was one of those people who was too stupid to know when she was being insulted. Of the two, however, fighting back worked better. It finished when we got to being 14. Suddenly, and without me doing anything, things turned around. She actually started trying to be my friend. Sod that for a game of soldiers.

There was, of course, another girl who quite fancied herself has having lots of power over me. She would often speak up with comments that were quite clearly designed to cause offence. The key difference between her and the first girl was that, if you fought back against this one, she would actually start crying. She wanted me to be scared of her, but to say I honestly didn't give a damn what she said or did is an understatement. I'm not sure if it makes me a bad person to have been slightly amused to watch her clearly becoming more angry and frustrated, when she would insult me and I would look back at her with a bored expression that said 'you really are the biggest idiot who ever lived,' and then for me to ask quietly 'why do you make things so difficult for yourself?'

I came out as the winner, in the end. Neither of those two girls are recalled with any fondness by me, and knowing how to spot and deal with such people is a pertinent lesson for any of us.

So, where does this lead us to now? To my surprise (I did, after all, leave school quite a few years ago) a girl (I say girl. She's about my age.) is trying to bully me. So, what do I do? Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of dragging me down, the answer is, of course, nothing. Mission accomplished for me, and failed for her. So many women need to learn that, if you act like a bitch, the only thing you achieve is you look like a bitch.

Stupid Grown-Ups, Chapter One.

2010-05-26T12:49:00.000+01:00

When I was very much smaller, I would often find that, even when I was standing still, people would walk into me and try and stand on top of me all the time. I would wonder why grown-ups were so stupid and couldn't look where they were going.

Outside the shop, we have an A board, which must be at least thirty inches tall. Every day, at least five people walk into it. It's got to the stage now where I don't even blink when I hear the familiar crash, followed by a gormless sounding "urh. I didn't see that there."

That sign could easily be a child. For the love of all that's holy, pay attention to what you're doing! To think - these people drive.

Proof, As If It Were Needed, That Cyclists Should Have to Take Some Kind of Test Before Being Allowed Within Seven Light Years of Civilisation.

2010-05-22T13:49:00.001+01:00

I dislike cyclists immensely. It's clear they think they own the road, but every day, you see several of them, all doing their bit for the environment. It's a pity nobody's told them that, while they plod along the road at half a mile an hour, everybody else has to brake, slow down, change down a gear whilst they try to avoid them. Bicycles are probably the most polluting vehicles on the road.

This, coupled with their sheer idiocy, makes me think that cyclists should possibly be banned. Just yesterday morning, I was nearly run over by some wally on a pushbike who obviously thought that traffic lights on pedestrian crossings are there for decoration. 'It doesn't apply to bikes, does it not?' I muttered, as he sat, proudly, atop his rusty Raleigh. What an eejit he really is.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened later in the day. I think everyone concerned nearly met their respective Makers. The situation is as follows (the white box represents a parked car, the appropriate black cross represents The Brain-Dead Cyclist, and the yellow box represents me, driving along in my car (which isn't actually yellow, by the way. I just like it.):

Oh, I thought. There's a parked car and a Brain-Dead Cyclist ahead. Better make sure we all get through here without dying. We should be fine, as the Brain-Dead Cyclist is still quite a long way ahead.

I was right, as the Brain-Dead Cyclist got past the car quite easily, before I'd arrived, as shown below:

Then, I carried on to pass the Brain-Dead Cyclist. Suddenly, and without any prior warning, the Brain-Dead Cyclist performs the following manoevre (his movement being indicated by use of the red arrow):

I performed what I think was only my second emergency stop since my driving test (it's remarkably different to when you're driving along, nervously glancing out of the corner of your eye in anticipation of the fact that, any second now, the examiner is going to thrust his hand out and shout "STOP!"). "Bloody hell!" I said, as the Brain-Dead Cyclist continued on his way, oblivious to the potential carnage he'd just caused.

What is even more worrying is the fact that when I'd got past him, I noticed him in my mirror performing a remarkably similar act on the car behind me.

Let's look at the evidence. They get in the way. They don't understand the concept of traffic lights. They nearly get themselves killed and still don't learn from their mistake. Conclusion: cyclists should not be allowed within seven light years of civilisation.

You Will Call Me Mr Sir.

2010-05-19T11:47:00.000+01:00

I think I have stumbled upon what is wrong with the world today. There's just no respect left.

When I was little, we used to live next door to The Wicked Witch of the West. That wasn't her actual name. She was called Mrs Mockler, and she had a pet tortoise and about fifteen thousand cats. Sandy was the ginger, extrovert cat who would frequently find his (her?) way into our house (presumably, to get away from his (her?) rightful owner and her wicked ways) and take up residence on somebody's bed - cue my mother shouting 'get out of here, creature! Shoo!' Mrs Mockler claimed to be ninety years of age when we moved in, in 1981, and was still going strong in 1994. In stark contrast to our opposite neighbour, Mrs Porter, who would sing nursery rhymes to me when I was small, she would exhibit all kinds of strange behaviour, such as painting her brick garden wall a bright red gloss, and throwing buckets of water at you if you dared to sit outside in the middle of your own back garden on a nice day.

One day, I remember being on the receiving end of one of her actions (probably a bucket of water incident, as that was a particular favourite of hers) and later telling my mother what Mockler had done.

I was quite clearly informed by my mother that 'I call her Mockler. You call her Mrs Mockler.'

This total reverence for sworn enemies is what is missing from society today.

Citizens, Your Assistance is Required, With the Utmost Urgency.

2010-05-13T11:46:00.000+01:00

I need to know for work. My financial future depends on this. Please comment on this post with your list of items answering the question:

what do teenage girls like? (Apart from teenage boys.)

