Reorganisation

The JFDI mantra is reaping benefits. Or am I reaping benefits because of it? Not sure about the logic of that, but I will say that since I consciously adopted it as a mantra (I like having a mantra, never had one before, it's a novelty still) I have felt as though more Stuff Has Got Done than previously used to.

Small things like loading or emptying the dishwasher in a timely manner, rather than leaving dirty dishes on the side and tutting each time I go into the kitchen and see them. Putting the hoover round as soon as I think "ugh, look at that floor" rather than waiting another day or so and being annoyed at the FILTH the whole time.  Walking the dog earlier in the day so she chills out and goes to sleep on her back with her paws in the air for the next six hours, and  I don't have the constant "must take the dog out" thing in the back of my head.

None of it is particularly significant, but it adds up to me feeling more cheerful, and the house feeling less chaotic.

One larger task which we tackled last week was the reorganisation of my study.  It's the third bedroom of our house, too small for a double bed, cosy for a single bed and (small) wardrobe, perfect for a desk and some bookcases and a sewing table.  And some guitars.  And an amp.*

Previously, the computer desk was under the window, where the light is best. I used to work from home (see many and various whiny posts about Working From Home) and needed to be able to read tedious lengthy documents without straining my eyes while simultaneously dealing with tedious lengthy emails on the work computer. I sound like Samuel Pepys, but you get the point.  However, in more recent years, the only thing I have used my PC for is playing World of Warcraft and dicking about online.

My sewing table, on the other hand, was tucked away in the opposite corner of the room, furthest from the window, sunk in gloom under the wall shelves.  The wall shelves are great, but they did mean that I tended to bang my head when I was standing over my sewing table trying to sort out recalcitrant sleeves.

In a flash of rare brilliance, I realised that if the two were swapped about, there would be both more light and more headroom for sewing, and the smaller desk (with PC screen) would sit neatly under the shelves, thus making the space around the doorway less cluttered.

Mr WithaY and I set about emptying the room, revealing many years worth of dead spiders and assorted dust bunnies in corners and behind furniture. Pleuk.  There was a brief lively bout of Language as the PC and all its hellish associated cables were disconnected, but other than that, there was minimal chaos.

A thorough hoovering of the carpet and cleaning of neglected skirting boards followed, then everything was put back in their new places.  And, dear readers, it has worked very well.  My sewing table (still v untidy, as I haven't yet finished putting stuff back on shelves and into the attic) has more space, more light and looks far more useful.  My desk is set back neatly in a smaller space and seems more practical. The only downside is that I am not able to lean on the radiator if I get chilly whilst using the PC.  An incentive to use my sewing machine more.

Mr WithaY bought me a v funky computer joystick so that I can play Elite Dangerous - a space trading/combat game he has been enjoying recently - and I have been learning how to use it.  Once I stop whirling my spaceship round in circles, firing all weapons at once I am sure it will be a lot of fun.

Other news:  I have been planning a party for my 50th birthday in a few weeks.  I cannot believe that I am this old.  Seriously.  Almost 50. What the actual fuck?  I assume that once Saga start sending me brochures for coach tour holidays and cheap car insurance I will automatically get my Old Lady white cardigan and purple rinse through the post from whichever department deals with age.  The Ministry of Elderly But Vociferous Women.

Also: Adverts.  Why are so many adverts now using the same four songs? It;s very confusing. If they aren't all using the same four songs, they have a shonky twee female vocalist with a fucking ukulele doing ear-bleeding cover versions of old pop songs (Wonderful Life springs to mind) which make me want to throw things.

That Centerparcs advert with the bears. Puh-lease.  If a bear ever got into Centerparcs it would look at the foetid throng in dismay and flee back into the woods as fast as possible.

Bears. Pah.


*I have decided to sell my amp. It's huge and powerful and does all sorts of incredible things, and I am not using a hundredth of its potential.  So, after my party it will be going.  I'm using it as the sound system on the day, which is why it's still here.

