Primal Scream, My Arse

I find it very strange to imagine a bunch of well meaning therapists trying to encourage people to 'scream it all out' for £X per hour, but then when I think of new age therapists I think of lentil munchers of the hand-knitted-socks variety - lolloping, amiable, ineffectual, with a slight sagging to the shoulders, and not one of them over nine stone.

See? I'm not anti-therapist. I've never even gone to one, but you will note that I didn't insist that they all wear tight polyester trousers with a Golden Virginia tin in one back pocket and a mojo (bag of crystals) and notebook in the other. I didn't even demand that they all have 1970s-reject woolly-mammoth style shoulder-length hair, dodgy teeth and a penchant for multi-coloured stripy yak-herders' hats.

I've been using scream 'therapy' since my early teens, by which I mean I found a railway bridge that nobody else ever crossed, where, as the 5 o'clock through train stormed along underneath, I could scream

B O L L O C K S !

at the top of my voice and to my heart's content then skip back down the steps looking like the assistant Sunday School Teacher that I truly was.

That's why the idea of meek, well meaning, encouraging souls having anything to do with the sheer JOY of empowered fury seems so, well, ridiculous.

I don't like confrontation - mostly, I admit, because I scare myself.
I hate hate hate allowing adrenaline to turn me to a whimpering jelly. Puke.
My only recourse, then, is to storm, decry, brandish, exert, ROAR.

That's why I adore Pink.

Tonight I need to express myself, because tomorrow morning I must act as if nothing has happened and nothing phases me. I must act it so well that I achieve twice as much as normal and make it true as quickly as possible.

This is all part of my 'coping' mechanism ('coping'! How, how mediocre!) - this is all part of my opposition obliteration mechanism, because by tomorrow I'm fucked if I'll allow what ails me to still be getting in my way. I need for it, this inanimate, incorporeal beast of a situation, to 'understand' that I fucking win, in a way that only insolent, shitty little situations can. Or can't. Who gives a.

So. Pink. Wheeeee! This is how I will be exorcising the pumping fury that has no other out - by stomping up and down to this tune and these words FULL VOLUME - even if it all has to go on in my head...........

Hey, hey, man! What's your problem?
I see you tryin' to hurt me bad
Don't know what you're up against
Maybe you should reconsider
Come up with another plan
Cuz you know I'm not that kinda girl
That'll lay there and let you come first

You can push me out the window
I'll just get back up
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler truck
And I won't give a fuck
You can hang me like a slave
I'll go underground
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler but
You can't keep me down, down, down, down

Can't keep me down, down
Can't keep me down, down, down
Can't keep me down, down

Hey, hey, girl! Are you ready for today?
You got your shield and sword?
Cuz its time to play the games
You are beautiful
Even though your not for sure
Don't let him pull you by the scar
You're gonna get your feelings hurt

You can push me out the window
I'll just get back up
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler truck
And I won't give a fuck
You can hang me like a slave
I'll go underground
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler but
You can't keep me down, down, down, down

You can push me out the window
I'll just get back up
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler truck
And I won't give a fuck
You can hang me like a slave
I'll go underground
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler but
You can't keep me down, down, down, down

Everywhere that I go
There's someone waitin' to chain me
Everything that I say
There's someone tryin' to short-change me
I am only this way
Because of what you have made me
And I'm not gonna break!

You can push me out the window
I'll just get back up
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler truck
And I won't give a fuck
You can hang me like a slave
I'll go underground
You can run over me with your 18 wheeler but
You can't keep me down, down, down, down

Graaaaaaaaaa!!!!! (hehe)

ColorQuiz.com

Oooer!

Cheryl took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Her need to feel more causative and to have a wide..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

Schoolbook Funnies

Note: This is the shameless re-issue of a very old post which was a steal from somewhere else in the first place. So I have been caught out and judged brain-dead, twice, already. Suck it up.

Found this list. Laughed so hard.
Then fought my husband (a new and obsessively prolific blogger) over who was going to post it.

We compromised. Here's half; the rest is over at Wulfweard.

In some rocks we find the fossil footprints of fishes.

Many dead animals of the past changed to fossils while others preferred to be oil.

All animals were here before mankind. The animals lived peacefully until mankind came along and made roads, houses, hotels and condoms.

Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity.

The law of gravity says no fair jumping up without coming back down.

Galileo showed that the earth was round and not vice versa. He dropped his balls to prove gravity.

Mare Curie did her research at the Sore Buns Institute in France.

Men are mammals and women are femammals.

Proteins are composed of a mean old acid.

The largest mammals are to be found in the sea because there is nowhere else to put them.

Involuntary muscles are not as willing as voluntary ones.

Methane, a greenhouse gas, comes from the burning of trees and cows.

Water is melted steam.

Mushrooms always grow in damp places and so they look like umbrellas.

A monkey has a reprehensible tail.

Some people say we condescended from the apes.

The leopard has black spots which look like round soars on its body.

Those who catch soars get leprosy.

A cuckoo does not lay its own eggs.

To remove air from a flask, fill the flask with water, tip the water out and put the cork in, quick.

Cadavers are dead bodies that have donated themselves to science. This procedure is called gross anatomy.

The cause of dew is through the earth revolving on its own axis and perspiring freely.

Hot lather comes from volcanoes, when it cools it turns into rocks.

A liter is a nest of young baby animals.

The earth makes a resolution every 24 hours.

Parallel lines never meet unless you bend one or both of them.

Algebra was the wife of Euclid.

A circle is a figure with no corners and only one side.

A right angle is 90 degrees Farenhight.

Genetics explains why you look like your father and if you don't, why you should.

A supersaturated solution is one that holds more than it can hold.

The pistol of a flower is its only protection against insects.

Respiration is composed of two acts, first inspiration, then expectoration.

An example of animal breeding is the farmer who mated a bull that gave a great deal of milk with a bull with good meat.

The hydra gets its food by descending upon its prey and pushing it into its mouth with its testicles.

If conditions are not favorable, bacteria go into a period of adolescence.

When oxygen is combined with anything, heat is given off. This is known as constipation.

The hookworm larva enters the body through the soul.

As the rain forests in the Amazon are shrinking, so are the Indians.

A major discovery was made by Mary Leaky, who found a circle of rocks that broke wind.

The skeleton is what is left after the insides have been taken out and the outsides have been taken off. The purpose of the skeleton is something to hitch meat to.

You can listen to thunder after lightning and tell how close you came to getting hit. If you don't hear it, you got hit so never mind.

First posted 30 October 2005

Why I LOVE Spoof Adverts

(A.k.a. Why I LOVE The British Sense of Humour)

Here's the original. Its a beautiful, creative ad' and one that I believe was only ever shown in the UK. Enjoy.


Now here's the retort.



Perfect.

Or do you know better?

The Pleasures Of Being Odd

You have to try this.

Clearing out under the sink (no I haven't had a sudden attack of domestication, I mean under duress, during the recent (recent?) and still ongoing works at this house in which we received not one but two new kitchens with another to come, plus four complete changes of counter top...)

To begin again.....

Clearing out under the sink, I found a great many pairs of rubber gloves, all used once, rinsed, and chucked in there for later. Obviously for many of them, later never came. Eventually they begin to perish and become tacky.

Still,...

.....my point...

