Far from being totally inept at DIY, there are now two stud wall frames proudly in place downstairs now, seperating out the new downstairs kitchen and the bathroom from a newly crafted entrance way. We even found a bargain at the local DIY place in a new sink and pedestal for less than half the usual cheapest price and as a brucey bonus good soft wood at bargain sale prices. And while the latter are now cut up in a nice and orderly sized pieces which have since been hammered into the walls, the new bargain kitchen ceremics are quietly sitting in one corner of the debris strewn room hoping in their little brown boxes that some random wreaked rubble won't damage them.

So after three days of solid graft, I now ache in places I never knew were possible. Slamming my body into sides whilst nailing and screwing large rough bits of wood into the wall, swinging rather large mallets to set pieces flush to the wall and playing with some rather large man sized power tools that needed some umph put into them.

Mmmmm - powertools!

I now understand some of the satisfaction that Girlpants gets from routers, drills and pneumatic nail guns, whilst striding around wearing big leather toolbelts. The power, the adrenaline rush and the mere satisfaction of doing something manual which actually stood up after 20 minutes of being fixed. The heart ache and desperation of mis-measuring and cutting new wood a full 10cm's under length, of 3 inch nails not gripping properly and of random holes that suddenly appeared in plasterboard as wood was gently knocked into place. With so much passion, our Herculean efforts could have surely given Olympic gold a run for it's money,

whilst dressed in blue plaid.

Men!

You ask them to pop out for some moo juice as you've ran out at home and you expect to see milk in a couple of glass pint jars. In this case, the grin should have given it away. That and the dirty big dented transit van with two big burly men who needless to say, you would ne'er want to meet down a dark alley.

But my man came home that day with a doopy grin smeared over his face. Girlpants was pleased. He had ventured forth into the city on a Saturday and had walked away unscathed and had returned victorious from an afternoon of shopping with a small purchase.

That ladies and gents is a King Chair. A throne even, which is rather apt given the hole in the centre.
Carved from the single root of an uprooted teak tree from a sustained forest. With a matching table for drink, remote and paraphernalia.

Someone. Hand the man a tiara.

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!

There's a new terrorist group folks. More extreme than the Judean Peoples Front or even the People's Front of Judea, and scarily enough, they're just across the bridge.

The Cornish National Liberation Army (CNLA) has raised it's profile for Cornish independence by threatening to firebomb Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein for alienating the local people. After all, it's not like they don't hire local people in jobs nor bring tourists to the county do they?? As celebrity chefs, they must have caused war, world hunger, made local house prices sky rocket as well as the price of cream teas. And to retaliate, they are now also threatening second home owners within the county (which admittedly they have a point on as the locals can no longer afford homes in their own home towns) as well as Anglo-Saxons who have moved in 1500 years ago, occupied thier lands and taken their women, cider and money!

A sympathetic Free Kernow wrote on the Free Moon Forum

"Cornwall is OCCUPIED by the English and has been since about 1536... Now since the war they have FLOODED into Cornwall. A definition of war crime is replacing an occupied people's land with the occupiers own people - that is what is happening in Cornwall, Scotland and Wales and happened in Northern Ireland. Interesting you can see some parallels -what is Cornwall except the Gaza of the indigenous Britons? STOP THE CORNISH GENOCIDE!"

Now now, Free Kernow. We all know your real name is Reg and you're 14 with a slight pimple problem...

Admittedly, Cornwall is if not the most, then amongst the most deprived areas within the UK. The local businesses depend on seasonal tourism and with out of towners snapping up old farmland, seaside and country homes whilst not living in the area, there's no real stream of money coming in whilst local people can't even afford to buy flats let alone houses. As businesses, they have to try and compete with Big Ears who incidently doesn't pay Capital Gains tax and Corporation tax but posted profits of £14 million last year. The GDP is 62% of the national average and Cornwall is one of four UK areas that qualifies for poverty-related grants from the EU (European Social Fund).

Now, I'm not claiming Free Kernow is a member of the CNLA. But he does share some of their sentiment for independence and probably helps to spray paint the Kernow flag on any English heritage signs near the motorways. But I would like to make two points to readers who are members of the CNLA who sent the email to the Western Morning News this morning.

1. Surely your name should be the Kernow National Liberation Army?
2. And your email was written in English...

The tooth fairy was one incisor richer tonight. After weeks and weeks of playing with a wobbly tooth, the neices front tooth fell out as she grudgenly brushed her teeth, which more than made up for the chore she had just performed. Another mile stone had passed. And with it, the rising cost for the market.

