Miss Placed

Face Facts

2011-07-22T10:05:00.000+01:00

Since the need to get up and go into an office each day has been removed from my equation I wouldn't say my beauty routine has exactly slipped.

Rather, it has braked, skidded and veered amazingly off the nicely polished highway.

Being a bit of a ~~transvestite~~ make-up junkie I promised myself that for at least 6 months I would wear less makeup and take better care of my skin.

Sooo... I did the first one.

Here's an example of the daily cosmetic armoury I had to choose from before:



And that's not even all of it.

And before any of that went on my face I used all of these:

I guess you could say I have now pared back somewhat, what with not having to put on the 'morning mask' for a while. I'm sure there's something psychological in there somewhere. And although I still have access to a staggering amount of warpaint, I only now have the inclination, not to mention energy, to reach for these:

With a bitta this first:

God bless the new cheap and cheerful, fuss-free toilette.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go doll-up and see a machine about a wash.

Foam Hacking Scandal

2011-07-20T16:55:00.000+01:00

So lately Rory has taken to banging soft toys against his face. Really hard.

Methinks he is trying to alleviate some gum discomfort at the moment, but I also think he likes to show off those two chubby, grabby things he's discovered at the end of each arm that can search out, terrorise and destroy anything with a foam face.

Each morning I approach his cot with some trepidation.

The scene of carnage usually consists of my son going "urghff, urghff, urghff" as Paddington Bear lies face down, Moe the giraffe looks on as a helpless bent-knecked witness and Cousin Jai's knitted tiny teddy tries to make a headfirst escape through the bars.

I call an urgent meeting to discuss Rory's conduct. Things go well, although he only promises to get his ducks in a row if he can eat them later.

Creative or Domestic?

I decided to revisit an earlier floral scribble with some heavier paints and must say I do like the result. I am loving autumnal red-brown right now, on anything. I mean, apparently it's still summer here but let's not kid ourselves.

Okay, it still looks a bit crap but it's the colours I like. It looks much better in real life ~~if I'm honest.~~

Also I recently found an old art deco pendant languishing at the bottom of one of my many, many, many keepsake boxes. I decided to plonk it on a silver chain, and to quote my nephew, I "felt happy in my body" for doing it:

Afternoon Delight:

I have absolutely no shame in saying I cannot wait for Jersey Shore Season 4.

Seeing Paulie D and Vinnie in their 'Italia' gear makes me cackle with unbridled excitement. Yes I am 38 years of age and should know better.

Did I watch Geordie Shore as well? You bet your Nelly.

Arachnofreakinphobia

2011-07-05T09:37:00.000+01:00

Well it looks like the summer season is finally hotting up, thank the lord. I know it when I walk out my front door and am immediately knocked sideways by the smell of Farmfoods beef burgers being singed on disposable barbecues. That, and the sound of tinny Top 40 tunes being blared out of countless Argos boomboxes, patio-side. But when the menfolk around these parts start taking the top half of their tracksuits off, you know it's summer for sure.

Well, we have to enjoy the heatwave while we can. After all, the next black cloud is never too far away. And with all this mad mugginess comes the onset of another antisocial beast:

Please note I have only used a drawing. Obviously a picture of a real spider would come to life, jump through the screen and bite you on the face.

During summer I suffer from the worst arachnophobia imaginable.

I never used to be this bad. I grew up in scorching Australian summers and with a father who flatly refused to move the eight-legged chancers whenever they set up camp on the walls of our house each December, like unwelcome Christmas guests. We even named every spider "Brownie". So over the course of many summers and many different spiders, we always pretended it was one and the same "Brownie" who had come back to stay with us for the holidays. In a way I respect my dad for saying no to spider stomping, although I do wish he at least put them outside. Everyone knows there's nothing worse than going to sleep knowing exactly where a spider is on the wall, making a mental note, then waking up to a blank wall.

I grew up well-aquainted with bending my legs like pipecleaners to avoid the huntsman lurking behind the toilet door, I am aquainted with walking down dark tree-lined streets at night and stumbling into wolf-spider webs, I even used to pick up and play with daddy long legs' when I was bored.

These days I am terrified. I don't even live in a hot country anymore. Usually in Scotland the spiders start out fingernail-sized around May time, become coin-sized by July, then by August/September they morph into small tarantulas. Just like that. I say 'usually' because this year they seem to have skipped the formalities of growing slowly - so scaredy cats like me can get used to them - and gone straight to tarantula size from nothing.

A pretty big tegenaria (Google it, I dare you, it'll jump through the screen!) has recently set up its HQ beside my late mother-in-law's front door. The first time I clap eyes on the thing it moves like lightning around the corner and into the alcove, its slick spindly legs still poking out. Boak. In order to get past it I actually run and do a long jump over the door threshold.

*The rule is that if you need to get past a spider then only doing so at great speed will prevent it from leaping up from a corner or off a wall and directly onto your face. All arachnophobes know this*

In a cold sweat and with hand to forehead I order my other half to "deal with it". Spiders don't bother him a jot. He doesn't go out of his way to play with them or anything, but once I manage to drop an upturned glass on one and run away screaming, he will quietly and quickly take it to its rightful place OUTSIDE. He assures me he will do the same with this one.

Three days later I am walking down the same hallway in a maxi-dress, confident that my swishyness won't pick up any unwanted passengers. Then in a terror-filled instant I discover the spider is still there, bouncing up and down on it's very same webby front porch and mocking me.

With an asthmatic wheeze I wrap the skirt of my dress around my legs as tightly as it will go and opt for a hop, skip and jump combo to get past it.

As I later try to murder Scott for lying to me he laughs, "Oh, that must be its mate."

Ha ha ha, he laughs. Like it aint no thing.

"But there's going to be hundreds of them, everywhere," he says. "Not just there, but in this house too. It's summer? Der."

Fair point. I have been silenced for now.

This morning I saw one in the reflection of the bath panel, hiding behind a stack of magazines near the toilet. Quite symbolically I threw a book at it.

Bullseye.

Sorry Brownie.

A goo goo goo, a ga ga ga, is all I want to say to you.

2011-06-27T12:08:00.000+01:00

So for the past few days I have been toying with the idea of thinking about making a start on possibly looking at going back to a full-time job. Reluctant? Me?

I receive an email from my wonderful former manager, asking me what my plans are to return to work. I read the message then go hide behind the couch. Not because I don't want to go back to work (au contraire, the thought does fill me with some excitement) but because I know I will have to go through the worst kind of separation anxiety leading up to not seeing my son for, like, hours a day. The shock and the horror! Yes, I know... working mothers the world over have gone through this process since year dot. But, dude.

