Trials & Tribulations of a London Lass

I Think The Chuppies Has a Little Crush

2012-01-17T12:16:00.000Z

.. and it's not on me.

It's on this woman at his workplace. Who is turning 40 this weekend and is holding a 70s themed birthday party - to which we are both invited (including a few of the Chuppies' other workmates and their respective other halves).

However, unlike the rest of his office crowd, the Chuppies has been working himself into somewhat of a froth. As to how he is going to get some fancy dress sorted in time.

This is, even though it is not imperative you wear fancy dress, and no-one else from his office is bothering to dress up.

Additionally, we're not talking about hiring a costume here either. O, no, the Chuppies is thinking about ruddy well buying the dratted thing. Which would be a big fat waste of money (and the Chuppies, ever since I've known him, has never been frivolous with his cash - ever). Unless he were to start taking to dressing like Shaggy from Scooby Doo in his downtime whilst watching the tele. Or in the bath.

But there's also other things he does that seem a bit symptomatic of a crush.

(and, yes, it is `a crush' and not `crushing' - whoever started that particularly annoying turn of phrase should be taken outside and shot)

You know, like, lots of mentioning of her - which I believe is technically termed `mentionitis' - and this is often accompanied with a smile (although no dribbling, touching of himself or dreamy looks - yet).

And cooking for her (he made a batch of brownies one weekend and brought them in to his workplace especially for her to taste).

And other stuff (cant quite remember the exact details here but there definitely has been other stuff going on that's very pertinent to my case).

To make it worse, this woman is really nice. Yep, sweet, friendly, and darned attractive (a naturally pretty sort but without all the vain/shallow nonsense that is the usual accompaniment).

In short, if I was a bloke I'd probably have a crush on her too - when I met her at the office summer party she was extraordinarily sweet (and a bit of a babe, to be frank).

Hmm ... now I've got this all written down I now dont know if it's the (suspected) crush that's bothering me so much as the whole `comparing myself and coming up short malarky' that's got me all cross & bitter.

Cos look :-

Woman Crush = sweet
Me = largely bitter

Woman Crush = naturally pretty
Me = look at me in a darkened room, with squinty eyes and with a pile of makeup on my face and I might just pass ... for female

Woman Crush = youthful looking (surprisingly so, couldnt believe she is actually turning 40 this weekend which means we were both born in the same year)
Me = holding on to the image in her head that she is still vaguely youthful but knowing in her heart (and also from looking in the mirror) that she's a dirty old bag of wrinkles

Woman = babe
Me = Babe (the pig)

And so on.

Pah - it's tough.

And - one more time - it's not `crushing'.

Thank you.

This Post is brought to you from my Last Day at Work

2011-12-22T14:21:00.000Z

Although not `last' as in - this is it, I've won the lotto, and can finally clear off!!!

No, `last' as in it is my last day in the office before my Christmas hols begin. And, with two out of my three bosses already having naffed off for their Christmas break (and what feels like the rest of Mayfair), I have got sod all to do (it's amazing how, with suddenly so much time on your hands, even the Internet becomes boring after awhile - and that contains EVERYTHING dear children).

So I'm blogging. To vent my frustration (in a `First World Problem' type way) at having to remain in an office where there is nowt going on - other than the remaining boss just logging on to dating websites and a photocopying engineer who has suddenly and mysteriously arrived to fix a part to our copier that I never even thought we needed (but who will be finished, and leaving our office, in about 10 minutes).

The online dating boss has a conference call at 2pm (oo, a few mins) so I will obviously have to remain in loco until that's done. In case, you know, someone wants something doing whilst he's on the blower - although we havent had a phone call since 9am this morning (and that was a sales call). And I know he has a medical appointment at 4pm - whereupon he declared we can `close the office' (as if it's some sort of ceremony, with crowds, a champagne bottle to smash and a ship to sail off from a dock).

So I guess I have two choices in front of me :-

a. Calm it, remember that from whatever time I leave today I will be off until Thursday 5th January, and be happy that Christmas is on the doorstep with all it's larks and frolics and pressies, and leave the office at 4pm with a smile on my face.

or

b. Stress it, become totally obsessed with watching the clock, conjure up elaborate and murderous thoughts towards bosses who have already gone (the lucky gits), dating site boss and photocopying engineer (who is sneezing everywhere), unknowingly form ulcer in stomach through angry stressful frustration and end up punching the dating site boss' lights out at 4 o'clock on the dot.

Hmm, decisions, decisions ...

New York

2011-12-18T11:39:00.000Z

Well it was great.

In fact so great it was, and so excited were me and the Chuppies that, on our first morning, we found ourselves tramping round New York at 5am (although this was after struggling out of our hotel bed - so big and comfortable was it, that the Chuppies now has withdrawal symptoms).

"So this is the City That Never Sleeps!" we chorused to each other as we left the hotel room only to find that it actually does take a `little nap' and doesnt really open up for trade to over eager tourists until ... oo ... about 6.30am but that didnt matter a jot. As high as kites we were on all the excitement and strangeness, I dont think we'd've been bothered if an NY vagabond had chosen to cock his leg on us as we left the Hilton Manhattan East ... so the fact we couldnt breakfast until a little later we pretty much took in our stride.

During our break we stopped in to have a nose of Grand Central Station (only a coupla blocks from our hotel). The Chuppies had researched online the best place to get a cheesecake in New York and Junior's (who run a store within Grand Central Station itself) came up as the one place to sample cheesecake before you die. Cant remember exactly when a portion of cheesecake was bought but do remember watching the Chuppies eating it back in our hotel room, tucked up in our gi-normous hotel bed and declaring that, yes, he was now ready to die.

Which he didnt - all the indulgence had just left him dramatic.

We also walked through the Flatiron District given its name because of the Flatiron Building (see left) - completed in 1902, it is one of New York's earliest skyscrapers.

Naturally, not as immense as say, the Empire State Building, but still quite a whopper (as you will see from the teeny tiny Chuppies posing just in front of the property).

Walking through Madison Square Park is also quite an experience. The squirrels are extremely tame (see left for a slightly unnerving example) but also quite wily.

I would imagine most critters would be put off their stroke if they had a constantly watching red-tailed hawk on their backs (see left for a particularly badly photographed example) but the squirrels in this park were pretty indifferent and more than adept at out-manoeuvring the hawk when it swept down to try its hand at another squirrel snacklet.

Of course, these hawks do strike lucky every now and again, and there are plenty of videos on YouTube of successful hawks feasting on the odd hapless NY squirrel.

The Empire State Building (or, at least, the view from it's lower observatory deck). One place you have to visit and experience your ears pop as you ascend via its set of elevators. The building is lit up with different colours at night - during our stay it was white but the following week it was pink.

Anyway, it was bloody parky (and windy) up so high and, whilst taking this nifty shot, an NY fly flew up my left nostril (couldnt really blame it though - it would have been considerably warmer in there than outside).

Another building on our port of call but we only stopped here briefly. There is so much gold tat everywhere (with an internal golden waterfall running down towards the back of it) that you'll want to step outside after a few minutes for a breath of fresh air.

Not really my thing but there were plenty of tourists inside oo-ing and ah-ing at all the gold rubbish - so it did appeal to some.

Macy's was a bit of a curiosity. Having visited NY a coupla times before I remembered how much fascination the shop windows held for tourists who would flock at Christmas with their video cameras pressed against the storefront to record the animated festive shop window sequences.

Well, obviously this was too exhausting a pursuit, for now there are chairs and tables laid out next to the store where people can bring their own refreshments and then sit and stare at the shop windows at their leisure.

Perhaps the next step will be motorising these chairs and tables and wheeling the people through the store so they never have to walk again ... ?

When you visit NY another startling thing is the amount of decorations they hang, stick and tie to things. Not content with huge trees in their office courtyards (see left as an example)

they also `wrap up' their buildings too (shown here is the Cartier Building on Fifth Avenue).

Whilst poodling down Seventh Avenue I thought I caught sight of two NYPD officers begin to unravel a set of fairy lights over a prone NY tramp to match the rest of the street furniture ... but I cant be sure.

Tiffany's - we had to stop here as it was the stop for a belated birthday present from the Chuppies. I eventually plumped for a delicate ring made up of teeny tiny silver hearts. The jeweller (a very suave gentleman that was camper than Russell Grant), in order to gauge my ring size from sight (I assume ring sizers are too common for Tiffany's), assessed me as a Size 6 (UK Size 8) which got me so excited and happy I nearly wet myself on the spot (I'm actually a Size 12 - but if you hacked off my boobs and hips I'd make a perfect, if blood-soaked, Size 8 so the camp old jeweller was on the right, if slightly gory, track).

We also stopped at the Rockefeller Centre to have a good nosy at NY from its top deck. Much like the Empire State Building, it offers you good views of the city, but also a good view of Central Park. The Chuppies now has a photo on his sideboard of the two of us in a frame proclaiming that we got to the top of the Rock (which, after going out for more than 5 years, is the first photograph we actually have of ourselves together)!

Inside the centre there is also a huge shopping complex and it was during our stay that they lit the infamous Christmas Tree. Unfortunately as me and the Chuppies were walking most days for around 10-11 hours and going to bed at about 7.30pm (NY time) we didnt have the strength to stay up so late (they light the tree at 9pm). A sad and pathetic confession - but London-Lass is nearly 40.

An example of one of the many massive meals we had in Manhattan. This was breakfast `Pershing Square' style and, whilst I'd only ordered `Farm Fresh Eggs', this came accompanied with a more than generous portion of bacon (cooked with onions), a pile of toast and a side of jam and butter (in case I felt like making up some jam on toast after my feasting). The Chuppies stuck to his guns whilst breakfasting here and enjoyed some freshly made NY pancakes (with a generous helping of Maple syrup). Water and coffee are regularly refilled too.

We also took in a quick trip to F.A.O. Schwartz and marvelled at the big piano (think of the 80s film, Big) before a horde of loud, brash and v. annoying teenage girls and boys came running in and started dragging

and throwing each other over the piano's ginormous keys (creating such a din that I thought the Chuppies' eyes were about to implode). We also had a quick peek at their unnerving Barbie `Foosball' table which was happily made up of a load of widely grinning, armless Barbie dolls (and which retailed at a mere $24,999).

Course no trip to New York near Christmas is complete without a quick go of her Central Park - specifically the ice skating rink. Here we see the Chuppies `in action'. London-Lass, however, remained wisely, sensibly and safely seated throughout the whole experience which (a) allowed numerous photos and videos of the Chuppies `in action' to be taken and (b) meant that London-Lass didnt end up causing pandemonium and numerous injuries to herself and other people on the rink. I've never skated before, you see, and am as clumsy as a binge drinker in high heels, so I think I made the right decision.

And the Brooklyn Bridge, ladies and gentlemen. This we took a good gawp at on the very western side of Manhattan before hoofing it all the way over to the very eastern side to visit the Intrepid Air, Sea and Space Museum. Which was (surprisingly) interesting and, for all you double-entendre fans out there, have a submarine by the name of the SS Growler on permanent display.

Yes I know. (snicker)

And, all too soon, it was time to go.

So, goodbye, hotel room fridge. You served us well. You were a handy shelf for the endless USA Todays they kept shoving under our hotel room door. And a blessed sanctuary for Chuppies cheesecakes and London-Lass' Coke Zeros with Cherry (which are great, readers, much better than Diet Cherry Coke).

And it was goodbye to our hotel room tele with its weird mix of almost constant ad breaks and overexcited presenters (and the 24 hour Weather Channel - my favourite one of all).

Farewell to our hotel room toilet, you served us well. No matter the length, girth and width of the stuff that ended up in you, your Hilton Manhattan quality flush took care of it all.

And a so long, fare thee well and goodnight from the Chuppies.

We both had a fantastic time, New York, so dont be a stranger ya hear?

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas ...

2011-12-15T14:14:00.000Z

... well, it is at any rate on my eXTReMe Tracking hits ...

The Greatest Story Never Told

2011-11-28T09:00:00.008Z

Somewhere in Bethlehem, Judea, in the days of Herod the King.

It is about 9 o’clock at night.

Two figures are slowly making their way through a crowded street. The first, a heavily pregnant woman, is perched atop a donkey. The other, a tired looking carpenter, wearily leads the donkey with its heavy load through the crowds, stopping to knock at each inn as they pass.

At the point where we join them, they have been turned away by every innkeeper they have spoken to. Their journey has been a long one and they are beginning to lose hope.

The man turns to the woman :-

(JOSEPH) : “Gosh darn it all, my virginal one, but what rotten luck we're having. I fear we may never find a place to rest tonight, pookums.”

(MARY) : “Yes, one does seem to be in rather a pickle. However, there are up ahead a few more lodgings to try. Look, there’s another one.”

(JOSEPH) : “Oo, yes, jolly good!”

Joseph knocks on the door. There is no reply. Joseph timidly knocks again and the door is rudely wrenched open.

(INNKEEPER grumpily) : “What?!”

(JOSEPH) : “O, er, good evening sir … erm … pray excuse our calling at this late hour, Mr Innkeeper, but, you see, my wife is pregnant and it would be pretty darned handy to have somewhere to stay tonight.”

(INNKEEPER irritably) : “And?”

(JOSEPH) : “Er, well, does your place have room for us?”

The innkeeper impatiently looks his visitors over, but as his eyes alight on their donkey his mood suddenly brightens.

(INNKEEPER) : “You know what, I do! In fact, thinking about it, you couldn’t have called at a better time, as I could do you a really good deal on our deluxe suite.”

(JOSEPH) : “Gosh. A deal on your deluxe, eh? Marvellous stuff.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Too right. And nothing but the best either. Big bed. Extra large candles. Fresh sawdust on the floor. And definitely no cow shit.”

(JOSEPH) : “O, I say …”

(INNKEEPER) : “But back to the deal … ”

(JOSEPH) : “Yes … ?”

(INNKEEPER stage whispers) : “Your donkey beds down with me.”

(JOSEPH) : “Eh? ….”

(INNKEEPER slightly louder whilst winking) : “Your donkey sleeps with me.”

(JOSEPH) : “Er …”

(INNKEEPER) : “I mean, she’s a bit of a looker, aint she? I take it she’s single …?”

(JOSEPH) : “Er … well, technically yes …”

(INNKEEPER) : “It's just I know their ways, you see. Charm you with their great fluttering donkey eyelashes but then, before you can say `Eee aww’, you’re up to your nuts in trouble.”

(JOSEPH) : “Erm …”

(INNKEEPER winking again) : “You got any others like her back home?”

(MARY) : “Joseph?”

(JOSEPH to the INNKEEPER) : “Well thank you for your time but I think we’ll be going.”

(INNKEEPER hurriedly) : “Hold up … I’m just messing with you! Course I don’t want to sleep with your donkey!”

(JOSEPH) : “You don’t?”

(INNKEEPER) : “Nah. Not into asses me. Just snatch.”

The innkeeper claps the back of the startled Joseph.

(INNKEEPER lasciviously) : “And, by the looks of her (he points at Mary) you’re pretty much the same!”

(MARY) : “Joseph?”

(JOSEPH) : “Er … well … actually … she’s not carrying my child.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Eh? I thought she was your missus?”

(JOSEPH) : “Yes. But it’s not mine. She received her child miraculously by the agency of the Holy Spirit.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Holy Spirit? Miracle? Hang on …”

The innkeeper turns away from Joseph and bellows in to his inn.

(INNKEEPER) : “Oi, come here, you’re gonna love this!!”

(MARY) : “Joseph?”

(JOSEPH) : “Patience, sweet one, for I believe this place might have room for us.”

(MARY) : “Yes, but I really dont think this is the right venue for-”

(JOSEPH quickly) : “Beggars cant be choosers, my joyful bundle of delight. Have faith.”

An innkeeper’s assistant rushes to the doorway.

(INNKEEPER to INNKEEPER’S ASSISTANT) : “This bloke says his bird has been rogered by the Holy Spirit.”

(JOSEPH) : “Now, hang on …”

(INNKEEPER’S ASSISTANT) : “Well I’ve heard some things in my time but that takes the bagel …”

(INNKEEPER to JOSEPH) : “You believe her then? About this Holy Spirit malarky?”

(JOSEPH) : “Well, yes, the archangel Gabriel appeared to her and announced her divine selection to be the mother of Jesus.”

(INNKEEPER to INNKEEPER’S ASSISTANT) : “Archangel? Selection? Have you ever … ?”

(INNKEEPER’S ASSISTANT) : “Nope, don’t think I have …”

(JOSEPH) : “Well he bally well appeared to me too!”

(INNKEEPER to JOSEPH) : “You pregnant as well …?”

(JOSEPH) : “Of course not! He appeared in my dreams to tell me to take her as my wife.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Which you did?”

(JOSEPH) : “Which I did.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Tell me, if someone asked you to snick off yer Charlies and wear ‘em as a brooch, would you?”

(JOSEPH) : “Dash it all, Mr Innkeeper, but I really must protest!”

(INNKEEPER) : “Well it all seems a bit fishy to me. But, hey, not my life! So let’s cut to the chase - you and your missus want a place to kip and I think I can help you out.”

(JOSEPH) : “You can? Well that would be most welcome. Although I must warn you that we have very little in the way of money.”

(INNKEEPER) : “Yeh, I hear what you’re saying mate. These taxes are a right proper bitch. I tell you what … we’ve got a stable at the back. It reeks of chicken shit and donkey piss but it’s all yours. And it's free.”

(JOSEPH to MARY) : “O rapturous joy - our prayers have been answered! No more traipsing around the streets! No more pushing through crowds! No more worrying about where we’ll end up! We finally have a place where we can stay, and rest our weary heads, and await the arrival of Jesus of Nazareth, son of Mary the Virgin and our blessed Father - in a stable!”

(MARY) : “Er ... could we go back to the part where he said he'd fuck our donkey?”

I never realised how thin the walls of my house was ...

2011-11-25T23:39:00.000Z

... until my next door neighbour separated from her husband two months ago.

And it's like we're suddenly next door to a knocking shop.

Obviously the separation has hit her hard. And she is still going through the grieving process. Which must be why from the time she comes home from work of an evening to, oo, about midnight we can hear the pneumatic banging of (what can only be) her headboard against our wall accompanied by her dogs barking like billy-ho downstairs.

Whoever the chap is that she's now dating/shagging, he must have the stamina of a stallion since the shagging marathons are now every evening, the dogs are almost hoarse from barking and I am beginning to ponder whether I should invest in a pair of ear plugs (if only so I dont have to endure the sounds of my next door neighbour in seventh heaven - which is pretty much the stuff of nightmares).

But, and to change the subject slightly, did I say that I was shortly off to New York?

Yes, this Monday.

And am I excited?

More than my next door neighbour.

And that's saying something.

Sorry but ... MORE CHRISTMAS STUFF!!

2011-11-21T22:27:00.003Z

Can I firstly apologise.

For you see, this is yet another posting connected to Christmas.

I know. Not more festive bollocks, blah, blah, blah.

But this post is only cos me and the Chuppies visited Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland at the weekend.

And, whilst it's not yet December, a visitation next weekend was out

AS ME & THE CHUPPIES ARE GOING TO NEW YORK!!!!

and the following weekend would also be out

AS WE WOULD HAVE JUST RETURNED BACK FROM NEW YORK!!!

and then what with the remaining weekends taken up with family bits 'n bobs and actual Christmas decorating, the weekend just gone had to be the time to partake of further (early) festive stuff.

So, sorry, to Jo. And also sorry to anyone else who's hopped on my blog (purposefully, or accidentally whilst searching for `sexy knicker accidents' - yes I know all about you) and ended up catching sight of yet more festive fun.

All I can say : it's been slightly festive in this posting ... and about to get a whole deal worse.

Do not read on.

You have been warned.

So our Saturday started much like any other Saturday.

Me and the Chuppies getting washed, dressed, breakfasted and sweet smelling. But then, unlike most other Saturdays, we found ourselves hotfooting it to the train station at just before 8 o'clock in the morning, breathing in the morning mist and generally being a bit weird and giddy.

Approximately two hours later (after riding the train, taking the tube and temporarily allowing the Chuppies to have a nose and avail himself of the facilities at my offices in Mayfair) we arrived at Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park Corner ... and (apologies again to all those festively offended) but it was jolly good fun.


Winter Wonderland in full swing - and, no, I cant remember why these two ladies looked so concerned

For there were stacks of Santas (edible, plastic, animatronic) :-

a German market, a Christmas fair, a skating rink and a 50m high wheel that me and the Chuppies hotfooted to from which we took the following snaps :-

whilst listening to Dr `Doctor' Fox from Magic FM play some Christmas tunes in our little carriage.

After all this we took to gobbling down mulled wine (whilst standing on a carousel bar that slowly revolved as you drank your Christmas tipple), hot roasted chestnuts, Belgian waffles with white chocolate and syrup, German beer, some Bratwurst and we even had a nip of some Egg Nog.

Actually, no, change that to `Egg Nog'. The only thing at the market which was a let down in the purse and stomach department, it was served piping hot, smelling of floor cleaner and tasting of melted chocolate liquers. It was as much `Egg Nog' as I am Barry Manilow.

But, perhaps because we were still excited and giddy (although more from all the sugar we'd consumed and being up on the wheel than anything else) but we found ourselves continuing to sip from the glass of noxious yellow liquid - only cos every time we had a swallow we'd find our memories telling us that nothing could be that bad and coaxing us to try another.

Eventually we had to concede defeat and resigned it to a nearby waste bin and with a cheery goodbye to the market and a quick purchase of a robin tealight decoration, we trained, tubed and hotfooted it back to the Chuppies' flat whereupon the Chuppies slid into a Christmas sugar coma and I slumped on to his settee feeling about 90.

Good times - but am now off

TO DO SOME RUDDY PACKING!!

My Home Made Christmas Decorations

2011-11-13T15:26:00.003Z

A little early.

But you know me.

First up, my attempt at a homemade festive garland :-

So festive even the Playstation cant spoil it ...

Extreme close up :-

Each felt garland piece roughly 1.5" x 1.5"

And some home made felt Christmas tree decorations I've done in green and red (green example below) :-

Roughly 4.5" x 4.5" (and I have the blisters to prove it)

These also come with a `false back' for adding some Christmas pot pourri or stuffing them with cloves, cinnamon sticks, dried orange slices, etc.

Anyway, that's what I've been up to.

How have you been?

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

2011-10-12T12:54:00.000+01:00

You think you know someone and then they excel themselves.

Although not in a "Hello everyone arent I just FABULOUS?!" fashion but in a quiet and non-attention seeking type way (i.e. not done to curry favour, gain financially or to get in to someone's knickers)

The Chuppies, you see, has turned in to a mini super hero of late. Although this does not mean that he's lifted up cars to pluck out injured children. Or old ladies.

Or that his strength can be thwarted by Kryptonite.

O, no.

He's just been ruddy marvellous of late and I thought I'd blog it. If you dont mind?

His first example of super-hero-type-ness occurred on Sunday.

Which was a day just like any other day. However, to set the scene : I was in the kitchen (making up a lunch for us both) and Chuppies was in the living-room (face-hacking zombies on his PS3).

And as my eggs were boiling I suddenly noticed (cos I am a bit of a curtain twitcher in me dotage) a car parked directly opposite Chuppies' block of flats, all windows cranked shut, and with a little (panting) Yorkshire Terrier locked inside.

"Chuppies!" I called, whilst still looking at the car.

"Huh?" grunted back the Chuppies, whilst still playing his PS3.

"Looks like someone's left their dog in a car over the road," I explained, as I walked from the kitchen into the living-room. To find the Chuppies bottom-less and wedged into the sofa whilst carefully executing another zombie in his game.

"Huh?" the Chuppies grunted again, with a little tongue poking between his lips in an effort of concentration.

"I think a dog's been left in a car just outside" I repeated.

"Really? O, look ... er ... hang on" replied the Chuppies as he carefully saved where he'd got to with his living dead annihilations and walked with me to look out the kitchen window.

"O yes," the Chuppies mused. "Yes, I saw a couple park up that car about an hour ago."

"So d'ya reckon that dog's been in there that long ... ?" I asked, as I watched the little Yorkie move around the back seat of the car with it's tongue hanging out of its mouth.

"Possibly .... " the Chuppies replied.

"O God, the poor dog! They havent even cranked open a window for it. Er ... erm ... who d'ya reckon I should contact about this? Feel a bit weird phoning the police .... " I pondered, unable to take my eyes off the tiny panting doggy.

"Er, well I s'pose that non emergency number ....? " the Chuppies suggested.

"Mebbe ... or, what about the RSPCA ... ?" I pondered, as I ran to Chuppies' laptop. And it was whilst cranking up Google, that the Chuppies suddenly came into life.

"I tell you what, you wait here .... I'll just go and check things out."

And off he went. Slamming his flat door behind him. And leaving me to gasp in his wake.

And, so the Chuppies ran. Down his stairs and out into the street. To check on the locked up air-tight car (with the hot little dog inside) and then back in to his flats and then up and down stairs in to the many other blocks to try to find out who the car/dog owners were.

And, by Pedigree Chum, he ruddy well found them. Although to the car/dog owners Chuppies was a stupid busybody sticking his nose in their business (when the breathless Chuppies found the couple, he blurted out that their dog looked rather distressed which didnt go down well).

Anyway, five minutes after that encounter, the couple returned back to their car and freed the overheated Yorkie (which I noted, with pursed lips behind the Chuppies' kitchen blinds, was left to roam around in the relatively busy road next to the car whilst the couple got on with chatting in the front seat for a bit before departing with their cooled down doggy).

The Chuppies' second example of super heroics took place at a Crown Court earlier this week. The Chuppies, you see, witnessed two chaps doing something wrong early part of this year and accordingly reported their exploits to the police. Policemen came, arrested the chaps and took a witness statement from the Chuppies. Chuppies latterly received a letter informing him that the case was coming to trial and he would be called as a witness. Trial date was given as Monday this week but after much re-arrangements of hearings, etc., Chuppies didnt eventually appear as a witness until yesterday lunchtime. Unfortunately cant give out any details on the case (whilst the verdict is still to be deliberated) but, suffice to say, Chuppies was heroic in his court appearance (especially considering the types of men involved, which arent nice).

So there you have it. Not quite as fast as a speeding bullet, nor able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but quite a guy, nonetheless.

Wonder how a cape, eye mask and spandex costume will go down for his Christmas pressies this year?

Customer Charter Refund Bollox

2011-10-05T10:45:00.000+01:00

We all know the drill.

