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.