After cowering behind soft furnishings for 10 minutes I go to Google and make my hands type in the words "child" and "minder". I happen upon the details of a nice child-minding lady who lives not far from here, charges a reasonable rate and whose website features happy colours, photos of kids making stuff and jumping in puddles with big grins. My heart leaps because I think she may be perfect, then it sinks because... well because.

Creative or Domestic?

This morning after our power walk Rory and I get stuck into a freezer defrost/ice-picking exercise. It's kinda fun at first. But we get halfway through before agreeing, in mutual disgust, that this is a job best left until there are at least 2 episodes of America's Next Top Model under the belt. A lot of natural defrosting can occur in 70 minutes with the door left wide open. I mean, for Pete's sake.

I have also recently taken a peek at the wonders of the online creative community. My lurking has felt a bit like walking onto a crowded beach, still fully clothed and wondering where the hell to put down my towel. Well, I have decided that this week it is time to run across the sand with a big smile on my face, not look down to see where my towel lands and make a dash for the water. "Yoo-hoo!"

Afternoon delight

In my shallower moments I realise that beautiful rings make me happy.

Babe report

Over the past few weeks the babe has been honing his laughing talents. It began as a faintly heard "wheee" in his sleep (who would've thought babies can "sleep laugh"). This developed into an asthmatic sounding "ckckckkk" on the changing table and is now finally a fully-blown "Hehehehe!"

Now he can't stop.

The funniest part is when I respond to the "hehehehe" with a "hehehehe" of my own, and am looked at as if I have done something very inappropriate.

"You can do it. Put your ass into it."

2011-06-23T14:02:00.000+01:00

I have decided I need to get fit. I have decided I want to lose quite a bit of weight. I propose to Rory this morning that we should make these two things priority action items for the week. "It makes sense to get rid of some dead wood", he dribbles. "As long as it doesn't conflict with my snuggling schedule, in which case you can go fix yourself a reality sandwich".

Creative or Domestic?

Following more bouts of crazy precipitation this past week (and far too many sodden hairstyles for my liking) I declare like a woman possessed that we are refusing to leave the house until it "jolly well" stops. Way to go! Rain, consider yourself told! So I throw open the cupboards and grasp at carrots, onions, potatoes, lentils, anything I can get my waterlogged hands on. I chop, I dice, I blend, I make what I call "soup surprise" because if it ends up resembling anything soupy then quite frankly I'll be shocked.

The soup is disgusting. I assure myself that the flavours just haven't had enough time to blend properly. So I leave it another hour. Still disgusting. I add more chicken stock and all of a sudden it is one of the finest soups I've tasted that day. If I do say so myself.

Babe report

Well the babe is 18 weeks and counting. We attended a weaning fair recently and he sat quietly on my lap listening to some talks from local "experts". They ranged from a warm and fuzzy librarian (whose fabulous bracelet we both ogled from the front row) enthusing about the joys of weekly story time, to the midwife Frau who warned against the eeevils of weaning a baby too early.

Achtung! Rusks will make your tot's teeth fall out, even if he only has gums. Spooning rice into your young before they are 23 weeks and 25 hours old will surely increase the risk of speech problems, bed wetting and a penchant for KFC.

Now I am not one to poo-poo years of research and I am sure her case against early weaning is well founded. She even demonstrated how it is impossible to feed a baby, as its tongue reflex instantly pushes food back out of the mouth.

"You don't do that, do you?" I laughed at the carb-comfy baby in my lap. Only 2 small spoonfuls a day, mind you. But the evil look we were shot was priceless...

Rory had fallen peacefully to sleep anyway, dreaming of care factors.

CBeebies: Just some thoughts

2011-06-10T12:09:00.000+01:00

Rory requests some early morning face time today, followed by a trip to Bar Moloko and an outfit change. After an ongoing disagreement over whether a nap now or later would be best, Rory says he'll just run the idea up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes. Bouncy chair and colourful daytime TV it is, then.

CBeebies

In the past couple of months or so I have come to discover the wonderful world of CBeebies. I used to put the channel on for visiting friends' little ones, however for the first time I have actually had time to watch some of the shows properly. And on particularly frought days I have found it to be "mother's best friend". Some of the shows are just weird and wonderful but they never fail to turn little frowns upside down.

Here are my impressions of just some of them:

Come Outside

Auntie Mabel is a mature widow who drinks to forget, her sole companion being her trusty terrier Pippin. During these binges Auntie Mabel imagines she owns a polkadot covered plane in which she and Pippin fly to such places as Seville to pick oranges, or Morrisons to do her weekly shop. In reality she is banned from the local Morrisons for being drunk and disorderly and so needs the mysterious Edie to pick up her messages for her instead.

Grandpa in My Pocket

Spoiled brat Jason lives in beach house with Monsoon-dress-wearing mother and magical grandpa, who possesses a unique talent for shrinking himself using a 'magical shrinking cap'. He then runs about like a not even pint-sized loon, flying model planes and hiding behind jars. I find myself wanting to chase Grandpa with a view to stepping on him when he does this. I do not know why.

Mr Bloom's Nursery

Borderline hot younger man dresses up as fusty older man - a la Mellors from Lady Chatterley's Lover - complete with bad wig and exaggerated Northern accent. Shakes maracas and keeps his garden gate constantly open in order to lure small children, creepily named "tiddlers", into his nursery. Claims that "with his veg and plants he can sing and dance" and so sings to his vegetables, which include a misbehaving family of radishes called the Cheeky Wee MacGregors. Occasionally Mr. Bloom takes his hat off. Swoon.

In The Night Garden

Collection of sinister characters with names straight out of some acid-enabled nightmare: Iggle Piggle, Makka Pakka and The Tombliboos. Oh, and Upsy Daisy, an annoying dreadlocked rag doll upstart who often screeches into a megaphone for no apparent reason. I would quite like to pinch Upsy Daisy when no-one is looking.

How much fun it must be devising and producing these TV gems! I used to imagine the CBeebies Unit at the BBC as some enchanted, primary-coloured, soft play paradise. After some consideration I now think all the walls are padded and the meals are terrible.

Stuff kids TV - perhaps I should start writing children's books. Maybe then I would be able to keep the house in Scotland and buy, say, a $10,000,000 Tasmanian mansion.

Just let me know when you've had enough.

2011-06-09T09:06:00.002+01:00

This morning's breakfast consists of a mouthful of air as I rush around getting the tot ready for massage class. I look in the mirror and discover a burst blood vessel on my right eyeball. Great - all I need now is open sores on my face and I'll look just like Woogie from There's Something About Mary.

