typical

I went on a date last night.
You can probably figure out that it didn't go well because I am writing about it here, and because I was home early enough to spend some time fiddling about with my gadgets.
(No, that is not a euphemism).
Before I get to what happened last night I have a website to share. When I added the last Twitter and Email buttons I had already made the little pics of Doris (yes, my avatar horse has a name, so what) that you can see now, but I didn't use them because they looked rubbish in a black square and you can't make the backgrounds transparent using paint. I decided to have a trawl around and see what I could find.
I got lucky, I found http://www.lunapic.com/editor/. If you like drawing have a look, it's like an improved version of paint with a mini version of photoshop and it's very easy to use.
I've not really played around with it much yet, I just did what I wanted to my gadgets, but from what I can see so far it's pretty damn cool. It even makes animations.

So..um..last night.
Met the guy on a dating site. I've not been spending much time on them, not like I used to, I just reactivated my profiles then forgot about them really. But I checked one a few weeks ago and this fella had left a message saying he liked mine (fuck knows why, it doesn't say much) and asked a couple of questions. Where did I live, what do I do in my spare time (I lied - I blog, eat chocolate and watch porn might've given the wrong impression), have I got any kids etc, usual stuff.
For the last couple of weeks every time I checked (which wasn't that often) he'd left another reply, but the last one said that he could see I wasn't ever really on the site when he was to have a "proper chat" so how about we meet for a drink.

Well ok. His profile said he had been single for a while and although happy that way was hoping to meet someone who might change his mind. He looked alright, I'm not attracted to men that are good looking anyway, what I look for is a "spark". And the-worst-mistake-I-ever-made (one day I will tell that story) was very much "my type", a bit short, stocky, younger then me, liked to party, but ever since him any fella that even remotely looks like him instantly puts me off. This is a problem. "My type" now is definitely not my "type, so I no longer have a "type".
(How many times can a person say the word "type" in one sentence).
So when it comes to who I might fancy I guess you could say I'm trying to think outside the box.

Haven't I kissed enough frogs. Where's my fucking prince.

Which is why I agreed to go for a drink with a man who was tall, a couple of years older then me, and from his profile sounded very straight. Not straight as in not gay, straight as in boring normal.
I actually think that my heart really is no longer into it when it comes to the opposite sex. I blame the mentalpause and crazy hormones, but not so long ago if I had a date I would be very excited because I might get some sex about the possibilities - even though I was always disappointed at the end. I really had to talk myself into going last night, but I gave the guy my number (it's ok, in a week my contract is up and I already have a new phone and number) so I figured I couldn't let him down.

I made no effort with myself. No make-up, hair in a pony tail, combat trousers, vest top, Uggs. And I had big knickers on. That's when you KNOW that you're really not that interested. That even if it goes really well and he's really nice NOTHING is happening, because I never saw the point in wasting time if I was attracted to someone. My hair is the giveaway, I have thick hair that's down to my waist and I know that a lot of men like that, when that's tied up out of the way before I even get there, as opposed to tied up later because it's getting in the way then I know I'm not that bothered.
But I get there, in my casual can't-be-fucking-arsed look and he is wearing a suit.
A fucking suit ! For a drink in a pub. And it was grey, and I'm no expert but I don't think it was an Armani. More like Primark.
So there I am feeling like I'm in the pub with my bank manager.

We get a drink, well I got two. A shot of Tequila and a JD and coke. He had a glass of wine.
And I swear he raised his eyebrows when he asked me what I wanted. Yup, within five minutes of getting there I knew I was going to leave as soon as I could, so NOT my kind of person, but we went and sat down.
"So tell me about you then Cowgirl. . . "
In other words he's got nothing interesting to say so he wants me to do all the talking. Not normally a problem, but we're supposed to be on a date and my non stop chatter has caused issues on dates before.
But anyway.
"What do you want to know?"
"Well what are you looking for?"
Right, I get you now. I KNOW that when men ask this question of women on dating sites it usually means they are looking to get laid, because otherwise you wouldn't ask you would just get to know each other and see what happens. Ok if I liked a person I may well fuck on the first date, and I have tried "adult dating", but this loser made out he was looking for a potential girlfriend and I can't stand dishonesty. Two can play at that game. 
I think I'll stick around a while and have me some entertainment at your expense.

"What am I looking for ? At the moment I'm trying to find some curtains to match my newly wallpapered dining room".
"Hahaha, you're very funny but that's not what I meant".
"No, well I don't really know what you meant by that question. I mean we're all looking for something aren't we ? Life is supposed to be an endless quest isn't it, I guess like most people I'm looking for the path to enlightenment and salvation. . . .
I then rambled on for a good twenty minutes about hippy stuff and buddhist theories, him nodding his head like he knew what I was on about. I don't know how - I was talking utter bollocks, but all the while he kept staring down my top.
. . . so yeah, I guess that just about sums it up, that's what I'm looking for. But that's enough about me how about you ? What are you looking for ?"
"Well, nothing as complicated (LOL!) as that I was just hoping to meet someone and have some fun".
Fun being the dating site code word for no strings sex. And what really pisses me off about guys like that is they are really not concerned with whether they fancy you. As long as you're not too fat and have tits and a vagina you'll do.
"Great, me too. I love doing fun things, what do you want to do, the funfairs probably still open. What's the time ? I could probably get some drugs and we could go clubbing after".
I only wish I had taken my camera and gotten a picture of his face when I said that.

I think Jack might just be the only man for me. I know he's my type.

I went to the toilet, when I came back he still looked confused.
Then I just said "well it's been nice meeting you but I have to go now, if I'm not home soon my tag will go off and I don't want to go back to prison".
And left.




So much for outside the box.
Back to blogging, chocolate and porn then.






PS. How cool are my new gadgets ? And I would just like to draw your attention to the "ask me anything" page. . .  go on. Somebody ? Anyone ?

groundhog afternoon

Regular readers know what I do for a living, but as there are a few new members to the flock (welcome to you all !) I will tell you about my job again.