Dogs, Mice, People

This week I have mostly been making some biggish life decisions.  Well, one decision.  The last few weeks have been sad and stressful and strange, and I know that's not a good time to decide stuff which may impact on your future.  Best to wait until things are more settled and less emotional.   Despite knowing that, though, I did it anyway.

About 18 months ago I found a part time job as a cook at the care home in our village. Only for a few hours a week, and in the early evenings, so it fitted handily around other stuff I do.  Occasionally they asked me to come and cook lunch on the days when the full-time cooks were away, which I really enjoyed, as it is "proper" cooking.  Lots of home-made soups, cakes, puddings and meat and vegetable main courses.

It was all useful professional catering experience in a comparatively safe environment, as the menu is planned days in advance and there aren't huge numbers of people to feed.  The scope for failure is limited to service being a few minutes late if (for example) you forgot to make gravy. Getting positive feedback from the residents is lovely, and knowing that my apple cake, or cottage pie, or pea and ham soup has made them enjoy their day a bit more than they might have otherwise is a great feeling.

The experience we've had with father in law WithaY living in residential accommodation has really brought it home to me how important the food is in someone's day.  Sometimes lunch is a really big deal.

During the time I worked there, they built the huge new nursing home behind the old house. This was the place we moved Mr WithaY's dad to in May this year, and where he was able to enjoy the views, the top-of-the-range accommodation - he loved the hydro bath - and the interesting and well-made food.  I would say that, of course, but the team of chefs and cooks there are genuinely very good, and the quality of the food is brilliant.

Anyhoo, as a result of father in law's death, it now makes me very sad to go to work.  Walking up the drive, looking at his old home, it's a forcible reminder which means I go into work with a heavy heart.  I know it will pass, as everything does, but even so.

This is in itself not really enough of a reason to quit, but there have been a few other issues.  My upcoming surgery will mean I will have to take at least 3 months off work, which will be a nuisance.  The catering business is ramping up for Christmas, and a lot of the bookings are on days when I would be working at the care home.

Add to this the feeling I now have that the time I am at work is impinging on my life annoyingly - yes, it's only a few hours, but if Mr WithaY has been out all day, he arrives home almost exactly as I leave for work, and I value the "cup of tea and how was your day?" ritual we have - so I thought I'd hand in my notice.

If nothing else, it's a good incentive to make sure the Christmas fêtes and bazaars we are taking part in with the catering company are a success.

It's surprising how easy it was to give notice.  I think over the last few years I have got better at major change. Leaving the MoD, then the Civil Service, starting a small business, learning to work in an entirely different profession, managing my time when I have so much more of it free than I have ever done in my life.  It's all good.

I think I'm going to find a course at the local college and learn something new this winter.  When we first moved here I went to Frome college and did an evening course in stained glass making, which was great fun.  I never managed anything really huge, like a window, but I made some nice smaller pieces for the house and for friends and family, and I still like looking at them and thinking "I did that."

Time to do something new.  I rather fancy learning how to make hats.

In other news, has anyone else been driven to FURY by those awful mini adverts that Channel 4 are showing around the Simpsons?  They're for some shop or other, I can't remember who, and feature a variety of pretend families. The plot runs thus:

Child (who looks at least 25, and who is seen lying on the sofa, or on their bed with a laptop) screams the word "Mum" or "Dad" continuously for the length of the snippet.  This in itself is fucking irritating.

Parent (dopey looking simpering doormat) then appears at the door of the room, summoned by the bellowing slightly younger person.

Child then demands a new item of clothing, presumably seen on a website on their laptop. No use of the word "please" is made. Not once.

Parent agrees. WITH A SMILE.

NOTHING about those adverts makes me want to use the product they are advertising. And whilst I understand the concept of targeted adverts - if you don't understand it, you're not the target market - I genuinely struggle to see who their target market is.  Is it the parents?  If so, portraying them as spineless walking wallets at the beck and call of their appalling offspring seems like a peculiar way to get them to buy into the concept.

