Reunion

The tent and the missing tent pole have been reunited. Normal service has been resumed.

While I'm on about services I've got to be up at some ungodly hour tomorrow to get the offspring to Scubs for a Dawn Service which is something to do with this being the Movement's centenary year. After the service the more important matter of bacon butties will be addressed. Then I've got to get her changed and elsewhere to go swimming. Then I've got to get my shit together to go to work, for the afternoon/evening shift.

Why I sank the Hobgoblin

Well I forgot to mention it or perhaps I wasn't quite ready to but (The Slug) managed to infuriate me royally last night and how I didn't blow a gasket is simply down to flirting with the Hobgoblin instead.

He simply won't stop bringing crap into the house. In fits and starts, books, CDs, second hand videos, clothes, novelties, decrepit junk he can tinker with. Then it sits about on any available flat space, including the floor. Meanwhile I'm expected to clean around it, manage it and find That Thing in the midst of all the monumental clutter.

I'm fed up, fucked off, never agreed to live this way and said so last night as I re stacked the several feet tall stacks of old videos. Guess what he came back with? "Well I didn't agree to live like this either." Which is one of the stupidest things he has ever said. I invite you to think about it and suggest what he could possibly have meant.

Bastard.

Scabby Lou

Rampant Renee is one of our regular thieves, banned but that doesn't stop her coming in at night when the staff are mostly kiddies and then few and far between. She's absolutely charming about being thrown out, accepting it as part and parcel of being a drug addicted prostitute who makes her meagre earnings go that bit further by stealing anything she can. Cash is for heroin, not food or rent or anything mundane like that.

She has a friend she is often seen running about with. She's not as easy to handle, particularly when she's in the sway of her addiction. Because of her appearance I'd assumed that to be crack but I'm now told its plain old heroin too.

I've also learned her nickname, which might be revolting but its hardly surprising. In fact it sums her up quite neatly. She lives on the same estate as the couple running the cottage industry in flogging on goods nicked from us. Curious.

Scabby Lou is the thief caught today. I went up to have a nose about, one police car still in attendance. Lou was grabbed this morning while security were on the premises. When brought to the security suite for processing she confronted the security officer with a syringe.

She didn't get him and the offending (and offensive) item was removed from her. Hopefully now we won't be seeing much of her for some weeks or even, if we're really lucky, months.

Victory Shall Be Ours

In the Great Endeavour to remain faithful to Gordon's first Best Girl: Prudence, we've all got our part to pay play. That means doing you're bit to dob in a dipper. Every £80 fine incurred is a step however small on the flight ascending to fiscal rectitude or some such other clap trap.

The tom toms have been beaten. The flags have been been waved. The smoke has blown. We had security on the premises this morning and We Nicked One.

That's one down, several tens of thousands to go. But Confucius, he say "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step", so we're not down hearted about this.

I had a dream

Last night I had a dream. Obviously not enough booze was consumed before going to bed. But that was because I had elected to treat myself and picked up some Hobgoblin rather than slum it with the fizzy stuff that they're selling so cheap at Tesco at the moment. In fact I've even gone off the Tesco own French wheat beer. So it was dark ale which doesn't seem to hit as hard, probably because I prefer to savour it.

Then I had this dream. Like all dreams, or all mine, it makes no sense. I guess there was loads more I couldn't remember when I woke but I know my sister was doing wheelies in a navy blue Austin 1100. This is the car our maternal grandparents had when we were very young, only theirs as I recall was a taupe-like shade, much more in keeping with the nature of the vehicle.

Quite what she might have thought she was doing I've no idea. The point seemed to be that in her state of perpetual motion she was out of reach. The only other thing I can recall is the little shop on one of the roads forming Camberwell Junction to which our mother took the two of us for early shoe fittings.

Odd to dream about her like that and couple of things from our childhood that were really rather dated even at the time. Our parents were simply re-living their own childhoods in us rather than re-inventing parenthood even slightly.

All this in a week when I've had my first letter from mum in simply ages.

Thief spate update

I was approached late last night by a woman with her children, the eldest of which has just started school. She's a familiar face, a regular customer and in her own way quite decent. I don't know her life story but it hasn't been easy. I first encountered her down our wines and spirits aisle when she was trying to find a particular wine for someone. That section is hard enough at the best of times, and she had no idea what she was looking for.

Moreover, and this was the tough bit, she lacks even the reading skills to distinguish one wine from another. It was written all over her face that it was taking a large dollop of courage to approach me and say what she did, but she got the words "I have a problem with reading" out and since I knew the particular wine she wanted I was able to get her the bottle without any drama.

The little vignette stuck in my mind with her eldest then approaching school age. I know the extent to which the school expects parents to support their child's earliest years when they learn to read. This mother can't do that. Without additional support her child will be left behind and before we know it a generation from now his children will be needing third-party support to make up for the fact that he in turn can't help them.

As you'd expect she lives on one of the two rough estates built to accommodate overflow from larger urban centres and dilute those people who in the States would be called trailer trash across the county.

What she approached me about was theft being perpetrated on an almost industrial scale, against us. High value alcohol, toiletries, baby products, expensive joints of meat. The thieves are running a 'to order' business from the estate including supplying alcohol to under-age drinkers.

She gave me a vague description and an address. This was courageous of her though not quite as noble as it first appeared. She's been aware of their activities for some time but has decided now to inform against them because the night before those people had broken into her flat and taken out anything they could carry, which suggests she's in the process of learning a rather tough lesson.

This will all be passed to the police and we'll do our best to ensure that no suspicion that she's informed will be aroused.

Breaking camp

Last night the offspring had to beat an unwelcome retreat to the bed upstairs. In dismantling her tent for the day yesterday she mislaid one of her tent's two poles. I was at work so know what ensued second hand but I gather the fruitless search for the pole led to her father losing his rag and the offspring being rather bruised (not, I hasten to say in the literal sense.) Now she's watching fellatio jokes on TV which is very nearly certainly something she shouldn't be doing. Yet according to her Rowan Atkinson is being silly, not rude, so I gather most of it is flying over her head.

I'm horribly hung over and sluggish today. I've done nothing but push a couple of loads through the washing machine. The floors are grotty, the bathroom demands vigorous scrubbing, the beds need changing and I can't be bothered. Hopefully this binge will come to an end soon. I much prefer not having a head full of cotton wool.

How Lovely to See You

We had security on the premises all day today. How pleasant. How reassuring. Unfortunately they've only come down because of an epidemic of high powered thieves. We're not talking kids nicking packs of chewing gum or crisps, we're talking pairs of experienced operators filling trolleys with top of the range alcohol, brand electronics, prime meat and wheeling the lot out of the store not via the checkouts.

