Brats.
Bloody anti-social sodding brats.

I've been absent for over the last month as Girlpants and I have been teased, plagued and intimidated by a pack of bratlings who have found it funny to not only use our home as a thoroughfare to the back of the flats which back onto our garden but have also found it amusing to climb up a tree on the council land at the back to access our garden so that they can run havoc in the gardens and throw various missiles at our set of homes. At first, both we and our our neighbours have ignored them all but it's all taken a rather serious note, which for me, kicked in when Girlpants had to go away for work and I was alone in the house.

I'm not much of a wuss - I tend to call a spade a spade and usually would have no problem going up to people if I have a problem. But the things with baby bumps is that they tend to make mammas-to-be feel a bit more vulnerable. Mainly because it's not just me but now mini-hd, and to be home alone with unknown people banging on the windows at dusk was a little worrying. And because it would appear that I'm disabled, now I’m pregnant, which in turns means that all and sundry have been fretting... Apparently I'm quite delicate despite the fact that I can swear like the best of them when I occasionally stub my toe.

So when the 8 or 9 year olds came this weekend, Girlpants was not amused. He chased them out of the garden, and they came back, yelling that the fat lady should run.

At this point, I would like to point out that I am pregnant. Not fat. And previous to this, I was considered voluptuous...

The second time, he went to the back of the flats and I stupidly went into the garden to basically yell. But then I fell, catching myself on knees in a very undignified manner. Cue everyone - family, friends and neighbours worrying. So Girlpants remained in the garden as he heard them yell they were coming back. Which they did. Armed.

I make myself feel awfully old when I think to myself that I would never have acted this way in my day. Family was everything and my parents always knew where I was. But somehow I doubt the same could be said for this 10+ strong group of children, who came along with thick branches, bricks and in one case, a 3ft long metal bar, as they attempted to climb back into the garden. At which point, Girlpants took the bar off them and called the police. The boys in blue turned up promptly and rounded the toerags up, taking them home to their parents for a sound talking to...

But now Girlpants is fretting. He's worried about me and mini-hd, and as he's worried, I'm worried about him. He's also worried about the house and damage that could be done to it, but as we've reasoned, that's why we have insurance and as long as our little family is fine, then that's all that's important. But now he's come up with his own version modern of a moat for his castle. I have found from experience that when men get and idea in their head, they tend to exaggerate to make it the best it can be. And Girlpants has a whammy. We're going to build up the wall at the back in order as a deterrence. Not just any wall. A 6ft wall. However, to do so, we have to cut down some quite old trees at the back which I have become very fond of so I will be posting up some pictures shortly to see if anyone can help me identify some of the trees we have to cut down to replace them.

Bloody anti-social sodding brats. Not only costing us for a wall but now I lose some beloved adopted garden friends as a consequence. and I can't even have a stiff drink for dutch courage before the felling commences. Bother!

You would think that the lovely, long, big box that was delivered to my office this morning may have been an early delivery of roses as the other half had accidently booked himself away on business for the entirety of valentines. This lovely box was delivered to my room, all securely wrapped and lo and behold, when I opened it I found…

A sodding grout gun! Har blooming har!

He’s dead.

This weekend is a triple whammy of birthdays. There's Talkative Sis whose thirty-erm something, Lawyers Sis's other half and Mummy who offically is 21 again but if you look at her birth certificate may state that it was been issued a few moons ago. Needless to say it's a landmark and a cause for the family to once again meet, drink and bounce off walls.

The trio of us immediate daughters have all clubbed together and we've bought her the standard rose with yellow buds that she had her eye on from the local B&Q. Took some penny saving but we got there :) Father however wanted 24kt jewellery for Mother and went out on his own and bought her a set setting off into town and shopping. From a localised "retailler". He went to Wants, the local pawnbrokers which caused Talkative Sis to be momentarily stunned before lecturing him on hygiene and actually asking Mother what she may want for her special day.

Have you ever seen that episode of Scrubs? The one where Turk gives his lady love a gift that unbeknown to him was previously removed from a patient's rectum - effectively, he blessed her with an arse pen to prove his love. True to tv fantasy, this set of jewellary is my Mothers arse pen. A set of pawned second hand jewellery that she will in no doubt love but would bathe in several gallons of dettol before she wears them. And whilst cringing at his first revelation, he revealed his second choice of gift, completely stunning me as he imparted the secret of what else he had bought to surprise mother...

I know. Words do not suffice. I did try "Gopping", "Hideous", "Grotesque" or even "My eyes, My eyes, My bleeding eyes!" were not sufficient enough and he took no note. Apparently the mere fact that my mother collects ornamental "Wade" was enough to persuade him that this collection of things, on one of her most important birthdays, was what she desired and most dearly longed for.

Needless to say, I'm not sure if the stuff which her childrens nightmares will be a happy gift, but I do know that she will have no room in which to display them as they are filled with other ornamental tatt with even more curios which had been packed aways in boxes years ago when they visited far away lands, and had since forgotten and replaced on the shelves.

Whilst to my shame, I had given in to the emotional blackmail that my Father had thrown at me to procure the clowns above. I did however put my foot down at completing the set. I mean, would you like to receive this on a celebratory mature landmark?

If no, could you kindly have a word with my Father?

In Sim's ideas of grandeur and with the move of the galley kitchen down to ye olde granny flat bedroom, she decided that a slate floor would be in keeping with the home for the age and Brucey bonus, would give the wow factor - a plus especially in light of Girlpants already talking about the next house. And in her ideas of granduer, Sim always looks for the "look". And didn't in this case necessarily look at the cost.

This was however, something she slowly realised and came to grips with. After a week or so of shopping around, she firmly decided that the money being quoted was all too much. £45 per m², £33 per m², £59 per m²... And at 30m² needing to be floored, she decided to shop around.

So Sim promptly went to ebay and found the slate she like, without seeing it in the "slate" so to speak. She mulled the idea over 12 plus hours around whilst moving wardrobes and big f*** off plants home in one free van trip, and thought about the ebay auction again. And once home and cream crackered, promptly went to the wrong auction, the wrong slate and the wrong m² by the same seller. And won.

