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!