We're suffering a plague of thieves.

We're also struggling to remain fully staffed; between 5:00 and 6:00 we were seriously struggling in the face of high customer numbers. One of them forced his way into the walk-in safe to get my attention, an act of fool hardiness that might, if I'd not blinked, resulted in him explaining himself to the armed response team that is supposed to be at my beck and call, without divulging the inner workings of our security. Our security was upstairs at the time and didn't come thundering down to my rescue.

Instead I had to sit about and mull over what had happened, for almost three hours, and work myself up into a fine old state over it. Even now I know I'm a bit on edge about it.

What ho?

Just had a call to say er, hello, please come in we need you. If only that made me feel wanted. Though the upside of the call was news that madame (Senior Frustrated Novelist) can get in tomorrow. That's fucking heroic of her. I'll be fine with one day. Off. Notice no body offered a swap so I get a second day off.

And the Big Swinging Dick's promise of a bottle of plonk for doing Friday has turned to ashes.

Madame's Cancer Sticks

Her little Ring of Fire has been extinguished. For the past week she's moaned to everyone in a uniform she could grab by the ear. Her particular favourite 'brand' of fag are not in stock. Pea Brain dealt with her initially, took the details and left a message for the Big Swinging Dick to add them to the next order. Whether or not he did is now a moot point.

A range of products are produced by our suppliers. We purchase a slightly restricted range from them. In turn individual stores may only order products set out in their individual 'plan'. But between plan editions specific products may be withdrawn either briefly (supply chain disruption), temporarily (as for example when a repackaging or re-branding is underway) or permanently. When that happens the product is flagged as delisted. It can't be ordered. But it is an indication that it will come back in at some time.

Sometimes the Powers That Be decide no longer to stock a product. When that decision is taken the product is flagged as DELETED on the ordering system and no amount of string pulling will get them into stock.

Madame, your Cancer Sticks have been Deleted. You can be as rude to me as you can, but that won't change things. We Ain't Stocking 'Em No More. Geddit?

And if you can't find another brand of fag to smoke you can always spend the money you save on an Anger Management Course.

Kiwi Fruit

If they can no longer be satirised what possible point can New Zealand politicians possibly have?

PS. this was norty of me. I am a bad girl - being a stereotypically bullying Aussie towards our trans-Tasman cousins who are, of course, magnificent rugby players and devoted to their many, many sheep.

Separated at birth

Okay. That isn't fair. They don't look that alike. But could someone please tell me how, in the round, I'm supposed to tell Steve Brumby from his predecessor John Bracks?

More on Micky Mouse

Does Micky Mouse exist any more.

Ours is busy qualifying to be a scout leader. These days that entails proving he knows how to put up a dome tent, tie a reef knot, purchase a ready-made portable barbecue and negotiate the NHS Direct telephone system menu.

As mentioned previously, he is revelling in the glorious state of Boyfriend-dom. He has a girlfriend. Senior Frustrated Novelist mentioned this to the handmaiden during the week when the three of us were together in the office. You might have thought I was being unnecessarily cruel, but this might put things in perspective.

The Handmaiden's response was a pained, drawn out "Whooo?"

Before Senior Frustrated Novelist could respond I asked the Handmaiden to think of a mother with a track record of off-loading her daughters onto the first unsuspecting, unwitting block to hove into view, with a vulnerable young daughter with a burdensome child of her own? The Handmaiden scored a hole in one (but didn't get the drinks in).

I'm doing my bit

I've bought myself one of those frightfully fashionable cotton/linen shopping bags. Now can I have my gas guzzler please?

On a serious note it - the bag, is a bit disappointing. It is so big that if I carry it in my hand the contents at the bottom are almost dragging on the ground, and anything made of glass (or some other fragile material) is at serious risk when I'm climbing a kerb or stairs. At the same time those black handles are too small for me to be able to put my arm through and comfortably so I carry it that way over my shoulder. Still it makes me feel slightly virtuous and that's got to be a good thing.

I suspect the novelty of this thing is going to wear out quite quickly. You'd better cancel that gas guzzler order.

Sick Leave Roster

Well there's the Big Swinging Dick's reconstructed shoulder and the re-attachment of a retina that almost went west during a violent row with his alcoholic wife, the much sinned against Mother Mary. He also suffers from narcolepsy (or that's what he convinced the doctor of) and has a prescription for speed to keep him going.

Then there's the Coven.

One has some agonising elbow problem for which she expects to be prescribed a two year course of steroids; the wheels of the NHS grind exceeding slow and the critical appointment has now been pushed back to October. She's got the clothes several sizes larger than those she currently wears on standby. Bye Bye Svelte Handmaiden.

Then there's Yoda. Her cerebral matter's been irreparably damaged by years of hydrogen peroxide seepage. Never knowingly without her lipstick and hair brush. Prone to headaches and dizzy spells, but only under certain circumstances. These attacks usually coincide with her being expected to Work. Once found flat on her back on the floor of the store manager's office complaining of a back problem, then dropped a toilet on her foot helping to renovate her house while on resulting sick leave. Cystitis, post-menopausal complications, tennis elbow.

Finally there's our very own Bolshevik Book Worm who hasn't let an anal fistula get in the way of a holiday somewhere sunny.

Odd all this given that Retail is supposed to be a young person's game. You'd expect the total age of the Big Swinging Dick's Deputy Dawgs to add up less than the age of one of his current Assistants but there you go.

The Maltese Terrier has poly cystic ovarian syndrome.

The Paper Shuffler-in-Chief has eczema, a weight problem, a faulty arch in one foot and an obsession with David Beckham.

Our Senior Frustrated Novelist has all these gynaecological problems including endometriosis, , plus digestive tract Issues that might or might not be related to the Endo. On her bad days air freshener is not merely desirable but essential.

Our general staff are a motley collection of students, flakes, failures, drop outs and decrepitude. Some one is always off sick, every one is always running off to the clinic or outpatients to have tests. The sad reality is that all this sickness is absolutely the most interesting thing about these people.

That's life in a small town. What can I be sick with now? What new and interesting slightly serious illness can I suffer from this time? Is it, please, something that nobody else has got at the moment? Are there enough fellow suffers about for us to form an exclusive little club with a ritual of knowing winks and jargon? Please admire me, for this is the best I can do.

You give them an inch

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. That was supposed to be my working week, followed by a clear two day break, and then another four days. That working stretch included working a Thursday night then turning around and being up for 8:00 so that the Big Swinging Dick and I could get off in good time and prepare ourselves on Friday. That, by the way amounted to an 11 hour gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next, which I have a feeling is either something I had the legal right to refuse or which my employer had no legal right even to ask of me.

