Annual leave.

Unless you have anything specific to do, you end up just doing a few jobs around the house and the weekly shop. Or in my case, just the weekly shop as I'm not allowed to help out around the house due to my pregnancy induced disability that renders me incapable.

But my goodness.

I. Am. Bored.

Ideally, we could have flown away somewhere or visited a far off European land by eurostar. But from 1st September, my money goes down to zilch and maternity kicks in so we're watching the pennies, so I may just do my Christmas shop in the next couple of weeks online. And when you think about how close it is now to crimbo, it makes you stop and think that this year has really flown by.

It seems only a couple of weeks ago that we took the parenthood test and the words "bollocks" echoed around the home, mainly as quite a bit of alcohol had been imbibed in the weeks before. And I'm quite sure if I tried, I could still squeeze into my jeans around the baby bump whilst my now even more so impressive cleavage could be rammed into some of my rather low cut tops for the full ability to take someone's eye out as I walk on by.

However we're now nearing the home stretch. Baby bump will be arriving soon and if we're really lucky, we may get to see if it's a boy, girl or merely confused sometime later today as I am once again scanned due to muggin's being in breach. Not that I mind the scan but I do have an overt fear of hospitals, hence the screaming big letters on the birth plan tells them to get me out of there asap. Which may not happen if baby still refused to turn. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down, and they have done everything shy of using a cattle prod to try and turn the bump to no avail, hence today and meeting with the consultant to chat about being too posh to push and tummy tucks as baby may be taken out of the sun roof. I do hope the consultant is hunky. Fear of all things surgical is always appeased by a little eye candy which is how I bi-annually justify my drool to Girlpants at the young trainee dentists.

Now that the wall of Alcratraz has been errected, the house has fallen quiet once more. No more anti-social brats popping over, maybe because we've stuffed every nook and cravice under our neighbours fences with dry holly an then back it up with a wall of breezeblocks. Or maybe because we've had more rainfall in the past 5 days than the past three months, but I would prefer to think the former...

As I'm currently suffering with cankles, as mini-hd grows and manages to lodge limbs behind hip bones and ribs at in opportune moments, the rain has come as some sort of solace, although the heat build up makes it worse. And me tetchy. Maybe it's the heat or the fact that my body has finally given into withdrawal symptons at the lack of my favourite tipples, or worse even the realisation that we're shortly going to be parents and that I have the almightly feeling that we're not at all prepared for it.

That and I have no job to go back to.

The lack of job worries me somewhat in so much money, but the fact that possibly for the next year or so, I may be out of work which just leaves me mini-hd and facing the dire possibility that I could very readily turn into mumsy Sim. This probably in some aspect, is re-inforced by the lack of choice in maternity wear you can buy in the Mouth of Ply and how those sack cothes make me look, as someone in work has commented for the last 7 weeks how utterly huge I look. Cue Sim, stage left, running out of the room, faking a crying fit whilst sobbing that I was no longer attractive. Cue colleague extracting size 12's from mouth under the glare of the ladies that share their office, never daring to mention a women's weight again.

So whilst I am admittedly getting technically bigger and I only have 8 working days left, I can at least say that my evil sense of humour is still at the forefront. Adding to this, Girlpants has tried to solace me with the fact that we can teach the child lies.

I suppose there is some hope after all

Booting up my old Toshiba laptop on Friday with a view to blog resulted in the machine being shut down all too quickly. The grinding of the fan trying to move with many groans and squeals that made it sound like the hard drive was trying to rip itself out of it's shell quickly informed me that all was not well.

I think that the laptop may be on its way out. In fact, I'm pretty sure of it. It's not so much the howling noises that this machine emits but rather the automatic shutdowns and fatal errors that are pointing me in the rebuild direction. Taking it all apart and giving it all a good hoover didn't really help last night so now I am consigned to using Girlpants PC for access to the digital highway, which is a chore unto itself as it took over an hour to give his laptop access to edit this site. However the threat of going once more into the internet desert has already filled me with dread, so with the aim of keeping the laptop on it's feet mean only using it sporadically until it can be sent to the laptop doctor (Girlpants) and even worse, may mean that he won't be able to look at it for some time as we've just discovered that the roof is leaking. It's only Sunday and I'm already getting that feeling that it just may be a very long week.

It's really not a good idea not to sleep at all the night before an interview. Not just any old interview. The interview for my job that I currently fill. My own job. And the tossing and turning in the night, finally getting off to sleep then realising via pain-metre that your left arm which wass frozen into place by cramp and cold didn't help for a peaceful nights sleep. This is mainly because my subconscious was kicking in as working at the university means that everything has to be done by the book, including vacancies. I had to reapply for the job which I've been fulfilling for the last four months. Slightly perturbed? Worried? More along the lines of bricking it. Cold sweats, shivers and sudden chills plagued my nights sleep and finally working morning until I was invited into the interview room.

The thing is, I need this job. I need it to pay for my Masters and to help out with the new house. There's little niggling things to do like tiling floors, building kitchens and paying for a new roof and damp proof course as the survey didn't pick it up. Girlpants, despite my playful mocking of him, is working hard on either on his job or in the home, so we need two incomes to make this work. And there was absolutely no guarentee that I would get it.

