The Smoking Room.

Last night there was an unscheduled news report in between Casualty and Jekyll on BBC1.  So, there’s the newsreader passing over to an interview with the Prime Minister, who wants to talk about the criticalness of the terrorist threat malarkey that’s going on at the moment, and there I am going, Who the f.uck is that geezer who looks out of place, wearing a suit that is at least one size too big? Where’s Tony Blair? Why won’t the wrong-suit geezer shut up and let Tony into view?  It took about a second for that to go through my mind before I realised that the geezer is our Prime Minister.


And I’m not sure if that Yikes! is due to the new PM or the fact that I’m more willing to tell you that anecdote than I am to tell you that I’m really scared of having to live in a criticalness terrorist threat thingy nation.  Which I’m not.  I’m very apathetic on that score.  Perhaps this makes me a bad person? Perhaps it just means that terrorists are going about things the wrong way now.  Who knows?

[As an aside, I accidentally (on purpose) nudged somebody’s bum with my shopping trolley in Tesco yesterday.  She sarcastically muttered something like, excuuuuse me.  So I sarcastically muttered something back.  It was along the lines of shut up and oooh, how clever to mutter things under your breath.  I wish I could do that too.  Then it dawned on me that I am her.  I am the person that will mutter when someone annoys me or gets in my way. 

That’s surely worthy of another Yikes!]

As of today I’m not allowed to smoke in any enclosed public places in England.  This is helped by the fact that I’m a non-smoker.  I have been a non-smoker for 167 weeks.  I have not smoked [approximately] 23,377 cigarettes and I have saved over £5,000.   

Giving up the cigarettes was the easiest thing I ever did.  One week both myself and The Blokey were verging on twenty a day each and the following week we were down to zero.  But I’m not one of those evil ex-smokers.  I don’t stand in bus shelters waving my hands in front of my face whilst muttering complaints.  I don’t even really mind being around people who are smoking: Chav Boy smokes in his car whilst driving me to and from work and the kids at work are allowed to smoke in the ‘playground’, and to ensure that they don’t fight and cause havoc we have to stand out there with them. 

I actually quite like the smell of cigarettes.  Sometimes I even feel tempted to indulge in a ‘quick fix’.  But I never have and I never will.  I never want to find myself in the position where I can’t leave home without a lighter and enough pennies to buy a packet, always checking that I have mints on me and fretting about the bus being early because I won’t get to finish my fag.  I never want to find myself in that situation where I decide that I could do with lighting up only to look down and see that I already have a half-smoked cigarette in my hand. 

Smoking was a way of life for me for over ten years.  It was as natural to me as brushing my teeth or drinking tea.  It was part of who I was, part of my existence.  And I do genuinely have a bit of sympathy with those folk who grumble about having their civil liberties taken away, who moan that they won’t be able to enjoy that Sunday lunchtime pub trip without an obligatory fag hanging out of the corner of their mouth. 

But I also laugh at their misery.

Because that’s just the kind of gal I am.

please God bless the folk who smoke xxx Elsabeth

PS: Happy Birthday [for today, not officially] Tabatha-Cat! and Happy Birthday [for tomorrow] Baby Brother!

Oh, I get it.
*blank look from the blokey*
Shaun! Shaun the Sheep! 
*katiefinger chuckles to herself*
It’s because sheep are sheared isn’t it, so when they’re sheared they’re shorn, so it’s Shaun the Sheep!
*the blokey shifts uncomfortably in his seat whilst looking at me oddly*
You’ve only just got it?, he asks.
Yeh! *laughs* I’m clever, aren’t I Tabatha-Cat?

And to think, if The Blokey hadn’t been ill and watching the tellybox when I came home from work I would still be none the wiser as to why the sheep from Wallace and Gromit is called Shaun. 

Oh, bless my stripey cotton socks.

And bless Tesco too.  We may never buy our petrol from you ever again, but at least you’ve admitted responsibility and are coughing up and repaying us the two hundred and seventy quid we lost because of your silly petrol fiasco.  It’s not like you can’t afford it … You practically rule the world in the supermarket stakes as it is [although Wal-Mart may still have the edge … sorry about that].

Today is Tuesday.  And there are ten

things you’d like to learn how to do.

1. Drive.  I would love to learn to drive [again].  But there’s a niggling niggle inside me which puts its foot down and hisses vehemently in my belly, creating that queasy panicky feeling, that I Must Not Do It.   The advantages probably far outweigh the disadvantages when it boils down to it, but I hated learning to drive.  Or maybe I hated my driving instructor.  Or did I just hate BSM?  But whatever it was I hated it was an intense enough feeling to panic me.  I’m just not cut out for driving – take away the lorries, the junctions, the roundabouts and the angry people, and find a way to stop me constantly switching-off/daydreaming, and I’m sure I’d make a damn fine driver, but until then …

2. Big Myself Up.  I don’t much like those who are arrogant, with their enormous heads practically fit to bursting, and their disdain of other folk.  But sometimes I would like to be like them, every so often.  I find it awkward when people compliment me in any aspect, and I find myself feeling like a tosser when I choose to admit that actually I am good at some things. 