For fear of sounding like my father, in my day, we got 10p for a tooth and 50p if we were lucky for a molar. But now the tooth fairy rates are the talk of the playground. The rug rats excitedly run in, showing gappy smiles and bragging about how much they made from natures ends. And natures ends going rate is £1 a tooth.

Now, I don't believe that the fairy rates have gone up that much - after all, the tooth fairy is just pixie vermin with wings and I doubt in fairyland the teeth can bring much in as much as they used to as there is an unlimited supply of teeth and they are much healthier than in days gone by. But then a demanded £1 coin is now a matter of face in the modern school play ground now, just like heely trainers and make-up for six year olds. All three of which I object to, which I pointed out to Talkative Sis.

Talkative Sis - But if I don't give her the pound, it will be around all the school

Sim - But it won't be you. It would be the tooth fairy. Something you need to consider, especially as she's got 20 teeth, plus then her brothers. It's not like she understands the concept of money anyways. Put 50p in her moneybox, take a pound out and nones the wiser whilst saving face.

You know, I think Girlpants thriftiness is rubbing off on me. Either that or I think I'm becoming tightarse with moths coming out of my handbag.

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 :(

Have you ever written something, then stopped and stared at one word for an age, wondering if you had spelt it correctly?? It sometimes happens to me, but kicked in yesterday. With the word "the".

Working with addresses and Cornish cottage names means you see a lot of "The Hobbit Hole, Cornwall" or "Kernow Kottage, Cornwall", and whilst I winced as I had to deliberately mispell the word cottage as specified, I found myself looking at the same word, whilst next to me, stunner data pixie pondered how to text the word wierd, finding the i before e rule strange and pumping for weird. And as I laughed at "The Wicky Woos Warren Hole", I found myself typing "the" as "theer" as I sneezed thanks to a bloody duvet thief. And for a moment there, as I stared at it, I thought that I was right.

After scrimping around, arguing with the bank and cobbling together our joint life savings in the last week, and hocking ourselves up to the eyeballs in debt to place a cash bid on a dream house

(albeit in a graveyard)

we had an anxious wait - only to find out that we were outbid by out-towners at the last minute.
Damn that Sarah Beany - she has a lot to answer for.

I'm so fed up, I may just crack and break out the gin whilst pouring through the home & auction pages

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to wifey,
Happy Birthday to you.

Yay, 21 again...

Happy birthday wifey xxx

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.

Custard, the cat allergic to mice but still insisting on catching them fell very ill late last week, with bad fur, dull eyes and the inability to keep any food down. This resulted in sleepless nights and several trips to the animal hospital and our local clinic. And a rather unhelpful vet.

Vet - Throwing up you say?
Sim - Yes - She hasn't kept food down for the last two days.
Vet - Maybe worms?
Sim - I dewormed her two weeks ago.
Vet - Hmmm - maybe it's the food?
Sim - Whiskas? She's been eating that all her life.
Vet - Probably hairballs then.
Sim - Here's a sample. Still warm. And no - there's no hair.

You would think that kind of attention to detail would be appreciated. But nay. She wasn't impressed.
Especially when Custard did her business over her whilst she tried to take her temperature.

Needless to say, Custard felt much better after that...

Zoe always wishes peeps a very happy shag day on February 14th. As she notes, whilst it is a Hallmark day, it also involved the annual chore, but at least it means that it's all out of the way on one day of the year when the man has to make some effort in fussing over you.

However, my calendar is different. Maybe it's marriage or the fact that I fell for Hallmarks traps hook line and sinker, but there are other days that loom up just like Valentines. Like today.

Girlpants birthday.

The man claims he's 21 but in reality his mind is 40 and his body is that of a 32 yr old. And as it's birthday, it also means we have to do whatever he wants, which in itself can sound rather threatening. Lucky for me, tonight that means a five course meal in the local posh nosh establishment. Five rather large courses so have been starving myself all day so that I can sup in pure pleasure, in an outfit which I will ensure has an elasticated waist. The birthday boy has already told me that he refuses to wear the rather large birthday boy badge that I try to make him wear each year, so I will have to settle for him to be served dessert whilst being serenaded by tuneless Happy Birthday's, whilst the rest of us try to avoid the heat from the 32 candles I have purchased especially for the event. After all, there had to be some sort of embarressment involved, doesn't there??

I've been fighting for the last two weeks, but now I've been at home in bed for the last two days to try and get myself better for Monday. And also not to infect others at work as I figured that it may have proved to be a slightly unpopular move in the festive season. This however has meant missing work, money and even worse, our little Christmas party which we organised ourselves. It also meant that none of the others were able to open their Christmas presents as I wasn't there and I had one of them. Lesson one of how to pee on other peoples Crimbos, as I received updates via text yesterday saying that the party was flat, party poppers were lame and that they were going home early.