After much gnawing of nails, I had a formal interview in front of a panel of three and a skill test for 30 minutes scheduled for the morn. Not a huge chunk out of the day but with my nerves kicking in as I die at interviews kicking in and despite working most of the morning, my work was a blur. Apparently I got a lot of stuff on my things to do list done to ease the nerves but like wedding day jitters, I can't really remember the morning itself. As for the the moment itself, all I can recall is a plastic cup of water next to me as I tried to answer the questions directed at me.

As the heroine of this blog, of course, I got the job. Yay me!! I must admit that I didn't really expect to as despite working with people I really get on with for the last four months, I knew that they would have to choose the best person for the post which lets face it, may not have been lil'old moi. I've never been one to count chickens, so the wave of relief could have been surfed on in a Point Break situ with Keanu in a rather tight fitting wet suit, which meant that my day could only be surpassed by Johnny Depp standing next to him.

Mmmmmm - Johnny Depp.

So that was was my major high plus note. On a bad note part one however, Girlpants is on a jolly tonight so I have celebrate alone on pizza with cats on delux food (tuna). On even worse bad part two, my low self esteem promised myself to get me fit if I did get the post which bugger me means that the pain will work me from all sides as by my own argument means that I'm on a fitness drive.

Does this mean however that walking to work counts in lieu of gym?

After a weary day at work, Girlpants offered to pick his wifey up from town and drive her home. Which worked rather well for me as I've managed to strain the tendons in both feet again - a reoccurring injury since bouncing up and down to music in a random Cornish field in Doc Martins.

However I knew the lift would come with a sting and for me, it was to pick up a new toy for him. For he had spotted an industrial fan capable of gale force winds which would mean he would be able to waft the wonderful aromas that he planned to conjure from his brand spanking new, size of a small football pitch BBQ. And I had to trapse across town to pick one up.

Girlpants loves his gadgets. There's nothing like opening up a new box and putting a new shiny gadget toy together. Needless to say, there's always a screw or bolt missing but then he bimbles down to his workshop and delves into trays and trays of ikea flat pack cast-offs. But gadgets come in boxes - and boxes also interest the cats and as we had churlishly not unpacked all of the boxes around them, our two furballs were loving the packaging carnage that Girlpants had strewn around him. And whilst jumping in and out of the box, they ignored the fact that Girlpants had returned and was about to switch the new fan on. Full blast. As they ran straight infront it.

Whilst Custard cat with her slight frame quickly got the message and hid under the sofa as the wind was back combing her hair, Rhubarb's weight kept her pinned to the ground whilst she attempted to walk forward, blinking rather rapidly in the wind. And whilst I had never seen a cat moonwook before tonight, the fat cat did me proud.
And the moonwalk looks far far superior with four paws.

So that was the bulk of the move. Half a dozen trips and a couple more in the making and we may just be there. Meanwhile, the cats are traumatised and pissing every other hour in the bathtub but then we comfort ourselves in the knowledge that at the very least they know where the little girls’ room is.

There was, as all and any moves, casualties of war. I'm afraid that I must report that there were huge chasms carved into the front living room floor as metal wheels were accidentally dragged across them (Girlpants). There were also substantial dings in the dining table as it was upturned on the new floor without slipping on its protective sleeve (moi), whilst the walls took a substantial whack from the wardrobe (male types). I must also announce the demise of the washing machine. Girlpants was devastated as he's the one who has joy of the laundry run in the house, but alack alas, there was no way it was making a recovery after bouncing off the trolley onto the pavement, rolling over it's front onto it's back, waving it's glass door in the air in it's final death throws. On the plus side pour moi, it was on its way out, so it wasn't so much in that I've lost a washing machine but that I have a huge new home and got to go shopping. I gained much delight in walking into a national electrical chain commenting on how silver is the new white and whether it had a matching dryer in the same hue.

Gets the male molars grinding everytime...

And in the back of my mind is the fact that the old house still stands albeit alone without the cats dashing through the door and without a sold sign emblazoned across it, so we've face the fact that maybe it's time to start looking at rentals.

 But whilst being nostalgic about the old, to the rest of us, the new house is big, shiny and spanking new. The ground floor has stripped floorboards which enables anyone in the cellar or dungeon as the rugrats tend to call it, to overhear anything said upstairs, which basically means that should I wish to gossip without Girlpants eavesdropping, then I should scallyarse back upstairs. Saying that however, the only thing he would have heard this last week were the gnashing of my teeth as the withdrawal from the net and blogs kicked in with enormous hot and cold sweats. Two weeks without the ability to browse post or even email at my own leisure. Girlpants has dealt with his withdrawal in his own way - he went out with his manbag satchel and shopped. And once I can find the connector for the camera in box of leads in the midst of this carnage, I'll might even be able to show you what he came home with...

So the move has started and my feet burn and ache. Which is amazing as I was only lifting things as opposed to running a marathon. However, as part of the move, I'll now be offline from anything up to two weeks, which will suit Girlpants to the ground as he may just get more attention. But given the state of the new house as we left it tonight, it may not be the type of attention he either craves or probably deserves, as floorboards are cracked, wiring needs to be redone and I could distinctly see sunlight though the slates in the loft.