I am a carer for a man, Paul, who has a brain injury. He is by no means incapacitated physically, if you met him you probably would not realise - at first, but when five minutes later he wants to know who you are again you might get an idea that something was up. He does get tired easily but his biggest issue when it comes to daily life is his lack of memory. Since he can't be left alone, but doesn't really like going out, my role is mostly to be there so his wife and family can go about their busy lives without worrying that he will do some DIY and destroy their house about him and assist him in whatever he wants to do.
Like make sure that when he decides to make a bacon sandwich he remembers that there is bacon cooking under the grill, or hold the cable if he wants to mow the lawn so he doesn't forget it's there and fry himself cut through it.

I've been good friends with Paul and his wife since before he had his injury which was acquired after a heart attack that caused his brain to be starved of oxygen, and surprisingly he does remember me from before. Well if you were to hear my voice ( I am a bit loud) you would know why that isn't really that surprising, but actually what this means for me is that I am lucky to have a job where going to work means sitting around drinking coffee and watching TV spending the day with friends.

Even if it is like my own personal groundhog day.
Paul can have a conversation with me about something he watched on the TV the night before, he is still very intelligent and has always loved history, especially anything to do with wars. But two hours later will completely forget we had that conversation and so we have it again.

There is a photograph in the lounge of a couple on their wedding day, the picture is one of his daughters best friends who was actually his carer for a couple of years when he first became ill. At least once a week he will say "who are those people and why have we got a picture of them ?"
I find it amusing, even he laughs when he asks me and I tell him that I've already told him twice this week. My nickname for him is "Memory Man".

His sense of humour was not damaged, in fact we often have a laugh and it will be at either his - or my - expense.

But today took the biscuit.

I was sat in the kitchen sorting some stuff out. Pauls daughter came back from the shop with a newspaper and sat with me while she read it. She held it up to show me a picture taken in China of some dogs that were kept in cages waiting to be eaten.
It was pretty horrific, but I said that if it was chickens we probably would not be so shocked. In China dogs are traditionally food in the same way that chickens are here, so perhaps the Western world needs to stop judging the Eastern world by its standards. After all, even though we are all aware of how bad the conditions are for battery hens a lot of people will still buy poultry products that are not free range as they are cheaper.

[I should add that I ONLY buy free range products, and I'm not comfortable with the idea of people eating dogs - but that's because I can afford to pay the extra for free range and I am from a culture that does not eat canines. If I were on a tight budget, or Chinese, I'm sure I'd feel different.]

The next item in the paper brought to my attention (she read it to me) was about a soldier who was being prosecuted for punching an Afghan prisoner who was trying to escape - at the cost of two hundred thousand pounds of taxpayers money.
My thoughts on this - if he had shot him in battle he wouldn't be being charged, but even in wartime there has to be standards, and you can't just go around punching people. There are rules about how prisoners of war should be treated after all, and while I don't agree with ANY war I can see how there might be justification for reprimanding that soldier.
What I really took issue with was the cost, especially when soldiers are dying for the lack of proper equipment due to cuts in the defense budget.

Anyway, she finished with the paper and went out leaving it on the side.

Twenty minutes later Pauls brother in law turned up, came and sat in the kitchen and picked up the paper.
"Oh my God Cowgirl look at this picture. . ."
Yup. The dogs.
Same conversation. I guess he didn't care for my (voiced again) opinion so went back to reading.
"Good grief, listen to this . . . "
Yup. The soldier.
Same conversation. That went down like the proverbial lead balloon, and he went off to find Paul who was watching the TV.

Half an hour later Paul came out to the kitchen for a coffee. We chatted for a bit then he picked up the paper.
"Blimey, look at this. . . "
You guessed it. The dogs.
At least he saw the point I was making with my opinion on the subject. Then carried on reading.
"How fucking ridiculous..."
Yep. The soldiers.
And again. At least Paul and I can have an intelligent conversation even if we disagree.

And even if by now I'm starting to feel like the afternoon is stuck on a loop.

A couple of hours later Pauls wife came home, and sat in the kitchen, and picked up the paper and said
"........ "
You know how it goes by now I'm sure.

Then this evening I'm on the train home and I hear one of the people sat in the seat behind me say to the person next to him . . .
"Look at this picture of these poor dogs in China".

I moved seats, I really did not want to hear another version of the same conversation I'd been having all fucking afternoon.

************************************

Update - just read a post on JWMoxies blog that has got me fuming. If you care about anti-discrimination the rights of LGB people then please go and read it, and sign the petition.
Click Here.

And while you're over there have a read of the rest of her blog.

hobbytime

Number one on the list of things I fucking hate at the moment :
The fucking A-Z blogging challenge.
I have enough trouble keeping up with my followed blogs, although the advantage of that is that when I do spend some time reading there is usually a few posts on each so I get to enjoy them more. But thanks to that fucking stupid challenge everyone has been posting just about every fucking day and I don't see how I am ever going to catch up unless I take a week off work.

Next time I'm going to do the bloody thing myself and write about 3000 words for each letter.
That'll teach you.

A is for arseholes, B is for buggery, C is for. . . . .

When I first started this blog I used to find myself thinking whenever anything caught my interest, annoyed me, made me laugh or just made me think that I would bore you lot with it write about here. Now, especially since the post holiday lull in my sensibilites (which still continues three months later) I find myself looking for things to get to me in some way just so I have something different to write about. It's sometimes a comment that I leave on another blog that seems to provide me with inspiration, especially when the author has written about a topic that brings up a memory or says something that I agree with and want to add to.
Although if I don't have the time to read any that's not going to happen either.
I reckon it must be easier to find writing material if you have a themed blog because it's focus is going to be something that you are interested in and passionate about, and therefore have a lot to say about too. That would never really work for me - whilst there's a lot of things I think about doing then decide I can't be arsed do there is nothing I do often or for long enough to really call it a hobby.