Then after night shift I turned around and covered someone some one's arse on Sunday. I have to admit there were no catastrophe's and even Pea Brain was fairly tolerable to work with most of the time. Came home, got some kip in family came back from outing etc etc.

Now my phone's gone off. Senior Frustrated Novelist has phoned in with severe gynaecological problems and she won't come in until she's seen her doctor. That means me doing this evening, possibly tomorrow and possibly not having a single day off between now and my holiday in the second half of August.

I can't tell you how thrilled I am about this. Because I'm not. All I got from the Big Swinging Dick, second hand, was "she'll probably appreciate the money".

Ho Hum

The State of Victoria has a new Premier. The outgoing one was, er, driven from office. And will now spend more time ferrying family to alcohol rehab.

Will this make any difference? No.

Seasonal Loose End Activities (Part 3)

The offspring and her El Cheapo tent are still an item. It is a dome tent. It came in a box together with a bag of pegs a square of nylon to lace over the ventilation webbing at its summit, a roll mat a sleeping bag and an air pillow. Not a bad buy for £4.99.

Except one of the two rods has now given way under the stress of Holding the Dome Tent Up, and the cat has now shredded the roll mat. It (the cat) did this in a fit of pique it seems when the offspring inadvertently rolled back onto it in her sleep, thereby trespassing on the cat's domain. Now that the roll mat is in several pieces he has reverted to kipping in the neighbors garden.

Good riddance and here's hoping he stays there. Little shit bag. That camping set was expensive - for something we hoped would at least be durable enough to last the summer holidays pitched in the living room.

Poor Baby

Micky mouse was a sad case, bearing a close resemblance to a very well known British comedy actor, but with worse teeth.

He had a rather peculiar habit of naming the anthropomorphic chocolate confectionery, and caring when they were purchased for consumption. He worried over the fate of the soft toys we sell.

Hmm.

Young Micky forged an incomprehensible alliance with a couple of other deeply odd employees of similar age. They liked (and still like) Micky because he'd fork out so they could ALL go to the cinema etc together.

Then he developed tooth ache and one of my colleagues discovered that His Parents Had Never Taken Him To A Dentist. She made him an appointment and the dentist, sensing his fortune being guaranteed, given the state of the young man's teeth, has taken Micky under his wing. She (the colleague) and with only self-interest slightly in line has taken Micky in as a lodger. It has got him out from under the malign influence of his mother who had a habit of co-opting his pay cheques to pay for satellite TV etc.

Now Micky has a girlfriend. My colleague has missed a trick. Shortly before Poor Sod left he roped Micky Mouse into a certain extracurricular activity. This brought Micky into the sphere of influence of Poor Sod's mother in law who has two other daughters to ship out to the first available unsuspecting victim. The youngest one is sorted with one of our other employees but the middle one, who has severe epilepsy and was got pregnant at the age of 15 by a boyfriend (allegedly while she was either fitting or spaced out on her meds, the story does waver slightly). The baby is now about six months old and someone's got to take responsibility.

Enter stage left our Micky Mouse. Just like the fly blithely drifting into a spider's web. This is a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. Everybody can see it except Micky. He has his faults, but if I could rescue him I would. Right now he thinks he's in heaven. And he isn't even getting his leg over because "that wouldn't be right yet".

Bloody hell. All this and honour too?

Barry the Bandicoot

This is another Numb-Nuts from head office. He's that way because he's spent his three or so decades with us crawling too close to the ground.

Any hoo, he's off. Well, he's probably been off for years, but his term of employment has been defined, and comes to an end in shortly under four weeks. He'd though he was indispensable and demanded a pay rise to compensate for the additional travel costs he'd incur in travelling to his new office which isn't in XVille but in YVille.

The business has called his bluff. He's out of here.

This news isn't as good as that of Ricky Retardo's departure. He's staying, unfortunately. But it isn't too bad either.

Do you believe in fairytales?

Truth is I fancy one of our customers shockingly. It is totally obscene. And it is the basis of great fairytales.

Darryl Dickless

Darryl deserves a mention. Just one. Darryl's great claim to fame is not his colossal intelligence (he did really, really well in mathematics and physics). It is this horrid little oik's perpetual dick anxiety. At nineteen he hasn't yet learned that there's no great chance his toy will either drop off or vanish; hence the need to reassure himself by giving the contents of his boxers a regular and frequent check - to confirm that everything is still present and correct.

Marvellous to see a young man so lacking inhibitions. However there's this nagging suspicion in the back of my mind that when he's learned how to use his toy he's going to be downright dangerous.

Seasonal Loose End Update

The tent went back up yesterday evening. The cat, which had been outside for most of the day - a period of time very closely approximating the time the tent was down - came back in, got in every one's way and spent the rest of the evening indulging in a monumental sulk on the dining room table.

This particular piece of furniture doubles as my desk so the notes I took at yesterday's meeting are littered with cat hair. He didn't actually sit on my notes. Instead he sprawled elsewhere but swished his tail across them expressively.

During the course of the night he must have given in. Right now the offspring is wrapped up her sleeping bag on the ground sheet, while the cat is curled up comfortably on the roll mat which he has clearly succeeded in manoeuvring her off as she slept.

Brute.

Great British Eccentrics

The Great British Eccentric is alive and well. Which is why the BBC has been able to get away with broadcasting Gabby Logan interviewing Guy Martin, spokesperson for the British Lawn Mower Racing Association. Really. Extraordinary. On 5Live.

Excitable chap. Now needs a cup of tea and a lie down. Wonderful.

'Tis the season to be at a loose end

The offspring will not be comprised; the offspring enjoy privilege. But under certain exceptional circumstances and obliquely the activities of the offspring shall be reported.

My daughter has taken up residence in a tent. My daughter is 9 years old. This isn't a problem because the tent is pitched in our 'front room'.

This is a good thing in view of the continued lack of a functional vacuum cleaner as it means the floor is mostly covered most of the time. The tent does come down but only during those hours between her deigning to rise and agreeing reluctantly to go to bed.

This is a bad thing as the tent, when erect, obstructs the view of the television for those using any of the seating in the same room.

This isn't a problem as far as my daughter is concerned: she's pitched her tent so that it opens in the direction of the television set. She has the game console wired up; and the PC plugged in and sited right in front of the tent opening. The stack of videos/DVD/games is strategically positioned too.

This is a win/win camp site situation as far as the daughter is concerned.

Princess Fiona

Thieves ("shoplifters") come in all shapes and sizes.