Meanwhile, the tropical fish have appeared to have survived the move initally but there may be changes when we go back in the morning. There are more big things to transport in the morning and there is yet another tank to move, plus two feisty fat cats who will in doubt start riots in the avenue before the month is out. A marvellous way in which to meet the neighbours, as I discovered as Girlpants attempted a maneovour in a tail lift truck and promptly causing tail backs in both directions as he became wedged in our drive, the neighbours brand new car and the pillar between properties.

On a different note, was I the only one who found the BBC testcard clown doll sinister??

We now have a moving date so are in the process of packing up gité de la haskell-dowland and are on our way to the manor house. Not that we could afford a manor house what with British prices for the south-west, however it's bigger and older than our current home so my ideas of grandeur are kicking in with great effect. Smoking jackets and decanted port are at the ready, however whilst I like the idea of the new house, I hate the notion of packing!

Just how many books can you accumulate in just three years? I have an inkling of an idea now so am now rethinking the idea of building up a library in the annex study. Don't even start on the question of clothes as I will have the proverbial field day about a womans right to choose, which would explain why men take a small overnight bag for a weekend, whilst a lady is armed with a suitcase, half a dozen change of clothes and four pairs of shoes. Whilst a mans right is his castle, a lady has her wardrobe which would be protected at all costs with kitchen implements at the ready.

Packing up the house has made me realise just how much stuff we have. PC's, gadgets, glasses etc. It makes me wonder if we're the only household in Britain with five big boxes of dvd's packed up and counting?? Some still have their wrappers on and the amount of dried food I've found that expired months ago makes me wince at the waste as I cook and mash it up for the local birds.

The harshest thing about moving is missing certain things. Like sky, or tiVo, which Girlpants is threatening to leave behind a couple of weeks or even broadband which is going to be difficult to port. With addiction to email and the internet is now a recognised psychological condition, I am not looking forward to the notion of being consigned to the internet wilderness for two weeks. Purgatory doth live in devon, and it may just make me pull my hair out.

For the last few years, I've been growling under my breath at old historical buildings in my city being torn down for new developments. Plymouth is a very old port which has the Mayflower Steps, the Royal Citadel and the old Elizabethan Barbican and I really do belive that you should keep and maintain historical buildings and try to maintain some air of Olde England about. Especially as the oldest part of Plymouth, the Barbican, is now the place to go for a subway, coffee or for drinks on a night out.

Admittedly, my homecity was bombed severally during WWII - second worst to London apparently, so a lot of the old city which American visitors now come to see in homage to the Pilgrim Fathers has now gone. Post-war, there were a number of quick builds which didn't really have any thought put into it's architecture, but they did make brutal statements to observers, including the local civic centre, which now the council wants to pull down and gave the go ahead for demolition last week.

Only now they can't.
As offficially English Heritage has granted this building Grade II status, which made me chortle so hard when I read this first thing in the day, that I fell off the bed.

And before you ask I swear on all I hold dear, that I didn't petition the English Heritage...
But I wish I did now! Not for the extra tax - just for the laugh!

Sim - Happy fathers day dad - what could be the best gift you could wish for?

Father - A grandchild!

Sim - Nuh Narrrhh! Try again.

Father - For someone other than a pip squeak with pipes* to win Britains Got Talent

It's only been on a for a single solitary week, but this reality tv, hailing back to ye olde 80's variety telly, has been uber addictive. I'm loving it as much as Big Brother 8 (although admittedly I have been in mourning since Lesley left). However, the judges inability to see past tiny feet and tiny people and go for the cliche did get on the proverbial t*ts. So tonight, I have been laughing my socks off whilst watching the live final and thinking of my fathers wish. And okay - so it only took several dozen (rather expensive) phone calls to clinche it - but I think I did. And I did it for him. My dad.
That and my sanity as Bessie made my teeth ache...

Roll on the American series!

* I should mentioned that if a grand-rugrat decides to go for next years show, my father reserves the right to support aforementioned rugrat to the end. And slap any one who insults the rugrat with a cold wet haddock.

Double standards? Never...!!?!

Professor Lovely was back in town this week, and greeted me with the usual big hug, snog, and a friendly pat on the bum which he followed up with complimenting me on the weight loss (mental note of a plus point), however, he did note that as I have lost weight, I was no longer as attractive (deduct five). I had lost my pleasantly plump sexual mojo.

There haven't been any diets as I really can't be arsed witht he starving of myself into a skinny mini for appearances sake. I did however stop the crisps, but then the chocolate have came out in force and I now have a small choccy hoard on my desk which is shared in the office. But then, there has been no difference in my life, bar the loss in working days - only the number of stairs I have to run up and down each day. So all I can see is I haven't lost weight - I just shovelled it into a new form, from cellulite to muscle. The clothes no longer fit as well as they previously did, but the bras still bust out, so no hope for back relief whilst jogging there then. But I didn't think that running up and down stairs had made that much of a difference. And thinking about it in that way, he was in a way giving a backhanded compliment.

Up until he told me to eat more as he preferred an ample arse.