We hoof it up to the local nursery with minutes to spare and take our place in the circle, looking forward to participating in the peaceful joy of mother/son bonding.

Well. He's having none of it. I admit, there was no time for a top-up feed and a quick nap beforehand and boy am I regretting it now. I want to giggle as this is his first instance of disrupting class. I am sure will not be the last. Anyway he starts with a grimace, which looks like a smile and so the others comment on how much he's enjoying himself. I smile nervously but don't make eye contact with anyone due to scary bloodshot eye. He sticks his bottom lip out and I know it's coming... It must be quite a scene when I finally pick up my screeching baby, laugh to drown out his cries and look like I'm going through some sort of evil Black Swan-like transformation. "It's okay, really, he's never like this..."

Today's Rant

Can someone suggest an item of clothing I can wear on my bottom half that's not black and elastic? Don't get me wrong - it's been great swanning around in a black kaftan and enjoying my sanctimonious post-natal haze these past few months, it's just that I'm starting to itch for a wee bit of colour now. Even if it's not quite in my desired size.

Alas, fashion seems to be all about the legs right now. Legs I don't have. Everywhere I look I see Bambi in shorts, Bambi in a mini, Bambi in skinny jeans and daughter of Bambi in leggings. Is there nothing out there for the less coltish of limb? Maxi dresses just swamp me and midi skirts make me look matronly, as much as I like the idea of them. Damn it to hell, I will not be lulled into a false sense of security by waterfall cardis ~~anymore~~.

Food for thought...

...especially if you get any stuck in your teeth and don't need to worry about brushing it away:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-477378/Six-weeks-wash-The-soapless-experiment.html

Ooh...

2011-06-08T08:33:00.001+01:00

Well it's an all-hands meeting this morning, conducted entirely using the word "ooh". Agreeing that we need to dialogue later about his recent attitude, the wee man crams his teether into his mouth to tell me we're finished here.

Creative or Domestic?

I weakly attempt a tidy up, realise I did more than I thought yesterday and so declare houswifery off the agenda. Besides, there's a spider living on the ceiling in the living room and if I switch on the vacuum he might actually move, and I will probably scream.

Sitting at the desk with a blank art pad, some charcoal and my watercolour pencils seems much more appetising:

I did it in a hurry with charcoal and watercolour pencils. It's rough, it's uneven. But it's colourful and I needed to do something, dammit.

Domestic: Nil

Creative: Getting there

Obscure delight

I just love daylight savings in Scotland. At 10pm it still looks and feels like 4pm and it makes you not want to go to bed, ever. This feeling of the night being young for longer is just as well when it's 11 o'clock and you realise you're just finally settling down to watch a movie and eat the dinner you prepared at 8.

Heid!

2011-06-06T22:36:00.000+01:00

Rory and I hit hair and makeup early this morning for a trip to the doctors (my new home away from home) followed by a cruise to the supermarket for provisions. Today is Health Visitor day, so there's lots of Monday Mess to tackle before she arrives in the afternoon.

Creative or Domestic?

Do lots of laundry including a load that consists entirely of socks. Get bundle of socks out of machine, drop two socks. Pick up two socks, drop three more. And so it goes, this merry dance of me and wet smalls. I eventually give up and decide to use my time more creatively, so I catch up on last week's episode of The Apprentice (the UK one, the only one) and an episode of Geordie Shore (I'll try anything once, me).

Domestic Arts: 5 (socks)

Fine Art: 0

Obscure delight

I received a very regal looking bundle of Royal Jelly toiletries as a gift recently. First time ever. And although I do find the scent strangely alluring in an old-school way I daresay it also doubles as an excellent mosquito repellent. I have been using it the past few nights though and there is something comforting about the smell, it brings to mind childhood holidays and staying at elderly relatives houses.

Babe report

So our friendly neighbourhood Health Visitor came around today to measure the babe and make sure I'm not feeding him cheese puffs or sending him out to work. Weight and height are both average but his head is "rather big" apparently. I tell her that as a baby my head was "rather big" too at that age, so I'm not too bothered. She recommends in a polite and breathy manner that I "might take him to the GP, just to get it looked at". I agree to do it, but only because I have the time to and well, you just never know.
When she leaves I look up his head measurement on the child growth scale thingy and although it is, ahem, bigger than average, it's not exactly off the charts. I also look at her notes and it says she has advised me to see GP "re plagiocephaly". Love, you also forgot to call his head a virtual planetoid with its own weather system.

I vow not to offer coffee next time, then I call and make an appointment with GP re son's deformed noggin.

Sun Daze

2011-06-03T16:25:00.002+01:00

After weeks of god-awful rain and gale force winds the sun has finally come out to play. I believe it may be a one day only type deal, but it is a welcome respite nonetheless. It is nicer to get around in the sunshine, full stop. I don't know how many appointments I have arrived at lately looking like an extra from The Perfect Storm. One cannot remain calm nor professional in manner or appearance when wearing waterproof clothing and having to undo approximately 37 tabs of wet velcro on a pram once arriving at one's destination.

image courtesy of google

Creative or Domestic?

This week follows a lovely long weekend, the main themes of which included pyjama time, eating cooked breakfasts, catching up with girlfriends and having group hugs with the boys. Also, 90 minute walks (active) were balanced out by watching, in a daze, as Scott played LA Noire (so not active). As enjoyable and relaxing as it all was I would be lying if I said I didn't boot my man out the door with a big "love you, bye!" as he set off for work again on Tuesday. This is my domain now after all - the leftover mess from the lost weekend being all mine too.

Pesky domesticity: 10
Creativity: Nuls points

Afternoon delight

I have come to love lurking around the local charity shops, now that I have time to explore the long neglected neighbourhood. And buried among the fast fashion rejects are some red-hot granny finds, I tell you. If you get particularly lucky (as I did) then the person serving you will be some volunteer who is bad at maths. I scored two vintage belts for a pound: One was actually a pound but the other didn't have a price tag on it, so somewhere in the shop assistant's thought process it simply became "free".
Being a charity I perhaps should have said something and given him the darned extra pound. But I am skint, so ner.

Babe report

Note to self: Must be careful opening kitchen drawers when my small-faced charge is sitting in a bouncy chair watching dinner preparations. A near-miss, but still.

Rub-a-bored-bub

2011-05-30T16:58:00.001+01:00

So it has been a few days... The past week has included a funeral, a hospital appointment, baby massage classes and a 14-week growth spurt involving you-know-who. Said growth spurt is the thing that seems to have eaten up most of my time and quite frankly, it is exhausting.