One of ours is a squat, square faced blonde nicknamed Princess Fiona (pace). Any hoo, she's a familiar face to most staff even if only as That Blond Kid Who's Been Banned. She's the thief formerly known as That Blond Kid Who Is Only Allowed Into the Store Accompanied By Her Mother.

Then she was caught once too often and had her status upgraded. She couldn't have been more chuffed if we ourselves had slung her in the nick for a good long stretch.

I can with a slightly indecent degree of glee report that Princess Fiona's mother Scarface cornered His Lordship and a couple of mates beneath the canopy at their favoured drinking hole this evening. Much to His Lordship's consternation.

He had a hard job explaining to his mates the fawning attention of Scarface, though one of his mates did already know who she is as the mother of "that short fat blonde hooker who hangs outside the store".

Princess Fiona is thirteen years old. Her mother is a drunk who's been through 12 boyfriends (by her own admission) this year.

Where do your sympathies lie?

Oh by the way

Yesterday's jolly took a sombre turn. Not quite at first. We left late, so the Big Swinging Dick inevitably put his foot down; something that was quite interesting while we were travelling some of the narrow and curvaceous country roads between here and the big smoke. No mishaps and on the bigger roads with greater risk of mobile or fixed speed trap we decelerated and re-entered the atmosphere shortly thereafter.

Then we got to Xville. One of those mid-sized towns dotted about the country that is linked to another place by a dead straight road that might or might not still be visible (or even the main drag). Wall, castle, shambles, gables, solid red brick. Roman, Norman, Tudor, Georgian.

Then after dumping the getaway vehicle we legged it to the office. Historically Victorian, decor by post-war bureaucrat. Institutional grey as far as the eye can see. Except it is almost empty, because all the meaningful staff have been relocated to the new head office. Electricians were crawling all over the place, bringing the wiring into the 21st century before we farm the real estate out to some schmuck.

Our contact lives in a grotty little cubby-hole with a few mod-cons (PVC window frames, return desk with laptop, pencil holder and multi-coloured sticky-note pad). After a recap during which we drew out of her (with painful slowness) the objective of the meeting we proceeded in a capacious training room.

The Big Swinging Dick might be a gifted retailer, he gets results in meetings such as the one he conducted yesterday but via a painfully circuitous route that probably baffled the Union Rep as much as it frustrated me. With one half of my brain I concentrated furiously and scribbled frantically; meanwhile the other half of my brain kept wanting to wander away and restructure what was happening around me into a shape at least somewhat resembling a text book interview.

After an hour we took an adjournment, then after the break we got to the nub of the matter, which is where things got rather sombre. It's what happens when you delve into the darkest recesses of the private life of an employee. Turn over that rock by all means but be prepared for what might crawl out into the light. It might be a violent partner.

Stinkyville

I've been intending for some days now to write a small tribute to a local farmer who has been spraying his fields quite relentlessly for what seems like a fortnight - and judging by the aroma he's been spraying with only moderately diluted pig shit. What with the gales and the rain the stuff has been blown and washed back and forth across the district without let up. But it's all blown over now.

Being John Howard

Trailing thought alert!

I guess what it boils down to is that if you're going to indulge in a fit of highly personal attacks on John Howard leave his political orientation out of it. He's a little shit bag, and he'd be a shit bag if he was a communist.

Grr

Today I'm just angry, without having a specific target - and that's so much worse than being angry at or about something in particular. Or perhaps I'm just not sufficiently focused. Maybe it is residual annoyance at having worked an entire shift in the company of Pea Brain and building dismay that today's shift will be spent in the company of The Handmaiden ... or building tension with the prospect of spending some hours in close company with the Big Swinging Dick.

Lack of sleep too, might be playing a part. Last night I got home at about quarter past. An hour and a bit later I finally was able to start preparing a meal, after he'd fallen through the door for the last time and staggered up to his bed. And I've got another three nights of that and a day shift on Sunday ahead of me.

I have a couple of new DVDs to watch as well as the rest of Series 3 and the entire JKR oeuvre and ... I just want a little peace and a little space and I don't want the fat hairy bastard swaying about and spouting drunken meanderings when I get home from work in the evening.

Okay, getting a bit focused now. Thanks for that.

A proper lack of backbone?

The boys are all hormonally boisterous. The girls are few and far between. One of them is a little blonde, who if she were fairer would be likened by many to a China Doll. She just has that vulnerable, fragile edge to her petiteness.

I have to confess to being taken aback at being address by her within hours of us being introduced as 'Luv' and 'Luvely'. She sixteen and I'm an awful lot older. I was affronted and in a manner my mother would have admired (at least until she realised it was me doing it) I took umbrage.

It hardly helped her cause that she seemed to expect us to pay her without actually doing any work. Hmm.

Then she discovered the Joy of Gizmo. She saw me with Gizmo and wanted to muscle in, not understanding that I'd grown weary of Gizmo's limited charms. She expressed interest in an only moderately pushy manner. I initiated her into the Secret of Gizmo and left her to it. She redeemed herself mightily and is now the Mistress of Gizmo.

Gizmo is a hand held battery powered device, as you've probably gathered. Gather in your filthy mind, dear reader, before it gallops away over the hills and is far away and out of sight.

Gizmo is a hand held terminal that enables us to perform various stock and merchandising related tasks out on the shop floor. But damn it, she likes it. She's welcome to the wretched thing with its RSI-inducing propensity.

Any hoo, she turned up today looking rather wretched and I initial took it to be the result of more Boyfriend Problems. In fact this evening prior to setting out to work she asked her mother's permission to use the family kitchen and was told "No" and to get out instead. She was slung out without food or work clothes or means of transport to work.

She walked the few miles from the outlying village into town, stopped off at a friend's house to borrow her uniform and came into work with them on and a pair of the friend's much too large regulation black shoes. She'll camp out at her friend's house, borrow a change of underwear and come in tomorrow wearing a spare uniform shirt we've dug out for her. We've waived the requirement that she wear black shoes and let her work in her trainers until her mother notices her absence, when ever that might happen.

There's always someone worse off than you, and a lot of people worse off than me.

Good night.

The Acid Test

What to do with the Royal Family? Let's burn them all ... but in the mean time...

My meandering mind drifted down a slightly peculiar path a few days ago that started with a day dream involving an Ak-Tor I rather fancy would cheerfully crawl across hot coals to slaver over.

In my day dream we were stranded alone in a jungle (hot and steamy). The day dream was rather successful (pleasing) and has been filed away to be drawn upon another day when the mood takes me.

In the mean time and still slightly ruffled by William's stupid little outburst of stupidity I've got to wondering if there were any members of the royal familiy I'd not be totally horrified to be stranded anywhere with in a situation of mutual co-dependency.