With this in mind, I beemed the next day as an old friend greeted me by saying I looked so well and healthy. Then cringed as she rubbed my belly in farewell.

After the experiences from over two years ago, you'd wonder why we would want to foray back into the world of house selling.

But we were back in the saddle when we saw this:

With a 80ft garden and a bathroom to die for, how could we resist?

So now I've been scrubbing, cleaning, decluttering and painting - all to shift the second mortgage so we can move into the family sized home. There - I've said it. Not that I'm with bump or anything silly like that - how could the world possibly cope with a sudden decline in the gin market?? The economy would slump! So no - for the greater good, no little feet expected soon around the place as apparently we're only moving as I have too many clothes and the cats take up too much space on the bed. So now they get a bedroom each. And in return, I get a spanking new humongous solid oak dining table.

The chairs however, cost extra :(

The problem with a head cold, besides getting rid of the bugger, is the inability to breathe. You can't talk, sleep, smell nor taste properly. Not usually a problem but Girlpants was away in Wales and I was at home, first day off and on cat duties. And my biggest problem was the inability to taste or smell.

So imagine how my lovely meal of fish cakes and salad looked - it was alas all cardboard to me - but away I munched, followed closely by a cup of tea. And then it happened - an hour later and the stomach convulsions started. There was a rumble in the jungle and it wasn't a prize match - I so lost!

12 hours later, I felt a bit better. There was a complete lack of sleep but at leaat there was nothing in the belly to make me feel worse. So that goober in the corner making another cuppa in the morning to settle the tum would be me - after all, you wouldn't be a Brit without a cuppa in the morning. And an hour later, the convulsions started up. Again. Another 12hour vom-fest that took up the day, that the cats enjoyed as they sat on me, and meant that all my careful "make the most of my day off" plans went pissing in the wind. The moral of the story is, if you can't smell nor taste, check the date on the milk before you pop a tetleys in the cup.

But on a plus side, at least I lost a eikle bit of weight...

We spent the bank holiday weekend in Nedwcastle, going up on a surprise birthday visit to Girlpants mammy. We do have some photos, but they'll have to be scanned in due course. Shopping, catching up, eating and cocktails were all on the menu with no hangovers but blisters on ankles from walking in the Dene in new shoes as Girlpants told me not to pack as much as I would usually, meaning the back up wardrobe for the cold was left at home so the Devon lass froze her tits off up North.

But amazingly, no fish passed on to the big bowl in the sky and the cats didn't hate us on our return. Usually they piss in the slippers, sniff in our general direction or even leave little parcels of furballs around under the table, on the laptops or on the beds to surprise us. Yet this time, naddah.
It must be the promise of tuna.

Apologies for the absence, but so much gossip, but so little time before bed.

Lets see - there's been cosmos, nights out, makeup slapped on, christenings, bets lost, jobs ending, possible jobs starting, choccies, dinners out without the hosts (but they still paid! ;o) ), family, sick cats (again), exercise, meeting the dentists and and shopping for the most expensive thing ever.

Thats right. Slightly scared Sim. First Time Homeowner. Offer accepted as of 1500 hours today.

You know, I think I may just need a stiff whisky to face the reality of mortgages, wills and finally being a grown up...

Mike at Troubled Diva is compiling a book of funny blog entries and I've decided to pimp the blog for charity and go for it.

Any guesses on what I've put forward??

UPDATE

Okay - so I didn't get in the book. Some of the other kiddies in my blog playground did - Yaxlich, Zoe, Chase me ladies amongst others. Bloody well done - am not at all green with envy...

So the book is out and you can go buy it now! Go on - put your hand in your pockets and support charity and bloggers who entertain you.

Whilst I was tucking into a rather large roast dinner tonight, Louise Rednapp illustrated the dangers of becoming a size zero by becoming one herself. And therefore proving all the reasons why it's not a good thing. The headaches, emotional rollercoasters, loss of boobs and bum, unable to play with her son, work or even sleep properly.

Just to look like this:

Banana's right. Am now off to eat some cake. Chocolate cake. With 32 candles on the top.

Happy Birthday to curvacious me. Boobs and all.

in the numerous attempts to open a bottle of wine with plastic cork
....without a corkscrew.

1. Try the old tried and tested pushing the cork into the bottle with makle thumb. Make a grown man cry.
2. Attempt the sharp knife routine - end up slicing a tiny amount of plastic out of the cork but still no nectar joy.
Host delves into cardboard boxes and drawers to find the elusive opening implement.
3. Use the drill bit blunt endy bit and a claw hammer to try and pop the cork into the bottle, Fail again.
4. Hosts tries to smash open the top of the bottle with a hammer, saying you could sieve out the glass. Guests restrain him.
5. In the age old style of Bernard of Black Books, place the drill bit into the chuck and attempt to drill the cork out in a sauve manner.
But the bit just doesn't bite into the cork and fails. Again. And yes. It was my idea.
6. Host goes out to the local happy shopper to try and buy a corkscrew.
Meanwhile, Sim breaks out ye olde screw and claw hammer routine. With the screw refusing to bite. Again.
7. With the Happy Shopper only selling screw caps for the local chavs, break out the tea bags.