Delayed by more than 15 minutes on the Underground (excluding DLR) and you can claim under the Customer Charter Refund.

Fantastic.

And to make it even more fantastic-er, the old 'n laborious form filling and posting regime was replaced by simply logging on to the appropriate part of the TFL website, filling in your details and clicking `send'.

Although the speedy online refund submission still didnt prevent TFL from dragging their heels over actually sending you out your refund voucher.

But brushing all that aside.

The point of this post is I've noticed something recently.

See screenshot below to see what I mean :-

Resist temptation to fill in this form people!

This on-line form (in which you have to input your full name, postal address, daytime tel no, e-mail and oyster card details), whilst encrypted, has contained `unsecured resources' for the last two or three weeks. And although I'm no expert, I'd rather not use an on-line form that might carry the risk of having my personal details used for spamming, or other erroneous purposes (e.g. for the lulz).

And so, this now means that every time I've claimed over the last few weeks (which has been more than one would hope or expect) I've had to print out a .pdf, fill in the form in manuscript and send it in the post.

Laborious and slow.

Which uncannily matches my Central Line daily commute at the moment.

Mental Dogs & Heat

2011-10-02T12:35:00.000+01:00

My brother has now returned back from the shores of Lanzarote. And, so, Daisy is now back with her rightful owner.

And, whilst it is nice to have me own space again, etc., I didnt realise how much I'd miss having a little doggy scampering after me all the time. Or going a bit mental after her bathtime :-

Excuse London-Lass' voice in the video - not

sure what happened but I really wasnt drunk

Or little doggy eyes peeping at you to come up on to a compact settee that's only got about 5mm of space to spare between you and the Chuppies. Or a happy sparky terrier that approaches you with a toy in its mouth, tail wagging ten to the dozen, as you finally sit down for ten minutes to have your dinner.

But I do. In fact we both have. Which is why we've been looking at puppies for sale (Cairn Terriers) and decided on what we're gonna call our purchased puppy (Bumble).

Except we wont. We both work full time, you see. But that doesnt stop you from perusing the occasional puppy ad on-line.

Or going somewhere where you know a lot of doggies (and their owners) will be on a hot and sunny October Saturday.

Which is why we ended up in the Chuppies local park yesterday morning. Apparently to try out his new camera (a Nikon D3100) which he's acquired for our forthcoming NY trip.

But really to ogle and run after the doggies.

And it was whilst we were there that I noticed how weird everything felt. Yes, it was nice that it was all sunny and glorious and wonderful (etc.) but it just seemed a little odd that the 29°C heat was beating down on trees that had mostly lost their leaves. And, whether it was the positioning of the sun in the sky in October, or the fact that I needed a new pair of sunglasses, but everything seemed rather shadowy and misty when we arrived at the park. Even though it was, by the time we arrived, around 11 o'clock (and not nearer to dawn or dusk - which is what it felt closer to).

Chuppies tries out new camera in summer-like heat whilst carefully ignoring wintry tree to his right

And so after a bit of a picnic we returned back to the Chuppies' flat wherein Chuppies shed his clothes (almost as fast as the park's trees had shed their leaves) and collapsed on to his compact settee in a hot and sweaty mess. I, on the other hand, have been blessed with the circulation of a corpse, and whilst I could appreciate it was hot (and will be another warm day today), I wasnt overheating like the Chuppies. Therefore, my clothes remained on (a relief to all involved) and my sewing basket came out.

Yep, a SEWING BASKET. In GINGHAM.

I mean, talk about shit your pants exciting!

Which I acquired from Amazon about a week ago. And is a godsend. I'm in the middle of a craft project I've set myself to be finished before Chrimbo of 24 mini advent stockings made of felt to be hung in a mini-garland type way on the Chuppies' fireplace mantle. Each stocking is rather wee but there should be enough room inside for a jelly bean or sugared almond, and will be hung with its own little felt loop on to a bendy gold wire thingie which will form the backbone of the garland.

And, look, I've already done a few :-

My sewing basket in GLORIOUS GINGHAM - does life get any better?

Just twenty more to go and I'll be done.

Barking Mad

2011-09-13T15:36:00.000+01:00

It's been a while since I wrote about our new (rescue) doggy, Daisy. In fact it's been a while since I blogged in a more regular (and less detached) fashion. But we'll just gloss over that little detail for now.

Anyway I thought I'd update you on the rescue pooch as I currently have the privilege of solely looking after Daisy (a.k.a. `The Daisy', `Smells' and `Love Chub') since my bro (along with a small group of other bods) is currently in Lanzarote for a fortnight's worth of sunbathing, drinking and eating (a lot). This of course could not include Daisy and, as such, I'm dog-sitting until my bro gets back.

Which is proving interesting. Not least because (and, apologies, if I've already touched on this sticky subject before) but Daisy (when inclined - which seems to be 95% of the time) will bark at everything. Not that we're talking the slathering semi-rabid type of barking that you associate with dog fights, etc., she just seems to want to air her vocal chords at everything - be it big, small, or totally invisible - in a sort of a "Now listen up, I'm not posing a threat here but I'm just getting in first in case you think I'm a pushover although, as stated heretofore, I dont wish to be a menace but I'm just stating my case first in case you think me lily-livered ... " etc., etc. In the right mood, Daisy will bark billy-oh at a gust of wind as if it was one of your normal barking triggers like, say, a cat. Or a flasher.

Additionally, and this is the rub, once she starts barking it is extremely difficult to get her to stop. Dealing with the fevered Daisy whilst smug owners and equally smug doggies prance past in quiet and grateful fashion is a novel experience and the temptation to shout after them that she's a rescue dog and that you had a very well behaved dog before her `thank you very much!' is strong but should be resisted for fear of ending up looking like a shouty mad woman with a barking doggy - i.e. one step away from the loony bin. Instead you just shuffle off, coughing apologies, and feeling like the worst dog owner in the world.

In an effort to prevent the barking everything has been tried. Citronella collars, muzzles, distraction/treating techniques, blocking techniques, spraying water ... whilst they appear to work at first, it is not long before fever pitch Daisy is back and you're left wondering what on earth you can do next?

Which is why I've ordered for Daisy a `Thundershirt' from Amazon. Originally intended as an aid for dogs who do not cope well with thunderstorms, they now seem to be recommended by a lot of vets/trainers for other stress/anxiety problems in dogs. Worn on the dog much like a doggy coat they apparently provide almost a `virtual hug'/constantly reassuring pressure which allegedly helps calm stressed out/anxious dogs. There do seem to be a fair few online testimonials from satisfied (and relieved) dog owners reporting that they can now take Buster/Bowser/Boris out for their morning ablutions without worrying that Buster/Bowser/Boris would suddenly become hyper/barky and make everyone's lives hell. Alongside these glowing reports, however, I have spotted a couple of negative reviews calling the product nowt but an overhyped dog jacket, but the happy owners seem to outnumber the unsatisfied ones. I'm guessing, therefore, that as each dog is different, with a different problem, if the product does work, it might not suit all but it could well suit some.

And it would be so good for Daisy if she was one of those some.

In the meantime, Daisy seems to be coping rather well in my bro's absence. In fact I dont think I've noticed her pine once. She's looked after (during the day) by a coupla (elderly) next door neighbours (who absolutely adore her) and I take care of all the bathing/walking/feeding/playing in the mornings and evenings :-

Daisy - Bathtime

Daisy - Naptime

We should be proud, however, that since taking on the Daisy she has come on leaps and bounds with the following :-

She no longer pongs. My bro has worked out exactly how often she should be bathed to stop her smelling like an oily sock (and the rest of the house too) and her fur is (unlike when we first got her) in excellent condition.
She now understands and carries out the basic commands - sit, stay, down - and will even beg if you want her to. She's one step away from being one of those dancing dogs you used to see on b&w tele although we will try and resist acquiring a little top hat and cane for her.
We've worked out exactly how much food she should get and how often so her stomach is no longer upset. No human food passes her lips and she is as lithe/nimble as when she first came in our house although with a better diet.
We have almost rid her of the separation anxiety symptoms she was showing when she first arrived.

Ideally, it would be fantastic to take Daisy to one side and say `Look it's OK. We're with you when you go out and nothing's going to happen' and she was somehow able to understand. But that would make her a little human, which she is not. As Cesar Milan says "Dogs live in the moment. With the right pack leadership they dont remember what they've been through. They dont hurt. They dont harbour resentment. They just `are'." But since we cant afford to import a teeth-whitened perma-tanned dog training genius from the US, the Thundershirt is gonna have to do.

Fingers crossed!

Sweet Jesus

2011-09-08T16:03:00.000+01:00

The journey home on the tube last night was pretty uneventful.

Usual crowd of disinterested, bored and passive-aggressive commuters hurtling home in a dingy steamy underground carriage that smelled faintly of cheese.

And it continued in this fashion for three-quarters of the 50 minute commute (wherein I'd read the London Evening Standard from cover to cover and vowed to myself, once again, that I would have to start bringing a book with me to stop myself going insane) when a chap suddenly plonked down in the seat next to me and took out a large A4 sized notepad, on which had been written the following :-

ME : "Dont despair, my children, for He shall look after you."
CONGREGATION : [applause]
ME : Insert `fly like an eagle' analogy. Pause for more applause. Tell those who sin will be forgiven. Those that hurt will be comforted. "Jesus does not reject anyone."
CONGREGATION [applause]

Fighting back the urge to take a good look at the (religious?/earnest?/spiritual lifestyle coach?) commuter next to me, I carefully extricated my mobile from my bag and began fiddling with its keys, in an effort to disguise the fact that I was now going to spend the rest of my journey having a good old, but surreptious, gog at what he was going to write next.

And it didnt disappoint.

Thunder. Darkness. Doom!

He wrote, just before stifling a tiny burp behind his earnestly religious fist.

And then :

He does not judge.

NOT JUDGE.

Everyone is welcome. Use *smile* here. And pause.

Speak softly. Remind them of THE WAY.

There is only ONE WAY.

*owls*

No deeper love than that which He can provide for YOU.

It was at this point I quickly locked my mobile phone handset. So engrossed had I become by the fevered cleric?/reverend?/preacher? next to me I'd taken my eyes off what my jabbing fingers were doing to my phone and had almost accidentally texted `fut me' to my hairdresser.

Oblivious to all of this, the chap next to me carried on :-

Jesus will not just teach you but will SHOW you :

THE MEANING OF LIFE.

Only if you open up your heart will Jesus tell you.

For it is simple, my children.

The meaning of life is

By now we were two stations away from my stop (i.e. the end of the line) and I was a few seconds away from suddenly knowing what life was all about. I mean, can you imagine? How exciting.

But then I noticed. He was packing up his stuff. He was putting away his pen and his notepad (with it's half finished sentence) and he was tidying up his bits.

Christ on a bike, I thought to myself (never missing out on a good old opportunity to blaspheme), talk about ruddy typical. The chap next to me was about to impart life's secrets but his journey had come to an end.

Feeling miffed about being denied such a big secret (well, OK, the largest secret in the world - that, and how come X-Factor and Celeb Big Brother are still going, but I guess no-one has the answer to that little thinker) I crossed my legs in frustration and re-started jabbing at my mobile, when the chap suddenly sat back down again, rifled through his bag for a bit and pulled out the pad once more.

Tearing off a tiny scrap of paper for writing on, it suddenly dawned me that, yes, now was not the time for writing such things of magnanimous proportions on a large A4 pad. Secrets such as this should be done in a more covert fashion. Lest others get hold of the news and turn its purity into darkness.

God, his turn of phrase is catching.

And, so he began to write once more on the tiny bit of paper, with an unusual intensity. Gawd this must be good I thought to myself, whilst I jabbed in hysterical fashion on my mobile, all the while feeling something enormous happening next to me. But, even though I'd crooked myself in to a really good peeking position (but without revealing I was peeking at the same time) I couldnt see what he'd blimmin' well written. A few letters were visible but not enough to make out what the whole message was.

Until, sweet Jesus on high, we finally pulled in to his stop, which made him gather up his things and accidentally force him to reveal (albeit briefly) his note to the really nosey female mobile phone jabbing commuter next door.

And what were his magic words?

They were :

1 chicken

Bananas

Return DVD

Updated Blogger Interface

2011-09-08T14:04:00.001+01:00

Just tried it. And I liked it. Sort of.

Except part of the screen was a little bit missing on the right hand side.

So I left feedback after reverting back to the `classic' interface. I dont generally do this but with an empty office and more time on my hands than I suddenly know what to do with I filled out Google's feedback form and even inserted a few extra details that, whilst not wholly unnecessary (like your breast size or what your last fart smelled like), were not really needed. Just in an effort to be helpful. And type in a bit more than `Nice' or `Well pukka' in response to their question `What do you think of our new interface?'.

And everything was going OK. Until I pressed `submit'.

Only to be greeted with :-

We'll? Shouldn't that be `will'?

So, and to summarise, my feedback form's been lost and I'm now being patronised by Google Docs.

So, Google Docs, how'd you like this feedback : "Eff off with your stupid `Oops!' Barbara Windsor style oo-silly-me-my-boobs-have-just-fallen-out-of-my-dress type message and submit my effin' form."

God, I'm in a bad mood.

Can you tell?

Thank You BT (from a Minesweeper `Expert')

2011-08-26T15:53:00.001+01:00

It's amazing the impact Broadband has on normal office life. When it's working fine it's easy to take it for granted (and so you ruddy well should given the amount you have to pay for the privilege) but when it goes tits up then it all gets interesting.

From my files I can see that we havent had a decent Broadband service from BT since March. And we're not talking about speed here (although that has cropped up from time to time). No we're talking about dropping out of service. Sometimes so frequent that you're reminded of Norman Collier and his `microphone not working' routine. BT have blamed this problem on our socket, then our router, then the new router that BT sent us, then a fault at the exchange, then line equipment, then our router again, then our socket again ... and, after two visits from BT engineers who could find nothing wrong with our office set up we sorta hit a brick wall.

Until the 9th of this month. When, from having a completely unstable and unreliable Broadband service, we had nothing.

Nada.

And this is when the office morphed in to a lower ground floor of Mayfair pure hell. Everyone had reached their wit's ends. Unable to make progress with BT and/or remain calm with members of their `Escalation Team', our nerves had hit breaking point and it was for this reason that London-Lass found herself dramatically threatening to leave her job, tears and snot running down face, hair everywhere.

An attractive sight, I think you'll agree.

For without Broadband (and any idea as to when we were gonna have a service) you suddenly find everything slows down. Your work piles up, your bosses are on your back, there's no effin' Internet and the world is black. And this is all whilst around you people are merrily e-mailing away (without a moment's thought), or tweeting, and laughing at you behind your special antiquated back.

Or, at least it felt like this anyway.

Gradually, however, calm was restored. Boss nipped out from office to acquire two nifty 3 Mobile dongles which, although a little slow, certainly kept the wolf from the door and enabled us to take short (ok, extremely brief) forays back into the world of Broadband (whilst our router lay in the corner of our office blinking in dormant fashion).

Our Broadband has finally been resurrected today (after drafting in numerous teams and engineers to fix all different sorts of problems at our exchange, BT have apparently ceased our old Broadband account and reinstated us with a brand new one) but, yes, you've guessed it, after only a coupla hours in we've already had three drop outs of service of about 10 minutes each.

A log has been kept of our shash-bollocks quality of a service since March (Word document, about 14 pages long) which also includes snippets of conversations with ultra-rude, unprofessional and generally hopeless `Escalation Department' Support Staff (one of which disappeared mid-problem solving to suddenly rush home to Poland to be by his ailing dad's side but then was back in the office the next day). To say we were pushed from pillar to post, would not describe how many people we have had to speak to since the early part of the year. Anyway, our log of events, along with an e-mailed record of messages between my bosses and Ian Livingston (CEO of BT) are being collated to use in possible Court action - bosses have still to decide how they are going to pursue this. Correspondence is also being drafted to Ofcom.

But (and this is the most important part of this post) whilst all this has been going on, there has been one silver lining. I've finally mastered Minesweeper at `Expert' level and below is proof of my skilful powers :-

`Expert' level complete - could life get any better?!

And for that I shall be evermore grateful to BT.

Without their hopelessly inadequate service, I would never know the sweet pure joy of finishing the game.

Cue : Very Dramatic Posting

2011-08-09T22:40:00.000+01:00

Imagine it's a hot summer's morning. Like most residential properties in the UK, your house does not come equipped with air-conditioning. It may well have `air cooling' (or so the little button says on your warm air heating central unit) but this does nothing apart from blow out a few pathetic gusts of air that's actually warmer than your own breath.

And so, to stop the house reeking of stuffy staleness, you take to opening up one of its front windows downstairs and the odd bedroom window upstairs. Otherwise all the occupants (including rescue doggie) inside would end up in a fainty collapse and gasping for air like recently netted fish.

I'm sure you get the picture.

And so, whilst getting your brekkie ready and sorting out iron and ironing board for your work clothes, you dont notice that through opening up a coupla windows to freshen up the internal stuffiness something has got in to the house, something so huge it does not really belong in a clean and tidy home with nice neat sofas and piccies on the wall, and which should, by rights, be safely stored in a glass box in some museum or house of curiosities for people to pry and marvel at safe in the knowledge that it cannot get at them.

Unlike poor London-Lass who whilst inserting toast in the toaster, and having a bit of a gog at what the neighbours across the road were doing, still hadnt realised that she was just mere inches from having a very nasty contratante with something large and lethal.

And, blind to the fact that this evil monstrosity sat perched on one of her kitchen blinds, she ironed away at her work clothes before happily shoved iron and ironing board back in cupboard and returning back upstairs, little knowing that something of supreme foulness was waiting for her on her return for some breakfast.

Which took place about 15 minutes later.

Brother and rescue doggie, Daisy, were, by this point, also in the kitchen. Brother was in the middle of making Daisy's breakfast whilst Daisy attempted to will her full doggie bowl off the counter and into her salivating gob and I was just about to let him know about the feverish row I'd heard our next door neighbours partake in when ...

... my eyes ...

... caught sight of ...

o ... my ... word ...

THIS!!!!

Effin' ell!

Measuring around 4-5 cms in length, it lay on the bottom part of our kitchen blind as London-Lass struggled to talk, or breathe, or operate as a normal human being. In fact, if I hadnt just been to the loo, I'm sure there would have been some rear door pouch action too.

"God that's not real!" I finally managed to blurt out, causing my brother to whirl around, spoon in hand, bowl in other, as I desperately tried to locate a can of fly spray from beneath the sink.

"What's going on?" he cried, following my line of sight, although still not catching on to what I'd seen as the enormous insect with the gi-normous striped body was somehow camouflaged by the neutral tones of our kitchen blind.

But this was fine. My brother, after developing a severe allergy to wasp and bee stings when little, is highly phobic of the blighters too and having someone whirling around in panic whilst trying to take a careful aim at the bloated insect body could have only ended up in disaster.

But then my chubby (nearly 40-year old fingers) found the can of fly spray and with one deft manoeuvre I vaulted to the bin and zapped the insect with the spray - to watch it fall off, plip, directly in to the bin below (which, as luck would have it, had been sitting with it's bin lid slightly open to receive the insect body as it fell off its perch).

And, as this all happened so quick, my brother still couldnt figure out what I'd actually sprayed although by the sweat on my top lip and the fact I was clutching the can of air spray as if my life depended on it may have been a bit of a strong clue that I hadnt just exterminated a blue bottle.

"What was it?" my brother gasped.

"A ... hornet" I replied, all quavering and high.

"What??!" my brother cried, reeling back, and stepping behind me. "Well where is it now?"

"In the bin" I replied, tip-toeing over towards the bin to see if I could hear anything.

"Are you sure?" my brother asked, getting a bit gibbery now, "I mean, did you actually see it go in ... it didnt (quick shudder) fall behind it did it?"

"No it definitely fell in," I replied, leaning in closer to the bin, only to suddenly hear a faint, but rather angry, buzzing coming from within. "There - can you hear that?"

Blessed with only partial hearing, my brother had to lean in closer but either due to the lowness of the buzzing or the fact it wasnt the loudest of noises my brother was unable to hear the hornet and started, again, to become convinced it had dropped down next to the bin. Or somewhere else in the kitchen.

And it was then that two little hornet legs suddenly jabbed out from under the bin lid causing it to flap slightly in an alarming manner.

"What the f-?!" I yelled, whilst picking up the fly spray and flooding the bin with all its insecticide goodness.

"Get it!" my brother yelled, pulling Daisy behind him.

Unbelievably the legs continued to poke out in a probing fashion and part of the head began to emerge and what with the mountain of fly spray foam that was beginning to bubble out from and run down the side of the bin, the increasingly stressed and growly rescue doggie and my highly phobic highly allergic brother, it was rather inevitable that I should end up letting out a rather large fart of panic.

Only for everything to suddenly get quiet. The hornet gave up its fight and plopped back inside the bin. My brother stopped pacing and put down the bowl and spoon. And Daisy stopped fretting and started quietly sniffing in the direction of the bin instead.

The hornet was dead and we were all (blessedly) alive. Although we were lucky. It was only on researching this particular species of insect that I discovered we should really have just sucked it up with a hoover (and left it to die of dehydration if the actual hoovering up hadnt already killed it) and not sprayed the blimmin' thing as a hornet, much like a wasp, emits a chemical when attacked that encourages any other hornets in the vicinity to come and attack anything that's been bothering it (in a defensive nest protection manoeuvre). And when hornets attack they dont just sting you once (in a `let that be a lesson to you' type fashion) but will repeatedly sting you over and over, and bite you too (just in case you felt like you were missing out somewhat in the insect assaulting procedure).

Horrible things .. and certainly ones I would not rather come up against any time soon.

(shudder)

So Good They Named It Twice

2011-07-24T12:55:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was a good day. After the previous Saturday's line up of `Brucie-bonus' double barbecues (work and family) and, of course, all the (hic) drinking, we were both looking forward to a plan-free Saturday (with a bit of a lay-in).

Well, London-Lass managed a niblet of a lay-in. Chuppies, instead, rose at 8.00am to do battle with a suspension kit that needed to be returned back to Germany (via Parcelforce) for a refund. After much fighting with cellotape and packaging, London-Lass was pulled from her slumber at 8.15am to help get the kit boxed up. Whilst trying to keep my boobs and hair out of the way (I had just a pair of holey knickers to cover my dignity) I carefully duck taped up the parcel and after much thumping of the box (to make sure it was sturdy) and tossing the box around (to make sure it wouldnt break) the Chuppies hauled the box down his two flights of steps and down the road to the local Post Office.

Not before quickly yelling over his shoulder : "Let's go for a picnic!"

It had finally stopped raining, you see, and what with the fact it looked a bit brighter outside (although you couldnt see the sky with the almost total cloud cover), it was July (even if it didnt - brrr - feel like it) and the returning of the parcel had finally been completed, the Chuppies was obviously in a devil-may-care `al fresco' humour.

Which was fine. I like eating outside (food always tastes different) and it wouldnt take a sec to knock up some scones, whip up some double cream (for the scones) do some sandwiches, prepare a coupla Scotch eggs, and fill up a flask of tea (for the Chuppies). But not before taking care of dinner (pea, onion and leak soup) with homemade bread.

And, so, from 9.00am-noon London-Lass cooked and poured and sliced and bagged until everything was done and we could head over to the nearby park for a bit of a walk, a bit of a sit and a bit of a picnic. By this point, however, the clouds had turned a little ominous looking and I think that, as I took my first bite from me Scotch egg, I heard a few rumbles of thunder :-

Imposing park house. Angry clouds.

but it was worth it to be able to have a peek at a flock of swifts that had taken to swooping and swirling around our park bench. The park's main house was also having a bit of a do on (wedding reception) so there was much fun to be had in having a good old gog at all the awkward-looking guests going in and out of the house whilst eating our sarnies and gulping back the scones.

After a coupla hours of rubber necking and eating, we returned back to the Chuppies' flat (if only for a bit of a warm up). Squirreled under a faux fur cover, the Chuppies stretched out on top of London-Lass and went to sleep pretty much straightaway (he had missed out on his morning's lay-in after all) leaving London-Lass to have a happy watch of the Hitchcock classic `Rope' from under his feet.

As the closing credits came up, London-Lass roused the snoozing Chuppies to sort out our on-line booking for flights to New York later this year!

It will be the third visit for London-Lass and first visit for the Chuppies. This time around, however, London-Lass will be staying in a 4* hotel (which will make a slight change to the gloriously basic Hotel Pennsylvania that housed London-Lass on her first visit to the City nine years ago). The Chuppies cant wait and has already drawn up a long list of food to try out. Hopefully visiting the popular tourist attractions can be fitted in around all the gulping and swallowing.

New York a.k.a. `The Big Apple'. And probably the only
thing the Chuppies wont have eaten during his stay.

And then it was time for dinner. Pea soup was liquidized, bread warmed up and, whilst filling our stomachs on the Exorcist-looking concoction :-

Thick pea soup & home-made bread. Tasty. But bit Exorcist.

we watched `Cars' on the tele.

Day was finished off with a few tots of sherry for London-Lass and a couple of spork*-fuls of left over whipped double cream for the Chuppies.

*handy camp-site invention, being neither just a fork or a spoon, but both at the same time. Brilliant.

Eureka

2011-07-19T14:49:00.000+01:00

I finally found it.

The solution for all my problems (well, for last weekend anyway).

Those problems being :-

getting through a social occasion wherein the only person I'd know there was Chuppies (and, of course, myself).

getting through a Chuppies' family BBQ shortly afterwards

It's been staring me in the face all this time and I just havent seen it til now.

Yes, the cure to all the above evils is/was :-

A-L-C-O-H-O-L

And lots of it.

Symptoms : worry you wont be able to keep the conversation flowing. Medication : two glasses of white wine (such as Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc). Outlook : good to firm - free and easy chatter, much fun for all. Possible side effects : armpit sweat breakout, occasional fart.

Symptoms : afraid of looking an idiot in front of a crowd of people you dont know. Medication : another glass of white wine (such as Blossom Hill Chardonnay). Outlook : fair to middling - still capable of witty banter as long as lengthy words are avoided. Possible side effects : achingly full bladder, forehead sweat breakout.

Symptoms : frightened that you'll come across as dull and rather boring. Medication : another glass of white wine (such as Kumala Colombard). Outlook : average to soft - sentences are now kept to one word as letters `r', `l' and `p' have become troublesome. Possible side effects : everyone else will become instantly better looking, possible entrancement by one's own reflection. Frequent trips to the lavatory.

