Pillow Talk : The Thing About Hair

I am going through a stage at the moment where every time I wash my hair, large amounts of it fall out. I am not going bald or anything. It's just the way things are. I thought you should know this so that the following exchange makes some sense. 

Scene: I have had a bath. Large amounts of my hair are all over the bath. Mr B comes upstairs to bring me a cup of tea. 

Mr B: What is all this mess?

Me: It is an art installation of my hair loss. 

Mr B: Hair In A Bath Tub. I like it. 

* Mr B leaves the bathroom * 

(a few minutes later, in the bedroom)

Me: I have removed my art installation. 

Mr B: That's a shame. 

Me: I have moved it to the toilet. I am now calling it Hair In A Toilet Bowl ..... Mit Pee.

Mr B(looking thoroughly disgusted): Really?

Me: No. There isn't really any pee, but Hair In A Toilet Bowl sounded boring. 

Mr B: That's good. You could start showing them in the Baltic. It was in the news that they are suffering financial cuts from the government so you could support them with a series of art installations in the home. Think : Hair On The Sofa, Hair In The Curry ...

Me: Why Hair In The Curry?

Mr B: It is about the frailty of humanity.

Shameless Advertising ...

Dear All, 

Please have a look at my dear friend Jilleebee's fantastic website http://www.clart.co.uk/

The pictures are all taken by Mister Jilleebee and they are absolutely stunning! Keep an eye out for lots of exciting things happening on their website in the future!!

Much love and whatnot, 

Mrs B x

Back From My Jollies

Germy: Ola! I are back from my holidays!

Mrs B:  Arse.

Helpful and Informative

Dear Miss Help and Information Desk,

I would like to point out that it is your job to be helpful and informative. The clue is in the title. I would also like to point out that, during my recent visit to York train station, you were neither helpful nor informative.


I would imagine you see a lot of people panicking about having missed their trains. I appreciate that you are probably sick of people asking you which train they need to get. You probably do not always feel like being helpful and / or informative, but as we have established this is your job.


I recently visited your desk because I had missed a train. I had been advised by a very angry ticket inspector that I needed to change at York train station and catch a connecting bus. I expected that this would be common knowledge. Therefore, when I asked you where I needed to catch my bus from, I did not expect you to look at me as though I were from another planet. I am not. I am from Newcastle. It is only an hour away. You advised me (in a very unhelpful tone) that I did not need to get a bus and that I should get a train to Donny. I did not know what Donny was. This is not unusual. People who are not from your planet do not necessarily understand your language. You did not explain further. In fact, you walked away for your break leaving someone equally unhelpful and uninformative in your place.


As a result, I left your desk feeling neither helped nor informed. I rather feel you failed at your job. I thought you would like to know this.


Kind Regards,


Mrs B x

Train Travel : The Joys

Don't get me wrong, I don't really have a problem with train travelling. There is only one aspect of it which I cannot tolerate: the toilet facilities. Facilities may be taking it a bit far. For those of you who have never set foot in a train toilet, allow me to enlighten you.

Wherever you are sitting on the train, you can absolutely guarantee that the toilets will be at the opposite end of the train. This forces you to consider whether you are really desperate to use the facilities. Once you have examined the state of your desperation and decided to brave the facilities, you then have to make the terrifying journey down the train. This will invariably result in you being thrown from side to side until your internal organs feel as though they are embroiled in a deathly game of ping-pong and you are feeling as though you have had one too many glasses of vino. This is not the worst of it.

When you eventually navigate your way to the facilities, you have to get into the cubicle. This may sound simple. It is not. The buttons on the doors are designed to fool you in such a way that you are never entirely sure whether or not you have managed to lock the toilet door. Thus, your trip to the facilities becomes a kind of adventure game in which you never quite know whether you will be finished before a desperate stranger opens the door on you. Equally, you never quite know whether you will be opening the door on an embarrassed stranger when you attempt to enter the facilities.

If you manage to get into the toilet you are faced with a less than desirable situation. The smell is inevitably unpleasant. There is almost always paper all over the floor, and there is always (without exception) unidentifiable liquid on the floor. I don't need to elaborate here, do I? It is literally a minefield.

You then have to negotiate sitting down in the facilities whilst the train is in motion. You are specifically forbidden from peeing (or worse) whilst you are parked in a station. This is for one reason and one reason alone: the person who invented train facilities has an evil sense of humour. Sitting down on a toilet on a moving train surrounded by unimaginables is (or should be) an art form. You should get a certificate if you can aim in these circumstances (clearly, most people cannot judging from the state of the floors).

You could be forgiven for thinking that this is the end of the trauma. You would be wrong. You have to negotiate flushing and washing. This is not pretty. The water splashes everywhere. The soap is questionable. The paper towels have inevitably always run out. All the while, you are acutely aware that you are standing in someone else's mess.

If you've managed to make it this far, all you have left is the ping-pong walk back to your seat. If you can find your seat again, that is. 

Pillow Talk: Spinning According To Mr B

The Scene: Falling asleep at 1am with Mr B telling me about a song they played during his spinning class.

Mr B: "It went like this. Buf*. Buf. Buf. Buf. Climbing up the hill. Buf. Buf. Buf. Buf. More resitance. Buf. Buf. More resistance. Buf. Buf. Bof. At the top now. Buf. Take the resistance off. Buf. Ahhhhhhhhhh rest time. No.Bufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbuf (singing) WAITING FOR A STAR TO FALL**... Bufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbufbuf."


* NB Where "Buf" is supposed to indicate the beat in the music. Mr B does have his own special language.
** Also the song is "Waiting for a star to fall" by Boy Meets Girl, in case it wasn't clear.

Press Pause ...

Dear Readers,

I'm off. Temporarily. Mr B and I are moving house. We complete tomorrow. We also lose our internet tomorrow for an unspecified amount of time. I'll be back with plenty of posts saved up.

Don't miss me too much.

Much love,

Mrs B xx

The STF Factor

I owe this blog post (unreservedly) to the lovely CA for her invention of The STF Factor, a measurement I will always be grateful for.

The STF (or Stressed To F@ck) Factor is measured on a scale of one to ten. It started off as a measurement of house selling and buying stress, but has become very useful in a variety of situations.

On a recent visit to Hull, for example, my STF Factor reached 50 out of 10. Yes, I am fully aware that this is off the scale. Allow me to elaborate. I had to make a train journey in two parts, changing at York station. I had to leave the office at 4pm to catch the 5pm train, picking up my tickets on route. The commute from my office to the station is around 30 minutes. Due to a variety of unnecessary interruptions about lottery tickets, places to eat and such like, I did not escape the office until 4.15pm. I marched my way to the metro station, only to be stopped there by an elderly woman needing directions. Whilst swearing on the inside, I allowed my nicer self to give directions. I ran to the platform. It was 4.25pm. The metro was running late.