Bugger!
Goober!!
Shoot me now.

Once every five seconds. Every single time there is a power cut, the UPS's on the fish tanks and TIVO kicks in. And from 3am this morning, that was all I heard every five seconds.
For three and a half hours.  

Beep..... Beep..... Beep.....

This wouldn't have been that bad, except three days ago on the last power cut, several fish died and lardy cat made a rather clumpsy attempt to jump in front of a motion sensor, kicking off the burglar alarm which in turn managed to wake the neighbours, who were slightly peeved which escalated when they realised that with the power off, there was a distinct inability of ridding ourselves of the constant pounding. That would be Catch 22 then.

So I lay there, unable to sleep as a beep made me painfully aware that at any point, our house alarm would kick in, which would in turn probably mean that we would in all probability be lynched by the locals. Finally, the final beep eased off, the hum of the tanks restarted and with sigh of relief, I eased back into the pillows, waiting for sleep. And tne minutes later, the heavens opened with claps of thunder and lightening. That would be sod's law then.

On a plus note, Girlpants had an early morning meeting, and as my contract ended last Friday,
I had a lie in. With a pussy cat.
 
 
Now Pat - how can you say no to a sight like that...?
 

It's bloody cold here. Freezing cold. The sky is as clear as a bell note at night which is great for star watchers however means no insulation keeping the warmth in. A double whammy for me if Girlpants does his usual trick of stealing the duvet.

Which wouldn't be that bad. Usually, I kick him in the shins or wet willy him to get him to move and once more, more duvet is conquered and claimed. And now that I've wiki-ed school pranks, I may try the nipple cripple next time. Anything for some warmth.

Last night, he had a new trick. I woke up at three in the morning, shivering and with a great willingness to kick. And there he was - cocooned up in the duvet, which he had hooked around himself and rolled around himself three times. Naddah covers on my side. There's a reason I was sneezing all of today.

So tonight, I may try a different method. Rubbing pepper one side of his pillow so he stays to one side - I may even go up another notch of evil and use chillis. Tucking my side under the bed may work. Or sew his jimjams to his side.

Alternatively, I may just take a second duvet to bed and a big f**k off wooden rolling pin.

include bullies.

Mind, there are a fair share of them out in the office type and worldly world. However, when your main outlet is the world wide web, then it can get personal.

Take for example a friend of mine who was posting on forums. Yesterday, she was banned for essentially being a member of another rival forum. She was accused of poaching new members just for saying hello to an old friend on their boards. Rude and nasty emails were sent to her despite the fact that she hadn't even made the first contact. Basically, they wanted us all back as we were ardent posters before they switched us off autumn last year. Despite wanting us back, they were greedy and wanted us back all unto themselves. And for merely saying hello to an old forum friend, they threatened potential legal action against the new forum. Whilst the others can see the laugable side of this, all I can think is the man behind the emails must have a very huge opinion of himself to make up for something lacking.

Not even on the same level is the story that many far far better bloggers have commented on this but it has really got under my skin to the pint that even I have been riled enough to send my own personal email to the person in question. Nicholas Hellen, the then Acting News Editor from the Sunday Times sent what I would term as a blackmailing email to Girl With A One-Tracked Mind. Basically, the ST took time out from Conservative support et reporting, to outing an anon blogger who just so happened to have a book deal. They gave her the choice of having a bad photo, her name and her family in black or white, or turn up in a pretty evening wear dress as they couldn't be arsed to give her any type of cordility and would in all probablity still name her family members as well as ruining her career in the film industry at the same time. Zoe pointed me to Troubled Diva who in turn, linked to Heller's rebuttal to the blog outrage.

Despite his protestations, it doesn't take away from the fact that Heller took away personal privacy of not only a blogger, but her family. In essence, he was a total bully. You may try and defend your actions as qualifying a story but that defence just doesn't wash. Heller joined the ranks of black mailing creeps that you see in seedy 1960s-1970s films who have incriminating evidence to goto the press with but want something from you to prevent you family being dragged into it. GWAOTM is a grown consenting woman who yes, may have been a little naive in thinking that her privacy may be protected, but as others had managed it, why could she not expect the same? What Heller was basically doing was in IHO morally & ethically wrong - he had no real journalistic interest in outing The Girl; his arrogance in believing that his actions were justified is misplaced as it clearly wasn't in the public interest, amounted to nothing but pain and distress at the invasion of privacy on The Girls behalf and just proved that a gentleman he is not as his actions make him in essence, a bona fida w$nker.

1. Wake up at 5:15 to the sound of someone making a frantic attempt to clean their room, which 10minutes before, historically would have looked like a bomb hit it.
2. Dose back to sleep and the tap tap of someone quickly making their way down the stairs
3. Wake up the sound of murmuring voices - long distance phonecall maybe?
4. Listen to the sound of the downstairs curtains being pulled back and the patio door being open and shut every 5 minutes. Cue flashbacks to student smoking days.
5. Suddenly realise that the voices are getting louder
6. Suddenly realise that there are two voices
7. Suddenly realise that The Aussie has brought a friend home
8. And is drinking your wine (which the dear boy has now replaced)
9. Listening carefully, you logically reason that one of them is consciencious smoker hence the patio door is being open and shut
10. Listening carefully makes you realise that Girlpants has been grinding his teeth for some time
11. Which then makes you wake up. 2 hours before you need to be at work and after less than 6hours sleep
12. Wind yourself up into a hissy fit, while Girlpants sits on you to calm yourself down for the next 45 minutes
13. Come downstairs and use the f-word several times whilst making your point that noise et ergo mens voices travel
14. Then realise your hair looks like crap
15. And that you have a spot on your chin
16. Quietly wonder to yourself as to why spots continue after your teens into your thirties??
17. Turn around nicely to the young lady sitting petrified on the sofa and wish her a good morning, whilst she tries to unpeel herself from fear induced coma into the cushions
18. Be accused by cuz that you are a "racialist" blaming his voice as he's Aussie, as therefore his voice is deep and it isn't his fault
19. Remind cuz that it is his fault as he's a man whose balls have dropped. Which makes the nice young lady laugh.
20. Pay £4.75 into the swear box for potty mouth behaviour but walk away with the knowledge that despite the fact you looked like shite and dragged through the hedge backwards, you still made her laugh.