I've gathered so far that they like: Twilight, Robert Pattinson, JLS and Justin Bieber (whoever he is). Eventually, they'll grow up and like real men, but at the moment, they're just practising. But what else? There must be something that they all like, without discrimination.

I'd like to think that it's not so very long ago since I, myself, was a teenage girl ... but on realisation of the evidence that we used to like the Boo Radleys and Jared Leto, I've come to the conclusion that it was a very long time ago. This feeling was only exacerbated when I asked Google the question 'what do teenage girls like?' and was shown the way to gurl.com which poses the question: 'do baby daddies stick around? find out from bristol palin, maci and farrah.' with no evidence of an underlying, tacit understanding that your parents would hit the farking roof if you ever came home pregnant. Indeed, I have vivid memories of reading the problem page in Just Seventeen when a pregnant and distressed young girl was curtly informed by Annabel G that 'it's your own fault, you stupid tart! What do you want me to do about it?'

So, I beg of you again. Please comment with your list of things teenage girls like. Thank you.

The Problem With Democracy is People Don't Always Understand the Question. Discuss Without Crying.

2010-05-07T12:01:00.000+01:00

I should have known as soon as I walked into the polling station yesterday that nothing was going to end well. I stood in a long line of people waiting to receive their ballot papers. We were held up by several, I repeat, several people who had no clue what they were supposed to be doing.

- One vote only, then put it in that box.
- What?
- Vote once, then put your paper in that box.
- What?

Of course, the correct course of action would then be for the officer to say "give me the paper back," but that didn't happen. Really, if you can't understand the concept of marking a cross in a box, you're clearly not intelligent enough to have the responsibility of voting.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, I had a visit from one of our regular customers who, let it be said, is absolutely irritating beyond belief. She's one of those people that you can't explain anything to, because nothing goes in. If it were raining, she wouldn't understand why she got wet walking down the street. You could spend a frustrating ten minutes illustrating the idea that rain is wet to her, but it still wouldn't have registered in her mind.

She started talking about the hung parliament and what a great thing it is. I was then informed that she "would never vote Conservative! Do you remember Margaret Thatcher? The first thing she did when she came to power was to get rid of free school milk, so for that reason I would never vote for them!"

Let's look at the evidence. Rising unemployment. A country crippled by debt. Greece has collapsed. At one point yesterday, the Dow was down over a thousand points, and we can expect more of the same. A double dip recession looms. If the major issue for you is school milk then you should be locked up and medicated.

Another Letter of Commendation

2010-05-06T11:58:00.000+01:00

This arrived in our inbox this morning:

"I needed this for friday the 7th May for his 10th birthday, now I have to lose a days wages to go into Leeds and buy a copy in time. thanks for not being supportive and I will return it if it turns up!"

That's another step closer to the George Cross, then. My heart glowed with pride as I submitted my response:

"Hi,

Thank you for your e-mail.

I can confirm that the book was dispatched on 29th April (which was the earliest opportunity as you only ordered it on 29th April). Unfortunately, delivery times are down to Royal Mail and are something that we have no control over. With the bank holiday, it is obvious that there will be a slight delay on deliveries. For this reason, we don't make any guarantees regarding delivery times. The only guarantee we make is that it will be dispatched within two business days of ordering.

I can also confirm that it is not yet 7th May.

I am unsure as to what is meant by your 'thanks for not being supportive.' We dispatched the book on the same day it was ordered and this is the first communication we have received from you. You ordered the book, we dispatched it, and you should have received an e-mail informing you that the book had been sent. Unless we hear otherwise, as far as we're concerned, everything is fine, because we are not mind-readers.

I hope you have a really great day.

Regards,
Karen"

I can honestly say that I had no idea that we were supposed to be 'supportive.' What kind of support is she expecting? Honestly. If you want support, try a counsellor, or a bra.

2010-05-05T19:06:00.000+01:00

A lot of people won't be voting tomorrow. I will be. This is one of the reasons why.

How Do They Always Know Just When to Call?

2010-04-28T11:45:00.000+01:00

Well, the poll results are in, with 66 percent confirming my instinctual feeling that 'we should go out sometime' is code for 'just not bothered.' As I mentioned before, he has long since disappeared from the radar. Which is obviously why I got a message two days ago, in which it appears that 'sometime' has now become 'this week.' I despair sometimes, I really do.

I am unsure as to whether I'm really in the position to be turning down dates (at my grand age, and considering the fact that the only other contender attempted to impress me by informing me that he is an influential member of The Club for Clever People. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, that if you have to be a member of a club to prove how intelligent you are, you aren't.) - but I can't help thinking that I shouldn't waste my time on a man who thought nothing of treating me like the consolation prize so early on. He sees me as being no different to a wooden spoon - is that how I wish to proceed? No.

I've been involved with dithery men before, and it never ends well. You'll just have to bow to my superior knowledge about that.

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein.

24 Men - in 24 Hours?

2010-04-23T19:26:00.000+01:00

The Daily Ailment inform us that 'the average woman will date 24 men, and spend more than £2000 before finding Mr Right.'
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1268310/The-price-true-love-How-average-woman-date-24-men-spend-2-000-Mr-Right.html
Fantastic news! I can't have too much longer to wait, then! Hell. I don't know how many men I've dated. Too many. All I can remember is that I went out with a guy called Quentin once. Only the once, though, and I never heard from him again. He was a thoroughly nice man, but I've never quite understood why some parents insist on giving their sons passion-killer names like Quentin.

I was a little concerned to learn, however, that perhaps I'm doing it wrong. I mean - it says here that 'this includes £2.48 on fake tan, £2.55 on a new outfit and £12.86 on their hair.' I don't know about anyone else, but I wouldn't try to impress anyone based on the strength of an outfit that set me back £2.55. I spend more than that on my underwear.