Christmas! When you were a kid, back in the days of single glazing; do you remember the week of Christmas? The warm, golden, even superheated few days when nobody seemed to go outdoors at all, when grown-ups wanted to include you in board games and you couldn't tell the pouring rain outside from the condensation on the windows, except by hiding behind the curtains and drawing smileys? That brief and heavenly period when the decorations were holding up and there was still a bowl of walnuts or satsumas to be found, to hold on your lap through The Wizard Of Oz or whatever Christmas movies they stuck on TV?

When absolutely everything was right with the world? When the bottom of the Quality Street or Roses tin still held three or four different types of chocolate in their tantalising brightly coloured wrappers, not just all the toffee pennies that granny couldn't get her teeth round any more?

No?

Your loss. I can - at least I couldn't and wouldn't have tried, until I smelled a single, decaying rubber glove.

Now I can't stop sniffing it. It says: 'My mum's old front room, the wet Wednesday after Christmas, when the paraffin heater has been on the go all day and the compulsory balloons on the wall (twenty or more, in groups of at least three - start with the corners and the window) are beginning to droop.'

I never knew that magical moment smelled like perishing balloons, but I do now.

I think I'm going to like autumn more than usual, this year.

Things I Learned Yesterday

God Bless Anita. Completely beside the point, but it had to be said.


Yesterday I learned that:

• There are three farms and between Bishopstone Village and Denton.
  
• The one nearest the coast is not really a farm any longer but stables.
• The one on the brow of Rookery Hill, where you can see for miles, has a very gentle and indifferent herd of brown cattle.
• The one down into the valley, nestled in beside the ancient village church, is owned by a proper gentleman, a Mr White, who is very welcoming and will allow locals to ignore the official footpaths and simply cut across his land wherever they will; so long as they respect it; a wonderful piece of information which is very slightly tainted by the fact that
  
• his cattle are quite possibly possessed.

Seriously, he has a herd of large, black and white creatures that spend their days aspiring to be the Vicky Pollards of the bovine world. Have you ever seen perambulating beef look like it was loitering with intent? Cross their patch and they will chase you. On the run. Even if you are the gentle, retired lady replete with tweed a-line skirt, who was just nipping to church for a spot of flower arranging.