After a manic week, it's been topped by a wonderful evening alone on the sofa avec laptop. Girlpants had an evening meeting he couldn't wriggle out of, so I've been surfing fellow blogs and generally enjoying myself. The joy of an evening alone on the sofa with sole control of the remote, polished off by his walking through the door with a couple of bottles of red quickly whipping together up some pancakes with maple syrup.

However, it was such a quiet and blissful night that you just knew it was going to go tits up. And mine was chatting to Girlpants over perfect pancakes smoothered in the sap of trees about Lent and what from my childhood it entailed. And the giving up of sweets for character building and what it would entail in adult terms.

So that would be me off the gin for six entire weeks. I don't give it much of a chance but I will try - wish me luck as I do expect to be rather grumpy over the next week or so. Roll on the smoothies! Meanwhile, Girlpants is still umming and ahhing over his. Chocolate is out of the question, as is crisps and tea. He has kindly offered to give up cabbage, sprouts or vodka but as he never partakes in any, it sort of defeats the notion. So he has instructed me to come up with something for him by tomorrow morning.

Silly silly boy.

However, things are as frantic as a mad thing as I grapple with work and the disasterious week from hell. I will post, as soon as I have a moment to catch my breath...

Am so sorry I've been gone for a while, but you know what I always say.... My name is Sim and I am an addict to reality tv. Sad I know. But I love it.

But yes, damn that typo below - did I really type w$nker? Zoe summed it up far far better than I. Sad poor lonely Hellen Man. But then again, he is named like a girl.

My inability to post within a week has been due to the fact that I was absolutely fuming at the bullying on CBB - Pat has posted on this one, but she is more eloquent and dignified in her manner on posting on the subject than what I may have ever been. But then again, I do imagine Pat with perfect hair, perfect dress and dignified beyond belief. She is in fact a lady, and quite probably gardens in her tiara. And if anyone is visiting her via the random button blogger button, she's on the right favourite blogs menu - please go visit and tell her how lovely she is.

And whilst you're browsing, don't forget to visit Zoe at the same time for being one of the wittiest women I know and love. And buy from her shop. Fab things! And I still have to send her proper cheese but I'm a tad afraid that it may get blown away with the gale force winds...

But yes - CBB. The bullying on that programme was disgraceful - Jade "alleged lyposuction" keep fit queen and her coven were an absoltuely disgrace and on some nights I found myself fuming at how angry I was at it all. Which is a new for me. Keeping myself awake by being mad at myself. But isn't it a shame how we are now on the international scene for all the wrong reasons.

Meanwhile, I note that Keith has moved again - now sir! Have you got that fed up of beta-blogger already? Mind it does sound like medication.

And Pidge. Look up sweetie. On the right - you are so linked already! ;)

Even above Chris Moyles. You know you love it, you dirty boy you...

So the sales have begun. I didn't think much of them actually - there was nothing there that I really wanted, but off we trotted because you never know. All I came home with was a new wok, mainly because one of our frying pans had been murdered despite the life time guarentee.

Girlpants, in true boys style got a new toy. A rather big one. If anybody would like an old widescreen television, then there's one going as there's a new landmark in the lounge.

And if I could fit it into an actual picture, I'd post it but the new toy plasma is gi-normous. But at least Girlpants is happy. And now his dad is down, it means that it will be a horror movie marathon until the new year. I'll be the one hiding behind the sofa then...

Twelve days before Christmas? Where did that one come from?? This date traditionally means that my deccies should be up tomorrow, that most of the presents should be wrapped under the tree, cards sent off and Girlpants should be presenting me with a dead bird on a twig of a pear tree with no leaves or fruit due to the time of year.

So much with being prepared. Admittedly, there is a duck defrosting on the side for festivties as an alternative to the partirdge, but that's to treat The Aussie tomorrow and besides, partridge tends to smell like a cats bum. But in addition to the busy working lifestyle I now lead, I'm now in a wild panic about how the puddings haven't been made, shopping has fallen by the wayside and cards are in a heap on the table. I sense a couple of late nights of baking, writing and online shopping ahead, which in all honesty, may just fall further and further behind as I delve into a cabernet to dull the panic and pain.

Apparently there's been thunderstorms and torrential rain over the west country this weekend. Not that I really noticed - I was either a) too shattered b) too busy or c) to tiddly to notice. I even ignored the hailstones that were raining down on Saturday afternoon as I and Talkative Sis's rugrats played buidling castles and kicking them down.

So imagine my surprise when walking into work and unlocking the office door today to find it all in shambles. And a window missing. There was a splinter of wood, holding on for dear life and scrape marks down the roof where no doubt the window had made it's flight for freedom, which had ended in the courtyard garden, smashed on the ground. The wind had blown all of the confidential student papers around the room, and the rain had smeared all the inked signatures. And then it started. The sneezing as we waited for two hours for some little handyman to come along and fix it. In the end, three little handymen turned up, and whilst I chased my tissue box around the room, I wondered how many it took for them to change a light bulb?