3. Cook.  If you knew me in a less-virtual setting that would be self-explanatory. 

4. Play The Harp.  I’ve been fascinated by it since I was a nipper, in a flippant and vague way.  Failing the harp, it might be quite cool to learn to play the piano or the violin.  

5.  Ice Skate.  I thought I could, but I can’t.  I’m such a coward and I hate to fall over, especially when there are blades about.

6. Gain Confidence.  This is really connected to number 2, but has a deeper aspect because it relates to being able to write and having the confidence to reveal myself through my words of fiction.  And I don’t think I’ll ever learn to have the confidence I need for that.  Especially as half the population of the world want the same thing and why compete with that many people …

7. Remember My Dreams.  I ought to sleep with a pen and paper next to my pillow because I love my dreams and I’d like to share them.  They’re vivid and fun and naughty and realistic.  And yet they’re so forgetful …

8. Pretend The Whole Wide World Doesn’t Conspire Against Me.  Because it does, and we all know this, but to pretend it doesn’t would make my life easier.  

9. Hypnotise People.  Wouldn’t that just be fandangly?

10. The Ironing.  Because I can’t, so I don’t.  I fold and/or tumble dry.  And yet I never go to work/play with creases in my clothing.  So actually, scrap that, there’s no real point in learning to iron. 

10. [the one with a point] Control My feelings Of Anxiety And My General Moodiness/Depressive Tendencies.  Sometimes curling up in a ball seems the best option, but it would be superb if I could find a better way of dealing with it.  I think I do deal with it to an extent, but to deal with it in a way that doesn’t upset The Blokey would be nice. 

The End.

please God bless my cat who does sneeze an awful lot at the moment xxx Elsabeth

The Blog of Boring.

I arrived home from work this evening and was overwhelmed by my popularity.  The emails just refused to stop arriving.  My joy was shortlived though as it became apparent that the Daemon Mailer is stalking me. 


I should be grateful I suppose.  For the last few weeks it’s the banks who have been stalking me. They seem to have given up [or Daemon has pointed them in the wrong direction] … hopefully the wonderful Daemon will follow suit soon.  I actually had a total of one thousand emails to delete – I’ve never felt so loved, yet so unloved. 

Those of you who are observant will remember that I suffered greatly on Saturday morning when the car went doolally.  Well, it appears that we’re not the only ones.  Somebody has been selling contaminated petrol in the East Anglian/South East area of England.  We only ever buy our petrol from Tesco.  We have the clubcard points/bank statements to prove it.  The Blokey has his car booked in at the Peugeot garage for Monday [it was the earliest they could do when he phoned them this past Monday, but I’m worried that he’s damaging the engine by driving it to and from work (about thirty-five miles round trip) each day] … we’re expecting them to have no spare part and for it to cost anything up to £500 [$1000-ish] to rectify – it’s not covered by the warranty.  Compensation claims, do you think?  And are they really going to cough up?

If you really care you can read about it here

Work has been quite tame in comparison with Daemon and the Petrol.  I’ve played games, sworn in front of students [I’m a terrible example], had a go at three students on three different occasions for three annoying incidences, and done productive admin type tasks with the computer … 

And I didn’t even eat any of the chocolate that’s been doing the rounds.  Me is a good girl.

please God bless our car and make it work nicely xxx Elsabeth

“Ennui and lethargy are waging a war inside me.”

It’s rained an awful lot since the day I got married.  I know this because my pond, which was half empty on that very day, is now almost full.  And it’s a bloody big pond. 

It’s been a tad windy here over the weekend.  I know this not because the weatherman told me, nor because I’ve heard the non-existent gale-force wind that the weatherman promised would blow me away, but because the For Sale sign for the house behind us has almost fallen down on our car.  Humpf.

I have no oompf at the moment.  I’ve spent the last few days feeling increasingly moody and miserable.  I have no sense of direction and the slightest thing is messing with my head.  I wish that Christmas would get a move on.  But not to the extent that I want to be gliding down the aisles of Tesco, banging into people and glaring at them so that they’ll say sorry to me, and have Christmas songs blaring in my ears.  Damn Tesco.

I don’t want to talk to anyone and yet I’m stalking everyone. 

I’d like to settle down for dinner with Mathew Horne and Burn Gorman.  I’m feeling particularly broody.

Yay! Work tomorrow!

please God, bless the sarcasm xxx Elsabeth