I no longer feel like quite such an idiot for making a stiff and sudden u-turn in the middle of a meadow, under the gaze of a dozen sleepy cottages and two dozen large and very dissaproving cows.


~~~~~~
One other thing I learned - if you start to import your blog to your facebook notes, posts are uploaded retrospectively, and it goes back an awfully long way.........

NetExperiment - Please Pass It On!

Got this from a friend today:

As you might (or probably don't) know, I have multiple sclerosis and one of the main reasons I am participating in the 30DC is to learn how to make a living from the net so that I can give up my day job that frankly is exhausting and not good for my health.

At the beginning of the year I kicked off the Great NetXperiment to see how long it would take the internet to raise $1 Million for research into the cause, care and cure for multiple sclerosis (care is really important as many teens with MS end up in geriatric nursing homes and that is just UNACCEPTABLE).

But what is in it for you?

The NetXperiment allows you to donate as little as a dollar and get a link from a PR3 web site. Great deal really, very white hat, and is a win-win for you and for Foundation 5 Million (People with MS raising money for MS, and what my charity site donates too)

Thing is, after launching it I three months off work flat on a back with a brain fluid leak and am WAY behind in my goal of getting that $1 Million by December 31st 2007.

But it is still achievable!

Anyway the more money you donate the bigger the link is to your site, so if you want clicks as well as a link then the sky is the limit. You can dominate the site with a fairly modest investment.

Great for if you have other businesses too you want to promote.

Any (non-spam) promotion of the site is REALLY welcome. So blog posts, social bookmarking, web2.0 promo are appreciated :)

Wow.

So.

HERE'S THE LINK

If you could please either blog this or email it to ten friends then we could reach a million people inside a week (whether or not they are too broke or stingy to cough a dollar); so how embarrassing if we didn't.

PASS IT ON!

Oh Huge Oops

I got given one of these, didn't I!



Dinky little thing, isn't it - I think it might have shrunk from neglect over the past six or seven weeks. Oh dear.

I got it from darling Miss Cellania who is normally mindbogglingly smart, but seems to have had a momentary glitch and found me thoughtful.

And I was supposed to do something with it, too, like pass it on.

Hmm.

More to follow, then.

A T-Shirt for BadAunt

No, really, its a T-Shirt, courtesy of Toothpaste for Dinner .com

Great Googly Moogly!

Limbo but dancing

Two kinds of limbo - the one I put this blog (and a lot of my blog friendships) into - sorry; and the one I find myself still in.

The second limbo is important because its a numbness - a divine, protective hand on my soul, or clinical disassociation, you choose. Maybe its just that so much shit has hit the fan that there are no clean bits left to stress about.

What I mean is that I am in a cool state - I am recording facts here and do not want pity. I think I would even resent pity. You may, by all means, say things like "Fucking Hell!" but the first person to say 'aww poor you' completely loses my respect. Deal?

My mum has been in hospital. She is mostly back out again, by which I mean minus a few substantial elements and still seen by nurses twice a day. Lets just say she mentioned a "damn annoying tummy upset I've had ever since Christmas" for around three months, until she was rushed into hospital where it turned out to be burst diverticulitis and ' a litre and a half of pus' as my more sensationalist, 'Roger Ramjet' little brother put it, over the phone, in his best 'deep and earnest' voice.

I think, actually, that a lot of the vocal emphasis was unspoken triumph (or disgust) of the 'our elderly mum is in intensive care and you're not even here' kind. But that could just be my personal angst-of-the-time speaking, so ignore that.

Have I mentioned all this already? Can't tell. Numb. Anyway, by the looks, everyone in our regular little blog circle has a parent who is sick or worse, so mine is just another one. It just means I haven't had the words for them so have kept very quiet when people are in need, and ended up looking either uncaring or disinterested.

So, what else? Lots of boring stuff. Lots. Issues with Son's special needs statement. Issues with Bigson having the screaming ab-dabs and throwing packets of cheese at me through the kitchen door catflap before clearing off - not a call for 6 months. Its OK, his sister is in touch. He lives.

Bigdaughter is planning to move, to where my mum is, so all three generations will be out of my reach except for special trips- mum, daughter, granddaughter.

Lets not even TOUCH the 'how come its not me going' thing. I can't. I've got one kid being educated under a statement of special needs and a husband whose career doesn't move like that. So I am stuck. I know I am stuck because my mother told me I was, before she then decided not to even ask me. Do not push the button marked 'sidelined and overlooked again' - that one has issues attached and they are little buggers. It starts to quiver painfully if you even look at it. I need to drown the wee beasties, I know - root them out and exorcise and mourn them one by one, but that will take time I don't have yet. For now I have to be happy that she is seemingly convinced I have a life and responsibilities, and possibly even importance. Hey ho.

Ok I am figuring you are all safely gone or asleep now, so here comes the brunt.

Seven months of council workmen doing a 'three week job'. Three sink units. Four complete kitchen surfaces. Gutters replaced when they didn't need replacing by badly fitted replacements that leaked and had to be replaced.

Bath replaced by wobbly plastic thing that buckles and is waiting....... to be replaced. Why the one item that could make me feel half human has to wait until everything else is finished, for months and months and months, is so far beyond me I lost the strength to ask. Its funny what you can get used to. I am clean, and probably a lot more flexible than I might have been. I shall go on stage, as the only 'contortionist with large leotard and small pink flannel'. I can see Simon Cowell's face right now. Oh yes, I feel all cheered up.

Back to the list : 'Complete redecoration' which amounted to stripping all my wallpaper off the walls room by room and replacing it with cheap, retail quality paint, involving us breathing polyfilla for weeks because the painters were too tight to splash for plaster, watching three five-week-old kittens dye a slow death due to paint fumes, watching their mother cry and cry for them and eventually dig up the corpses, drag them back indoors and try to lick them back to life. Twice. Finding my best (only) full length wool coat shut in the hinge of the cupboard with a permanent stripe of gloss paint down the sleeve.

Where do you want to go with this - lets go to me shutting up. See, If I'd diarised it here I would have been such a WHINING BORE (case in point,) but for 27 weeks. The truth is, its all okay, which I know sounds weird, but its true. Sure its happening, and I get the occasional frog in the throat, but over all there's something whispering in the background that none of this matters, that its a rollercoaster ride, but one where you get off safely at the end. If someone would have cursed me into this, I'd be praying for them, because, hey; what a lot of energy to exert just to give me a year for the diary. Poor soul - makes me think of that poor squirrel in Ice Age the movie. Bless! Honestly!

So.

To prove I have been blogging of sorts (well emailing from very close to the edge, but shit, same difference), here is my latest offering to the Council contractors who hired the subcontractors who hired the sub-subby "I'm jus' doin' what I was told and I don't know nuffink about that miss" workers who have messed up my home for the fun of it for the last seven months.

Holiday? I need a holiday? I'd settle for a weekend. Indoors, With no boxes and everything working. Yeah, right.

This isn't self pity, girls, honest, but it is empowering. Its like shuffling off the shackles of the 'oh-my-god-you-cant-tell-them-that monster. Hah! Die monster die! Yah, booh, sucks.

*cough*

Dear Mr W

I don't know what it is about you that lets me feel heard, and feel free to express myself in less than formal terms. That's quite a therapeutic release, you know. Have you done counselling training or something? Do they pay you extra danger money for being their bomb-disposal expert/ lightning rod?

Once again, I wish I could do this by dialling out instead of committing to paper, and, in all seriousness, I imagine you wish I could address someone else - someone who is at least officially involved in this mess! Could I please have email addresses for your new boss and for young Mr D?

The point of this email:

I just had to put the phone down on young Mr D, because I began to not feel very well at all. Actually dealing with you helps a lot, because I really don't need to go all Mrs Bucket and start explaining my medical history to new strangers; that makes me feel so pompous and embarrassed.

I did apologise to him at the time, ("oops ever so sorry, have to put the phone down on you now" - bam - kind of apologise) but it all happened quite fast, so if you could repeat that for me, I'd be grateful.

He rang me to say the bath was in stock.

He rang me to say he hears the other workers are all finished here now and everything is lovely. I corrected him.

He rang me to say the bath will be fitted in the first week of September (just when my kids go back to school - didn't I just say I wouldn't get a proper wash until the youngest had started seniors....).

