The word is not. N-o-t. NOT.

As the chipster is currently watching slumped with mouth hanging open & dribbling on the sofa watching Moonraker on ITV4 with the legendary Roger Moore (all hail, for he is the King of James Bond) I thought I'd seize the opportunity and let you know how my Bank Holiday Weekend is going. For I know you worry so, dear Blog Reader.

Anyway, in summary :-

• Weather? Bad. Well, OK, that's not the whole truth. It was actually good yesterday. Sunny, warm, no rain, blah di blah. All the stuff that you know that I, London-Lass, being the freakishly odd weirdo that she is is not the biggest of fans of - this post should fully explain my feelings on the subject. But I guess as I've probably got three more months of the joyously glorious stuff to look forward to (see how good I am at pretending?) I might've as well just `wind it in'. Which funnily enough I heard a girlie yell at a bloke during my train journey over to the chipster's on Friday evening.
• Why did the girlie yell at the bloke? Well I'm glad you asked, gentle Blog Reader. I had just sat down in my seat when I noticed a girl come down the aisle behind me, and aiming herself in the direction of the group of seats opposite to mine, suddenly stopped and then asked "Excuse me, would you mind moving your bag please?". On looking over towards the girl's voice (as did everyone else on my train carriage) I realised that she couldnt get to the seat due it already being taken up - by a sports bag. Owner of the sports bag (tanned looking dude in his late 20s) was on his mobile phone. And ignoring the girl. Couple sitting opposite began looking very tight lipped about the whole thing and looked up at the girl who then said to the couple "Is he having a laugh?" Couple both sympathised with girlie, albeit in a quiet and taut-lipped type way. Shinily tanned guy continued talking in to his phone. So girlie then taps dude on his shoulder and says (getting louder - which all of the carriage are very much enjoying) : "Could I please just distract you for one brief second, please, for I would like to sit down, please." Still no reaction from the guy who by this point is telling his friend Jeremy to `sit tight' and dont do anything until he gives him `the nod'. Dude then terminates his call. And then removes his bag. Although whilst telling the girlie that he didnt appreciate being screamed at whilst in the middle of an important call. Girlie then tells the dude that as she pays £3,000 for her ticket and his bag does not he should just `wind it in'. Which the chap actually did. Much to the satisfaction of the girl and the taut-lipped couple. But also very much to the disappointment of the rest of the carriage who had just got themselves comfy for a good ear-wig in to a commuter train argument.
  
• Did you get to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? O yes. Yes I did. It was actually very good. I'd heartily recommend it. Although seeing Mr Jones as an old guy on the screen was a bit of a shock. That's the thing about super hero type characters isnt it though? You never want them to age and always want them to stay young. Marion (played by Karen Allen), Indiana Jones' love interest in his previous outings, has also `matured' too. Although that is not to say that Mr Jones isnt depicted doing as much action as he always did ... Harrison Ford does his own stunts - he just does it now with greying hair and keeping more the way of clothing on. Ray Winstone is also good (although did seem to want to `cockney up' his already cockney voice - watch the film and you should see what I mean) but not convinced by this Shia Laboeuf - his first appearance in the movie is more than a heavy nod towards Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, cept without the sex appeal - and the all round ability to carry it off. The script is very good, however, with plenty of laughs and the sort of storyline to entertain those with an interest in 50s cold war shenanigans and alien conspiracy theories.
• Do you believe in aliens? Oo what an excellent question, sweet Blog Reader. I would like to think there is something else out there, yes. Although am hoping it doesnt look anything like this spotted frightening a bunch of girlies around 2pm yesterday afternoon :-
  
  
• Most odd, what was it? O, well there appeared to be some sort of `festival' thingie going on in the chipster's home town which involved a puppet show, Coneheads and people walking round dressed as animals/insects on stilts.
  
• Crazy times, huh? Ha ha yes. And speaking of crazy, me and the chipster ended up having a surreal conversation this morning. About children's names. And although there are no immediate plans to mix up our fertile juices and see what that little concoction might make, nevertheless our chat did become a little heated at times as we slowly began to realise that we each hated each other's choice of favourite names. For both boys and girls. And yet it shouldnt matter. It's not like I'm either pregnant or, even, broody or that we are in any sort of a position to have them anyway (you know, the chipster is the wrong side of having any money and we're not living together). So with all of that you'd've thought the talk could've remained just that. A talk. Perhaps with a bit of a giggle thrown in. But, no. It all became a bit competitive. A bit judgemental. And slightly name-call-y. Well, you should've heard what the chipster liked ...
  
• Ok. What were they?
  
• Autumn - bog off. Hippiefied nonsense. A season in the year? Next thing he'll be proffering `Winter' and then I might have to start punching.
• Tamsin - no thanks. Sound like something I'd buy a bouquet of. And will only get shortened to Tammy which means the girl when she grows up will have no choice but to become a glam Page 3 model. And that is no future for anyone.
  
• Chloe - sounds like the sort of name you'd give a King Charles Spaniel puppy. Pretty name, but I can smell dog food when I say it.
  
• Bethany - best of a bad bunch but will get shortened and given the chipster's family's penchant for extreme shorting of names have a feeling the girl will end up with the misfortune of being labelled `Bet'. In which case she will have no choice but to wear lots of leopardskin. And be a barmaid.
• Amber - sorry no. Just see traffic lights.
  
• Ethan - the only boy's name that the chipster could think of that he liked. Pity it reminded me straight away of that porcine-featured actor who hooked up at one point with Uma Thurman. And also the name of a computer virus that disabled an ex-works computer of mine - the virus creators had named it after a tragic Canadian love story in which the main characters end up committing suicide.
• Why so many girls names from the chipster? Well, methinks the chipster could secretly be harbouring fantasies about having a daughter since this was his only boy's name offering, but you know what life is like about there being no guarantees. Suspect that, just like in soap opera land, as the chipster has amassed a bundle of girls names the chances of him ever having a daughter are now slim to none. Bit of a shame, as I cant stand little boys. But then I cant stand little girls either.
• So which ones did you like?
  
• My personal choices were :-
• Grace
• Emma
• Sophie
  
• Holly
• Andrew
• Sam
• Max
• And the chipster didnt like any of these?
  
• No. In fact with each one I mentioned, the chipster became more and more stressed. Apparently my choice of names were either boring or they sounded like bitches. Or twats he once knew.
• So we eventually agreed to disagree.
  
• For we are definitely not planning a family.

As just like marriage - we are not doing it.

Not, not, not?

NOT, NOT, NOT.

Right!

I think it's time me and you had a chat.

Yes, you - Mr Right Eye.