Symptoms : anxious about being in a room full of people that hate your soddin' guts? Medication : another glass of white wine (such as Black Tower Pinot Grigio). Outlook : mushy to drenched - spirits and cheerfulness are at an all time high but ability to communicate is extremely low (conversation will now consist of grunts, smiles and gestures). Possible side effects : strong hankerings for a big sing-a-long or to hump everyone within close proximity. High risk of forgetting to use the lavatory.

Another benefit of consuming copious amounts of alcohol is failure to recall much, if anything, about both events. And, as the Chuppies is still talking to me, I can only assume that, even after the gargantuan amount of wine, I didnt embarrass either him or myself, that both social occasions went without a hitch and, whilst I am unable to remember anything from 1pm on Saturday afternoon to waking up on Sunday morning, this seems a small price to pay for getting me through almost 10 hours of what would have ordinarily been pure torture.

Just hope my liver holds up.

Manners Maketh Man

2011-07-14T11:51:00.000+01:00

I think I would safely fall in to the category of yer average commuter. In that, I always try to avoid getting involved in random conversations with people when on the tube - for this is wrong. Talking with others (even if their shoulders, thighs and perhaps even other parts of their person are feverishly pressed up against yours in jampacked rush hour) is a foolish and weird activity to indulge in.

Furthermore, I am a professional when it comes to grumbling under my breath when the tube goes wonky (a common occurrence) but even worse than an amateur when it comes do doing anything proactive like, say, actively campaigning outside LU's HQ for a better service or writing to my local MP or having a sit down protest on a tube carriage or ... well you get my jist. Instead, after hearing usual crap service announcement, I'll sit for a bit (whilst still carefully avoiding any tube carriage conversations that might crop up), sweat a touch, go a bit red, mumble for a while and then storm off the train to walk to work instead.

This `ignoring everyone else' I have off to a fine art and should eye contact be unfortunately (and/or frighteningly) made at any point during tube journey, eyes are quickly averted either downwards to floor, upwards to carriage adverts, or frontwards to free newspaper.

However, sometimes I can break out from my braindead commuting android shell and this morning was one of those mornings.

My tube train carriage was relatively full and in the centre of the commuters standing in the middle of the aisle (and clutching the central pole) stood a woman. Holding an umbrella and a bottle of water I watched (furtively) from behind my free newspaper as I slowly realised she had begun to crouch down every now and again in a sort of `semi unwell' type manner, whilst still holding on to the central pole. However, still unsure if I might be mistaken and that she might, in fact, just be picking about in one of her bags that she had on the floor or she'd dropped something, I did nowt at first but continued to read my article about an Australian sheepdog that could put on washing for its owner and fetch its beer (or something). A few minutes later, however, I caught a glimpse of some unmistakable forehead wiping from the crouching woman and, after hearing a bit of a pained sigh from her direction, I broke free from my android programming, touched her on the shoulder and asked if she wanted to sit down.

But then it all went a bit weird.

"Your seat?" the woman queried, looking puzzled, but rather grey and sweaty nonetheless.

"Er ... " I began, beginning to pine for my former robotic status.

"Er ... " she also replied, but not before picking up her bags and shuffling to my seat, all the while looking at me as if I'd attempted to pinch her purse. Or her buttocks.

And then I heard a snigger. Unmistakably. And coming from the woman sitting directly opposite.

Feeling like a bit of an idiot now, I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances.

I turned back in to automaton mode.

I ignored the sniggering woman.

Batted off the stares from the woman I gave my seat up for.

And, with my head held high, escaped from the tube carriage as fast as my little C-3PO legs would carry me.

Things People Say - Parts I & II

2011-07-05T12:20:00.000+01:00

PART ONE

Central Line tube train carriage. This morning. Bout 7.55am. All seats taken up - everyone else jam packed in the central aisles. Across from me sits a chap. Bout 30(ish). Clean shaven. Dressed almost entirely in beige. Head cocked to one side. Mobile phone pressed to ear. Deep in very quiet, very intense telephone conversation.

To which I wasnt listening.

Well, not that much anyway.

I'd actually just found an interesting article in the Metro (of all things) re. Millie Dowler/voicemail hacking, etc., etc., and what with the news report, the busy tube train carriage and the fact that we were already delayed in our journey (due to an earlier defective train and passenger incident ahead) I quickly forgot about the man. And his phone. And his intense chit-chatting.

Until, that is, he suddenly barked out : "No!"

Sharp as you like.

Setting my ears to maximum eaves-drop.

Along with the rest of the tube train carriage.

Conversations lulled. Any and all fidgeting ceased. Scratching and nose-picking subsided. Some chap even zipped back up his trousers.

As everyone (and, by this, I mean 100% of the commuting populace on that carriage) suddenly strained to catch on as to what the chap was saying. Cos it sounded quite interesting. And not yer usual `I'm on the train ... yep, ON the train ... the TRAIN ... YEH - THE TRAIN!!" nonsense to be heard every morning on the tube. And every evening.

"Yes, I stayed over last night but I refuse to keep having the same conversation with you," mobile phone man continued on, beige legs crossing in front of him, body posture suddenly stiffening.

And then he barked another "No!", all edgy and that, totally oblivious to the aisle standing people who had shuffled a few millimetres closer to catch on to what was being said.

Giving up on my article I settled down to a good listen all the while pretending to continue to read - as did the commuter to my left who appeared to have got stuck on Page 57 of her `203 Ways How to Drive a Man Wild in Bed' paperback she had opened up on entering the tube. Although perhaps she'd found an interesting piece of prose.

"I ... will ... not ... have ... this ... conversation ... with ... you ... now," the man vocally stabbed in to his mobile, whilst crossing his legs again, and fiddling with his collar. "No, Julie ... not now ... Julie? Julie?!"

So the caller was called Julie I thought to myself - as, I think, did the rest of the tube carriage. One woman at this point had even frozen mid-makeup, unaware that she now resembled the iconic poster for Clockwork Orange - all lopsided with too much mascara. (Unless of course that was the look she was after - in which case, go girl!)

"Fine! No, that's fine. You choose now to talk to me after practically ignoring me since God knows when. You're late for work, I'm late for work, and yet you choose now to start talking!" the man yelled incredulously in to this mobile, beginning to sweat. I think he may at this juncture have applied a cupped hand to his mobile in, I think, an effort to conceal his conversation from the rest of the tube who, by now, were totally silent and hanging on to mobile phone man's telephone mutterings.

Which were getting louder.

"Julie, I've got to go. Julie?!" the man barked, in panic and alarm. "Look I'm hanging up. I'm going in to a tunnel. Julie? Yes, I'm going. Bye!"

And he clicked the mobile shut.

Everyone let out their breath. And I think someone farted.

"Sorry about that," the chap said to his commuting neighbour - but really also to the rest of the carriage who had been on the precipices of normal tube behaviour (i.e. ignoring everyone but in a loud, rude and pushy type way) but had suddenly stiffened to see if anything further might come after the apology.

Which it did.

"Erm, that was my wife, " the man continued on, putting his mobile away and mopping his upper lip.

"O I see," the next door commuter replied in a fidgety uncomfortable manner. I mean it was all very well listening to a very interesting mobile conversation but having to talk to the person who'd just been yammering on the phone. Talk about the sheer cheek of the fella!

"Yes, she is the jealous sort, " the mobile phone man carried on, unaware that the next door commuter looked as if poised to flee, although there was no way out, the tube was stuck in yet another tunnel, and he now had to make conversation with the chap.

"Yes, er, ha ha, sounded like she's trouble" the next door commuter blurted out in a struggling type fashion, coughing slightly as he did so.

"Ha! That's one way of putting it ... o man .. she has to know where I am EVERY second of EVERY day ... " the mobile phone man continued, smoothing down his beige shirt and picking bits of fluff off his beige trousers.

"O, well my wife's the same," another commuter suddenly spoke up, to the mobile phone man's right.

"Sorry to hear that, " the mobile phone man sympathised.

"Yeh 10 years married, never been unfaithful, and she still dont trust me." the second commuter went on, grimacing as he spoke.

"I understand," mobile phone man replied. "So I didnt get home the other night? I DID text her to let her know. And so it was with two female work colleagues? Again, I texted her that nothing was going on. But did she believe me?"

"Wimmen," the second commuter muttered, still grimacing like a bulldog with toothache. "Are they born naturally suspicious?"

"Mebbe," the mobile phone man responded, "or mebbe it's because I snogged my secretary at the works Christmas party last year. But I did text her to say that nothing else happened."

PART TWO

Chuppies' sis-in-law hates me. Am unclear as to reasoning behind this only in that it started from the first time we met. Although it's not been a straightforward run of mild irritation, then dislike, then hatred and then on to outright loathing (which is where we are today, dear reader). No. It's been outright loathing on sight (i.e. the very first time she met me), through to casual but relatively detached liking, all the way back to outright loathing.

So it probably wont come as that much of a surprise for you to learn that, following my first meeting with her (and the rest of the Chuppie family) back in February 2007, she nursed a hatred for me that was so overwhelming she had to put her feelings down in a nasty, but fairly lengthy, piece of text on a social networking site, inviting others to comment. Which, according to the Chuppies, was not Facebook, but something similar. And, whilst this news is very old (historically), I only found this out recently.

Unfortunately on this occasion, however, my detective skills have let me down. I have been unable to find her snarly little rant (although this may or may not be to do with the fact that the Chuppies, on reading her message all those years ago, told her to instantly delete it whilst telling her that there wasnt going to be anymore of that nonsense). But, now I'm curious. I want to know (no, scrap that, NEED to know) what was said. The Chuppies claims to not remember it `word for word' but does remember it being on the lines of me thinking I was better than the Chuppie family and I was some sort of snob, etc., etc.

Perfect timing, anyway, for the Chuppie family BBQ in ... oo ... about two weekend's time.

CANT COOK WONT COOK

2011-07-01T15:42:00.000+01:00

I thought I could cook.

I was wrong.

Yeh, I can do simple (sloppy, slurpy) things like stews (boil it up in a casserole dish, bung it in the oven, bish, bosh, bash, jobs a good'un), pies and crumbles (boil up the fruit, bung it in the pastry or under the crumble, cook it for a bit, wallop, cushty, job's done).

But it seems that the humble tart has foxed me. Foxed me like the amateur kitchen person that I am.

And it was going to be so nice. I was making it for me folks' BBQ tomorrow - yes, everyone was gonna be stuffed on BBQ goodness, but what could be nicer to round off all the feasting than with a nice zesty lemon tartlet (and a dob or two of crème fraîche)?

However, my (lack of) cooking skills got in the way of these best laid plans and, whilst the pastry turned out a dream, I may have rolled it out too thin and it may have ended up forming a crack during the cooking process allowing the filling to leak through said pastry crackage, not cook properly round the sides and adhere the lemon tart to the baking sheet so firmly that I think it's gonna take more than a wee while before I can shift the tart and then clean the whole thing up.

Photographic evidence of ruined tart :-

Ruined tart. Bugger.

Close up of heinous pastry crackage :-

Crust crack. Crap.

And this is how it's made me feel :-

P*ssed off. Grr.

London-Lass Reporting In (Random Waffle Nothing Important)

2011-06-28T11:31:00.000+01:00

Summer is finally here. Temps yesterday were 33C and the city air had turned into a polluted moist fug. One of my bosses (who has a tendency to overheat anyway on a cool crisp autumn day) was awash with rivers of sweat and his face had turned an interesting shade of magenta.

"Christ it's hot out there," he moaned dramatically, whilst pulling at his odd `summer outfit' - which consisted of unusual top, shameful shorts (revealing unique legs), and pair of sunglasses constantly perched atop recently coloured hair. His hair has now, I think, turned grey but in order to keep `pleasing the ladies' (his phraseology, not mine) he dyes it at regular intervals a weird washed out tone of brown. Suspect this might be Grecian 2000 or a similar product, although still havent worked out why his eyebrows every coupla months or so turn a weird shade of orange. But who am I to judge if the overall result does indeed delight the opposite sex?

Speaking of which, the Chuppies tried to do the very same the weekend just gone. Although the opposite sex referred to here would be as in the opposite to London-Lass (i.e. it was a man in this instance) and not to the Chuppies.

(forgive me for the weak linkage here but it's my blog)

Anyway, me and the Chuppies were out walking through a small village at the weekend and happened to pass a house with an old dude climbing up a ladder outside. Old guy appeared to be in the middle of affixing a brand new alarm on the front of house and had perched his ladder on the front of his house in a rather precarious manner. That, coupled with the fact, that there was no-one guarding the ladder for the old guy got the Chuppies all worked up and frothy.

"O dear ... the ladder ... the man ... the risk ... " the Chuppies muttered as he watched the old chap begin to make his perilous climb. "Do you think I should ... you know ... offer to ... foot his ladder for him?"

London-Lass, who had just been trying to extricate her summer top from her buttocks (which always seems to happen in the heat), glanced round to watch the old guy suddenly come back down the ladder, go in to his house and shut his door.

"Well ... yeh ... wouldnt do any harm. But it looks like he's gone back in doors. How about we carry on walking to the village shop, get ice-creams-"

-at this news, the Chuppies let out a little squeal-

"-and then come back the same way? If he's about then, go and help him."

And so the plan was hatched. The Chuppies and London-Lass carried on with their Sunday stroll to the shop, procured two Cornettos, and trundled back with melting icecream getting everywhere (the Chuppies eats so fast his food ends up all over the place and London-Lass is just impossibly clumsy).

And so, after dusting themselves off and wiping their sticky fingers clean, the Chuppies and London-Lass returned back to the lane they'd just been on. And there as clear as day was the old chap again. This time two-thirds of the way up the steeply inclined ladder. Balancing a heavy box on one of his shoulders and grasping out with his other hand in a frighteningly dangerous way.

(think that scene where Chevy Chase is fixing Christmas lights on to his house in `National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation' and you'll come pretty close to what was going on)

At this point the Chuppies began to get all punchy and restless again and walked, albeit slightly hesitantly, towards the old guy's front gate.

"Hi there," the Chuppies called out trying, I think, to use a tone of voice that says you wanna get someone's attention but also dont want to startle them into falling off a ladder. He succeeded, I am pleased to report, as the chap did indeed stop what he was doing, looked towards the Chuppies and there was no falling from ladder type stuff at all.

"Hi .. yes ... er sorry to disturb you whilst you're busy, " the Chuppies continued, "but I just wondered if you'd like me to foot your ladder for you ...?"

Aww that's my boy, London-Lass thought, as she smiled and hugged herself whilst sighing proudly.

The old man smiled.

Swallowed and thought for a bit.

Looked at the Chuppies and then at London-Lass.

And said : "NO! NOW LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!"

Primed and Ready (Part II)

2011-06-26T15:50:00.001+01:00

At 10.55am the scones were done.

I'd tied back my hair, applied my makeup and Chuppies had got himself dressed.

Finding ourselves suddenly `in limbo' ... we watched and waited from the Chuppies' kitchen window to await the arrival of our first viewer. Which London-Lass then found out wasnt the chap coming in for his second viewing. But it was gonna be the brand new first viewing first, and then the second viewing afterwards. Which was fine. After all the flat was ready, it stank of scones and if the person viewing the flat for the first time ended up leaving the flat as the chap for the second viewing arrived then (hopefully) that might spur the chap in for the second viewing in to upping his offer to something a bit more substantial. As mentioned in my Updates ... post, we'd already received an offer on the flat from him (but it was far too low).

And, as luck would have it, a crossover between the two openings was exactly what happened. After realising that the clock was showing 11.15am, and there was still no sign of the brand new fresh viewer (whose appointment had been booked for 11 o'clock) me and the Chuppies began to feel that it was never gonna happen. After pacing in the kitchen for a bit we went to go and sit down - only for Chuppies to look outside the kitchen window momentarily and say : "Hang on ... " and then point at the security intercom on the wall.

"What? What's going on?" London-Lass queried, all lost and confused.

"I just saw a chap ... with a dog ... walk past ... then double back ... look up ... then come in to the front ... and I think-" began the Chuppies, only to be interrupted by his security intercom buzzer.

"Is it-?" London-Lass bleated, all excited and stuff, only to have the Chuppies waft her hands away to answer the intercom.

"Hello?" the Chuppies said, listened for a bit, and then pressed the access button to let the caller in. "It's him ... the man with the dog ... "

"What? A big dog?" London-Lass asked, wondering about the two flights of stairs to the Chuppies' flat, and how that would work.

"Looked like a Jack Russell" Chuppies replied, whilst walking towards his front door and staring through his peephole. "Aww ... "

"What?" London-Lass asked again.

"He's ... got the ... dog under his ... arm" the Chuppies explained in almost a stage whisper.

Suddenly not sure what to do with herself (or how to stand) London-Lass then spent the next few seconds reminding herself how to be a human being, and then the front door was opened. And a very tall. Very fair. And very gay chap ~~pranced~~ walked in.

"Hello!" he beamed as he manoeuvred himself through the front door past the Chuppies.

"Hi!" we both called out.

In the chap's arms sat a messy wire-haired Jack Russell (who I later found out was about 3 years old and very friendly) who quietly blinked at the flats walls and then yawned a little bit.

"Sorry, I'm a first time buyer, so not really sure what to do ...", the chap squeaked as he tentatively took a few steps further inside the flat and peeked round to take in the Chuppies' (enormous) bedroom. "Oo, it's large, very nice."

And so the comments continued on a similar vein, with London-Lass (being the nosey cow that she is) coaxing out little bits of information from the chappie with the little well-behaved doggie under his arm.

"So, do you know this town at all?" London-Lass queried, whilst beginning to croon at the Jack Russell.

"Not really no" the chap replied, slightly nervously, with a few beads of sweat on his upper lip. "I'm being led by my budget as where I currently live is far too expensive."

"Whereabouts are you based?" London-Lass asked. And it was then that the chap said London-Lass' original home town.

"No really?" London-Lass exclaimed. "That's where I come from!"

"O wow" the guy replied, not before suddenly looking London-Lass up and down in only the way that a ~~queen~~ curious fella would do. And then it got even stranger as it turned out that he lived in the very same road that my one of (ex) step-aunts lives in. Step-aunt cos she is my mum's sister but does not have the same mum as my mum. And `(ex)' cos she decided to naff off and never speak to my mum (nor me, dad and bro) shortly after my mum was diagnosed with emphysema.

"God what a small world," the chap replied as he took in the rest of the flat and then (after being told by London-Lass) put his Jack Russell on the floor to let it have a bit of a sniff.

"There - so what do you think of your new home?" he asked his little sniffing doggie (which made London-Lass' and Chuppies' ears prick up a bit).

And then, suddenly, the intercom buzzer was going again - it was the second viewing chappie, he'd brought his dad with him and he was on his way up!

We both apologised to the chappie who was now standing in Chuppies' hall with an odd expression on his face, asked him if he had any further questions ("No sorry, I'm a first timer at this sort of thing, so a bit crap at this, sorry"), and then bid him goodbye - just as the second viewing chappie arrived at the Chuppies' front door with his dad.

Talk about good timing.

Chap for the second viewing was a young whipper-snapper (early 20s I would guess) and his dad reminded me of a worn out mini-cabber (all beer belly, tattoos and bulldog face). However, dad was thorough, straightforward, seemed interested (as did the whipper-snapper) and after showing the flat again, and having a bit of a chat, it wasnt long before it was time for them to go.

"Well what did you think of them?" London-Lass asked the Chuppies as we walked to the window overlooking the flats' communal gardens.

"Not sure about the first ... he seemed a bit vague ... but I think the second viewing went Ok ... although ... o dear ... no this cant be happening ... "

And it was then London-Lass looked down to follow the Chuppies' line of sight to spot the second viewing chappie with his dad talking to one of the tenants in the next block along from Chuppies. Sounding out a neighbour is, I appreciate, a pretty common thing to do if you're interested in a property ... but why did they have to run into the tenant who hasnt worked for years (signed off by his doc due to `anxiety'), spends most of his days doing nothing, has a dog that he walks in the communal gardens that is totally out of control, and seems happiest when striding around topless wearing just a pair of wee shorts tucked underneath his enormous, but deeply tanned, beer belly.

"O Christ, no" the Chuppies mewled, whilst crossly paffing the air with his fists.

"O God", London-Lass whimpered, as she hunkered down to see if she could catch any snippets of the conversation happening outside.

Unfortunately, either the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, or London-Lass' hearing is shot, but it was impossible to make out what they were chatting about. However, given that the tenant looks like a bit of a down & out, he's fond of having a right good old swear and his dog can be a bit `bitey', I think it would be a fair conclusion to make that there wont be any amazing offers following the two viewings we had today (and we wont be properly house-hunting any time soon).

Fingers crossed tomorrow evening's viewing (at 7.00pm, set your microwave timers) is a tad more successful.

Primed and Ready (Part I)

2011-06-26T10:09:00.001+01:00

It's 9.45am.

I'm showered.

As is the Chuppies.

The flat has just been thoroughly cleaned - see below for evidence :-

Slop Bucket


Chuppies cleaning his blinds (NB : not to be taken as some sort of filthy euphemism)


Scone dough (primed)

Scones (cut, brushed with eggy milk and ready for some strategic cooking)

At 10.40am, oven shall be cranked up to 200C, scones will be cooked for 15 mins and flat will be filled with home baked smell so powerful that second viewer, who is scheduled to arrive at 11am (with his mum), will be overcome by the sheer greatness of it all and offer will be made for the full asking price.

Second viewer, who is due to arrive at 11.30am, will also be so overwhelmed by the pure power that is freshly baked scones, will beg and plead with us to give him the property instead. An even higher price will be offered and me and the Chuppies will be house-hunting in Thorpe Bay next weekend.

This is the plan.

It will not fail.

Repeat.

NOT FAIL.

Do you hear me?!

Updates ...

2011-06-24T12:55:00.000+01:00

Daisy

It was 7.15am on Sunday and Chuppies, bro and me - unlike most sensible people - were wide-awake and packing bro's car for the journey up to Solihull to meet and greet (and hopefully collect) Daisy. As a fairly long day in the car stretched ahead of us coupled with the distinct possibility that we'd have a rescue doggy travelling back with us on the return journey, we arranged for the following :-

Bro would drive, Chuppies would navigate and I would ... well ... I would `be there when needed'

Everyone would wear crap clothing in anticipation of making return journey with possible vomiting and poohing machine - note careful selection by `80s throwback' London-Lass of granny leggings and highly dubious lumberjack style shirt

A toilet roll would be brought (for unmentionable spills), water and bowl would be brought (for possibly thirsty doggy) and sandwiches and scotch eggs would be brought (for the Chuppies - since he starts feeling faint if he has to go for more than two hours without something in his mouth)

London-Lass would just make do with a Diet Coke.
And, no, that is not my hip (but the car seat).
Yes, those are my boots.
And, no, I'm not an Eskimo.

With arrangements in place we waved a cheery goodbye to our (dogless) house and zoomed off up to Solihull (not before getting petrol and a bit more Diet Coke for London-Lass). And so began the journey. Which wasnt actually too bad. Although this was the opinion of London-Lass safely cocooned in the back seat watching the clouds go by and not that of the Chuppies (who seemed to spend most of his time blinking over an unclear print out of a tiny map) and my brother (who had to spend nearly three hours stuck behind a steering wheel and wondering what was facing him at the other end).

But then we were there. At a small ex-working farm. Now being used as kennels. And where Daisy was being fostered until she found her `forever home'.

With trembling hearts, legs and arses we extricated ourselves from the confines of my bro's car and walked towards the farmhouse to be greeted by the kennel owner (who'd seen us pull up).

"Hello, come in, come in!" she cried as she bundled us in to her living-room and offered us a cup of tea.

About half an hour then went by as we learnt a bit more about Daisy, about the kennels and about Border Terriers in general. Having 60+ years worth of experience in handling, showing and breeding this type of dog we were all ears, although turned politely deaf at the suggestion that we should use garlic as a natural flea prevention, not to bother so much with bathing but just a brush and towel down if necessary, and not to have Daisy neutered. If there was one thing we were certain of, it was that Daisy would be quickly de-wormed, de-fleaed, de-wombed and de-ponged. But we kept this to ourselves as the owner carried on chatting until she uttered the magic words :-

"So, d'ya wanna meet Daisy then?"

Sitting bolt upright in our seats with frighteningly large smiles on our faces, we braced ourselves (although for what I'm not exactly sure) as the kennel owner disappeared into the kitchen and made her way outside to where Daisy was being kept along with all the other kennel-ers.

And I think it was at this point I farted.

Although I'm not sure. As there was suddenly a weird chorus of multiple excited barks and yelps coming from outside.

And then we heard the kitchen door open.

And, suddenly, in our midst (and snaking round our legs) was a little, matted and rather smelly, Border Terrier, called Daisy.

Mewling, laughing and kicking up our legs with glee, we all dived in to say hello and, after coming up for air, took Daisy the Border Terrier out for a walk. To see if we'd get along with her. And that she'd get along with us.

Which we did. As did she. See below for photographic evidence :-

Bro getting along with Daisy. Daisy getting along with bro.

So we got her. And quick as a snap (Ok - another three hours later) were back home with Daisy, bathing, brushing, stroking and feeding her.

See below for evidence of brand sparkly new Daisy :-

Daisy - clean & proud

She's been in our lives now for approx five days and already the Chuppies is in love with her, there is a magical bond forming between her and my bro and I cant seem to stop tearing up every time I talk to her. As she is very cute. And sweet. Passive but playful. Aloof but affectionate. Stubborn yet willing to please.

She's off to the vets next week for a check-up and claw clipping session, during which an appointment will also be made to get her spayed.

Her history is a little muddled - yet more comprehensive than Peggy's - but, in summary, she is nearly five years old and it would appear that she has only had a negative experience of females in the past. Hence I think this is why I want to break down and cry every time I'm in her presence. Which I havent yet - although I will admit to getting on all fours the other night to croon in helpless fashion at her little otter face.

The Chuppies' Flat

We not only have had viewings (goddammit) since taking on these new agents but we've so far had an offer made (although too low) and a second viewing taking place this weekend. I mean talk about a total change from the last firm we went with. Might the Chuppies and I be finally on the road to selling his gaff ... ?