Darhlings! Tonight I went to an awards ceremony where one of the guests of honour was little old moi. Not that I haven't won anything before - I do remember that I did win the egg and spoon race in class three at primary, mainly because mother kept the handwritten certificate written by the unpaid class assistant. But tonight, I was one of 34 stars who had excelled in our disciplines, nominated for prizes. But this time, it was a potential money prize!! Either that, or a certificate, and a possible book voucher.

So, being the slut for money that I am, I glammed it up in my glad rags (this time not so revealing due to the cunning use of tit tape and safety pins), eyeballs in and make up on, ready for the moment. Only to find I was nervous, and therefore kept reaching for the wine glass. And for good reason... Father was there with the camcorder ready to record, only to zoom in the wrong direction and aim towards the classical eastern Europeans pianist's arse, whilst mother fluffed her hair and avoided the wine, staying on the orange juice just to keep an eagle-eye on father. And I noted that everyone around me was dressed in suits - even Girlpants looked fine in his suit in the corner, whilst I was shooed away by marketing for a cliché group cleavage shot, surrounded by young slim girls in skinny dresses and everyone else in trouser and dress suits. Thank God the tit tape kept sticky as I had to walk a long gauntlet with my two grasping hands outreaching for those two silver envelopes. And as one held a very healthy cheque, I contemplated how I shall be pottering to the bank and then round the shops tomorrow, as I finished my fourth glass of wine of the evening. Hurrah!

So the marriage is done and dusted. The one reason we came over here - not at all for the sun shine or the week away. No siree! The bride looked stick thin and beautiful and the groom dashing - bar the damned silly tattoo that he had carved into his right upper arm and looked like it was making it's way down to his hand. But they did make a beautiful couple. A completely shagged couple as the drunk carusings from the night before had made it's mark.

Especially on the head of the mother of the bride, who had inadvertantly created a bump there the night before. For some reason, hardly anyone drank much on the wedding day, despite the fact that it was free.

Photos coming soon - as soon as I have photoshopped myself into a size twelve.

He's only gone and done it. My little Girlpants has grown into the man he is today - complete with hangover. The Gregorian dirges coming from the bathroom as he suffered symptons far far worse than man flu made me feel for the poor boy, as he rolled around in discomfort, unable to get up for three hours from waking. Whereas I handled my hangover like a pro. Paracetamol, water and dribbling into my pillow for over an hour.

Serves us right for not keeping an eye on illicit top ups of our drinks.

We're packing up and driving up to London today - Girlpants brother is getting married in Cyprus so we fly out at some silly hour in the morn. The trip will test us on different levels; I'll be without the internet and therefore will probably get withdrawal symtons and no blog updates for the next week. And as our hotel is in Ayia Napa, clubbing capital of Europe, Girlpants - the man who was born and hit 40 and is proud of it, and therefore doesn't think that he'll be sleeping much in the next week.

I once managed to get him in a nightclub. We were going out with one of my bridesmaids and her old boyfriend, plus old boyfriends shipmates. We were dancing and drinking back cocktails and beers, whilst Girlpants stood there and sipped his lemonade and lime through a straw, looking like Rodney and trying hard not to grimace each time as the shipmates slapped him hard him on the back, telling him that they'll look out for him that night. Funnily enough, he's never been back into a club and is not necessarily looking forward to being smack bang in party land.

So in the midst of work and dragging our heels, the house has to be cleaned, the fish water changed and the bag packed without forgetting anything for once. Time is of the essence. Which is probably what I was trying to tell myself last night as I attempted to wax my legs after a tipple or two last night. With all good intentions, I thought that I would be saving myself time the next day, yet this morning I awoke to find the cat blanket that usually stays on top of the bed, stuck to my legs, making the legs furrier than they were before. Which no doubt will make me the envy of the Cypriot beaches.

Yesterday was never going to be a dull day - an old uni friend, Jim was coming down to give a talk at the uni and it felt like a Friday. We were going out for beer, take out and a catch up. It felt like a Friday and we were having a laugh in the office. The sun was shining and it felt like summer so I casually mentioned how this was unusal for this time of year which was usually rainy.

Fast forward 6 hours, two beers and one presentation later and it was flooding down. I was feeling slightly worse for wear, strenuously chewing on an orbit hoping it would mask the beer fumes, whilst Girlpants stood dripping next to me, drinking his lime and lemon with a straw. And outside the heavens opened, thunder and lightening. And Jim siddled up to me and said

"Trouble - you just had to say it"

Hmm - I suppose I did... Especially as I was the only one with a brolly :D

I've finally recovered from the cold from hell. Ahh - the bliss to be able to sit up without falling back in a daze once more, breathe through my own nose and to have removed all trace of skankiness that comes from being ill. But rather than lounge back in the bliss of being able to smell the hyencinths that Girlpants bought me to make me feel batter, I started work instead. Not a real real job mind - a temporary one until Christmas in a small attic room at the top of eight flights, with three other data elves, tapping studiously away. We're so high, that we can see the universities domain around us, the vastness of Plymouth dwindle away before our eyes, whilst gasping for air due to walking up those stairs and the altitude. I feel that maybe a pre-emptive resolution may be called for...