Just the two of us.

I mean it's not like I've not looked after you. Is it?

I've taken you to the opticians with me for the last 18 years for regular checks havent I?

I've made sure you've always got what you needed - a glasses lens that is strong enough prescription-wise (but also thin enough to satisfy your owner's vanity) so that you can see through? Havent I?

You've also never been without a comfortable contact lens to wear - which I clean and care for, and regularly change. Well, dont I?

And it's not like I leave you neglected in the cosmetics department either - do you know that you, and your twin left sister, take up almost 90% of my makeup time? And do you hear my cheeks complain about that? Well? Do you??

And what do I get for all my efforts? You bailing out on me here.

And also, again, this morning.

For it was with much complaining (well, OK, swearing) that I surveyed my eye in the mirror this morning and noticed that it was (as before) :-

• sore
• bloodshot
• slightly achy

and, after further swearing (the really exotic variety with more than one syllable) I began to contemplate the drama that would no doubt again enfold. You know - the optician would greet me all smiley smiley (at first) but would then (after examining my offending eye) turn in to a hysterical harridan, tell me that she could see something nasty (no, scrap that, eye-sight threatening) but then tell me that she wasnt sure, and even if she was she couldnt prescribe anything for it anyway, and that I would have to dash about all over town and get myself in to a right two & eight and then sit & wait, and wait, and wait, in my local A&E whilst really beginning to panic that I might have something really rather nastily wrong with my eye.

Fortunately, this time, (at around 10am this morning) my optician quickly diagnosed conjunctivitus almost on seeing me (hurrah!), and instead of sending me packing with a referral letter to my local eye clinic (boo!), kicked me out of her surgery with a little tub of eye drops instead (hurrah!).

Although that doesnt mean you get away with this, Mr Right Eye, o no! Since (like before), you son of a bitch, there can be no wearing of contact lenses (boo!) and I shall have to return to glasses (gag!) until my optician has checked the state of my eye in a coupla weeks.

So - I'd like to have it out with you once and for all, Mr Right Eye - are you intent on disrupting my working life (had to take time off again to see my optician), my appearance (another long trip in Hag Land beckons) and my sleeping schedule (got hardly any shut-eye from the early hours of this morning after I realised that my eye was infected again) - or are you gonna play ball (like my left eye) and stop playing up?

Well??!

Are you??!!!??

The Christening (+ Lovely Buttocks)

Saturday just gone unfortunately involved having to dress up, socialise with work colleagues, and a long car journey.

But it wasnt actually too bad.

No, really.

Even when :-

• I tried on the `outfit' that I'd pigeon-holed in my mind for wearing at the event (a christening of a former workmate's baby, the former workmate herself, her other half and her brother) about a couple of days before hand and ... it didnt fit. Although it had fit me at one stage (and with plenty of room for manoeuvre too) but on Wednesday it was more a case of too much in the way of stomach and too little in the way of trouser waistband going on. And so, after staring at myself in the mirror and crying hard for about five minutes, I eventually threw my heavy carcass down on my bed ... and cried a bit more. But then, after realising this was getting me nowhere, flipped myself face upwards and through a mixture of willpower, gritted teeth and the hard sucking in of stomach bulge, managed to zip close my trousers whilst lying on the bed. "Ha ha!" I cackled in to the air, feeling pretty darned please with myself. Perhaps the trousers werent that small after all - maybe I'd just caught them in the wrong position/angle or something, for they were closed now. And it was just about here that I realised I couldnt get up. Well, not without almost garotting myself in the middle. Although, after slowly rocking backwards and forwards a bit, I finally managed to get enough movement behind me, and after a bit of a puff and pant trimphantly stood in front of the mirror with the trousers finally closed ... but with a massive amount of midriff overhang going on. Looking every inch an overfilled soufflé dish (or an overflowing pint of beer) I then began the complicated task of trying to find a top which would cover overhang (massive amounts) but would also go with trousers (brown pin-stripe). Top was eventually found after a bit more crying, throwing of tops and shoes around, standing in front of mirror grabbing hold of midriff and yelling "Why? Tell me, God, what have I done?!" and bending over carefully so as not to dislodge trouser buttons from their perilously strained position.
• There were a lot of children at the event. Although workmate's child (of which I make reference to here) was on good behaviour. A very smiley child - and as he'd come dressed in a miniature pin-stripe suit I did find myself strangely drawn to him. This was noticed by one of my bosses who then began to worry and complain to his other half, getting quite concerned over the fact that I might be going maternal and, I guess, dragging the chipster home to have a frantic baby-making session after coming within spitting distance of a post-christened child. Pity he didnt know that my attentions on the child were not due to finally hearing my internal clock tick (think, if I ever had one of these, the hands to the face dropped off, and the batteries inside corroded up, a long time ago) but due to wanting to check out the teeny tiny business suit the baby was clothed in. It even came with a double cuff, button hole and teeny tiny turn ups. Talk about eat your eyeballs out cute.
• I had to mix with bosses (well two of them) on a weekend day. But it all turned out rather jolly, with the chipster holding his own rather well (even though this was the first time he'd met any of the guys from my office - even though we've now been going out for a year and a half but .. erm .. we'll just brush that under the carpet for now) and even when one of my bosses' other halves had this weird thing of looking just above my head everytime she spoke to me this didnt phase me. This was probably helped by the fact that I had half my mind concentrated on the strain that my trousers were under ... and ready at all times to catch 'em should the buttons fly off in protest.

The chipster then chose this moment to tell me that he thought I looked nice. And so pleased was I that he was unable to sniff out how elephantine London-Lass had become that I treated both me and him to an Italian meal on the way home.

But not before taking this liddle snap of a dingy yellow 3-wheeler `Trotters Independent Co' van we'd spotted trundling down the motorway just ahead of us :-



Finally, when we got home, I had no choice but to spill out of my clothing and run like a big pink blur in front of the chipster in to the shower (so as the chipster would not catch an eyeful of my suddenly ample frame) but unfortunately I was too slow. For as I closed the shower curtains, I heard the chipster happily break in to song (in a very lascivious type way) :

I see buttocks everywhere
Buttocks flying in the air
LOVELY buttocks!!

which I've still got going round and round in my head this morning.

Maddening.

When someone says "Look me up on Facebook!" ...

... is this pretty common?

And are you actually supposed to?

Or is it just something that some people say :-

• to fill a void in the conversation
• to appear cool
• to impress upon you how very old you are whilst they, at the same time, are ultra young, hip & happening
  

I havent a friggin clue.