If it's the children, why are they shown as being so old? My reaction to the bloody things (and this may be the point of course, some smart advertising concept person has come up with a way to make people sit up and take notice, even if it's only in fury) is to ask:

"Why doesn't that mother give that squawking great oaf of a son a clip around the ear for being such a bone idle, demanding, obnoxious bastard, instead of saying "Oh alright then..." with a simpering smile when he bellows at her and then orders her to get him new trainers?"

Gah.

The obvious answer is to stop watching TV, of course.

What else has been going on?  Well, Mr WithaY and I went to the excellent Frome Super Market on Sunday. This is a monthly event held in the town centre, with all sorts of stalls selling foods, coffee, sausages inna bun, arty crafty stuff, dog treats, wooden doorstops, bunting and enamel baths. It's eclectic.

I bought some chocolate moulds from the organic Real Chocolate stall - most of what is sold is either Organic, Artisan or Hand Crafted.  Frome is a bit like that - and have been amusing myself making chocolate mice for the upcoming Christmas fairs.  Some have been more successful than others.

I made a batch of my delicious Chinese Style Plum Sauce, and am currently working on labelling that is more interesting and gift-friendly than my current style.  Unfortunately my handwriting is readable but dull, so hand-written labels might be off the agenda.  I might ask Mr WithaY to write them, as he can do gorgeous calligraphy, but that would take a lot of time, and time is money.  Hark at me.  That's a small business person right there.

I've also made a batch of mincemeat, and am planning to make some mini mince pies to take as free samples, in the hope that it will encourage people to buy the mincemeat.  And if not, at least they'll know we make lovely mince pies if they're thinking of having a Christmas party catered.

Oh, I bought a recipe book for treats for dogs too.  I know, via certain dog owners of my acquaintance, that people like to buy their dogs treats, and so I am going to make some festive dog biscuits and see if they sell.  I will ensure they are clearly labelled FOR DOGS even though they will be safe for human consumption.  The environmental health are funny about stuff like that.

Oh, and I bought a dog bed cover for Hester, from a company called Tuffies.  It arrived before they said it would, it fits perfectly, and the dog loves it.

So well done Tuffies, and if you'd like to send me a free dog bed in return for all this advertising, I'd like a large one in flame red please.  Ta.

Cheese. Thousands of them.

Autumn is definitely here. The misty, cool mornings.  The evocative smell of woodsmoke on the air.  Birds massing in the sky in a slightly menacing manner.  Hedgehogs and that.

And what happens at the start of Autumn, lovely readers?  Why, the Frome Cheese Show happens.  And I was there.  Well, me and Mr WithaY.  And the dog.  We were all there.

Last time we attempted to go, we left it a little too late in the day - about 11am, as I recall -  and were thwarted by ridiculous traffic tailbacks which went on for miles and miles.  We turned tail and came home, disappointed and annoyed at our lack of forethought.

This year it was different.  I bought the tickets in advance, saving us 6 quid in the process, marvellous, and we were up early, turning our shining morning faces to the sun, dog all fed and brushed and ready to go, cheese money burning holes in our pockets.

We do like a bit of cheese in our house.

The dog was very excited.  Well, we all were really.  We left home at 8am-ish, drove the short distance to the showground - no traffic - and in we went, unimpeded by queues or hassles of any description.  It was quite misty, and the grass was soaking wet, making everyone* pick their way through it, grumbling about wet feet.

The first thing we spotted was this:

I think it's a tribute to Thelwell.  The children were all fiercely determined, grim-faced and focused as their teeny ponies trotted back and forth in an endless competition of some kind, more or less under control.  It was just lovely.

As you can see, the mist is already burning off, and the blue sky behind it can be glimpsed.  We decided to go and look at the cheese tent.  We took it in turns, one of us standing outside with the dog while the other one went in and admired the cheese. And by Swansea it was admirable.

This one looks like the winner of the CSI Somerset Crime Scene Reconstruction section.  I was tempted to draw a chalk outline round the grisly remains, but there were many burly cheese officials wandering the tent, and I lost my nerve.

Some of the cheese categories were baffling.  At least to the uninitiated.

Lemon meringue?  Really?