To make it fair I've taken them at the height of their powers rather than as the necessarily are now.

Her Maj. - well she knows how to do what's necessary, but how flexible and
adaptable can she be? FAIL

Prince Phil. - war service suggests certain
physical and personal attributes that would be useful. PASS

Chas - a
jungle would be quite wet enough already. FAIL

Camilly - we might be on
the way out. Someone needs to know how to organise the party. PASS

Willy
- moron! FAIL

Harry - mililtary training AND up for a laugh. PASS

Andrew - we'll have to travel light. FAIL

Beatrice/Eugenie - we
won't need any additional dead wood. FAIL

Neddy - the marine drop out?
you've got to be fucking joking. FAIL

Neddy's wife and kid - who? FAIL

Anne - someone will have to keep us in order. A shoe in. PASS

Anne's Hubby - semi-detatched. Can't count. FAIL

Peter - brawn. PASS

Zara - too much of a distraction for any men, thereby too much of an
annoyance for any woman. Reluctant FAIL

Madge's Son - practical skills.
PASS

Madge's Daughter - window dressing. FAIL

The REST - they
DON'T COUNT. Collective FAIL

Now. The real problem is this. If you applied the same test to YOUR extended family, what proportion would you PASS? Hmmm?

There's always Gross Humiliation

A normal, adequate, average couple would do anything not to be in the situation we're in.

I'm not on sure ground with theology and dogma but Pride, I believe, was one of the deadly sins (or at least an excess of pride). Now I don't know why the Church had a particular problem with an excess of pride but from a practical level it amounts to an exhortation not to cut ones nose off to spite ones face and that seems perfectly reasonable to me.

And that is why a week from Sunday I will bury my pride and self respect and let the neighbors on both sides help us by removing the several skip loads of complete and utter crap we've allowed to accumulate on our property.

Old bicycles, old shopping trolleys, the detritus of DIY projects undertaken by previous owners, clapped out toys, half baked gardening projects, a build up of garden waste and the crap that was buried in the ancient past.

We've just sat on our hands and looked the other way and now someone else is going to fix the problem, because they can't stand living next door to it any longer. I can't say I blame them for taking action: I wouldn't like to live next door to us. And if the boot were on the other foot and I had the wherewithal I'd do exactly what they're about to do too.

He's in hog heaven over this. It is another one of those extraordinary win win situations he has the capacity to engineer. I hate living like this. I do what I can to address the problem. He wades in when he sees me getting stuck in and makes things worse. I get ground down and give up. Things get worse. I rail at him until it is clear he won't lift a finger to fix one problem at a time. I do what I can to address the problems...

He knows that I hate living like this and feel humiliated by living like this. And he knows I will feel humiliated that a couple of kids and their problems are about to step in and sort out our mess. And by humiliating me and belittling me he'll reduce me and make me just that little bit less able to resist. Domestic violence comes in many forms but all with the same objective.

He must think this is absolutely perfect.

The wrong side and the right side

How can someone be so right and so wrong at the same time?

John Howard is a loathsome little squit, he's reduced the job of Prime Minister to a chunk manageable by someone of his very moderate vision and intellect: the Australia of which John Howard is Prime Minister exists only within the boundaries of Greater Sydney, on subdivisions of one quarter acre on which stand one single family dwellings, occupied by a man, his woman (waspish and united holy matrimony) plus regulation 2.2 children, sundry pets, a barbecue and a cricket bat.

Steadily over the years he's presided over the Big Country more and more has been whittled away and parked out-of-bounds. Don't be queer, non-white, non-christian, female, tolerant, adventurous, open-minded. Such things have been rendered unAustralian.

I found this site http://www.bilegrip.com/ while surfing and it did manage to fuck me off quite royally. If you bother to look at it you'll possibly think the reaction a wee bit odd, so bear with me.

I've never voted for a party of the left. Why. Well let's start with a few things I DON'T believe in first.

I don't believe that anyone goes into politics prepared to make things better for any number of other people at their own expense.

I don't believe that anyone in politics wants to set people free rather than subject them to a more effective set of controls.

I don't believe that anyone with a finger tip to one of the levers of power can retain any serious commitment to a previous single-issue type obsession.

Anarchy looks attractive until you consider that you'd only be giving free rein to the sort of people who thought Bob Hawke was a Top Bloke and the sort of people who continue to believe that John Howard is a Bonzer Little Battler.

At that point I accept politics, and governance and that I'll have to pay for it. But I'm damned if I'll pay over the odds for a bit of peace and quiet when more tax payers dollars or pounds only means more expensive mistakes.

So I'll go for the faint prospect of fiscal rectitude over any vague promises of slightly subtler shades of social illiberalism any day.

It is possible to loathe John Howard, to want to cry for the damage he has wrought at home and to perception of home abroad, to tear one's hair out with the results of each federal election in despair and disbelief, and be a grudging right of centre voter. OKAY?

Thank god that's over ... or is it?

Well I've done it. I finished HP&TDH, on Sunday morning. And was too ill yesterday to admit that I've now read ALL of them.

The first four were given to the offspring by the paternal grandparents when the thing was really taking off and they saw it as some sort of obligatory rite of passage to be steeped in the Lore of Harry Potter. It was a few years before the offspring could be persuaded away from neurotic trains and onto wizards and we heroically read the lot to her.

Unfortunately then the series really started to take a darker, more grown up hue. As ever she was slightly behind the HP curve. So while His Lordship and I continued to appreciate the story telling, if little else, the offspring became somewhat detached - and she hasn't even evinced the slightest interest in the sixth installment let alone this latest one.

As usual it was excessively long. Not one of the books contained anything to justify being longer than the first three were. I rather hope that one day someone will come along to do a damned fine editing job on the final four; to do so would almost inevitably sharpen the focus and lift the narrative tempo which often sags almost fatally through the middle stages of each installment.

No spoiler here - the ending was pretty much inevitable and the key ingredient to explain it all was all integral to one character I successfully identified, but so I suspect did millions of other readers. Yes some died, but others survived and whatever we might have been led to believe the way is open for more.

I had lamented not going back and working through the entire JKR oeuvre before setting out on No. 7 but by the time I realised I should it was too late. The new book would have been sitting about the house luring me to the space between its covers the way a siren lures the condemned sailor to the rocks. And now I find I'd only have upset myself anyway. On Sunday I set myself to the task of assembling the books so that I'd now re-read the lot. And I can only find four of them: Books 2, 3, 5 and 7. His lordship 'thinks' he might have one of them in his room but that still leaves three gone the way of all things that are valuable. Trashed.

