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?

With the mini heat wave crashing over the county this weekend, it was a delight to watch the good old stiff upper lip coming into play, whilst the pragmatic of us also packed brollies in hand/manbags. Tinny bad versions of Greensleeves and Match of the Day filled Friday afternoon as ice-cream vans tout round the residential streets trying to entice those suffering from the sun that it was just so much simpler to come out and pay for an ice-cream instead of walking inside and raiding the freezer, whilst children sulked as they believed their parents white lies.

Girlpants, who spent the day working on plaster boarding walls, found the day difficult given his pale pallor and the manual work; however he dealt with the heat with his usual aplomb. He broke out a t-shirt in favour of the plaid, wore shirt linen trousers and topped off the ensemble with steel toe cap boots with his socks pulled up to his knees as all good boy scouts do.

Of course, in a country which tends on the grey and rainy side, there were bound to be complaints. The words "too hot" and "gruelling" were volleyed around the back gardens, whilst the complainée's rubbed oil in on their shoulders to emphasise the beginnings of their tans in flaming reds. Pimm's Number 1 washed over the hedgerows and there was a universal extended pinkie parade as Friday night cooled over ice. And as charcoal burning wafted over the fence, Girlpants looked over, remarking that it must be barbeque time, looking meaningfully at his table football sized BBQ that still needs to be blessed. I sense that I will need to raid the freezer later on today in a quest for meat.

Meat and charcoal. Summer must be late this year.

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

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

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

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

Mmmmmm - Johnny Depp.

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

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

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.

So Brian won. Whopp de doo. It went downhill for me when the Greek guy, Gerry left. For some reason, I warmed to the little gallery geek on many levels, similar to the way I warmed to Jonty & Lesley.

But now I'm BB-less. I feel the withdrawals kicking in already and the cold turkey's moving in. What is it about reality tv that reels me in so quickly? Maybe it's like Jerry Springer where it all seems liuke a set up but makes you realise that the things you take for granted actually proves that things aren't as bad as you feel. Smug sofa superiority so to speak. Girlpants has seen and recognised that I have an addictive personality and will probably end up with the shakes, so has come up with a cunning plan to relieve the pangs. He's going to DIY my boredom.

Has anyone built a partition wall from scratch? Plastered? Ensured the wall was straight and plaster ended with a clean and level finish? Not me. But that is my new task. And I'm too scared to offer to paint the bathroom as Girlpants always goes over my efforts as I can never paint in the right direction and leave paint brush hairs in my wake, which he always picks up with his critical eye. So whats a girl to do whilst things are slowly re-assesssed? I suppose I could try plastering on the kitchen side as we're only going to tile it, so that won't be all that bad. But putting up an entirely new wall and keeping it straight? I sense that I'll be wearing the goober hat before the end of the day

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.