Which would have made far far more of an impression... ;o)

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.

Am ill again - am feeling worse than a proverbial badgers arse and am not impressed with my body for once again rebelling against me in this manner. Ignoring the fact that my chest hurts, the hot and cold flushes and suffering more than two hours of hiccups the other night, so I'm also in pain. Add to that the taste of bitter disappointment. You see, tonight, I was supposed to be going up to Windsor to meet Boris, a good friend from overseas whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. The hotel and restaurant was booked and I was due to buy tickets this morning as British Rail is actually cheaper on the day now, and I actually allowed my self to sit back, enjoy and start to relax. What a mistake...

Why is it when you start to relax, your body takes a slow look around and decides it's time to break down, allowing all those little germs and lurgies you've been fighting off for the last few months to take over?? It's like those mornings when you stand there one morning thinking that your complexion actually looks great for a change so inevitably, you wake up with a spot, smack bang somewhere on your face. So not only do I feel rough, I have spots. At 30...ish. Thank God it's on my cheek as it can blend in with the freckles, but then there's still that initial angry red as it blossoms into life.

When it rains, it bloody pours.

A new series of "you are what you eat" started tonight, and whilst I strenuously urge people to not bother unless you fancy throwing things at the screen. I'll probably watch the once but only so I can pelt the hag on the telly with cat biscuits, which would then in all probability be hoovered up by one sulking cat on the vet ordered weight loss programme. Come to think of it, I'll probably switch off after berating the telly for violating my eyes as yet another overweight family seeking help from anywhere finds themselves being advised on diet by someone who clearly looks like she's missed a couple of meals herself and dare I say appeared as a vindictive witch would couldn't sing a note on Celebrity X Factor where Sharon equated her talents to salmonella. Basically, there is something about this woman that I find sincerely offensive.

Could it be the manner she appears on the television, in which she speaks down to people, spittle flying? The distainful look she glares at people? The manner in which she comes across as viewing herself as better than than us mere mortals? That she's proudly a member of a society (American Association of Nutritional Consultants) which Quackwatch bought membership for their dead poodles? Or could it be what I consider the mis-use of the word Doctor for a thesis, which her office let slip is all about 60 pages?

Whilst I have dallied with the idea of buying doctorates in astrology for the cats and myself for crimbo and give Mystic Meg a run for her money, I would rather buy land on the moon which is equally as worthless. However, you can frame our clearly fake land registry on the wall, people will know it's not all that and laugh, plus it won't take the piss out of those who have actually put their all into their qualifications. This doesn't mean that there aren't some bad PhD's out there - there are, no doubt, many PhD supers out there who would possible be able to name unworthy post-grads who scraped through. But then whilst they could be said to have scraped through, they scraped through with 45,000+ words of research which they had to investigate, write, edit, defend, re-edit then resubmit as the final bound product and therefore in all fairness, can not be labelled frauds.

Whereas 60 pages will only give you an MSc by UK Uni standards. Apparently in this case, 60 pages will give you a small fortune, several books, a London practice and your very own television series where for your own entertaining pleasure, you can examine other peoples poo to your hearts content.

I don't usually blow Girlpants trumpet, but he bloody slogged his arse off for his PhD. Mainly so he could pretend to be a doctor should a big breasted woman need mouth to mouth on a flight - this severely backfired on the trip to Thailand. But 5 years working after full time as a lecturer whilst producing a PhD (in user authentication) is good going considering the number of papers he's produced, conferences he organised and the number of plagerising students he's kicked into shape*. He's earnt his Doctorate and understandably gets a bit peeved when companies get it wrong. Even if it's spam mail.

*Memo to students thinking of plagerism as a shortcut. Those who teach you consider google, and indeed, all the academic subscriptions that they can search with a touch of a button as tools. Copy-pasting 27 pages is not considered honouring those who wrote before you and can clearly be identified. This including copying your own supervisors papers and claiming as your own -

he might just notice.

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)

At three o'clock in the morning, with no air-con....

Sim - Whats the matter!? You keep tossing and turning.

Girlpants - It's too hot - I can't sleep.

Sim - (Grrr!) If I fan you for a little while, do you think it will help?

Girlpants - The fan? Maybe not, but the breeze from your bingo wings will.

Last night, Girlpants and I were redeemed of sproglet watching due to molar maneuvers. As they came out before we left, we decided to see either the Man of Steel or M. Depp at his best, making the most of Orange Wednesdays before they become extinct.

Lately, there have been reports that British movies and cinema attendance has risen, and with it, profits. Bravo for British cinema - a return to the golden era of Ealing Studios. But given the prices we had to dish out yesterday, the rise in British attendance is surprising, as Girlpants turned blue when paying for tickets. And then looked up at the price board and declined muchies and chocolate.

Let's see - even with my slowly expiring student card (£4.80) and one adult (£6.45) and the £1 booking fee, that's already £12.25 for tickets alone. Plus popcorn (£4.50 medium bucket) and two medium drinks (2 x £2.45) and the night out costs £21.65. Whilst we're in the sticks, even I feel for Londoners at £12.50 for an adult and £9.50 for students, totalling £23.00 without the munchies!

Given the prices demanded from their captive audiences, I did feel that the elderly lady et al bringing a pizzabox into the theatre and then arguing for 15 minutes over her right to eat had a point, however, she also blatently took the piss and held us up. Lucky for me (and Girlpants belly), I had my ever present bottle of water and box of tic-tacs at the ready. Only two calories and 20p a box, bloody bargain!

[rant] So Girlpants and I have started to watch a few different series on the box, just to make a difference around the CSI, CSI Miami, CSI NY, Forensic Files and New Yankee Workshop that we have spilling out of our heads and onto the floor.