I did like the shy mozzarella, which is like a badger cub on Springwatch, needing to be coaxed out of its bag.

I expect the judges used high-quality crackers to lure it.

Competition categories were inspired.

I wonder who the cheese-judging celebrity was this year?  And how do they phrase the invitation.

"Hello - Elton?  Are you busy on the first weekend in September?  No?  Would you like to come and judge a huge tent full of cheese in Somerset for a morning?  No?  Really? Are you sure?  Hello...?  Hello...?"

This sign leaves little to be queried:

I assume the competitors have to make up their "cakes" before they arrive, rather than forage around helping themselves to cheeses which look the part.  But I do like the idea that there are people casually pocketing cheeses as they go round, thinking "This one is shaped just like a teeny bridegroom! Perfect!"

This cheese captured my heart, just because it's so completely mad.

It was big, too.  About the size of a watermelon.

This category was nicely specific.  I imagine the judges measuring each entry and flinging those on incorrectly-sized boards out into the pony-competition ring in a fury.

Some cheeses had the look of a cheese which had been made to take part against their will, under protest.

"But Muuuuuuuum!  All the other cheeses are way bigger than me!  I'll be laughed at!"

I bet they were told, "Oh, you'll be fine, stop making a fuss."

Ha.

Exhausted by so much dairy produce, I went and watched the dog obedience teams while Mr WithaY went and looked at the cheese.  The dog was supposed to watch and learn.

I don't think she was taking it all in, to be honest.  She certainly didn't seem too keen when I suggested she had a go jumping through the hoops of fire.

The day was heating up by now, and we had bought quite a lot of cheese - which gets heavy - so we decided to go and look at the animals for a bit, where it might be shadier.

I love the Tent Of A Thousand Goats.  Sadly, no dogs allowed, so I popped in and admired the poultry tent while Mr WithaY took the dog to see some tractors.

Again, a wide selection of competition categories, some stranger than others:

Gosh, that's a bit, well, harsh.  Surely beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and one man's ideal egg is another man's marginally less ideal egg?  Although that one is a corker, I must say.

It's an EGG.  What do they expect to be inside it?  A previously undiscovered novel by Dickens?  A jewelled clock?   Shergar?

Cuh.

I suspect foul** play here.  Not only has an element of the category title been redacted in a professional, indeed an almost FBI-like, manner, the eggs themselves are missing.  Where are they?  Stolen?  Kidnapped?  Currently making up part of a prizewinning Victoria Sponge?   I demand answers.

How Victorian.  A freak show.  Again, note the sinisterly empty egg plate in the top left corner.  I hope the hens who laid these at least got a cup of tea or something afterwards.

This is just a very pretty little decorated egg which I wanted to photograph. Awwh.

Ah, even here, the cult of shallow shell-deep beauty permeates.

Mind you, if I was brought a boiled egg or two on a tray looking like this, I'd be thrilled.

Fantastic.  I wonder if they all came from the same hen?  And if so, what are they feeding her?

Personally I preferred the one with the blue eggs, but hey, I'm not an egg judge.  Ohhh, I've wasted my life.

By the time I had finished wandering through the poultry tent, making admiring noises and chuckling to myself, it was getting really hot.  I went and found Mr WithaY and the dog, and we all sat in the shade having a drink and a bit of a nice rest.

A little bit more wandering through the show, and it was time to head home.  I was deeply gratified to see the massive queues of traffic, stretching all the way from the showground, far across West Wiltshire, cars full of hot grumpy people who hadn't got up as early as we had.  Bwahahahahahaaaa.

In other news:  The dog has been a bit poorly, so I took her to the vet yesterday.  He diagnosed a bout of colitis, which apparently is really common in young dogs, particularly the ones which hoover up anything and everything in their path when they are out for a walk.  So, she's got some special anti-squit medicine to help sort her stomach out, and some goopy brown stuff I add to her food to restore her internal bacteria balance.

Last night, for the first time in several days, I only had to get up and let her out into the garden once (at 4am) rather than on the hour, every hour, as it had been recently.  A huge relief for both her and I.