By this point, my STF Factor was around 5.

I panicked all the way to the train station, but managed to get there in time and get my tickets and hot chocolate (with marshmallows and whipped-cream) before walking hurriedly to my train.

My STF Factor reduced to 2. The chocolate helped.

It all went horribly wrong after the train passed Darlington. The train began to slow down. I thought we weren't quite at York, but did not think that we were stopping at any other stations. The announcement was inaudible. So, I asked the woman sat next to me which station we were pulling into. This was my first mistake.

My second mistake was assuming that the two people sat opposite, or any of the people walking past would have taken pity on the girl (ie. me) who was screaming "I didn't think we were at York yet" whilst trying to throw all my things in my bag.

My third mistake was trusting these people. I rushed off the train with my hands full of things, which I shoved in my pockets whilst putting on my coat and moving away from the train. It was a comedy moment. The doors closed. The train pulled away. I turned ...

This was when I discovered I was not at York. I was at Northallerton. For those that cannot comprehend the horror of this, let it suffice to say that Northallerton is the middle of nowhere. The station is, in fact, a hut with a toilet and a lone ticket machine. York on the other hand is large, full of places to eat and drink and, most importantly, the place where I was meant to be catching my connecting train. The next train from Northallerton to York was 45 minutes away. 

My STF Factor was off the scale. 

I called Mr B and screamed. I don't know what I thought this would achieve. He is not superman. He was very sympathetic, but unable to pull a train out of a hat (or out of anywhere else for that matter).

Needless to say by the time the train arrived in Nowhere-ton, I had missed my connection. I had to get the next train to York. Then wait. Then get another train. Then wait. Then get on a bone-shaker train to my final destination, where I drowned myself in the largest chocolate pudding known to man - but only to reduce my STF Factor to a more manageable level you understand. 

Tomato Sauce : It's A Classy Issue

Mr B heard on the radio (Radio 4 no less, therefore it must be true) that your social class is defined by the place in which you store your tomato ketchup.

You're looking at this now thinking that I have actually lost the plot aren't you? Go on, admit it. I am not even kidding.

According to the authority that is The Radio, if you keep your ketchup in the cupboard, you are working-class. If you keep it in the fridge, you are middle-class. If you don't know where your servant keeps it, you are upper-class.

Under this philosophy, Mr B claims to be middle-class. I maintain, however, that I have never seen the ketchup in the fridge (and more importantly, if it has been there before, it better hadn't be in future - I do not want it contaminating my food with it's disgusting-ness).

You may have gathered I do not like tomato ketchup. This makes me so classy I am officially off the scale...

Dear Starbucks

Within half an hour of waking up this morning, I realised that I was in for a shit day. It turns out I was not wrong. 

I had to travel for over an hour to get to my first appointment of the day. I decided to make a stop in town to treat myself to a Starbucks. An extra hot, skimmed Chai Tea Latte to be exact. 

Now, I accept that this is a slightly fussy order. I do not order it to sound in any way pretentious. I order it extra hot so that it lasts: I want to enjoy my Starbucks, not have to take it down in one gulp to ensure that it stays warm to the end. I order it skimmed because full fat milk makes me heave. I cannot stand the taste of it. And, I order Chai Tea because it is warm and spicy and on miserable days like today it reminds me of Christmas and keeps me all warmed up. 

The person who took my order repeated it back to me. She then tootled off to make my drink. Mid-drink making, she paused to have a conversation with someone I assume must be a regular customer, or a friend. Please understand, even when I am having a shit day, I do not wish to keep all human beings from social interaction. I simply want my drink. Ideally, the way I ordered it. 

I eventually got the drink. The drink-maker-person handed it over and said (clearly): "here's your extra hot, skimmed Chai Tea Latte". I have never been so thrilled to have a drink in my hand. Satisfied that I had the drink I ordered, I left Starbucks and ran to catch my next train. 

Imagine my disappointment when I took the first sip of my drink (a mere 2 minutes after purchasing it) and discovered that it was in fact a luke-warm, full-fat, something unidentifiable (but definitely not Chai Tea). And especially when I was on a train and could not go back to rectify the situation. It was so awful, I could not drink it. However, I still had to nurse it all the way to my destination, where I eventually found a bin to dispose of it in. 

Spare a thought here for the poor Starbucks drink that never achieved his aim in life, and ended up in a bin far, far away from home. It is very cruel of you to do that to him.

I am holding you personally responsible for the fact that my day turned out to be even more shit than anticipated, and for the fact that I have been in a foul mood for most of it. Had I had my extra hot, skimmed drink of loveliness, things would have been very different. I am rethinking my drinking allegiances. I may even start ordering drinks from Costa. 

Regards, 

Mrs B x

Possessive

This evening I was talking to Mr B about a man at work who has a band that plays in a pub near us. This man wants me to go and see his band playing in a couple of weeks. I told Mr B this. Mr B said the following: 

"Is he trying to hit on you? Do I need to get all possessive? Shall I pee on you to mark my territory?"

An Internal Discussion

I want pudding. Yummy yummy pudding.

No. NO. I will not have pudding. If I have pudding I will get fat. This is not good.

I will have some sweeties. They are not too bad.

Mmmmmmmm Cola Catterpillars. Yummy. These are tasty and I no longer feel as though my internal organs are going to digest themselves.

See. I don't need pudding. I don't even want pudding.

....

Oh crap. I'm getting a phone call tonight from a very depressed sister-in-law.

I should have got pudding.

I want pudding.

I need pudding.

I need a new life.

I have spent the last thirty minutes talking to myself. And now I am blogging about it.

I am not well. In the head, I mean.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhh.

The Elderly and The Chip Pan

You may recall me telling you that during my prolonged break from blogging, my nana was in hospital having a shoulder operation. During this time, my grandad was left to fend for himself. This is not good. My grandad has never really had to look after himself. His jobs involve making hot drinks, washing the dishes and mowing the lawn. Anything outside of this is an impossible task. 

One evening when I called him, he advised me that he was making egg and chips for tea. Hurrah, I thought to myself, he is looking after himself. He said that the chips had been in the fryer for an hour and a half but had not yet cooked. I tried not to assume the worst. I asked him if he was sure the chip pan was plugged in. He was certain. The little red light was on. I then asked him if there was enough oil in to cover the chips. Here, we came to the root of the problem. Grandad replied: "No, there's no oil love. Our chip pan doesn't need oil." I refrained from asking him how on earth he expected the chips to cook without oil, all the while imagining the chip pan valiantly attempting to cook the chips, failing miserably, and dissolving into a pool of molten plastic and poisonous vapours. I gave him instructions on how to cook chips in the oven. He thought this was too much like hard work. He said he would go to the chip shop for some chips. I asked him if he would still have egg or would he have something else from the shop. He replied "I think I'll ask them for a chinese. I quite fancy a chinese". 