So we had a look and stared to watch

• Medical Investigation - cancelled after 1st season
• Threshold - cancelled after 1st season
• Killer Instinct - cancelled after 1st season
• Bones - still going....thank God!
• House - ditto
• Kitchen Confidential - cancelled after 1st season
• Green Wing - cancelled after 2nd season

Why, why, why? What is wrong with these people in the big seats!!? Have we started so now we can't finish? Can they not see that when something is critically acclaimed and has a cult following, then it's a good thing. Maybe even something to resurrect, like:

• Futurama - cancelled but rumoured to be returning 2008
• Family Guy - cancelled, then reinstated 
• Doctor Who - cancelled after the Americans tried to work it, now back!

It really drives me mad that you start to get onto a good thing and then it dies an early premature death. Fox cancelled Family Guy AND Futurama but kept The Simpson thing limping into the everleasting and deary sunset. Where's the next season of Black Books? The long promised Red Dwarf the movie? Or Futurama the movie?? And did you really have to quit on Green Wing? The least they could do is let people know when they cancel series instead of them sliding by the wayside and hoping no-one will notice.

Gah! It's enough to make your teeth ache.

Thank God for South Park, thats all I can say..!!

[/rant]

Grouchy, arsey and no too happy - we were woken up at 5am by this

and then 30 minutes later by this

Girlpants - It must be sunny - you're shaving your legs! Just don't forget the toes. You're looking like a hobbit at the moment.

Humph!

So Girlpants mum & I have been looking at winter walking jackets for the last week as she's from up north and I just know that Girlpants is going to insist on dragging me out to the moors some more. We've been shopping around - spotted some fine jackets in TKMaxx the other week, Trago the next and even tried some of the more rather expensive outdoor shops where you just know that you're going to pay that extra pretty penny.

Eventually though, we decided the the TKMaxx option with the removable fleece inside of the jacket was the best option at the princely sum of £21.99. So off we trundled once more, only to find that in the time honoured tradition of trying to get the consumer to buy more tatt, they had moved things around. Eventually, we once again found the jackets. But all was not as it was before.

They had removed the fleeces. And were selling them separately.

And the jackets were now £80!

Business sense? Yes

Ethics? No

Flabbergasted? Yes

I guess that I'll just remain cold...

The eve before the most romantic day of the year, and the Journal of Soci-Economics reports on a new research project on marriage, entitled

"Does Marriage make people happy or do happy people get married?"

Apparently at 18months in, both Girlpants and I should now expect our honeymoon to be over. Marriage all goes downhill from here on in. And God help us if we have children in the next two years as apparently that would really pi$$ on our marriage parade as well. We might be able to look forward to a slight happiness revival in years 3 to 5, but other than that, we won't know if we have a successful relationship until our ruby anniversary.

Optimism is a wonderful thing to have large doses of.

I may mock him, but Girlpants and I are a little bit soppy. Since we were introduced by the power of the Billinghursts, we've spoken and msgd each other every day. From the moment I moved in, bar three occasions, we've never spent a night apart - not even the night before the wedding as Girlpants so quaintly put it:

Girlpants - They've probably guessed that we've shagged already, Missy White Wedding, so what's the point?

Succinct, my man.

The only times when we have been parted have been for courses. Or jollies in his case. Once when I went to Alton Towers the University of Staffordshire on a forensic course, and twice when he's been sent on a jollie to pastures green. Namely Germany and Guernsey.

Now, usually, Girlpants likes me to come with him on these trips. It could be because the places are cold at the times of year when he visits and I keep his feet warm, but we both know that it's mainly because we're soppy and don't really like to be apart.

Especially when he's having all the fun, giving interviews to Radio Guernsey.

Take this morning for instance. I woke up ultra ultra early as I had a 9am lecture and there was no Girlpants to kick me out of bed for a cuppa. And I waited until 8am until I gave him a quick call and a text, but he was tired and had little time, so it was a short sweet conversation.

So I was quite glad when a text arrived at 5pm tonight saying, "in room, call me x x x". Now I'm not saying I programmed the hotels number in speed dial, but within 30 seconds, I had called. We chatted about our respective days - me slogging on the laptop for a assignment tomorrow and giving myself a crick in the neck, and he giving presentations in a happy clappy shave your pits Christian Centre.

These are not important things, but they ritually start and end each of our days. He brushes his teeth and I tell him gossip. I taxi him home from work and he tells me "stuff" about his day as well as any inner office relationship gossip. These are trivial and non-important things that we chat about, but hell, gossip is addictive and by talking about the stuff in our day, we make each other part of our day.

So I wasn't impressed when we were interupted, when the doorbell, newly fixed and now working, rang, and whilst still chatting, I went to answer the door, only to look at a big tall butch guy. He didn't even wait for my greeting - he just dived on in asking:

Double Glazing Guy - Hello madam, do you have a minute?

Sim - Err...

DGG - My names John and I'm <holds up smeered dog eared ID card> from You Don't Need What I'm Selling You Double Glazing Company.

Sim - This isn't important, is it? <starts sarcastically pointing to mobile held to ear>

DGG - I was wondering if you were interested in double glazing?

Sim - No - if you actually look at our home, we've done our own <goes to shut door>

DGG - Really madam? Could you possibly tell me where you got your fixtures from and who fitted them?

Sim - Grrr...

Maybe it's training? Maybe he's thick skinned after countless doors being slammed in his face? Maybe, he was about to get his head snapped off? Maybe I had been pointlessly studying all day and banging my head against a chemical equation wall? Maybe, I had just finished watching an episode of Scrubs before calling Girlpants, and it was there, slam bang in my mind into a mini explosion just waiting to be ranted...

Sim - Listen Shirley. Our windows are new, and no, before you ask, we don't want to buy a door from you to replace our nice thick wooden door because no matter what price you quote, I can guarantee you that we can get it cheaper elsewhere. Now unless you're dying, deaf or blind, you can see I am on my mobile - a long distance don't you know call, because according to the bloody mobile company, Guernsey is foreign despite the +44 dial code and this is costing me a bomb. What's that Shirley? Nothing to say? Didn't want to offer me the Everest lifetime guarentee?? Have you given up pestering me on my doorstep where clearly I didn't invite you and even more so I clearly don't wish to speak to you? If so, thank you. Not interested. Goodbye.

And all I could hear, quietly, on the other end of the line was:

Girlpants - Whose Shirley?