To explain - was training it over to my folks' place last Friday afternoon, and whilst fiddling about with the `Organiser' tab on my mobile phone, was suddenly interrupted by a girlie (probably early 20s) in the seat next to me apologising in advance for a quick phone call she was going to have to make on her mobile. Immediately struck by her politeness, but also immediately suspicious (possible religious nutter? saleswoman? freak?) due to her speaking to me out of the blue (I mean : how very dare she?) I replied in the best way I thought for the circumstances : by jabbing a quick `yeh sure' in her direction and then burying myself in my phone again.

"Thanks, I'll try not to be too long!" she smiled back, and then proceeded to make her call. On which I eavesdropped - well you just cant help yourself when someone's making a phone call that close to you can you? Conversation seemed to be with a firm of recruitment consultants, she wasnt happy in her job and might they have something better available? Eventually the call was terminated with her arranging an interview with the agency next week (good luck with that! I thought cattily whilst putting my phone away in my bag) and then was just about to pick out my book for a bit of a read when I heard the girlie blurt "Evil!"

Curious, I quickly weighed up the situation. She didnt look manic religious, she was wearing a full suit of clothes (with no shoes half on or off her feet), her makeup was impeccable (unlike my late afternoon oil slick, but we'll leave that alone for now), she had an air of quiet confidence that I've always wanted but never managed to have (quiet desperation is more my style) and she was looking my way - so I really had to respond.

"Er - did you just say `evil'?!" I hesitantly enquired.

"Ha ha yes. They all are. Agencies, I mean. But needs must." she sighed, clicking the cover of her phone. "Been demoted to receptionist after working for the last four months as a PA - and, well I just need to find something else."

"O dear. That's too bad." I sympathised.

"Yes, and to make things worse, this woman I've been working alongside hasnt supported me at all. Even though I did a lot of favours for her, they were not returned. So, it just feels the time is right to move on." she sighed, again. "Although it is hard, as I do like the people I work with."

"Are they quite a huge firm?" I asked.

"Yes, rather large" she answered, "and that's the reason for my demotion. They moved me to another branch they've just opened but only had capacity at that office for a receptionist."

"Hmm. I think that's the risk you take with the larger organisations", I said, "I've always preferred to work for the smaller firms. Some times you can get rather overlooked when swallowed up in a larger firm."

"Do you mind me asking what you do?" she asked, all innocent and young.

"Not at all", I said.

At which point I told her all my career stuff - past, present & future - although really not too sure why. But the young girlie had gone very quiet and my mouth seemed to want to gabber quite quick and fast. Looking back, I did seem to be talking for ages, but then my career history is pretty complicated - although she did seem rather interested and I managed to cause one of those odd/intrigued expressions on her face when I told her I'd started off wanting to be something completely different to the high-flying business bod I am today. "Really? Well if truth be told I started off wanting to be a lecturer ... of a sort ... but I do find myself rather enjoying roles down this particular job route ..." she explained. "Although this isnt all there is to me. I do enjoy writing too."

This news kind of hit me with a jolt. For she'd hit on my recently revived hobby.

And I then began to make comparisons. Not just career choices but physicalities too. Yes, hello there pale skin. Big eyes. Quiet directiveness. Polite speaking voice. Pretty sure what she wants to be, but still a tad confused.

Take a coupla inches off her height and add a few more to her girth and, well, it could've been a young me.

But anyway when I suddenly blurted out that I was writing something right now (or, at least, trying to) she then said : "Really?! Look - my name's XXXXXX XXXXXX. What's yours?"

O shit, I thought. She was a sales person after all, or some sort of religious nutter, and it was here that she was about to hand me a pamphlet about opening myself up to Jesus, or life, or a new brand of clothing catalogue. But then I began to notice the panicked way she was gathering her bits together - she was about to get off the train, and so I didnt see the harm in swapping a name. Pondering first with making something up all wild & exotic (like I used to when approached by a member of the opposite sex in my unsuccessful dating days) I almost blurted out `Panda de Frieze' but then got a grip on myself and gave her my real first name.

"XXXXX what?" she hurriedly asked, grabbing her bag.

"XXXXXX" I replied, like a trained puppy.

"Ok, well I'm on Facebook" the young girlie quickly said. "Look me up!"

And with that she hopped off the train.

Now, on re-telling this episode to my nearest & dearest I keep getting a raised eyebrow. Specifically at the `look me up on Facebook' part. No matter how I relay the story.

The chipster keeps referring to the young girlie as my `little friend' (although this is not said affectionately) and I dont think my brother could've hoiked his eyebrow up any higher on hearing about her Facebook invitation.

Which makes me cautious in pursuing this further. Although, by doing so, am I dismissing something that is pretty common these days but I wouldnt know about it - what with being so old and sad?

Pah. Perhaps it's best left alone.

I hate the summer

Yup you heard me.

Temperatures are hitting the 80s this weekend. Why is this something to celebrate? The heat's not nice in London. It's oppressive and muggy. And more like walking in to a shower room after someone's just finished using it.

You also have to strip off the clothes that have been keeping you looking (relatively) slim and attractive throughout the autumn and winter months. Fat arms? Try as hard as you like but there's no way you can hide those fat slabs of gloosh in a t-shirt. Fat legs? You think you can disguise those puppies in a pair of shorts, you can think again, buster.

This is also the time to start feeling ashamed of being pale. So pale in fact, that when you finally bow to pressure and purchase some fake tanning goodies, you end up yellow. Or blotchy. And quite obviously a very pale skinned person still - but with a weird hue to their flesh. You might be able to (if you can be bothered) conjure up some sort of colour by carefully selecting the right factor of sun cream and choosing the right time of day to venture out. But you always end up missing a bit. Your right cheek perhaps, or a bit of your neck, which will then glow like a Belisha beacon on your stiflingly hot tube train carriage the next day.

I also hate all the insects that suddenly appear at this time of year which come in through your house or car window ... just to bite and sting you. Or who, whilst you're out for a walk and minding your own business, will suddenly appear beside you and no amount of running around, whilst crapping yourself and waving your arms and legs about in panic will lose the pesky critters and then once you've run out of puff/have fallen over ... will then bite and sting you.

I also hate the sudden frenzid road jamming of open top cars (there is one that's appeared in my home town with the personal reg plate `II4 MPH' that sets my nerves on edge), business men that insist on wearing the full suit but with flip flops on their feet, quirky sunglasses and tube posters advising on `how to beat the heat' (when you cant).

I also hate all the footwear that take over the shelves which I cant wear for love or money. Open toed shoes? Try wearing these with tights (which have to be worn to shield my pale legs from the rest of the world) without looking like an ex mental patient. And what's with all those endless sandals with that bit that goes between your big toe and the next toe? My feet do not want to feel a hard piece of material wedged between their piggies when out walking, thanks for asking.

