It's no (big) secret that I am a television addict - you name it. That's me, watching Forensic Files, House, NCIS, Doctor Who and underlying it all, is my addiction to reality tv. Both Banana and Pat have admitted to the latter as much, which means I am not alone, fighting my way through the quagmire.

But you know when things have got really bad, when they invade your dreams. Last night, Richard was in my dream, dressed in a sailors outfit whilst he and the others were being tested by Donald Trump. The latter happened to be a US Marine, who taught them how to cook and then expected them to prove themselves in combat and save a man's life. Totally bizarre as some of the BB housemates looked extraordinarily hideous in their get-ups, whilst Nikki had a tantrum and Lea brimmed out of her uniform.

Apparently it's bad when aspects of non-reality infect your sleep. When I taught English in Japan, I was so worried about my lesson structure and abilities, that I started deconstructing the day in my dreams, correcting my spelling, grammar and writing my own homework on the board. Most disconcerting as in my dreams, my students had better English than I.

I'm somewhat thankful that BB ends in a week - maybe my dreams will get back to normal. But then I will have the added problem that there will be, in no doubt, a new reality show around the corner.

Now if only Musicality came back, I might even join in.

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.

             The little nephew lay there, sleeping on the sofa. There was something different. Something I couldn't figure out.             Then Talkative Sis picked him up and it all became apparent. His pants were a bright, brilliant, sky blue. He had moved on. He had finally grown out of the white bulky nappies that he usually wears.

She had put him in a pair of girlpants.

Now, neither I nor Girlpants have ever thought of his good self as being a fashion savant - he never buys clothes without my being prescent and would have put himself up for that yankee doodle restyle show had he not seen the sad excuse known as the British version. He almost got nominated for the show a few times before we had even met, to which he still holds head in shame.

But now, he's slowly being weened from the dress sense he had before, this man of mine. He's still holding onto his 15year old workers boots for dear life, but most of the plaid shirts, work shirts over ten years old and some of his "happy jumpers" that would have only done justice on Mister Edmounds in 1976 have now gone to the car boot sale in the sky, no doubt destined for some satirical student nights out.

However, some of the girlpants remain, despite my best attempts. And now the second generation is being reared wearing the same. A fashion faux pas in the making. So writing this in hindsight, it was a type of poetic justice as little nephew gave a yawn and snuggled into Talkative Sis.

And them promptly peed his Girlpants.

Custard Cat came in tonight. Miaowing. Asking for attention. Wanting love and attention.

Personally, I thought she had been bullied. Again. The new cats that have moved into the area, with their gangster attitudes and big guns. They all wear the same colour collar, and are all the same breed. And they only attack in their gangs.

Maybe I'm undermining Custards position. I've recently walked around with one of those 2.5 litre pump water pistols that can shot over 50ft. Just to back her up if I see her in trouble. Sad really, but my cat used to be one of the top cat. She's a top mouse catcher - she's even taken on a rat. She used to have fun with the others, puncing around and playing. There were no fights. No black eyes. No claws left behind.

But that changed. Custard has lost her confidence and we've even caught her looking at a bullying hotline ad. She used to got out all of the time - out of the two of them, she would be the one to take the car keys. But of late, she only leaves the house by night. It's safer. Except today. I could tell there was something different in her. Her attitude, the way she held herself - this was the old Custard.

She was back!

She jabbed, lunged and weaved her way around the square. She fought back. To the point we thought she was wounded. She came back, wanting company and loving, calling for attention. We fought she wanted food. Or even praise for making her mark on what was once hers. We were proud of our kitty and told her so. But then it all got to much for her, and she was promptly ill in front of us.

With a half dead wasp in the midst.

It's a tough cat world in our square now - but I think our kitty has just made her mark.

After a restless nights sleep, thanks to heat, chills and a Custard cat briging in a live mouse at 5am (thank you kitty), I dragged myself out of my duvet induced coma at 7:55 to get myself ready for a 10:30am interview.

I was ready. Over the weekend, I had dragged Girlpants around the Debenhams sales to find clothes that would fit my now ample arse. After fainting several times after a) measuring the chest and b) trying on various styles and sizes of couture, I strolled away merrily whilst he had staggered under the weight of my bargains. The sister had also double checked the outfits deemed appropriate, including shoes. How could I go wrong?

Dollied up to the nines, and apparently looking like Supernanny (after saying which, I could hear was a quick back peddle - "not as large Sim...please don't slap me"), I put on ridiculous sexy shoes that I knew were going to tear my feet to shreds and off I peddled. Arriving 15 minutes early, I waited. And waited. Twenty minutes past the scheduled appointment. Tick tock tick. Eventually, by 11, I ushered into a small room that used to be one of the nun's old cells and faced the inquisition.

Things were going swimmingly. They asked, I answered. It all seemed to be going so well. Small team - only three with the extra person. Training. Even some hint of promotion, but only if the older woman interviewing me died as I could see her nails digging into the table as she claimed dominion of the department. Amazingly enough, through it all, my lippy stayed off as the light streamed directly into my eyes and the nails digged deeper and deeper into the mdf. Then they dropped it. The clanger. Salary.

Usually, salary isn't a sticker for me. Trust me - I've worked for some shirty companies with some really low pay, but for the high specification of this job with analytical skills in addition to a scientific background, and the salary, after tax, national insurance and minus the percentage for the benefit scheme, actually worked out less than the minimum wage. Did I say less? I meant pitiful in comparison to the minimum wage.

Considering this and the fact that I've just dragged my sorry arse through college, it's no wonder that masses of British choose benefits as opposed to work. Faced with this shocker, I kept my good spirits and smile, meanwhile quickly calculating what I would be left with after Labour stripped me of my pay. Whilst doing so, they faced me with the final question.

Interviewer - Where do you see yourself in five years time?

Sim - As a size twelve.

Do you think I got it?

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.

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!

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!

Can of worms open at the ready - this one of moi-self and Dr Clarke was found on Girlpants INC 2006 website

Oh dear.