"It's the paparazzi's fault. They chased me and forced me into a corner, endangering my baby"

Really Britney? So that big burly bouncer next to you couldn't have driven or taken the wee lad off your lap and into his nice safe car seat?

I've got three words for you blondie, and they're in the header

Moron

My bleeding eyes.. and Girlpants bleeding ears!

We've just spent the last hour watching a programme that others have been talking about for the past couple of days. First aired on the fourth channel of ye olde box, Extraordinary Breastfeeding was a factual and sympathetic examination into four different women who were breastfeeding their children.

There is Veronika who is still breastfeeding her 7ry old, while her eldest has asked if she can be breastfed from "milky-yoo" and "milky-yuu" as a present for her tenth birthday. When her younger child was born, her then 65yr old mother helped with the breastfeeding duties until Veronika was used to tandem feeding, whilst hubby felt left out and joined in to be more involved. There is Dolores and her husband who are about to adopt a little girl from China, whom she then tries to breastfeed whilst nursing her 5yr old son. There was also Kirsty works for an breastfeeding organisation - she taught her 2yr daughter to call her breasts "bitty" and is an ardent supporter of a womans right to nurse in public by organising protests for a womens right to breastfeed in public by organising a "nurse in" at the local shopping centre after feeding her child at the checkout counter in Tesco's. And finally, there's 38yr old Sophie, who was tandem-feeding her two-year-old twins on demand whilst her marriage is effectively on hold, her husband misses spending time with her and with her two older children, feel to a certain extent left out of her life.

As a 30yr old married women with no children, I have no problem with women breastfeeding in public. Sisters and friends have nursed their children in front of me with no embarrassment, and no-one in my family feels discomfort from seeing mothers nurse their children. But I did feel discomfort watching as a woman tried to nurse a child that wasn't born from her womb who clearly wasn't interested in mummy milk, despite repeated efforts to try and make her nurse. Girlpants clearly winced when the grandmother admitted breastfeeding her grandchildren and admittedly, we were both disturbed by seeing a 7yr old stretch out on the sofa to be breastfeed, only to then place two apples down her shirt, look at herself in the mirror and announce that she was going to breastfeed herself when her own breasts had grown. And I did have a problem watching a woman nurse her child whilst wheeling a trolley around Tesco's, whilst checking off her shopping list in the fresh meat aisle.

Observers also gave their opinions at the nurse-in - one man said breastfeeding encourages "paedo-fiddlers", he's mistaken. Paedo-fiddlers don't exist and paedophiles are not at all interested in boobs. I can understand a womens wish to nurse their child when and where they can, as breast milk is a good source or nutrients, enzymes and to a point, antibodies against diseases. But as House said, there is a point to when "yummy mummy milk" can only do so much, which is why a child needs more supplements and inoculations. WHO recommends breastfeeding up and beyond 2yrs of age, but they are concerned with the bigger world picture where most countries can not get the supplements and nutrients to their child, and in some cases, can't even get enough food. The West is different with it's wealth - maybe this is why the West views breastfeeding the way it does. And whilst I don't think that a woman should be forced to stop feeding their child, but there has to be a point when the child grows up.

And 7 took the biscuit.

Now please excuse me whilst I go hug my boobs.

A few years ago, there were queues of cars panic buying petrol as truckers and protester's barricaded the petrol depots, protesting at the amount of 70% tax that we pay on our fuel here in ye olde UK. The plain fact is that we pay the highest prices in Europe for petrol, whilst the fuel from our supplies in the North Sea are piped elsewhere.

This political argument has been going on for years with the truckers and business people. Let's face it - we know that it's a fossil fuel that isn't going to replenish overnight. For all the solar panels or wind turbines, cars still need black gold.

So I was quite pleasantly surprised this afternoon when Girlpants sent me a link for a new group. Pipeline are a new group that knows just how much profit is made by the corporations. They offer a deal with an unknown supplier who offers 5p-10p off a litre for all members. Membership is free but they need over 100,000 members for the discount to work and once they have the numbers, then all members will benefit from the discount by using the preferred supplier.

So go on people - save yourself some mullah and register

After the partying, comes the coursework.

To date I have 15 assignments to finish by February, which they are still adding to - ridiculous as that may seem. If I want to pass, I must complete all the work and if I want the distinction that I am after, then I need to achieve that grade on every single piece of work. So needless to say, I am fed up - and it's not just me. We sarted off with 18 members in our little forensic group, and now there are 8 - some left due to personal reasons but the majority left because of the assingments. There are now the steadfast few who will see it through until the end, who work bloody hard for both their course and in their paying jobs.

Maybe it was my lack of alcohol in my body that made me fume today as two of the lads got zero for their experimental plans. They appealed and the nameless lecturer cited his reasons and refused to give more marks. But then he seems to be more strict than others in the college as in his view

if you talk about your plans with other people, then you are cheating.

Maybe it's just me that thinks that he's talking out of his proverbial arse. But I doubt it. Discussing a subject does not make these two boys cheats. It makes them stronger for this subject as they both nominated and then shot down the types of experiments which they could use, and eventually settled on the best plan they could devise. They didn't copy each other - far from it. They had an idea of a plan and then wrote it up individually. Even I've discussed these tests that could be used to ID chemicals with others from my group. Does that make me a plagarist? Or a brainstormer? Does that mean that for the last year, this whole group has been cheating?

Or does it mean that my lecturer is sad..??

Because there is no way in hell that this is a co-incidence...

Bloody Orange!

For all those we haven't as of yet got in touch with since the New Year, we would like to belatedly wish you a happy 2006. We both sent texts, however someone mentioned this morning that they hadn;t received anything from us in the last four days. Indignant, erstwhile mobiles were checked which revealed that between two of us, all but one msg failed. Nice to know you can rely on your provider, especially as they didn't try to resend.

Just to let you know that we haven't forgotten you and will try to be in touch soon. As soon as we scour online for a new contract.

Urgh...