Damned those winter superbugs wannabes. Not only have I Catholic guilt over the others having a pretty pants last day (as there is only three of us in the office), but I was nauseous and feverous last week, which then developed into a full blown cold with racking cough and continious sneezing for over a week, which is only dying off now. So despite that fact that the office Christmas party was a bit of a flop by text accounts, I am slightly solaced by the fact that the cold's dying off just in time. It has however, left me a Christmas present of it's own as I am now the proud owner of bright red nose. Bright red on my gorgeously golden brown skin. Just in time for Christmas.

Custard cat has been off in sorts of late. I say off in sorts. I mean the cow has had her true affections subverted and has been snuggling into the lower regions (legs!) of The Aussie, traitorous bloody animal! But two days ago, I had notice that she had a big lump under her right chin and a thick lip. So, needless to say, I had thought that she was either hunting again, or sorting her patch out with her new collar bling. But with that big lump, of course, the mummy cat worried and so organised an enjoyable day trip out to the vet hospital.

Imagine my heart sinking to the ground when Mister Vet told me it wasn't fighting. Nor catching herself. All sorts of bloody images ran through my mind as I tried to fathom out what was wrong, thinking of the worst as he rechecked her history. But nay - all wasn't as dire as I had thought. In fact, her big lump and clingyness was due to more. My poor cat, Custard the mouse juggler, Custard the brave, Custard the Robin Murderer, Custard the hunter, Custard the slim*

is allergic to mice.

Really! I ask you...!!??

Only I could own that cat...

* Custard (the Slim) was according to the vet, fat with a bloody big belly. So I don't know which cat he was really examining. Maybe Rhubarb switched with her before we took her. Even so, if Custard is fat, it does mean that basically Rhubarb is on an even more stringent diet....

Woke up on Tuesday morning, feeling worse than a badgers arse and sneezing my way through a packet of mansized. Even worse, I woke up thinking that it was Thursday. Boy - was that a disappointment.

Given that I wasn't suffering from the feared man flu (which some non-female journalist from that a well known bloke mag has claimed is true - any excuse I say!), I dragged my sorry arse into work so that the pennies could keep rolling in. Having said all this and with the double whammy of the disappointment of it being a whole two days earlier than thought, my emotions were running high, tiredness kicked in as did the drugs, and all in all, it became a bit of a roller coaster where I was either on top of the world or close to tears. Either way, the data was blurring as I swayed between the two.

This entire week was summed up rather humouriously by Vernon Kay whilst interviewing a sex therapist come murder mystery actress on a rather well known radio station today, talking about why women say no to late night amour, whilst trying to cope in todays world:

Sex Therapist - The main problem is that women these days have to wear too many hats - that of mother, colleague, wife, daughter...

Vernon - Women should never wear too many hats - it would prolong the strip tease process

After watching my father drag his 40+ year old bathroom from furnished and usable to barely stripped bare, Girlpants and I decided to take over. Mother was ushered out of the house, father was placed on bacon butty duties and we started to work - Girlpants in YMCA overalls and me in fashionable cords.

Sledgehammers and mallets at the ready, we got het up, ready for action. No holds barred, I also used the opportuntiy to advise my father of his clear inability to colour co-ordinate and style a room (whoever has heard of geometric patterned carpet in a bathroom??). So whilst my father went back downstairs to grill the bacon and lick his wounds, both of us attacked the old steel bathtub. Which refused to move. An inch. The thin chisel didn't help. A barrage of blows from the mallet just bounced off the surface, and the sledge hammer just put a bit of a ding in the side panel. Forty years of establishing itslef as the major centrepeice of the bathroom and years of fathers over enthusiastic grouting and tiling had clearly cemented the bath to the wall. Fast forward four hours later, and we had finally managed to pry it away from the wall which comically ended with my falling on my rear end, only to discover that the draft I had felt in the bathroom as a child was due to a builders inability to correctly build a solid wall without leaving gaping holes in the side. Slowly, as we starting pulling muscles that had never before existed as we carried the steel bath down the stairs and out into the back garden, I began to realise that maybe we weren't going to fit the entire bathroom in one weekend.

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!

Is there something in the water??

First of all Keith closes then thankfully reopens his blog mainly becuase he didn't know there were fans lurking in the background, then Milady goes AWOL due to hectic lifestyles (yay for her return!) - the Urban Gypsy has disappeared ever since she managed to make her way over to Oz, the Special Constable (aka Lennie Briscoe) upgrade to Blogger Beta and his blog has disppeared (it is rumoured that he's re-encarnated as another blog) and now Chai has closed for business. In fact, his blog has been stripped to just one entry for this month, which makes me think that this isn't a decision he's taken lightly.