I gave up. 

Tips And Tricks

So, this week, I started my new job as an IT trainer. During my induction, I have learnt some very important IT tips and tricks. 

1. "It's a work in progress" means I have not got a clue what you've done to your computer.

2. "It's a known fault" means we know our computer system isn't working, but we're not entirely sure why. 

3. If your computer breaks, reboot it. Rebooting is a well known cure for everything. 

4. If that doesn't work, try stroking it and talking in soothing tones. 

5. If all else fails ... smash your computer with a hammer. 

Out Of Office

Thank you for your correspondence.

I am currently unavailable to comment on it. I am out of the office.

If your query is urgent, please contact someone else. I don't actually care.

Kind Regards,

Mrs B's Brain x

... Now It Is

Yesterday I blogged about the romance. Today I am here to tell you that it vanished.

Mr B read my post and came bounding down the stairs singing "we've got the love" Florence and the Machine style. He bounced into the kitchen and attempted to squeeze me. I said: "No. No. Why do we have to have the love? I am baking." Mr B said: "I just read your blog and it was sweet and loving". So, I began to sing (Florence and the Machine style) "I got my teapot. I got my teapot." Mr B retorted ... 

"You have the tone deaf".

And thus, the romance was shot down in flames. 

Romance Isn't Dead

So, who said romance was dead? Not me. Nope indeedy. You want to know why? I got my teapot.

I came home from work yesterday in a rather foul mood. You only need to look at my previous post to see why. Mr B gave to me a lovely hug and then said "why don't you have some breakfast?" I was like "fngfbwkrbglirbv?!?" and then "why would I want breakfast at 5.45pm? I don't want any breakfast." Then Mr B said: "you do." So, I thought to myself that maybe I was wrong and deep down inside I did want some breakfast after all. I opened the cupboard and sitting on top of the breakfast box was a Pandora bag with a lovely ribbon through it. I opened it up and inside was teeny tiny box.

It wasn't a ring, if that's what you're thinking. I'm already married. Mr B has categorically informed me that there will be no more rings. Oooh, we were talking about romance weren't we ... 

It was a new charm for my bracelet. A teapot. 

You may be thinking that a teapot is a strange choice of present for a new job. It has a story. We went away to Harrogate to celebrate Mr B's birthday. On strict instructions from everyone we told about it, we went to Betty's Tearoom. If you haven't been there, you must go immediately. We played at being posh and having afternoon tea. We loved it so much we went back for breakfast. It was immense. I said I was going to get a little teapot charm to remind me of my trip to Betty's (and the life I shall be leading when I win the lottery). When I went to the shop for my teapot, it was closed. So, I decided I should spend the money on another treat ... a third trip to Betty's. 

Mr B spotted this. He saved it up until he had an excuse. Then ... HE BOUGHT ME MY TEAPOT. 

Marriage just doesn't get more romantic than that.

Dear People In General ...

Or more specifically, the tw*ts who have annoyed me today. 

I would like to make a few comments about your behaviour. 

Firstly, I would like you to note that administrative staff are not second class citizens. Seriously, write it down. Then memorise it. We are actual human beings. We are allowed to do all the same things as you. In fact, we often do more than you and we are better at it.We just don't get paid as much.  If we walked out of the office one day and never came back, you would fall flat on your arses. Remember this. 

Secondly, an apology which ends with "but I don't think I did anything wrong", does not count as an apology. It is just having another go. The only thing this achieves is to irritate me more. Irritating me is not a good plan. It will not end well for you. 

Thirdly, your behaviour today has led to you being removed from my lottery list: the list of people I would give a small portion of my jackpot winnings to, just so they didn't have to go to work at the Nightmare Factory any more. I would like you to pause and contemplate exactly what this means for you. I expect you are now feeling very sorry that you annoyed me. 

Finally, if you p*ss me off like this again, I promise I will stamp up and down on your head until you cannot remember your own name any more, let alone annoy another administrator as long as you live. 

Comprende?! 

Furious Regards, 

Mrs B x

Invaders ... Part One

Generally speaking, lungs are a good thing. They facilitate breathing and what not. Last year, I got the dreaded swine flu. It was essentially like having flu ... with knobs on. At the time, I had been working in my job for only three weeks, so I returned to work the second I was able to stand and function like a living being, instead of lying around as though I'd just been exhumed. As a result of returning to work far too soon, I caught a chest infection. This ended with me being carted away from work in an ambulance, getting rushed through A & E for a chest x-ray and various other tests and finding out that my lungs were aged twenty-one. I was twenty-four at the time. I was thrilled! 

Since this time, I have imagined that my lungs are generally having a party, celebrating a perpetual twenty-first birthday. Since the dreaded swine, every time I come into contact with a cold virus or anything vaguely similar, I get a bad chest. At this time, my lungs do not function adequately. In fact, it feels rather like the person who is usually partying in my lungs has set up a fire and is punching me repeatedly from the inside. When a bug gets really bad, I start hacking and coughing like I smoke a hundred cigarettes a day. Things start to move around my chest. They are little invaders. They are green and slimy and I hate them ... a lot. 

Did I mention that I hate them? Or that this is what my lungs have been doing to me all week? 

Wanted: New Husband

Mr B pretends to be an avid  reader of a rather intellectual newspaper. I say "pretends", because I found out yesterday that he does not necessarily read the intelligent parts of the paper. Yesterday, he was reading the personal ads. You know the ones for people desperately seeking husbands and wives (to anyone out there contemplating this course of action, I'd just like to say don't bother : husbands are not all they're cracked up to be). 
He was not reading the ads for himself. You would be forgiven for thinking that this is a good thing. 
He was, in fact, reading them to find someone new for me. For when he's finished with me you understand.I told him I didn't want another husband. Rather than finding this romantic, Mr B responded by asking if this meant I wanted a sex buddy. Not one to give up to those less intelligent than myself, I replied "no, I don't want another man at all". I thought this would clarify the point. It did not. Mr B proceeded to attempt to find me another woman, stepping up his search to include the personal ads on the internet. He was very excited to have found me a woman in our area. I am somewhat less thrilled. 
So, in response, here's a little personal ad of my own:
"Husband. Poor sense of humour. House-trained. Free to any home. If interested, contact Mrs B. Quick departure required."

ARGH: An Apology

Hello Readers, 

ARGH! I cannot believe it has been over a month since I posted something on here. There is no excuse. 

Here is a list of all the things that have happened which have kept me away from posting:

1. My grandparents Golden Wedding - living in the Land of No Internet prevents blogging in a very most serious way.

2. Applying for a new job - because p*ssing your life away on the internet is not at all conducive to writing a good job application. 

3. Spending time with my Aunty T and her lovely baby - because they live in NZ usually and it's nice to make an effort sometimes. 