He said it couldn't happen sooner because his fitter was on holiday and he was off on holiday too and well, isn't it just that time of year, everybody's going, we've all got to have a break. He was being very chipper and cheerful, I think he was waiting for me to ask where.

I pointed out that neither I nor my children had had a day away from home since February, not even one in the half terms or end of terms or Bank Holidays or any of it; not even really on a weekend either, because we'd always had builders in, or mess to clear because they'd been in, or workers demanding a room be prepped so they could be in later, or saying they were going to be in and JUST NOT TURNING UP.

I was about to say how many job applications I had on the go that got ruined or lost or buried under 'they'll only be in there five minutes' carrier bags back in February and how pointless it had been to start more with the work still going on ( and on - always going to finish 'in the next few days'), and how we were now SO incredibly broke that the phone is nearly cut off because its a choice between paying that or buying youngest's new school uniform, and that listening to the people who had made my life a smelly, messy, humiliating flaming shambles for SEVEN MONTHS go on about popping off on holiday while I'm stuck in this disaster area with no privacy... well I was about to. But then I guess the beta blockers kicked in and I felt dizzy instead.

Any chance you could get people over 30 to phone me up? That'd be nice; just a teensy bit of dignity. Rhetorical.

So. Big oops. I fluffed, and now I don't know what date he said, and he doesn't know whether I agreed or not.

Can you PLEASE give me the address of the relevant complaints department, or details of the proper complaints procedure, so I know I've done everything possible when the unresolved items end up going further?

Still smiling (only because it beats making oneself feel ill) but in a glazed, odd sort of way...

C

Let's Do It!

God Bless Victoria Wood!

Freda and Barry sat one night,
The sky was clear, the stars were bright,
The wind was soft, the moon was up,
Freda drained her cocoa cup.

She licked her lips, she felt sublime,
She switched off Gardeners' Question Time.
Barry cringed in fear and dread
As Freda grabbed his tie and said….

Let's do it,Let's do it,
Do it while the mood is right
I'm feeling, appealing,
I've really got an appetite.
I'm on fire, with desire,
I could handle half the tenors in a male voice choir.
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight.

But he said:
I can't do it,I can't do it,
I don't believe in too much sex
This fashion, for passion,
Turns us into nervous wrecks
No derision, my decision,
I'd rather watch the Spinners on the television.
I can't do it, I can't do it, tonight.

So she said:
Let's do it, Let's do it,
Do it till our hearts go boom
Go native, creative,
Living in the living room
This folly, is jolly,
Bend me over backwards on me hostess trolley.
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight.


But he said:
I can't do it, I can't do it,
Me ‘eavy breathing days’ve gone
I'm older, feel colder,
It's other things that turn me on,
I'm imploring, i'm boring,
Let me read this catalogue on vinyl flooring.
I can't do it, I can't do it, tonight.

So she said:
Let's do it, Let's do it,
Have a crazy night of love.
I'll strip bare, I'll just wear,
Stilettos and an oven glove.
Don't starve a, girl of a palava,
Dangle from the wardrobe in yer balaclava.
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight.

But he said:
I can't do it, I can't do it,
I know I'd only get it wrong.
Don't angle, for me to dangle,
Me arms have never been that strong.
Stop pouting, stop shouting,
You know I pulled a muscle when I did that grouting.
I can't do it, I can't do it, tonight.

Let's do it, let's do it,
Share a night of wild romance,
Frenetic, poetic,
This could be your last big chance,
To quote Milton, to eat stilton,
To roll in gay abandon on the tufted Wilton.
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight.

I can't do it, I can't do it,
I've got other little jobs on hand,
Don't grouse, around the house,
I've got a busy evening planned.
Stop nagging, I'm flagging,
You know as well as I do that the pipes want lagging.
Can't do it, can't do it, tonight.

Let's do it, let's do it,
While I'm really in the mood
Three cheers, it's years,
Since I caught you even semi-nude
Get drastic, gymnastic,
Wear your baggy Y-fronts with the loose elastic,
but let's do it, let's do it, tonight.


I can't do it, I can't do it,
I must refuse to get undressed.
I feel silly, it's too chilly,
To go without me thermal vest
Don't choose me, don't use me,
Me mother sent a note to say you must excuse me
I can't do it,I can't do it, tonight.

Let's do it, let's do it,
I feel I absolutely must,
I won't exempt you, want to tempt you,
Want to drive you mad with lust
No cautions, just contortions,
Smear an avocado on my lower portions
Let's do it, let's do it tonight.

I can't do it, I can't do it,
Its really not my cup of tea,
I'm harassed, embarrassed,
I wish you hadn't picked on me.
No dramas, give me me pyjamas,
The only girl I'm mad about is Judith Chalmers
I can't do it, I can't do it, tonight.

Let's do it, let's do it,
I really want to run amok
Let's wiggle, lets jiggle,
Let's really make the rafters rock
Be mighty, be flighty,
Come and melt the buttons on me flameproof nightie
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight.

Let's do it, let's do it,
I really want to rant and rave.
Let's go, 'cos I know,
Just how I want you to behave
Not bleakly, not meekly,
Beat me on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly
Let's do it, let's do it, tonight!

Number One Son Goes Mud Wrestling

Number One Son, Bigson the fisherman-come-Casanova, has not been in touch too much recently. For several years I have found that his life tends to 'get in the way' for seven or eight months at a time, so I have long conquered the urge to behave like the joke version of a Jewish mother.

"What, you lost your memory?"
"You broke all your fingers already?"

I'd like to say its always nice to have news of him. I AM immensely proud of him (or at least immensely driven to be proud of him), but somehow when smiling, kindly people mention they have seen or heard of our boy, my instant reaction is a tiny, unseen flinch; exactly the same one I used to get if I even heard the school secretary's voice on the phone.

He's not a bad lad, honestly, its just that his un-mentored entrepreneurial spirit was never rewarded at school. Somehow they never saw the funny side of him setting up shop at the back of the playing fields and selling my dried oregano as 'herb', for example.

I didn't even know he'd been to the Glade Festival this year. I didn't know the ticket had been his pride and joy, nor that the trip went wrong and he and a mate arrived late and drenched from the rain, without any money.

I certainly didn't know that he'd proceeded to have an impromptu mud-wrestling match instead, for eight minutes, against a taller, seemingly bigger-built guy, in nothing but his trousers (whilst the crowed hugged themselves in warm jackets), WON, and got himself posted on youtube.

I do now.

Here's the last minute:



There is a longer video with better sound, that shows the other guy calling for a match. It also shows that this was organised, with referees and rules. There's another eighteen second close-up that shows half of Son's moves are dancing to the music, to wind the other guy up.

Here he is, the numpty.


OK yes, it was all in good fun, he toppled a taller bloke with no grip underfoot and I am BLOODY PROUD - just nobody tell him I know, right? I'd never live it down....

Flipping Typical

According to a survey in Men's Fitness magazine (out tomorrow):

64 per cent of British men are unhappy with their bodies.

Just two per cent think their bodies are perfect.

71 per cent of men believe their partners are unhappy with their bodies.

63 per cent of men wish they could eat less.

One per cent of men think having a good body doesn’t matter.

49 per cent of British men most want a physique like Daniel Craig’s.

33 per cent of British men most want a physique like David Beckham’s.

Right.
It is noticeable that, at least according to those questioned by Wilkinson Sword (who sponsored the survey):

• 7% of men are pretty certain their partners are unhappy with how they look, but don't agree or care.
• Nearly all the men unhappy with their bodies think they are not skinny, plain, or suffering ducks fever, but simply fat.
  
• 35% of men believe that having a good body DOES matter, yet don't feel unhappy with their own physique. In other words, even though only two percent own up to it, seven men out of every twenty think that they are personally hot.

I was going to moan that I had never managed to be involved with a single one of that sort, but I think I am probably pleased. Gah, ye gods, Himbos. Who needs?

Faffing about with Facebook

Facebook doesn't love me, at all.

For two or three days it was letting me in on either of two passwords, but forcing me to sign in all over again to access stuff like my own settings. Just for a giggle, it would then decide both passwords were incorrect, leaving me signed in enough to edit my profile or send emails, but locked out of everything else.

Eventually a very nice, very helpful woman got to my request for help and decided to reset my password. Obviously, it goes without saying, that the Facebook app had JUST settled down and started to behave itself, a day before help arrived. Equally obviously, the new password is a short mix of letters and numbers that mean nothing to me. I don't like writing passwords down any more than I like relying on my Firefox password manager.