This served as a fine pretext for me doing my nut, raving and ranting and reducing the offspring to tears. She's now consoling herself with her playstation console. If the weather continues to be this miserable throughout the holidays she will be one very happy bunny. Even I can't insist that she spend all day out in howling gales and driven north sea rains.

Any hoo, I got the vacuum cleaner under the beds I have access to (or would access without a full bio-hazard suit - that bed is a problem entirely of his making and he can sort it), through out bags of rubbish.

Perhaps 'twas the strain of all that housework led me to feeling so poorly yesterday?

What I did yesterday

Mothers are not allowed to be ill. This is one of those immutable Laws of Nature. So I got out of bed yesterday. Then I went back. Then I got up again, and went back. And so it went on. All day. I must have got out of bed fifty times. Even His Lordship noticed I wasn't looking well. I know this because at 9:00pm after the entire day spent getting out of bed and going back again he had the grace to concede: "God, you look awful." Which capped off an awful day perfectly.

Journey to the End of The Earth

No, but it will feel like it. A day away from the fringes. We're off to what was once head office; me and The Big Swinging Dick. Together.

I wasn't at work yesterday, and hadn't bothered to tell His Lordship about the vague possibility of an excursion which very quickly yesterday morning became a firmed up arrangement. So when The BSD announced to his lordship during the course of the morning that he, BSD would be taking your correspondent to Xville for some discipline His Lordship had a highly entertaining and entirely manufactured fit of gallant outrage.

When he'd been scraped down from the ceiling and had the full details explained to him, in particular the bit about getting a day off by way of compensation he calmed down quite considerably. The promise of getting all the gory details set the seal on his delight at my spending a few hours in the BSD's company.

More after the event which takes place this Friday.

Nanny knows what?

If you go down to the pool today, your sure of a big surprise
If you go down to the pool today, you'd better bring your own inflatable life preservers

The requirement to train staff in proper inflation/deflation technique and puncture monitoring, together with the danger of germ transfer has resulted in a number of British leisure centres deeming the cost and risk of providing rings and armbands too great.

Much better to have the little dears drown.

Sexy Steve and the Slightly Pale Hallows

What a bloody palaver. One of the Wet Ones took today off as leave to read That Book. He went over to Xville to get his copy at midnight or one minute past. The police officer girlfriend of someone else had her copy delivered to her home at a similar time - the boyfriend has been warned to stay away until she's finished it.

The world seems to be divided into those who are immune to the infection and those who have totally succumbed. To my slight surprise the Bolshevik Bookworm hasn't stepped between the pages. I was slightly less surprised to discover that Yoda has no idea what the books are all about. Then again I'd me rather more surprised to discover that she had actually read a book. We have two copies and I've got about a quarter of the way through.

They were delivered into the store yesterday afternoon, minus the display stand we were supposed to be using and which was supposed to have been brought to us by Parcelforce earlier in the day. Also the promotional material announcing that the book IS on sale - to replace the promotional material announcing the imminent arrival of That Book - couldn't be found and I strongly suspect that one of the Wet Ones has taken it home and put it up on its bedroom wall.

So there I was locked away in my little office with five boxes of the most sought after piece of execrable 'literature' to come into existence since the last HP novel was released. All evening. I could have read the thing then, and no-one would have been the wiser since the BB had opened on of the boxes to confirm the contents and opened one of the inner linings so that she could torment the Wet Ones with a glimpse of the cover waved from the office door.

Sexy Steve had confirmed that the book was on its way to us earlier in the day, I think. It isn't always easy to tell with Steve. The only thing normal about him, as far as I am concerned, is that he fancies men. I mean, I do, why shouldn't he. I don't fancy women. Why should he. The problem straight men have with men finding them attractive baffles me. Don't they wish to be found attractive? Don't they find themselves attractive? Do they consider their wives/girlfriends sick for finding them attractive? On that last point I think the answer probably actually is, yes. But then most men don't think much of woman which is why it is alright for them sleep with men rather than women and do the things men expect of them. Now that I've tangled myself up in a knot I shall move on.

Steve sent an email out yesterday which mentioned a couple of Queens and a girl called Dorothy and we tentatively concluded that the HP book might be on its way to us. A short while later we took a call from a very slightly contrite and less deranged sounding Sexy Steve that sort of confirmed what we'd sort of deduced. Our suspicion is that Steve had had a rocket fired up his arse for distributing utter gibberish on the company intranet which would be a breach of any IT non-misuse policy we might happen to have. Personally I think that any such reprimand would have been harsh no matter how much Steve might have enjoyed it - everyone else has been using the intranet for the distribution of nonsense; why should Steve be singled out for censure?

So we got the book out after closing time yesterday and printed out some in-house promo. stuff. As I said we've got two copies in the house now. I dragged the offspring out of bed and up the road at Sparrow's Fart to buy them.

The little Tesco over the road, into which we popped for a couple of bits I'd forgotton is flogging the book at 1p more than us or £4.99 less than us - if you spend £50 or more. This gesture would be more gallant if there were £40.00 or more worth of other goods in our micro Tesco worth purchasing.

More anon concerning Mighty T and also an update on the Anal Fistula situation.

Oh, bugger

At one point today I knew exactly what I would blog about the minute it was safe to do so after I got in the door. Then I forgot. Now I've remembered. I'm too tired and I've got through too much Hobgoblin and Old Peculiar to do it now, but as an aide memoire I am jotting down Anal Fistula (spelling possibly not correct). More later.

How to squander half an hour of your life

Click on the Next Blog button. Next stop Hard Core Gay Porn? Next stop some neurotic God Bothering housewife and mother locked in some (ironically, she noted) God-foresaken dump in the Great American Midwest? Next stop flagrant, shameless commercial hijackery?

Tonight I played this Internet Roulette and landed on the musings of a 'woman?' who invites the reader to imagine living in the 15th or 16th century and feeling the need to express love for another. The title and context is The Love Letter.

Well I know who some of my 16th century ancestors were and have a jolly good idea who or what most of the rest of 'em were. Illiterate peasants, the lot. And I'm quite well bred, me.

Vile Customer Anecdote

I can do passive; in fact I did it tonight. No not that. This. If I could name the sad fucker I would. Which is contrary to my usual approach which is to protect equally the innocent and the guilty.

Little Man came into the store to purchase a top up for his Pay As You Go (Vodafone) service. He approached the kiosk which is the area of the store where snacks, tobacco/related, newsmags and lottery products are sold. No scales are available so anything that must be weighed has to go into the main store. On non-Lottery evenings the queues are usual short and it can be quicker to shop there. Fine.