Unless you consider smoking, sleeping, eating chocolate, drinking coffee and farting to be hobbies.

I've always been the same.
When I was younger I would take up an interest in something - usually creative - get whatever equipment I needed, then get bored with it. In my bedroom in the house I grew up in was a huge floor to ceiling cupboard that by the time I left home and my Mum cleared it out was full of half finished projects. Rug making kits, half done paintings, tapestries, sketch books, knitting, half made clothes, and endless junk that I had collected because I "could make something out of that".
I did - a mess.
The end result is that I became a bit of a Jack of All Trades when it comes to craft type things. I like to think I'm a bit artisitic, if I see someone else attempting something I'll stick my nose in and tell them where they are going wrong want to join in and help, and sometimes that inspires me to go and get the stuff I need to start my own.
Which eventually ends up in the big cupboard I now have in my house.

It's the same with DIY projects, those that really need doing because something is broken get done there and then but anything else can wait. Why do now what you can put off for six months. I have a lot of bits of wood that "one day" are going to be made into something fantastic. If I only knew what or had the time. . .
Most likely a bonfire.

Does anybody need any shelves made ?

And although you would probably never guess from the crap I post here I also have two books that I started ages ago. Both consist of one chapter - and both were began over a year ago. I got bored. Not that I really expected them to go anywhere, although I'm a total literary genius far from illiterate I really don't think I have the skills needed to put together a novel. And one of the things I have realised from blogging is that there are plenty of aspiring authors out there who are far more talented and interesting then me.
I think I'll just stick to reading books.
Or maybe just finish the four that I have by the side of my bed that haven't been looked at in so long I will actually need to start them from the beginning again.
You see the pattern here ?
Attention deficit anyone ?

Although I can be the exact opposite and get quite obsessive about things. It might take me ages to get around to doing something, but once I start something that I've put off for months I'm really into I have to get it finished and will get really irritated if anything distracts me. Which is why as well as those four books that have been there for ages there are times when I have read a 400 page book in a day.
And why it bothers me that thanks to that fucking challenge I am never going to catch up on blog reading because reading followed blogs is one of the things I am currently obsessive over.

At the moment I'm mostly feeling inspired to sew. Apart from mending trousers that Son ripped skating, replacing zips or cushion covers and curtains for my house I haven't really made anything for years, but it is the one craft that I have always done - ever since I was a child. My Mum was a seamstress so I learnt from her and began by making clothes for my dolls.
The new phase began when I recovered a chair for Lily, my friends granddaughter to have in her new bedroom, but it has progressed.
UK readers might of watched "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" on the TV, but for those that haven't gypsy girls usually have the most over the top, huge, spangly decorated wedding dresses. Think Disney Princess and then some and you get the idea. Lily, who is five, loves dressing up and loves the programme so we got a second hand prom dress off ebay and spent last week turning it into a gypsy wedding dress for her. I have loved every minute, I've done the sewing and my friend has spent hours sticking sequins and rhinestones to it.

When it's finished I'll post a picture, we are kind of thinking that it might just be a way to make some money too. Given the popularity of the programme and the fact that all little girls love dressing up it could catch on.
Although if that happens by the time I've made three I'll probably be bored with that too.

I only hope I don't get bored with blogging, although that's not really likely as all my friends in the real world are fed up with me complaining too busy to listen to me anymore, and I need an outlet.
Just in case something winds me up.

misunderstood

When I was about ten I had a crush on a boy called Robert who lived on my street.
I knew it was a crush because every time he so much as looked in my direction I would blush. Furiously. Bright fucking red.

I don't think he even noticed me until the day I, and several other kids, were watching him and another boy play marbles and he hit his then couldn't see where it went. It ended up near my foot. Thinking it would make him want to marry like me I picked it up and handed it to him.
Wrong.
Where it had landed meant that he would've won - if someone hadn't moved it. Instead of being grateful he shouted at me that I had made him lose, but at least he hated me knew who I was after that.
And then he ran home to his Mummy.

My Mum was a bit of a snob at heart. Our street consisted of three kinds of houses, most - like ours, were pretty typical terraced houses, and all were lived in by people who owned them. At one end of the street there were some local council owned homes, and at the other a disused building had been pulled down and some very new, very modern and very expensive three story town houses had been built a few years after we moved there.
The boy lived in one of the new houses.
My Mum and Dad had saved for a long time to buy their house, but prior to moving there when I was about four we had lived in a rented council house. Mum considered this to mean she had "bettered" herself by buying. Her snobbery over this meant that she regarded the "council house kids" who lived at the "bottom" of the road as not good enough to be my friends, which actually just made them all the more desirable to me, but she actively went out of her way to talk to the "posh" people who lived in the town houses.

That included Roberts mother.
Mum said that she always saw her in the mornings as they both left their houses for work at the same time and walked in the same direction for a bit. I suspect that the snob in my Mum deliberately left the house at the right time for this to happen. Nowadays I think you'd call that stalking.
Eventually they got to the point where my Mum would go and have coffee with her, although even when this was happening she still called her Mrs Castle and only spoke to her in her best posh telephone voice. Of course I saw this as a golden opportunity and would go with my Mum whenever she let me in the hope that I would get to drool over see Robert.

Robert, who was a year or so older then me would occasionally come into the kitchen when I was there and grunt at me and I would blush and mutter something smile alluringly back. One day his Mum suggested that he and I go and play together in their garden, and by virtue of pretending to like worms, faking interest in football and being in his company for long enough that my face reverted back to a normal colour he finally realised that for a girl I was ok, and we became friends.

I think he kind of started to have a bit of a crush on me a bit too. Mostly because he liked to punch me in the arm. Hard.