But that's OK, right? Because now I have a new password and Facebook is behaving itself, all I have to do is go into my account settings and pick a new one. And she is very nice and helpful and now that I have her attention she answers emails really fast.

Except.

Except now if I click on account settings it boots me back out to the sign-in page. It LETS me sign in (that's an improvement) but only back to my profile page, from whence I must click a link to the account settings page, at which point it boots me out again. And so on and so forth.

Does anyone have any better ideas? I have cleared the cache and cookies every five seconds, it seems, to no avail. I have rebooted the machine. I have even done a little dance of supplication, forced a smile and begged it, please, please, with sugar and a cherry on top, to pull its chubby finger out of its sweaty butt and just fucking function be nice and work for me.

Oh, and just to make everything lovely in the garden, an Aussie newspaper has pointed out that the popularity of facebook and the race to supply add-ons has opened the door for malicious code, and identity theft.

You download an add-on, and you effectively swap outside software for all your personal details, which are then subject to that third party's privacy policy, so you could, technically, buy a computer virus, by handing over the rights to use your details for any purpose. I've been adding on things like the graffiti wall and the Vampire app; all the fun stuff, and I've never even noticed a link to terms & cons or a privacy policy. Oh trollocks.

I am so frickin depressed with it now.

Damn.

(I only signed up because of these guys)

Oh Buggritt!

Yea verily thou mayest mock and abhor me, for I am dust.
I am the worm that turned to come crawling back home.
A wimp.

*cough*

And that's all the whimpering and voluntary submissive do-wotsits that you'll see here. Join the opt-in list at the bottom of this page to see more. Joke.



Yes, after all those demeaning efforts to quit blogging, I appear to be back, like the sanctimonious ex fag smoker who flashed her patches at all and sundry, only to be caught hovering in the darkest corner of the nicotine shed come coffee break. If people shuffle nervously and say nothing for not knowing WHAT to say, then I completely understand. My page rank bottomed out while I was gone anyhow - not enough rude words to keep even misdirected perverts from accidentally landing here, so if all you good guys have also gone elsewhere and I am talking to the wind, I understand that too.

Its you lot - all your fault I'm back(ish). All those compliments, you are so MEAN.

The little school job, you might have guessed, went up the swanny. I sat and watched it float away into the hands, let's be honest, of someone far more suited to the 9 to 5 than I will ever be.

Still, for some bizarre reason the other half has taken a break from growing ulcers on his ulcers (and then sharing them) every time a bank statement comes in. I think that has something to do with accepting that no job search can really be attempted with the kids home for the six week summer break, so I have taken the opportunity to:

a) throw caution and reputation* to the wind and return to blogging, and
b) join the Thirty Day Challenge, during this quiet truce, to see if even I can make an honest buck or two (I could only sleep nights if they were honest) during this delicate hiatus.

(The people at Thirty Day Challenge actually want me to have a blog. I don't think this is what they mean.)


* Re reputation - purlease! I've spent a couple of years slating GPs, builders and County staff, not to mention the number of times I've talked dirty. Sex, slander, swearing and self admonishment = not an employer's dream. Fuck 'em.(**)

** Bloody hell, I knew I only aired the expletives on this blog but I didn't realise what a couple of months abstinence would do to the guilt factor. I feel all brave and liberated and naughty, now. Gosh. *blush*: "Fuck!" Hee-hee.

And there she was; gone.



No honestly, gone.
Except for meebo and twitter and facebook and answers.yahoo and homeworking.com. Look me up if you are on any of those.

The thing about this blog

We all know the secret joy of diary blogging.

When I say that this is me, but at the same time its not, my regular blog friends will understand completely.

I wouldn't wander around naked in the supermarket; that's behaviour for behind closed doors. Similarly I wouldn't swear like a trooper, joke about sex or voice my more strident (if passing) opinions in the physical world - those are intensely liberating delights I've discovered here, that will remain here, in blogdom.

If I already had a job, this wouldn't be an issue. I am just rather concerned that if you combine the right name and geographical info, this blog can be found by anyone looking to find me, and whilst one might not Google one's existing colleagues, a potential newbie is fair game.

Lets just say that most of the content here is NOT what I would use as interview material.

Working from home (as I have done, on and off for a good few years) can, in some cases, be a right royal cop-out, by which I mean that the primary luxury of such an arrangement can also be the main drawback.

See, you get set up, and then someone contracts you (very clearly and specifically) to adopt a responsibility or complete a piece of work.

You get the (clearly defined) work.
You do the work.
You send it back.

Obviously you can have several clients/contractors and there's often some face to face contact in there, then the rather pleasant matter of payment and even warm, positive feedback, but essentially things are decorous, plain, clean, professional. Constantly.

I miss the mess of working for an organisation, of working with, beside, or in spite of the team. I miss other people's bad hair days and I miss being visible during my own. I find I am more creative and more inclined to develop as a person in a less predictable environment.

I miss the whole social melee, not to mention the externally enforced routine that forbids me to 'just do a little bit more' at eleven o'clock at night (the curse of all self-motivated self-employed). There are some cases (and mine is one) where working for oneself isn't particularly fair on the children.

So I am looking for a job. This may take some time as I have very narrow and specific requirements, but that just means its even more important to bury the blog, because every chance counts.

I'll be in here cataloguing my posts, reorganising, and removing incriminating details before deciding whether to download the lot and wipe this site clean, or whether I have made this bland enough to escape a half hearted name search.

In one respect I am lucky - most of my namesakes are either scientists or porn stars. I can see the attraction in both vocations. Its just that none of them live here.

Grief this is going to be hard - blogging is more than an addiction; its a community, a life. Giving up isn't like moving town either - you'll all still be there.

Damn.

Oh, and hugs. xxx

Oh dear, was I shouting?

CILLIT BANG LIME N' GRIME !!!!

IT CLEANS YOUR SINK !!!!

BUT IT WON'T CLEAN YOUR EARS OUT !!!!


By the way their own site says that Barry Scott is a fictional character. Presumably that means there's no disability here and some jerk actually instructed an actor to shout like a fucking moron? Go figure.

Seen Too Much Daytime TV

Unlucky, Donald.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know; but I'm not really here.

You didn't see me, right?

Its just that I have a fly up my nose, literally, and when one's cranial cavities are hard at work decomposing the invading forces, well then, gee, it always helps to share.

So there I was, pottering around just outside the front door, waiting for the workmen to turn up when I turned into the path of something large and black that was heading for the bay tree and/or rosemary bush, directly behind me.

Please, remind me for next time; if a flying insect of any variety should happen to do the whole bastard kamikaze thing, top speed, into one's right nostril, it really, really, REALLY helps not to gasp.

I resisted the urge to squirt water up there after it, for fear of flushing the entire carcass along toward my throat.

Big mistake.

I tried and tried to blow my nose hard enough to shift my unwanted visitor, but he is wedged somewhere above the roof of my mouth, round the corner and out of the draft, so no luck.

So now the builders are here, and I am wandering around, painfully conscious that a battle is going on - my defences are hard at work trying to subdue something with a large exoskeleton, which is probably still very much alive and thrashing about a bit, like Donald Pleasance in Fantastic Voyage.

Every so often I feel the twanging nasal pain normally reserved for those who accidentally sniff up chlorinated water at the swimming baths, then find myself rushing to find somewhere to discretely spit mucous. I had no idea my body contained so much readily available water.

I can't help it, I aim for the sink bowl and not the plug hole, because I simply must have an opportunity (however brief) to establish whether the whole demolition process has begun. I mean, you see those damn winged things land in a bucket or a puddle, and they can survive for hours. Days, maybe.

I feel the need to go spit, again, but shall do so in the full and totally smug knowledge that now I have shared.

Lucky me, lucky you......

Aww

Blog all gone bye-byes.

Bye-bye blog.

Cough Cough

Either smoking or drinking triples your chance of throat cancer.

Ouch. Thats bad enough for me. You?


Funny, now that Gardasil is in the news, with America discussing whether to innoculate all the girls, it suddenly seems that HPV (Human Papillo Virus) has so much more to answer for.