London Olympics 2012

So after disinterestedly applying for some tickets in a bored fashion a few weeks ago I suddenly find myself the proud owner of a pair of tickets to watch athletics next August! The Chuppies is rather excited about the whole thing although a little disappointed that the tickets were not for volleyball (female) or gymnastics (female).

So that's all my news. How have you been?

A Simple Exercise ...

2011-06-14T10:00:00.000+01:00

... in how not to make contact with a celebrity who you've had a soft spot for since you were old enough to appreciate his ample sexiness and all round devilish charm.

-o0O0o-

After much ermm-ing and ahh-ing, register account with Twitter.

Tweet a couple of times, quickly lose interest, abandon the whole plan.

Two years later register with Twitter again and tweet a bit more. Discover that this does not make you a total sad case (nor, unfortunately, bestow you with instant youthfulness) but instead is just a bit entertaining. And, on occasions, quite interesting.

After logging in to account a few times, realise that there are a fair few celebrities that also tweet. Who can be `followed'. After which you can tweet at them (if you wish) or watch silently, stroking your PC screen whenever they tweet (optional activity).

And, one tweeting celeb is, goddammit :-

YOUR SOFT SPOT

Giggle like a crazy loon after spotting his name on the list then go to the ladies for a bit to calm yourself down.

Return back to desk, do a bit of ermm-ing and ahh-ing for about half an hour and after much sweating over keyboard finally click on the `magic tick' next to soft spot's Twitter image and excitedly follow his tweets, whilst kicking up legs on office desk and giggling with gay abandon (optional activity).

After reading soft spot's tweets for a few days suddenly decide that, By Jove, you will make contact! Although at the same time must not appear stalkerish nor tweet at him with just any old thing - for he must know that amidst all his many millions of fans there is one that is so unique and wonderful and, etc., etc., that on reading your carefully crafted tweet, will dump his wife and kids, and have you in a trice - yes, this will be what will happen!

So you hatch a plan. The tweet will be :-

witty
punchy
unforgettable

and not :-

predictable
embarrassing
offensive

You therefore bide your time waiting, yearning and praying for the right moment in the tweeting timeline to jump in and make your move.

And it eventually arrives.

Your soft spot playfully tweets :-

I am appearing with Ms Jennifer Lopez on Chattyman tonight. Shall I pad the arse of my trousers to make her feel less self conscious?

Hunched over your keyboard with fixed smile, wide staring eyes and drool on chin, you tweet back :-

Tempting ... although it's risky you'd come off more as incontinent old man with full nappy than sexy dude with junk in trunk

It is then you realise that your tweet is embarrassingly offensive in a predictable sort of way.

And you curl up in a ball and cry (optional activity).

WE HAD A VIEWING!!!!!

2011-06-12T11:07:00.003+01:00

Someone only effin' well viewed Chuppies' shittin' flat yesterday. I mean talk about fartin' time that someone finally crappin' well walked through the doorway and had a nose instead of having the property on the market with no wankin' interest at all.

(scuse the vernacular but I am excited)

To explain - we had been waiting for the new agents to ring us back following a telephone message left earlier in the week that someone was interested in viewing Chuppies' flat this weekend. However, as the agents didnt ring again we assumed that the viewing was a no-go and that was that.

This might explain why at 1.40pm (precisely) yesterday afternoon when the Chuppies' intercom rang to announce that a chap was outside wanting to come in and view, Chuppies was bottomless (he'd kicked off his shorts to have an afternoon nap after his afternoon bagles), sleepy (he'd only just woken up from his nap) and the flat was a tip.

But, still, we let the bloke in (we might have been tired and smelly but we were also desperate) and in the amount of time it took for the chap to take the two flights of stairs up to Chuppies' flat we had tidied (a bit), woken up and dressed the Chuppies.

And then Chuppies opened up his door and there he was.

OUR VIEWER!!!

Is he real, I thought to myself, as I fought back the urge to pinch him. Or me.

"Hi" the Chuppies said, stepping aside to let him in so that he could LOOK at our hall, goddammit, and (amazingly) VIEW the flat.

"Hi" I said too, and then found myself suddenly talking ten to the dozen even though I wasnt drunk or on a date. Or, at least, I didnt think I was (I still couldnt quite get used to the fact that there was someone in the flat in to view the Chuppies' gaff - it felt so strange - and this might explain the reason why I'd started to act a bit loopy) "sorry you've caught us a bit off guard .. but you see the agents called us in the week to say that someone might be interested in viewing the flat ... but then we called them back and the chap who'd left the message was on holiday and no-one knew anything about it ... but then we got another phone call yesterday saying that, yes, someone was interested in coming around today but the time was a bit weird so we asked if the viewing could be changed to a bit later and the agents told us they'd ring us back but they never did and so we thought that perhaps the viewing wasnt happening at all ... which is why we're not really prepared." (at this point I gestured around me at nothing in particular)

"O, well sorry for just turning up," the viewer said (whilst I fought back the urge to cradle him in my arms and tickle his belly), "but I'd thought the agents let you know."

"No that's fine, totally fine" the Chuppies crooned (perhaps also fighting back the same urge as I to give the man a big sloppy kiss and have his children), "but, anyway, this is the bedroom."

At which point I swear the viewer cooed with delight and marvelled at the size. And then he was shown the bathroom, toilet, living-room (again more cooing) and the kitchen (which seemed to please).

Small talk was then made about length of lease, ground rent, service charge and neighbours.

"They're fabulous-"
"-wonderful-"
"-couldnt ask for better-"

the Chuppies and me talked over each other both seeking the viewer's attention and desiring his approval. It was at just about this point I realised we'd turned in to a pair of flat-selling sluts and would have done anything (short of a threesome) to milk him for a hefty offer.

"So" I began, after calming myself down a bit, "do you know this area at all?"

"Not really, no" the viewer explained, as he looked once more in to the cupboard space in the kitchen, "I'm originally from Colchester, you see, but have just been given a job placement in your nearby hospital for three years so need to find somewhere new to live."

"O, well, if you're talking the hospital, mate" the Chuppies smooth-talked whilst moving the man to the kitchen window, "if you look out there towards that tower between the trees that's where the hospital is. You cant get closer than that. Five minutes in the car, 10 on a pushbike ... or you could easily walk it."

"Yes, it is very close" I agreed, urging him to take our property goodness.

But then, as soon as he arrived, he was gone. And, whilst I had been going to contact the new agents and tear them off a strip for not giving us plenty of warning, I cant be bothered now.

We finally got an effin' viewing for eff's sakes. Which could mean a slow but steady journey towards actually getting AN OFFER.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what counts.

☼ Daisy ☼

2011-06-10T12:10:00.003+01:00

Allow me to introduce you to someone new.

She is a rescue bitch.

Of the Border Terrier variety.

And she might very well be friggety-giggety joining my bro (and me) in about a week's time!

Yes. It looks like the search for a rescue Border Terrier may well be over as we might finally have one (almost) in our grasp ...

And by `(almost)' I mean that Daisy is all the way up in Solihull (West Midlands). We havent actually `met' her yet just had feedback from the organisation who have been looking after her. And have no clue as to what she looks like (although am assuming she wont be far off from the image on this post - except maybe with a few less petals).

But this will all be revealed when we head `Oop North'(ish) on the 19th.

I think Daisy is about two or three (or, mebbe, four). A further delve in to her history has revealed that she was bought as a puppy and raised in a house with a Boston Terrier but due to constant tensions between the dogs Daisy ended up being farmed out for rescue. Whilst it looked like she'd found a `forever home' earlier in the year, she was promptly returned back to the organisation as she does not enjoy the company of other dogs. The rescue organisation were quick to point out, however, that it's a whole different ball game with people - she adores being with a human `pack' - and, on top of which, is yer typical feisty/alert terrier type (which should keep my bro happy).

To say my bro is excited about the whole thing would be to put it mildly. However to put it that his flatulence level has increased to gas chamber status and his bowel movements have taken on elephantine proportions would be a tad more accurate.

Could It Be ... ?

2011-06-07T21:33:00.004+01:00

That after all this time of having nowt in the way of interest we might finally have some on the Chuppies' flat?

Although all very tentative, hold your breath, still really nothing that important to see type stuff, might it still be that after putting the Chuppies' flat on Gumtree at the weekend (only cos new agents have still not sent over contracts for us to sign and, you know, in the hiatus of having no-one marketing it but still really wanting to sell the place we Gumtree-ed it in a `nothing ventured nothing gained' type fashion) we might have had someone respond to the Gumtree ad this afternoon only frickin' asking if the flat was still frickin' well available ... ? Hah!

And, that, whilst the agents (as mentioned in the previous paragraph) are dragging their heels over getting contracts completed and signed, they still might (for some strange reason) have left a message on the Chuppies' phone this afternoon saying that someone was interested in coming round and taking a look at his flat this Saturday?

I mean, after all this time, is something effin' well finally going to happen on his gaff, instead of the absol-bollock-lutely TOTAL CRAPPY NOTHING that's been going on from when we signed up with the last agents back in March?

And, lastly, could it be that this is the scariest kid's face you've ever had to endure on your Yahoo! e-mail log-in page?

Could it ... ?

RESCUE DOG ADVENTURES - Part II

2011-06-02T13:49:00.005+01:00

So after all the Peggy shenanigans and taking a bit of a breather in a `let's all calm down and relax/nothing to see here' type way, the search for a rescue dog has continued apace. As in, my brother's pacing, I'm continuing to search ... and we're getting abso-friggin-lutely nowhere.

For, you see, after the last episode, my brother has decided to focus his attentions on a different breed. Staffies are (generally speaking) a great breed and, whilst she was in our house, Peggy was marvellous. However, as a result of the nature (by that I mean `size') of the dog, Peggy's issues consequently became large issues (all lovingly topped off with a large mouth and lots of teeth).

Which is why my brother has decided to go with a slightly smaller dog. Not tiny small, just one that doesnt have so much in the way of muscle, bulk and elephant paws. I think you get what I mean.

And it's for this reason he has plumped for the BORDER TERRIER breed (female variety). For you see he likes the sparkiness you get with a terrier dog (we've always had terriers in our family) and although he has no doubt that a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel (as a similarly sized example) would be a wonderful companion he cant really see himself with one - the Border Terrier whilst a good-looking dog doesnt look quite as `fussy' as other dogs of its size.

But can we get a-hold of any rescue Border Terrier bitches (scuse the French)?

Can we heckers!

After weeks of on-line trawling and telephoning rescue places, we came very close (I'm talking gnat's whisker close) to getting a hold of one a few days ago - however, no doubt due to the amount of people kicking, screaming and mewling with delight over the fact that a gorgeous Border Terrier girlie had finally appeared within our midst, it all became a bit of a lottery game and the dog ended up being re-homed to someone else. Even though my brother had apparently had a very nice chat with the fosterer of the Border Terrier and it was all very jolly and lovely.

Bah.

So, as I said earlier, the hunt for a rescue Border Terrier bitch (apologies for the profanity) continues on ...

and was wondering ...

although am sure am breaking all the blogging rules by requesting such a thing ...

but if anyone out there should have any pointers, feelers or leads re. one that might be coming up ....

or in fact know of one that actually, truly, might be magnificently available ...

I would be extremely grateful to hear from you.

No really I would.

Please contact me here.

(I'M BEGGING YOU)

Seek and Ye Shall Find

2011-05-27T12:23:00.005+01:00

You may or may not know this, but I'm a Scorpio. So, by default, a bit of a detective. Give me a keyboard and something/someone that needs finding and it's ten pound to a penny that I'll turn up with the goods before you can say `Hercule Poirot'.

The majority of the time the search is straightforward. You tell London-Lass what you're after, London-Lass gets bit between her teeth, London-Lass hunts on-line in frenzied fashion, London-Lass comes up with goods. Job done. However sometimes you end up finding out a bit more than you anticipated ...

Like the time I stumbled on the fact that a significant ex was no longer the high-faluting City high flier he'd been when we broke up, but had somehow just ended up doing odd jobs for a furniture removal company, was completely broke and sharing a house with an alcoholic schoolteacher and a broken boiler (or was that a broken schoolteacher who was an alcoholic boiler? my memory isnt quite what it was)

Or the time I got chatting to a `single accountant' on Udate but who, after doing a bit of innocent Net hunting post-conversation, turned out to be a semi-famous book author living with a girlfriend.

You know - stuff like that.

Anyway, I think I might have ended up `stumbling' on something else.

And, if what I've found out, is true (and not just a bunch of weird coincidences) then the rescue dog for which my brother has filled out an application may have been bought two years ago and subsequently owned by two lesbians in Brighton. Judging from an on-line breadcrumb trail left by one of the women, it appears that the dog was bought (as a puppy) roughly two years ago but, after one of the woman realised she wasn't (quote, unquote) `momma material', the dog was quickly dispensed with. The rescue dog in question has an unusual name, you see. Very same name given to the dog that the ladies had but then didnt keep. Which is the same breed that my brother's applied for. Whose age matches the date the ladies purchased their dog.

Like I say, could just be a set of random coincidences, but it is amazing what you find.

And that last comment was directed at Everhard in Shoebury.

I'm on to you.

Confessions of a Non-Adult (with Mitten Hands)

2011-05-19T11:11:00.010+01:00

I've never been very good at doing adult things like other adults.

And I'm not talking about paying bills, having a job, etc., etc., all of which I am the supreme goddess of responsible grown-up-ness.

I'm talking the teeny-tiny every day stuff that others do (pretty much without thinking) but which on attempting myself never quite succeeds.

I have tried to take comfort in the fact that (apparently) the majority of us still feel like kids inside our adult shells but this quickly shatters when I watch others undertake and complete tasks that I (with my ungainly/clumsy/cack-handed ways) constantly fail at.

For example - that cool way of talking on the phone but with both of your hands free. And before you panic, I can actually do the talking on the phone part. Very well actually. Good speaking voice, you see. And excellent telephone manner.

(forgive me for this temporary `blowing my own trumpet moment' but thought I should fit this in before spending the rest of this posting tearing my rubbish self apart)

However what I cant do is that bit where one cradles the receiver of the telephone betwixt shoulder and edge of face. I mean, how clever and capable is that? To be on the phone and yet having your hands free to accomplish all manner of tasks which, for me, have to remain frozen (or, at least 50% frozen, given that one hand has to remain glued to the receiver) for the duration of the call.

The odd times I've tried to do this I've either ended up inadvertently slinging the phone receiver between my shoulder and face only to find it continue to hurtle over my shoulder leaving me to try to hurriedly yank back the telephone wire whilst a company client is yelling `Hello? Hello?' from the receiver (that is now dangling between my shoulder blades) or I have actually managed to jostle the receiver in place only to discover that it's perched too far from my mouth for anyone to hear me, too far from my ears for me to hear anyone, or its perfectly positioned but just a bit too upside down. And, despite many others telling me that talking in this way is actually rather bad for your neck/back/shoulders anyway, I still would like to be able to occasionally indulge. Just to prove that I can be a proper adult for once.

Or whistling.

I'd love to be able to do one of those ear-splitting whistles you see people do where they put their fingers in their mouth (not all of them, of course, cos that would be silly) and let out a shrill noise that even a speeding taxi driver would slow down for.

Yet I cant. I cant even whistle without any fingers in my mouth. I have tried believe me. And whilst, after about 30 minutes of blowing air through a very teeny tiny little hole between my lips, I might (if very lucky) suddenly manage to hear a very teeny tiny little whistle (that is probably only audible by a certain strain of bat and the odd Jack Russell), on attempting to repeat this lucky happening or continue with it, it all goes to pot and I just end up spitting everywhere through sheer frustration (and the fact that I've accumulated half a bucket's worth of saliva after yet more lengthy whistle practice).

I'm also not very good at using phrases that other adults spout off without thinking. Stuff like `I'll get that to you by Thursday week' - I mean what the ruddy hell does that mean? Does it mean the Thursday coming up, the following Thursday or am I supposed to wait until there is a whole week of Thursdays? (although the last one I am assuming is wrong as this almost never happens)

I also hate the taste of tea and coffee. These are adult staples for gawd's sakes and yet my `generally useless attempt at being an adult' body has rejected them since I was old enough to hold a cup of steaming brown stuff and watch my (twin) brother drink his to the bottom with a satisfied burp.

And I have tried. Really tried to like the stuff. In all shapes and forms. Cold, hot, fruit, instant, fresh, tall, skinny, with caramel syrup - it all ends up tasting the same to me. Utterly awful.

I'm also unable to shop for anything successfully. Get me inside one of those places that other adults enjoy browsing and hanging out in and I'll be the one in the corner with a sweaty top lip looking for the nearest exit. On the off chance I do actually manage to find and pay for something my purchase is 95% certain to end up turning out all wrong in the wrongest sense - but this happy state of events does not usually occur until I have tried on the dratted garment once again (back in the comfort of my bedroom) and realised that the shop's mirrors/pressure of buying something with the person that I am with has left me with an item that actually makes me look like I'm pregnant/a man in drag/a corpse (delete as appropriate).

Paying for stuff at a till also gets me into a bind. Not that I am some lily-livered social inept that finds it difficult to interact in normal circumstances. No. This is because my hands become like mittens on being told my purchase total (in that my fingers refuse to operate separately preferring instead to mimic paws or mittens) and trying to dig around in one's purse for the exact change proves such an impossible task that dumping the highest paper note at the shop assistant you can find is the only way to go (thereby accumulating yet more change which you know you're doomed never being able to extricate). In order that my purse does not start to weigh the same as your average house brick, I do persist with attempting to extract the right change every now and then, but the sight of an elderly woman (OK, a 38 year old) pawing at, but not quite getting hold of, her pennies whilst the queue from hell builds up behind her is so pathetic, I try not to indulge in this too often (for my sake and everyone else's).

So am I alone in this? Or are there other non-adults (with or without mitten hands) out there who would like to take this opportunity to confess/share in their lack of everyday skills? If so, please leave me a comment, I'm all (child-like) ears.

I Rarely Post Seriously

2011-05-04T13:38:00.005+01:00

No matter the situation, when typing about it afterwards I tend to dodge the serious stuff and end up injecting comedy.

Even if said `comedy' is of the really lame variety- you know, like when your dad is half cut and insists on telling you his favourite joke.

Even if you've heard it a 100 times before.

And have to remind him of the punchline at the bitter end.

But, anyway, I just cant seem to help it.

Until now.

For this time it's serious London-Lass. Of the deadly variety.

Since we dont have Peggy anymore.

And, whilst I feel sad, my brother's broken. You should have heard him weeping when I came back home yesterday.

Well, actually, no, scrap that. You really wouldn't have wanted to hear him cry. It was horrible. And something (much like foxes whinnying outside your window late at night or the lonesome howl of a wolf in a quiet part of a horror film) that is best avoided.

But returning back to Peggy. She unfortunately had to go back as she had developed a taste for trying to attack people when being walked outside.

Now not everyone is gonna be your dog's best pal, I get this, and your dog isnt gonna warm to everyone they come across but when a dog you're walking in a quiet restful fashion suddenly goes for someone in an attack-y, gnashing, rabid, lunging, foaming type way (and this was to a coupla chaps who just happened to be walking towards you and your dog on the same pavement in a minding their own business type way and not provoking the dog, or you, or doing anything other than walking, blinking and breathing) then you have to wake up to the fact you have a problem. Of quite a large variety. In fact, were it not for my brother's strength (of which I am bereft so was glad I wasn't involved in the incident) we might have had one of those godawful `Staffie Dog Attack' stories of our own.

Anyway, as this was not an isolated incident (we latterly found out that Peggy had attempted to attack a couple of other people at the weekend whilst being walked by my folks), my brother came to the heavy-hearted decision that he would have to relinquish Peggy back to the shelter. Dog whisperers/behaviourists we are not and, whilst she had been fine at home, we had to accept we had a dog with too much baggage for us to manage.

The really sad thing about the whole situation is that Peggy was lovely in the house. She `filled it' in the only way, I guess, that dogs like Peggy can do - not only was her personality (and curious eccentricities) beginning to show but her muscular bumbliness was starting to fill a void for my brother which had been left after his last chap naffed off.

And - even sadder still - to anyone who came in - be it friend, neighbour, Chuppies, etc - Peggy couldnt get enough of them. The two chaps (who Peggy went for in a furious Cujo type way the last time my brother walked her) would have been Peggy's best buddies if they'd come in to our house. But, as passing traffic on the same pavement as my brother and Peggy, they stoked up a fury and aggression in Peggy that neither me nor my brother could cope with.

So a week and five days after taking Peggy on my brother took the sad journey back to the shelter with all the stuff we'd acquired for his new pet. And that was that.

Later on we spent some time de-Peggying the house until you'd never know she'd ever been there. Hair that had been moulted, stains that had been made, dried slobber that had become encrusted - all were cleaned, hoovered and scrubbed. A proud and shiny house once more but one that, whilst only tiny, suddenly seemed a bit too large and a bit too empty.

"I'm gonna have difficulties sleeping tonight" my brother said, as he looked around his bedroom at all his de-Peggyed stuff.

"Yeh, it's been a tough day", I sympathised, as I exchanged my brother's snot-sodden bunch of tissues for a bundle of dry ones. "But you had to do it - it was the right thing."

"I know" said my brother, "I'm just gonna miss my little mate."

Pomp and Pimms (and a bit more Peggy)

2011-04-29T14:40:00.002+01:00

"So will you be watching the Royal Wedding tomorrow?" my boss asked, whilst langorously scratching his backside at me. I have been his PA for over 10 years and habits like a bit of subconscious arse-crack scratching and picking of noses whilst talking at me are pretty commonplace. I might as well be, as far as my bosses are concerned, another table or chair in the office. Until, that is, I take a day off and then they are scurrying around and crying down the phone like overheated colicky babies that need their nappies changing.

But enough on that.

"Er ... well ... I might ... if I'm around ... and have nothing better to do ... " I replied all nonchalant and such. Not that I make a habit of acting like a bored teenager whilst at work (at least I try not to) but the Royal Wedding has always been a bit of a sticky subject with me as, unlike our American cousins, I am pretty indifferent towards our Royal Family and getting the opportunity to watch a coupla of 'em getting hitched the next day was not top of my agenda.

"O, well I will" replied the freshly arse-scratched boss, in a sort of hurt fashion. "I'm not a Royalist (he emphasised quickly) but I still will watch the wedding."

And then I thought. For a bit. But not for long as I had a bit of a headache.

I am not anti-Royal. Just a bit `meh' about 'em. But we have been given a day off. It is a celebration to which you could have front row seats of (courtesy of the mountain of cameras arranged along the route and in the Abbey itself) and I could make some homemade scones, have some Pimms and have a bit of a snoop at some dresses and that.

So the next day I did. With the Chuppies.

And this is what we ate and drank :

Whilst this was going on :

And all those cynical types who reckon this union was forged to take us filthy commoners' minds off the doom and gloom of recession, I say `Bleurgh'. They do actually look like they're in love (and both of them this time).

Oo dear.

Hah.

Did you see what I did there?

I mean to say whilst this was going on :-

Marvellous stuff.

Although I think the Chuppies may have dropped off half way through. He was full of home made scones and Pimms after all, but has now woken up again and avidly watching a Star Trek movie on the tele right now.

I guess there's only so much wedding nonsense and dress fever a man can cope with. No matter how Royal the occasion is.

And, as for the Peggy meister ...

Well, what can I say?

In short - she's like a sheep in wolf's clothing. Or, a bit nearer to the truth, like a hippo in a dog's body.

I have been trampled on, squished, booted and body charged - and that's just whilst attempting to prepare her dinner. Whilst of the female persuasion, she is as graceful as a herd of hysterical elephants and has managed to fall off all our furniture, fallen up our stairs, fallen down our stairs and headbutted pretty much everything (including both mine and my bro's chins). She snores, sniffs at things so noisily you'd think we'd inherited a mini-vacuum cleaner (crossed with a pig), she grumbles, huffs, snorts and snuffs, and even when asleep she's a paw twitching, face creasing, muscle-grinding elephant of a lump. She fell asleep in my arms the other evening and it was only on getting up afterwards did I realise that my hips and back had fallen asleep under the weight (a novel experience).

And here she is (just about to get fed) :-

The marks on the top of her head are the scars/cuts that Peggy has acquired in the recent past, the origins of which shall have to remain a mystery.

And, yes, I know she looks rather small there, but consider the comparison with my last dog, Rosie, who was smaller than Peggy's head :-

So graceful and lightfooted was the blessed Rosie (a.k.a. Shnuppies) that she needed her claws cutting regularly. I cant actually see this being a problem for Peggy.

And, as I said, although Peggy's background is a bit of a blank, a few things that have happened since my bro took her in may provide a bit of a clue as to her previous existence :-

in an effort to measure Peggy's chest (for purchasing a soft fabric harness), my brother got out his trusty builder's tape. Peggy did not like this and cowered (with tail tucked between legs) until tape was quickly withdrawn and chucked back in its cupboard so that cuddles and fuss could be administered to the shaking Peggy.
during her first sniff around our house, Peggy had difficulties walking past a Chiminea we have in our living-room area without double-backing a coupla times. Inside the Chiminea sits a large citrus smelling scented candle.
whilst out walking Peggy the other evening, Peggy caught sight of some bread that had been dropped on the pavement ahead of us and trotted over to it in a quick galumphing way to snaffle it. Mid-snaffle, my brother told Peggy to `drop it' whilst leaning down to take the bread from her mouth. Peggy had actually already dropped it and was also quietly shivering/cowering away from my leaning over brother. Cuddles and fuss were administered until Peggy stopped shaking and tail sprang back up.
she seems more attentive to male voices than female (although she does take note of me when I tell her to get down, stay, wait, sit, etc.).
her tail and demeanour drastically dropped whilst being walked past a crowded pub garden near to my folks' gaff.
she is properly house-trained, understands all of the basic commands and from the looks of it has a scar on her stomach that indicates she may have been spayed.

So from that I reckon that her previous owner could have been a builder/labourer/construction type, who liked a drink with his mates, perhaps had a wife/girlfriend or was himself into scented candles. And from the fact that Peggy ended up being found wandering the streets in a state of near starvation and then languishing in a shelter for six months, I would conclude that he must've also been some sort of a no brain-celled, lowlife, heavy-handed, dolt of a git.

But this is all conjecture.

Although I stand by the git part.

Peggy

2011-04-15T09:49:00.006+01:00

Over the weekend just gone bro, the Chuppies and me paid a little visit to a local animal rescue joint. For a little over a year my bro has been yearning to take on a rescue dog and now his life is pretty much where he wants it (aside from his geographical location - he wants to be by the sea, you see, but then dont we friggin' all?!) he has started making the moves in to taking one on.