It goes on. 'And despite most women preferring chivalrous men with manners, it seems most women like to go Dutch on a date.' Who told them this?! I don't like to go Dutch! I will offer to pay, but just because I'm offering, doesn't mean he should accept! When will they ever learn?

However, most shockingly, the article reveals that 'men traditionally don't expect gifts, but this new trend for women to bring a gift certainly wins points with their date.'

Am I supposed to bring a gift?! A gift to the value of £2?! Why did nobody tell me this before?! What on Earth do I bring? A bag of sherbet lemons?! A pretty posy of flowers?! Somehow, I can't imagine that going down too well.

What do you do when you're on a date? Do you wear new clothes? Do you go Dutch? Do you bring Haribo? Please share your tips.

Vote Now!

2010-04-19T12:44:00.000+01:00

I'm sure I must have mentioned (or at least insinuated) before that I find dating excruciating. However, as I don't like cats, it would seem to be a necessary evil. I can't count the number of times I've wished I didn't have to bother, though. And I understand men. Seriously. A lot of women will complain that they don't understand men:

1) How stupid do you have to be not to understand the simplest creatures in the solar system?
2) If you understood, then you wouldn't want to.

Ironically, my understanding is probably the reason why I'm still single. I don't believe that people are basically good at heart, and never have ulterior motives. Is that understanding or cynicism?

However, for all of this, the one thing that haven't grasped yet, and probably never will, is why he doesn't seem to realise that if he's wasting my time, then he's wasting his time as well. I don't know. They don't seem to look at it like that, somehow.

So. The incumbent beau has confessed. 'I really like you,' were his exact words, and I don't think he was drunk at the time. He said "we should go out sometime." My reply was "yes, I'd like that." Because, really, what else am I supposed to say? "No, I don't want to"?!

Since then, I have heard the "we should go out sometime," line five times in the space of a week, but as yet, he's not actually suggested an actual place at an actual time. Quarter past thirteen on the twelfth of Never in Neverneverland? Really. He says he likes me. He knows that I am receptive to the idea of going out with him. HOW MUCH MORE OF A GREEN LIGHT DOES HE NEED?! Sometime, sometime, sometime are not the words I would expect to hear from a man who is beside himself with excitement at the prospect of taking me out.

So, dear reader, I am throwing this one open to you, with the poll at the top of this page. Given the circumstances, is he being meek and pathetic or is he, bluntly put, just not that into me? And, feel free to elaborate with your opinions on which is worse. Your knowledge is probably worth more than mine.

Jesus Loves Me, This I Know ...

2010-04-14T18:41:00.001+01:00

Some of you might have heard a rumour that I'm not paid enough. It's true.

I started this morning in positive spirits and with a spring in my step. Heck, I even got up early to finish the ironing before I went to work. What a fantastic Wednesday it's going to be!

My happiness lasted approximately one hour, before it became clear that nobody had told me that today has officially been designated 'International Be a Pain in the Arse Day'. Everyone who walked in was either ISBN man (I can't talk about him just now. I just can't.) or a holidaymaker. What is it with holidaymakers? They're all such a waste of space! They walk at about three yards an hour; gaze around aimlessly; assume that just because they're on holiday, everyone else is; and never have any money!

None of these people, however, win the accolade of Idiot of the Day.

A woman approached me. I said hello. She said:
- Oh good! I've found a nice young woman to pick on! Would it be okay for me to preach the love of God outside the shop?
- Er, no, thank you.
- Jesus loves you anyway.
- I'm sure He loves you, too.
- He does! He loves everyone! Remember to keep praying for the Holy Spirit - that's Jesus working through people!
- I will.
- Have a nice day, I hope you're busy this afternoon!
- Yes, so do I.
- I said a little prayer just then!
- Bye.

As it turns out, "no, thank you," means something entirely different in her language, as she promptly took stand outside and started clapping her hands and shouting to everybody that "Jesus loves you, and all the disasters are our fault!"

Love of Christ. I began to look around the room for something to poke my eye out with, just to cheer me up. Thankfully, she didn't last too long before the Old Bill moved her on. Jesus might love her, but I'm not entirely sure anyone else does.

Justin Who?

2010-04-12T10:38:00.000+01:00

I'm not down with the kids anymore. If I ever was. We were just discussing which posters to get in.

He: We'll have to get all those Justin Bieber ones.
Me: Aye *nods, then pauses* Call me daft, but who? I know the name, and I know the face, but I'm sorry but I have no idea what he does. Does he sing or something?

[I can't help it. I listen to Smooth Radio, because it's the only radio station I know where I can sing along to everything they ever play. Which is usually the Bee Gees or Dolly Parton or Kenny Rogers.

I like Dolly Parton.]

He: Yes, haha, see - you're out of touch!
Me: What does he sing?
He: ...songs.

If it's a choice between getting old and knowing who Justin Bieber is, I'm not sure which I prefer.

How Do I Keep a Straight Face?

2010-04-08T11:39:00.000+01:00

If I'm not going to win the George Cross, I can almost live with that. I mean, very few people do. As long as I am doing God's will, that should be enough. Right? However, I do think that I should at least win an Oscar.

Each day, I put my Bernard Black away and work face on and, in spite of myself, I entertain the terminally stupid and smile at them, as though I understand what they're talking about. Equally, there are enough times when I'm dying to fall on the floor laughing, but I have to remain serious and unflustered.

Just this morning, a man who was 70 if he was a day, asked me for 'Gigolo Pook: How to Dance Your Way into Her Purse.' Somehow, and I have no idea how, I conducted the enquiry with complete, unwavering seriousness, as though he were asking for a book about gardening. This kind of thing happens all the time. I surely deserve an Oscar for my daily convincing performance.

Panic Stations.