4. My guinea pig, Skittles got sick and died - this led to a severe lack of funny and very little to write about. 

5. Job interview prep - again, because p*ssing your life away on the internet is not conducive to preparing well for an interview. 

6. More visiting of the NZ relatives - they flew 48hours to visit us. The least we could do is travel 2 hours to the Homeland and spend some time with them.

7. My grandparents dog died. 

8. Getting the job - well, we had to celebrate, didn't we?!

9. Mr B having a birthday - lots more celebrating and a weekend in Harrogate. 

10. Nana having an operation - to fix a broken shoulder. Cue lots of worrying and travel to the Homeland. 

ARGH. So, there you go. Many most apologies and I sincerely hope that normal service will be resumed shortly. 

Mucheos Loveos, 

Mrs B xxxxxxx

Computer Speak : A Brief Guide

Computer Message: "Error 404. The server understood your request but did not fulfil it" (yes, I really got this message once)

Translation: "The server cannot be arsed to do any work today"

Computer Message: "File not found"

Translation: "S*it, I've lost it"

Computer Message: "Update required, restart computer now or later?" (repeated every 10 seconds)

Translation: "I really feel like irritating someone today, and you're it"

Computer Message: "Twitter is over capacity"

Translation: "I am sick of you. Leave me alone"

Computer Message: "Your profile is temporarily unavailable"

Translation: "You spend too much time on Facebook and we have evicted you"

Computer Message: "Your battery is running critically low..."

Translation: "GET AWAY FROM ME CRAZY LADY"

"Je Suis Une Goone"

Whilst talking to our next door neighbours over the fence, Mr B and I learned that he is onto a super summer job. He is getting paid £300 per day to lecture some French students. Now, I admit my maths isn't great at times, but I'm sure that's an awesome rate. 

As Mr B and I were driving to the gym, we discussed this in more detail:

Me: "I'm totally going to get a summer job teaching English Lit to French students"

Mr B: "But you can't speak any French"

Me: "I know all the important things in French"

Mr B: "Like what?"

Me: "Bonjour. Je m'apelle. Une crepe au chocolate. Deux crepe au chocolate. Je vais chatre le garcon."

Mr B: "You're a goon"

Me: "Je suis une goone. ... oh wait, you didn't mean for me to translate that did you?"

Point proven I think.

The Dog Days Are Over

1. There is no such thing as a relaxing bath. You can fill the bath with the nicest bubbles in the world. You can even lie back and close your eyes if you so desire. Rest assured you will be brought back to reality to find yourself nose to nose with a puppy drinking your bath water.

2. Children and dogs are very similar: you spend a lot of time shouting their name, telling them to sit / stand still and chasing them around places they shouldn't be going. On balance, I think I prefer puppies.

3. You do not want a dog to fall asleep with it's backside in the vicinity of your face. Especially when you cannot move and even more so when said dog has eaten seaweed. Enough said.

4. Puppies are fickle creatures. They are only interested in you when it suits them. In my case, Freya was only interested in me when she could have cuddles on the sofa.

5. Puppies will try to steal your food. You must be vigilant at all times. Especially when you have leftover carrot cake, or a pot of cream. Some puppies are capable of making healthy food choices: Freya jumped up at the table to pinch food off my plate and chose ... the orange garnish. Low calorie and one of her five a day!

6. Puppy cuddles are the best.

7. I quite want a puppy now please. 

A Note About Pronunciation

No doubt everyone in the world has heard about the man in Northumberland with a gun and a whole load of police looking for him. Even my mother in New Zealand has heard about it (and promptly decided to panic as this is not too far away from where I live). I do not wish to comment on the specifics of the story: it is far too horrible and there is nothing amusing about it. However, having watched and listened to the (almost constant) news about this matter, I have come to the conclusion that a little note about pronunciation is required for the guidance of the press and news reporters:

1. Rothbury is pronounced Rothbury - exactly as it is written. It is not Roath-berry. That sounds far too posh for a northern village. 

2. Similarly, Seaton Delaval is pronounced See-ton Del-a-val not See-town Dee-la-vaal. 

3. Also, Ponteland is pronounced Pont-ee-land, not Ponty-land. 

Finally, I would like to add a little note to the reporter who insists on referring to Rothbury as "the wilds of Northumberland". Rothbury is not wild: it is rural. Granted, down South, 'rural' is anywhere where people have that green stuff in the general vicinity of their houses, so I can understand the confusion. For clarification, "the wilds" are places where people do not live, unless they are being brought up by wolves or other wild animals, as in The Jungle Book. Rothbury is not the jungle.  

Please correct yourselves accordingly!  

Paper Theft Auto

On an average day at work, not many exciting things happen, unless of course you are in need of a day when everything goes to plan, as we were last week...

At the critical point when the printer, photocopier and fax machine ran out of paper all at the same time, we simultaneously discovered that the key to the stationary cupboard had been misplaced. Yes, we lock our paper away. People eat it if you don't hide it well. To add to the pressure, the Higher Ups were in residence at the office that day doing some kind of serious inspection. 

We ransacked the office looking for the key, but did not find it. We (or rather I) then attempted to pick the lock to the stationary cupboard, but to no avail. I had to make a mad dash to the nearest key cutters (approximately 20 minutes walk away). I walked as fast as my high heels would carry me, only to find that the shop had run out of template keys. On my return we discovered that the next nearest key cutters was in the town centre, a good twenty minutes away by metro. A colleague, offered to go at lunchtime. So, I handed over the sample key and the lock number and off she went to town. Meanwhile, the office came to a virtual standstill as every scrap of paper in sight had been used up.

A returned to the office a mere two and a half hours after she had left, with a key. We were all so happy to see her, we would have thrown a party, were it not for the pressing issue of the paper. So, off I went with M to collect stacks of paper from the cupboard, only to find that they key A had returned with did not fit the lock. Imagine the horror!! In the absence of a key, M and I decided there was only one thing for it ... we would have to break in. 

However, we still needed the key, so it was left to another colleague, to drop into the shop on her way to work the next day and give them grief for giving us the wrong key, which she promptly did. On her return to the office, it transpired that the key we had been trying to get into the cupboard with was not a key they stock in their shop. Fortunately, they were kind enough to have cut us the correct key anyway.

This led to some confusion as to where the mystery key had come from, if not from the shop.

It was at this point in the discussion that A piped up from her corner of the office : "oh wait a minute ... I think that's the key to my cupboard at home" ... 

Postcard From The Edge

Dear Mammies,

I hope you are having a lovely time in Corfu. I had a wonderful rest in the kennels. 

Thank you for leaving me to look after Mr and Mrs B instead of booking them into the office whilst you were away. I don't think they could have coped with another week there. The Saturday that I got them out of the office was the worst! All they wanted to do was sit around and watch some women hitting balls around on the television, I had other ideas. I took Mr B for a long march around the Golf Course, but there was no shifting Mrs B. She just kept saying something about "wimbledon" and "finals" as if that were important. I have no idea what she was on about.