Other, other news:  We've had the go-ahead from the environmental health lady and so our catering business is officially up and running.  We have our first job booked for October, but this week we are going to get some business cards sorted out and some adverts in the local press, and hopefully pick up some more bookings.

Also, I have had my hair cut short.  I decided that I was bored with it - I've had long hair for at least 10 years now - so went into Salisbury last week and had about 10 inches cut off it.  It's quite liberating.  I realised that I almost always wore my hair up, and it seemed a bit pointless having long hair if whenever it was down I just got annoyed because it was in the way.

So, a new look, a new business, a new season.  Oh, and I've lost a stone, thanks to walking the dog.  Hurrah.





*Everyone not wearing sensible boots or shoes with gaiters.  I had fabric shoes on, and my feet were SOAKED.


**heh

Interesting

A couple of weeks ago there was a phone call for Mr WithaY from his bank.  That in itself was enough to worry me, as generally the relationship we have with the bank is low-key and unfussy.  We don't bother them, they don't bother us.  They store our money in carefully-labelled mouseproof shoeboxes out the back somewhere, and give it to us when we ask for it.

So far, so good.

The lady from the bank was polite but insistent.  She really REALLY needed to speak to Mr WithaY.  Yes, it was important.  No, she couldn't tell me what the call was about.  When he came home that evening, I passed on the message, and the following morning he called them back.

It was not good news.  Apparently the bank had noticed a pattern of "unusual spending" on the account, had declined a transaction, and decided to contact Mr WithaY.

The transaction they had declined was an attempt to borrow money from one of those payday loan companies. The ones who charge thousands of percent APR, that are always advertising on TV, trying to persuade us to borrow money for short-term emergencies. Or holidays.  Or a new car. Or anything we want, really...after all, why do they care?  As long as we pay it back, it's all cool.

In the interests of research, I just went to one of their websites and checked out how much it would cost to borrow £250 for 30 days.  The additional interest and fees come to just over £80.  The APR is 4214%.  Over FOUR THOUSAND PERCENT.  Obviously, they intend it to be a very short term solution, but bloody hellfire.  Four thousand percent.

But I digress.  Mr WithaY spent a depressing time on the phone to the bank, going through his recent expenditure, and it was established that yes, his identity had indeed been stolen, and some filthy thieving fucker* had taken about £1000 from his account.

I have to say that the bank were extremely helpful.  Once they had established what was legitimate Mr WithaY spend and what was thievery, they said that all the stolen money would be refunded, and they would contact the police to report the theft.

We had a nice cup of tea and discussed the event, with a lot of tutting about the parlous state of morals in this country, and the bloody invidious TV adverts that encourage people to live on ever-increasing debts to support some media-fuelled aspirational lifestyle.  Gah.

Some time passed.

Last week, while Mr WithaY was away at twig camp, several letters arrived for him.  We don't tend to open one another's mail, in general, so I piled his letters up on the hall table and thought no more of it.  Then, on Friday, a postcard arrived.  It looked like one of those "Sorry you were out when we called" cards that the postman leaves when he tries to deliver your new Terry Pratchett book while you're in the shower.

Those.

I read it.  It said that due to their inability to contact him, a "representative" would be coming to see Mr WithaY on a certain date, and could he please telephone to confirm that he would be at home for the appointment.  There was a phone number, and the name of a company I had never heard of.

I did what any diligent** wife would do, and Googled the company name.  Guess what?  It was a payday loan company.

So, yesterday, once all the bushcraft kit was unpacked, and the smell of woodsmoke had dissipated a little, Mr WithaY rang the number on the card.  It seems that whoever stole his identity had successfully borrowed money from this company, and, not surprisingly, they wanted it back, as per contract terms and conditions.

Once again, the lady he spoke to was incredibly sympathetic and helpful. Whoever had stolen the money had used a real name (Mr WithaY's) and a real address (ours) but had given fake references.  Well you would, wouldn't you?

Once the payday loan company checked the references, after the money had been lent, they discovered that the roofing company the thief claimed to work for didn't exist.  Well DUH.