2010-04-07T19:30:00.001+01:00

Apologies at first for my somewhat prolonged absence. Even though I didn't get to go to Atlanta, one of us did, and just so that I didn't have to miss out altogether, the person concerned brought some native virus home with him to share around. Horrible, horrible intercontinental germs to which I have little or no immunity.

Anyway. With all this now firmly behind us, I am having kittens about next week. Kittens are being had. That is, I am reacting with extreme anxiety to what is just about to happen.

Gulp.

There is a strong possibility of a visit from the BBC at work next week. Yes. They are in the area, and they are going to be sending a roving reporter and TV crew round to talk to us about the impending general election from a business point of view, because we are apparently the most marginal seat in the country, or some such rubbish. My vote counts! Don't worry, though. I've decided who I'm voting for, and it's the right one.

What the hell am I going to tell them?

I can just imagine the roving reporter standing there, asking me about Alistair Darling and the recession and tax on cider. What on Earth am I going to say?

And, dear God, my hair ...

Guildo Loves You.

2010-04-02T18:51:00.000+01:00

Today, I was reminded of the annual circus that is the Eurovision ~~Popularity~~ Song Contest. It can't be nearly that time of year again, surely. Anyway, in the event, I never watch this anymore as the songs don't have any bearing on the result. All that happens is the rest of Europe bands together and votes for their friends. When the United Kingdom's only friend is Malta, George Cross, population approx. 26, we are frequently left languishing at the bottom of the league table. This is the thanks you get for funding the contest and saving the continent from the jackboot.

Despite the current state of events, we have actually won this in the past, most recently in 1996. This, of course, meant that we were lumbered with having to host the 1997 Eurovision. Who could have predicted the joys of the German entry that year? Guildo Horn, a man whose athleticism clearly defies his years, treated us all to 'Guildo hat euch Lieb.' Who says the Germans don't have a sense of humour?

Loosely translated, the chorus informs us that 'Guildo loves you, so even when you're crying, he'll come over and sing a song.' I remember watching this as if it were yesterday, and I don't think I've ever laughed so much in my life. Just where did he get those pants? And who can forget the look on his face at 2:50, when he's climbed to the top of the rafters and suddenly realises that he has a morbid fear of heights?

Sadly, this wasn't the winning song on the night, finishing in a respectable but non-consoling eighth place, being beaten by the Israeli entry, which was sung by a woman who used to be a man. Who says there is justice in the world?

New Policy.

2010-03-31T12:13:00.000+01:00

I don't like rules. Actually, I do. Without rules, there would be chaos. Even so, in the face of ridiculous spamming, certain comments have had to be rejected, and I have introduced a new comment policy for this blog.

1) Comments must not break the law of the land. 'The land' being England and Wales. I'm not allowed to break it. Neither are you.
2) Comments must be related to the original post.
3) Comments must be in the English language. If it's not in English, I can't tell whether it's legal or related to the post at all.
4) Comments must not have the sole purpose of promoting commercial web sites or other ventures. (Personal web sites are fine.) I don't even promote my commercial venture on this blog (which is probably wise, given some of the things I write about on here). I never have, and I never will.

In any case, promoting your commercial venture on 'Sassy Secrets Society' is probably the most stupid example of a marketing effort that I can think of. You can't just flood the internet with your link and hope that people are then going to visit your site, as they randomly click on random URLs.

1) People don't like to be shouted at.
2) You have to target your marketing so that you're only advertising to people who might possibly be interested in the first place in what you have to offer them. There is absolutely no use in advertising golf clubs to me. I am not the slightest bit interested in golf. Find a golf course, and advertise your golf clubs there.

What's Happening?

2010-03-28T19:16:00.000+01:00

Distinct apologies for the lack of Fashion Sunday. I'm thinking I'll have to put it on hiatus for a while, primarily because I'm struggling to find anything that I like to talk about. It will likely return at some point in the future.

In other news, I'm having night sweats. Is it the menopause?! Don't be so stupid, Karen. It's probably the weather. Or the menopause.

Blathering Journal

2010-03-27T14:29:00.000Z

On the basis that if you don't laugh, you cry, I have got a new toy for work. It is called the 'Blathering Journal,' and is a diary in which I can write down the topics about which I have been blathered to during the course of each day. In a sick kind of way, I'm interested in doing a very unscientific study to see if there's a pattern to any of this madness. So far, this week includes:

23rd March:
Trams. Norbreck Castle. Avatar. The Hurt Locker.
(This was one of those pesky holidaymakers who thinks that, just because he's on holiday, everyone else is. He was the kind who came into the shop with no intentions whatsoever of buying anything, but simply to talk at me for quarter of an hour or so, as if I'm interested in his views. In an attempt to counter his enthusiasm for being a pain in the arse, I asked him "do you like reading?" I was then forced to listen to his opinions on The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.)

26th March:
I've written a book and it's really good.
(We have inherited a frequenter who is known as Gazebo Man. He has written a book, of which he has self-published several copies, at a cost of two hundred thousand pounds, or something ridiculous like that. He thinks he is going to sell a million of them. I haven't the heart to tell him that even James Patterson would probably be thrilled to sell a million copies of any given book in the UK alone. What is worse, this man wants to put a gazebo up outside our shop to promote his book. This will be happening over my dead body.)

27th March:
Fnar fnar fnar. Wobber wobber wobber.
(From time to time, a woman comes in. She isn't quite the full shilling, and has no teeth. Consequently, she just mumbles on, occasionally points to a shelf and says 'football!' Aside from that, it's impossible to tell whatever she's on about. The result of this is me saying either 'yes,' 'no,' or 'riiiight!' and hoping I've said the right one.)

So far, I'm not seeing too much of a pattern emerging, except maybe that half the people that come into the shop are in need of psychiatric assistance.