I also hate the beer drinking twats that suddenly appear outside wine bars avec sunglasses on heads (they're to protect your eyes you dolts!), the Orange Brigade (those that carry more than a stench of Jodie Marsh about them), the guys that try to dress like they're Kyle the Beach Bum/Surfing Maestro from Cornwall but are actually Nigel the Finance Clerk from Stepney, the overpriced icecreams, garden furniture, BBQ sets and the constant adverts, programmes and posters reminding us to get out there whilst it's hot, hot, hot.

Gah.

Roll on October.

I think that GM is up to her old tricks ...

That is : going AWOL.

It's a simple strategy she follows, but for the sake of clarity I'll walk you through it :-

1. GM meets man.
2. They date.
3. GM goes AWOL.

Or, in the case of GM and UB :-

1. GM meets man.
2. They date.
3. Sporadically.
   
4. You see GM doesnt really like man.
5. Apparently he's boring.
6. And really only fun when he's drunk.
7. And he's got a bit of a big nose, and a big chin.
8. In short he's an Ugly Bloke.
   
9. But keeps dating him as he keeps buying her nice stuff.
10. Oops, but then he tells her he loves her.
11. GM has pang of conscience and ends things with Ugly Bloke.
12. Although not before he buys her a few more things.
13. But then really ends it.
14. Honest.
    
15. GM then `bumps in to' Ugly Bloke again a few months later.
16. They date again.
17. Sporadically.
18. GM still doesnt really like him, you see.
19. And finds him unattractive.
20. But then suddenly.
21. Click.
22. He's handsome, effervescent, fun to be with.
23. Mr Perfect in fact.
24. And not at all ugly.
25. Or boring.
    
26. GM becomes coupley smug.
27. GM goes AWOL.

It's now over a month since I last heard from the girl. Not that we were ever the closest of buddies I should add ... although there were times, usually when drink was involved, when GM would get very close - last Xmas she gave me a card with tears in her eyes proclaiming me to be her oldest and best friend. But most of the time (i.e. when more sober) she is (was) a cool ice queen with as much warmth in her as a bag of Iceland prawns. But, you know, she is (was) good company after a few drinkie poos.

Although I should hasten to add that even though I have known the girl since I was

(uses big toes as makeshift abacus)

five years old, our relationship has always been ... detached. This is of course a good thing if you're a house, but as friends not quite so joyful. But certainly gets you used to the regular spells of non-communication that occur. Even if some of her other friends arent quite so forgiving.

The last leave of absence GM took was around about 6 years ago. After a pretty regular pattern of communication, she suddenly vanished, and aside from a call out of the blue announcing her engagement to her man, that was pretty much it. Until regrettably, a few months later, when the chappie GM had become ensconced with ended up running off with another. Contact was soon after reinstated and it was during this period that I found out she'd gone AWOL on all her other buddies too. Her mum told GM that she was `very lucky' to still have a few friends that will stand by her even if she naffs off at the merest whiff of a man's trouser. GM nodded shamefully, saying her mum gave good advice.

Pity she forgot to follow it.

So that's it really. No more fodder for the blog (until I get the phone call out of the blue announcing an engagement/house move/pregnancy naturally), no more competing, no more judging and no more heavy drinking sessions followed by waking up the next day smelling of cigarettes, old food, stale booze and wishing you were dead.

Bit of a blessing really.

I'm feeling a bit `all at sea'

For my printer is still working. There are no paperclips caught half in and half out of it's little printer tray, no flashing lights on its display, no spent or broken cartridge in it's little printer body. It all seemed very happy and at peace as I walked in to the office today (with heavy tread and a face that could kill a new born puppy on sight) and I swear even winked at me from it's `not broken everything's fine & hunky dory come on and print out a 200 page document right now if you have to' display.

My computer was also in the best of health too. My desk drawers were still neat and tidy and there were no piles of paperwork either on, or littered around, my working area. My petty cash tin was smiley and shiny with no chewing gum encrusted notes telling me that someone had bought something at some point for some reason and that someone would let me know what was bought, when it was purchased and how much it came to ... at some point.

To top it all off, any bits that needed my attention had been neatly bulldog-clipped together awaiting my return.

In summary, I was gobsmacked. As were my bosses.

"I got her to put her name down in the book." one of my bosses winked at me shortly after I took my seat. (Said book being a list of all contacts and clients which I have finally finished transferring into electronic format)

"Ah good, good. So she was alright then?" I reply, trying not to wink, but finding my eyes twitching back in acknowledgement nonetheless.

"Well she could type. I mean .. it was amazing. She could actually do something." my boss replied, almost crying with the relief.

"Although ... " he went on.

"Yes ... ? " I encouraged.

"You might find the work might be all over the place on your computer." he smiled. "But she did save it all. Perhaps just not in the right place. Ha ha."

"Ok ... " I smiled back. Holiday mode still hadnt quite lifted you see.

But now sitting here, at nearly 4pm in the afternoon, I can tell you how exactly how the temp was.

Firstly :-

1. she could type. I have evidence of this feat on file. Although setting out is a bit messy. And although the agency told me she could type 95wpm+ perhaps you're cheating somewhat if you feel that commas, full stops and any type of punctuation should be omitted in your need for speed. For this I'll give 7/10.
2. she didnt try to set up her own company, did seem pretty amenable about any work that was gingerly given for her to do and did not break my computer (or anything else on my desk). For this I'll give 10/10.
3. she was by all accounts rather odd looking. Unfortunately I am unable to provide a rating in this particular sector as physicalities should not come in to my job. Unless of course you were to turn up for a temping position without any arms, or, say, a head. I therefore award one of my bosses (who quickly came out with this remark after I asked him how the temp was) 0/10 for being a git.
4. she botched a massive Excel spreadsheet I'd macro'ed and calculated to the hilt before going away on holiday and although it appeared all lovely and neat 'n that when printed out it would no longer cost check any further figures inputted which was really rather the whole point of putting it in Excel in the first place and meant that I had to redo the whole dratted document again until, oo, about 10 minutes ago. For this, I will award 2/10 (2 points awarded for the fact she didnt actually delete the file).