She was just the same on Sunday afternoon, but fortunately I had marched her around Plessey Woods for a couple of hours before she sat down. I watched some of the TV on Sunday. It was just two men hitting a ball around. I have no idea what all the fuss is about. Honestly!! These two humans were in dire need of puppy supervision. 

I have been getting them up bright and early and giving them a good clean. Mr B never washes behind his ears, so I have to do it for him. He just doesn't learn!! 

They have been thinking that going to the gym is enough exercise for them. It is a nice rest for me when they go out, but I have decided to show them what exercise really is. They have walked so much, you won't even recognise them when you get home. Yesterday, I took them for a short five mile walk in Consett to tire them out. 

Whilst we were there, I lost someone else's puppy an almost knocked an old man over. Mr and Mrs B did not seem very impressed with this, but I thought it was fun. 

They were exhausted afterwards, so I let them have a lie-in until 7.45am today and then I had a snooze on the bed with Mrs B for an hour. They think that I am being nice to them. They don't realise I am just conserving my energy so that I can exercise them even more this afternoon. 

I am currently demolishing the flip flop you so kindly left me in the garden whilst they have their breakfast. I hope you do not mind. 

Look forward to seeing you soon. 

Love, 

Freya xxx

Gym-duction

Picture the scene: it is 8am on a Monday morning. You do not have to be at work because you are on annual leave. You have no other plans. What are you doing with your new found freedom? You are in the gym.

Actually, you probably aren't in the gym. No-one in their right mind is in the gym at 8am on a holiday Monday ... except me, apparently. 

Yes, you read that last part correctly. I was in the gym at 8am on a Monday morning for an induction and for an instructor to make me a training program, which I have to stick to for a long time. The reason I have to stick to it is simple: the gym are taking £33.50 away from my bank account every month and I am a stickler for getting value for money (for example, the chocolate fudge cake I got for tea was exceptional value for money ... Mr B bought it).

I met my gym instructor, Sharon, at 8am. She was very small and sweet looking. This was deceptive. It lulled me into a false sense of security ... and then she pounced. An hour and a half later, without any notion of what I was getting myself into, I had become the (not so) proud owner of a gym program with only one aim: to kill me. Or at least damage me to such an extent that I will have to crawl back to the changing room on my tummy.

I wish I was joking, truly, I do.

It's been so nice knowing you all ... 

The Dog Days Have Begun ...

For clarification, we have not suddenly decided to get a dog (although on balance I probably would like one), we are just dog sitting Freya, the Springador puppy for some friends of ours (a cross between a springer spaniel and a labrador). We collected her from the kennels yesterday lunchtime. 

Here is the list of things I have discovered about owning a dog in the last twenty-four hours:

1. You will not get a single minute's peace, even when your pup is napping. This is because when they decide to nap, they use you as a pillow. And you'd better be a comfortable pillow, or else you are in BIG trouble. 

2. You will have extremely clean ears because your puppy will lick them to within an inch of their life. This is meant to be affectionate, but it does not feel pleasant. 

3. If you get them a new toy, it will last a maximum of twenty-four hours before it is in pieces, especially if it is a frisbee. 

4. It is not a good idea to throw a tennis ball anywhere that you cannot see it, as the moment you throw it into long grass will inevitably be the moment that your pup decides they are bored of fetching, leaving you to wade amongst the nettles trying to find the ball. 

5. Even other dog lovers will think you are insane for getting a Springador puppy. If you are unsure what the breed is like, think Tigger from Winnie the Pooh bouncing around causing mayhem, and you will have a fairly accurate idea.

6. You will not be allowed to eat a single mouthful of food without your puppy staring at you with sad 'battersea dog's home' eyes. 

7. You will live to regret letting them eat seaweed on the beach. Trust me on this one. 

8. Your usually well-behaved pup will become a terror when they find a puppy friend. No amount of whistling, shouting or bribery will get them to do as they are told until their new friend becomes boring. 

9. You will enjoy being the person letting your pup out at 5.30 - 6am because the person left in bed will get awoken with a shower of "kisses" from pup (involving copious amounts of ear cleaning). 

10. You will come to view a trip to the gym (however early in the morning) as a rest ... 

Wind-Up Made The Radio Star

My dad ended up as the star guest on his local radio station this week. This would be really cool, were it not for the fact that the show he appeared on was titled "Wind up your Wife". As the title suggests, the hosts of the show do wind ups. My lovely younger brother nominated my dad for a wind up (it's been nice knowing you D). This involved two radio presenters ringing my dad up about an outstanding parking ticket which was to result in him begin extradited from New Zealand in the back of the plane amongst the dogs. Needless to say, my dad was not amused. Here is the link for your amusement:

Angry Dad

I am more than a little mortified by this. So much so, that I have advised my mother to wash his mouth out with soap and water immediately. 

For The Love Of Muffins

There is something special about muffins. Especially chocolate muffins. I am in love with them. In fact, right this second I am day dreaming about biting into a lovely double chocolate muffin with a gooey chocolate centre. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you a story ... back to the muffin love. 

Imagine my jealously when, during a text conversation this evening, my dear friend Jill Bee mentioned she had muffins. To show you the lovely kind of friend she is, I have decided to share with you some snippets of our text conversation. I am sure she won't mind (and if she does, it will serve her right for teasing me)!!

Me: "If there's anything I can do to help, just shout"

JB: "Thanks - can you help me eat these choc muffins"

Me: "Absitively posolutely yes."

JB: "Lol - I'll have to text them to you"

Me: "Crack on ... I'm waiting ... didn't your mammy teach you it's not nice to stand between a girl and her muffins?"

JB: "Lol MUFFINS"

See the blatant mockery? Notice the lack of actual tangible muffins? Does this seem nice to you?

I kid you not. This is the kind of friend I have. The world is not nice to me sometimes. 

I am off to console myself with a chocolate muffin ... 

(* Dislcaimer: Jill Bee is generally very lovely and you should hop over and read her blog immediately) 

I'd Hit That

If you had to make a list of things you shouldn't do when you meet your friend's husband for the first time, you'd probably want to include throwing yourself at them wouldn't you? It is a fairly obvious point to make. It is also a point I chose to ignore this weekend.

We had spent a lovely afternoon on the beach, paddling in the sea (surprisingly warmer than anticipated), laying around sunbathing and playing a rather bizarre game of rounders in which there appeared to be no teams and where the bases were, in fact, flip flops. It was lovely.

When we decided we had had enough (ie. when it got a little too chilly to continue the pretence that this was a good day to spend on the beach), MJ and her lovely husband AJ offered me and Mr B a lift home. They have a very old version of a VW Golf, which they like to pretend is a much newer model with no power steering (designed to improve muscle tone), no central locking (a brand new security feature) and a large dint down the side (a key feature of the "go-faster" sports model).