Irritating Things People Say.

2010-03-23T11:26:00.000Z

I don't know whether it's just me. I suspect it isn't. But, whenever I'm meeting someone and making small talk with them, the conversation always follows exactly the same script. It does my nut, because people often say the stupidest things.

When I was a student, I used to dread people asking what I was studying. I would have to tell them. 'Psychology.' At this point, one of two possible outcomes occurs:

1) They either step back about ten paces and don't want to talk to you anymore.
2) They say "you must know everything I'm thinking, then." To which, if you're very smart, you reply "yes, I do."

The situation hasn't improved any. These days, people ask me what my job is. I tell them that I run a bookshop.

"You must like reading, then."

WHY? Why must I like reading? I like using my charm and good looks to extract money from the public. What on Earth does that have to do with reading? If I were a doctor, would people say "you must like blood, then"? If I were a police officer, would people say "you must like criminals, then"? If I were an undertaker, would people say "you must like dead people, then"?

Aside from making assumptions, since when did it become compulsory to like your job?

Fashion Sunday.

2010-03-21T09:38:00.001Z

Good grief. Is this back in again?

I always feel really old when they try to pass something off as being new, when I remember it from the first time around.

Hats don't suit me, anyway. I look like a prat. I suppose I'd definitely look like prat if I were wearing that.

Dr Agricola Woman.

2010-03-19T16:58:00.000Z

What a beautiful day. I stepped out of the post office when, walking towards me, I saw the shadowy figure of Agricola Woman. I am certain that I have blogged about Agricola Woman before. She is the one who lives in a bedsit that gets burgled every Wednesday by someone who steals all her books.

http://sasesoc.blogspot.com/2009/10/agricola-woman.html

"Quick! Head down!" I thought to myself. It looked like I'd managed to sneak by, unnoticed, when a voice called out "hello there! You're from the bookshop, aren't you?"

My heart swelled with pride, and a plastic smile formed on my face. "Yes, I am."

She began to talk at me. "I meant to tell the man the last time I was in the shop but I forgot to. Last time I was in there, I thought he might be anaemic. He was looking very pale indeed."

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "I can't imagine what would make him look pale."

She went on. "I think he needs a blood transfusion. Either that, or some red wine every day!"

I stepped away. "I'm sure he's okay, but I'll let him know that you said that."

With his anaemia, and my white fingers, it really does look like there could be trouble in store.

Drowning in a Sea of Lunacy.

2010-03-17T11:19:00.000Z

This week has been wall-to-wall idiots. I don't think I can take it anymore. Stuff land: I'm going to sea.

This morning's idiot, however, might actually win the title of Idiot of the Week before the week is even out. This is the bit where I depart from ladylike behaviour. Oh my God. Jesus Christ on a fucking trampoline.

- That picture you've got in the window. Is it Ruth Ellis?
- Which one?
- The picture of the blonde woman in the window. Is it Ruth Ellis?
- Marilyn Monroe? http://www.pyramidinternational.com/catalogue/print-range/40x40cm/PPR45132_Marilyn-Monroe-(Red)
- I'm sure it's Ruth Ellis. It looks like her, don't you think?
- Maybe.
- Ruth Ellis was the last woman to be hanged in Britain. I saw it on the TV. She shot her boyfriend. She was the last woman to be hanged. You know the one I mean, don't you? Don't you?
- Yes.
- She was the last woman to be hanged because she shot her boyfriend. They don't hang people anymore. But they used to. Didn't they? I know you know what I'm talking about!
- Yes.
- They don't hang people anymore and I suppose you know why. It's because they were hanging too many innocent people. Innocent people were being hanged when they hadn't done anything. I suppose you know what I mean.
- I do.
- This Ruth Ellis was the last woman they hanged. She shot her boyfriend. Of course, Pierrepoint, the hangman, he was from around here. Did you know that?
- I believe so.
- So they don't hang people anymore but Ruth Ellis was the last woman they hanged. But do you know who sold a lot of records? Who sold even more than the Beatles? Do you know which song it was and who sung it? I suppose you won't know. But it was Diana by Paul Anka. Do you know the one I mean?
- Yes, one of the best-selling singles of all time. [How can I not know about Canada's Gift to the World - Paul Anka?]
- It was. He was only a young lad as well but sold so many records.
- It certainly did.
- And name another record that sold well. Name it.
- Oh, I don't know.
- The Beach Boys sold a lot with Good Vibrations. Brian Wilson did very well out of that one. It was number one for weeks in Australia. It sold even more than the Beatles. And that Michael Jackson, he's sold a lot as well. But Paul Anka sold a lot too.
- Riiiight. (I begin to clean the shop.)
- They don't hang people anymore but it is good to see you.
(I think - hold on. Does he think I'm someone else?)- Yes.
- I don't think they'll ever hang people again. They do it in America but not here. I don't think they will again because they were hanging too many people who hadn't done anything wrong. You know the ones I'm talking about.

I sigh deeply, close my eyes and start snoring softly.

- I'll be going now, but I'll be back again soon. I might buy a book but you never know. I'll be back soon. It's good to see you. I'm going now.
- Bye, then.

Oh. After ten minutes of this, I don't know about Ruth Ellis but I felt like hanging myself. And why do these people always come in when you're in the middle of putting an order through so when they finally do go, you can't remember what you were doing or where you were up to with it?

This episode was almost beaten five minutes later, by the man who said:

- Excuse me - can I look at your hands?
I bite. I hold my hands out for him to see.
- Whilst you were typing, I couldn't help but notice your fingers look very white. Are they always like that? You could be about to die!
- Oh, no. It's just with holding the cold can of polish.
- Oh, right. It's just that my fingers used to be white like that, and they put me on some tablets, and now they're better. See?
- Yeah.