First I knew was a call from the operator who has a customer struggling to understand why the credit he'd purchased isn't yet appearing on his phone.

The minute I laid eyes on him I knew this wouldl be neither quick nor easy. The man is a nasty little bastard with a long record of previous offences against the Good Customer Charter.

"Oh God Man, I paid why isn't it there. You're ripping me off!"

- Sir, you have the docket with the unique credit number. Your next step is to contact the service provider and establish with them why the credit is not yet appearing against your account.

"How do I do that?"

- You call their customer services number.

"What's that?"

- I'm sorry sir, I'm with another operator. You should have been provided with that information when you initially subscribed. It should be a free call, too.

"Aw, man; aw, man! You fucking people are always ripping me off."

At this point he produced what looked to me like a brand new phone and started mashing the keys. Every now and then he muttered darkly, pressed a few more buttons randomly and gave us another Aw Man.

This poisonous little creature with his rat-like freatures and his lank, long grey hair was still standing at the head of the queue. Most of his muttering was of the "How do I find the number?" variety.

Patiently I enquired about the swipe card for the Top Up on the off-chance it had a help number somewhere on it.

He turned on me for distracting him from his key mashing. After another few Aw Mans he did delve into his card holder and produce the swipe card. There on the back of it was a three digit help number for subscribers. After several attemps he successfully dialled those three digits and in the correct order too. At that point with all sorts of bells and whistles going, summoning me to the other side of the store, I tried to take my leave of the operator in the belief that our customer was now well on his way to achieving a solution.

That was a mistake, because he couldn't hear what was being said over my talking.

He was there for another fifteen minutes, standing at the head of the queue making life awkward for everyone, effing and blinding for all he was worth as he attempted to negotiate with his mobile telephony service provider.

Vile little bastard. If I get your name I'm posting it here.

Great Expectations

This post takes us back to something that cropped up a little while ago: the Slob's brilliant plan to take up an allotment plot and make our fortune growing vegetables. I believe I suggested at the time that this plan would fail because he has No Staying Power. Sure enough he hasn't even had the stamina to see through the very necessary step of Taking Up The Allocation.

Pathetic.

Great bearded twits

As previous intimated the blithering idiot quotient of the business I work for is quite high. The capacity for futile activity remains unclear because those boundaries have not properly and thoroughly been explored and charted.

Which is exemplified by the exchange I had with Sid the Sardonic, a denizen of the newly relocated headquarters at Sweepstake City.

Those who've worked here longer than me will swear that Sid was once upon a time fair-minded, civil and helpful. I don't believe in fairy tales. He has a background on the shop floor and knows the score from our point of view.

A couple of minutes after I'd walked in the door at the start of yesterday's shift Sid was on the phone. All my hackles rise the minute I hear his voice. Every little thing that goes wrong is apparently designed to annoy him and he sprays the blame about with far greater enthusiasm than accuracy.

He obviously got out of bed on the wrong side yesterday because he was actually and quite frighteningly pleasant. Or perhaps he's had a personality transplant. Hm. And he was jolly too. He had a problem, he explained, he'd received a message and he didn't understand it at all and perhaps I might be able to help. Truly, deeply bizarre.

He was looking for the stray manager of another of our outlets. Staff there had given him information suggesting that Little Ben might be with us (to collect some products for transfer between the two stores). I made ostentatious (loud, for the benefit of someone on the other end of a telephone) play of opening and closing the drawers of my desk. Nope, no little managers hiding there.

I rang the two (yes, two) on duty managers. Neither knew anything about Little Ben or indeed a product transfer between our two stores. I relayed this news to Sid who accepted the lack of help with a fine show of grace.

Later in the shift I had the chance to trawl through the store's email to catch up on what had been happening since I'd last been on duty (Sat.). And there, in the deleted folder denoting they'd been read and dealt with by management, confirming they'd been received, and replied to (suggesting that they should, in line with store policy, be in the email file to be read by everybody) were emails concerning a transfer of stock between our store and that of Little Ben.

Ooops. The final email laid out the mechanism by which the transfer would be effected: the usual means of the delivery van collecting.

And the delivery man was to be instructed to collect by none other than one of the email recipients. A chap called Sid.

Sid the Stupid?

Mind set (part 1)

The state of his room is a genuine puzzle. I truly don't understand. For about the last couple of years I've ascribed the behaviour to a kind of extreme passive aggression.

"Please clean up your room." [I want you to clean up your room.]

"Yes, I will." [But I won't because that will annoy you.]

"Please, I asked you to clean your room. It is filthy. When are you going to do it? [You lazy fucker, get up there and clean your room. NOW!]

"Yes, I will. I know. I will get around to it/I've started." [Get off my back you bitch, but not too quickly because I'm enjoying seeing you upset about this. And I'll show you the extent to which you can get me to do anything, however reasonable that might be.]

This has been going on for ever, or perhaps it just feels like that. He is the most miserable bastard alive and I wish he would just die. Drop dead. I'd love it. Telling my daughter that her father had popped his clogs wouldn't be fun, but she's seen me curled up in distress at his antics. She's caught him taking money from her Christmas/Birthday cards. She knows he isn't perfect.

The airing room

All my shifts this week are 13:00 starts and yesterday I managed to get in a bit of a muddle as a result of which I got less done than planned. I forgot to open up his room and give it a bit of fresh air until it was too late to be worthwhile. The stink does tend to build up quickly and was almost a physical thing when I opened the door as soon as I got back from the school run this morning. Today we were almost run over by the One Stop delivery truck, which makes a change from being nearly mown down the woman who runs the local betting shop.

It is a shame really because I've got a plan for that woman. I cooked it up last night while waiting for sleep to overcome me. Given that the road the school is on is a narrow side street which has room for only one vehicle at a time when lined on both sides by parked parents' vehicles all I'll have to do to get her attention is Stop. With traffic behind she'll have nowhere to go. She might even put down her mobile phone, normally a jammed to her ear and talk to me : and if I get her attention I'll give the irresponsible bitch a piece of my mind.

May I have your job please

I used to have a high paid job [not at Tesco] and I did it very well (until a merger resulted in one of two of us being surplus to requirements, and the higher paid one went).

I'd quite like a new job [though not necessarily with Tesco]. Pretty much any job would be better than the job I've currently got [though that might not be true if the putative employer were to be, say Tesco]. But the job I'd really like is that of the sad little herbert in Tesco own version of Grocery Towers who spends his (or her) working life monitoring the gibbering and ranting of what I believe is known as the blogosphere. Just the mention of Tesco causes a little blip in my hit rate.