I do feel sad when I see that a blog has been suspended or ended, but then as I've partook in that well needed break last year, I can understand why. But then I do feel a little bit more lonely in this big vast world when it occurs, as I still feel that I've lost a good friend, even it is for a little while.

I'm pretty spoiled in the little data den where I work - not only am I the office flunky comic relief and therefore much beloved in my domain, not only are we squirrelled away from prying eyes, but I'm being paid mullah for the first time in a long time. Weekly as well. And I love it! It's mine, all mine (okay - ours, given the joint bank account). And as I relish this new money coming in notion, I want to make our money work as hard as it can for us. Whilst I was in Cyprus, BB was advising us on tax breaks, how to save and where to save. It seems that BB of mine is fed up of a certain Scotsman syphoning off his hard earnt cash. And it got me thinking.

Take a single pound that I'm paid as an example. I'm taxed on the money I earn - that leaves me with my current tax allowance with 90p. I'm also taxed on my savings so take off more money there, taxed on the necessary purchases I have to make such as food so make even more deductions, then there's my gas, electric, water, for local council activities, taxed for moving house, making money on my home and for driving on the road. Even when I die, I'll be taxed. Also, I'm apparently also going to be taxed on rubbish collections (which I foolishly believed was part of the council tax), they're mooting a new tax on alcohol to stop binge drinkers (like the youngsters aren't going to rifle through their grans purses) and they're trialling a new type of road tax that you're going to have to pay per mile, per type of road and the time of day travelled. And then there's the whammy!

There's discussion mooting new powers that could be granted to Northern Ireland council tax inspectors - my quick laypersons (i.e. I could be wrong) skim read of the tabloids tell me that if the law is changed and rolled out over the UK, then tax inspectors would have the right to enter a home without a warrant to check for home improvements. Basically, inspectors will have more rights than the police when it comes to entry in your own home. The more the improvements, the more tax will be imposed on the home owner and to refuse entry to the inspectors may lead to an automatic and increasing weekly fines.

It must be said that these are ideas being bounced around by those in Parliament, who at the end of a hard working day quoff back cheap, subsidised alcohol in one of the commons bar's. They may not even come into affect. However, as the single pound from my wages melts into negative numbers, from stealth taxes, daily expenses and the basic urge to live, I can't help thinking of my pensioner parents, who have slogged so hard in my childhood home to make it better, that they may have to end up selling the place they love in order to make ends meet. Not forgetting to pay the stamp duty in the meanwhile.

Maybe BB has it right - maybe my parents should move to warmer climbs, transfer their penbsions over so they are taxed less, and where the cost of living is considerably lower. They can avoid all the heavy expenses here and enjoy their days in relative comfort but without the closeness of us nearby. But then, thinking about it - it will never happen. My father would complain about the heat, food and language barrier whilst fanning himself with the Daily Mail with his socks and sandles on, whilst mum wouldn't want to leave us behind. Which basically leaves us in blighty. Paying our taxes.

The day after the wedding, Girlpants and I took the day slowly. It was our last day in Cyprus so we decided not to rush, take it easy and be refreshed for the next day. A boat trip with MIL, lounging around the pool and then dinner with Big Brother (BB) was decided. By 8, we were refreshed, hungry and relaxed, waiting for BB to turn up with butterflies and nerves.

I rarely get to see my BB - he's emigrated out here with his wife, SIL, and they both like their own space, which is quite understandable and sometimes something I try to do. It's probably why he's a tad scared I'll put his home number on our fathers speed-dial - a constant threat to prevent him dobbing me in for various acts of stupidity. But saying that, I adore my BB and make the most of every single moment I spend with him.

As we haven't seen each other for a while, BB and I were going to make the most of the evening. We started off in his local, where one of his best friends complimented me on my chest ("Great tits!") leaving BB agog. Then, SIL joined us and off we trotted for supper, followed by walking off the meal by walking to another local and then back to BB's for tipples. At which point, Girlpants realised it was 3am and that we had to fly and drive home that very day and that somehow we had gained yet another 3 litres of alchol that had to be packed somewhere, which as I had persuaded Girlpants that we needed a new cheap case, was not going to be a problem!

So basically, on 4 hours sleep, we packed, had breakfast, did a touch more shopping and then made it back to the hotel for drinks with MIL, a scenic lift to the airport from BB and a drink by the sea. By 2am Friday, we had made it back to the UK, driven home in torrential rain and combated with London signage and drivers, returning to a shed load of laundry and cleaning to do as a certain Australian was coming to stay that weekend and work was starting again on the Monday.

Cream crackered? That Friday, we drank wine in the afternoon and watched the box. After all, officially, we were still on holiday....