Is it me, or is it none of his business what colour my fingers are? I don't necessarily appreciate Man off the Street approaching me and telling me that I'm close to death. I can live without all this.

To hell with land. I'm going to sea.

Fashion Sunday.

2010-03-14T08:02:00.000Z

boohoo.com

It's Just Not Cricket - and I Don't Care.

2010-03-13T11:13:00.000Z

It's so serious around here. In the event, I was glad to be stuck at home yesterday afternoon, doing the most menial task in the world (preparing the leaflets for distribution), as it meant I could have half an eye on the television, for my first ever glimpse of the ~~rounders~~ Indian Premier League of cricket. As a rule, I can't be doing with this Twenty20 nonsense, with their flashing lights and bus shelters and 'give it a wallop and hope for the best' mentality. They want to alienate me and attract a younger crowd?! No, it's just not cricket. I don't care anymore.

A lot of people think cricket's just for boys, and it isn't.

As my dear great granddad would have said: I like the way he 'owds his bat.

Anyway. I'd never seen this Indian Premier League before, and was quite intrigued by what was going on. They've made it all funky and weird. The game I saw was between the Deccan Chargers (or something) and the Kolkata Knight Riders. Presumably, they'd like to leave the door open for a potential partnership with David Hasselhoff. Having discovered, by studying their personnel, that the Kolkata Knight Riders are basically Lancashire with a different name, I decided that I am now their biggest fan. I was not disappointed.

Expect nothing to get done for the next month.

How Not to Be Belligerent.

2010-03-12T10:24:00.000Z

Following in Laura's footsteps (http://lesanchez.blogspot.com) of giving succinct advice about things people actually care about, I've decided that today I am going to discuss belligerence in the workplace. It's a well-known fact that the general public are an inherent pain in the arse. The little flecks of Bernard Black and Basil Fawlty that hide, deep within my soul, can often be stirred by the antics of the average 'customer'. A lot of these people, I'll never see again, so they are instantly forgettable. However, a less well-known fact is that even so called regular customers can also have their Pain in the Arse Moments.

A couple of days ago, Mrs N popped into the shop. She's old and she can't get out much, so I hadn't seen her for quite some time. We have the same conversation every time she comes into the shop. Before we moved here, we used to be in a quieter location where the rent was cheap.

- And are you finding it better here?
- Oh yes, a lot better, thank you.
- You were so isolated before. Did you used to have a lot of odd people coming in?
(My mind immediately scans back to the Catatonic Man (they can. They can stay like that for days.), the Man on Day Release from the Psychiatric Unit and Midget.) - Every day.
- You were right next to the pub as well.
- Well, look on the bright side.
- I used to worry about you being on your own in there. Anyone could have come in and done anything to you!
- Oh, don't you worry about me, Mrs N. Don't you worry one bit. For someone to attack me, there has to be someone there to attack me.

She took a couple of books off the shelf to buy.

- Are you sure you haven't had this one already, Mrs N? I seem to remember you bought it before.
- No, I've not read this one.

It's a devil when I know what they've read better than they do. Just this morning, the phone rings. Guess who. "You were right, I have read that book. Can I bring it back and swap it for another?"

This isn't the first time she's done this. I closed my left eye and gritted my teeth. In spite of myself, I told her "just this once, I'll let you do a swap." What else could I have done? I get my regular £2.99 from her. You have to keep the regulars happy. You have to put your Bernard Black away! So, here are my tips on not being belligerent with the regular customers.

1) Develop a Mary Poppins-style laugh that you use at the end of every sentence, even when you're telling them to get lost.

2) Use the word 'good' a lot. Pronounce it as though they have just done something that genuinely pleases you.

3) Just agree with them. "It was stupid of me not to listen to you when you told me that I'd already read this book." "Yes ... I mean ... good."

4) Remember all the previous £2.99s you have lovingly received from this customer. This incident is a one-off in the sea of £14.95 that they have so far contributed to your life, and the millions of potential £2.99s that they might contribute in the future. Good.

Things I Learned This Weekend, Volume 1.

2010-03-09T09:50:00.001Z

So, I went watching Micmacs, which, for the uninitiated, is some random French film. I didn't get a lot out of it. As the limit of my French is, seemingly, "you KNOW the future tense, you goon!" or "duhhhh - you KNOW this already, you silly goose!" it's pleasing when they put subtitles at the bottom of the screen. What is less pleasing is when you are sitting behind The Tallest Man in the World, and so are unable to see any of them. Qu'est-ce qu-il y on a faire?

Lesson One: If you ever go to see a foreign film again, sit on the front row.

Fashion Sunday.

2010-03-07T08:39:00.000Z

What is going on? I did not know we had Anthropologie here. Yes. Apparently, they have two stores, their web site announces. One on the Kings Road and one on Regent Street. It doesn't mention which town, so it must mean the arrogantly, self-appointed centre of the universe, London. Well, it's been a long time since I was in London. I'm not sure my TB vaccination is still offering any immunity, and my Do I Look Like I Give A Damn face is broken.

I've been meaning to blog about Anthropolgie. I really don't understand this shop. It's like stepping into an alternate universe. I'm not big for shopping in America, as it makes me really nervous the way they pounce on you as soon as you walk into the shop. "Hello, and welcome to Anthropologie. My name is Tiffany. Can I help you at all today?" In my culture, if that happens, it means "oh my God. She thinks I'm going to rob the shop. Why else would she actually be speaking to me?" Never having really been asked that question before, I'm always unsure how to reply. Is "no" acceptable? "I'm just being nosey."

Anthropologie itself is so strange that I'm not sure what exactly they're supposed to be selling. You have a few clothes with fancy prices hanging there. Then you have a plant pot. Then you have three random books that are nothing to do with either clothes or plants. Then you have a broken pencil that you assume has just been left there by someone, until you see the $12 price tag attached to it.