Until the day Mrs Castle invited me to have tea with them.
Them being Mrs Castle, Mr Castle (who was about seven foot tall and a policeman and a bit scary to lil me), Robert, and his two older brothers. Tea in their house was quite a posh affair, we all sat around a coffee table in the living room and ate little sandwiches and my drink was in a cup and saucer. Yeah snobby Mum would've approved alright.
After the sandwiches were cleared away another tray was brought out, this one contained cakes and a few other things. I took a cake then Mrs Castle picked up a sundae dish full of red stuff and offered it to me saying "would you like some Jelly ?"

In my house jelly looked like this :

And this was jam :

I did think it was a bit odd that there was only one dish of it, but then I thought maybe nobody else likes jelly or perhaps posh people just offer it to their guests. According my Mother they were entirely different to the rest of us mere mortals so what did I know.
So because I wanted to be polite, I took the spoon, filled it up and put it in my mouth. And then, even though it tasted like no jelly I had ever had before - far too sweet and actually not that nice - I ate another spoonful. Then, as I was about to put the third spoonful in my mouth, I realised that both Mr & Mrs Castle were giving me some very strange looks and Roberts two older brothers were starting to laugh. Robert had turned a similar colour to the jelly but also looked like he was going to laugh.

And then I realised my mistake.
And ran home to my Mummy.

After that Robert no longer wanted to be my friend, but I didn't mind. I was over my crush and onto blushing with embarrassment about the jelly fiasco every time I saw him and far too busy hoping he never told anyone. Even at that age Calamity followed me around.
And it seemed that for all her posh pretentions even my Mum did not know that posh people called jam jelly.

I believe Americans also refer to jam as jelly, I am often amused by the differences in the use of language between our countries. I once told an American that I was dying for a fag, which didn't exactly go well, although he laughed once he had figured out that I meant a cigarette. And the first time I realised that a fanny is an arse across the pond was because I heard an American saying that a girl had a nice one. That did not go especially well either but I laughed when I figured out that he was not referring to her ladybits.
Sometimes I can tell from reading a blog that the author is English, there's often a subtle difference in grammar. Anyone from the UK who used an older version of word will remember the endless green squiggly lines that would appear from using a programme designed for use in America.

Nowadays the thing that annoys me more then anything when it comes to language is the use of text speak. Literacy is a problem with our children far more then it ever was, and I don't think it helps that when communicating with each other they are not using proper words.

And there really is no need. It began when text messages were limited in the number of characters, so there was a point to it, but that's no longer the case. Even Facebook extended the length of status updates and yet I still see people using ridiculous abbreviations on it all the time. Some expressions have even found their way into the spoken word. I have started to hear people say "O.M.G", why ?
Laziness I reckon, a lot of the time anyway. At one time I thought it was actually quite a good equaliser in that it's harder to spot a dyslexic or someone who just can't spell when everyone is spelling incorrectly, but I've changed my opinion. Now I just think it makes everyone look stupid.
Even when they're not.

Once when I working in the children's homes a colleague and I were talking about text abbreviations, and she said lol meant lots of love. I told her no its laugh out loud, usually to mean that that's what you're doing, but also sometimes as an indicator of sarcasm, but she was insisting that I was wrong and she was right.
(When is the rest of the world gonna wake up to the fact that I'm always right ?)
Anyway this conversation went on a while and eventually I called the teenagers who lived in the home into the dining room where she and I were sat.
"Tell Kate what lol stands for".
"It's laugh out loud".
"Really ? I thought it was lots of love".
"No it isn't, Cowgirls right" ...exit two laughing teenagers.
I look at Kate who looks rather uncomfortable, and ask her whats up.
Apparently a couple of weeks earlier she had heard that one of her friends fathers had died and sent a text that said :
"Sorry to hear about your Dad LOL"

Poor Kate had been wondering why she hadn't heard back from her friend, after that she decided to pop round and see her to explain the mistake.

Most of it doesn't even make sense. I particularly hate the way people now write "dis" instead of "this", especially when they are middle class white boys. Listening to Hip-Hop and poor literacy does not make you black or a gangster. Or should that be gangsta.
And as for lmao, did anyone actually say they were laughing their arse off before that particular acronym made it's way into text language ? And anyway I'm always laughing, it's what gets me through life. And yet my arse is the size of a small country.
Despite my constant cackling at anything and everything it refuses to be laughed off.

I don't know, maybe I'm just getting too old to understand all these new fangled modern things.

panic in detroit

England is in the grip of petrol fever.

Apparently someone somewhere threatened to go on strike about something and that meant there was a chance that just maybe-possibly-potentially there might be a slight petrol shortage sometime in the not too distant future IF it happened. Although the people who had said they MIGHT go on strike had not given any idea of a date when that MIGHT be, and there were still some "talks" happening that would most likely resolve whatever the issue was.
Or to put it another way a Union decided to try and hold the government to ransom. I'm not entirely sure what it is they're after, it may well be quite justified, but ever since the days of the wicked witch Maggie Thatcher the Unions are no longer as powerful as they used to be.

But then someone must of told Dave (and we all know he's not the brightest star in the sky, especially as he has still not answered my letters so clearly still not seeing sense), and Dave decided to tell the British public via our everso reliable, totally honest and not-at-all-likely-to-whip-the-public-into-a-frenzied-panic-media that it might be a sensible idea if everyone kept their tanks topped up, or kept a spare can of petrol JUST IN CASE. 

And anyway we were told the army were on stand-by, and they would get the petrol to where it needed to be but the main thing was for everyone to NOT PANIC BUY.

Hmmm. . . 

Do I need to caption this ? Nah, already done for me.

Smart move.

Because for one thing England has had a week of freakishly hot weather for this time of year - so that sends us all a bit loopy anyway. A friend of mine was riding her bike along our seafront on Wednesday and she saw people swimming in the sea, and our sea here is fucking freezing even in the middle of summer. So yeah, people go a bit mental when they see the sun.

And also because if there's one thing we're good at it's panic buying.
Anyfuckingthing.
And we don't seem to need much of a reason, an impending bank holiday will do it never mind an actual shortage. Nowadays all of the big supermarkets are open every day of the year, but go into one the day before a bank holiday and you will see people buying up enough food to see them through your average nuclear holocaust.