There is now serious discussion about administering the vaccination to males also, although this development has nothing at all to do with recognition of appalling sexism and double standards.

The reason?

It seems that performing oral sex on five partners or more in a lifetime gives you a 250% increased risk of throat cancer.

Analysis also revealed that people who had prior infection with HPV were 32 times as likely to have throat cancer as those with no evidence of ever having the virus, and those who tested positive for a particularly aggressive strain of the virus, called HPV-16, were 58 times more likely to have throat cancer.

Oh lovely. I think someone should tell the UK youth, quick.

SIGN THE PETITION AT www.stopchildexecutions.com.
STOP THE EXECUTION OF MINORS IN IRAN.

Stynx

Love the Lynx body spray/deodorant that Husband brought home today; just for the name.

Its called Pulse.

I guess for some of us old girls, all we need to know is that a man still has one....

Eyes as big as tea plates

That's bigger than the one with eyes as big as saucers, then.



Gosh I'd forgotten this. I am fighting the urge to convert the picture to black and white, to increase the sensation of reclaiming a precious piece of childhood.

During her time at the Fast Show (thirteen years ago!) Arabella Weir, through donning a blonde curly wig and flouncy frock, was responsible for reminding the nation of, to quote her character, "Der singing und der ringing und der pinging-er tree". Give or take a few pingings.

I am still thoroughly ashamed that I forgot that other perpetually recycled 'Tales from Europe' classic, The Tinderbox. Many formative summers were spent rooting for the imprisoned soldier and marvelling at the giant magic dogs, I even read the fairytale several times, yet I still cant remember how it ends.

Happily, I assume, but other than that, (without reading the links!) has anyone got a clue?

Quick(ish) update

Sorry for the recent silence.

Things are still a little crazy here, and becoming busier as we head towards the end of the school year.*

As I sit here I feel my internal organs become preserved for posterity through the gentle but perpetual inhalation of sanded Easyfill, which is dancing in pretty swirls in every room of the house. Oh yes, the painters are back, still battling to create a flat surface on the walls in spite of the original plaster. They may take their dust sheets with them when they go home each night, but the fallout continues to settle well into the wee small hours. Lets just say I have forgotten how to dust or clean in these last two months; most of my books are on the floor, most of my bookcases are being used as message boards with smileys and reminders fingerpainted in their powdery white coating, and the TV lives under a sacrificial duvet cover.

Meanwhile (back at the ranch?):

1. Youngest daughter has spent many moons stretching hamstrings and achilles tendons until she is finally able to walk heel-toe, heel-toe and not like some perpetually wobbly ballerina. All that is left now is the habit, but as she forgets often, this week and next both her ankles are in plaster, from toes to calves like tall, peep-toe ski boots. She chose bright red. Beneath them she wears those clumpy cast shoes held on with Velcro straps, that look very much like blue plastic Geta sandals.
   
   
2. Youngest son has been told that his entire collection of Warhammer paraphernalia has been swiped from a locked room at school, lost from a teacher's care. He hasn't been collecting for too long but this represents hours and hours of painstaking gluing and painting and about 90% of his total Christmas and Birthday presents from the last 12 months. We'd spent about £90, (for lumps of plastic, even the most basic versions do not come cheap) but then he had won bits, made some exchanges and modifications, spent some extra pocket money on top and learned the points, moves, rules etc for each individual item. Son came home feeling that the teacher was shirking responsibility, whilst other kids (he couldn't tell if they meant it or were on a wind-up) volunteered that they saw his box in one classroom, and some of his pieces getting thrown around and binned in another.
   
   
3. Yesterday I met, amongst others, the people from IncludingYou; a Sussex organisation heavily involved in the East Sussex Children's Trust's efforts to show good practice and consult with the families of disabled and SEN kids. Looks like I am going to be on the steering group which will be setting the questions that need to be answered. Or something. This means a great deal to me; I want my name to be mentioned when in 100 years people discuss how we plucked ourselves out of these quietly sectarian dark ages. Unity through Diversity, Man! Quick someone hand me a tie-dye t-shirt. Seriously.
   
   
4. We met in their office and it was wonderful. You know how you walk into some places and you can smell the hierarchy, the politics, like a sweat in the very walls? Not there. I'm telling you, either they were on a major leyline crossing and in some sort of physical vibe vortex (bit Doctor Who, I know) or they are just perfectly balanced as a team. There wasn't even the aura of an old vicarage - I mean I'm not saying the place was ultra healing or peaceful, it was just, well, just right. Like a breath of the cleanest air in a long time. It really really REALLY made me want a job. Not just any job though, something creative and proactive. I was jealous, I guess, and that threw me. People almost had to drag me out of the door at the end, I just wanted to find a corner and stand there with a goofy look on my face.
   
   
5. We applied to do the whole adoption thing - not to foster or adopt but simply to provide weekend respite for somebody else's autistic spectrum child. The phone call was like a dream, the social worker and I seemed to hit it off straight away, I told her some of our history without any gloss and she seemed very enthusiastic, started mentioning that after the training we could do short term fostering as well. It was like I'd finally found my place in this whole jigsaw - it felt wonderful. Then we got to filling in the forms and eventually she asked about bedrooms. It seems that a child must have their own bedroom in your house even if they only come for one weekend a month; that asking your own children to shove up for two nights (like they would for a regular visitor) is unacceptable. There the process stopped. We don't even get to go for assessment or a CRB check until we can come back and say that we have enough space. See here's the rub; we are Council tenants. We could up sticks and exchange properties and we would, at the drop of a hat, if we were certain of being able to help someone at the end of it all. However without the training and assessment we have no idea whether we would be pulling up roots after a ten year stop, all for nothing. Bit of a rug puller that, my backside hit the floor hard. Hic, sob, snivel.
   
   
6. This last point is by no means least - Miss Cellania has been mindbogglingly complimentary to me and granted me a Thinking Blogger Award. No it doesn't mean I think (I think), but that I make her think, which to me is inconceivable, as I could never in a million years come up with half the wonderful facts, news, links et al that pepper every post she creates. The joke, of course, is that this very award has caused me more thought than I have put into blogging for a long time, as now I have to select five people who make me think, to pass the honour on. Well, what can I say? You all do that, so this will take some pondering.

I'll get back to you on that one, once I've dug through snowdrifts of plaster etc to find the post and my to-do list, because I can't concentrate until I know I'm not letting scary bill type deadlines float past me. Or at least I can, and frequently do (its a learned skill, through necessity) but then little warning bells start going off in the back of my head. The back of my head could of course be treating me like Pavlov's dog - that's not unknown, so its a matter of wait and see.

I love being me. (Yes Miss C that's British sarcasm.) ;-)


*EDIT - Gosh! The end of the school year, I forgot. Daughter has her first ever week long school trip away at the end of term, the same one that her brother was excluded from 12 months ago so its a bone of contention. Yes I know, its so hard to draw the line with disability discrimination. On the one hand he was unfairly ostracised for things he couldn't really help, on the other hand I did want him back in one piece and the harsh consequences of not at least faking conformity are a lesson sadly well learned. Anyway on top of all that, Daughter is also in the drama club and is playing King Richard in the school production of Robin Hood, so I have just been advised that I need to rustle up not one but two costumes - kingly robes and priestly ones, as King Rick spends much of his time on stage disguised as a monk. I'll be scouring second hand shops for days, and hand sewing for twice as long. King R even has a 'big reveal' where he rips his hassock off to show his true self - I envisage a sore-fingered future containing lots and lots (and lots) of Velcro; don't you? Oh joy.

This post has no title. I couldn't begin to think of anything appropriate.
I just wanted to say that there is a school bus driver not too far up the road from here whose idea of 'friendly banter' beggars belief. The names he called an eleven year old boy, publicly ostracising him and labelling him as unprotected game, are in another article, here.

What is even more shocking is that this excuse, whether genuine or not, was accepted by his employers and the school. It seems a bit like somebody breaking your leg because they were 'only playing', and then everybody says "Oh, well, thats alright then!"