So much has happened over the last few days, but more of that later -

I think I've just sneezed past the sound barrier.

Lately, Girlpants has been trying to take Thursday-Fridays off each week so we can spend some time together. It's summer and most of his colleagues have buggered off for the summer leaving the remaining souls with the workloads. As the saying goes, if you want something done, give it to a busy man.

Usually, we laze around. Do little jobs around the house or visit people. However this can get boring, especially as Girlpants was getting rather fed up of my BB addiction. HOwever, as this is now officially over (Brighton boy won - like no-one saw that one coming!) and before the withdrawal symptoms kick in, we've moved onto different things. Including the museum, which the local diary website announced was exhibiting a Turner exhibition that recently arrived to our little abode in the sticks. Amazed, we trundled up to gallery inthe morning. Only to find the local diary website was sodding wrong. It had been packed up that morning and was shipped back to the National Gallery archives, never again to leave it's dungeons. Bah!

Despite this we trundled around, looking at the stuffed badgers and stouts, then finishing the trip by loking at the local art. Did you know that Napoleon was imprisoned on a navel ship in Plymouth Harbour? I didn't. Apparently he used to take his daily walk on the decks at 3pm on the dot each afternoon, to be greeted by local townsfold jeering, greddily watching this little man that declared war on Rule Brittania, whilst the local artists sketched on. A real eye opener.

On the other hand, our afternoon trip which was supposed to complete the day, has left me crippled and in pain as I realised on the third pothold that maybe leaving six years between bicycle rides may not be good for the rear. This is especially true when your other half is racing ahead, your chain gets jammed half way up each of the numerous hills on this supposed easy cycle and the local bully child points and laughs at you. And then it rains.

Yesterday, I received two very important pieces of paper in the post. One was a certificate. One was a breakdown of grades. One said that I passed with distinction-distinction. The other claimed that I had scraped through on two of the modules after being moderated down two grades to a pass, which meant that the grade awarded could not be the grade achieved.

Confused? So was I!

Apparently there's been a bit of a typo. The grade is correct - the breakdown is not, however that didn't stop my little heart from sinking it's way out of my body and plummenting to the floor. Thankfully, the masters doesn't start until next year, however I did feel for those digging their way through clearing only to find that it was all for naught and they had enough to enrole on their chosen courses after all. After a summer of silence, the emails came flooding in and needless to say, the group were not pleased. As one of the boys quaintly stated, someone in the system is going to get a kicking for sure. Ring sideseats will be sold on a first come first served basis to help with mounting student debts.

Whilst the breakdown is disturbing, the fact of the matter is that I've passed with distinction - hurrah! Eat that you psychological breakdown of Freudian influences on serial killers and organised killers from the predator analysis. GLC? No problem - bring it on! Take that thallium poisoning for I will find you out. The little white coat, goggles and hairnets are not totally packed away - whilst there are questions about the breakdown, as far as I'm concerned, the technicalities can be sorted out later. I revel in my little yellow A4 certificate. 

I can do science, me.

3 years, 10 months, 5 days ago, I sent a reply to a rather sexist email sent by Girlpants to our open email group

3 years, 7 months, 21 days ago, I met Girlpants for the very first time in person

3 years, 7 months, 3 days ago, we went on our first date

3 years, 5 months, 5 days ago, I moved in with him

2 years, 11 months, 3 days ago, we got engaged. I put a ring on his finger and then he placed my ring on mine (am still waiting for my formal proposal on one knee)

2 years ago, we were wed, however, 45 minutes before this occured and much to my dismay, my father placed a well muddied footprint on the back of my train.

Happy Anniversary Baby

Righteo - now look at this!

Apparently, it started in the Netherlands and now is a big problem on mainland Europe, especially in Germany. And yes, that is a tribe of hobbist Dutchmen whittling away at their weekends and evenings. I guess that the British have their trains and the Ducth have their keys..?!  They even have presentations and academic papers written on the subject.

I have to admit, at first I did think that it was a joke, however, allegedly it's not and I am now under strict instructions by Girlpants not to just swing the door shut when I leave the house, but to mortice lock as well. I had the whole "forewarned is forearmed..." speech last night, and now I am well versed in how to protect the security of le Château de Haskell-Dowland. To ensure that our cats and only our cats get through the cat flap, we have now issued them with magnets and passwords that they must say when challenged. Although I did point out to Girlpants that the default "miaow" adds nothing.

8am this morning, I was rudely awakened by the new phone next to the bed ringing an obscure tone. It was Talkative Sis. She was worried.