When we arrived home, MJ and AJ got out of the car to say good bye and give us both a hug goodbye. As I went to hug AJ, I stumbled, stood on his foot and flew forward, head-butting his chest and making a rather large fool of myself. 

I literally threw myself at him. I blame the sports car ... I just couldn't resist. 

Disaster

Something awful happened to me yesterday. It's so awful, I'm not even sure I can share it with you, let alone write about it. Ok, ok, I'll tell you, but don't judge me too harshly ......

I joined the gym.

I went to the gym with a couple of friends from work MJ and MD. MJ is a member of the gym and had somehow convinced me that we were going to have a nice leisurely play around on the machinery, a relaxing swim and then do a lot of sitting around in the steam room and / or jacuzzi. It would be prudent of me to inform you that both MJ and MD are fitness fanatics.

I know what you're thinking ... I was stupid to believe that, but believe it I did.

The "leisurely play around" turned out to be 40 minutes on the cross trainer, followed by some floor exercises led by MJ which can only have been designed to kill me. There's no other excuse for them. This morning, I can barely move. The plans for relaxing post-workout sauna somehow went by the wayside and, in place of this, I willingly handed over a huge chunk of my wages to join the gym. I signed up to a six month contract and was even happy about it.

This morning (whilst I am aching from head to toe) ... I am somewhat less enthusiastic.

Sweet-ness

Mr B and I decided early this evening that we had a bit of a nom for sweeties, so we went out and bought an extra large tub of pick and mix to munch whilst we watched a few episodes of "Friends". As we were about to embark on our fifth or sixth episode, the following random (and slightly amusing) conversation took place:

Me: Are we really going to watch another episode?"

Mr B: "No"

*switches off the TV* 

Me: "Are you going to come and give me a hug then?"

Mr B: "Yes"

*Mr B moves to kneel in front of my armchair and continues shovelling pick and mix into his mouth*

Me: "You know, Mr B, shovelling sweets in your mouth is not actually giving me a hug?"

Mr B: "I know"

Me: (looking at the tub of sweets) "Did you also know that you have eaten most of the sweets we bought?"

Mr B: (whilst laying his head on me in a very pathetic manner) "I know. I wanted to stop about an hour ago. Now my jaw hurts and I don't feel very well."

Me: "Well why didn't you just stop?"

Mr B: "I don't know."

This is why Mr B should not be allowed pick and mix. 

Situation Desperate: We're Not At Rothay Any More

Whilst away celebrating our first anniversary, Mr B and I stayed in a lovely hotel in Grasmere, in the Lake District: Rothay Garden. You must go and stay there immediately. Along with a fantastic location, awesome accommodation and lovely staff, Rothay has one of the best restaurants ever. Fact. During our visit, we were thoroughly spoilt every time we ate. Breakfast became a meal with several courses, instead of the usual Frosties we had at home. Evening meals were a four-course work of art. 

So, you can imagine how disappointed we were to have to return to a life of cooking for ourselves and relatively unattractive meals with only one course. This was made worse by our first post-Rothay experiences.

On the depressing route home from Rothay, we paid a brief visit to a relative (who shall remain unnamed), where we were offered a cup of tea and cake. I gratefully accepted the offer of tea and cake, only to regret this decision when the aforementioned relative paused to chop the penicillin colonies from around the edges of my piece. This was shortly followed by a disastrous Sunday lunch with another relative (who shall also remain unnamed). The lunch consisted of some kind of unidentifiable roast (possibly roast of wellington boot), vegetable mush (caused by severe over-cooking of the vegetables) and similarly over-cooked new potatoes all smothered in mildly gravy flavoured water. This delightful meal was followed by a second course of something pastry flavoured with super lumpy bumpy custard. Yum. 

Situation desperate. We are plotting our permanent return to Rothay just as soon as we win the lottery.  

TV Widow

I am officially a TV widow: my husband has banished me to bed so that he can watch "Luther" on the TV. I kid you not. Mr B would have you believe that he did nothing of the sort, but I fear the evidence is somewhat stacked against him.

Picture the scene:

I have spent most of the evening curled up on the sofa in a blanket feeling slightly tired. At approximately 7.30pm, we decided to venture out to the supermarket to purchase an inflatable bed. (I should probably pause here to explain the inflatable bed, but I am not going to because the reality of the situation will be far less interesting than whatever you are imagining). On route, Mr B looked at me with a rather cheeky grin on his face and asked, "will you be going to bed early tonight? Because if you are, I can watch "Luther" on real TV and not on catch-up and that would be good". Mr B never watches anything even remotely violent or anything involving dead bodies whilst I am around, ever since he made me watch "Messiah" on the TV when we first moved in together. I did not sleep for a week. Mr B made me a deal that he would stay awake until I went to sleep, so as to ensure I did not get murdered in my bed. He didn't sleep for a week either. This was not good. Anyway, I digress. After Mr B asked this, I replied, "do you want me to go to bed so you can watch it?" Mr B pretended to look wounded that I would even suggest such a thing, then tried to pretend that it was all concern about how tired I looked (and pointed out the exact size and colour of the bags under my eyes) before eventually replying (looking and sounding ever so slightly dejected) "weeeeeeellllllll, no, it's okay I'll just watch it on catch-up". This last comment was said with the least amount of feeling you can possibly imagine and followed by the saddest face you ever did see (complete with big brown puppy-dog eyes). How do you resist that? So, I said I would go to bed and Mr B did not protest one little bit. Therefore, he has banished me to TV widow-dom.

I am mortally wounded.

As I was being banished, Mr B handed me the laptop and said "you're going to blog about this aren't you?"

Yes, Mr B. Yes, I am.

Thyroid Trouble

Here is a short but amusing anecdote from the other day. I guarantee it will bring a smile to your face. If it doesn't, please send the men in white coats round to pick me up immediately, because it made me laugh for hours!

The Monster in a mere 20 minutes after her start time one day last week, carrying a shopping bag full of food. She proceeded to empty out of the aforementioned bag: two king sized bags of Doritos, a large bag of Haribo Tangfastics, a king sized Twix and a can of full fat Coke. Within the first half an hour she had polished off the first bag of Doritos, all of the Haribo, the Twix and most of the Coke. She then advised me (half way through the second bag of Doritos) that she was going to the doctors that evening to have her thyroid checked out. I asked if she was feeling unwell. She said she wasn't feeling unwell but she thought she better get it checked out because (...wait for it...) she was struggling to lose weight.

I managed to wait until she left the room five minutes later before I rolled around on the floor laughing.