In a nutshell my angel of the morning has been turning into an evil grizzler at lunchtime, these grizzles culminating in a Damien the Omen-like performance come early evening. But then one night he goes to sleep, like a little computer he downloads mysterious baby stuff, he reboots and come morning all is right with the world again. Then suddenly he does something he couldn't do before like giggle, or sound a different vowel, or kick his legs when he's excited.

I love all of these little miracles, really I do. It's just the getting there that sometimes makes me want to cry. But in a good way, if there is such a thing. And I find that massage helps.

Please see fig A:

Our first baby massage class is great. Think a circle of cooing chubby little bodies wriggling around on folded towels, with the odd projectile vomit from Max lying on our left and particularly loud and proud baby farts from Liam to our right. Rory just stares at me suspiciously as I pour out the oil and start rubbing my hands together. His eyes bore into me like little almond-shaped instruments of torture while I gently raise his leg and commence the joy-giving.

He gives a beaming smile at first but then starts looking around the room bored after about two minutes. Okay, point taken - you're a baby and you'd rather be hitting the bottle about now, or watching Mr. Bloom's Nursery whilst drizzling your drool all over a muslin. It's just what babies do.

After about 40 minutes of "milking" and "rolling" I look around and recognise my expression in every other mother who, like me, is finding the massaging of their infant about as easy and enjoyable as patting a cat that's not in the mood. I envy the two instructors and their tot-sized rag dolls. It must be easy to showcase a neverending list of fancy strokes on a static, silent and bodily fluid-free foam body.
We have a great laugh nonetheless and - incredibly - Rory has a record 3 hour nap that afternoon. Which suits me just fine.

Obscure delight

Perhaps a delight for some:

http://culturewav.es/public_thought/112194

Creative or Domestic?

I must admit it has been neither lately, even though there have been enough rainy and windy days to keep me indoors, climbing the walls. I blame the abovementioned growth spurt for my lethargy - a lack of sleep does not a great creative mind make, unless you're talking hallucinations. Luckily things haven't gotten that bad. So normal service will resume this week, now that I have my easygoing son back ~~and no longer have his growth spurt to blame~~.

A Prickly Subject

2011-05-17T18:56:00.000+01:00

Tuesdays used to be my least favourite day of the week. Now, not so much. However today is a Tuesday and I hate it already. Today "we" have a doctors appointment at 9.15am for "our" second set of infant immunisations, or as they quite fittingly say here in Scotland, "jags." This makes them sound a little like medieval punishment.

Creative or Domestic?

This afternoon I dug out the art supplies festering at the back of the arse end of a cupboard. Basically my art kit comprises paints, fabrics, papers, pens and glue that have been unceremoniously shoved into various aging and holey plastic bags. I also discovered some handmade cards I once put together but got bored with after about 7 minutes. Not bored exactly, more "distracted" (read lazy):

So after having a nosey at these I've decided to try and rekindle the artistic fires. That is, with whatever spare time and inspiration I can find once the daily tending to the child is said and done.

Obscure delight

May I introduce to you the most entertaining reading I have had in years, the "Am I Being Unreasonable" topic on Mumsnet:

http://www.mumsnet.com/Talk/am_i_being_unreasonable

Who knew middle-class ladies could be so downright vicious? It's despicable, it's un-pc, it's genteel and nasty all at the same time. You may want to read with a box of popcorn.

Babe report

Today's trip to the GP for abovementioned "jags" was a lot better than last month. Junior gave only a medium-sized "wah" this time, after being attacked from either side by a matronly tag team of nurses who cooed over him afterward. In return he stuck out his bottom lip and shot them accusing looks.

What amazed me the most however was the ease with which he took a spoonful of Calpol once we got home. What used to be spat out with immediate disgust was now taken gently into the mouth, carefully considered by the palate, then calmy swallowed without the slightest change of facial expression.

We have an eater!

Welcome to my new KPI, or Kid Pacifying Index

2011-05-17T12:52:00.001+01:00

During our early morning breakfast meeting Rory and I touch base to compile an action plan for the week ahead. We compare notes, swap continence tips, that sort of thing. He then gives a loud satisfied burp, indicating our session is up.

Creative or Domestic?

Today it is raining so I proclaim today "Dull Domestiday." I don't like Mondays as a rule, but since I won't need to get up at the crack of dawn to commute to an office for a while, Mondays and I are on good terms again. Getting up at the crack of dawn to feed the baby is a different matter but I don't need to go into hair and makeup for that, so it's win win.

Today, Domestic Not-ess that I am, I filled 3 charity bags with clothes and begrudgingly snuck in some old handbags. When I say "snuck" I mean folded them into the clothes, as the charity bag says "clothes only, please no bric-a-brac" on the front. Apart from bad taste china figurines I really have no idea what bric-a-brac actually is. It may well include handbags, and handbags are not clothes, so I err on the side of caution.

Crap clearing: Ongoing.

Laundry: One load.

Washing up: Complete.

Kitchen: Wiped.

Living Room: Junk rearranged just enough to look tidier.

Done and done.

Obscure delight

Today whilst taking the pram out for walkies I could smell cooking onions. How I adore the smell of cooking onions. It reminds me of barbecues in the sunshine. It reminds me of music festivals, and needing to line my stomach before I get minging drunk. It is, among other things, an essential summer smell.

The fact I was wearing a waterproof jacket and had a raincover on the pram made no difference to me at all.

Babe report

Today the babe was surprisingly textbook. After waking at 6.30am he had a quiet feed, he went down for a nap, he woke again for a feed, he went down for a nap. Rinse and repeat. He was charming and smiley in between. I waited and waited for my luck to change but the worst damage he did was to pull aggressively at his favourite muslin and drench it in drool. Then, after his last feed of the day he lay on the couch in the afterglow of having been fed and watered, gave gummy grins to his parents and promptly dozed off.

My luck will change. I guarantee it.

In and Out - August

2010-08-20T16:10:00.002+01:00

Okay, just being lazy here... I haven't updated this blog in some time so I daresay it is time for some up to date ramblings. You know, to get the creative juices flowing again.

However, in the absence of a fantastical explosion of inspiration and, quite frankly, the funniest and most thought-provoking words you've ever read in your life, may I meanwhile lazily present to you my Ins and Outs for August:

In:

Estee Lauder's Pleasures Exotic fragrance: A completely unremarkable (looking) relative of the sweet, floral 'Pleasures' line. It's not even a new release, but after having sniffed it by accident about 3 weeks ago I've been spritzing it like a woman possessed every time I go into Boots. And recently I have been diverting, like a weirdo, to Boots for this sole reason.

Greggs Iced Donuts: Quite possibly the dreamiest fat b*stard treat I have ever encountered. I have been known to down 2 in a sitting.