Memo to self: next time el parentos go on tour

1. Make sure they take mobile

2. Ensure they've updated family on bills

3. Interrogate them on the vague possibility that the house is falling down

4. Make bloody sure that they tell you the EXACT day they are due back, not the day they fly out.

I did think that it was today - silly stupid me. Only another 24hours to go. Excuse me whilst I hack cough up a lung in anticipation.

My lecturer is Marjorie Dawes. She has the head nod, insults and "dust". In fact, I still expect her to come in and say "Until a law is passed to imprison fat people, the gluttons of Britain are free to walk the streets and attend special diet classes like this one". Except she teaches psychology. Which is a science. Except it isn't exact. And can't be proven in repeated research. But it is a science. But not chemistry science. As it isn't exact. But give it a few years and it will all iron out.

Dust?

I've thought this for some time but especially more so since speaking to el parentos in Malaysia. They've been proudly handing round photos of Girlpants & mine rather expensive party ie the wedding, which the rellies have loved. Until they looked closely and said "is that really Sim?". To which my politically correct mother said

"yes - she does look bigger but she's much happier now since meeting her man and can eat more" Which is another way of saying

FAT.

Must remember to thank mother properly on her return. Hiding her hair dye might do.

Or itching powder in her girdle.

Just back from el parentos, where in the midst of my illness I have suffered the most repulsive experience of my life.

In the past couple of days, the parents poorly boiler has been fixed which is rather good as the house was bloody cold and the cat had icicles on his whiskers. However, muggins fell ill and when returning back to the house I grew up in two days later, found that the heating had been on for two days and a minor colony of flies had built up. Girlpants pointed out that at least I could use my entomological skills in determining how many generations had established themselves. Which would have been a good thing to do for CSI Janner, but have to admit that it was advice I ignored as I fumigated the place with raid with one hand whilst hoovering with the other and hoping that the helter skeltor suction power of a dyson would be enough to stun and kill. Now all I have to do is scrub myself down with a couple of brillo pads...

There are two problems with nieces & nephews - mess and germs.

Mess, I can deal with. A bit of a scrub or hoover, or in my case bullying the children with threats of writing to Santa can usually get the place tidy. Germs however are a completely different matter. This week, young Thomas has been waylaid by both molars coming through at the back as well as a hacking cough which leaves him as weak as a newborn puppy. And despite my threats of his pi$$ing off Santa, he refused to put his hand over his mouth when coughing.

Which means if it's contagious, then Aunty Sim will get it. I've been up half the night with either coughs or soggy pussy cats who think that my getting up is a sign of being fed again. Something like this always happens when Girlpants is away. Last time he went to America, there was a mass cull of fish - every morning, a fish would die so when he came back a month later, the tropical tank had half the population when than when he left. Personally, I think that it was an aquatic vendetta against moi due to my rationing of food.

Either that or I starved half of them to death...

So fingers crossed that so far, only my sanity and lungs have been casualty's. Meanwhile, I have the dentist to look forward to tomorrow for an early morning appointment as they wanted to charge me for cancelling even though I warned them I could be infectious. I do believe that there's a reason why the NHS is £620M in deficit....

Both Girlpants & I have been wearing our poppies for the last two weeks. I've even had to rebuy new poppies due to baby sitting duties that have meant four former poppies were consumed by the under fives...

Thank god I don't change their nappies...

On Friday, Girlpants held a two minute silence in his office. Mind - there was no-one there at the time as everyone had pissed off to the pub for opening. Whereas I was running around Sainsburys trying to find both Tori & L in between the store holding four mins silence for those who died (i.e. Stopping me in my tracks & not being able to ask anyone if they had seen them).

So imagine how pissed off we both were when at 11 this morning, the new neighbour a few doors down was screaming at her child at top notch, turning the air blue. Just two minutes love - it's not a lot of your time to give a little respect to service peeps who have given their lives for us.

I think I'll go send Rhubarb to pee on her car...

Do you think Girlpants would let me have one...??

Not even November yet and the chavs down the road have already put their christmas decorations up...

Makes me wish that all the bad boys and girls are visited by the Futurama Santa...



Bah blooming humbug!

I’ve literally had enough of it all - I had cleaned the house from top to toe on Friday for a viewing at 3:30pm, only to have a phonecall at 3:20 where

Estate Agent (dipsy voice) - I can’t remember. Did I call you earlier RE this viewing at 3:30??

Sim - No, you didn’t.

Estate Agent - Ahh - thats good because I couldn’t remember as such, if I had called or not, as you see it’s been such a busy couple of days for us here in the office.

Sim - That’s nice.

Estate Agent - I can’t remember if my head is the right way on sometimes.. Oh well. Why did I call again??

Sim - Viewing. 3:30pm

Estate Agent - Ahh yes - well he called earlier. Can’t think why I didn’t call earlier. Must be because we’re so busy...

Sim - Yes

Estate Agent - Well, he’s cancelled. His offer was accepted on another property.

Sim (controlled voice of anger) - Right....

So I rang up Girlpants and told him I was fed up. He agreed, so we wrote a very nice polite letter telling the estate agents to piss off.

I can feel my migraines disappearing in a midst of stress already....

So the estate lady calls up with two more viewings for our place. Great thought the Haskell-Dowlands, as they feveriously clean up the house. The the phone rings...

"Sorry Mrs Haskell-Dowland, but the only house that either you or your husband had any slight inkling in purchasing has just been sold. Have a nice day!"

Bollocks!! Sodding Murphys law and now another quest for the perfect abode...

It’s drizzling down with rain at the moment - the sky is grey, the cats are in and miserable (for a change) and and I can hear the guy next door suffering from a hangover caused by a 4 inch cricket trophy. Meanwhile, back at Girlpants cave of work, he’s is so busy that last night, he was working whilst eating my specially made "one year and one month" anniversary dinner...

Just to make a change from eating supper at the fish tank in front, with eyeballs glued to the telly. Proof that men can multi-task!!

In the midst of Girlpants mania, I’m back at college - in order to make my photo from this year acceptable, in went the eyeballs, make up on, hair washed and blown dry down et volia! Vanity, thy vocation is forensics! Not bad if I do say so myself! Could be a high school year book photo with the soften colours. Anything to help with the passing of time!!!! In the midst of the new chemistry projects where am allowed to blow things up

Sim - Caravans??