Time off was rather lovely by the way. In case you were wondering. Me and the chipster spent the week chilling, scampering, scoffing, walking, cinema-ing (took in a showing of In Bruges which was rather nice) and cosying. Weather was a little unpredictable/temperamental and it is with heavy heart (and heavy body - perhaps I was a bit too enthusiastic about the scoffing) that I note the clear blue sky and warm, warm temperatures for this week. Typical. Although the odd day was rather joyful, see below for unusually clement examples from my week off :-

Marvellous, eh? O, and for the eagle-eyed amongst us, yes that is the chipster taking a casual stroll in the top picture. And although not immediately apparent from the photo (unless you are truly gifted) the chipster was just in the middle of developing a m-a-s-s-i-v-e blister on his left heel. But then it had been a 9 mile jaunt there and back. And his trainers, whilst the height of fashion, leave a little bit to be desired in terms of comfort and support.

I'd also ended up cutting up my toes and top of foot on a brand new pair of Hush Puppy sandals too during this particular walk. Which was rather disappointing - the Hush Puppies brand name, much like Clarks, screams comfort - but I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that my feet are rather particular about footwear. Much like a horse, my shoes have to be `broken in' before they get anywhere near comfortable. This takes a lot of time, a lot of walking and a lot of plaster and bandages. Pity really, for by this stage, they also hum of fungus and cheddar, and look as attractive as a pair of old man's slippers. But you cant have it all.

I have a temp coming in to cover me next week ...

... and I think it's all going to go horribly wrong.

Not, I would hasten to add, it's ever really worked out before when I've taken time off from work and had a temp in to cover me. I mean there was :-

• the girl who turned up for half a morning and then just never came back
• the girl who decided that (no!) she wasnt going to do any office work but (yes!) would proceed to start setting up her own company instead
• the girl who spent all her time surfing the Internet (this was in the days before Broadband when we had dial-up charges to cover) and managed to rack up a bill of £100
• the girl who said she was a proficient audio typist but when given a tape of dictation proceeded to play the tape at booming high volume to the rest of the office whilst wearing the headphones upside down with the wire coming out from the top of her head

Given all the above, and that agency fees are on the wrong side of cheap, the boys in the office have started to try and get away without hiring a temp when I am off for just a couple of days (my trip to Edinburgh with the chipster end of last year would fall in to this equation). This, however, means a lot of work gets built up with an inevitable pile waiting for me on my return but needs must when the devil farts in your face.

However, as I am going to be missing for a whole week next week (woo hoo) the chaps have instructed me (through gritted teeth) to get a temp in to cover my absence.

Easy peasy, eh? Well not quite.

I am actually having trouble with the staff at the agency now. `Hopeless' doesnt come close. `Three letters short of a keyboard' however does.

First I speak to Lauren at the agency. Lauren is ultra-sloany, speaks very slowly but reassures me that they have some `outstanding candidates' on their books this year.

Marvellous.

"Well OK great. Anyway, I need someone to cover me from the 28th for a week." I explain.

"How many days?" Lauren slowly asks.

"That would be five." I reply back, a tad snappily.

"Yah of course" Lauren lethargically responds. "And .. er .. what sort of duties will she be required to carry out?"

"Erm, well audio, copy, telephone work, greeting clients, e-mail, and be confident with excel spreadsheets, word and powerpoint."

"I ... see" Lauren finally gets round to saying.

"You probably want to know the hours dont you?" I feed to Lauren (in manner of a stage play lines prompter).

"Yah of course" Lauren responds, yawning a bit.

"Right - well it's 9-5.30 with an hour for lunch." I reply.

"Super!" Lauren suddenly blurts hurriedly, but then slows down to snail's pace as she trots out : "Well ... I shall assess our candidates ... and then call you back later on today with ... your temp's details."

"Ok -- well thanks for your help. Bye then." I finish.

"Yes .. yah .. bye bye" Lauren slowly replies.

Two hours later, the agency are on the phone. "Hi - is that London-Lass? This is the agency about your temp requirements" I hear on picking up the phone.

"O hi Lauren" I reply.

"No - this is Sylvia. Lauren's finished for the day-

(at 12.00???)

-but I can get her to call you back tomorrow although I look after the property side of things" responds Sylvia, sounding as sloan-like as Lauren but a little bit more awake.

(property side of things? but you're a property temping agency??)

"Er ... right well anyway ... the temp? " I reply.

"Yah. Well we've got some smashing girls that are free to work next week, just need to ask you a few more questions." Sylvia explains. "But firstly - what's your thoughts on typing?"

"I said to Lauren earlier that the temp should be able to do audio and copy" I reply, "there is a lot of typing to be done, so she should be accurate and relatively fast ideally."

"Yup yup, gotcha" coughs out Sylvia, sounding like a golfball has suddenly wedged itself in her mouth.

"The chaps might also leave her a bit of stuff that she should be able to type on her own - so it would help if she is confident with standard letters of reply, RSVPs, etc ... " I continue on.

"O yah absolutely" Sylvia responds.

"So er .. do you have the temp's details?" I ask gingerly.

"I'm seeing a coupla girls this afternoon .. following which I'll give you a call." Sylvia says.

(but what about the `smashing girls that are free to work next week'?)

"O, I thought you had quite a few girls already in mind?" I gently probe.

"Yah .. but those girls wouldnt find your office set up suitable." Sylvia explains.

"Because they cant type?" I blurt out suddenly, but laugh whilst doing so to take the sting out of the tail.

"I think you probably need someone with more of a `feel' for working for smaller firms." Sylvia responds defensively. "Our girls have all got excellent backgrounds in larger firms, you see. And, as your role is more complex than in the notes Lauren left-

(I suddenly imagine a small post-it left on Sylvia's desk with the message : "Off now sweetie. Roger and Madge over later so must dash. O, a girl is needed by some company for something. Would you be a darling and sort this one out? Laurie xx)

- I'll call you back later on."

It's now 11.55am the next day and I still havent had a call back. Although probably, by now, Sylvia will have clocked off and I'll have to speak to someone else about our ... er ... `complex requirements'.

Yep - definitely going to go wrong.

O, just one more thing ...

Happy St George's Day everyone!

I trust you will all be celebrating it in the exact same fashion as I?

Which is - not really doing anything much at all.

In fact, absolutely nothing.

Still, at least the weather's picked up a bit eh?

Now we all have our little predilections ...

... when it comes to the opposite sex. Which is probably a good thing otherwise some of us would never get dates ...

I remember a girl in my college days (shortly after mankind invented the wheel) who had this thing about eyelashes. Long eyelashes (of the natural variety) were OK on birds, you see. But probably the most throat-gagging thing you could find on a bloke. "I dont want some bloke batting his eyes at me!" she'd spit rather nauseously, as I'd try but fail to offer the defence that a bloke with long eyelashes is actually rather cute (and reminiscent of a baby deer).