Seems more sensible to check references and then hand over the cash, but hey, I'm sure they know what they're doing***.

Anyway, the payday loan company said that they would talk to the bank, and asked Mr WithaY to let them have the crime reporting number so that they too could report their losses to the police, or the insurance, or the ombudsman, or whoever is responsible for making sure nobody loses out.

So now we have to wait and see if we get any more slightly intimidating postcards alerting us to the fact that a "representative" of a loan company is going to come and see us.  Oh, and whether our credit rating has been fucked up big-time**** by this tiresome drama.

And how did this all come about, you may ask?  Did we stupidly put documents in the bin that someone later picked out and used?  Did we use a public computer for fiscal transactions and left ourselves logged in?  Did we lose our bank card, and also our PIN which was on a scrap pf paper next to it?

No.

We are both incredibly careful about all that stuff, and burn anything with our details on it once it's finished with.  

Mr WithaY recently used a reputable and supposedly safe online shop, with all the correct https protocols in place.  A little while after he had used the shop, they emailed him to tell him that their secure (ha!) server had been hacked, and that therefore his bank details may have been compromised.

So.  Be very careful, dear readers.  It could happen to you.  And if it does, you could end up with Knuckles and No-Ears Eddie paying a visit to take your TV away if you fail to pay the 4214%. 







*Technical law-enforcement terminology
*Nosy
**No I don't.  I think they're irresponsible and stupid.
****Technical banking terminology

Snack time

Hmmm...a bit peckish.  How about a nice sandwich?  Crusty bread, some ham, a bit of tomato, perhaps.  Just the ticket.

Hey, here's a place that sells sandwiches.  Let's have a look at what they have to offer.

Fresh sandwiches. Perfect.

But wait.

Fresh in inverted commas?   Not Fresh, but "Fresh"?

So how old are they, exactly?  And whose notion of "fresh" is being used to define this?  I bet that a fishmonger and an archaeologist would have very different views on what constitutes "fresh".  And where on that scale would a sandwich maker sit? 

If a sandwich maker is leaning towards the archaeologist's view of "fresh" I am pretty sure that sandwich bread would be a bit too crusty for my taste. 

Also, now that I am examining this sign more carefully, define "local" too. 

Do they mean local to the shop?  The salads are made in Salisbury?  That would be fine. 

Or do they mean local to Wiltshire?  The salads are made in Trowbridge, or Devizes , or even God help us, Swindon?  That's a lot of travelling for a salad.  Over bumpy, bendy, country roads with lots of opportunity for salad joggling and spillage. 

Maybe they mean local to the UK.  Those salads could have travelled from Inverness. 

Gone off the sandwich idea now.

Damn.

Hidden agenda

There's been a lot of fuss* in the press this week about a shocking survey which claims that most working mothers only have nine recipes in their regular repertoire. 

Even more dreadful, they sometimes cook the same meal on the same night of the week.  How do these people live with themselves?  Their families must be rending their garments and crying in the wilderness at the pain and woe caused by having the same meal on the same night of the week.

But hang on a minute.

Let's have a think.  How do they define "meal" anyway?  One of the press pieces I saw covering this scandal listed the "Top Ten Meals." The list included things like "Curry", and "Meat and Two Veg" and "Roast Dinner".

If I was in a restaurant and the menu said "Roast Dinner" I think I'd be asking a few questions.  What exactly did you roast?  Is it chicken?  Pork?  Beef?  Snake?  Cat?  A bit more detail would be welcome there, thanks. 

The same with Meat and Two Veg.  That, to me, covers about four hundred different meals.  Especially if you include sausages. Which I do.

Curry.  Just look at a menu in any half decent Indian restaurant.  If there was just the one entry - Curry -  they wouldn't get too many people coming back for a second visit.  Unless that one dish was incredibly fantastic, I suppose.

When you look at the actual survey results and the accompanying press release, it transpires that the whole thing emanated from Uncle Ben's.

It seems to be ok to have a small repertoire of meals, as long as some of them include ready-made sauces.