Why would anyone want a broken pencil?!

Anyway, this is pretty. I wouldn't pay £178.24 plus VAT for it, though.

Sergei Sues Aleksandr Orlov.

2010-03-03T18:04:00.000Z

For some years, we have been subjected to these adverts, from the National Accident Helpline, which depict some knobwit who was 'given the wrong type of ladder,' but used it anyway, with catastrophic results:

As you can see, the good news is that the man concerned sued his employer; for some reason received £7 500; and presumably no longer had a job to which to go. Several of these companies have chosen to celebrate stupidity, and indeed, another advert tells us that a stupid woman was given £8 000 for falling over a piece of plastic that shouldn't have been there. I would have thought falling off a ladder was slightly more serious than falling over a bit of plastic, but it seems that the plastic disaster is more lucrative.

I am, therefore, concerned about the latest episode of the Compare the Meerkat show. (It's not an advert. It's a programme in its own right.)

From this, it is absolutely clear that Sergei has been given the wrong type of ladder. Look at the way he is left just clinging on for grim death. This could be the end of Compare the Meerkat. Seven and a half thousand pounds would, presumably, punch a massive hole in their budget. How can they recover from this?

Not Interested, Gasbag.

2010-03-02T11:49:00.001Z

I never quite knew what colour mauve was before, but a woman with mauve eyebrows (that she'd drawn on herself) came in, posing as a customer. She asked me if we had any diaries (presumably knowing damn well we wouldn't have). After thirty seconds, it kicked off:

- Are you interested in saving money on your utilities? Gas, electric, 'phone ....?
For a split second, I'm caught on the hop. - No, thank you.
- You can save hundreds of pounds and still keep the same number. This company (which she named, but I can't remember what it was) are very good at saving you money.
- I've never heard of them, and that is why I am not interested.
- You wouldn't have heard of them, because British Gas, who aren't even British by the way, spend thousands and thousands on advertising which is why they are so expensive. [Company] do not advertise at all, so the costs aren't passed onto the customer. That's how they manage to stay so cheap. You could save hundreds of pounds. And [Company] are 100 percent totally British!
I mutter - But don't let that put you off.
- The savings you can make are absolutely amazing, and unlike British Gas, they are totally British, and ...

I'm unsure whether to start snoring loudly.
- Look, to be honest, you're wasting your time as well as mine.

Maybe the snoring idea would have been better. I could have had hours of fun waiting to see how long it would take her finally to get the message.

Fashion Sunday.

2010-02-28T10:00:00.000Z

www.goddiva.co.uk

CDT Lesson One: Square Peg Does Not Fit in Round Hole.

2010-02-26T11:59:00.000Z

I am descended from a long line of carpenters. I mean proper carpenters, who were able to make real furniture to which you would give houseroom, and which is all now real life antiques, like you might see on Flog It! or Cash in the Attic. (If anyone can tell me the actual difference between those two shows, please let me know what it is.)

Sadly, this particular skill seems to have skipped a generation. When it comes to building anything, I'm not very good with my hands. When we were very young, teachers would make us build models out of old cereal boxes and margarine tubs. This would invariably end in me sulking, because mine were always utterly crap, would never look like what they were supposed to be, and would always fall apart at the slightest touch. It was a relief when we finally got too old to do that anymore.

However, it hasn't yet ceased to baffle me why they made us girls do CDT every week. Craft Design and Technology. Crap Design and Technology. For the uninitiated, this is essentially woodwork. What do I want to do woodwork for? Why do I have to learn how to build a plant pot holder out of MDF and plywood? Do they not realise that this is probably the only reason why the good Lord gave us men? To my greater distress, the boys didn't have to do cookery or needlework, which was only marginally more interesting.

In my CDT career, which was curtailed at the earliest possible opportunity, I was instructed to make the following:

1. Egg holder. (Not an egg cup, an egg holder. Almost finished, but not quite.)
2. Plant pot holder. (Didn't finish this. Didn't see the point.)
3. Machine to stick in the soil that tells you when your geranium needs watering. (I ACTUALLY FINISHED THIS! I don't know if it works, though, because I didn't have a geranium to test it on.)
4. A cardboard box and random block of wood. (I finished this, as well. It was crap and useless, though.)
5. A child's toy. (Didn't finish this.)
6. A clock. (Didn't finish this, either.)
7. A fuse tester. (I have absolutely no idea what became of this.)

I don't remember a time when I was so bored as when I was in that room, sawing those random bits of wood. The teacher was a very strange man, who only really spoke to say "be quiet. That means ... shut up." He must have been slightly insane as well, as my first report in this subject reads: "2A. Karen seems to be showing interest in this subject."

What on Earth?! I think he must have got me mixed up with someone else. Either that, or he has a messed up idea of interest.

The following term, however, my report proclaims a more accurate: "3C. Karen works slowly and with little enthusiasm for her work." In my defence, I still maintain the view that it's very difficult to get excited about building a plant pot holder.

So far, I haven't needed to use any of this skill since leaving my final CDT class. It's probably a good thing, as my aptitude in this area is clearly limited. Square peg does not fit in round hole.

Fashion Sunday.

2010-02-21T09:29:00.001Z

I'm too old for River Island, but I do like this:

Gay Paris - Not Recommended.

2010-02-16T16:02:00.000Z

So, my good friend Hannah is wanting to visit Paris, and asked my opinion on the city yesterday. I think I might have put her off a little more than I really intended to. But, I don't think I ever want to go anywhere near Paris again.