A bloke back in my Internet Dating days (which are briefly covered in my blogging archives) told me as we settled ourselves down at a pub table for our first date that he could never date anyone who's arms were bigger than his. Didnt matter if she had a lovely face, a great personality or a heiny that could make J-Lo jealous, if her arms were chunky it was `thanks but no'. At which point he slammed his arms down on our table and insisted on measuring mine against his .. `purely for fun'. In addition to this oddness, the chap unfortunately bore more than a slight resemblence to Norman Tebbit. And so first date, became last date. I dont like chaps that look like Mr Tebbit, you see (or who insist on mutually measuring body parts 10 minutes after meeting).

My brother probably has the oddest of yearnings .. it doesnt matter what the chap is like, as long as they come wrapped up in either a very pale blonde/ginger package. "Oo yes .. gimme some ginger" he was often known to simper, "particularly one with ghost-white eyelashes and eyebrows. Yum! Yum!" Gingerness has, however, never hit my own personal spot - in fact the thought of rubbing myself up against someone of this variety brings me out in a rash. Olive skinned and dark haired are the things that keep me cooking, particularly if they come fitted with a heavy brow, rugged face and big enough shoulders to carry a suitcase on. Start thinking Martin Johnson (next England Rugby Union team manager) and you'll be along the right lines. Course neither the chipster (or Martin Clunes - a god amongst men) come equipped with dark looks, but they do have this other quality (the French call it je ne sais quoi) which attracts me to them like one dog to another dog's arse. Irresistible!

But there are some things that I truly cannot abide. Bit like the guy with her fervent dislike for long-lashed men, or Norman Tebbit with his hatred for chunky armed lasses, I have always had a problem with men that (gag) wear earrings. See this earlier blogging post which should properly demonstrate my terror on this subject.

The only other thing that gets me gagging at the same level are men ... with long (gag) fingernails. All their fingers finished with these long hard-looking nail things. (shiver) Or, you know, those guys that will have just one long fingernail (say, just their little finger) and the rest of the nails are short. (no no no) I mean, forgodsakes, why would you do this ...?????!

Unfortunately the mini-cabber who picked me up this morning had long (cringe, cringe, shiver) fingernails, which immediately became the focus of my attention, and although he was one of those types that insists on talking your ear off as soon as you climb into his cab, I could only bring myself to murmur and grunt back whilst nervously watching his long fingernails caress the steering wheel.

"Yeh so me and the missus are well pleased with the bath tub I managed to blag from me mate" the long fingernailed cabbie spouted as I silently cringed behind him. "Although it's not that massive ... probably bout so big (here long fingernails are displayed in all their glory as mini-cabber roughly demonstrates depth of bath with his hands - and, yes, with BOTH hands off the wheel, effin arsehole) but my missus loves the look of a stand-alone bath. Me, I cant see the attraction, but when you do up a house you gotta do it proper, aintcha?"

London-Lass bleats pathetically in reply. But then notices something even more gut wrenching.

The fingernails werent just long. Half of them were rather dirty too and packed to the hilt with so much grey/black stuff, London-Lass had to quickly turn her head to look out of her window before becoming completely overcome.

Unfortunately my aversion to his fingernails meant I missed out on about £1.20 back in small change, but it was all I could do to summon up the courage to hand him a ten pound note to cover my £8.80 fare, let alone wait for him to hand (cringe, cringe) me back some coinage. Still, I reckon I've probably done not only the mini-cabber a favour but also the rest of his potential customer base - at least he's now got some spare cash to put towards buying a decent pair of nail scissors and thus avoid disturbing any more of his mini-cabbing customers with his (gag) fingernails from hell.

London-Lass is a Bitch (Part II)

Courtesy of some very kind work contacts, I managed once again to acquire a coupla (very last minute) free tickets to Arsenal at Emirates. Woo hoo. And, just as before, it was all very marvellous, with the chipster having a cracking ole time. As would I have ... if it hadnt been for some kid sitting next to me who proceeded to prod, poke, nudge, touch, and elbow me at constant and continuous intervals to witter on (in an unfortunately shrill Welsh accent) about his eternal love for Arsenal, how he'd always wanted to see them, how he was so excited, etc., etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, kill kill kill.

Not that I am, I would hasten to add, a total bitch queen from hell but I'd gone to Emirates to watch the footie/snuggle up to the chipster and not to keep an annoyingly eager, slightly hygenically challenged and curiously hairy young stranger abreast of all the different twists and turns in the match for 2 lots of 45 minutes, which included :-

Youngster (in very shrill fashion) (after the de rigeur poking and prodding) : "Have they scored yet?"

Me (wearily) : Nope. Still 0-0. As on the scoreboard."

(I point towards scoreboard right next to us but youngster chooses to ignore this)

Youngster pokes me again, shortly after the referee produces a yellow card against a Reading player following a messy foul on an Arsenal striker.

"What happened? Was he sent off?" the youngster whines Welshly.

"Nope. Just got a yellow card." I explain tiredly, attempting to extract myself from the youngster's constantly tugging paw.

"BASTARD!" the youngster yells shrilly, although it is not immediately clear whether this is aimed at the Reading player or the ref.

Reading player than takes a tumble. Passing Arsenal player touches him on the shoulders (in a kinda `just checking to see if you're Ok, mate' gesture) and then helps him to his feet.

Youngster suddenly lets go of my arm but this is only to shout : "O get on with it, you bunch of GAYERS!!!!" before resuming constant and continual poking, prodding and questioning until the half-time whistle.

Sensing a chance to quickly escape, I hurriedly lead the chipster in to the bar directly behind our seats, whereupon the chipster makes himself a complementary coffee and I snaffle a bit at some Diet Coke.

Taking a coupla quiet breaths of relief, I then turn to the chipster and let it all out.

"That boy next to me is doing my head in! Every flamin' minute it's `what's the score, what happened, was it a corner, what's the score, what happened, was it a corner' ... I think I am getting a headache ..." (I finish dramatically)

"Yeh I did notice he seemed to be constantly on your earhole about stuff" the chipster replied.

"I just wish he'd go bother someone else", I mutter in to my fizzy drink. "And did you notice the weird hair on his face and his stained yellow teeth? (shudder) It's not like I'm the Arsenal fan anyway ..." (I finish off pointedly, but this is ignored by the chipster)

"Well I can see why you're annoyed - it would irritate me too!" the chipster sympathised.

"Gah ... !" I exclaimed, but then with fizzy coke inside me and in the much more mellow quietness of the bar I find myself calming down again, and say : "Well ... perhaps I'm being mean. Mebbe he's just excited?"

"Maybe ... " the chipster nodded.

"Just wish the hairy chimp would flamin' well shut up!" I quickly bark.