Needless to say, doing a full days work work after over 2 years, including some rather physical labour, has left me, in my rather weakened puppy state, rather pooped. I say rather pooped. I mean completely shagged. Each evening on my return using Plymouthian public transport which is dire at the best of times, I've melded into the sofa, waiting for a G&T to miraculously appear into my hand and for supper to appear on the table with a wave of my hand. In reality, I waste 40 minutes in the cold waiting for a bus that is either not filled to the brim or not cancelled, drag my feet home, fight off cats that believe that we're ignoring them by being out all day, and then slowly make dinner, whilst dreaming about that winning lottery ticket that may be drawn out of a glorified tombola on Friday.

And getting my foot spa out of storage at the weekend.

Over the last Big Brother, I've been more addicted than ever. TiVo has been busy recording the house whilst I've been arguing with others on the web whether Ashleyne's bawling was really necessarily and whether Nikki should be placed on the naughty step. But now BB has come to an end, but I made some very good friends in the last 16 weeks on the forum which is due to shut down in the next couple of weeks.

So we decided to start a little non-profit msn group for our little lot, just until the next BB started and we could all post on the BB forums again after shutting down over summer. The leader of our little rebellian set up a group and left an open invite for the other forum users to join the new den he had set up for us, and off we trotted. Nothing deogeraty, nothing bad - justr a little corner to call out own. Just to keep in touch and see how everyone was doing. But the forum bosses were not happy. Not happy at all.

First, the rebellian leader was cut off from the forum for "biting the hand that fed him". And slowly but surely, every single person who had joined the new group, not matter how they behaved, how long they had been members or despite their staying within the rules for the main forum, were banned. Sign up name suspended, accounts hanging and IP address banished from even accessing the forum site.

I have never been banned from anywhere in my life - well, bar that one time in a London pub but it's been demolished now so it doesn't count. I behaved well on their site and didn't publish anything slanderous about them nor the housemates. I clicked on their ad's to raise their profits, added to threads and in all, I thought that given this free society, I could join whatever internet group I wished. But apparently that's not the case here. If you're a member of the msn group, then you can't be a member of the Big Brother forum. The ban was total surprise to me - I even emailed to forum owners asking why I had been banished into cyberspace, but alack alas, there was no reply. Maybe I shouldn't have referred to them as twetty pats.

But despite being disgruntled, I like my new little corner. The most prolific and funny posters came to our dark side and there is even a little chat room for us all to catch up. And whilst the number of posters are not as vast as the forum, as least I don't have to deal with silly text speak and 12 year olds arguing for Nikki and "making summit of it".

Plus the Welshman has the inside know on the Doctor Who set...

:o)

After my return to the UK, I had to forage through a backlog of mail (snail and electronic). Tonight, I quickly opened up todays mail and what I thought was a rejection letter.

Again.

That would make it number 19.

But nay - I have an interview! Lil'old moi! Hurrah! FInally...with a laboratory none the less! Next Tuesday. Early. Now I just have to find an interview outfit... or see if any of my old work trousers fit my arse. One, two, three... breathe in!

After a few hours on a train that seamlessly left exactly on time... again! and Girlpants and I are back in the dwelling we call home. No fish died in our absence, the plants are still green and the cats are not longer speaking to us.

Maybe it was due to the heat, the burrs in their tails or the mere fact we didn't sit them down and explain that mummy and daddy were pissing off on holiday and no, the fur-balls had to stay home as if they came in the case, there would be no room for cheap booze. But right now, the ungrateful little buggers are on the stairs, backs to us with the occasional glare behind them in either an attempt to burn out our retinas or to check if the fresh food is out yet. Personally, I think the cats have it easy. They eat, sleep and are out all hours, without us nagging them about it or bringing up the fact that both were pregnant before they were one year old. Once a year, they're rammed into their own individual cat boxes to have their temperatures checked, a couple of vaccinations between the ears and bionic chips checked. To make up for such indignities, approximately twice a week, I scoop them up give them the love and attention which I know they really want.

Maybe that last one isn't such a good example, but the fact remains that these cats are loved. There I was, sweating in Belgium, being force fed wine by Girlpants and traipsing around the cities, earning blisters on the soles of my feet in the process, and meanwhile, they were bitching to the neighbours, begging at their doors as if we had left them with nothing. As if we had left them with no tuna, no babysitters, no meat, no Britta filtered water nor the run of the house - naddah!

We're on the losing end here methinks, as I think these two will do anything to scrounge for food or attention.

Little tarts!

They'll forgive us in a day or so.

So that was Brussels - it was hot, sticky and there was a decided lack of wireless internet that Girlpants could pirate from the room. It's taken a couple of hours to recover from the shakes, but now I am behind ye olde laptop, life is complete.

By heck - I think I may be an addict!

Brussels was beautiful  but quick - we only had a bit and a day there. The (last) day, we were stuck in a park, cordoned off by the military for a parade celebrating the inauguration of Leopold I in 1831, whilst in the heat, Girlpants & I were desperately trying to begin our daily quoffing of cold liquid nectar. The first bit has us meeting up with Q and that woman wot got me (ahem! okay - I got us...) drunk that time on Dartmoor for some vino and local cruisine. The poor thing had been pining for Branstons and a solitary piece of chedder, and so in a mad flurry before we made it to Waterloo, I popped into the local shop at Paddington and bought a little bit of home to take to Zed.