I don't think we ever got over the rationing during the war.
Or the power cuts and strikes that happened when I was a kid.
Certainly my parents generation never did and I guess some of them have passed that on to their children too, my Mum only had to hear the word strike and she'd be off to Tesco to buy 10 loaves of bread, 20 pints of milk and as much meat as she could fit in her freezer.
Even though there was only two people in her house, she rarely ate sandwiches, her husband drank black coffee and the strike was in a carpet factory at the other end of the country.

But anyway, thanks to Dave and his bunch of tossers government giving out the warning we now have queues at petrol stations from 6am every day and some are actually closed because they have run out completely.
In trying to beat the potential shortage that maybe-possibly-potentially could have happened the drivers of this country have actually made the thing they were trying to get prepared for happen.
Idiots.

A typical British day out in the sunshine.

And then this evening they announced that the proposed strike has been averted . . . for now. But there is something that only two people knew about until I wrote this and now you, dear sheep, are being let in on the secret.
All this is actually my fault.
And not because I have failed in my attempt at world domination valiant mission to get Dave to listen to me.

Oh no.
This is yet another example of the notorious Cowgirl jinx.

As you may remember I am not allowed for public safety reasons don't drive. Consequently I have no need to buy petrol. Ever.
But, I have a rather nasty persistent overgrown weed (not that kind of weed, yeah I fucking wish) growing in my garden. Every year I hack it down and spray it and every year the fucking awful thing comes back. I told a mate about it, as I was thinking I would have to pay some specialised service to come and get rid of it for me. He said that if I drill into the roots and pour some diesel in it's bound to kill it once and for all. I know it's not really allowed, bad for the environment blah blah blah, but it's not like I'm building a nuclear reactor in the shed (I'm not fucking french) and a can of diesel is about a fiver, compared to what it would cost to get someone in ? Yeah, I'm gonna try Steve's suggestion first.
My mate at work found a petrol can for me on Friday and said that she would get some for me during the week when she filled up her car so that I could do the garden this weekend while the weather is still nice.

She gave up every time she went because of the size of the queues.

And now not only are there the mile long queues at the garages that have still got fuel, they have now said that they are not letting anyone fill up spare petrol cans.

See ?
All my fault.
I really should run for Prime Minister, it seems I can fuck up the country just as much as Dave.

And all I need to do it is an empty one of these.

i wanted breast

Well I'm kind of glad this week is over, it's really not gone according to plan. Nothing major, just the usual round of calamity that seems to follow me around.
I swear I can hear it laughing sometimes.
After all the hectic activity of getting my house straight at the weekend ready for the expected visit from the language school on Monday, I got an email from them in the middle of the afternoon asking if they could come on Thursday instead.

Grrr

Annoying.
But at the same time not so bad as I really didn't think it would look good to have them turn up and see an old sofa and other crap piled up at the front of the house, so at least I had time to arrange to have that taken away. I got on the phone and sorted it for Tuesday afternoon, which meant that I would be at work but hopefully Son would be in, so I told the fella I would check and call back to let him know.

"I have arranged for someone to come and collect the sofa and other stuff tomorrow between 11 and 1pm, are you going to be here ?"
"Yeah".
"Ok, I will leave the money for you to pay him."
"Cool".
(FIVE MINUTES LATER)
"I spoke to Grandad today and he wants some slippers and a CD for his birthday, so if you are going into town this week can you get them for me ?"
"Yeah sure, I can get them when I go to my appointment at the job agency."
"When is that ?"
"Tomorrow."
"What time ?"
"11.30."
"So you're not going to be here when the fella comes for the sofa ?"
"What fella . . . . "

Grrrr

Nothing unusual there though, he's been tuning me out for years. That doesn't make it any less annoying, and it even happens when he's the one who asked the question in the first place. The following day he wanted some paint stripper, we don't have any but I suggested trying the brush cleaner I use for acrylic nails. I told him where it was and described the size and colour of the bottle.
Brown glass, about three inches high and it says BRUSH CLEANER on the label.

Ten minutes later he comes downstairs with these. . .

. . and said "is it one of these ?"

CAN YOU SEE ANY BROWN GLASS ???

Grrrrrr

When I worked with kids a lot of the training we did revolved around listening skills. Psychologists believe that when we listen we only take in about 7% of what is being said through the actual words. Voice quality, that is the tone, accounts for 38% and the rest is all about the body language. When applied to difficult children one of the ways I used that knowledge was to make sure that in tricky situations, or when trying to make them understand something, that I remained still, relaxed and spoke in a calm even voice. By doing so you can lessen the impact of the non-verbal communication and increase the understanding of what is actually being said.

Even with some very challenging children that could work a treat.

What I can never understand is how those same techniques don't seem to work with Son. Probably because as little impact as the words might have if he doesn't actually hear them at all nothing registers. Next time he goes to find something in my room I'm going to draw him a diagram.

Mind you I'd need a sniffer dog and a safety helmet to find anything in his.

On Thursday I woke up late. If I'm a little bit late for work it's not normally a problem, I just stay a bit later. But yesterday my boss/friend was going out at 11 so I had to be there by then, and I also really needed to get away on time because the Langauge school were visiting at 6pm.
It takes me 10 minutes to walk to the train station and there's a train at 8 minutes past the hour, get that and get a cab when I get there I'll only be 30 minutes late. After I got dressed I checked the time and it was 9.45, I got my phone and my bag, put my coat on, checked again and it was 10.
Who the fuck stole ten minutes from me ?
(I wish I knew, because the sneaky bastard does it quite often. If I could find the fucker I might be able to steal it back. By my reckoning he's taken enough time in the last few months to equal at least an extra day on the week-end).
But anyway.
Never gonna make that train now unless I get a taxi from my house.
Which I do. And waste £3 because I got on the platform at 10.07.58 just in time to watch the train pull away. Every other day the fucking trains run late, and the day I'm the one that's late the fucker is not just on time it leaves the station a minute early.