The Hotel Inspector: Why I am addicted to this piece of TV gold I can't even begin to tell you. But I am. Alex Polizzi - you rule 'darling'.

Out:

Torrential rain in August: Blerk. Just what is it with Scotland and its 2 month summers??

Pregnancy queasiness and topsy turvy tastebuds: Chicken has, in the past 3 months, become the most vile thing I could possibly imagine having to eat for any meal. Ever.

Facebook drama queens: Facebook for me is about reading funny status updates, witty comments, viewing wacky youtube links, networking and basically throwing oneself into what remains on just the right side of an online hubbub. What I don't need from Facebook is 'friends' posting private pictures of their family members in hospital, starting online campaigns using animal cruelty videos or starting a Facebook page with regular updates on the degenerating health of an immediate family member, who subsequently died.

Methinks we need a 'Is Nothing Sacred?' button.

Well those are my Ins and Outs for this month.

Stay tuned for a longer post - the fantastical explosion of inspiration will come soon, I promise.

Weekend Tourists

2008-11-09T13:02:00.011Z

I find myself sitting in a quaint cafe at the Scottish ski resort of Aviemore, sipping on a latte and quietly watching the tourist traffic as it literally blows through the door, along with an icy breeze.
A family of four rub together their woollen hands and advance gratefully towards the service counter where the warmth of coffee, tea or soup awaits them. They look like something straight out of an Ikea catalogue- beautiful, toothy and blonde, conversing exotically and giggling at the empire biscuits behind the glass. I am amused too, as I know they are laughing at the glace cherry on the empire biscuit for obvious reasons. I remember laughing naughtily when I first saw one. Once the novelty wears off the father proudly asks, in charming broken English, for a bridie (pronouncing it 'bree-dy') and three ham and cheese toasties. The happy unit then shuffle their designer ski boots over to a table in the corner and settle themselves, making all the self-satisfied noises people make when they are on holiday and don't have a single care in the world. I smile vaguely as I watch them, realising how ironic it is to be jealous of a family who are on holiday when I have in fact been on my own 'holiday' in Scotland for about 8 years.

Having finished my latte I make my way to the gift shop, which sits in pine-lined glory across a hallway- a small area which in itself serves as a mini wildlife museum. I do some perfunctory browsing of leaflets before succumbing to the child within, opening small doors in the wall which reveal lightbox images of red squirrels and reindeer. Cool.

Finally entering the giftshop, I wonder to myself how business is doing. During these credit-crunching times do people feel they really need to shell out for that blackfaced-sheep-shaped pencil eraser, or that pair of snazzy-yet-ridiculously-overpriced pair of St. Andrews flag cufflinks? I finger these precious things nonetheless, as if I just might pluck one from its display and march up to the counter to buy it. Funny how a shopkeeper's watchful glazed gaze can do these things to your behaviour.

My other half doesn't quite feel my wry amusement: Being the better person than me that he is, he carefully selects a pretty postcard and buys some stamps so that he can post it to his mum. As he usually does. For a moment I'm ashamed that I didn't think to do the same thing, after all this is the house of I saw this and thought of you.

We make our way to the village and slip the postcard into the ancient red post-box. Scott pauses for a second then grins at me like a seven year-old who has just done something worthy of a reward. We take our time on the homeward journey, driving through snow-covered hills and taking in a gorgeous pink and gold sunset which make the mountains in the distance look just like Mount Fuji. I munch on Haribo and sing along to the stereo; we get caught behind slow moving tractors and horse floats; we catch glimpses of hairy highland cows as they stand in the middle of fields, quietly munching their way into the evening, just as I am.

Circumstance has made us weekend tourists. We can't go far together, lest there be an emergency with his mother. And sometimes there is. I crave Greek islands, New York, Australia. For both of us.

But not yet... So until then I will continue to sit in every cafe and browse every giftshop in almost every town in Scotland. If there's somewhere I can recommend, just let me know :)

*Actual picture taken at Lecht. Nice gift shop- you would like it.

...and so time for a poetry break

2008-09-19T10:37:00.005+01:00

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Yes, I believe we WILL take your freedom.

2008-08-29T12:50:00.007+01:00

image courtesy of google

Monday nights in this crumbling grey town are usually the sleepiest of them all, as far as drunks and dramas are concerned. Then why was it that I was awoken at 2.30am last Tuesday morning by the presence of a roaring, drug-addled maniac outside my house?

His sheer vocal noise I can only describe as sounding a little like 'Braveheart': That is, if William Wallace smoked crack and worshipped the devil. This yelling went on non-stop for about 40 minutes and I realised- as I lay sweating in my jammies and poised to jump out of bed- that this nutcase wasn't going anywhere. Usually the drunken singing, swearing and smorgasboard of dole-fuelled dramas pass by our house late at night, but even if they pause for a couple of minutes nearby, they eventually walk on and fade into the darkness. So I grabbed the phone, crept downstairs into the kitchen and clapped eyes on the back of Mr Nutjob's head through the blinds. This scene seemed all the more creepy as his menacing outline was lit by the soft orange lamps lining the square outside. There he was at the side of Lily's house, facing her open bin cupboard and singing in raspy, evil gibberish. All of our wheelie bins had been kicked over and lay on their sides around him. On his mission to destroy, he staggered back past our neighbours house, put the boot into their bins too and tried the handle of their front door. All of a sudden I felt sick to my stomach...

I called the police in utter panic and waited in the darkness, peering through the blinds, shaking and praying they would hurry the fuck up. A drunk and disorderly call? In this town? Surely they would all laugh and go back to their donuts. After about 5 minutes all was quiet, so I assumed he had gone. After about 15 minutes there was a knock at the door. Well, my heart nearly stopped. The nice policeman informed me that the guy was actually still there when they arrived and that they caught him starting a small fire in said bin cupboard. Which is where Lily's central heating gas pipe is (Mr Nutbag, criminal genius). So the police had to call the fire brigade, who needed to check inside Lily's house and make sure there was no interior damage (of course being deaf, she slept soundly through the whole thing).

So I now hope that the only buzz ole Braveheart can look forward to in the near future is the one he'll get from the forthcoming charge of culpable and reckless conduct. Then maybe we can all get some sleep.

Wheels on fire...

2008-08-29T11:45:00.008+01:00

Lily and I were due at the doctor's at 9.15am this morning. As I was due to push the "old yin" in the wheelchair I calculated a 15 minute or so walk (some of it uphill) from her house to the doctors. I arrived at Lily's at 8.45 as planned, to find Mrs. Faff still in her nightie, on her way to the bathroom following her morning fag. And I wonder where her son gets it from. Anyway I called the surgery to say we were running late due to "technical difficulties" and they just laughed and said it was fine.