I say a little bit - those local Sainsburys aren't as cracked up as their bigger rellies. After five minutes of seraching, I had managed to find the two biggest pieces of cheese out of the sorry excuses they had. All of 0.253kgs each. Whilst I was not amused in a Queenie kinda way, I was less more so when Girlpants leaned over and placed one back.

Girlpants - You don't know if it will travel for five days in trés chaud Belgium.

Famous last words. Poor Zed - her wails of anguish could be heard from Gent to Leige as we tried to break the news that the chedder had melted, whilst we and Q tried to help her anguish with by ordering her a very cold beer, and then supping & sipping wine until late evening. Despite our little cool bag, the heat which had helped me slowly sweat the weight off had also done severe damage to the westcountry mature that had travelled so far.

The pickle survived.

England are out, the car flags are at half mast, the carnage of Izzy's 5th birthday is over and I am on my third rocket lolly...

Yum yum yum!

It's currently 27.7°C in the H-D household today. The cats are being dirty stop outs and I am on my third, thats right people! third job application of the day! Get me! Well - it's either that or rehoovering the floors. Again.

Girlpants has a conference next week and after that, he's taking me on holiday. To Belgium. Admittedly, when he said he would take me away as a reward for working so hard on my course, I kinda had this

in mind.

Ho hum! Needless to say, Girlpants is on a jolly and I am accompanying. I am looking forward to it though! Eurostar over, then firstly to Leuvan, where no doubt we will stagger around our tour of the local brewery, then onto Antwerp and the final destination of Brussels, where we will be staying in a beautiful art deco hotel.

Belguim chocolates - cannae wait!

A little known gossip website has made it into the news

http://www.dontdatehimgirl.com/ has been reported and will be taken to court for defamation of a lawyer. Why? Because the website is a tongue in cheek infomercial about various men you shouldn't date from previous girlfriends/wives. The type of thing you usually find out in a small hairdressers or a coffee morning. But it's published reports about him.

Since it's hit the news, others have posted multiple reasons - too many for the website to keep up with... "date this guy and heard he was gay, i'm quite sure he is bi. I remember his father George asking him if he was...." and "he gave me herpes beware do not date him"

Maybe adding the photo, name and admitted that he is a local criminal district attorney was a bit silly. I say silly, I mean stupid. But you have to read some of these entries...some are jilted women, others are clearly warning of scum and others, are just repeating the rumours. Some are just sad, others have nothing at all but the majority are written in a funny funny way!

And I do believe I saw one of my ex-boyfriends in there...

Girlpants here… Sim is still struggling with finishing off her Forensics course… there are many stories here, which doubtless she will tell when she has finished.  In the mean time, I thought I would give avid blog readers my own update and tell you all about my travels!  Don't worry, Sim will be back in all her glory, vitriol and humour :D

So, where am I this week?  Those of you who either know me themselves, or via my good wife, will be aware that I am often found overseas attending conferences on jollies etc. with my colleagues from the Network Research Group.  This week I can be found in Sweden, Karlstad to be precise.  Of course, I am not going to just tell you about the conference (although I am writing this whilst sitting at the back of one of the conference sessions), instead, I will start the story back in Plymouth…

The story really starts in February, when, knowing we would be travelling to Karlstad, we booked the flights through the University booking agents (ATPI).  Despite having emailed the confirmation to them, when we rang up a week before our flight to have the tickets sent out, we were informed that no tickets had been booked… hmmm.  So, instead of £140 per head for our flights, we ended up on Ryanair, flying from Stansted at a cost of around £350 per person!

The reason I am in Sweden is that I am attending the IFIP SEC 2006 conference, IFIP is an international organisation, and I am the secretary to IFIP Working Group 11.1 which specialises in Information Security Management.  The SEC event is the flagship event of the IFIP TC11 (Technical Committee on information system security) calendar.  SEC is an annual event which is always preceded by a meeting of all the TC11 working groups.  About 30 of us met up on Sunday (21st May) for the AGM which started at 9am.  Of course, living in sunny Plymouth (okay so it’s stormy weather at home at the moment!) meant that I couldn’t leave home on Saturday to travel to Sweden, no, I had to depart at 4pm on Friday…

Leaving work on Friday in good time for the train, we arrived at the railway station to discover that the train we were due to catch was cancelled.  So, we were informed that we should travel on the next train an hour later, BUT, they were not going to add any extra carriages.  So, a train that already had most of the seats reserved now had another train full of passengers getting on to the only non-reserved carriage!  Of course, the astute reader will by now realise that our onward connections were also to be affected by these changes, as such; we were now due to arrive at our final destination (Stansted airport) at around 10.30pm (having left the office at 3.30pm.

While the train journey was uneventful, we then had to take a tube on the underground from Paddington to Liverpool Street and to then take the incorrectly named Stansted Express to the airport (which takes a further 45minutes!).  We finally arrived at our airport hotel (SAS Raddisson) which was a one minute walk from the terminal building – very convenient!  You would not believe this hotel.  It is modern, beautifully finished and has a wine tower :D

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