Although, when I say `making the moves' I mean as in he's jolly well gone down to a rescue place, chosen, walked and talked with his rescue dog of choice, `mmed and ahhed' it over in his mind for a coupla days, pulled himself together, rang up the rescue centre, reserved his rescue pooch and is now (again, with me and the Chuppies) heading over to a large pet store tomorrow afternoon to stock up on everything and anything a prospective adopter of a (roughly) two year old rescue hound should have.

Which, according to recent press reports, should include suit of armour, riot shield and loaded gun.

For, he's getting a

(hold on to your privates)

!!!! STAFFORDSHIRE BULL TERRIER !!!!

Yes, a 12-kilo lithe and muscley Staffie.

Which he's calling Peggy.

And her tale is very sad. According to the rescue place, she was found somewhere in a local town in a state of near starvation with most of her fur missing, and taken to the local pound. As no-one came forward to claim her, Peggy was due to be put down - until the rescue centre came along to `give her a second chance' and have had Peggy in their place for roughly 4-5 months where she has apparently come on leaps and bounds.

As a very naive ex-pedigree dog owner (which I'd raised from a pup), the rescue place was quite an eye-opener and I found the scarring to the top of Peggy's head (which we caught sight of when she was brought out to be walked by my bro) quite upsetting. Although I didnt show it - London-Lass can do stiff upper lip when required.

Not that I was expecting a perfect animal mind - a lot of doggies in the place had/have a terrible history behind them. But when you've got a little dog (she is a small Staffie - when my bro confirmed her weight to our local vets to find out the price of having her neutered the member of staff at the other end let out a "Gosh she is wee" comment) - that's got its front dusty paws on your leg whilst she's enjoying a bit of human-doggie affection (albeit it briefly before we had to take her back to the centre) it kind of rams it home more.

As to where the scarring came from? The rescue place can only hazard a guess that it might have come about either from another dog or getting her head caught somewhere - perhaps hiding somewhere or scavenging for food. As she was picked up with no collar, no chip or any other form of ID Peggy's history shall remain a bit of a mystery.

Anyway, Peggy (or Nutpeg Peggan as she will be re-christened by London-Lass) will be picked up from the rescue centre by myself and bro next Thursday afternoon. The back seat will be liberally covered in towels, etc., in case of accidents. Not that I am envisaging fouling myself on the journey home. O no. No, this is to protect the seating in case of possible car sickness/nervousness from Peggy after leaving the centre. We dont know that much about her yet so will be bracing ourselves for a full vomit/pooh carousel on the way back to our house.

And then it will be a case of letting her in, allowing her to sniff anywhere and everywhere (with hopefully not too much cocking of legs going on) and then hopefully settling down. Peggy was a bit smelly (like a little horse) when we met her last weekend with bits of straw in her fur so would be nice to get her a bit more fresh on the nose - if getting her to take a bath straight away is out of the question we'll also be picking up some `dry' cleaning products so one way or another she'll be whiffing less of Red Rum and more of Nutpeg Peggan. See? Catches on quick dont it?

Incidentally am I the only one that remembers Peggy Babcock (Babcock Peggy)? It was this tongue twister thingie that took place on a kiddies programme called `Razzmatazz' - the object being to say the phrase `Peggy Babcock, Babcock Peggy' at the quickest pace for the longest time without making a mistake.

I just attempted it but ended up dribbling all over my keyboard. Hopefully you'll do a bit better.

This Post Was Brought to you by 3/4 of a Bottle of JP Chenet

2011-03-30T21:17:00.004+01:00

I just want to know a few things :-

Why the newly installed next door neighbours see fit to start their DIY after 9.30pm every night?
Whether me and the Chuppies will be the same when we (if we ever) move into our house?
Why I seem to feel guilty over every dratted thing at the moment?
Why I really do wish I could continue with my book but yet when faced with an empty (blinking) laptop screen late at night want to do anything/everything apart from actually write a bit more of the dratted thing?
Why I feel so old at the age of 38 yet Jennifer Aniston looks so young (and fit) at 40+?
Why I dont miss my friend and it would appear she doesnt miss me too?
Why I get so excited when I realise I am going to be home alone for the evening, yet within an hour of `alone time' feel so dratted bored?
Why there isnt a third series of Spaced?
Why I hardly have any blog readers, let alone those that comment, yet those (one) who do (does) are in exactly the same house-hunting position, looking in exactly the same piggin' area?
Why someone in Seattle, working for Amazon, logs in to my blog every morning (my time)/every lunchtime (their time) yet has never left a dratted comment?*
Why every TV programme wants to have something of the X-Factor about them?
Why my bro seemed to find it upsetting that I had a picture of my late pet on my phone yet I find it comforting having her as my wallpaper?
Why my nostrils, neck and chin seem to want to grow bushy whiskers at the moment?
Why whenever I switch on my laptop there is always another dratted update to install?

Answers on a postcard can be sent to :-

London-Lass
c/o Blogger
c/o Google UK Ltd
Belgrave House
76 Buckingham Palace Road
London SW1W 9TQ

Alternatively you could just leave a comment you filthy beasts.

*No pressure. And please dont run off. Contrary to appearances, I am really not an eXTReMe Tracking stalker. Honest.

Sunday Service

2011-03-29T13:46:00.005+01:00

So there I was, on Sunday afternoon, in the kitchen in me Ugg(type) boots and nightdress (a sexier combination of clothing you'd be hard pressed to find) when I suddenly realised the washing-machine had gone silent. Having just filled the blessed machine with a load about an hour ago it still had 15 minutes or so to run (to do the final spin and - pardon the French - pump out). Instead the machine had quit doing anything - apart from flashing some lights on the display in a worrying fashion with a full load of unspun, unconditioned washing in its belly.

"F*ck it!" I yelped (always the lady).

"What's happened?" the Chuppies called through from the next room.

"O God!" I cried again, desperately thumping at the lights (continuing to flash regardless) and jabbing at the off button (which refused to work).

"London-Lass?" the Chuppies called again.

"It's the machine!" I explained in panicked fashion. "It's quit on me mid-wash and I cant (more jabbing) get it to (helplessly fiddling with the cycle dial) to do anything! It wont even (more hitting of the off button) to switch off!"

The sight that greeted the Chuppies as he trotted in to the kitchen could not have been good - me, red faced and pummelling the washing-machine, night dress caught in knickers, knickers caught in buttocks and Ugg(type) boots half hanging off due to peering round washing machine to get to its plug.

Which I eventually, after more swearing (o, and sweating), managed to locate and after powering down the machine it seemed to reset itself and happily finished off the cycle (after forcing it to do a final spin on the cycle dial).

"Probably needs the filter unblocking" the Chuppies mused as I hung up my smalls (stain free and smelling fresh, so the machine had eventually done its job).

So, after hanging up all of the freshly washed load, I reluctantly acceded to the Chuppies' suggestion - the filter would definitely need tackling. Which whilst can be quickly located (front of machine) is not so easily opened (sits right at the bottom) making it a distinct possibility that you will scrape your knuckles on the floor whilst attempting to unscrew it, your joints will cease up whilst kneeling down to catch any water and your back will cave in after you've finished poking around the little filter hole.

So I set the Chuppies to the task.

And it was whilst he was kneeling down on the floor battling with the filter cap that I suddenly realised four or five boys had suddenly decided to use our front garden to play paper aeroplanes in. By Christ. There was one just hopping and dancing about as merrily as you like right outside our door!

Course what with my boots and nightdress (o, and no makeup, glasses and wet hair) I was in no state to open up the door and tell them to clear off.

So told the Chuppies to deal with it. Even though he was now slumped next to the machine with his fingers probing the filter with a look of curiosity and disgust on his face.

"London-Lass, I cant dealt with that just yet. I'm (eyes screwing shut briefly) just trying to fish out (tongue jabbing out a bit) something that's caught in this filter but I cant quite get (unusual jaw movements) my fingers on it ... oo, hang on, here it is."

And with that the Chuppies produced a very black looking piece of wire dripping with black in his black stained hands.

"O God - that's that bra underwire that went missing ages ago. But what's all the black?"

"Not sure" the Chuppies replied, after chucking wire in bin and going back for more, "it might be oil ... "

"Oil!" I squeaked, doom and gloom in my heart. Typical - washing machine's packed up, how was I going to get my stuff clean now, and why is that boy jumping about right outside our door ... ?!

"Chuppies, they're running all over the front garden!" I whined, clutching at my nightdress.

"Hang on a minute" the Chuppies called from his crouching (tiger hidden dragon) position. "There's just one more bit to pull free."

And like Paul Daniels he suddenly produced the last of the wire with a flourish, put it in the bin and proceeded washing the filter cap and his hands.

"Do you think it's damaged?" I enquired in a frightened fashion.

"Not sure - probably best if you run an empty cycle and see if it will complete without any problems" the Chuppies said, refitting the filter and switching the machine back on.

And, after setting it up on a cotton cycle, the Chuppies suddenly walked open to the front door and yelled (extremely manfully) "Oi kids, GET OFF THE FRONT!"

Which made the kids scarper.

Which made me go all girlish and wanting.

Which made the Chuppies pleased.

As for the washing machine? It completed the cycle - but then I'm not surprised.

It had just had a servicing by the Chuppies. And he is very good.

Not a Sausage

2011-03-25T13:22:00.004Z

You'll have to excuse the recent hiatus in my blogging but it's been sooo busy with people coming in and making offers on the Chuppies' flat that our feet havent hit the ground.

It's just total chaos.

We've had couples fighting with each other, outbidding each other, I've never seen anything like it.

Actually all of the above is a lie.

Since putting the property on the market nearly three weeks ago we've had nothing.

No phone calls, no viewings, no skirting board kickers, no nothing.

So after researching on the Net a bit and discovering that yes, the bottom has fallen out of the market, there are hardly any first time buyers anywhere these days and all the Buy to Let twats have upped & run in their buy to let twattish shoes, the Chuppies has instructed the agent to reduce the marketing price by £3,500.

But he has told me that, like a rheumatic limbo dancer, he wont go any lower.

"Yes, the arse may have fallen out of the property game" he manfully directed on the phone a coupla evenings ago, "but I've done a lot of work on the gaff and it's a big place."

"Did the agent have any feedback or anything else to say to you when you called about changing the price?" I queried.

"Not really - only in that most people who phone up are only interested in XXXXXXXXXXX*" the Chuppies sighed.

*(area within Chuppies' town that apparently is the place to be even though the properties are built so small you couldnt swing a mouse in them and everyone's back gardens are under everyone else's noses)

"Well we've done all we can. The flat is well presented, in good condition and ready for someone just to move in. If the agent fails to get any interest by May we'll go with someone else."

And so I continued on with the positive spin - not just for the Chuppies' benefit but also for my own since everyone I know has reacted (recoiled almost) with surprise that since putting the property on the market there has been absolutely zilch interest - not even a tentative visit from a comely old couple from nearby `looking on behalf of their grandchild'. I mean, I know the backside buttocks has dropped out of the market, but have they pulled all the timewasters out with them too?!

Still, Spring is just around the corner (clocks go forward this weekend - yes, that's right, as if the weekends dont feel short enough already we lose an effing hour from the one coming up) and, with a ream of public bank holidays looming in one big bunch towards the end of next month, I am hopeful (in a tentative fashion) that someone will emerge from out of the woodwork and take a look inside the Chuppies' gaff.

I mean, isn't it pretty ... ?

Mocking the Afflicted or Just Doing The Right Thing?

2011-03-11T11:15:00.004Z

I mean, where do you draw the line ... ?

When someone sends across marketing particulars to be corrected and you find so many mistakes in them (but which are, on the face of it, very minor and not likely to interfere with the marketing of your property but which, nonetheless, grate you to your very core) do you pick just a few pertinent ones out? The majority of them out? Or run a line through the whole thing along with the pencilled in comment `This will not do - please see me after school!'?

Whilst the Youth was drawing things to a conclusion re. the marketing of the Chuppies' flat last weekend, he happened to mention (which made me prick up my ears) that he would be sending a copy of the marketing particulars to the Chuppies to proof-read. The Chuppies quickly replied (in a very embarrassing doting mother type fashion) that if any proof-reading was going to be done it would be done by me and not by him cos he is uber-thick whereas I am uber-intelligent (or some other such nonsense whilst I sat in my chair stiff as a board and trying not to notice the Youth looking at me strangely). In an effort to break the sudden tension I quipped : "Well he's only saying that cos I spotted on Rightmove that a firm of estate agents had written `SOD BY' instead of `SOLD BY' on their advert ... !"

Fortunately this was enough to break the tension and with a gathering up of his papers and clipboard, the Youth promised that we'd receive a copy of the particulars in the post over the next couple of days.

(And the fact that the Chuppies' property has had an on-line listing since Saturday without us being able to proof-read it first we'll just brush to one side as the Chuppies was given the choice to hold off marketing his gaff straightaway. And the fact that I steam-rollered the Chuppies into instantly marketing the place we'll brush to one side too.)

But anyway, a few days ago the Chuppies received the marketing particulars in the post and before you could shout "London-Lass you're a pedantic twat!", my eyes were clanging all over the place at the Youth's covering letter, which read :-

I have the pleasure in enclosing the Sales Particulars which will be used in the marketing of your home.

In accordance with the Property Mis-descriptions Act, I would be greatful if you could approve them by checking for any inaccuracies.

If any of the details are incorrect, please amend or make any alterations you wish using a ball point pen and once you are happy with the content I would be greatful if you could approve them by signing this declaration and return to me along with the attached copy of the ammended particulars using the pre paid envelope provided.

If you become aware of any information which will change the details contained within the sales particulars it is vital that you inform us as a matter of upmost urgency.

And so, whilst fighting the urge to feverishly correct the `declaration' letter, I checked through the particulars - the only major concern being that he had failed to mention the secure entryphone access system to the block that the Chuppies' flat sits in. Which I think is quite important. And worthy of a mention.

But then there were a host of other mistakes that, whilst very minor, ground away at me as I read through - capitals where there shouldn't be, lower case letters where there should be capitals, a coupla incorrect spellings, `floor' instead of `floors', `room' instead of `rooms' and an overall reluctance to use an apostrophe when the line of text clearly needed one.

All of these I happily corrected but, after posting the amended particulars back, began to think - was it the right thing to have altered all of that? Did it actually make a difference to getting a sale on the flat if an apostrophe (or three) was missing? Did I embrace correcting the property particulars with too much in the way of pedantic enthusiasm? Or was it just doing the right thing to make sure that the Chuppies' flat is shown in a listing that doesnt look like it's been done, at best, in a hurry or, at worst, by someone who didnt finish school?

It's either a case of ...

2011-03-08T12:21:00.003Z

I've got too much time on my hands whilst at work.

Or I'm just becoming completely obsessed with the whole thing.

But I just cant

(repeat CANT)

stop myself from hopping on to Rightmove.

On the hour.

Every hour.

The last time I became this bent on turning into an insane nutter was when I took part in one of those strict diet thingies at the tender age of 18 when all I could eat was ham and oranges and all I could think about was (a) every other food in the world and (b) weighing myself. Tough times. And one where I may

(repeat MAY)

have gone completely tonto and ended up devouring a big plate of cheese of toast followed by a pan of custard. At 3 o'clock in the morning.

But we're going off on a tangent here.

Take today for example.

Whilst on the pot at around 5.15 this morning I quickly accessed Rightmove on my nifty iPod Touch (I know, get me and my teenager-y ways) checking all my personalised favourited listings, areas and automatic searches on the site to make sure that I was up-to-speed on everything available and to see if anything interesting had suddenly appeared. And so that should have been enough.

But yet on getting in to work, before me bosses could share in a bit of `starting the day banter', I felt my eyes drawn to my office PC, my fingers found the keyboard and before you could say "Who's an obsessive little monkey then?" I'm straight back on to the site, hoping, just hoping, for ...

... and this is the even crazier bit.

Hoping for what exactly? That something nice will appear?

For it's not like me and the Chuppies could do anything right now anyway until we get something substantial going with his flat.

And yet (even whilst I'm typing this post) I'm fighting an urge to re-login to Rightmove.

But I'm keeping all this locked inside and away from the Chuppies. Much like an hysterical Jack Russell Terrier, the Chuppies has shifted from sheer panic at the fact that his flat went on the market on Saturday evening to gloomy depression that the flat hasnt got, and therefore wont get, any interest. Even though it was only listed at the weekend with the full listing only completed today.

But, as I keep reassuring the Chuppies, it is (very) early days and just because you havent got people stampeding through your door the moment it goes online does not act as a guarantee that it will never sell. Be patient, keep the faith and stay calm I remind him chirpily. But firmly.

Just before quietly logging in to Rightmove to drool over all its properties.

Showtime

2011-03-06T15:30:00.003Z

Yesterday afternoon me and the Chuppies found ourselves in the usual position of hurriedly tidying up his gaff and chucking stuff in cupboards.

But this time it was because a guy from Mr Mole's company was coming round to run through contracts, take some photos, write down some notes and then JOLLY WELL PUT CHUPPIES' GAFF ON THE MARKET.

Unfortunately Mr Mole is now working for a different area (a town much further north from Chuppies' town that is well known for punch ups, squaddies and garrisons - poor Mr Mole, I hope he survives the change) so we had been re-assigned a very young, very keen and very nervous sales negotiator called XXXXXX (but for the purposes of this blog we'll call him The Youth). All big eyes and breathless talking, The Youth kept on apologising about the fact that Mr Mole wouldnt be marketing Chuppies' flat but that he would be pushing the Chuppies' property, we need not worry about that, and he would secure us the best sale as fast as possible, etc. The Youth also, on hearing that the Chuppies had secured an appointment with a firm in the middle of the week to get an EPC (Energy Performance Certificate) for £35 + VAT, quickly told us that, with our consent, he could arrange to get this done for us for free. The Chuppies always likes a bit of a bargain so this offer was quickly taken up.

Then, after running through the contract and checking all was in order, the Chuppies signed, printed and dated the form, leaving The Youth to take some shots of the apartment (with me and the Chuppies running from room to room to escape any unfortunate `seller shots' appearing) and to take down a few notes. I'd just baked a Pear Crumble Tart and this has been captured in all it's `just cooked glory' in the kitchen shot. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and am just hoping that some particularly hungry flat sellers will be browsing Rightmove's pages over the next few days. Course, by the time they get round to viewing the property it will have been eaten by the Chuppies, but it's all in the presentation.

"O, before I go, are there any further questions, or queries, you want to run through with me?" The Youth asked as he tucked his paperwork and pen away.

"Yes ... er" the Chuppies began, before clearing his throat a bit. "Er ... when will my flat go on the market?"

"Today" replied The Youth quick as flash.

"O that's good ... " I began, but then noticed the Chuppies gripping the table next to him, his knuckles all tight and white.

"Really? That quick?" the Chuppies mewled, all shaking and odd. "I thought you were gonna say early next week ... "

"But it's got to go on the market ... " I started, only to be interrupted by The Youth. But not in a rude way.

"That's fine ... I can keep the details on hold for the moment, if you want." The Youth calmly explained, as if the Chuppies suffering a panic attack on finding out that his property that he wanted to put up for sale was actually going to be put up for sale was very normal, and that I was the only one to find the whole situation insane.

"Chuppies?" I queried through a gritted tooth, taut-lipped smile.

A moment of time went by as the Chuppies looked from me to the agent.

And I think it was at this point that I forgot to breathe.

But then, as quickly as it took him over, the panic seemed to subside, his knuckles began to loosen and the Chuppies chuckled slightly.

"Heh, I'm sorry, wasnt expecting it to go on that fast." the Chuppies smiled. "Yeh, that's fine. Let's do it."

And, as The Youth let himself out (to take some external shots and stride around outside with his clipboard for a bit) the Chuppies dashed over to me to ask for a cuddle.

"It's hard letting the flat go" he quietly said after a bit.

And then without me prompting (which is what counts)

"but I'm really looking forward to what we're going to have."

My Results

2011-03-04T09:39:00.008Z

I had a `Private & Confidential' letter waiting for me when I got home last night.

With slightly trembling hands I quickly ripped it open (chipping a few nails in the process) and the words `smear' and `results' hit me in the eye.

But then before I had a chance to open the letter up fully and properly read its contents, the Chuppies butted in.

"Oo!" he warbled. "Is it from Morrisons?"

"Wha-?" I mumbled, reluctantly tearing my eyes away from the unread letter in my mitts.

"You know - that letter you sent praising their staff, etc. Thought this might be their reply," the Chuppies explained sounding hopeful (and no doubt willing a pile of Morrisons vouchers to sudden spill out from the envelope).

"No." I quickly replied, returning back to the letter to hurriedly try to locate the pertinent section of text.

Only to be interrupted again.

"O", the Chuppies began again, mournfully. "Cos I thought you'd have a reply by now. Even if just to thank you for your nice letter."

"Yeh well they should have replied, " I said, reluctantly joining in with the conversation, "as I did ask them about possible plans for a branch opening on the coast. But nowt."

"That's right!" the Chuppies continued, warming to his theme.

But just before he could continue, Warning Signal (No.1) kicked in.

After four years of relationship-ing, the Chuppies knows this code only too well. However you, my faithful coupla readers, do not.

Let's just say that it's a certain directed `flash' from my peepers that silently but quickly tells the Chuppies that (a) I am not happy, (b) it's because of him and (c) he has to quickly do something about points (a) and (b) before (d) a heated discussion ensues.

Generally the Chuppies is so soft and malleable (like a fruity smelling Play-Doh) that there is no need for any sort of peeper-flashing and my Warning Signal (No.1)'s tend to only come out to play when travelling on the tube (after being confronted with a particular type of commuter) or at work (after being confronted with a particular type of boss). However, in this instance I was in a hurry to read my results (they were important) and not in a hurry to discuss WM Morrisons plc (not important). Warning Signal (No.1) was therefore the only way to go.

And, so to resolve points (a) and (b), the Chuppies quickly employed the best course of action.

He shut up and went upstairs for a shower.

Allowing me to read my letter in peace.

Which said ...

You attended our clinic for a cervical smear examination on Friday 18 February 2011. We are now in receipt of the results and can confirm they are NORMAL.

Hoo-flaming-rah.

News About Your Ticket!

2011-03-02T14:30:00.002Z

I `plus-fived' my on-line Lottery Ticket last week.

Reason?

Because I have my current lottery numbers imprinted on my brain and, if I didnt `plus five' 'em, and they came up on the additional lottery draw days I'd be kicking myself til sundown. And probably beat up the Chuppies too.

I am also a bit of a mild gambling whore looking for any reason at all to extend her gambling kicks.

But we'll brush that to one side for now.

To tell the truth I havent been having that much luck lately with my numbers - and given that I have a dabble in not just the National Lottery, but also Thunderball and Euromillions without any wins whatsoever there must be someone up there who doesnt like me very much. So I decided to `plus five' 'em if only as another opportunity to `be in it to win it'. Even though I'm not.

Until this morning.

Yes.

Just before I started at my proper office work that I get paid a wage for I quickly delved into all my `personal stuff' just to see if there was anything interesting happening - `personal stuff' being :-

a quick browse of Rightmove
a quick nose of a few blogs
a quick log in to my mail accounts

and there in my Yahoo! Inbox lay the following happy sight :-

Yep. NEWS about my ticket.

And given that last night was a Tuesday it had to be a `plus-five' draw (regular draws only take place on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Fridays), could my entering into the additional draws finally be paying off?

Opening up the e-mail I read the following happy message :-

Dear London-Lass

We have some news about the ticket that you bought for the Tuesday 01 March draw. Please log into your account and enter your username and password to view the details online now.

Kind Regards
National Lottery Customer Care Team
www.national-lottery.co.uk

Feeling a bit giddy I immediately went to log in - only to be thwarted by the early arrival of one of my bosses who had some urgent stuff to get out before spending the next coupla hours at a site meeting. But no matter, I mean it wasnt like it was a big win

OR WAS IT???!

nor that my life would change dramatically

OR WOULD IT???!

that I'd instantly be able to pack in my job

OR WOULD I???!

and I could finally choose any and whatever house I wanted, money being no object, the world being my oyster, and my mum, dad and bro wanting for nowt

OR ...

well, you get the picture.

And so with beating heart, shining eyes and overly excited morning breath I shoved the boss off my desk (who'd decided to perch there to make idle banter before leaving for his site meeting) and clicked in to the National Lottery site.

To find that I hadnt won the jackpot.

(drats)

Or even a tenner.

(buggerations)

And you know the minimum you can win on Thunderball now? Yes, that's right £5.

I hadnt even won that too.

(eh?)

I'd won :

£2.50

They Came Part II

2011-02-28T11:50:00.004Z

Cept this time it was different.

In that, the first agent that came over (who reminded me quite a lot of a sweet and innocent mole - all plump and comforting) was a breath of fresh air. Coming from a local firm of agents, this time there was no wafting of several types of fancy-shmancy marketing literature or talking at great length about their different varieties of sales packages. Nope, not even a mini-lecture on their knowledge of the area, their experience in dealing with this type of property and about how they can do us a special deal (wink, wink).

No none of that.

In fact not even that much by way of conversation at all.

Which slightly unnerved the Chuppies but endeared me to Mr Mole who said a few quick hellos, made his way round Chuppies' flat, quietly measured the room dimensions and then told us what he would expect to market the property at (high), what his fee would be (low) and seemed so gentle and kind that I almost threw myself in to his lap and asked for a cuddle.

But I didnt.

What I did instead was ask if he could put what he'd (quietly) told us in writing and, on receipt of which, we would make a decision. We had another agent coming in shortly after, you see, but I could feel myself already making my mind up even before Mr Mole shuffled his way out of the flat. So much so that I almost blocked his exit and asked him to fill me with little mole babies.

But I didnt.

What I did instead was sit through the next agent's spiel. This one was more slick than Mr Mole although not quite as irritating as the nationals. His company, whilst small, dealt with a much larger area than Mr Mole's and, to be honest, it wasnt long before I was stifling yawns as he rambled on, whilst hoping that it wouldnt be too long before he came up with a price. Which he eventually did and, whilst better than the nationals, was still not as good as Mr Mole. The final nail was his fees (higher than Mr Mole) and so, I believe, our decision is pretty much made.

All that remains is for us to read over Mr Mole's letter (when it finally arrives - if not today, hopefully tomorrow), get him appointed, get someone over for photos/dimensions and organise an EPC.