Finally arriving 10 minutes late for our appointment, the receptionist (obviously a different one) glared at me when I checked in. Luckily "nice receptionist" came to my rescue and we were called into the nurses room straight away. There are about three "nurses rooms," so of course I wheeled Lily into the wrong one, inside which two fat ugly nurses were deep in conversation about, I don't know, what they were having for lunch. They turned to me with utter disdain and fat ugly nurse no.1 barked, "sorry but I think you're in the wrong room." I said nothing, but with great difficulty attempted to back the chair (twice) out of the room, trying not to knock over silver trays and urine samples as I went. These two individuals sat on their arses and watched me and Lily struggle, my hands on the wheelchair and Lily's frail hands pushing the swinging door with all of her 79 year-old might. Finally back in the hallway I barked "thanks for your help, ladies" and slammed the door. Why is it I often feel like Erin Brokovich on a bad day with these people?

So we found our way to the right nurse, who was lovely. She took Lily's blood pressure and blood sample and after about 5 minues we were finished. Would you believe we even had the door held for us on the way out?

Oh, wheelchair life... We took our time on the way back, as my palms were red and sore from the frantic walk up. It's funny how pushing a mere 8-stone person up a slight incline can knacker you. Oh, and you have to beware of dogs too - my poor charge almost got pounced on by a black woolly mammoth on the way home. No doubt the pup had nothing but love in it's heart, but what seemed cute to me must have been terrifying to someone strapped to a moving vehicle saying 'hello' at eye level.

Cold

2008-07-19T14:09:00.008+01:00

It's 7.10am on a cold winter's morning and I am standing at the bottom of my stairs, staring intently into the hallway mirror. The wind sounds like a speeding train as it tries to force its way around the edges of each window with a malevolent low hum, and I shudder with dread at the thought of going to work in this weather yet again.

A burning smell enters my nostrils. I continue to stare into the mirror whilst at the same time picking up the hot tool that lies ready on the carpet. As I put the GHD's to my head, the satisfying aroma of unruly hair burning into submission fills the air in the hallway- no doubt it also wafts up the stairs and into the nostrils of my sleeping partner as he still tosses and turns in bed.

I happily continue my silent early morning ritual, when an almighty crash comes from the neighbours' kitchen next door. And not for the first time, I think wearily, running a comb through my fringe and waiting for the show to start.

His voice is a low growl that shoots down the stairs with heavy footsteps, into the kitchen where she slams the door again, obviously trying to keep him out. All I want to do is bang my fist hard on the wall at them, but the walls between us are hard plaster so I would only break my hand. She yelps, squeals and bangs some more, I spritz some glossing spray into my palm and smooth it over my crown. I'm totally unconvinced this hairstyle is even going to last the walk to the bus stop this morning. As they continue, it crosses my mind that they have a small child, a toddler and another on the way.

I exhale heavily, switch off my straightening irons and check the time on my mobile. Suddenly both voices through the wall change pitch, and I hear her whiney wail as it weaves through the downstairs rooms, away from me then closer again, followed by his intent growl as they stomp back into the kitchen. She lets out a screech and I hear a baby start to cry. Not upstairs but in the kitchen, through the wall, in her arms.

I adjust my coat, my scarf, I grab my keys, I shake my head. I tell myself that in 12 hours time they will be back to normal, as they always are. As I open the front door the howling wind greets me like an over-excited friend, relieved to finally find it's way inside. Walking past the neighbours kitchen window I can't hear anything over the noise of the wind. Besides, my hair is now all over my face, so I can't see a thing.

Memories... like the corners of my pc

2008-05-24T15:05:00.006+01:00

I have just come across a whole disc worth of photos my brother kindly downloaded onto my pc nearly 2 years ago. He was here on holiday and I was so excited at the prospect of having all these pictures and short videos to look at once he left, but somehow I didn’t get around to looking at all of them.

It has just taken me half an hour to take a trip through my nephews 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthdays, my late grandma’s funeral, funny random nights out and various other family events I missed out on. My brother also assembled a collage of photos of my nephew that I never even new existed until a few moments ago.

What a teary half hour I have spent, seeing him in outfits I bought for him, watching the weight of various family members (my own included) go up and down, seeing the smiles of cousins who to this day I haven’t seen in my adult life and just missing the ‘old country’ so very dearly.

So I want to thank my brother for being so thoughtful, I don’t think I thanked him properly at the time. Some of the photos I have seen already (and my sister has sent me heaps over the years too) but as for those elusive portraits I have only just discovered- you have made my day Kristian, 2 years on.

A Matter of Taste. Bite Me.

2007-11-04T15:41:00.001Z

Okay, I have to apologise, as I have noticed that this blog is slowly moving away from what it is supposed to be about. And that is, er, coming to terms with cultural differences of life in the UK.

So I shall start my piece thus: Chocolate over here sucks. "Crisps" (what a poofy thing to call chips anyway) come in strange flavours and the 'fresh' fruit'n'veg is absolute crap. This is something I've known for a while but it has been so obvious that I have just never written a rant about it. Watch me now.

Everything over here seems to be just that bit smaller, more shrivelled, paler and less flavoursome. Okay, I appreciate that the weather has a lot to do with it. In Australia the sunshine breeds bigger, fresher and more robust (that includes the people). In Australia you can feast on apples and tomatoes as big as your head, steaks and prawns the size of small dogs and salads as fresh and springy as, I don't know, a fresh spring.

Here in the UK the food just looks sad (don't worry, I'll stick up for it in a sec). Walk into any Asda supermarket and you'll see a selection of what can only be described as bonsai produce: Fruit that looks as if it should be twice the size, have twice the colour and be three times as varied. I have to say though, it has vastly improved over the years. I mean, before 2003 I couldn't even find sour cream. I don't want to be accused of slagging off the real national foods here, because there are some absolute gems of traditional Scottish dishes that I have become addicted to. Yes, haggis is one of them. Black pudding I can take or leave, thanks. I have never eaten nicer salmon or strawberries in my life. And although the national diet is pretty poor I can safely say that deep fried mars bars (although available if you look) are more of a joke than anything. Everyone associates Fosters lager with Aussies but we know that no-one in Australia actually drinks it.

Anyway my point is that the stuff I was used to buying at Coles in Prahran cannot be touched (or sometimes even found) over here at Sainsbury's. By the way, the Brits are only encouraged to eat 5 portions of fruit and veg (not 5 of each) a day over here. I'm sure in Australia it's almost double that figure, please correct me someone if I'm wrong.