I quote:  

"Nutritionist, Juliette Kellow said: ''Parents should feel reassured that kitchen shortcuts like ready-made sauces are the perfect solution to expanding your repertoire with exciting and nutritious meals all the family will love.'' "

But where, oh where can I find a selection of ready-made sauces?   Tell me, Uncle Ben! 

Gah.

Other news: We have a gardener! Yes, the Servant Question became more complicated today, as we added him to the long list** of people we pay to come and do stuff for us.

He is a very nice chap, and is going to give our poor old gnarly apple tree in the back garden a good hard pruning. He looked at my horrible weedy overgrown flower beds, at the ivy-infested hedge encroaching out across the mossy lawn, at the sad excuse for a vegetable patch, then asked me, "Shall I just come in and do what needs doing when I have time?"

God, yes. Yes. Come over whenever you can, and make my garden look nice. PLEASE. 

We've been putting off doing any kind of serious work on the garden because we want to get all the hard landscaping torn up and re-laid, so spending ages on the plants seemed like a waste of time. However, the gradual decline of the garden into a dank, frog-infested, weedy, mossy wilderness has become too depressing, so the very nice gardener is going to help us fix it.

I'm quite excited actually.

We've been living in this house almost 8 years (I think) and have been gradually getting all the serious stuff done - electrics, roof fixing, central heating, replacement windows and doors, bathroom, kitchen, all that, but now the house is more or less finished, so we can turn our attention to the extensive grounds***.

Next Spring could be very lovely. And boy, it's nice having something so pleasant to look forward to after this, The Year of Unmitigated Shit.

On that note, for those of you who have been bored witless by us talking about the SSFH****, we have had an apology.  And we are being deleted from the databases.  I should fucking well think so. 

Maybe one day when I find it all less horrific, traumatic and heartbreaking I will talk about it on here.  For now, though, we are trying to move on. 

In the meantime, life goes on and we will have flowers in the Spring.   







*I've seen two articles

**The hilarious and brilliant cleaners. And I suppose Kevin the Decorator.

***Front and Back gardens. Oh, and the bit on the side. Fnar.

****Shit Storm From Hades

Less is more

Still alive, not having been electrocuted by the wild sparking power line of doom over the weekend!  Hurrah! 

We drove up to see our lovely mates in Gloucester on Saturday morning, rather than on Friday night, as originally planned.  Apparently there were trees down all over the place, and floods, and all sorts.  We decided that trying to navigate all that lot in the dark was a bad idea, and it was more sensible to wait till daylight.  Saturday and Sunday were spent in the company of great friends, fine food and the rugby.  Marvellous.

Today, as is traditional these days, I was up in London for work.  After a refreshing four hours sleep, waking at 3.30am, then dozing, waking up with a start to look at the time, dozing some more, and finally getting up ten minutes before the alarm went off, I was shagged* by the time I got to the office.  A long day of meetings, climaxing in a load of complicated emails to write and send before I went home meant that I was in tip-top sparkling form for the train journey. 

The woman sat next to me was making notes on some industrial tribunal case (I gathered this from the bits I read sneakily while she wasn't looking), so if you are taking your boss to court after being a whistleblower, you might want to ask your legal team if they are in the habit of  doing their homework on the train of a night.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about today.  Oh no.  Much more serious matters are filling my head this evening.

A conversation in the pub on Friday night about grammatical errors on supermarket signs, specifically "Ten Items or Less" caused one of our mates to start frothing with righteous indignation at the appalling standard of grammar taught in schools today.  And presumably also in supermarkets.

"It's "Ten Items or FEWER"  not "Less"....Less is just WRONG!"  She was most insistent.  And oddly, the more we teased her about it, the more insistent she became.  Her fantastic, grammatically-correct rant culminated with a promise to find out the name and address of the Chief Executive of Morrison's and send him (or her) a scathing letter explaining how very, very wrong they are, and demanding that they amend all their signs IMMEDIATELY. 

I look forward to the reply.