Doing A Shirley Valentine

When I was a little girl ( a very long time ago), my mum often used to say that she was going to "do a Shirley Valentine" if we didn't behave better ("us" being me and my three younger siblings). I always used to think this was either something lovely (as in bake us a huge cake or buy us a puppy) or something really sinister (like chopping all our toes off whilst we were sleeping). It took me many years to discover the truth: that "doing a Shirley Valentine" meant going away on holiday and forgetting to come back (and talking a lot to a rock, but that is not the point I am going to dwell on here).

I often think about "doing a Shirley Valentine" and not returning from my holiday. Just recently, in fact, I was enjoying my first anniversary holiday so much that I did not wish to return to my normal life at all. I would have been quite content to remain there until all our money ran out and the hotel kicked us out (both of which would have been much sooner than I would have liked). However, I would never actually "forget" to return from my holidays because I have responsibilities to come home to, like work.

One of my colleagues, on the other hand, does not seem to take this responsibility terribly seriously. She is quite prone to "doing a Shirley Valentine". Last summer, she went to the airport to catch her flight a day after it had left. Clearly, hotels in Greece are not particularly bothered whether you are actually a paying guest who has a reservation at the hotel or not. This year, she is on holiday again, and discovered that her flight does not arrive in the UK on Sunday, as she thought, but on Monday instead. She is meant to be back at work on Monday, so she sent a text into the office: "I thought my plane landed on Sunday, but it lands on Monday so I won't be back to work after all. Thought I should let you know". Generally speaking, when you fly out on a Monday for a week's holiday, you expect to fly back on a Monday, no? Apparently not in Shirley Land. We are currently taking bets on when she will return.

As a result, I plan to send the following text from my next holiday: "Dear all. I thought my holiday was coming to an end, but it is not. I am "doing a Shirley Valentine". I do not know which day, week or even year I am going to return. Thought I should let you know".

A Little Piece of Heaven...

Question Time

Mr B and I have our first wedding anniversary coming up in a few days time. This means one very important thing: I get presents. When I know I am getting a present, I turn into a small child with an enormous amount of excitement and natural curiosity. Mr B likes to refer to this as "being a pain in the arse". This is how it goes:

Mrs B: "Give me a clue"
Mr B: "No"
Mrs B: "One clue"
Mr B:"Why?"
Mrs B: "Because I want one"
Mr B:"But I always end up giving you more than one clue"
Mrs B: "Just one clue, I promise and then I won't ask for get any more clues"
Mr B:"Ok, it's small and it goes on for a really long time"
Mrs B: "Is it a Duracell battery?"
Mr B:"That's another clue"
Mrs B: "No, it's a follow-up question. You're allowed follow up questions"
Mr B:"No you aren't. This isn't Prime Minister's bloody question time"
Mrs B: "You're not the Prime Minister."
Mr B: "No, I'm not"
Mrs B: "I don't like the Prime Minister"
Mr B: "Okay"
Mrs B: "Did you buy it from a shop or the internet?"
Mr B: "I haven't bought it yet"
Mrs B: "Where are you going to buy it from?"
Mr B: "A shop. I've reserved it"
Mrs B: "When did you reserve it?"
Mr B: "Today"
Mrs B: "Where is the shop your buying it from"
Mr B: "Eldon Square" (a shopping centre)
Mrs B: "The top end by M & S, or the bottom end?"
 Mr B: "The top end"
Mrs B: "Was it Monsoon or that expensive jewellers on the corner?"
Mr B: "You know, even the leader of the opposition only gets six questions"
Mrs B: "So?"
Mr B: "Well you've asked more than six questions"
Mrs B: "Is it purple?"
Mr B: "I'm not telling you any colours. Colours are important"
Mrs B: "That's another clue"
Mr B: "Bugger"
Mrs B: "Is it green?"
Mr B: "That's another colour. I'm not giving you any colours"
Mrs B: "I meant eco-friendly"
Mr B: "Did you?"
Mrs B: "No. But is it green?"
Mr B: "I'm not telling you"
Mrs B: "Is it pink?"
Mr B: "Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
Mrs B: "Does it have more than one colour?"
Mr B: "That's about colours"
Mrs B: "But it's not A colour, is it?"
Mr B: "Hmph"
Mrs B: "So does it have more than one colour?"
Mr B: "Yes"
Mrs B: "How many colours?"
Mr B: "No more questions"
Mrs B: "Does it have less than ten colours?"
Mr B: "No more questions. I'm not letting you have any more clues"
Mrs B: "But it's not a clue. It's a question"
Mr B: "Well you can ask another question tomorrow"
Mrs B: "Why not now?"
Mr B: "Because I said so"
Mrs B: "But this is Prime Minister's question time. You're not a dictator you know"
Mr B: "I know"
Mrs B: "So, does it have less than ten colours"
Mr B: "That's another question"
Mrs B: "Well just answer me this question and I won't ask any more"
Mr B: "Yes you will"
Mrs B: "I'll make you a deal: if I ask any more questions, you can take it back to the shop"
Mr B: "But then you won't have a present"
Mrs B: "Well, that would serve me right for asking questions"
Mr B: "I'm not taking it back to the shop"
Mrs B: "Good"

* Slight pause"

Mrs B: "So, does it have less than ten colours"

Mr B: "That's another question"

* Cue ten minutes of repetition, with each of us hoping that the other will back down first *

Mrs B: "But you know you're going to back down first"
Mr B: "That's another question"
Mrs B: "No, it's not"
Mr B: "No, you're right,  it's not"
Mrs B: "No it's not less than ten colours?"
Mr B: "I'M NOT TELLING YOU"
Mrs B: "Why? I won't ask any more questions. Just this one"
Mr B: "But it's more fun winding you up"
Mrs B: Silence
Mr B: "Is this me getting the silent treatment?"
Mrs B: Silence
Mr B: "I'll tell you the answer tomorrow"
Mrs B: "You'll be too tired tomorrow"
Mr B: "Why?"
Mrs B: "Well, I hear sleeping on the floor isn't good for you"
Mr B: "Nice one Mrs B"
Mrs B: "I'm not even kidding"
Mr B: "You can't make demands like that"
Mrs B: "Yes I can"
Mr B: "Fine. It's less than ten colours"

* Pause *

Mrs B: "Well is it less than five colours?"

Monstrous Monday

Here is a summary of the last week:


I got an assistant. She was fabulous! She was very sweet, hard-working and funny. Then today she turned into a horrible monster. So I chopped her head off.

Okay, that last part may have been an exaggeration.

Dear Mobile Phone Provider...

Dear Mobile Phone Provider,

Thank you for your email. I am pleased to hear that your website is now informing your customers when they do need to contact Customer Services, and when they do not. I sincerely hope that this prevents others from having to call your customer services department.