Apparently, Britian is on critical alert for terrorism. Which just goes to show how Americanised we've become*. 20 years ago, this situation would have warrented a colour, or even the status of "Mildly Worrying" or "Perturbing" even. But now, we've left the colours behind and I note that people do not queue in a straight line for public transport any more - but that's a sign of the times. Situation "Mauve" is no longer, and "Critical" is in place.

Apparently the good old boys in blue have managed to foil a plot to blow up a while load of planes at once - bravo to the boys! Poriot wouldn't have been able to do such a fine job. Facetiousness aside and ignoring Talkative Sis's panic (as she's going on her jolies on Sunday), this situation doesn't surprise me. The boys in blue have been on tenderhooks since July last year and has been on the lookout - and mind, they have declared open panic before. However, Big Brother is watching us as we are caught on CCTV approximately 300 times each day if we live in a city. And quite frankly, in this situation, I don't care.

I feel safe-r. To a point.

For a long time now, I've not given a monkeys about speed cameras, as if I'm speeding, I deserve it. I don't care if the cameras catch me on film (excepting the zooming in on the bottom - it's large enough, thank you) as if something does happen to me, then they can at least try and backtrack my day, despite the cost effective grainy non-HD tapes that the boys in blue have to deal with. However, I don't think Blair needs a Blair Force One for how many squillions of pounds as the money to protect his pale bottom would be better spent on counter measures here. And, I don't agree with the curtailling of civil liberties - the anti-terrorism squad has cried wolf before. And whilst today, to a certain extent, I don't care about the new ID cards they're talking about rolling out (I still have Talkative Sis worrying on the line), the reminding fact that the ex-CSA IT admin will be looking after the data makes me quake in my boots.

And they'll have a voluntary DNA sample over my dead body.

However, in the immediate aftermath, I'm suddenly estatic that Talkative Sis didn't pump for Disney Florida, despite the sproglets disappointment. Though meanwhile, she is stuck on this island as all shorthaul flights have been cancelled and to rub it in, the weather has turned decidedly grey. 

I suddenly get a sinking feeling that I just may be babysitting for the next week.

* Americanism - it's given me KFC salads, Sex in the City and glamourous Las Vegas shows :o)

There's a couple of furores in the homeland today. Charlie is worried that more of his itimate calls to Cammy, although I think the world has had enough of those conversations. Meanwhile, the local Tory party, indeed, all, of the Tory Party is up in arms about Tony's Labour veto on Lady Maggies planned state funeral.

Can you imagine being Lady Maggie whilst this argument silts around your ankles? You're not dead yet, but they're planning. Scheming from their corners, whilst ignoring all or any of your personal wishes. I suppose it comes with the position of power that she held, but still, it's a bit like the offspring arguing who gets the best china, ignoring you whilst you shakily hold up your empty glass for another drink. I really do feel sorry for the old girl, as each party tries to win points from her future demise.

This wouldn't have affected me so much if it hadn't been for father of mine dearest. He's embarking on renovating the bathroom, adamently refusing to admit that now he's a little older, a great deal greyer and not as agile as he used to be from his army days, that it might be tad too big a job for him. You would think the beer belly would give it away.

The trouble is my father has his own ideas about how to do things. Especially DIY. In 1978, he started to build mother a brand new kitchen, which was still half finished in 2002 when it got bulldosed for brand new, completed and modern one. The former garage, which housed his car 15 years after it had last been driven was eventually turned into a "workshop", meaning it was stuffed filled with tatt that the parents could not bear to part with. And now, it's the turn of the bathroom - a total revamp and the removal of the bath that I used to share with my siblings as a child. And despite the modernisation, there are aspects he still wants to keep. Including the polystyrene tiles that he's been hoarding since 1978 that are no longer up to code. If he uses them, not only will they look vile, be a fire hazard and grow mouldy in a matter of months, they will also bring the house price down which will then fall to my mother. However, he's insisting on his personal tile choice as:

Dad - All of that won't affect me as it will be your problem when I'm dead

Maybe death is something you come to accept with age and my fathers mad method of dealing with it is to treat it with derision. But it's bloody hard to hear your father look towards his death as a minor problem and inconvenience, dismissing the act and it's effects. I don't think he actually considers how these words now will affect those who will probably be left behind. The, my father is so stubborn that I expect him to outlive all of us, whilst sitting in his armchair and deriding the modern world. But if he should leave us behind, I don't think that the main thing on my mind will be that of the bathroom ceiling tiles and if they were up to code. I think the prevalent thing would be that I would want my father back, no matter what the cost and despite the fact that sometimes most of the time, he irritates me

He may make my teeth grind and he may have bad taste, but he is my father and I do love him.

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!