Friendly banter?

I could think of a few names of my own, and at first I posted them here, but removed them again for fear that somebody somewhere is already feeling incredible guilt over this terrible betrayal.

Anyway I wonder who such names should be addressed to; the driver, or those who failed to provide training, set boundaries, or act to intervene.

There needs to be a change in UK law so that those in loco parentis because of a child's education are more than just cleared by a CRB check. They need to be trained, at least, in the care and protection of children, and, lets face it, basic manners.

I feel sick.

Thought For The Day?

Out of the blue, all matter of fact, whilst eating breakfast with half an eye on the TV news.

'Of course, this is sadly just the first of the Resource Wars'

Trueman White

(Aspie, age 12)

Just Jack

Cheered me right up, this did!

Just Jack "Writer's block"
Uploaded by just-jack

Wonderful!

The BBC are running a series of documentaries next month, called 'Power to the People' and the final one will be about the way that OAPs are ignored or neglected in our society.

Bored already?

Tough, because Alfie Carretta, 90 (front man) and Britain's oldest working man Buster Martin, 100 (he gets the final word) are obviously having a ton of fun, below.

This is going to be SO big. The single comes out on May 21 and all profits go to Age Concern.



More info here.

Vacant Expression

Don't mind my vacant expression, it is simply self preservation, disassociation, and normal service will be resumed as soon as some bastard somewhere decides what normal actually is.

Nine or ten weeks ago I was invaded by Council workmen.

With the short list of works they had to do, the aggravation they expressed at the thought of any delay and the grumblings they made about keeping anything in storage at all, a person would reasonably have expected them to move in en mass, cause total chaos for a week or so and move back out. Pah. They are STILL HERE. Or they would be. If the painter hadn't been sent somewhere else yesterday and called in sick today, and if the electrician wasn't still 'en route'.

They were instructed to change the kitchen and bathroom units, lay new lino in same, replace exterior doors and windows (this is only a bungalow) and paint the rooms. Actually the word they first used was 'redecorate' but then they changed that to just 'paint'.

Not only do I not get replacement for my own hard-purchased wallpaper, but I am to believe I am the luckiest little girl since Red Riding Hood because they've let me choose a few colours. Oh it had to be all pastels from the Dulux whites range, all the homogeneously bland and interchangeable shades that scream 'insipid' as they assault your eyes in a way that suggests Town Hall corridors and sundry creativity vacuums.

You know the type of place. Places to sit quietly with nothing but an old copy of Country Lady magazine or National Geographic, and enough stomach butterflies to repopulate the Amazon. Places where your soul is 'taken for you' as swiftly as your coat with a near imperceptible 'thwrupp' as it is sucked away.

Still I am, they say, blessed. They would have me believe that redecoration almost-under* the Decent Homes scheme not only involves painting everything and discarding the old concept of like for like, but that it usually means covering absolutely every surface in Magnolia. They have also demonstrated that they will paint over every unwashable wallpaper and where possible will peel only the top layer from vinyl ones. They have shown how they plaster over holes in a wall only if it is a bare wall, but if they can get away with leaving the thinnest sheet of old lining paper up then they only have to paint it, irrespective of dips, chunks, lumps and bumps. This hasn't stopped the decoration of a nine-roomed bungalow from taking a month and counting.

How can I put this, without removals, with us living here and the boys painting at most two rooms at a time, there seems to be a lot of 'waiting for the first coat to dry'.

We spent our Easter weekend preparing for the magic-disappearing painters to turn up yesterday, i.e. not taking the kids to the park or other such normal family activities, but stuck indoors, stripping wallpaper. More specifically HE stripped wallpaper all over ever more jumbled piles of whatever happened to be in his way, through one day off, two Bank Holidays and Easter Sunday itself. We took brief respite on the Saturday, I believe, for little joys like shopping. I resorted to writing poetry about how our relationship was beyond repair and used the new shared identity 'Anonymous' over at GOB to publish unnoticed**.

(No, it was one of our far more balanced souls who penned the cathartic confessions of life with a screwdriver, that same weekend. I just stuck to total emotional regression to the age of thirteen - aka expression of angst as bad poetry.)

There is nothing more to say, really. The electrician has arrived and is just politely explaining why half of the jobs are nothing to do with him. This would be because:

• the Council said 'do the electrics' and
  
• his boss came round and decided what electrics needed doing, but
• he missed bits with the defence 'Well if nobody tells you...'
• so he hasn't put in a work docket to get paid for those bits
• so now I have to go back to Ealing Council and reapply for the repair for another decade.

So, all back to normal, then.


* Ealing Council has a huge schedule of works under the Decent Homes scheme. The Decent Homes scheme has rules and regulations, and standards, and clear points of communication. It is protected. These out-of-County works are listed on their website as being part of the Decent Homes Scheme, but I am told by the Complaints Department that they are a special case; i.e. NOT under the scheme, and therefore nobody, not even, it seems, a single soul at Ealing Council itself knows what the bloody rules are or who is supposed to be the buck stop for what. Lovely.

** If you occasionally need to be 'Anonymous', let me know and if I know you well enough I'll give you his/her log-in details.

A stream of consciousness, or just a trickle?

So I'm watching this short video



For about the twentieth time,
consecutively.

And I'm thinking;

"That second time, it makes fourteen twists.
Fourteen folds!
And the first four are double thickness!
That wad is nineteen sheets thick!

You have to know this is some jerk fresh out of his teens,
a college student,
a spotty sponger,
because he sure as hell has never paid for his own loo roll;
Not at the rate HE uses it, anyway."

Oh fuck.
I'm turning into my father.

Just because

Just because my in-laws live out past Romford. Its all the excuse I need.

An Essex girl walks into the local dry cleaners.
She places a garment on the counter.
"I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to pick up my dress" she says.
"Come again?" says the clerk, cupping his ear.
"No" she replies. "This time it's mayonnaise."

Christian Stuff.

Yeah well, its Easter. Suck it up. *hee-hee*

I ended up visiting a Christian friend by accident, yesterday and any who know God will chuckle because the phrases 'Christian' and 'by accident' just don't go in the same sentence.

If you are surrounded by happy clappy types who are faking it til they 'make' it - fixed grins and squeaky choruses with a whole lot of arm waving, whilst simultaneously (and some might say, miraculously) ramming chunks of bible down your throat, then you may not know what I mean at all. Being under bombardment can make observation difficult as well as thoroughly unattractive.

Still, the more ordinary, quiet, grubby and obviously imperfect Christian tends to live life on, ooh, do you know tarot? We live it stuck on the five of pentacles. Yup I was going to insert a picture but you know how to Google.

See, I resent many interpretations of that card that lay it on with a trowel about how poor, disabled and sickly the recipients are, because that's not the point at all, they are simply hoi polloi, the working class, the ordinary, of the masses. They are just in the shit same as the rest of us, really.

To get back on track, its lovely when God or whatever you call his instruments (guardian angel, guide, memory, subconscious etc etc etc) *ahem* its lovely when He drops a thought or a line of a tune into your mental lap. It always casts new light on a current issue or simply resolves it; so you know that when He arranges an unplanned meeting with others in the same boat, that one of you is going to get something out of it, whether for yourself or to pass along.

See, we're not all boastful and full of it and always on self-made pedestals shouting how much God could do for you "if only...", the inference there being that 'he's doing it for me mate, so I'm better than you'. Most of us are so far up to our necks in the crap of daily life that we KNOW god holds the thin thread from heaven that's keeping our mouths above the waterline. None of us feel the urge to stare at him in the hopes that we will be hoisted higher. Most of us cast him grateful glances whilst using the extra support to get on with ploughing through the crud.

I swear.

Fuck, fuckety fuck, fuck. Had you noticed? I love it, its very therapeutic. I also support people no matter whether God gave their heart and their crotch matching genders. Lasciviousness comes in all shapes and sizes and I don't mean that. I mean the underdogs. Don't you dare tell me I am disqualified from Heaven for that; don't you go playing Pharisee on me.

Back to tea with my Christian friend. We hadn't gone to Church, I'd had a blazing row with the other half who was methodically stripping wallpaper even though the room looked like a bombsite before he started and I upped and promised the kids a trip to the beach.