Lecturer - Not unless the Head of Dept is in it at the time...

am also currently keeping home clean. Only 2.5 months now, 4 viewings and 1 offer. The decking has been power washed, the bathroom scrubbed and the kitchen blasted with an industrial cleaner that would remove skin from bones given half the chance... So Girlpants is playing hardball - we’ll know today if we have sold the house and have bought the one we want... Fingers and all of that!!!

’sppose I’d better start scrubbing...

So I went to the doctors today to check up on my blood pressure. The last couple of visits, it’s been a bit high due to the fact that I’ve been running late (as per) and rushed in at the last minute. So today, I swaned in a full twelve minutes early so I could relax beforehand. So much for planning, as nursey saw me sitting there and called me in early due to a cancellation - "no prob’s" thought I, and smugly took my seat. Imagine my surprise when:

Nursey (in Scottish brogue) - Mrs Haskell-Dowland. It’s still a wee bit high so we’ll have to get you to book in with the Doctor.

Sim - Because I was cleaning the house since seven this morning..??

Nursey - Ouch - that might have a bearing on it Mrs Haskell-Dowland, but it could also be due to your phantom baby pill, family history or the fact that your BMI says that you’re medically obese.

Sim (aside) - BITCH! Scuse me!!?

Nursey - Ouch now - nothing to worry about Mrs Hasekll-Dowland. You just need to lose a little puppy weight, that’s all.

Sim (through clenched teeth) - I’m thirty!!

Nursey - You’re still young Mrs Haskell-Dowland, so nothing to worry about. Just heart disease, diabetes and putting unneccessary weight on your knees. Just try and work it off by Christmas and you’ll fit into that sparkly party frock, no worries...

Cry? I could shoot myself!

She reminded me of my Great Aunt Mabel, who always came out with something that made you wince. My father seems to have inherited that talent in his old age. The other week, we visited my aunt in Barnstaple. Seven different curries and plates filled later, my father, he of the old Budda belly, comes out with:

"You should eat less Seeemoan, with your weight..."

This coming from the guy whose plate is three foot high and whose belly you rub for luck! I didn’t know whether to wince in embaressment or lean across give him a hard tap on the nose. Sometimes I do sit there and wonder whether he’s house trained or not...

So here I am, with a bowl of rabbit food looking forward to three months of not much fun at all. Girlpants estimates that each boob probably weigh a couple of kilos each, so if push comes to shove, there’s always breast reduction.

The house is booked for two viewings today, so have spent most of the morning cleaning house and trying to make it presentable! Given the amount of hair that the cats had generally malted just by walking through the house, let alone scratching, am now well and truly knackered. Girlpants took a powerwasher to the decking last night, which means that the garden looks like a semi-new construction.

We even had an offer a couple of days ago - an offer at long last!!! Needless to say at a cheeky 10K under the asking, Girlpants said no...

See what happens when you kick fuss and butt??

So there I was waiting next to my mother in the day admittance of the eye infirmary. I had picked up my parents at 7am, and in the midst of trying not to panic as my father kept checking his wrist watch for the time, got them there promptly at 7:30.

4.5 hours later, my father has been weighed, tested and had a big black marker pen above the eye that need the plastic surgery and was clearly not amused when I asked if he could also get an ear tuck whilst they were there. Yet he had still not been put into a pretty surgical frock as the first patient’s had as of yet not come out, it was pretty obvious that despite my our sacrifices of getting up in some ungodly hour in the morning and patiently waiting, that the surgery was cancelled.

Bollocks! There goes my day then.. What’s that father?? You want to quickly pop into one or two shops on the way home...??

That would be the rest of the day then....

I was up at 0615 this morning as yesterday, I thought it a very good idea to pick up the phone and say yes to booking my father into a long awaited appointment.

Whose laughing now...? :o(

I used to smoke... Worst kind of non-smoker is the ex-smoker. Went to Japan - ciggies were cheap and health care expensive. Helped me lose a lot of weight - size 8 sex siren but then I quit when back in the homeland, promptly grew bigger boobs and developing a hacking cough that eventuated with my left lung on the pavement outside of Woolworths on one summers day.

Despite the curves that refuse to go away, I can now smell a smoker from 20 paces and despair at the geek guy next door as he smokes, whom I can currently smell having a fag outside, through the front door. Like Dunghill on a bad day. In this midst of the stench, the 12 years olds are running around screaming outside.

The little angels have taken to a new tactic of late - knock on peoples doors and tell them that a group of ye young’uns have been throwing stones and aiming at cars. Ours in particular. At first, we took note, but the the proverbial wolf, ignored them at the front door when it was apparent from the lack of desciption or peeps in the square (as I had watched from the window) that there was no one throwing stones at all...

Irritating as they are, Girlpants has confiscated my BB-gun on health and safety grounds, so am now looking for a new deterrent on stone throwers, that can also be used on small irritating children that cherry knock....

So am finally back from my forensic week. And what fun. CSI Janner got to play with drugs, guns, fingerprints and some rather expensive equipment...

She was also banned from drinking from the guy in charge who was currently swilling a beer back at the time... Due to the hypocrisy, she felt promptly justified in opening the bottle of red she had sneaked into her bag after checking the rules about the bringing in of alcohol.. :o)

Don’t start lecturing me about being over 18 – been there and had the decade t-shirt…

But the course was a success – we got to examine a crime scene house, looking like sperm from a Woody Allen movie



But at least I have managed to learn how to lift prints properly!!!

But the one thing that managed to ruin and piss me off this week was the Princess.... Not only did she get the college to pay for her, but she FLEW up, bragged about not paying full amount for the course and then flew back to Plymouth again. Why? You ask – because she doesn’t do public transport, so God knows what a sodding plane is.

This wasn’t the main reason why I very nearly punched her – these kids had saved, begged or borrowed to money to come on this course and she was there bragging about the fact that she didn’t pay. Plus the flight up was more than the cost of the course and another member from our group couldn’t come. But it wasn’t that… It was the self centeredness, blatant lying exaggeration and the fact that she was more concerned with her own being than any other person in the universe that got under my skin.