It's not all that usual to visit foriegn lands without using a plane from our little isle, but due to time constraints and costs, thats exactly what Girlpants and I decided to do this time. Early this morning, we packed our bags, had a good breakfast, even prepared a cold lunch with obligatory bottle of chilled wine for our travels, then made our way to the train station where we bought 2 return tickets to Waterloo, and waited in good time for our train.

Where we were greeted by a packed train. Too many people in too little space as once again, the authorities that be had sold too many tickets for what was clearly a much demanded service. Despite people standing, there were also some tickets on empty booked places (the British never being ones to get in others seats) which made me feel that either they had missed their train or had taken one look and refused to have got on, which I silently thanked them for being bad time keepers as Girlpants and I lent back into their allocated seats. In the midst of the carnage, where holiday makers and backpackers jostled for luggage space around the swarth of surfboards that stuck out of the luggage racks, the train conductor made an announcement, apologising for the service, the global warming within the carriages and the complete lack of staff on the train due a colleagues marriage with free bar the day before, resulting in staff either not turning up at all, or turning up and clearly being unable to drive a train.

This also meant a complete lack of buffet being served to the masses as the chef was helping the conductor check tickets. No sandwiches, snacks or food avaiable on a train that was advertised as family friendly. To compensate, GWR put crates of soft drinks and water out for the thirty masses, which was quickly consumed by chavs and student parties, who stuffed as much free drink into their bags within a ten minute timescale. Over the years, we've made it a rule never to take buffet cars for granted, so Girlpants and I watched this, from the sanctity of anothers seat, quietly drinking our vino and then tucking into our H-D club sandwich.

The price of our smugness was the confiscation of our tickets when we arrived at Paddington, being then told to buy more for our onward journey, followed by the predicable outrage. I sat back in the shade whilst Girlpants went purple and argued his cause, discovering that the happy chef who jovially checked the ticket stubs also forgot to tell us to change at Reading for our onward journey. Fast forward Girlpants grump, a mad rush, then the Bakerloo line, and we finally made it to le Eurostar and aircon. What a change - there was less than a five minute wait to check in and have the bags checked, whilst once again, ye olde underwear set alarm bells and some poor youngster had to check my sweaty armpits for nail files and guns thanks to my underwire bra. A short queue later, and Girlpants was horrifed to find French authorities giving our passports a cusory check before waving us on (Girlpants - "What!? Not even scanned??"). Whilst I saw the irony in the French nation having a foothold in Waterloo, I didn't care because it was efficient. The ticket system was throughly updated so the operators knew exactly how many were on the train, tickets were checked before we even set foot on the escalators which took us directly up to the train platform and carriages and then, the train smoothly left. On the dot. To the second. On time.

When did the British rail system go so wrong? Was is because we were sold out by the man with a handbag? Or do we only think back to the reliable days of Miss Marple and the Railway Children? There's no doubt that in comparison with the Eurostar, the British train loses out. Even the British trainspotters are a dying breed, rarely seen at the end of platforms, as they've given up the ghost. Whilst les toilettes had no toilet paper (thank God for handy tissues), the seats were uncomfortable and there wasn't much space to strech in, compared to the GWR journey, our questions were answered, we knew our connections and we were in Brussels in less than 2.5 hours. Add in plus 40 minutes, we were settling into our Leuven hotel as even the local train left on the dot.

Just give us 20 minutes, we'll be having our first beer. Viva le Eurostar!

So the conference is over. I only managed to get drunk about three times, humiliated myself once and even attended one of the talks. And in the midst of this, I kept my poise and strutted around in heels and a skirt, feeling safe in the notion that I was surrounded by delegates and should I fall, then I would ahve landed softly on one of them.

So we're off to the land of Stella tomorrow - seven days away. Eurostar here we come! Apparently it's hotter there than here, although I won't belive that until I crack an egg on the pavement. At least if it is sauna like conditions, then a little more weight can be sweated off as I lumber in the heat. Usually when you go away, lugging around the bags is good enough for that, however, in the midst of clearing the conference hall and pushing PC's. monitors and paperwork around campus, Numbnut here has managed to pull her right shoulder out. I currently smell like le rosbif, marinated in a deep heat gravy. Pickled in lager.

Am drunk. I was fine until I came home, then I knelt over whilst cooking and smashed a glass. And he warned me! (and then cleaned up around me).

Girlpants is not impressed. And it's his conference...

I think I may have lost Girlpants respect for a while, within this evening timescale. Am not impressed with myself at all - I can only think that one redeeming point is that I have at least moved on behaving for myself bar knocking my knee... And it hurts. My own fault because I was a good girl before this. Or at least, that's what I promised myself. I didn't even insult the Lord Mayor once. I even scrubbed up. I wore heels and apparently looked different - half the size I used to be according to one peep, which I wasn't too sure to take as a compliment or insult as either 2 years ago, I was huge or now, my heels balance out my arse. I wasn't going to argue there, but laughed off whilst suddenly realising how much my toes hurt.