Grrrrrrrrrrr

And then, because I used all my cash on the first taxi I have to make the one I took when I got off the train stop at the shop so I can get more out. And OF COURSE there's a queue a mile long and only one cashier.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

But I did manage to make it to work by 10.55, and as I am fortunate enough to work for a friend I was able to leave on time. I got a lift back to the station just as the train home was pulling in, put my ticket in the barrier and it refused to open. The guard came over and looked at it, and I had tried to use the out ticket not the return.
Which meant that when I bought it in the morning I had put the out ticket in my purse.
And thrown the return bit in the bin as I left the station.
FUCK FUCK FUCK
Luckily he believed me and let me through. Although by then that train had gone and I had to wait for the next one so I made it home just before 6.
And the bloody visitors from the Language school didn't turn up.
Grrrrr

One of my friends is a very spiritual person. She believes - I'm really not sure how to describe it properly but I guess the best way to explain it would be - in the power of the Universe. That we all draw things to ourselves and the Universe gives us what we need or deserve.
Personally I'm not too sure about that but I certainly believe in Karma.

Most of the little disasters that happen to me really don't amount to much on their own, but when I actually stop to think about how often they occur, and apply my friends ideas to them then I really just have to wonder what it was that I did to the Universe that makes it want to fuck me over on such a regular basis.

Even today it continues, I had the day off work so arranged for my shopping to be delivered late in the afternoon. Today is my Dads birthday and tomorrow I am cooking a meal for the family to celebrate, my plan was to make the curries tonight (we are having a Thai feast) but when I unpacked the shopping I had ordered the wrong chicken.
I wanted breast, I got breaded gougons.
I wonder if that's a sentence ever uttered by a disappointed man ?
In Thailand perhaps.

Luckily Son has his uses, and armed with a very detailed shopping list and a map of the route to the shop he was able to complete the mission to go and get the right kind for me.
I couldn't go because the lady from the Language school was due at 5pm, and this time she did turn up. Pictures were taken of my house (fucking good job I did the washing up) and hopefully I'll get a student soon.
The curries are now cooked and this . . .  is the dessert I made. . .

That is a chocolate and strawberry tart.
Just to prove that not everything I do is a total disaster.

Although I can't promise that it will still be in the fridge by the time my guests arrive tomorrow night.

Have a good week-end people !!

no problem

There are times when I think my life is just one long list of calamities, breakages, disasters and people and situations designed to wind me up. Everybody has those little things that go wrong from time to time, on their own each amounts to nothing more then a little hiccup in a day. But when you find yourself having enough in the course of a single week you have to wonder if there isn't someone up there looking down on you and laughing.
What can I do to piss her off today ?

I don't mean god, I don't actually believe in him. But I do believe in Karma - and I think she's a bit of a bitch and she doesn't like me very much. But she knows I can take it and she knows I can give as good as I get. I suspect she sends a lot of it my way because given to someone else it would not have quite so much entertainment value.

I'm kind of a jinx.
But I do have two saving graces, things with which I think I am blessed. One is my sense of humour as that's what stops me stressing about stuff. Nobody laughs at me, and the unfortunate events that follow me wherever I go, louder then I do myself.

The other is my gift of the gab. That can manifest as humour, bitchiness or just downright rudeness, but it never lets me down. And if blagging is an art form then I'm fucking Rembrandt. My latest triumph was phoning the company that provides my Internet, phone and satellite TV and telling them I had lost my job. I haven't, but I am fed up with giving them £60 a month. I managed to get it reduced to £20 a month for the TV and FREE Internet and phone rental for NINE MONTHS.
Yeah I'm good.

Rarely am I stuck for words in a tricky situation.
In fact they're usually out of my foul mouth before my brain has time to register what is being said. And I don't like to mince my words either.
I just read a post over on my friend Lilys blog and she kinda got me thinking, because she was saying how her blog is her but toned down, and I think the same applies here. Which then got me thinking about another calamity that happened yesterday morning, and how that was me SO NOT toned down.

I am walking to the train station.

The red arrows are the direction I was walking in.

As I'm stood about to cross the road at A, dozy cow in big car pulls in.
There is plenty of space so I thought she would just drive in and park as she can only be going to the shop, and given that it's raining you would think she'd want to park as close to the entrance as possible.
So I start to walk over the road aiming for B.
As I'm halfway across, and it's a side street so not wide, dozy cow starts to reverse.
Why ? There's enough room in front of her for a fucking bus.
So I take a step back and go to walk around her front to C.
And the idiot starts driving forward.

I just put my hands in the air and said (not shouted) "make your fucking mind up".
I changed direction again and got to B.
As I walked past she had her window open and I said,
"Don't you ever look in your mirror"
She wound her window up - quickly - and mouthed "fuck off" at me.
Now normally I would've said more, but as per I was a bit late and in danger of missing the train, so instead I just gave her the finger and walked off.

I turned the corner and started walking up the road D.
After about 5 mins the dozy cow pulls up, not beside me mind you, there are parked cars between us, winds her window down and shouts.
"Oy ! You ! What's your problem ?"
Seriously ? You really want me to tell you ? All brave sat inside your car with the engine on. Right then. . .
"FAT CUNTS WHO CAN'T PARK THEIR VEHICLES, WHY ? WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM ?  Why don't you get out of your car and come over here and ask me to my face ?"

She drove off.
Probably a good thing she didn't get out 'cos she WAS a fat cunt. If she had sat on me I'd be laid up with broken bones right now. Chicken shit bitch.


Did you like that one Karma ?
I think Karma might be in league with the mentalpause.

Sooner I get on that beach and chill the fuck out the better I reckon.

For the rest of the walk to the station adrenalin had kicked in and I was fuming. But she made me miss the train, so when I got there I called my friend and by the time I had finished telling her what happened I was crying with laughter.