And then half-time is over. Far too quickly. And we resume our seats once more. The mother of the boy (for he did come with one in case you were wondering) had however (thank you sweet merciful God) decided to sit herself between me and the boy for the second half.

(cel-e-brate good times - come on!)

And so, slumping next to the chipster, I happily watched the second half, safe in the knowledge that my right arm was no longer going to be poked and prodded, my right ear was no longer going to be squawked in to and the world was altogether a better place.

But then.

About two-thirds of the way in to the second half.

The mother moves.

(bollocks)

Apparently she was freezing and had to go inside to warm up.

Leaving the boy, after watching his mother depart, to quickly hop in to the seat she'd left vacant next to me and recommence his poking and questioning once more.

Shortly after some wheelchair spectators lined up behind the row of seats in which the chipster and I were sitting, and expecting a few more goals, began heckling Arsenal (who seemed to be stuck on playing fancy football in the middle of the pitch but not getting the ball near the goal mouth) whinging that they : " ... could play better and that's saying something!" (which created a few chuckles around them). The boy suddenly twisted round and berated them : "Well at least they are playing their best, eh?"

Crying silently inside, I fielded a few more queries from the boy until almost the end of the game when the boy suddenly asked : "Do you know where me and me mum can get a taxi from for Ormond Street?"

Not initially twigging, I asked him if that was where the hotel was located that him and his mum were staying in.

"O no. I'm at Great Ormond Street hospital. The tickets were a surprise from a charitable donor. Got a big operation tomorrow, you see."

I blink a few times. Feel my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

And immediately feel very small.

I smelled turds on leaving my house this morning

And this time it wasnt my breath.

Turns out on further investigation that it was all down to strange weather conditions bringing polluting winds in from France and continental Europe :-

"The Met Office said the smell was caused by a combination of agricultural and industrial pollution carried on the wind from Northern Europe.

Sarah Holland, a forecaster for the Met Office, said: "Over the last few days, fresh winds have been blowing eastwards.

"When the wind blows from the west, it is coming from the Atlantic so it brings in virtually no pollution, but when it is eastwards it is coming across land."

Kind of brings a whole new dimension to the argument about England being the shithole of Europe.

London Lass' Dictionary or Names for Other Things

I guess this is pretty common. You know, using another word for an object or when describing doing something. I just wonder sometimes if I have more words than others.

The chipster (before he got to know me properly) would often look at me, head cocked, puzzled expression on his face, after I'd finished saying something and then I'd realise that (o dear) I'd used one of my words or sayings that he wouldnt at first understand (or would actually understand but hadnt heard it said that way before). However due to my having used it pretty often with my nearest and dearest (or having had it revolve round my mind making me think I'd said it pretty often - but let's not dwell on that one) had led me to use it in conversation with the chipster thinking that the kooky phraseology I'd used was commonplace.

I remember on our first date jabbering away ten to the dozen to the chipster about the state of most people's dating profiles on the Net.

"I mean some of them are just scary arent they?" I said, whilst watching the chipster nod in agreement. "Most of the guys I've seen on there are just after The Sex anyway."

Chipster stops nodding.

"The ... what?" he asks.

"Sex. You know, rumpo." I say, thinking he's misheard me in the noisy pub.

"O yeh. I know all about that" he says pointedly, but fortunately does not succumb to a wink at this juncture (otherwise I'd've been tempted just to draw the whole date to a close there and then - winking equates to being creepy, you see). "Just you said The Sex. Never heard that said before."

I sip wine quietly. And suddenly realise my dictionary of oddness has been exposed slightly too early. I sit up straight, take deep breaths and consciously make an effort for the rest of the date to talk `normally' without further oddness. Which, as I recall, was pretty hard.

The chipster now of course knows all my quirks (and not just of the wordy variety) and is finally able to cope with words/phrases from my personal dictionary being thrown in to a conversation without having to constantly interrupt me by saying "Eh? You what?", some of which include :-

• Toasting - the undertaking of gentle movements. Movements are generally annoying and when applied hinder you from achieving the action's desired result, i.e. if you were to spot someone toasting on the dance floor this would mean that they were sort of dancing but in a really crap way, generally without any sort of rhythm and looking a bit of a fool - whilst toasting when exercising means that you know you have to do your exercise routine and so you're doing it but due to either tiredness, boredom or all-round general unfitness you dont really do it properly but through the beauty of toasting (i.e. little movements without much effort) you're kidding yourself that you're keeping fit.
• Hapenny - ladies genitals.
• Cheese Bits - dried up oily bits that can sometimes end up on the surface of your fingernails during the course of the day (particularly found on finger nail surfaces after eating cheese on toast, but can also occur after eating anything with your hands that contained either fondant icing or which has been fried). Good for picking off when sitting quietly reading a book on the tube.
• Little Fingers - very bad smell. Sweet and sicky. Bro discovered when excavating his finger nail dirt when younger that the rubbish that had accumulated underneath his little finger nails smelt much worse than under any other finger nail on his hand.
• Shnuppies/Shnuppers - term of endearment. Commonly used for my dog. Although on the odd occasion I have also called the chipster this.
• Ulp A Holden An Ulp A My - phrase of `protection' to be used in the dark. This would revolve round my brain as a nipper, almost like a mantra (similar, I guess, to "Lions & Tigers & Bears - o my!" in The Wizard of Oz) and I would repeat this to protect myself .. although against what I havent a clue.
• Dirty Fish - pervert.
• Melvin - wedgie.
  

I HATE it when my work stuff goes missing

But then I am almost insanely anal when it comes to keeping things clean and tidy and `with everything in its place' which is why I get so irked when things suddenly go AWOL - course no-one else would know my reasons, they just see an old bird going ballistic over a missing pair of scissors.

Which is what I did this morning whilst at work.

I went, for want of a better phrase, apeshit.

Although I should add that this was not only due to it offending my anal neatness sensibilities (as described to you above) but also because my desk seems to be regarded as some sort of treasure trove/stationery shop by the rest of the guys in the office who will (particularly when I am absent - either, say, on holiday, or, more frequently, whilst in the office loo) and take whatever they need or fancy by dipping in to my drawers (and not in the good sense).

To make it worse, the office stationery cupboard is right next door to my desk. Yet they dont go there to stock up on glue, tape or highlighters, they empty out my desk instead.

Arsewipes.

And, so, this morning, after struggling with a carefully packaged up parcel from a client (so carefully wrapped it resembled just a big lump of parcel tape), I decided that I couldnt chance dislocating my knuckles any more in an attempt to get in to the dratted thing and reached in to my top desk drawer for my scissors. But I couldnt find them!