But I knew it would take less than 30 mins to cock up. And once, in the sanctuary of home, I did.

Ouch.... (My knee hurts!)

Urrrgh - why why why do I do this? Am such a muppet.

So Girlpants has been busy -

there is now an all spanking new "about me" page, which apparently is a must for good manners in blogging circles. It's not too informative but I figured that peeps would prefer an insight as opposed to a bedside story that would knock them out for several hours. If you need to sleep more, try a hot toddie.

He's also reinstated the photos - yup. That's me. The big heifer in the bridal gown, with Girlpants next to me with a haircut that costs over six squid for once. Which means he looks his age and not a paperboy - I hate those days when he goes to the butchers and comes back pre-pubescent.

Also, some of the archives had been out back online from when we switched templates and moved to DasBlog. Please excuse the titles as they scream at you. If I'm still jobless by the end of the month, I shall trawl through them and repair.

Meanwhile, I've had three rejections and two non-answers (as in not even acknowledging). If this carries on, I'll have to consider other options... Selling body parts, becoming part of the typing pool or even hiring myself as a forensic criminal extraordinaire - I've heard there's a huge demand for that in the market.

Because they are humans too. Go on. Find a random hoodie type peep on the street and give them a good old squeeze. It's not that they're hiding their face in a sweat ridden hooded top for any no good reason in this weather. They're just mis-understood.

And then after you've enfolded them for England, be indulgent about the black eye and 25 stiches you have gained as your reward for understanding embrace.

Markos!

At 2.8kilos (thats 7.5lbs to us!) - 2.55 this morning and without epidural at that!!

Well done Maria!

BBC Breakfast News - Can you comment on John Prescotts being reported to the parliamentary watchdog?

Patricia Hewitt - He did nothing wrong

BBC Breakfast News - He met with a man who had clear intents of profiting from a Government contact.

Patricia Hewitt - Job Prescott said at the weekend, and reiterated many times, that he was working within guidelines, doing nothing wrong. As indeed we all do.

Not a precise transcript but what I can remember and you get the gist. All I can say was that I was chortling into my toast whilst next to me, all I could hear was Girlpants...

"PAH!"

Mister Girlpants is tired. As tired as a hard working man can be. Not only has the academic year just finished with all the meetings, training and exam boards, but there's a conference in less than a weeks time and a whole load of programming to do for outside projects.... We were working on a friends kiddy flat pack furniture which meant that the bottle of white and strawberries I had planned were left in the fridge as we were both too tired to do anything but sleep - not even make a cup of tea! Then this morning, he refused to leave the bed until midday today. Sleepy boy = grumpy Girlpants.

Especially in this heat!

So when he saw the news tonight, he turned to me and said lovingly...

"Ere! Maid! 'dere be no flags on cars in Plymouth tonight..."

Droll Devonshire boy.

Not even funny!

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...

Today, little Issy is five!

(As if butter wouldn't melt!)

おたんじょうびおめでとうございます

Happy Birthday Isabel!

As in all good traits, both Girlpants and I have been trying to corrupt this little girlie - mummy's having a rabbit (Girlpants), mummy's roots are showing (Girlpants) and everytime you don't cover your mouth when you cough, a bunny rabbit dies (me)...

I know - we're bad!

But my corruption is subtle... Issy now knows that there is Father Christmas, Easter Bunny and Birthday Badger, and all three talk to each other to compare good and bad lists. I also introduced her to the theme of (BOTH of!!!) her parties...

That's right - Hello Kitty. She now wants a Hello Kitty handbag, lunchbox, a Hello Kitty swimming costume, Hello Kitty rug... The list goes on. However I think it's quite sweet - expensive but sweet. Ijust hope that next year, she doesn't want this, this...

or this...

That was officially, two years out of my life.

Finished. Naddah. Last assignment in and marked - and by golly, it was a good one! I can do science me, and my party trick is my profiling abilities. He came from a broken home don't you know, milord. Blames others for the size of his manhood and projects it onto other men who he feels stuff sports socks down their trousers, to both make him feel inadequate and bringing a totally new outlook on the phrase "trouser snake". Not his fault at all milord - he had had a psychotic break after being forced to watch big brother 7 til the wee hours of the morn, so you couldn't possibly blame him for snapping in anger and accidently stabbing his wife seventeen times and then, in a daze that legally he can never recall, he buried her in the garden under the patio, next to the dahilas...

I know my original degree in bullshit would come in handy!