In the course of talking about this more when I got to work, my mates and I ended up talking about other times we had lost our tempers, and the conversation was hilarious. Even though we were discussing times when we had actually felt VERY angry.
Laughter really is the best medicine.
A long time ago there was a really tragic thing that happened in my family, and I remember this one conversation with my sister where we were both crying and one of us, not sure who, said something and the next minute we were laughing. I think I learned then that if you can find even the smallest thing to laugh about in the greatest times of sadness you're probably going to be alright.
It's the antidote to every negative emotion.

I also have a rather unfortunate habit of laughing when I'm nervous or have to tell someone something bad. Even if I can contain the laugh out loud I have no control over the grin that gets stuck on my face.
Possibly liable to make a person think you're more interested then you are cute and endearing on a first date.
Understandable and can make you seem pervy whilst having a breast examination for a lump. Luckily pap smears don't make me nervous.
Excusable (if you explain why you are sat there resembling the joker) during a job interview. Might actually be useful if "a good sense of humour" is listed in the job spec.

Not so good when telling your neighbour that you have just found his beloved cat dead in your garden.

Or when in a previous managerial role you had to tell someone they were losing their job.
Although to be fair she was a liability and I was very happy to be doing it.

And FYI in order to avoid unnecessary calamities it's a good idea not to put grey carpet on your stairs when you have a grey cat that likes to sit on them and a broken dimmer (that only does very dim) on the light switch. I can't work out whether the cat thinks I'm trying to kill him or if he's trying to kill me.

Reminds me of a date I once went on.

Actually I think although laughter might indeed be the best medicine, blogging is a very good placebo. More and more I find when life throws one of it's little hiccups at me I think "I can bore people with write about this".

Which makes me wonder if Karma and Blogger are in fact the same person ?
Or have at least done some kind of a deal.

let me in

Have I mentioned that I'm going away for Christmas ?

Maybe just once or twice.
TWO WEEKS !!!

However, I have some advice for any of you that ever want to travel to India.
Get your Visa as soon as possible !

I'm ok, I have mine, but there has been an issue with one of them, and for the MOST ridiculous reason. There are nine of us going, one of whom is a four year old. The back story here is that although her Father was around when she was born and so his name is on her birth certificate, he and her Mother broke up soon after and he has not been seen since. His loss. Consequently there has never been any kind of custody hearing, but as far as anything of a legal nature goes ie Tax Credits, benefits and the like her Mother is officially a single parent.
She has been to India for the last three years with her Mum and there has never been an issue with her Visa before, they have just included a copy of her Tax Credit entitlement and a letter explaining the situation with the application.

We all began the Visa process online, then my friend went up to London to the Embassy and handed in all our passports and photos. The next day we got a phone call from them saying that they were all fine, apart from the little girls as they needed to see her full birth certificate. In the UK you can have a short version - which is absolutely fine when it comes to claiming benefits, opening a bank account etc but not apparently for the fucking Indian embassy, they want to see the full one.
Which not everyone gets anyway, as you have to pay.

But, whatever, if that's what they want.
The guy said he would send an email immediately after the call, checked the mail addy, and we could scan the birth certificate and attach it to a reply. So her Mum got in touch with the records office and ordered a full copy.
However we did not get that email.
As we are running out of time her Mum decided to take it up in person, so yet another trip to London.

A few days later she got a text saying the Visa was processed and would be arriving by courier the next day.
It never arrived.
At this point, assuming there had been a problem with the post, she decided to phone the Indian Embassy.
Let met tell you it would be easier to find the combination for the safe at the Bank of England then get their fucking phone number. The website tells you when to call but not where.
Eventually she rang the couriers that deliver them, and luckily they had the number.
Then we find out that a) it has not been posted, because b) they need more information, which is c) a court order stating that she has custody, or d) they want to see her fathers passport.

Again she explains the situation.
But no matter - the person she was speaking to just kept repeating "we need to see a court order". Eventually we can hear that she is starting to get angry, and realising that will get her nowhere tell her to get the number for the complaints dept and end the call.
I rang the complaints dept and explained the situation.
Ever get the impression that you are speaking to someone who either isn't listening or doesn't want to. They are like talking to a fucking stuck CD. I think they just learn three English phrases and are told to keep repeating which ever seems most likely to fit. Yeah fine English is not your native language, but you are working in a place that deals with non-Indian people who want to visit your country - which relies heavily on tourism - so for fuck sake at least make it SOUND like you want to help them get there.
I also pointed out that clearly one end of their organisation does not know what the other is doing - otherwise why was a text sent saying it was on it's way - when clearly it wasn't. Although in a way that was a good thing as we would not have known any of this unless we had called to try to find out where it was.

I was told to call back at the end of the day, which I did, only to be told - yet again - that they needed something from the court or a solicitor.
Motherfuckers.
Exactly which part of we don't have one of them because we don't need one is that you are failing to grasp ?

There is a happy ending. Her Mum went and got a letter from a solicitor - which she had to pay for - and this was taken up (again to London) on Tuesday. Even this was not acceptable at first. In then end manipulation and lies were used, and they were told that her Father was a drug addict and if forced to contact him it would bring shame and distress to the child.
Apparently at this the guy dealing with it said he "would not want to bring shame on anyone's family".
Yesterday the Passport was returned with the Visa granted.

Which just proves the rules are NOT set in stone, and can be bent when they want to.

At first we could not understand why they made this so difficult, but we came to the conclusion that it's perhaps that India is a culture where single parents are probably not that common. So when they made their new rules they did not make allowances for every eventuality under which that can occur where you might have no contact and/or no desire to.

What if a childs Father had totally disappeared ? He might not even be in the country anymore.
What if the Father was dead ?
What about people who leave their partners because they are violent ?
What about kids who have no contact with a parent because of abuse ?

But they want our Tourist income. Even if that meant telling a child that her entire family are going on holiday and she is not allowed to come.
Do they want to be the ones to explain that to her ?