Next and last on the agenda will be an attack on British sweets. Sorry Britain but your lollies really do suck the big one. Cases in point: "UFO's" - thin, disc-shaped (like UFO's, geddit) wafer cases that contain... sherbet. Wow. Like chewing a piece of dusty cardboard. "Jelly Babies": The Australian versions are firm, fruity, flavoursome jubes that make your mouth water. In the UK they're twice the size, covered in icing sugar (*crosses herself*) and are soft, squishy and flavourless. And what's wrong with the normal chip flavours of Cheese and Onion, Chicken or Salt'n'Vinegar? Who in the hell wants Prawn Cocktail, Branston Pickle, Lamb & Mint or Worcester Sauce flavour? Charles Dickens?

Oh, I could go on endlessly. The Picnics have sultanas in them, the donuts taste like cake, the cheesecakes have a sponge base... I can't tell you enough how much I miss southern hemisphere food. I crave Cheezels, I crave Tiny Teddies and Tee Vee Snacks. I crave Sour Cream.

"Are you on your period or something?"

2007-11-02T21:44:00.002Z

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I'm a pretty calm and laid-back person. Ask anyone who works with me and they will tell you that I'm a good-humoured and even-tempered person. So why was it tonight I found myself flying into the kind of rage that only seems to come out about once every two years? You know when you're so angry, frustrated and upset that you literally spit your words out but they don't make any sense? When the sane, rational side of you evaporates for a split second and with a moment's whoosh of adrenaline the lunatic monster pushes its way out of your throat, your eyeballs and it all just gets a bit Exorcist?

I am at the end of a bad week. Okay, my other half reminded me this evening that "every week" is a bad week for me, but this particular week you just couldn't make up. My team mate at work has been away all week so I have been thoroughly biserable. But that's alright because she is going through a very personal and devastating crisis, and due to this I haven't been able sleep properly or think straight all week. I love this girl, she is such a fantastic person and my heart is fucking breaking for her. So I have faced the ultimate test of grieving and welling up in between putting my work face on and soldiering on all week. With a deep hatred of Business As Usual.

In between this are emotional, staccato emails from one of my sisters. Now and again we do this- send silent, long distance pleas for help during our working week. It's like holding hands but not knowing what's going on at the other end.

Then at 3am this morning Social Services came to the door saying that my fiance's mother had set off the personal alarm she wears around her neck. So he rushed into her house thinking the worst, only to find her sleeping peacefully, with the alarm sitting untouched on the bedside table. She had probably set it off accidentally whilst getting ready for bed, no doubt in her usual 1am drunken state. As a result I slept through my alarm this morning and got into work late. My boss came over and asked if I was okay. I said I didn't know. Maybe. The day happened anyway, regardless of whether I was okay or not. But I got through it with the aid of some very sweet emails from the boy, promising me lots of attention when I got home.

I walked into my dark house tonight and remembered how nice it was last September to see my mum waiting for me at the door with a hug. Instead tonight I saw her postcard in the letterbox and felt an awful lump at the back of my throat. I cooked dinner as usual, even though I really didn't feel like it. And just as I was looking forward to all the attention I was promised from the boy, he said he was going to have his mate over. Then I flipped out.

He asked "are you on your period or something, you're acting like a bunny boiler" which made me even worse. Ask ANY WOMAN. So following some extremely heated words (us), deadly looks (me) and about 16 tissues (me again) I was sat down and basically told to stop whinging and get my shit together. Okaaay. Well it wasn't that harsh but it wasn't far from it. Thanks for the love, babe.

But you know what? Fundamentally he is right. The bastard. Sure it's been an upsetting week, but obviously more so for someone other than me. Maybe I have had some deep seated issues stirred up from within my tightly packed, neatly folded and repressed self. Perhaps. Maybe I'm not so calm and laid back after all, I'm just too scared to act out whenever I feel like it, thus saving it all for those 2-yearly Krakatoa type eruptions. Probably. Anyway I promise this will be the last whiney, self indulgent blog I write. Hopefully. Emotions are a little bit high at the moment.

"It's such a perfect day...

2007-09-22T22:47:00.001+01:00

I'm glad I spent it with youuuu..."

Well what a nice day I had today. After enjoying a day's holiday on Friday I relaxed into Saturday with a roadtrip down to the seaside, both to visit my heavily pregnant friend and to take my other half's mother to see an old friend she hasn't seen in years. The weather was lovely, I sang songs into mother-in-law-to-be's good ear (she's almost completely deaf) and my boy, otherwise known as 'lead foot', drove at a reasonable speed for the entire journey. We stopped off at my friend's house for a coffee and a sniff around her recent renovations, then she joined us for the trip to the next town for lunch and window-shopping.

We first took my fiance's mum to her old pal's apartment nearby, and wouldn't you know it the old girl's got a lovely one-bedroomed place right on the water with a balcony and harbour view to boot. Upon seeing eachother again, the two ladies shared a meaningful hug that only two friends who have so much history but haven't seen eachother in ages can give one another. It broke my heart. But soon enough the naughty twosome were lost in a fug of cigarette smoke, memories and whiskey, leaving the 'young ones' to go and do their own thing for a few hours. So we mooched around the shops, I touched up some silky, jewel coloured dresses in Monsoon, cuddled the beautiful volume winter coats in River Island and ran my drool-covered mits over the wall-to-wall cushions at Au Naturale. Sigh.

Whilst strolling around Debenhams we could hear a fashion show going on in the far corner, so following the music and the sound of the pa we walked towards the assembled throng, wondering why everyone was staring at us. We soon realised that the path we were walking on was actually, um, the runway, and that there was an exasperated model, dressed head to toe in Topshop, trying to squeeze through the racks past us! It was so hilarious, my friend and I were in hysterics wondering if the suburban fash pack would take our cue and start dressing in head to toe black stretch maternity gear (her outfit for the day), or New Look jeans with a paint stain on the right thigh (me). And I kid you not, by the time we assembled in the 'correct' area for the show I noticed there was a girl in the front row wearing sunglasses, a la Anna Wintour. Oh, it was just surreal.

We shortly after repaired to the restaurant upstairs, for panninis, diet-coke and cake (my friend is heavily pregnant and needs her nutrients- who the hell am I to be left out?). I bitched about work, she talked excitedly about her baby names shortlist, I bitched about work again, she talked excitedly about bringing the little one to my house overnight once he/she's born so that she can partake in her first post-bub beer. I shut the hell up and was suddenly overcome with the significance of what was happening to her, and got misty eyed at the notion that I had no idea when I would be in her shoes. She told me she was a bit scared and I told her she'd be fine, that her motherly instinct would kick in immediately, just the way my dad told me my sister's had as soon as my nephew was born.