I am somewhat bemused about your "goodwill gesture" of a £10 discount on my tariff. I would like to reiterate that Miss Customer Service 2010 already offered me a discount of £20 and promised that it had already been applied to my account, so you will understand if I am less than thrilled by your offer. You will also note that I signed up to a tariff of £20 per month. If you do not rectify the situation immediately, I will have to hunt you down and poke you with a sharp, pointed stick.

Perhaps your staff could benefit from some re-training which enables them to carry out the actions which they have promised to customers.

I note that you have now begun to take money from my bank account in return for the service you have provided. This disappoints me greatly.

I am further disappointed to note that your complaints staff are no better trained than your customer service staff. Whilst the response was legible, it did not address most of the issues I raised. I believe a basic literacy course could assist in this area.

I look forward to receiving legible and relevant correspondence from you at some point in the future. I am not holding my breath.

Regards,

Mrs B

Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Monster Muncher

One of my oldest and closest friends Monster Muncher just had a baby, Lily Grace, born 4th May, so I'm just popping in to say a huge congratulations to her and her hubby!! Looking forward to meeting the little one. 

Shopping Ettiquette

Whilst shopping yesterday, I encountered a number of incidents which would suggest that there are people who leave their manners at home whilst they are in a shop. This applies to the staff as much as the customers. So, in addition to my guide to Office Etiquette, here is a guide to shopping etiquette.



1. It is entirely inappropriate for you to stand in the entrance to a shop, having a conversation with someone and blocking the way for everyone else to get in. This also applies to aisles within the shop. I am not your friend. I do not want to be held up listening to your conversation.

2. I am not invisible. You can see me. Do not ram your trolley into me. It hurts.

3. When I am buying wine at the self-checkout and you have to come over to authorise the transaction, do not click the "customer is clearly over 25" button. I am only just 25. When you say I am "clearly" older than this, it makes me feel old and wrinkled.

4. When I am standing staring at a particular shelf, it is generally because I am perusing the contents. It is incredibly rude of you to step in front of me and start looking at things on that same shelf. It makes me angry.

5. If you must insist on dragging your poor children around a busy shop on a Saturday, it would be prudent of you to keep an eye on them. This would prevent them from attempting to trip up other shoppers and generally making a nuisance of themselves (please note, I have nothing against children, I just don't like tripping over them whilst I shop).

6. When serving customers at the till, it is not a good idea to conduct an argument with your boyfriend about where exactly your paracetamol are. This is not brilliant customer service.

7. If I am browsing a selection of clothing, I do not need an over-enthusiastic shop assistant to come and advise me of all the different colours in which I can purchase a garment. Especially not when all these colours are on display. I am also capable of working out the difference between long-sleeved and short-sleeved shirts, thank you.

8. If you are trying to encourage me to buy something, it is probably not a great idea to swagger over to me reeking of alcohol and telling me you feel like a refugee in your uniform. In fact, would probably be a good idea to carry some mints and not speak to any customers until you are sober.

That's all I can think of right now, but feel free to add your own ...

There's No Place Like Home

This weekend Mr B and I went back to our homeland for a brief visit and a surprise birthday meal. We were staying with my grandparents in a little town / village called Garstang on the outskirts of Lancaster.

As we turned into Garstang and headed towards the chinese, we passed a rather unusual spectacle.

It was an elderly man on a bicycle, cycling down the main road ... in his underpants. Not just his underpants, but also a flat cap, shirt and tie and some walking boots. Definitely underpants though.

Soon after this, we passed a warning sign (which Mr B says has always been there, but which I have never seen). It looked like this ...

I feel that this needs no further explanation.

I texted our friend LB "You know you're in Lancaster when..." with a brief outline of the story. Her response was : "Tell Mr B to get back in the car. Now." She is officially the funniest person I know.

Clowns To The Left Of Me ... Jokers To The Right

All other amusing anecdotes will have to wait. This is a mental elf emergency. I dreamt that I was back at the circus. Those of you in the know will no doubt experience the same cold shiver and sense of doom that I did. For those who aren't aware of the horror, let it suffice to say that the circus is a place which I used to frequent on regular occasions. Not an actual circus, you understand, but a place where things happened that would not be out of place in the big top. Never before has the phrase "clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right" been more appropriate.

Without further ado, I introduce to you, for one night only ..."Billy Bronco's Flying Circus". Starring:

The Magician
Her specialist act involves making extremely important things disappear into oblivion, such as post, bills and last years Christmas decorations. Her only failing is an inability to conjure them back again, but this is a budget operation ... what did you expect?

The Great Cake Swallower
Kind of like a flame swallower, but less talented and marginally less dangerous.If you have cake, you better watch out ...

Nellie ... The Elephant
No circus would be complete without it's very own Nellie. She doesn't do a lot, but she looks the part and she can stomp around the ring when the mood takes her.

The Performing Monkey-Detective
The PMD's specialist subject is detecting. If you have a problem, personal or professional, PMD knows about it (whether you want her to or not). No movement goes undetected. Prepare to be amazed at her abilities, but be careful ... she can be quite dangerous. Think Miss Marple crossed with a venomous rattle-snake.

and finally ... the one you've all been waiting for ...

The Ostrich-Ringmaster
His ability to remain oblivious to his surroundings is second to none. Watch as the chaos unfolds, and you will see him expertly bury his head in the sand. There's really no-one quite like him!!

And you think I'm kidding ...

The Great Complaint

Dear Mobile Phone Provider,

I understand that you aspire to excellence in Customer Service. You fail. Epically.

I tried to renew my contract with you using your website. Your website is not very intelligent. It did not tell me that I needed to call Customer Services. Therefore, I did not call Customer Services. I am sure you will agree that this is a logical progression.

I chose to renew my previous tariff. This cost me £20 per month. Imagine my surprise when my first bill was for £40. Clearly something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

I felt this was an opportune moment to contact Customer Services. It was at this point that I realised you do not achieve excellence in this area. Your representative told me that nothing could be done, that you have no complaints department and that there were no managers who could help. This lack of advice and assistance is not what one usually expects from Customer Services.

I opted to write a letter of complaint. It was at this point that Miss Customer Service 2010 really came into her own. I was told that as I was now making a complaint, I could be considered a "genuine" customer. I suspect she is missing the point. I would suggest that re-training might be in order, although given your track record, I suspect that this would culminate in a promotion for her, which would be a gross injustice to the rest of your customers.

Eventually we reached a deal and your representative reluctantly agreed to confirm this to me in writing. I can only assume that her reluctance to send such a letter was based on her inability to write in coherent sentences without spelling mistakes. I would stress, however, that most computers have a spellcheck which would have made the letter slightly more legible, if no clearer.

I am therefore still confused about what tariff I am on. Moreover, my bills continue to be priced at £40 per month. I fail to understand how this is still happening. Even more confusing is the fact that you do not appear to be adhering to the direct debit agreement, or contract between us, as you are not actually taking the money from my account. Should I assume that my contract is now free?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Mrs B