A few years ago, having realised that I'd never actually been to France, my good friend Tracy and I decided that we'd head off for a few days of sightseeing. We found cheap flights, we found a cheap hotel, and off we went. Everything seemed normal to begin with, and my fears (which were brought about by my reading some very dodgy reviews of the said cheap hotel online the day before we went) were immediately quelled on our arrival at the Hotel Premier Class, or whatever it was called. The reception area was all very nice and light and airy and clean. "Well," I thought. "You have to consider that there are some people in the world who are very difficult to please."

After queuing at the desk for about an hour, we finally made it to our room. Oh my God. Mon dieu! The floor was tastefully done out in orange linoleum, the bed (in the singular) was covered in strangers' pubic hairs and mysterious stains, and the whole room gave off the most disgusting smell of stale urine.

I seriously entertained the idea of walking straight out, but, having decided that we had precious little time as it was, I didn't. After all, I've not come all this way to spend several hours looking for somewhere to stay. We did leave the building as quickly as possible, though, and got on a train to somewhere interesting.

We stayed out for as long as was physically possible, before grudgingly going back to discover that they'd locked us out. Hurrah! We don't have to go in! However, after a few minutes, somebody very meanly opened the door for us and made us go in. What could have been a pleasant night spent in the doorway was, in fact, spent with me perching on my edge of the bed, with visions of being eaten alive by a mutant rat flicking through my head.

The following day, after breakfast (dry cereal eaten from a dirty cup, yes, cup) we ran off to visit that quite famous tower that they have. This involved queuing for three hours (the American family in front of us somewhat strangely got to within ten people of the front of the line and then decided they'd had enough and weren't going to bother anymore); going up a rickety lift; saying "oh, look at that," and then walking back down again. Upon arrival back on terra firma, I was approached by a gypsy woman who waved a newspaper in my face and tried to rob me. When I told her what she could do with her newspaper, she wrinkled her nose, looked at me through slitted eyes and said "I curse you and your country!"

"Silly woman," I muttered. "Labour have done a good enough job of cursing my country already with their own bare hands, and as for me - I have to go back to the Premier Class tonight!"

The afternoon was spent on a boat. I'll just point out here that I bring all sorts of bad karma to boats and leave it at that.

Then, to my horror, my train ticket wouldn't work in the barrier at the station. I tried every possible combination, but it simply wouldn't let me in. Fantastic. I'm stuck in Paris forever. With trepidation, I went to the ticket office and said:

- Excusez-moi, Madame ... parlez-vous anglais, s'il vous plaît?

The lady gurned at me. - NON!

I took a deep breath, and somewhere, in the darkest corner of my mind, I managed to find the words to explain the situation to her in my broken French. I did French for two years, and thought I learned comparatively little, as the lessons were mostly taken up by Mrs P (who, let it be said, was a total sweetie) brusquely informing me that I "KNOW the future tense, you goon!"

The lady at the ticket office cleverly chose this moment to become fluent in English.

"YOU HAVE DONE IT WRONG! YOU MUST NEVER PUT THE TICKET THROUGH TWICE! IN FUTURE, ALWAYS MAKE SURE THAT YOU PUT THE TICKET IN CORRECTLY AND MAKE SURE THAT IT'S THE CORRECT TICKET AT THE CORRECT TIME!!!!"

I remember nothing more, except for deadpanning "well, I'm going home tomorrow, thankfully." I must have meant it, otherwise I wouldn't have said it.

Kids, Paris isn't half the place they make it out to be. If someone ever suggests that you go, just say no. It's not worth it.

Fashion Sunday.

2010-02-14T08:46:00.000Z

So, I was randomly looking through ASOS, as always, when this jumped out at me:

Unusually for me, I can't decide whether I like it or not. I like that it's totally different from anything else they have on there. I like the colour (although appreciate that not everyone would). But I can't help thinking how old fashioned it looks. This is the problem when you've already seen everything before.

Honest Scrap ... I Want a Little Medal Thing.

2010-02-12T13:51:00.000Z

Well, just look at this. I've won the Honest Scrap Award from G. Not quite the George Cross, but I'm still trying with that.

All this, apparently, means that I must write ten facts about myself. I'm not even sure I can think of ten facts about anything, but I'll try.

1. This is only the second thing I have ever won. The first was a box of fruit pastilles for coming top in spelling when I was seven. I don't even like fruit pastilles, but it was nice to be thought of. I was form representative in high school, but that doesn't count, because I didn't win that fairly.

2. I hate it when I wake up in the middle of the night, and I'm trying to get back to sleep, but instead a really annoying song plants itself in my mind (eg. Elton John's Sad Songs Say So Much).

3. I can hyperextend my thumbs to the extent that it makes other people wince.

4. I am 1/32 Irish. I don't know anything else about it, though, because I'm looking for a John Quinn from Ireland, born about 1820. Or even 1830. Or even 1810. Or any time in between.

5. It bugs me and I really don't get it when people get engaged for about a hundred years without ever actually getting married. People tend to think of engagement as a commitment, when the thing about engagement is that it isn't worth the paper it isn't written on. Your Brownie promise is a bigger commitment than that.

6. I am a morning person. It doesn't matter what time I get up, by 10 o' clock I'm always ready to go to sleep.

7. There are days when I could sell coal to a Geordie.

8. I don't know what to do now that I'm getting too old to do what I always did. That's probably a good thing, though. Albert Einstein (who was a very clever man) once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The same result is getting a little old.

9. I take offence quite easily, unless whatever it is was obviously designed to cause offence, in which case I'm not bothered in the slightest.

10. I took a test and it said I was neurotic. Guess it wasn't lying.

Now, I'm supposed to award this to six friends. I'm going to cheat, and not do this just yet, because I don't have six friends. Well, of course I do have six friends (or perhaps not. You have one good friend all your life and it's as many - mark my words) but they aren't peculiar enough characters to have blogs.