(grrr grrr grrr)

Flinging everything aside in the drawer, with rage pounding through my temples, I realised that yes, they werent there, they'd gone for a walkabouts

(grrr grrr grrr)

someone had yet again pinched something from my desk

(grrr grrr grrr)

and I was now going to have to kill someone!!

This general raging and stomping about continued on for about five minutes until I suddenly realised (whoops!) that the scissors werent in my office desk drawer because (oops! ha ha) I had left them next to the fax machine the previous evening.

Much mumbled apologies were naturally given and I made everyone a nice round of tea and coffee.

Phew.

But then, whilst stirring the last cup of humble pie for my bosses, I was suddenly taken back to a similar incident that occurred bout 10 years ago at a previous job. Although thankfully, no-one else was affected by my tantrums, but the incident has stayed with me ever since. O, and got me being a bit more organised about dental appointments.

To explain - the job I had before was based in a rather old building near Harley Street. An ex doctor's surgery, the property was made up of four floors plus a lower ground floor. The companies I worked for owned the ground and lower ground floor with toilets on both floors. The remainder of the floors were residential.

At some stage during my employment, the toilet to the first floor stopped working and so the tenants to that floor (a mother and a - very strange - son) enquired if they might use our WC on the ground floor to tide them over until they got theirs fixed - which should be done in a couple of days. Ever flexible, we agreed to this - little knowing that one of the tenants (me and the other secretary suspected the strange son) had worse toilet habits than an animal, which would also be left unflushed and un-cleaned up for a poor unsuspecting soul to find (usually me). Thinking about it, it was actually quite spectacular how thorough he was in trashing the toilet and if I'd had my wits about me I should've taken a coupla snaps and set them up as part of an art installation in the Tate Modern.

But to be fair, you were given a warning (of sorts) that the toilet was in trouble, for the smell would hit you as soon as you walked in to the property's entrance hall. Following which the only answer was to keep as low as possible (like, say, in a fire), hold your breath for as long as you could, then burst in to the loo, whilst screwing up your eyes so you dont have to see the full horror, grab bleach, loo roll and brush, and clean as fast as you could.

Eventually it got to the point where everyone in my company had ended up having to deal with his mess and, after a quick meeting, we decided that rather than confront the little shit about his `leaving massive amounts of shit for us to clear up' tendencies, we crib together a quick note politely saying we could no longer afford to share our ground floor WC since our lower ground floor toilet was presently out of order. Nifty huh? But as it turned out, their toilet had actually just been fixed, and they had no further need for our loo after all.

Or so I thought.

Until I came back from lunch later that day, and on opening up the building's front door to the entrance hall, smelled .. shit.

(grrr grrr grrr)

I mean this was really the last thing I wanted to be doing, cleaning up someone's mess just after having eaten

(grrr grrr grrr)

why the blimmin' eck are they still using our office loo when their toilet is now fixed and repaired

(grrr grrr grrr)

and who brought up the disgusting son anyway - a load of apes?

And it was with these thoughts going round and round in my head that I slammed the front door shut, threw down my bag, stomped up the office hall (whilst naturally keeping low at all times) and flung open the toilet door.

But where was the shit?

Unexpectedly, the office loo was shiny, sparkling and clean. And empty of anything nasty and foul.

So why could I still smell pooh?

And then it was only after careful sniffing.

That I realised ...

... the smell that I was catching ...

... was shamefully...

... my breath.

Quick Announcement

This is a self-service checkout. Well, OK, my version of one. I did it in Paint. Arent you proud of me?

But anyway, these machines you will find lurking in most supermarkets and major pharmacy chains.

Pretty easy to use - there is the monitor with a touch-screen face, the bar code reader directly below the monitor, the coin slot and coin tray to the left of the monitor, above that you have the card reader and number pad and, further left, the shopping bags waiting to be filled.

It's the bit at the front that seems to fox most people.



Yes, this bit.

This is the tray for any notes you may have in your change back. And, although it says NOTES OUT with arrows pointing down towards the tray, this keeps on being missed.

Which worked to my advantage this morning. Fed up after last time's trying to help out a member of the public incident, I decided instead, this time, to, well, you know, just take the ruddy note from the blimmin' slot instead. And put it in my purse. Goddammit.

Was only a fiver. So not too sure why I gave myself a quick high five on leaving the shop. Perhaps as I've got old I've got cheap.

Whilst on the subject of rhubarbadoodle ...

... I feel I should mention something that took place on Sunday that was a little `surprising'.

(and, mum - since I know you like having a gander at my blog - if you're reading this post, now's the time to look away)

For the chipster - in terms of bedroom department shenanigans - is a tad (well when I say tad I mean quite a lot) into making contact with my buttocks via his hands. That is to say - s-p-a-n-k-i-n-g.

This was discovered by me about 8-9 months back whilst mucking about with the chipster in bed. For some reason I was dressed whilst the chipster was naked and helpless (think he was putting off, and putting off, taking a shower and getting dressed and ready for the day ahead) and so, to jokingly emphasise his vulnerable status and general frustration at his lack of get up and go-ness, I decided to detly plant a coupla slappity-slappities on his left buttock. Which instead of making the chipster hop off the bed flinching slightly ended up getting him all worked up (the dirty fish) and from that moment on has presented his backside buttocks to me from time to time telling me he's been a bad boy.

(like I said, mum, no peeking!)

The chipster, due to the fact that he rather likes all this hand-slapping-on-buttocks stuff is also rather open to the idea of treating me to a coupla smacks too. Which to be honest, doesnt get me all fired up like the chipster but, given that the chipster quite likes this sort of thing, I've gone along with it - harmless really. And a bit silly.

However, something new has been introduced in to the smacking agenda. Something that I thought was just the preserve of a (now I've got to be really careful here how I say this) parent to a baby.

Now before you all shop me to the police for being an out & out dodgey pervert, I would stress that what I mean is, what a parent would indulge in when changing a baby on a changing table. And, again, what I actually mean by this is, how you've probably witnessed a parent after bathing, creaming and then powdering their bonny baby, just cant resist blowing raspberries in to their baby's stomachs, or if the baby is lying on its front gently nipping/play-biting their baby's bonny buttocks. Cos they are sooo cute. And biteable.

And it was this that I found the chipster doing to me yesterday afternoon.

"Ouch!" I cried out, as I quickly attempted to pull myself up from my leaning over the chipster position, for I didnt just feel a couple of the chipster's molars nipping at my backside posterior - did I? "Did you just ... ? Well, you know ... did you just ... ?" I floundered, whilst rubbing my throbbing left buttock.

"What - bite your bum?" the chipster asked, all sniggering and smug.