It started me thinking about the whole Ten Items or Less** concept though.  If, for example, you picked up a Two For The Price Of One offer, say two boxes of cornflakes, would you technically be buying one, or two items? 

In theory, you could take 20 items through the Ten Items or Less*** aisle because you are actually only buying ten.  The other ten are free. 

Also, if you took one of the Buy One Get One Free items out of the shop without paying for it, are you stealing?  You could say that you are taking the Get One Free one, and leaving the Buy One in the shop.

Legal clarification would be helpful, before I go to the shops next.





*And not in a fun way.

**Heh, sorry Sarah

**I'm not going to stop doing it

Gold gold gold gold gold

You know all those adverts they are showing on TV at the moment where they are trying to persuade us to send in our gold that we no longer need?  The ones where they ask us to just pop our rings and chains into the pre-paid envelope, and send it off, and then wait for the fat cheque to arrive by return of post?

From companies like this and this and this

The TV adverts are full of testimonials from delighted customers who sent off their unwanted gold, or the wedding ring from their first marriage, or that huge chain their ex-girlfriend gave them, and look! They received £258 in return!  The adverts are full of shots of people waving fans of tenners, grinning widely at their financial savvy.

Some of the adverts also show pictures of the huge smelting plant where all this gold is melted down.  Soft-focus images of chains and rings being poured into a crucible, fat sparks spitting out as they are rendered down to make a river of purest molten gold, it's like a scene from Lord of the Rings. 

I assume that all these adverts are a sign of the recession, and that a lot of people are taking advantage of the convenient way to raise a few quid by selling off their "unwanted gold".  The little list at the bottom of the screen of the items they take was revealing:  chains, rings, bracelets, dental. 

Wait, what?

Dental?

TEETH?

Oh sweet lord, they are offering money for gold teeth. Is it just me, or is that an invitation for violence and theft on a grand scale?

Don't just steal their jewellery, knock out their teeth too! We'll take them! No questions asked!

Been out burgling? Send us the loot! All smelted down and untraceable in moments....hell, we'll send you cash back by return of post! C'mon! Don't be shy!

I don't see this ending well.

Unless, and I am not sure that this is likely, the police are screening everything as it is received, comparing the envelopes of golden trinkets to their database of stolen items. Easy to then pop round to the originating address...

*Knock knock*

"Who's there?"

"Someone with a huge wad of cash for you...open up! Can you hear it rustling out here?" (whispers) "Ready with that taser, lads..." (muffled giggles)

Yeah right. That seems rather too pro-active and organised, to be honest.

The other option is that it's all a front for something else. Who else would want to gather up as much gold as possible, even sending out cash in return?

Hmm, let me think...

Wordplay

I often while away my long train journey to and from London by playing Scrabble on my iPhone. I usually win, even though it's set on the Difficult setting, which makes me feel very smug. Ooh get me, defeating a computer. One day it will of course turn on me and fire me out of the side of the train into to cold bleak emptiness of deep space. Well, maybe Basingstoke.

Anyway.

Tonight I began a game of Scrabble, or "Scrab" as we officionadoes (sp?) call it, and I noticed that my letters spelled ARRSENE.

Marvellous. If I ever get a job marketing rectal remedies, expect to see that name on an ointment tube near you.

Hanky Panky

I was looking at the box of tissues on my desk the other day, as you do. One the back is a website address for something called the Sneeze Safe Programme, with the strapline:

"And look out for Kleenex tissues featuring Disney characters to make nose blowing even more fun!"

Now, I am not a particular fan of Disney characters, but why would blowing your nose on Winnie the Pooh or Goofy make it "fun"? And, more to the point, why would you want it to be fun anyway?

I have never, in all my 42 years, heard anyone, anywhere say "I love blowing my nose, it's such fun!" I don't see people having a sneeze or a sniffle, then getting their hanky out with a huge excited grin, clearly anticipating having the time of their life.

No.

And I can't for the life of me imagine that parents would want to train their children to expect a rip-roaring good time when they are all snotty.

Unless they are teaching them all about disappointment nice and early. That would make sense.