We gave them NINE Visa applications, and they processed all but one. Even though they can see that the one they refused belongs to a child whose parent they have just granted a Visa to.
Fucking idiots.
What's she gonna do ? Stay at home on her own.

And why has she suddenly been refused after three years of going. Apparently because they changed the rules. As my friend said to them "your rules might have changed but my circumstances have not".

However - there would've been none of this if her Fathers name was NOT on the birth certificate.
So, despite their family orientated culture, from the child's point of view it would be easier to get a Visa if she had the stigma of having no named Father rather then an absent one.

If they had not granted it then they would effectively be punishing a four year old for having a Father who is a waste of space with no interest in her.

If forced to find him and take him to court that could cause a whole load of emotional distress for both the child and her Mother.

When she was still a baby her Mother started a new relationship, and this is the man that the child looks upon as her Father. He treats her as his own and she calls him Dad. What would it do to a four year old - who although she knows he isn't her birth father, has this Man as a constant consistent reliable caring figure in her life - to suddenly have this other prick appear and be told THIS is actually your Dad.
Because he was given every opportunity to be in her life - he chose not to.
And rejection is hard enough to deal with as an adult, never mind when you're four.

And all because the Indian Embassy are refusing to let you into their country for a holiday unless you make contact with him.

Fuckers.

Why does a child even need a tourist Visa anyway ? Especially when travelling with her family.
It's not like she's going to be looking for a job whilst we're there, even though her £40 Visa has ended up costing her Mum close to £250.

Although it's India, I suppose they think we might be sending her off to a sweat shop - or be planning to cut off her arm and send her out to beg.


Did I say that ? Oops. They might not let me in.


But again. . . TWO WEEKS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

oh crap

If you read yesterdays post then you will be aware of my amazing new-found plumbing skills.

It seems I'm not as clever more creative then I thought.
All I wanted was to able to use my new dishwasher but when I got up today (late - and with the mother of all headaches) I discovered that I had also managed to create an indoor paddling pool in my kitchen.
Yup ! Fucker leaked.

Now this I like - turn your sink into a water feature resembling Niagra.

Wish I'd thought of that.

I'll remember this for next time, because there's bound to be a next time.

Well to be precise it wasn't the dishwasher itself that leaked, it was the tap doubler for the water pipe, as I was trying to save time by using the existing water feed for the washing machine. I blame the DIY shop for selling me faulty leaky parts.
Goddamn B&Q and their unreliable incontinent pipes.
They should come with a warning that using them may result in needing a boat to get to your kettle in the morning, or at the very least a free pair of Wellies.

I could copy this fella's idea and get some ducks.

See what I mean about Calamity.
Fuck my life indeed.
Anyway tomorrow I intend to do it properly and solder on a new tap.
Unless my friendly Hasidic Plumber wants to jump in his G5 and come and do it for me ?

Please note not an actual depiction, but an artists impression.

There are no Racoons here, although I do have a Maincoon cat.
I think I might need a plumbing Superhero.

When I was kid if anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up the answer was "a gelignite man".
I had no desire to change sex, I just wanted to blow things up.

I have no idea where I got this ambition from, my Mum said I started saying it when I was about four, but I do remember really wanting to do it and being totally mesmerised whenever there was anything on the TV about demolition.
I'm starting to think that maybe my talent for calamity and destruction is me acting out those fantasies on a subconscious level.

If I can't explode things them I'm gonna wreck my house instead.

Although I also think it's probably for the best that I didn't fulfil that particular childhood dream because I'm pretty sure I'd be the one blowing up the wrong building.

NO !! Not that one. . . the one behind it.

If you don't hear from me for a few days send a lifeboat to my house.

goldfish brain

First of all I'd like to say a proper hello and welcome to all my new sheep. Over the last few weeks there has been quite a few of you - I really do appreciate you all coming here and clicking my button.

I tried searching google for "Cowgirl gif". . . they are either cute (not really fitting) or would require an adult content warning on this blog. So you get a flaming welcome instead.

This Cowgirl aint reversing nothing here.

But you do realise that madness can be contagious ?

Well not so much madness as what I call dippyness. . yes folks Calamity has struck again.

When I buy stuff online with my bank card I sometimes get this stupid "verified by Visa" screen pop-up.
As I imagine most people do I have a few passwords that I use for different things. I tend to associate a certain word with each of my emails - but anything to do with money, ebay, paypal, ebanking etc I give individual passwords to.
But that verified by Visa thing, can I remember the password ? Can I fuck.
Every time it appears I have to re- set it.

Next time I'm gonna try this.

Anyway this afternoon I was making a purchase.
You don't need to know what.
(Ok ok it was more shoes)
And once again I forgot the password. The last time I wrote it down, but I was at work and the book it was in at home so I had to set it again. Thinking I'm clever I decide to change it to " Remember this one".
Because I'm bound to remember that aren't I.

Good idea huh ?
Yeah, then the box loads and I get a message that says,
"You have already used this password please select another"

I keep wondering if eventually I'm gonna get banned from using my bank card online.
This might be a good thing, I've been looking at wallpaper for my bedroom this week. Son and I went to the DIY shop a couple of days ago and the only roll I liked was £55. Yeah fuck that, I only need two rolls so I decided to look online. So far the only one I've seen on a website that's really caught my eye was £120 per roll. For wallpaper. Fucking hell.
Have I got to buy my own rainforest first.
What's it made from ? Gold leafed ancient papyrus ?
It needs to be for that price.

However I did get what I went to the DIY shop for - check me out - I can now add plumbing to my impressive list of skills as I have installed a dishwasher.
And no, this is not a reference to the Son's return, I mean an actual Hotpoint - at least I don't have to bribe it with beer and food to get it to work.
Hanging the waste pipe out the window over the drain counts as plumbing right ?

Next week I'm putting in a new bathroom.

PS Ever seen a cat within a cat ?