The temperature just had to go and drop three or four degrees in the fifteen minutes we took to walk almost all the way to the sea.

Whose house were we nearest? Who did my son ask to visit?

Yup.

I asked her if she knew the Ship Of Fools, a wonderfully funny Christian site with a 'Signs and Blunders' section and links to lots of really awful stuff you can buy like the bobble headed Jesus and other joyful atrocities. I was going to say that the site is all jest and no edification but now I look again, I have fallen in love with their patron saint, St Simeon, who was in to farting on Holy days, streaking and jigging around with the dancing girls. My kinda guy.

She wasn't aware of the site at all, but countered with high praise for one called Porpoise Diving - so much that I wrote the name on my hand to make sure I didn't forget. Possibly my enthusiasm for a bit of solid enlightenment was what made me feel so crushed when I eventually found the place, because its not what I was looking for.

Here it is.

It might be for you. It is more likely to be for you if you live in America, permanently browbeaten by the Hallelujah - high five - have a great day brigade, if some idiot with a loudspeaker has convinced you that you might be a Christian, but you ain't Christian enough.

Enjoy.

Happy Easter

Compunctious

A dear friend has written a wonderful post entitled 'disambiguation'.

The post inspired me to peel walls, but the title won out by instilling a far stronger urge to go in search of words.

Do not ask how I got from A to B (or from D to S) but I offer you the following:

Skatole

Noun

A white crystalline organic compound, C₉H₉N, having a strong fecal odor, found naturally in feces, beets, and coal tar and used as a fixative in the manufacture of perfume.

Oh lovely.

OK I'm addicted

And that's bad.

My Favourite Not-Recipe

Most people who stop to read this will know I've been forced to make a lot of lifestyle changes recently. I confess I occasionally liked a bit of salad, particularly on a hot sunny day and especially when swamped in Salad Cream.

Its not so easy, however, to make raw green salad seem that attractive when you decide to munch through a ton on a regular basis.

Or it wasn't.

This isn't a recipe in my mind because there is no cooking and none of the ingredients combine to make something new. Its just a combination.

Take - one large bowlful of green leaf salad of your choice (I like a combination of textures and flavours with a few peppery leaves in the mix. If you are saddled with a miserable little iceberg lettuce, then mix in some washed dandelion and nasturtium leaves.

Add - a good twist each of freshly milled: flaky sea salt, chilli seeds, dry garlic granules.

Drizzle - drizzle over with Good Oil. All hemp seed oils are incredibly healthy with a perfect balance of Omega 3, 6 and 9 (provided they haven't been heated up too much), but this brand is so deliciously nutty with such a moreish scent that it ought to be labelled addictive in its own right.

Toss - gently, to combine the crisp with the smooth, the hot with the delicate, the creamy nuttiness with the peppery leaf.

Scarf the lot.

Heaven!

Prom Dresses in Eastbourne

*Ahem* Someone has landed here twice today looking for Prom dresses in Eastbourne. Believe it or not there is a fantastic shop that does prom dresses, pink ball gowns, whatever you want, sleek, sparkly, or the whole meringue look, plus the beady sproingy tiaras and sundry accessories, hidden away in that grotty little 'shopping mall in a big shed' down by Eastbourne train station, just behind the taxi rank.

I forget what its called.

Glad to be of service.

If you kind of know me

... and you haven't done this already,

.... add to my Johari window?

Update - if you read my blog by feedburner, sorry this post keeps updating. I'm just renewing the data every time I see someone new has played along, because it means loads!

Arena (known to self and others) adaptable, complex, independent, self-conscious	Blind Spot (known only to others) able, accepting, bold, brave, caring, clever, confident, energetic, friendly, helpful, idealistic, ingenious, intelligent, kind, knowledgeable, loving, mature, modest, nervous, observant, patient, powerful, reflective, searching, self-assertive, sensible, silly, spontaneous, sympathetic, tense, trustworthy, warm, wise, witty
Façade (known only to self) logical, sentimental	Unknown (known to nobody) calm, cheerful, dependable, dignified, extroverted, giving, happy, introverted, organised, proud, quiet, relaxed, religious, responsive, shy

Dominant Traits

71% of people think that mad baggage is intelligent

All Percentages

able (23%) accepting (4%) adaptable (9%) bold (14%) brave (19%) calm (0%) caring (28%) cheerful (0%) clever (28%) complex (38%) confident (4%) dependable (0%) dignified (0%) energetic (4%) extroverted (0%) friendly (19%) giving (0%) happy (0%) helpful (9%) idealistic (9%) independent (28%) ingenious (4%) intelligent (71%) introverted (0%) kind (23%) knowledgeable (14%) logical (0%) loving (14%) mature (4%) modest (4%) nervous (4%) observant (19%) organised (0%) patient (4%) powerful (9%) proud (0%) quiet (0%) reflective (4%) relaxed (0%) religious (0%) responsive (0%) searching (19%) self-assertive (4%) self-conscious (4%) sensible (4%) sentimental (0%) shy (0%) silly (9%) spontaneous (14%) sympathetic (19%) tense (4%) trustworthy (14%) warm (14%) wise (19%) witty (42%)

Created by the Interactive Johari Window on 29.3.2007, using data from 21 respondents.
You can make your own Johari Window, or view mad baggage's full data.

Naughty Doris went twice! Umm,... is complex a good thing? How bizarre. No, I am not opening a Nohari - not in public, anyway. ;-)

Sunday Meme

Stolen from Wulfie

1. Can you cook?
Yes and a lot better than my husband. For a start I read the instructions before we get to burnt offering stage and I do not subscribe to the theory that if herbs bring out the flavour, then a pinch can always be replaced with a packet. He gets to do the cooking because its all the housework he'll do, so I've learned to tolerate it on principle.

2. What was your dream growing up?
Which one? In infant school I wanted to be a Fairy. At some point I wanted to just be famous for singing or dancing or the like. When the hormones kicked in I think Sunday afternoon black and white movies and musicals had far too much to answer for.

3. What talent do you wish you had?
Enthusiasm. That's a talent, trust me.

4. Favorite place?
No idea.

5. Favorite vegetable?
Baby spinach

6. What was the last book you read
Am in the middle of Freaks, Geeks and Asperger Syndrome.

7. What zodiac sign are you?
Aquarius

8. Any Tattoos and/or Piercings?
Nope. Never found a design I knew I'd like for the rest of my life. I accept my fickle nature and hate to be tied down to one style.

9. Worst Habit?
Honesty without the cotton wool

10. Do you personally know anybody on Blog?
Met one for a single coffee once, married one (but that doesnt count because he caught the blogging bug from me after the fact), plus one old friend who came to our wedding now blogs, too.

11. What is your favorite sport?
Sarcasm

12. Negative or Optimistic attitude?
Negatively Optimistic. I have to convince myself its all going to go tits up and face the worst case scenario. Then I skip along like Annie from the movie, being nauseatingly cheerful about everything because I know I can cope. Strangely this REALLY pisses some people off. They like to hope for the best in a simpering sort of a way and then huddle in a corner in mutually consolation when it all goes to hell, because nobody has a contingency plan and shit, isnt life just there so you can bat your eyelids inneffectually and hug people.

13. What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator lift with someone of the opposite sex?
Depends who.

14. Worst thing to ever happen to you?
Oooer.

15. Tell me one weird fact about you:
Shit, its all weird, or so I'm told.

16. Do you have any pets?
2 Cats, 3 Kittens, 4 Guinea Pigs and 2 Rats

17. Do you know how to do the macarena?
No, thank God. Nor do I have any white stilletos or a taste for Pina Colada or Bacardi.

18. Is the sun shining where you are now?
Yep a lovely spring day

19. Do you think clowns are cute or scary?
Never seen one except on the telly on Christmas afternoon, when I traditionally thought they were pathetic and boring.

20. If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?
waistline

21. Would you be my good angel or bad angel?
Who are you and how annoying can you be?

22. What color eyes do you have?
Brown

23. Ever been arrested?
No.

24. Bottle or Draft?
Draft, but only in a good pub where the draft isnt all freezing bloody cold and the better stuff like Old Speckled Hen or Bishop's Finger hasn't been rattled down the stairs and turned to sulphur.

25. If you won £10,000 today, what would you do with it?
Last time I got ten grand I paid off my husbands debts which, of course, left such a hole in his life that he replaced them. This time I think I'd just fuck off up the road to Brighton and party until I was bored.

26. What kind of bubble gum do you prefer to chew?
I dislike bubble gum and those that chew it. Its the whole Willy Wonka issue.

27. What's your favorite bar to hang at?
Monkey?

28. Do you believe in ghosts?
Not too much choice there

29. Favorite thing to do in your spare time?
procrastinate

30. Do you swear a lot?
Bollocks do I

31. Biggest pet peeve?
Finding things the husband has screwed up small and stuffed into pint glasses or corners in the bookcase.

32. In one word, how would you describe yourself?
Dangerous

Your turn! Comment here so I can come see. :-)