We also talked about our hilarious mate the Gay Priest. Gay Priest has almost finished his training, and has invited us to his open day at priest 'college' next month, so he can show off and let us see him in his priest-to-be habitat. Did you know they even have a bar at priest college? I'm going along to witness that, if anything. Apparently he has an absolute ball there- who would have thought? One evening he and the other trainee priests got bored, so they all decided to sing their hymns in the style of The Proclaimers... And on a recent trip to Rome our Gay Priest was late for an audience with the Pope because he and another priest got sh*tfaced in the afternoon and were caught at the Trevi Fountain drunkenly 'blessing' passers by with the water. I have gotten sh*tfaced with him myself and can truly say he's one of the most interesting people I've met since living here.

Anyway, after a few hours of hardcore chit chat and fondling of precious retail things, I bid my friend adieu and made my way back to ye olde's fancy apartment on the water. I stood on the small balcony and watched my boy lovingly act as interpreter for his (almost) 79-year-old deaf mother as she struggled to hear some quip or another that her friend was making about the old days. It was quite touching, and I really did fall for him all over again, seeing him with his mum like that. On the hostess's insistence we stayed for a dinner of fresh fish and chips, then finally said our goodbyes and made our return journey, the return of 'Lead Foot' seeing us back to our place of origin in 55 minutes flat. Yay.

So now here I sit, chilling out, I've had a glass (or 5) of wine, and I can safely say I have had a really nice day. Okay, it wasn't the most exciting, the most fabulous or the most dramatic. But it involved food, drinks, friends, sunshine, a bit of family and a bit of laughter.

Aren't I easily pleased?

Fashionanna

2007-09-09T09:31:00.002+01:00

I like to play a game where I have an imaginary £10,000 to spend on clothes and accessories at Harvey Nichols or Selfridges in a single afternoon. I do actually have excellent taste but am without the budget (not to mention the figure) to make this dream a reality. Okay, so I could go all 'Sienna' and put things together myself but I just don't have the time, as creative as I like to think I am.

I have been reading fashion magazines since the year dot, so I certainly know my Hermes from my H&M. Has it inspired me to pursue fashionista status? Not exactly. Has it given me size zero tendencies? Hell no. So I don't know if I'm a fashion follower so much as a 'fashion appreciator.'

Oh god, is that just an excuse for being broke and fat?

But I don't flick through magazines wearing my smock and gladiator sandals thinking "okay, so volume is out, but body-con is in, but maybe my sandals can carry me through autumn, what with the new warrior look and everything." You know, I flick through the magazines and I study the fashion pages (as I always have done) thinking "oh, that's devine..." Then I go to my wardrobe and put together an only slightly updated version of a look I have probably had for the past 10 years. I mean, for god's sake, am I really destined to become one of those women whose 'look' is stuck in a timewarp (ie. when they looked their best- in my case Summer 2001)?

I look forward to 2047 when I'll be wheeling my granny jeep to the grocers wearing wedges, liquid eyeliner, a big, f*ck off necklace and, I don't know, maybe a sheer polka-dot shirt for good measure.

Please don't. No, really...

2007-09-05T19:29:00.002+01:00

I am tempted to say I work as a counsellor. Well I don't, but the business of finding work for people can see me wearing many different 'hats', including that of Counsellor, Mum, Best Friend, Jester, Judge and sometimes even Slave (if slaves wore hats). Don't get me wrong, being in a position where I am able to help people is the main reason I do what I do. And if I get the odd box of chocolates into the bargain, all the better. Now and again, though, someone comes along who just ends up taking up more airtime than they really should. Oh, there's always one.

Let's face it, looking for a job basically means putting yourself out there to be accepted or rejected (for whatever reason). Having been closely involved in facilitating this process has taught me just how vulnerable, arrogant, brilliant, conniving or downright stupid people can be in their merry search for work. Nothing makes me happier than telling someone they have just been offerred the job of their dreams, especially if I helped them from the start. Equally, nothing makes me feel worse than having to tell someone they didn't get the job they had their heart set on because they were too nervous/negative/had an inappropriate piercing at interview. But nothing makes me hopping-madder than someone who is pushy, aggressive and won't take no for an answer. I shall call him Mr. Creepy.

Mr. Creepy came in to see me a few months ago, with an out-of-date passport and no working visa on him. His CV was so-so but I thought he would be okay so long as he could show his eligibility to work in the country. Conscientiously he brought his documents in the next day and all was well. Due to circumstances beyond my control there was nothing I was working on to suit him, therefore I wasn't in touch for a while. He called me a couple of times and I told him this. I was then walking through the bus station after work one day and he appeared, as if from nowhere, apparently wanting to chat about his career (or lack of). I apologised for not being able to help him and he looked utterly crestfallen, but kept standing there as if there was something I should be able to do then and there. Not knowing what else to say, I politely said goodbye.

The next night I walked through the bus station and was sure I could see him in my peripheral vision, sitting in a seat outside. Maybe watching me, maybe not. Last week I was walking into the bus station again (does he ever get a bus or what?), I was wearing my sunnies and could just see him, walking the opposite way. He called out to me again but I kept walking this time, slightly annoyed.

Was I wrong not to stop? Is he wrong for wanting to stop me each time he spots me in a crowd, rather than just recognising me and thinking to call me the next day- at the office- for a professional chat? Is it a cultural thing and I'm just being really rude (he's Ghanian by the way)? At any rate I started walking into the bus station via a different door each night.

He called the office at about 5pm today and my colleague answered. She told me it was him and I told her exactly who he was. Susequently I didn't speak to him, which was probably the wrong thing to do. It just irritated me. I did my usual walk to the bus, all the while thinking that if he was calling me 20 minutes before, then surely he would be at home or something. Anyway I was getting my bus about 40 minutes later than usual- he couldn't possibly just be there at any given time?

I had a cigarette, put it out, walked through the sliding doors and... who should be walking out through the other side but Mr. Creepy? I'm not even kidding. I grabbed my mobile and pretended to be on it. He called my name anyway, I kept walking, I got to my bus stop and waited for him to have the sheer front to come and tap me on the shoulder. He didn't. All of a sudden I wanted to run after him and tell him to leave me the fuck alone. I know the guy only wants a break but he is starting to give me the creeps.

PS- Since then I have put him forward for 2 jobs (he is actually a part-qualified accountant) so fingers crossed for him. He has stepped up the calls to the office but there have since been no public haranguings. That I can deal with. Stay tuned.