Okay – am going on a trite, but I have to vent! Someone who claims that they have been on holiday in Europe with no apparent tan and blaming on their body scrubs clearly A) hasn’t been to Europe on holiday nor B) studied the biology module on skin pigments. So yes… I had enough. I’ve had a year of playing Bullshit Bingo but if Princess is allowed back next year then I may just go back to answering phones…

Now there’s a threat to TPS....

I wasn’t going to blog about this, but it has gone a little far now, so I have to rant...

Four months ago, my fathers neighbour asked him to trim the neighbours’ hedge that overhangs in-between the two properties... Needless to say, I was not happy as a) he promised me last year that he wasn’t going to do anymore handy man jobs for the aforementioned neighbour, who has, according to mother, never said thank you to him for his help and b) I remembered when we were children, that he used to use a small step ladder and he always used to stumble off it every single time. I told him that he was bound to stumble off, hit his head on concrete and die. Needless to say, my graphic persuasion eventually wore him down and he promised not to trim the hedge.

Roll forward three and a half months, and my father is still doing jobs for the neighbour, bar the promise off trimming the hedge. Not totally happy about it but the nagging doesn’t seem to work... So needless to say, I wasn’t happy when I heard he tried to fix the neighbours washing line.

I was livid when I found out he fell from the step ladder when coming down from fixing the line. But even more upset when I found out that when falling, he caught his finger and amputated the top half inch off. My mother searched but couldn’t the tip, so knocked on the neighbours door to ask for help. By all accounts, the neighbour wasn't too receptive at 4 in the afternoon and despite being in the medical business, didn’t even offer a bag of peas, told my mother to take my father to casualty, closed to door and went back in.

So now my father can not raise his arm up, use his left hand properly nor hold his grandchildren for six weeks. My sister couldn’t stop crying for three days and my mother is still grieving. I had fun for three days, trying to make my father laugh as I made light with "I told you so"’s and chastising dad for giving the neighbours dog bones, as if he hadn’t given it enough to eat that week...

It’s taken over a week, but slowly, mum and dad have got over things, albeit not very well.

Until this weekend. The neighbour spoke over the wall to my mother, saying that the finger had been found, but that was okay, because it was all buried now in its own little plot. Grave even. Bad move - if checked, they would have known that was a bad thing to say if they had given any thought to far eastern symbolism of burying a symbol, photo or part of a person.

So now my sisters upset, my mothers upset, the grandchildren can not understand why grandad can’t play with them, I’m livid and my fathers’ pride is shot and he has a lack of fingertip. Meanwhile, the apparently, the neighbour has hinted that there are more jobs that need doing and complains about the kids.

And the moral of this story - upset Sim’s family, and the final straw is she calls for back-up.

Hope they have insurance....

I haven’t blogged for a while as I have alot on - but hey! Tis the reading week that I always longed for in Uni!!!! So I have a week to catch up, blog, write assignments, work and have rellies down....

Speaking of which, we have my father in law is down for the bank holiday. Walking around the town centre today, he accidently informed us both that he had pre-empted the sanctity of the uterus and had bought two cards referring to congrats on either birth. He had also bought "congrats on your..."holy communion, confirmation, marriage, death et al.

Fab bloody doosey. So I informed him that it would take until the next millenia until my eggs defrost.

At which point, Girlpants asked how his "baby making machine" was feeling....

Girlpants is currently in the bath, licking his wounds. Need I say more...?

I remember, years ago when I first met Stuart, that he was having a few probelms with Vodaphone.

I now have similar problems with Orange.

Over a month ago, I rang them up and gave them on months notice on my mobile number. I was told that they would send through a pay as you go sim card and that my contract would end before the end of the month.

Yeah right!

What they didn’t say was that I would have to register my new SIM card to cancel my contract. Usually when you hand notice in your notice is GIVEN!!!

They want to charge me for a months of calls despite the fact that they admit that there has been no activity on the number for over a month - especially in comparison with previous months! Apparently the standard notes had been added to the database, meaning that they had told me that the contract owuldn;t automatically end (don’t remember that in the conversation), that the SIM card would be with me before we were off to LV (nope - nada - neit!) and that was all that needed to be done...

So despite my arguments, the big corporation is spitting on the lowly customer. Bastards! Nasty naughty people!

I sense war ahead...

So it started with taking the rellies , now they had recovered from their various bouts of virus, out for a day trip... It started off well, going upto Tavistock for the weekly market. Only on route there, it started pissing pelting it down. So by the time we got to the ancient town, the farmers market had packed up and left us on with the tic tack market, in the sodding rain...

So we were there for all of 30 minutes.

To save Uncle walking around in the rain & cold, we came up with the cunning plan of taking them to Buckland Abbey...which only opened for the spring on Sat the 12th.

So the cunning plan of driving limping around Princetown, followed by a quick run around Burrator, ending with a KFC drive through & home, which would had worked had it not been for the fog.

The thick pea soup fog came out of nowhere. As soon as we drove over the griddle and past the signs saying "Take Moor Care", it descended. Nevermind the Merc which was right up my arse, flashing and trying to get me to speed up.... So we promptly turned around to go home. Once past the cattle grids, the fog dissappeared!!! Having enough, we drove to KFC and then home.

To a half cooked KFC.

At which point, cuz pointed out that my carborator was either leaking or about to blow...

Joy!

Quick hop skip and jump dropping peeps off atr x,y and z, I finally ended up at my hairdressers. I am now, officially the owner of some rather sexy and manageable hair.

Only to find that the crowd of people who were going to meet us in the evening all mananged to cancel. At once. To say cuz was slightly to the right of peeved would put it mildly. In the end, we managed sponsor a few drunks and get them out on a tour of Mutley, North Hill, down to Derrys Cross with a finale in Walkabout, the Aussie bar...

Which wouldn’t let cuz in on his Oz drivers license.

Bliss. Bloody bliss.

Roll on Saturday...

There’s nothing worse than being ill for two days, wanting to stay in the bed that is your only solace, only to get your arse out of bed at 7 to get into college for a 9am lecture....

A 9am lecture that today is at 11:15...
Bollocks!