Whilst all of this is going on, I shall start the ball rolling in terms of getting a `mortgage in principle'. And, by Christ, I think we may actually start doing the flat-selling/house-hunting stuff properly.

No more fantasising, hoping and dreaming. Now it's all hard, cold, reality and stress, stress, stress.

Cant wait!

Legs Open, Mouth Shut

2011-02-24T14:34:00.003Z

I went for my `you know what' a couple of days ago. Not the ideal way to spend an afternoon but a necessary evil. After having a colposcopy a coupla years ago, I now have to have a smear once a year until 2015.

So, after spending the morning at work I hurriedly tubed it back to my station, cabbed it back home and then spent the next hour or so showering, plucking, disinfecting and generally perfuming (in manner of someone who is about to have an extremely hot date but without all the fun).

Satisfied that my nether regions were fume-free, I then changed into my tried and tested `Smear Test Uniform', comprising :-

long length baggy jumper
leggings
Ugg type boots

of which the bottom half is good for a quick change out and in of and the top half excellent for concealing the fact that I am stark, staring bottomless whilst walking from the changing area to the trolley. And, yes, I know it's only me and the nurse in the room and that, yes, we both know that I am knickerless for the smear but you've got to take what any threads of dignity you can find in any situation. And being able to conceal my darker side of the moon until the last moment just makes me feel a bit better.

After giving myself one more quick blast of perfume, I left the house and strode over to the doctors surgery, whilst trying not to break into a sweat nor cause any other unfortunate smells to emit from my body in the 10 minute journey to the clinic. To say my stiff shuffle to the doctors resembled someone who'd just dismounted from a horse would've been a fair description.

The Gods must've been on my side, however, as on arriving at the doctors I was pleased to note that :-

(a) I was sweat-free
and
(b) I did not whiff at all

so with a light step I trotted over to the digital sign-in board to confirm that, yes, I was female, that yes I was born all those many years ago and that, yes, I had an appointment in five minutes.

Shortly after sitting down (as far away as possible from a load of crying vomiting babies) I watched the digital board until about five minutes later my name and room number flashed up. Leaving my chair like John Wayne I casually, but wide-leggedly, walked down to the examination room and knocked on the door.

"Come in!" yelled out someone who sounded like they were talking through a mass of sponge.

Turning the handle, I was greeted by the welcoming sight of an examination trolley, examination light, examination tools and a nurse next to a small computer.

"Sit down" the nurse sponge-talked as she returned to the computer screen whilst ferociously chewing away.

I quickly took a pew whilst being careful not to sit down too heavily for fear of producing excessive crotch sweat.

"Ah OK here we are ... London ... Lass?" the nurse asked still chewing, her eyes on the screen.

"Yes, that's right." I replied, following which the usual questions about contraception, periods, smear test intervals, etc., were asked and dealt with.

"Right! I think that's us covered. If you can just hop out of your things we can get this over and done with." the nurse said, whilst walking over to the trolley.

And this is where it all went a bit wrong. Because I began to take my jumper off. Well OK when I said `began' I actually mean I took it off, bra and all, and it wasnt until I began to take off the rest of my stuff that I realised I was about to get myself stark staring bollock naked ... for a smear test.

Fortunately, again, the Gods were on my (back) side, as the nurse had suddenly become distracted by some hefty examination tool that she had to unwind or unclip and whilst she struggled to open it up I quickly threw back on my top half (trying to ignore the fact that although my bra was on it was not actually filled by my boobs which had chosen instead to hang free somewhere near my belly button) and got myself in a more appropriate state of half undress for the smear.

It was at this point, the nurse looked up (the stubborn examination tool had finally sprung free) and, with a quick hand patting gesture on the trolley, I hopped up, lay down and attempted to think the next minute and a half about England. Thoughts were however interrupted by the fact that the nurse was attempting to shove what looked like half of an animal trap up inside where the sun does not shine but shortly after the smear was complete and it wasnt long before I was up, had me knickers on and attempting to make small talk whilst trying to get fully dressed again in as short a timeframe as possible. Not an easy task to do when you've got a nurse watching you struggle in what are usually an easy pair of leggings to pull on.

"Wow, am I glad that's over" I began, "been thinking about the smear since the weekend."

"Really? I actually dont mind them," the nurse replied, whilst removing the trolley covers and depositing them in a bin marked `Hazardous Waste'.

"You dont?" I queried, suddenly curious but yet still conscious that I still had only successfully inserted one leg in my leggings.

"No, not really. It's dentists that are the worse for me" the nurse carried on, whilst wiping down the trolley, and then throwing her gloves in the `Hazardous Waste' bin. "It's that lying back with your mouth open business I cant stand. The feeling that all your saliva is gonna pool in the back of your throat and you could choke ... nah, cant stand that!"

"O right?" I answered, feeling pretty pleased that I now had both legs in my leggings and it wouldnt be long before I could stride out of there in my Ugg-type boots.

"Yes." the nurse continued, as she walked past me to return to her desk. "I'm much better on my back with my legs open than my mouth."

And it was on the back of that double entendre, that I hot footed it out of the surgery. And even though my boobs were swinging all over the place, my leggings were twisted and my Ugg type boots on crooked I didnt care. The smear was over (hurrah!) and I could return back to normality.

Just got to get my smear test results in the post now and then I'll be (hopefully) fine ...

The Chuppies is Blue

2011-02-22T22:06:00.003Z

And that does not mean he cant stop cracking rude jokes a.k.a. Roy `Chubby' Brown.

Nor does it mean he's taken to painting his whole self a shade to match the sky.

No. The Chuppies is down-hearted and things've all got a bit much for him.

Take his job (for instance). Back in November me and him got our heads together and drew up a `Career Objective Plan'. His firm seemed to have gone silent in offering him any sort of training/help up the (career) ladder and, after a brief word with his Direct Manager, we draw up the plan in an effort to get the ball rolling.

Cept there were no balls. Rolling or otherwise.

In fact sweet FA. It would be fair to say that Chuppies' current job (and its prospects) is like one of those empty streets you see in Western films with brushweed blowing through.

But it doesnt end there. The other day the Chuppies was working away on site. Probably whistling and chuckling to himself as his wont (you may call him the Human Budgie if you wish). After getting everything done that was required, the Chuppies needs to leave the site and spots an access door he hadnt noticed before in the distance (being used by a Project Manager at his firm). So the Chuppies picks up his tools and leaves the site in this fashion - only to be e-mailed five minutes later by the Project Manager with a warning that he should not have used a fire door. This e-mail, much to the Chuppies' surprise, is copied to all the big white chiefs at his company.

The Chuppies is sure, however, that the door was not labelled as such and quickly takes a photo of the same door, clicking `Reply All' (so that the big white chiefs could see), and letting the Project Manager know that the door had not been correctly identified as a fire door (whilst at the same time not letting on that he'd seen the Project Manager use the very same door about 5 minutes before he had).

Half an hour later the Chuppies gets a telling off by his Direct Manager by e-mail that he should never be contacting the big white chiefs and to expect to attend a site induction course in the next couple of days.

And, just to hammer the nail in the coffin, the Chuppies was told by someone in his department that an offer to `go up in the career ladder' had been extended to his co-worker (who is not ambitious, has less qualifications than the Chuppies and has not been attempting to work out a Career Objective Plan with his Direct Manager). The co-worker may or may not take up the offer but, in the meantime, the Chuppies is at home off-sick with stomach pains (stress), is eating far too much in the way of chocolate (stress) and is feeling generally flat about everything (stress).

We have, together, applied for a few jobs (but have heard zilch back) and what with the estate agents who turned up the weekend just gone turning out to be the most annoying pultroons on the planet everything, for the Chuppies, seems pretty black.

As for how I am dealing with this? Well I seem to vary between telling the Chuppies to man up, to then wanting to tuck him in with a good bedtime story.

It's a difficult one to call ... am just hoping that :-

(a) the estate agents this weekend are the non-oiled/non-slick/non-sly little shits variety

(b) one of the job applications turns up something

(c) his company just leave him the hell alone - if they're not interested in supporting/helping him why they cant just let him get on with his job until he can finally leave is anyone's guess

(d) I win the lottery and Chuppies' premium bonds come up so that he (OK, we) can tell everyone who's been particularly annoying recently to NAFF THE EFF OFF.

They Came

2011-02-19T16:37:00.002Z

That is : Big Knob and Aladdin.

Big Knob arrived at just after 9.30am this morning, bedecked in long (expensive-looking) coat, suit, shiny shoes, very tight wedding band and overgelled hair. His car of choice? A BMW.

Half an hour later, after chatting a lot of bollocks, showing off with his laser measure, and complimenting Chuppies' on his handiwork, we finally got down to talking business - i.e. what his fees would be and what sort of price range he'd market the Chuppies' flat at.

Big Knob, after having told us he'd carried out extensive research (he'd logged in to Rightmove) and handing us his company's extremely glossy bit of `choose us cos we're much better than all the rest who are just sad twats' type brochure, finally revealed what he thought would be a good price for the flat (quite low) and what his fee would be (very high and non-negotiable). But, you know, his company did have numerous branches nationwide so, for example, if someone in the wilds of Scotland was thinking of moving to a one-bed flat in the wilds of Essex there's would be the ideal company to be with.

Cos, as we all know, that sort of thing happens all the time ...

But anyway, in addition to his fee, there was also this weird upfront `marketing' fee (apparently refundable on sale of the property), which had been termed `Bronze' (£99 - basic marketing), `Silver' (£199 - basic plus frills) and `Gold' (£299 - more frills, waffle, etc.). As the whole thing seemed so silly, I joked with him if there was a `Platinum' (i.e. which came with a guaranteed sale of the property) and he couldnt have laughed more falsely if he tried. Which he proceeded to do. In a soulless type manner.

Anyway, after hearing enough from him, both myself and the Chuppies waved him a rapid goodbye.

Only to be faced with Aladdin 10 minutes later. This one also arrived in a BMW, wore a less expensive looking coat than Big Knob but similar style in suitage and the most horrendously long and pointed shiny shoes they'd started to curl at the front.

Aladdin presented me with his hand as he walked in to the flat but as neither any warmth emanated from his outstretched palm nor any movement either, it was left for me to (scuse the phrase) `pump it' whilst it lay motionless and cold in my grip. Like death.

Backing quickly away I left the Chuppies to show Aladdin round the flat only to hear him gasp a very loud `Wow!' at the Chuppies' decor and room sizes (for again, if you'll excuse the phraseology, it is very slick and they are very big). And then, after more showing off with laser measures, etc., we all sat down to listen to more waffle until Aladdin finally got down to business and asked us what price we were hoping to get.

"What price would you value this property at?" I snapped back quick as a flash.

"Hmm. This could be quite a game" Aladdin mumbled as he fished in his pocket for a pen and began scribbling on a bit of paper for no apparent reason. "All I will say is that, unlike other agents, I'm sitting here open and honest. I'm not gonna try and hoodwink yer."

"Look mate, we're after £xxx, xxx, " piped up the Chuppies all forceful and manly. I think the fact he'd skipped a proper breakfast in the morning to tidy up the flat first thing wasnt helping his mood greatly.

"Well I was going to value this property as £(figure that's £5,000 less than what Chuppies said) to £(figure that Chuppies said)." replied Aladdin clicking his pen at us ominously. "So what I would suggest is, if you appointed us, marketing this flat as an `Offers above £(figure that's £5,000 less than what Chuppies said)' and then start a bidding war."

"I dont think that's a good idea" I butted in, suddenly feeling all muscley and Madonna-like. "People looking for flats are going to have smaller budgets than those seeking houses and if they see that sort of thing they are probably only going to be prepared to go above the price in the advert by a coupla thousand at the most. I dont think there'd be many that could suddenly stretch to an extra £5,000. I'd have thought if the flat was to be marketed on that basis that offers above a figure of no more than £2,500 less than what we want would be better."

"O no" Aladdin responded, "if you get someone in here who loves this flat - and who wouldnt, quite frankly, with its great views, large floor plate and the fact that they wont need to do anything other than simply move their furniture in - we could probably do some very good bargaining - you might even get someone exceeding the price what you originally wanted for it in their eagerness to get the place."

Because that is what always happens ...

"And as for my fee - well this is what I should be charging you" Aladdin began in a `look at me I'll be selling the clothes off my back next' type way, "but this is what I'll actually do for you." Which was cheaper than Big Knob. But still more than what we'd be prepared to fork out for.

Shortly after we waved Aladdin off with a quick goodbye.

Next Saturday we've got two local firms of agents coming round. I had initially thought that inviting round representatives from `nationwide' companies was a good idea. However their extortionate fees (for doing nothing other than producing glossy brochures and spending most of their time surfing Rightmove) has changed my mind.

But, again, it's all been very useful. For it has proved to me that :-

(a) we've got a very nice property to sell
(b) we're gonna go for the highest price possible
(c) whatever place we end up in is gonna end up pretty smart with the Chuppies on board

I think I may have fallen in love with him all over again.

And you may call me a Materialistic Momma if you wish.

Pooh with a Roof

2011-02-16T11:34:00.003Z

So we viewed the gaff.

Unfortunately where the particulars/floor plan and internal tour had loudly proclaimed (trumpeted even) that the Pooh with a Roof (sorry, house, ha ha) had three bedrooms I think it would be fairer (nay, truer) to say that it had one bedroom (OK two, if you're feeling generous) and a corridor. The last time I ended up walking into a space that was so narrow was when I trotted down my hallway this morning (on the way to the pot). To fit a bed inside this space would have proven impossible - although it did come with lots of wardrobe space and an ensuite the estate agent reminded us.

Yes, an ensuite that contained :-

1Nr shower (that looked like it had been installed in the 60s)
1Nr sink (that looked like it was about to come away from the wall)
0Nr toilet

Yes, no loo. To have labelled it an ensuite is a bit like ... well ... calling a hallway a bedroom.

Or a Pooh With A Roof, a house.

But, anyway.

I'm still feeling very optimistic about getting a place. On our side :-

a) It's still early doors (middle of Feb) and still not entered the `boom' period (if these still exist in this day & age) when people put their places on the market.

b) We're not as yet in a position to actually put in an offer so it's good that we are seeing properties we cant actually stand (if you follow).

c) After scampering round other roads in the area following the viewing we have a bit more area research on our side and are pretty resolute that this is the place to be (just need a house to like and buy).

d) There are lots of old people in the area - I cheered up the Chuppies (as we casually walked down a street with lovely - but affordable - properties either side) that right at that very moment, inside one of the houses we were passing, there might just be an elderly man or woman quietly carking it, thus offering up a potential opportunity for us (I'm all heart).

Not on our side :-

a) Lack of houses (so far) but as mentioned above we might be teetering on the edge of more coming in to the market. Last year a few emerged that would have answered mine and the Chuppies' respective prayers - so hopefully there might be a few more that might come up this year (although I'm sure that a couple of these will end up being Poohs with a Roof but that's the nature of the beast that it is house-hunting after all).

O, and this Saturday we've got a coupla agents in to `appraise' the Chuppies' flat and come up with their idea of a price (for when it goes on the market in a coupla weeks). Both guys I spoke to this morning were in turn : smug, cocky and deeply annoying but if they're cheap and come up with a good price for Chuppies' flat then me and the Chuppies would be happy to do business with them.

Even though they both sounded like they needed a good punch in the throat.

Why is the Central Line so shit?

2011-02-08T14:55:00.003Z

To the iPhone user who landed on my blog at approx 2pm this afternoon (after Googling the above phrase) all I can say is : "Well said that man/woman/child/person, why is it so preposterously cack?"

I mean look at what's been going on this afternoon, for heaven's sakes : whole of the Central Line suspended.

And this follows about 5-6 weeks of regularly disrupted service - which means I've got over £30 worth of travel refund vouchers to deduct from my next ticket purchase.

But, to be honest, I'd rather not have the money.

I'd rather have a decent service.

And at an annual cost of around £2,500 shouldnt I get that?

Getting Ahead of Oneself (a smidgeon)

2011-02-04T13:39:00.004Z

There's this house, you see.

On Rightmove.

That I've been (casually) keeping an eye on ever since it appeared (back in Spring 2010 I think). I've only been able to monitor it (all casual like) thus far as me and the Chuppies have not been in a position to do anything about house-moving.

Until now.

Well, OK, perhaps not strictly `now' (as Chuppies has still got to put his flat on the market - we've pigeon-holed beginning of March for this exciting turn of events - and also getting a mortgage in principle under our belts) but as we are almost there we felt it would be rude not to start, you know

!!!!ACTUALLY STEPPING INSIDE SOME AVAILABLE PROPERTIES WITHIN OUR BUDGET!!!!

(sorry, went a bit odd then)

instead of just surfing properties on the Net and planning, arguing and fantasising about houses (which we've been doing for the last year or so).

And (would you Adam and Eve it) the property I've been (nonchalantly) keeping an eye on is

!!!!STILL RUDDY WELL AVAILABLE!!!!

(scuse me whilst I just slap myself up the head)

Not that we can actually put in an offer (for all the reasons stated above) but at least I shall finally be able to step inside its heavenly walls, breathe in its general odour of heavenliness and dribble all over its heaven-sent fixtures and fittings.

Actually, you know what?

I'm only mildly interested in the house.

No really.

And, well, if it's still available when we can start making offers then that'd be nice but if it's not - hey - worst things have happened at sea.

For if someone gets in before we do on snapping this puppy up, I hope they will be very happy. No really, I do. It seems to be a lovely house after all and I hope they end up spending many happy years in it

!!!!BUT NOT BEFORE PUNCHING THEM IN THE THROAT FIRST AND SLITTING THEIR NOSTRILS WITH SCISSORS!!!!

(gathers herself together)

Brushing all the above aside, there is of course the chance that when me and the Chuppies view the gaff (which is taking place on the 11th) I end up hating what it's actually like in real life. It's always struck me that Internet Dating is a bit like house-hunting - cept with slightly less bricks and mortar.

Anyway, it could be harbouring all sorts of secrets that have been cunningly concealed by the deceitfully shitty estate agents with clever photography. It might be built on an old Indian burial ground and during the viewing Chuppies gets sucked in to a tree in the back garden (by way of a for instance). Or it might be all lovely until you buy it and then the front door falls off, the chimney breast falls through and the bath smashes through the upper floor into the living room (as another example).

(and, if you guessed the last two film references, award yourself a huge slap on the back)

But then again it might not. It might actually live up to everything I've seen of it online (via photos, description, street view and virtual internal tour) and I could end up falling head over heels with it the second I step inside it's gorgeous front door and rub myself all over its glorious stairs (discreetly of course).

So what to do in that sort of a scenario? To be tantalisingly so close and yet not available to be had?

Well I shall remain strong, calm and unwavering. I am, after all, British.

Yes, I shall give nothing away to the pesky estate agent who shows us round and remain poker-faced throughout. I shall bite back the girlish giggles as I fondle and caress its internal walls and swallow my childish delight as I probe and peek into its crevices.

And I shall definitely not hysterically pee myself in one of its dressing rooms nor excitedly poo in one of its three toilets (whilst the Chuppies and the estate agent wait patiently outside for me to lay a cable).

Nor will I buy the Big Book of Sailing or talk about purchasing, and planning storage for, a 12ft dinghy (as the Chuppies has done since the house is near to the sea).

Nope I shant do any of that.

I am not really getting ahead of myself.

Just seeing what is out there.

In a calm and breezy fashion.

!!!!BUT PLEASE DONT LET IT SELL BEFORE WE'RE READY TO MAKE AN OFFER - I WANT IT SOOO MUCH!!!!

(gibber)

Dear Nan

2011-02-01T12:40:00.007Z

It's been quite a long time since I last wrote you a letter. But I aim to redress that with this note.

O, and I hope you dont mind my contacting you in this fashion but I'm guessing that where you are now (and how long you've been there) will mean that you're pretty much clued up by now on all things technological (along with everything else)? This is, however, my own personal take on things. Other people will have their own thoughts on the subject. Anyway (and still going along with my opinion) I reckon it must be pretty wonderful to suddenly know everything about everything. Bit like Stephen Fry. Cept without all the homosexualism. And fake tanning.

(course if you are suddenly all-seeing and all-knowing then this note is probably redundant - but we'll gloss over that one for now)

So, tell me, does granddad still follow the football? Course I'm asking this question on the assumption you've both ended up in the same place, and that he didnt end up somewhere else - perhaps that downstairs gaff that's all fire and brimstone, nan, or that middle bit where nothing much happens but you're pretty much stuck for eternity (bit like the M25 on a good day). Not that I'm trying to say he was a bad guy but he was certainly someone who was difficult to understand. I think you'd agree with me on this one, nan.

But then, is it actually the other way around? There's me imagining you reading this note whilst plucking away at a harp and gulping down your third pint of Ambrosia, but you might actually be right about now selecting your red hot poker for the day and wondering what blood curdling scream to unleash.

Not that I could really see that happening, nan - someone like you'd stick out like a sore thumb in that sort of place but mebbe others who'd have a say in such proceedings might have taken a dim view over someone who quite frequently flashed her Union Jack undergarments at family gatherings ... ?

Anyway, wherever you or he may be right now (and please forget what I said earlier, I'm sure it's all lovely and heavenly), I bet granddad's as excited at the forthcoming FA cup pairing between Leyton Orient and Arsenal as my dad (your son, nan). Are you able to still watch your Saturday afternoon wrestling or your Elvis Presley movies? Can you get Baileys where you are? Are you still able to dine at 12noon (on the dot)? And does granddad still do his gardening? Although is there much gardening to be done? If Hollywood movies are anything to go by, is it all just marbled floors, pillars and flights of stairs that stretch on eternally ... ?

Anyway things back here have moved on a-pace.

Remember mum's family? Otherwise known as `that lot' or `the inbreds'? Well they cast her aside like a piece of pooh (shortly after she was diagnosed with emphysema) and, well to cut a long story short, out of her brothers and sisters she now only hears from one. He's moved over to Spain now, would you believe, and has invited mum over to his place but, for a while, she was ostracised from the whole family. And when I use the word `family' I use it very loosely. You'd've been shocked at the whole carry on although, on reflection, perhaps not 100% surprised as I think your opinion of our step-nan (mum's step-mum) was quite low. Although you never let on, and would always seek her out to chat and be friendly with her. But that was your way though, wasnt it nan?

Bit like you and granddad did all those years ago, mum and dad have now moved to the coast. I know you never let on, nan, but I have heard that you were quite upset about the move. The distance from your son and his family being the key factor. Funnily enough, nan, when mum and dad moved your son also found it pretty tough going. The reasoning behind this though was not quite so clear cut (your son, as you know nan, has never been one for talking about feelings) but things are different now and I think (hope) that dad is finally used to being where he is. And nan - you wouldnt recognise the old town where mum and dad (in fact all of us) used to live - but if I said cross `The Only Way is Essex' with `Booze Britain' that might give you an idea. It's a pretty nasty bit of the county now although the house prices are sky high and properties dont stay on the market for long.

O, and nan, me and bro are in our 39th year. Birthday after that we're 40. Odd to think we’re heading for that age - it was only supposed to happen to other people!

We've lived together for over ten years. It hasn’t been all plain sailing (we had a right humdigger of a row just over two weeks ago) but even after we’re no longer living together he knows he can depend on me, and I know I can depend on him, for life. No matter what crops up.

It looked like at one point that bro was going to settle down and I would find a place with my chappie, but then life took a bit of a weird turn about a year and a half ago and now bro's single again. I'm still moving out (I’m going house-hunting next week!) but this is all dependent on things being sold and affordable places being available so I might be with bro for a while yet. Anyway, in anticipation of my moving on, bro is currently looking at getting a rescue dog. I dont know whether I should be flattered or insulted, nan, that the first thought that sprang to my brother’s mind was to replace me with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier!

The chap I was with the last time I saw you (although you never met him) has long since gone. And thank the Lord on high for that sweet mercy (perhaps you could personally pass this on for me). There were a fair few blokes that came and went in the interim (although I never had anyone chase me round a table like you, nan, I did once have a bloke with tracksuit pockets full of money attempt to pick me up at Oxford Circus station one night wanting to take me out for champagne) but the one I'm presently with is a much better class of male (I think mum would back me up on this). We've been together for the last four years and, nan, that’s who I’m looking to get a house with. He is a little younger than me and a carpenter by trade. You'd've loved to have had him over at yours and granddad's place - together him and bro could've got everything fixed up and ship-shape for you in a trice. He's a bit of a cheeky chappie and talks about football with dad. They’ve even had the odd cigar smoking session at Christmas.

Anyway I hate to spring news on you like this, nan, but given what I said earlier about assuming you're now all-seeing and all-knowing this might not be that much of a bolt out of the blue. But at the age of 18 my bro came out. He was a bit of a miserable teenager (I'm sure you saw a bit of this when we used to come down to stay but then I was no angel either) and after he `revealed all' his previous behaviour made sense. Your son (our dad) can be a difficult fish, nan, but he was the first one my bro told. There were a few teething problems to begin with (particularly when bro got together with his first boyfriend - who he is still friends with) but it's all old news now and feels odd even writing about it. You'd've liked all my bro's exes though (he had the same taste as you, nan - they have to be blonde or ginger) and a shame you never had the chance to meet them.

I hope it's not been too weird to hear from me, nan, but then, if you are indeed all seeing/all knowing now, then I guess this note has been long awaited. I dont often talk about you but often think of you. How funny is that? You left such a long time ago and yet I still bring you in to conversations. I think it's because I havent met anyone like you since and as a few people reckon me and you share similar traits (although I havent taken to wearing Union Jack knickers yet) I sometimes think it would have been nice to have had you around for a little longer.

You probably already know this but mum and dad have a frequent visitor in their back garden. This robin comes in all by himself and sits apart from the other birds. Whenever he arrives mum and dad stop what they're doing and watch what he gets up to until he eventually flies off. It is usually then that you get brought into conversation. Mum and dad used to toy with the idea that it was you returning in some form or another, just to check in, make sure all was OK and then quickly flying off (but not before giving us a flash of your red breast). But I'm sure this is just because they missed you.

We all still do.

I’ll try not to leave it so long before writing again.

S.W.A.L.K.

London-Lass

A Big Fat Hurrah ... for Christmas!

2010-12-21T21:48:00.003Z

My time of the year is nearly upon us again.

Not that I was born in this month. Nah, that happened last month. 38 in November (and I have the wrinkles to prove it).

No, when I say `my time of the year', I mean as in - I love Christmas. And, when I say this, I dont mean the religious aspect (because we all know the crafty Church kidnapped a well entrenched winter festival to bump up their visitor numbers anyway and palmed it off as their own - the cheeky blighters), and not because of the rushing around beating everyone up in the shops aspect (because getting children the latest iPad is not what I would call a heartwarmingly festive activity) but the whole getting together with family, taking out a bit of time from our 24 hour society, playing silly games, making merry and sparing a few moments reflection on those who cant be, or are no, longer with us. Should auld acquaintance be forgot 'n all that.

There's no other time of year quite like that. And for that I'd like to say a big fat hurrah.

For when else can you wear a dress that wouldnt like out of place on a street walker for a Christmas Party?

or make (and expect people to eat) Frangipane and Mince Pies (an indigestible mix of frangipane and mincemeat stuffed into a rich almond pastry)?

or feel quite at ease drinking out of a glass shaped like a moose that you purchased especially from the US with a 95% chance of shattering the next time you wash up?

and which doesnt judge you for travelling in treacherous conditions just to get to a family lunch (when at any other time you would've cancelled and remained sensibly at home instead)?

or pick holes in a Christmas wreath that you'd initially set out to be created entirely from natural resources but, as time went on, and weather got bad, ended up making from floristry picks instead?

As Andy Williams crooned `It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year'. Or could be, if you let it.

Just remember not to take it too seriously.

The Past is a Foreign Country : They Do Things Differently There

2010-12-17T11:43:00.008Z

At the tender age of 17 I couldnt get enough of the CB (Citizen Band radio for those not `in the know'). This medium of communication (pre-Internet) was supremely exciting and, whilst I initially reacted to the adoption of an enormous transmitter set by my dad with total (teenager-y) indifference, it wasnt long before I was yabbering away in to the mouthset and striking up all sorts of conversations with fellow CB enthusiasts.

I used the `handle' (CB terminology for `pseudonym') of `Four Eyes' (I wore enormous glasses in the 80s) for my CB conversations and, probably due to the fact that I was a bird, and definitely due to the fact that I was very young, I soon had a whole gaggle of (older) CB guys clammering for my attention every time I took to the airwaves.

One of which was a bloke who called himself `Smooth Operator' after the Sade hit (CB and young women aside, he was also big into soul music). Smooth Operator resided in a town not far from where I lived and worked as an Estate Agent. During the course of our online banter I found out he still lived with his mum (which went down well with my mum), he looked a bit like Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode (which went down well with nobody) and he really wanted to meet me. Or, in CB terminology, `have an eyeball'.

(Christ it was anal)

Anyway, after much toing and froing and mind changing, I eventually agreed to meet him. The details of our rendezvous are pretty sketchy now but I do recall seeing a film in London (which may or may not have been Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure), sharing a burger in Leicester Square and feeling very `all at sea'. He was quite cocky, you see, and played on the fact that I was a very innocent 17 year old (I have a feeling these dont exist anymore). But mixed with the mild unease I felt in his company, I also found the whole thing rather exciting and having to spend the odd moment batting away his sweaty paws seemed a small price to pay for being taken out to London (yep, LONDON!!!!) and other places in his car.

He also got `bragging rights' out of our little arrangement too and would often ask me to ring him at work - and then put me on speaker phone so his colleagues could hear the voice of the 17 year old totty he was taking out.

So all was fair in love and war and everyone was a winner.

Until, that is, I got bored of the whole thing.

What can I say? I was an innocent 17 year old with no urges for a boyfriend whatsoever (that didnt hit and grab me til my mid-20s) and had grown a bit tired of spending time with a 24 year old Estate Agent who ripped the piss out of me one moment and then wanted to investigate the workings of my bra the next. I think I did fancy him ... a bit ... but I had no desire to take it any further with him (or with any bloke for that matter).

So, whilst I continued chatting on the CB, I never saw him again. He met up with a few other female CB-ers (with whom he had a bit more dating success) and I just carried on with chatting on the CB until I eventually lost interest in the whole thing.

Cut to 15 years later.

London-Lass is in the throes of Internet Dating and, whilst having a look at the details of a few local men, whose profile should she happen to stumble across? Yes, that of the ex-Smooth Operator - looking slightly older but still pretty much the same. Viewing his pictures takes London-Lass all the way back to her years in college, the CB and all the other stuff that went with being 17, so curious if he remembered her too, London-Lass finds herself e-mailing the ex-Smooth Operator.

Eventually after much e-mail writing and a couple of telephone calls, we arranged to meet. I dont think I was hoping for anything romantic to come from the date (idle curiosity was what had spurred me into resurrecting contact) but his total astonishment that I remembered him, that I was still single (apparently he'd found me cute when younger, but dangerously sexy now I'd all grown up) and his total enthusiasm about the whole thing began to make me wonder if maybe something might be there? Odder things have happened 'n all that.

And so it was, one crisp February afternoon, that London-Lass found herself en route to a pub about a 15 minute car journey away from her house. Her hair had been `bigged' (dont ask me how this is done, it's very complicated and requires a lot of patience and stamina) and her makeup perfectly applied. She is just stepping out of her minicab outside their chosen pub when suddenly a rather prissy looking 4 x 4 appears (big wheel trims, lots of engine noise, manic hooting), parks right outside the pub (i.e. on the double yellow line), and out leaps the ex-Smooth Operator. Looking very happy at being on a date with London-Lass. But also looking a lot, lot older (who says photos dont lie??), a lot, lot fairer (didnt he used to have black hair??) and a lot, lot heavier.

100% certain by now that there definitely was nothing there (but still up for a drink and a chat) I led the way into the pub. And this was where it got interesting. The original dynamic, i.e. me young, socially inept and innocent and him - man of the world, older and cocky - no longer existed. In short, I ended up leaving him flailing in my wake (like a dying fish) as I knocked each cocky comment right back in his ballpark. Unfortunately this seemed to get ex-Smooth Operator excited about `us' and the `possibilities' between me and him. A couple of hours later, after making it plain that this meeting was to be a one-off (with no hope of a re-run) we parted company outside the pub - me to find a cab at the nearby station and him to deal with a parking ticket that had been left on his 4x4.

And, although the above episode took place when I was 33, it all came hurtling back after a minicab journey that took place a few days ago. As I settled in to my seat and told the driver my destination I suddenly realised that the minicabber was a chap I'd got to know rather well (again during my Internet Dating days). To the point where he'd taken my number and we'd almost gone out.

Almost, that is, until I gave myself a quick slap up the face with reality. Yes, so he was good looking, with a nice smile and a good strong chin you could rest your bag on. But he was a mini-cabber. Who probably asked out all and any female customers that landed in his cab. I would be an idiot to even think it about for a second.

Anyway things never happened and what with the Chuppies coming along shortly afterwards anyway my days of getting minicabs dramatically decreased. On the rare occasion I needed one I never ended up his fare so I assumed he'd probably moved onto another minicab company. And that was that.

Until this week.

"O hello" Mr Minicab smiled. "I thought it was you!"

"Hello!" I replied back. "It's been a while!"

"Well yeh, " Mr Minicab went on, almost turning all the way round. "I thought you'd moved!"

"Nope, still at the same address, " I replied, "I thought you might have moved to another firm yourself."

"Nope, " responded Mr Minicab, almost turning all the way around again. "Been with XXXXXXX now for 10 years."

"Wow, that long?" I mused.

"Yeh so how have you been?" Mr Minicab said.

And then it hit me.

Not the length of time it had been since I used to see him regularly.

But the smell.

From his cab.

And.

The dandruff in the ends of his hair.

And.

The grime sitting on the top of his collar.

And the fact that when I first stepped in I thought that perhaps either he, or an earlier fare, had eaten an Onion Bhaji, or perhaps some Onion Soup, or maybe even a burger (with extra onions).

But then realised the smell was coming from him.

And so a stilted conversation commenced.

Him all excited and sort of jittery (he couldnt seem to sit still in his seat) and me constantly checking the time of my watch and trying not to work out what the other smell could be that was wafting up from the seat beside me.

And, as I left his cab (with Mr Minicab wishing me a good Christmas although hoping that he'd see again me before then - gah!) - I felt a bit of sadness. These two exciting (slightly hunky) blokes from my past had both transformed into unattractive turds.

Which could only mean that, if I hadn’t already done so, I would be shortly turning into one too. Time and tide waits for no man after all.

The past is the past - you can never go back. But if someone happens to know of a diversion from my turd-injected future that would be greatly appreciated.

Snippets from the Central Line

2010-12-15T13:28:00.003Z

My tube train journey (one way) is approx one hour. Yes, 60 minutes of commuting goodness (or underground anxiety). During which, if you're lucky, nothing will happen. And you'll step lightly off your carriage and find yourself beginning to think that yes, perhaps, the tube is a very convenient mode of transport, your fellow commuters are a good all round bunch and everything is marvellous in the world, tra la lee, etc., etc.

But then there'll be those other times when you'll wish that either yourself (or the rest of your carriage) HAD NEVER BEEN BORN.

(I mean we've all been there havent we?)

Fortunately I havent had to endure any deep dark tube episodes of late - maybe cos everyone has more of the Christmas spirit in them at the moment (and, by that, I mean the percentage proof sort and not the dreaming of sugar plums variety). So the following snippets (or nuggets if you prefer) of recent tube-iness are relatively harmless but interesting enough (well to me anyway - anyone that disagrees can bugger off) to be included in this post :-

Snippet 1

We've pulled in to Woodford Station and a woman takes the seat next to me. I'm engrossed in some book but begin to feel myself pulled out from the story by the intriguing flurry of whirring finger movements in my peripheral vision and the quick tapping noises she is producing from her rapid texting. Tutting, shuffling and fidgeting whilst bent over her phone I begin to realise that she is in the middle of a heated textual debate. Of course in this situation I should have done the decent thing and looked away - it was a private conversation she was having after all (albeit rather maniacally with fingers a-flying all over the place) and it wouldnt have been right or fair to read the flying texts whirring on her screen. But London-Lass is not really that decent, nor right or fair really, and so I decided instead to gog - yep, GOG (albeit surreptitiously) - at her texts and read the following dramatic textual argument that unfolded on her phone screen :-

RTW (Rapidly Texting Woman) : Look I'm fed up with u always holding this over my head. I dont want anyfink from you. Either of you. I just want to be left alone.

Replier : You fucking ungrateful bitch. It took ages to arrange that birthday party n you go n pull this attitude. It's too fucking late to change your mind!

RTW : I dont want it. I dont want anyfink.

Replier : Fucking stop whining and moaning. The world doesnt revolve around you. Now stop fucking bothering me. I'm at work and cant keep fucking taking your calls or texts.

RTW : I never asked anyfink of you. And now when I say I didnt want a party you have a go at me for being ungrateful. I dont want a party. I never wanted one. This is the last straw. I'm moving out.

Replier : Fine by me you fucking bitch. Dont contact me again.

RTW : Ok mum.

Snippet 2

I'm at Holborn Station. It's a cold and snowy afternoon outside but snug as a bug in a (very filthy and smelly) rug inside my Central Line tube train. I'm sitting in the middle of the carriage and a whole herd of passengers have just climbed aboard. Which appeared to include, if I wasnt much mistaken, an insane dude who looked like he was just about to give the benefit of his ~~wisdom~~ insanity to the rest of the carriage.

"Women. Them's are bitches!!!" he yelled at no-one in particular but startling everyone at once.

"Yes. The fornicators of the planet shall get their just deserts!!!" he shouted some more, as the tube carriage doors slammed closed behind him and we went on our way.

"Fish is the answer!!" he bellowed down our carriage whilst everyone studied the floor in silence. "And bread!!! For, in its purest form, it fed so many and sustained them in their darkest time with Jesus."

This roaring carried on for several tube stops until it was my turn to get off (at Bank Station). Another chap (sitting opposite me) obviously had the same idea for we both stood up at once. However, I went straight to the door. And he went straight to the mental patient.

"Now listen dude" he started softly whilst tapping the insane dude on the shoulder.

Insane dude (with saliva bubbling in the corners of his mouth) turns round to stare at chap.

"Your shouting is frightening a lot of people on here. Either shut up or get off." the chap stated all menacing and quiet.

"Get your hands off me!!!!" screamed and cried the crazy man. "You have no right to stop the speech!!! No right!!!! No right!!!!"

And then I think a punch up started.

But I was too busy running off the train, running up the escalators and running all the way to Fenchurch Street station to really notice.

Snippet No.3

It's a late night on the Central Line and I'm returning home after the Office Christmas party. I'm on a train that's just left Tottenham Court Road tube station and the rock of the carriage as it meanders down the track is making me feel very tired. However, as I'm on the tube late at night I decide that perhaps catching forty winks might not be the best of decisions. Unlike the man next to me. Who, slumped in his seat (and smelling of stale beer) has decided to just get on with the sleeping malarky, and to use my right shoulder as a pillow.

Jumping (slightly) in my seat I am able to manoeuvre him off my shoulder. But just as I think I am rid of the beer-soaked sop, his head rolls back and on to my shoulder again.

"Ahem!" I cough loudly whilst nudging my shoulder up.

And this time the beer barrelled bloke wakes up properly. Scratches himself a bit. And then proceeds to apologise. And apologise. And apologise.

"Look it's really Ok. It's late at night. These things happen." I attempt to bat him away whilst trying to look in any direction other than his. Not only cos I wanted him to stop saying sorry but because I was frightened the fumes on his breath would dissolve my contact lenses.

"No really I'm so very shorry. I dont mashe ... ma-k-e ... a habit of touching women on the tube. Honesht!" he carried on earnestly whilst the rest of the carriage looked up (as one) at the phrase `touching women'.

"Look, honestly, it's fine-" I protested but he wasnt having any of it.

"I just didnt want to mashe ... mak-sh-e you feel ... uncomfshtable." he smiled glassily. "Hey where you going ... ?"

For luckily at this point I could leave. The next stop was Leytonstone and I had to change trains.

The gods of good fortune were also particularly kind at this point for, just as I made my way to the opening tube train doors, the drink-addled chappie let out a loud burp and promptly threw up all over the seat I'd been sitting in.

With the sound of thick vomit trickling down on to the carriage floor I bid him a hasty farewell and leapt out for fresh air.

The Internet Is Not My Friend Right Now

2010-12-14T09:46:00.006Z

In short : it's all gone to bollocks.

And I hate it when things go like that. Me, being the anal control freak that I am.

Take my bank account. There might be around £170 that I cant account for withdrawn from my funds. I say `might' as, although the money (of roughly this amount) has gone, the transaction (with nifty helpful description) has not appeared yet on my bank statement - so it might be a valid payment (you know, I might have just fancied purchasing £150+ worth of M&S tights or something). Or it might not.

I did buy a few items on-line at the weekend but after totalling them up they certainly do not cover the amount that's been withdrawn (or, at least, I don't think so) so am unsure as to what exactly has happened. My PayPal account has also left me clueless with not even a smidgen of suspicious activity.

Anyway, after checking my account on-line I rang up my bank's helpline. Just in case they might be able to shed any clues. But the line I called was all out of help.

"I'm afraid that what you can see on your e-banking screen is what we can see" explained the bank's call centre person at 10pm last night.

"O" I replied.

"Yes, my screen wont tell me anything more than your internet banking statement screen" the call centre person carried on.

"O" I replied, again.

"Erm" the call centre person suddenly coughed up. "It might be a cheque you've sent that's waiting to clear?" I guess this was the `helpful' part finally coming in to play. But as I havent written a cheque for at least 10,000 years I decided to terminate the call for both our sakes.

The unaccounted for money appears to have been spent at some point at the weekend so hopefully I shall discover what has been purchased either by the end of today or tomorrow. I am also continuing to monitor my account in case further funds disappear but (touch wood and clench taut nervous thighs together) nothing further has come out.

And then there are our office hampers. We've sent out half a dozen this year. Which I proceeded to do on-line. Yesterday lunchtime. And all seemed to go very well.

For look! Yep, there's the screen telling me my order is complete.

O, and look there! That'll be the e-mail confirming receipt of my order.

O, and also in the Accounts section if I'm not mistaken - yes! There! In the `Order History' section! It's telling me that I purchased the hampers and they are being `processed'.

So then why, when I rang the hamper company this morning, can they not locate my order on their system?

And they have no answer as to why I have an e-mailed confirmation receipt??

And they'll have to get someone in their `web team' to investigate???

Negative Feedback

2010-11-21T10:44:00.002Z

I always find myself reluctant to leave a bad review/feedback on-line. It's quite strange as I'm the first to complain if something goes awry `in real life' but I think my on-line reluctance may be because there are a lot of people out there who, safe in the knowledge that they can remain (relatively) anonymous (or so they think), will spitefully leave a bad review or negative comment just for larks. And I do not want to be mistaken for one of these no-hopers. No thank you.

I mean, go shopping for an item on a lot of different sites and, if they provide a section for feedback, it's pound to a penny that you're gonna find a cluster of bad reviews on anything you had initially thought worthy of purchasing. That is not to say that all negative feedback is spiteful (there are some very helpful reviews out that that have prevented me from making a costly mistake) but there are quite a lot submitted by people who seem to either be getting their kicks anonymously, not quite au fait with how the review/feedback process should actually work ... or both.

For example, whilst generally browsing Christmas carol CDs on Amazon I found that someone had left a negative review (on an otherwise highly rated CD) purely because it did not evoke the same atmosphere as when they go to their local church for Midnight Mass! And for that they gave the item 1 out of 5.

Another Amazon user had left a seller negative feedback because the seller had not stated clearly enough in their description for a `Miniature Pack of Playing Cards' that these were going to be small in size!

(You see what I mean?)

And, as I hate all this sort of caper and try my best to detach myself from bad/ignorant on-line behaviour, I tend to find myself over-analysing any transactions that havent been up to scratch from all angles before composing my review. As a result of this, I found myself leaving a neutral (rather than negative) feedback on an Amazon seller who I'd purchased some boots from. 24 hours after making my purchase they sent me two conflicting e-mails - one reading that my boots were on their way and the other telling me that the item I'd ordered was out of stock. I'd then had to chase the seller to find out which e-mail was correct and they took another 48 hours to tell me I wasnt getting my boots and then another 24 hours to confirm they were refunding my money. After checking the funds were safely back in my bank account I left the neutral feedback since I reasoned they had responded and I did eventually get my money back ... just no effin' boots.

However, a couple of days ago, I found myself stabbing out from my keyboard a negative review for a crappy Amazon seller who had been completely shit-shoddy. After analysing the transaction from all angles I concluded that :-

(a) yes, the seller had been shitty
(b) yes, their communication had been shitty
(c) yes, their despatch times had been shitty
(d) and, yes, the whole thing had left me feeling shitty

As the item was expensive (£185.99) and a birthday pressie for the Chuppies I'm sure you can imagine how stressed London-Lass had become over the whole thing. If I'd been a guitar string I'd've twanged loudly when plucked.

In short, there could have been no better time to leave a negative review - so this is what I did. See below my portion of angrily typed prose in all its glory :-

"I don't like leaving negative feedback but felt the service I received from this seller was poor. The item was not dispatched, nor did it arrive, on time. They failed to answer 2 of my e-mails and it was impossible to get through on their phone line. I eventually received a note claiming Amazon must have `blocked' my previous e-mails! A shame - since apparently they run an `excellent' service."

See? Not spiteful or thick ... just explaining that I hate leaving a bad review but on this occasion had no choice.

Admittedly my review could have been a little longer with more detail but as Amazon limits the word count on any feedback submitted the above was the best I could come up with. The reference to the `excellent' service was a nod to an e-mail which I received from the seller after the item had finally been despatched thanking me for using their `excellent' on-line shop. In the same note they claimed that Amazon blocked my messages. But that was the only acknowledgement they made to the whole rubbish transaction. There was no explanation as to why the item took so long in getting to me or why their `Customer Helpline' constantly ran an automated message telling callers to ring back due to high volume of calls. And nowhere on their note was there any sort of an apology. Their whole attitude and Customer Service-ship stank (like rotting fish).

In all I'd felt justified to leave the review that I did and thought that that would be the end of that.

But I was wrong.

For 35 minutes after posting the above review my work phone rang and the following conversation took place.

"Good Morning, Someone's Name & Another Person's Name!" I trilled, all professional and that.

"Er. Would this be London ... Lass?" asked the caller, sounding like they came from somewhere north of the Midlands and that they were born with testicles. O, and a penis.

"Yes, that's right." I responded, preparing myself for a tiresome sales call exchange.

"Aye well this is Fred from Pentagon, love. And you've just left us some negative feedback."

At this point my throat and anus closed simultaneously. And my brain temporarily shut down.

What the heck was going on? I hysterically thought to myself. What was this Fred going to say?

"Well, yes, that's right" I responded, trying to make myself sound as stern as possible (although probably only succeeding in coming off all squeaky and wavery).

"You wrote here, love, sommat about us not coming back to your e-mails. But I wrote you that note to say you were blocked."

And it was then I got angry.

"Now look here ... !”

(yes, that's right, I turn in to the Queen when the chips are down but goddammit they'd got me riled)

"I dont appreciate this phone call nor you telling me you sent me some note about being blocked. I left that negative feedback as I was given no explanation as to why all the different things occurred - no e-mail responses when I should have got them, your failure to dispatch and deliver the item as per your estimate and no apology. I had absolutely no communication from you when I wanted it and I fail to see why you now think it reasonable to disturb me whilst I am at work so I'm going to terminate this call."

"Ee ... hang on love. Amazon ask us to resolve all negative feedback. Which is what I'm trying to do here."

"You are? I see ... so ringing someone up out of the blue at their office number and arguing the toss over feedback they've left is the best you can do?"

I was really getting in to my stride and even though I still sounded like I was married to Prince Phillip I was at least being able to vent all the stress/tension that I had been building up over the poxy transaction for the last couple of weeks.

"Well, no. Look ... er ... you spent ... er what were it again? O yes, £185.99."

"Yes ... " I replied, wondering where on earth this going.

"Well I tell you what. We're willing to compensate you for the late delivery, no e-mails, etc., etc."

"Ok ... " I replied, still wondering what was going to be said.

"So we'll refund you ... er ... £5.99 to make up for all the inconvenience."

It was at this point that I heard a tiny little blood vessel pop in my forehead.

"You’re joking. That's not even 5% of the total price."

"What you talking about love - that's six quid in your pocket!" Fred from Pentagon protested.

"Right, that's it I'm going" I snarled, rage and fury covering my phone receiver in spittle. "But before I do I'd just like to say that you can keep your poxy compensation, this matter as far as I am concerned is not resolved and if I get another call from you or anyone else from Pentagon I shall be contacting Amazon Customer Services - this is nothing short of harrassment. Goodbye!"

With that I slammed down the phone receiver so hard that a little of the rage induced spittle flew up and speckled my printer.

A little while later, whilst drying off my printing equipment, I made the following few promises to myself :-

(a) definitely do not purchase anything from Pentagon again.
(b) dont think too hard and long the next time it comes to leaving feedback. Mine was over-analysed and re-worded as a helpful note of caution to other sellers and yet I still got called on it.
(c) quickly apply some sort of mouth shield the next time I have to have an angry conversation (if only for the sake of my office desk machinery).

I Am A Grown Up - It's Official

2010-11-20T13:10:00.008Z

It's my birthday tomorrow. I shall be 38. So it should come as no surprise to announce that I am now a grown up (officially).

But this declaration is not connected to how many years I've lived on this planet (thus far). I am now two years off from 40 (or, as my mum is apt to piping "You're now in your 39th year, you old bat") and if I havent resigned myself to being some sort of a grown up now I never will.

But it's not actually to do with this.

Or the fact that every time I get served in a shop now I get called `Madam' (which leaves me feeling ancient and angry in an instant).

Or that it's now taking longer to cover up all the lumps and bumps in my old woman's lumpy bumpy face in the morning before I can leave the house (without hunching over or wearing a balaclava).

No sir, this official growing up lark only occurred today.

At 9.30am to be precise.

In a small café/bistro outlet in Chelmsford.

During a slap-up `birthday breakfast' paid for by the Chuppies.

We'd ordered food (me = a coupla rashers of extra crispy bacon, scrambled egg, plain granary toast; Chuppies = Chorizo scrambled egg in a pan fried bagel) and it was time to order drinks. Now generally I will resort to my tried and tested option (Diet Coke) as (a) I've never liked, or drunk, tea, (b) I've never liked, or drunk, coffee and (c) apparently Coke is `the Real Thing'.

But I then decided to get adventurous. Must be my impending birthday.

But, anyway, up on the chalkboard menu, behind the check-out person's shoulder, the phrase `Chai Latte' kept on winking at me. To fill you in, a couple of weeks ago, the Chuppies had ordered a cup of this brew and, after catching me breathe in it's lovely spicy wafts, encouraged me to have a sip. Although I'd been marvelling over its aroma (sweet and spicy) whilst sipping daintily at my Diet Coke I had already resigned myself to not actually liking the taste.

"O, go on, try a sip." the Chuppies encouraged, pushing his mug towards me.

"But it's teeaaaa!" I panicked, pushing his mug back. "You know I dont like tea or coffee."

"Try it," the Chuppies persisted, "Go on, it tastes nice."

I then shook my head forcefully whilst trying not to cry (I was having a bit of a Drama Queen moment).

But then. I completely changed my mind. Slammed down my Diet Coke bottle. And took a great big gulp from Chuppies' mug.

And I liked it.

After swallowing the brew and quietly blinking at the weird (but nice) mix of flavours, I looked over at the Chuppies (who'd also gone quiet and blinky at London-Lass).

"So?" asked the Chuppies tentatively, in a shocked slightly wavery voice (almost fearful that if he spoke too loudly after London-Lass' mouthful it might all come hurtling back up covering him in a Chai Latte technicolour yawn).

"Oo ... that's nice!" I responded (almost crying again). "It's a bit Christmassy tasting!"

"Yeh it's all the spices in it. See I told you it was nice," the Chuppies replied, a trifle bored and wanting his mug back. Which I eventually relinquished but then kept thinking about the exotic flavours for the rest of that afternoon.

So I ordered myself a mug of the stuff today.

And DRANK THE WHOLE RUDDY LOT.

Even though with every mouthful my body was screaming at me "BUT YOU'RE DRINKING SOMETHING HOT THAT'S NOT FRUIT JUICE!!! AND IT'S NOT FIZZY, COLD AND COKEY, BUT COFFEE COLOURED!!! AND FOAMY!!! AND FLAVOURED LIKE NOTHING YOU'VE EVER HAD BEFORE ME!!! WOO BOY, ARE YOU GOING TO BE GAGGING NOW!!! READY?!! ONE, TWO, THREE - UP IT COMES!!!"

But there was no gagging. Just lots of swallowing, gulping and yumming. Right up to the point I could see the bottom of the mug.

And it was then that I knew.

Without a shadow of a doubt.

I had finally grown up.

Officially.

Been a While ... But Zip Apology

2010-10-14T10:07:00.007+01:00

Ok. I know it's been a while since I posted.

But I'm not apologising.

Reasons?

(1) it's my blog which plays by my rules, goddammit
(2) I cant be f-ing arsed.

And anyone who doesnt like it, can kiss it, you Mother Fs.

(can you tell I watched `Snakes on a Plane' last night?)

It's just that since getting back from my lovely break with the Chuppies (which was spent hiking over the Yorkshire Moors, trying not to break down and cry whilst undertaking a 6-mile cliff-top walk to Robin Hood's Bay and eating far too many chip portions in Whitby)

I've been working really hard in the office. Surprisingly hard. Well to my fingers and knuckles anyway. Which are more used to surfing Rightmove, hopping on to Amazon or nosing around forums. All this proper working for a wage malarky has all come as a bit of a shock. But it's good, you know. I mean - particularly in this day and age. I'm glad to be working (albeit generally without that many breaks and relatively long hours) and would like to give three cheers to my bosses for my job and wages - Hip Hip Hooray, Hip Hip Hooray, Hip Hip Hooray. One for luck : Hip Hip Hooray.

What really drove my luckiness home was a grim story that my brother, The Driving Instructor, regaled to me this morning whilst on the way to work. One of his students (we'll call him `Tex') is on Job Seekers Allowance after being made redundant from his last position. But, unlike yer typical knuckle-scraping, bus shelter forehead constructed types (of which there are many in our town), Tex is actively seeking work. He is paying for his driving lessons (+ all his other bills 'n stuff) through a small amount of savings that he put by whilst in full-time employment but these arent going to last forever and he is desperate for a job. With a capital `D'. Anyway, Tex finally was given an interview with Toys R Us. And, if you're a bit like me, you've probably now got that annoying ad jingle/ear-worm running through your head that goes :-

There's a magical place
We're on our way there
With toys in their millions
All under one roof
It's called Toys'R'Us!

Soon after bedtime
When dark nightime falls
Geoffrey and helpers stock up on the shelves
From ceiling to floor
Books, boardgames and bikes
Teddies, puppets and dolls
Bats, spaceships and trikes

There's millions says Geoffrey
All under one roof
It's Called Toys'R'Us! Toys'R'Us! Toys'R'Us!

Well, if you didnt, you do now. No need to thank me.

But returning back to Tex. He went to his interview. Post applied for? `Order Fulfilment Worker'. Hours? 6 hours per week (+ extra to be had in the run-up to Christmas). Interview? Had to indulge in a `team building exercise' with 5 other applicants. Reason? Not sure, but probably just for larks. You know - chap is desperate for a job, let the big company have fun in seeing just how desperate he really is. Ho ho.

Anyway, so moody did this little tale get me that I had to go to M&S and purchase these three Christmas tree polar bear decorations (on a 3 for 2 offer so roughly £1.60 each).

And, if you can look at them without smiling you have a heart of stone.

Or havent got in to the Chrimbo spirit yet as it's still only October.

A Hungry Angry Baby

2010-09-01T09:38:00.006+01:00

God, who doesn’t love a good cry?

I know I do.

Although I am referring here to the crying of the self-indulgent variety which is usually accompanied by snacks, wine and a good film thus allowing you to wimper and bawl like a lost and naked orphan safe in the knowledge that you can have a jolly good wail over a little slice of celluloid fantasy and not that you're actually having to shed proper tears as a result of grief, loss, pain or anything else that this happy little life can throw at you.

I am of the variety that can cry at the drop of a pin. Or is that a hat? But what I mean is that I am emotionally crazy (I am fighting to describe this another way but I cant). Get me in an argument that's only lasted about 10 seconds and you'll find my face has turned into a bright red tomato, my lips are quivering all over the place and my eyes have turned into bugged out tear-streaked bubbles (o, and let's not forget the two lines of snot that will stream from my nostrils about 5 seconds later). Even if the difference of opinion is over something as minor as `who took my blasted biro from my blasted desk again!' it wont be long before you'll see me ragged, teary and bloodshot. Well, at least it would be if I hadnt managed to find (as I've got older) a way to hold back (some of) the bawling hysteria that lurks just underneath the surface.

But which I can happily unleash when watching a certain type of film. And we all know which ones I mean here :-

must have a terribly awful twisted tale where someone is made to suffer a huge injustice but eventually succeeds against all the odds
must have a terribly awful twisted tale where someone loses someone (or, ha ha, thinks they've lost someone) only to be reunited with that someone in the final part of the film
must have a terribly awful twisted tale where someone `has to let someone go' as although they want to be with them, for the sake of everyone else (and, sometimes, for the good of the planet), they cant

These terribly awful stories must also be set on top of background music filled to the brim with tunes of a minor key (ideally mixed in with the occasional plink plink of a sad piano).

The Chuppies, on the other hand, has never wept (well as far as I know) at heart-tugging movies. Ok, his eyes go a little bit `shiny' and, if he's holding my hand during a particularly poignant moment his usual warm, furry paw can suddenly transform into a bit of a robot-like vice grip until the film is over (or the emotional scene has finished) - but that's still nothing compared to the blubbering mush London-Lass would have transformed into beside him. See? Me = emotionally insane, Chuppies = emotionally sane.

And so it was with a tiny bit of interest that I read that this year's edition of Toy Story (i.e. Toy Story 3 - or 3D in some cinemas) had a terribly awful heart-tugging story. So awful and gut-wrenching in fact that it was reducing grown men (who'd never wept before at films) into simple bawling buffoons.

"My God Chuppies, listen to this one" I giggled, as I read him the following comments from a forum devoted to people who'd been to see Toy Story 3 and ended up stuttering tearballs :-

I RARELY cry during movies and yet at TS3 I cried like a hungry, angry baby. I'm 26 years old and I just couldn't keep it together.

I've never cried at films before but, at Toy Story 3, I cried like someone had punched me in the stomach. I'm 33.

I cried so hard I lost one of my contact lenses. And then my lunch. I'm 46.

And it was then I began to wonder? Could this be the one where I finally see the Chuppies combust into a foam of hysterical tears? With the makings of a plan slowing forming in my brain, I turned to the Chuppies and said : "You know, I'd really like to see this film." I think I might also have rubbed my hands together and giggled softly like an evil genius at this point, but my memory is a bit hazy.

"Really? Well, OK, but when are we going to go? I've got that thing to do with the car this weekend and next week is out as we've got to go to that party," the Chuppies replied, totally oblivious to my evil intentions.

"No that's fine. My brother can get hold of a pirate copy. We could watch it back at mine tomorrow." I smiled, taking note of how dry and calm the Chuppies' face looked now and wondering whether it would end up crinkling up and go mashy when he blubbed hysterically, or would he remain one of those hard macho types who could cry lots of tears but with a totally frozen face?

(By the way, I didnt say a `pirate' copy, cos that's illegal)

"O Ok. I'll look forward to seeing it then." the Chuppies responded, whilst idly scratching his buttocks.

Cut to Bank Holiday Monday evening. You've got me (Ms Insane & Evil), the Chuppies and my brother. We've got snacks, wine and beer and a ~~pirate~~ copy of Toy Story 3 is about to be watched.

"So this film is quite sad then is it?" asked my brother as he cued up the beginning of the film.

"O yes," the Chuppies responded, crunching on a handful of crisps. "Apparently it reduced some bloke to a ... what was it, London-Lass?"

"A hungry, angry baby," I replied, all nonchalant and casual. "Do you want me to get you some tissues?" I continued on, in the same calm, measured tones.

"Hah, as if!" the Chuppies cackled, gulping back his beer.

Hmm just you wait my pretty, I thought to myself, and your little dog too! But then realised that this was not the Wizard of Oz, I was not a green witch and Chuppies was not Dorothy.

But you'll be crying like a baby, I carried on plotting, whilst twisting my wine glass in my fingers and nursing a small but evil smile.

And then it all went wrong.
The Pixar animation kicked in and within, oo, about half an hour I was sobbing and fighting for air and getting my brother to pause the ~~pirate~~ Toy Story 3 so I could get some more tissues.

And the Chuppies?

Drier than a bucketful of sandsheets.

Papped

2010-08-27T09:52:00.006+01:00

I left my office yesterday evening in the usual fashion.

As in, very late.

And in a clumsy hurry.

I'd already had to make two return journeys back to the office - firstly, to quickly retrieve my mobile (which I'd handily but also absent-mindedly left charging under my desk) and then to recover an M&S Spaghetti Carbonara from the office fridge (which I'd bought for the Chuppies on the way in to work that morning but that, by the afternoon, had completely slipped my mind until, you know, I'd left the office).

And so it was - whilst I was really hoping that I could now walk to the station instead of carrying on in this continual doubling back fashion - that I saw a very long horse's leg suddenly appear from the side of a parked-up vehicle. Long, shining and bony, my late departure from the office was quickly forgotten as I stood still for a second to work out why I was about to come up against a horse.

When, suddenly and, as if from nowhere, this multi-person vehicle (with blacked out windows) came hurtling down the road from the opposite direction, with lots of shouting being bellowed out of the driver's window. Which was aimed at the horse.

But which also turned out to be not a horse at all.

The sparkling Jimmy Choos at the end of the leg (well actually both legs - whoever it was had the normal amount of two) sort of gave the game away - the legs in question being ultra thin, fake tanned to the max and having thighs thinner than my arms.

So they could have belonged to a thoroughbred. Even though horses' legs are generally to be found galloping about in hooves. And, not, you know, shoes.

Anyway ...

"O, so it's some sort of celebrity …" I thought as I took a better look to see who the ruddy hell it was. But, aside from a huge mop of hair (backcombed to the hilt or 80% wig I couldnt work out), and a quick flash of a shimmering dress (which reminded me of 70s disco balls) I was unable to make out any identifying features before she'd dived in to the waiting car, horse legs and high heeled shoes flying.

And it was at this point I walked smack into a gaggle of suddenly emerged papperazzi holding cameras aloft their heads and screaming (like big girls blouses I might add) "O, come on love, just one photo, just one over here, you're looking so pretty today!!!!" (etc)

But the papped horse wasnt having any of it and, with a dramatic squeal of tyres, the blacked out car zoomed off.

"Fuck it!" stormed a papparazzo, angrily spitting out his gum, "Too fucking slow!"

"Dont sweat it mate," growled his papparazzo companion, "her husband's drinking round the corner, we'll get more fucking money for him."

And off they sped. Leaving me to ponder ... celebrity couple? in the West End? wife has legs like a horse?

But then hurriedly pulled myself together. I was now really late for my train and the Chuppies' meal was beginning to defrost in my bag. I shook my little (non-horse like legs) in to action and ran for my tube whilst wishing that I had a souped up blacked-out car in my life.

But certainly no paparazzi.

The Chuppies & Paperwork

2010-08-24T10:08:00.004+01:00

The Chuppies spoke to his counsellor the other week. On the telephone. The phone call lasted (I believe) about half an hour. It largely served as an introduction for the counsellor, following which the Chuppies summarised his situation, thoughts and feelings. After taking account of the Chuppies' comments and reviewing a questionnaire the Chuppies had previously completed, the counsellor diagnosed a form of `mild anxiety' - i.e. not the sort that's likely to leave the Chuppies roaming his local high street wearing nothing but a slim blue tie and asking passerbys for a good egg-laying chicken, but more likely to lead to minor (but no less debilitating) stress-related symptoms that can impact on sleeping, appetite and temperament.

And, so, in order to get to the `nub' of the matter and assist in working out ways to resolve the underlying stress issue, the Chuppies has had to complete another ream of paperwork. Which has proven arduous. The Chuppies, you see, is one of those who has never been comfortable with form filling or, even, pen-holding. His hands were meant for whittling and planing and his eyes were meant for twinkling.

Or some other such nonsense.

Forgive me whilst I just quickly reset myself.

*slaps herself up the face*

So, anyway, given the volume of paperwork to fill in, the Chuppies took the only approach that made any sense.

He dumped the whole lot at my door.

Just after we'd just finished pulling apart Louise Redknapp's presenting `skills' on Something for the Weekend.

"Blimey - what's all this?" I ask as I clear away the breakfast things.

"It's more stuff I've got to fill in" the Chuppies began, "perhaps we can go through this together?"

"Sure," I reply, heading out to the kitchen, "but remember it's really you that's got to answer the questions. This is all about you after all."

"I know London-Lass," the Chuppies replies reluctantly whilst picking up a pen in his wood sawing hands, "just thought it might be helpful to get another viewpoint on certain things."

"Ok," I agree, as I return back to the living-room sofa only to spend the next 20 minutes or so biting my lip and fighting the urge to wrench the pen off the Chuppies and fill in his effin' forms properly.

`Describe below', one section read, `what your current stresses are', to which the Chuppies wrote :-

- Work
- Moving house
- Marriage

"Chuppies?" I ask quietly, in a `calm before storm' type way.
"Yes, London-Lass," the Chuppies replies, unaware of the change in atmosphere.

"Can I just make a couple of points?" I whisper, voicebox clenched in irritation.

"What about?" the Chuppies asks, whilst clicking at the top of his pen and shuffling his papers efficiently.

"Erm, well firstly, it says `describe below' not `list below'. If you're just gonna write `Work' that will tell your counsellor nothing. What is it about work that leaves you stressed?" I quietly ask.

"O I see .... "the Chuppies answers, slowly realising he has a bigger task on his hands than first imagined.

"So - is it the hours? Workload? People there?" I continue.

Suddenly the Chuppies' shoulders droop as the realisation he'll have to do even more of that writing-thing-that-you-do-with-a-pen hits him.

"Secondly - moving house? Marriage?!" I ask, my eyes widening slightly.

"What about them? They're the biggest all time stresses in the world arent they?" the Chuppies correctly replies, but slightly missing my point.

"Well yes. You could say that. But what is it about them that causes you stress?", I reply, suddenly feeling a bit wibbly. "I mean - are you saying that the thought of moving in with me and, you know, getting hitched, etc., is possibly part of your `mild anxiety'?"

"No!" the Chuppies replies, putting down his pen and resting his wood-whittling paw on my lap. "That's not it at all. I put `moving house' only because I am worried about what sort of a commute in to work I'll have when we've moved. I do want to live with you London-Lass - that doesnt stress me out at all."

"Ok - well what about `marriage'?" I ask, clenching the Chuppies' paw and hoping for a good answer.

"Well as in I get stressed out when I go to other people's weddings," the Chuppies replies, innocent as a baby eel.

"Other people's?" I reply, slightly confused.

"Yes, well you know when you go to weddings and people come up and joke around, and ask if you're next? That type of thing really stresses me out."

"But is that actually a current stress. I dont recall either of us having to go to anyone's wedding this year. Or last year for that matter."

"Well OK it's not current. But thinking about having to go to someone's wedding makes me stressed."

"What about your own?"

"O well that's different."

"Why?"

"Cos I want to do that."

Mills & Boon (ish)

2010-08-18T11:49:00.006+01:00

Tenderly he stroked her hair. Long, blonde and naturally wavy it slid through his fingers like spun gold. Although for much of his life he'd grown used to travelling solo, he now no longer wanted to journey alone. He kissed her smile and knew that this was the perfect moment. Looking down in to her beautiful face he whispered four small words - his heart brimming full of emotion and his nerves strung fever tight for her reply.

The Chuppies farted. Loudly. Like a startled elephant.

"Christ!" I yelled, managing to hold my nose, leap from my bed and run to my bedroom window all at the same time.

"I reckon that's those pizzas I got you. Those - what were they called? Four cheese thingies?" I continued as I cranked open my bedroom window to its fullest capacity. The Chuppies was laying on the bed rubbing his swollen stomach and I could see from his fidgeting moaniness that tonight could very well end up proving a restless night's sleep for us both.

"It's all bloated London-Lass," the Chuppies complained, kneading at his belly. "Perhaps I shouldnt have had that ice lolly after the cup of tea."

"Yes, that well known ingredient for giving you stomach ache - lolly!" I scolded, as I totted up the amount of food the Chuppies had put away that evening. "Lay on your stomach - that'll encourage it to disperse."

Much creaking then ensued as the Chuppies noisily hoiked himself over on to his front. And, as he lay on his stomach groaning like an overfed whale I suddenly thought that, yes, this was the perfect moment.

"You know, I've been thinking ..." I began, suddenly feeling all nervous and wondering if I also should take something for my suddenly windy stomach.

"O yes? What about ... ?" the Chuppies asked, turning himself on his side, and continuing to massage his abdomen.

"About us. And us eventually living together ... " I began, feeling my mouth go dry and my armpits grow damp.

"Yes ... ?" the Chuppies encouraged, picking at an errant piece of belly button fluff.

"Well I've been reading up about rights ... and the law ... and about common law couples ... compared with married couples ... " I carried on, wondering if it was just me or had the bedroom suddenly got really hot?

"Go on ... " the Chuppies whispered, his body stiff as a board (and apparently frozen in time).

"Well as we're buying a place together and, from what I've researched, it seems to makes sense for us to ... you know ... GET MARRIED!!!", I bark out somewhat hysterically, rather startling the Chuppies, and leaving me feeling all lightheaded and giddy. "Waddya say?"

Tears sprung from her eyes as she threw her arms around him. For a moment he was unsure if he'd misjudged the situation. Remaining quiet, he let her hold him, and after some time drew back to look at her tear-streaked face. "O my love, I cant bear it when you cry. I am so sorry ... please - forget what I said!" he backtracked, gently brushing away her tears. "But dont you see?" she replied, whilst taking his hands in hers. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm no longer alone. Yes, yes! I will be your wife!" And she gasped as he produced the most beautiful ring from his pocket adorned with four exquisitely cut diamonds.

"Sounds like a good idea." the Chuppies calmly replied. "So what did you find out?"

I farted sickily as I shared what I'd read about life insurance, pensions and death.

And then.

"Yep, seems sensible to me" the Chuppies responded, serene as you like and smiling rather widely.

"Yeh?" I stammered, feeling my pulse rate subside. "I mean it would be just be a me and you type of affair, but if signing that dratted bit of paper means that extra bit of protection for us both then I think we should do it. I still really dont want a `wedding' wedding, if you know what I mean."

The Chuppies moves in for a cuddle and then says : "Look I know you're not into big white dresses and all that palaver. I'm not either. I had enough of that with the ex. But this? Yeh, I think we should do it."

"Hee hee," I suddenly giggle, "Imagine the look on people's faces when I correct them and say `I'm actually Mrs Chuppies now!'"

The Chuppies moves in for another cuddle and it is then that I notice he's as damp as a sponge and slightly shakey.

"You mean, you'd take my name?" the Chuppies giggles, all eager and excited.

"Course!" I reply, hugging him back. "O, and I suppose we could sort out the jewellery afterwards."

"What jewellery?" the Chuppies queries, looking blank faced and slightly scared, as if I was about to suggest we both get kitted out like Jimmy Saville.

"Wedding rings!" I respond. "Although nothing stupid and expensive. Just a coupla nice ring thingies. To mark the occasion."

And I was right.

We didnt get much sleep that night.

We talked long in to the night about houses and marriage and hopes and dreams.

And marvelled at the fact that we were no longer travelling alone.

Brace Yourself

2010-08-17T11:28:00.012+01:00

Ok. My brother was finally told the Big Secret the weekend just gone. And as he now knows, I thought it only fair that you (yes, wonderful YOU) were properly brought up-to-speed too.

As in, told the Big Secret.

In all its glorious form.

However, here's the rub : whilst I've wanted to share the Big Secret with you (yes, lip-smacking YOU) there is something rather `final' about having something so personal forever up in print (even though it's on a blog with a readership of three on a good day - but we'll brush this to one side for the moment). And as Blogger, unlike Wordpress, does not have a `password protect' facility for individual posts I've been a-hunting on the Net for a possible way round this problem.

And, by Jupiter, I think I've ruddy found it.

A very clever chap has discovered how to make blogging posts or portions of text encrypted. This encrypted text can then only be decrypted by the use of a key code (or password).

Course finding the gubbins behind setting up such a feature and actually getting it to work properly is another matter entirely, and this I have been trying to do since yesterday afternoon. Forgive me if your Google Readers/other blog reading facilities have been yelling at you that there is a new post on my blog to read - one did exist temporarily yesterday afternoon but when I found out the encryption feature was faulty (or, should that be, my IT skills) I quickly deleted it.

And then abandoned the whole thing in a huff.

Til now.

Yes, I've conquered it. Me, who doesnt know her XMLs from her HTMLs, has finally succeeded in working out how to activate the encryption facility properly and thus allow you (loyal, faithful, YOU) to find out what on earth I've been annoyingly and irritatingly harping on about, but not quite revealing (in this post, o and here too), until now.

And it's all contained in the `Show Encrypted Text' below - click on this and it will all become clear. Key code/password can be made available by e-mailing me here.

Show encrypted text

A `Doof-Doof!' Moment (Part II)

2010-08-11T11:20:00.005+01:00

Following on from this, it would appear that the cat is finally being helped (claw by claw) out of its bag.

Not that it's showing anything other than the merest bristle of cat whiskers right now, but hopefully, after another coupla weeks, it will have been properly emptied out, hairballs 'n all.

My brother, you see, has been informed by the source that he is also soon to learn of the BIG secret. He was told this news at the weekend - again after a lot of drink. He was also informed by the source that I have already been told. Which led to the following conversation on Monday morning :-

"Now, no pressure of course to tell me, but `the source' told me at the weekend that they had something big to share. And that you already know?"

(Brief pause as brain freezes slightly whilst I struggle to hold back punching the air and letting out a bit sigh of relief that someone else is finally going to hear what I know. But then calm is restored. Well more than calm. A cool iciness to cover the fact that whilst the secret itself is being talked about, the details of which have not actually been divulged and, as such, I must tread very carefully.)

"Yes, that's right. I know." I reply, more poker faced than Lady GaGa.

"O, right then", my brother replies, slightly taken aback that his sister has turned into an android. "Well I think I know what it is anyway."

"Ok" I quickly reply again, more robot than Metal Mickey.

"Well it's got to be an XXXXXX?"

"I cant say. I promised `the source' I wouldnt say anything." I respond, cool as you like, but wanting to really say : "I say old bean do you know you're on the right track. Why dont we pull over here, grab a pint, and chew over things for a bit?" (but as it was 7.30am and I hadnt yet turned into Terry Thomas this did not happen).

"O I know. Like I say, I dont mean to pressure you into telling me. Sorry."

"No it's all right. I can understand your curiosity. If someone says they have something big to tell you but then says they'll leave it to another time to divulge then of course you're going to want to know."

"Was it a long time ago though?" my brother quickly asks, looking innocent.

"Yes." I robotically respond but then find myself doing some quick mental arithmetic without realising what I am doing (I am nothing but helpful). "Roughly 37 years and 9 months ago."

Brother looks at me. Blinks a bit. And then says : "Hang on. That's exactly ... how ... old ... we ... are ... ?"

(PANIC, PANIC, PANIC, PANIC)

(SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT)

Oo eck, I was only being helpful I thought to myself as adrenalin coursed through my body whilst I prepared myself for a quick trip to hell for spilling the BIG secret way before it was ready to be shared.

But then.

"O, well that's put a completely different slant on things, " my brother laughs. "I havent a friggin clue what it could be."

Calm returns. I begin to breathe less raggedly.

And make a mental note to pick up some tissues on the way in to work to dab at the puddle of crotch sweat that just formed.

Update (etc)

2010-08-05T11:14:00.007+01:00

How's it going with the Chuppies/Facebook/Going-Out-For-Drink-With-Mate-Saga?

Glad you asked.

In a nutshell - it all turned to shit.

Chuppies' mate (we'll call him `Frank') wrote back to Chuppies a coupla weeks ago. A drink up would be good, Frank said. Apparently Frank had pencilled in a drink with Jack (an old mutual mate of both Frank and Chuppies) if Chuppies fancied joining them? Chuppies replied saying that sounded great, just let him know when and where the drinks were happening and he'd be there.

Two weeks on from Chuppies' note, he received no further response from Frank (although Frank was still logging on to Facebook to post up various photos of his kid).

The final nail in the coffin was the discovery that Frank's missus Facebook-ed last night that she was spending the evening alone having some `me time' as her husband Frank and his mate Jack were out at a drink together that they'd been planning for ages.

Pretty shitty, I think. Chuppies, however, is `not bovvered'.

And how is the Chuppies' general state of mind?

He seems pretty calm in general - the Facebook saga being a good example of this (whilst I've been spitting feathers). This might be due to the fact that he's now on a course of v.v. mild & babyfied anti-depressants at the moment. He's also due to see his very own personal therapist (just call him American) next Thursday.

Sounds interesting.

Yes, well this first session I believe is just over the phone. Subsequent sessions (I assume anyway) will be face-to-face.

Okey dokey - so, anyway, how are you?

Fine thanks.

Is that it?

Eh?

Well didnt you hear recently that someone was pregnant?

Yes, yes, OK. Someone is pregnant.

Who?

Christ you're nosey.

O God.

What?

Is it you?!

O do bog off. Look it's GM if you must know.

GM?

Yes, my old `friend'. She of the starved/wracked/bulimic frame and no menstrual cycle at all for the last five years has managed to get herself impregnated by a chap she's settled for, only has a good time with when they've both got absolutely trollied and doesnt love, and whom she is only having a kid with cos it's the `done thing' to do and will give her further ammunition to turn up her nose at anyone else who hasnt also entered the engagement/marriage/children club. Naturally I sent her a card of congratulations.

And you?

What about me?

Are you still thinking about that thing which you've been thinking about a lot but which you havent really made a great deal of mention of on here?

I havent got a frigging clue what you're sputtering on about.

Marriage?

Marriage?

Yes, you know, to the Chuppies.

I have been thinking, yes.

And?

Well that's it. Just thinking. Rolling it around in my head. Casual like.

Do I need to get a hat?

Now now.