So hello, sad little herbert in Tesco Towers feeding the paranoia of those who run the company. And by the way all the staff at the nearby Tesco do nothing but complain about all the many and very obvious problems with your new (so called) semi-self-service tills. And a lot of the customers are no happier. Nobody at all as a positive word for the tills. Even my techno-clued up daughter thinks they're weird.

Well done, muppets.

The cat wot I hate

Up to a point, at least. We had two cats. I didn't want the responsibility. I had a plan to restart my life on the other side of the world. Now I can only dream of what might have been and mourn what I've no longer got. He bought them any way. I fell in love. They were the only living things in the house I could tolerate. Then she came along but I still loved the cats. The grew older. One was injured by a car. He was never the same afterwards and one day he was killed by next door neighbor's dog which broke into our back yard to get him. The other never quite came to terms with the absence of his brother. He faded away slowly.

No sooner had the second died than we drew the attention of a small odd-ball that had begun to appear in the block.

One morning he decided to come in. He eschewed the standard feline approach of popping through the cat flap and flung himself and the door handle. Repeatedly.

I could either ignore this little black and white body flinging itself at the door handle or I could let him in. While I was deciding what to do His Lordship and my baby let him in. And fed him.

They decided to take him under their wing about three years ago now. We've forked out a small fortune in vet's fees: he got himself cut up all over his legs fleeing fight or a car. He wanders in and out as he pleases, sleeps where ever he wants (he has a very low tolerance of closed doors and will fling himself at internal doors until we give in). He brings in muddy paws, fleas and an an assortment of birds and rodents (usually not dead). He scratches the furniture and regards the dining room table as His Perch.

It is like living with a stroppy adolescent. Time hasn't bred affection. Sympathy has failed to fill me. I don't care that he regards this as his home. I don't care that his previous owners abandoned him. I don't care that he was injured when still a kitten and has a strange walk as a result. I don't care that he was removed from his mother too early. They probably abandoned him because he's unloveable. The physical injuries are healed and in no way inhibit his ability to catch wildlife. I do care that he has a teddy bear fetish (regarding them as mother substitutes) and leaves drool puddles on my daughter's collection.

The Face Off: a bit more about why I hate kiddies

I started this a while ago, and I might even provide a link.

By kiddies I mean the boys with hardly an excuse to purchase the means with which to shave sprouting about the ends of their spotty chins. I mean the girls in skirts the size of belts and nylon shirts that gape where they should cling and reveal what they should only hint at.

They stagger into the store on Friday nights in groups, vulgar and intimidating. They sway up the alcohol aisle, clasp alcopops their chests, secrete themselves in the public toilets en masse and consume.

If disturbed they put the evidence down the lavatory, or climb up to hide it behind the ceiling tiles.

For the most part they either steal what they want or pay some older person to purchase it. I suppose to some extent their approach just depends on how cashed up mummy and daddy are.

I don't hate kiddies because they are spotty, don't yet need to shave, swagger or wear intrinsically unattractive unflattering clothes. I hate kiddies because they are so Stupid.

One night recently I was called out of the office by one of the operators to look at an ID that had been offered to her as proof of sufficient age to purchase alcohol.

I looked at it, I looked at the queue, I grew increasingly conscious of the long queue of people. I held it in my right hand, the two would be customers stood to my right. I refused to accept the ID. One of the kiddies took the ID from between my fingers and in that split second afterwards I had a thought. While I processed that thought they shouted a bit and left.

Once they were outside everyone relaxed. The customers who'd been held up all agreed they weren't old enough to be buying booze. I berated myself for not keeping hold of the fake ID. The next customer pointed out that he'd be back - He'd Left His £10 Note Behind In His Hurry To Get To The Nearest Alternative Seller Of Alcohol.

I grabbed the note and fled to my office to wait for his return. It took him about 10 Minutes To Realise He'd Left His Money Behind. That's about the length of time it woud take him to walk o Tesco and back.

I explained to him that he could have his money back when he surrendered the ID. He refused to hand it over and I refused to give him back his money. He slowly understood that I wouldn't be intimidated and denied that he had the ID any longer! I told him to go and get it then. He came back in with his mate and after a bit more talking the two of them realised I wouldn't hand over the money until they'd handed me the ID. And at that point the mate extracted the ID from his wallet and gave it to me. I gave them their money. They'll need it to buy their next piece of fake ID.

Let's hope that the next one isn't something purporting to be a document that most civil libertarians are currently strenuously objecting to having introduced into this country.

Who does he think he's kidding

He really is peculiar. A whole lot of the time he gives every appearance of not giving a damn about anyone but himself, and certainly not giving a toss for their opinion.

Then Susan bless her makes a comment about my appearance and he comes over all solicitous. Am I eating enough, am I eating properly, am I sleeping properly. Blah, blah, blah.

Well this is the situation: when he isn't causing me grief I eat well enough, I weighed about 55kg when I was 25 and I weigh pretty much the same now. I'm not anorexic, eat fresh food in quantities etc etc. But when the shit hits the fan as for example it did last year when he behaved so despicably over taking my daughter from me for a week than I shut down. That week I ate almost nothing and lost a huge amount of weight.

Now I feel the tension escalating. We've got school holidays coming up and she's going away again. The only reason we all live under the same roof is because of her, so when she's away the misery is laid bare. The dysfunction that we are is utterly exposed.

His mother has taken the house off the market which means I've no chance in the near future of getting my money back. We're stuck in this danse macabre.

I didn't eat yesterday.

No milk today? Give us this day?

Actually yes, we had milk. Just no bread. That's it, our customers had to get by without their daily bread. None of them, as far as I'm aware, reacted well to the suggestion that they buy a loaf tin, some strong flour, salt and yeast, go home and make their own.

Then again, as far as I'm aware none of the kiddies suggested to desperate customers that while we might not be able to provide factory bread (the supplier having completely screwed up and Not Put Our Delivery Onto the Delivery Vehicle - driven by a frenchman whose response to any such catastrophe is a classically ineffectual gallic shrug) we can certainly supply all the ingredients for making bread.

You see bread is made with flour and yeast and water and a pinch of salt. Buy ingredients, tin if wishing to bake a tin-shaped loaf, go home, read instructions should yeast have been purchased in dry packet form. Proceed as instructed. Be patient. Enjoy.

Simple when you know how.

A Rose by any other name

Why does he smell so awful? He pumps out a smell that is way beyond stale unwashed. I wouldn't mind except that he does it in my home, under my roof where it seems to get trapped. He broke a pane in the window of the room he sleeps in (you though? you actually thought? HA!) so the explanation for the stench isn't entirely down to a lack of adequate ventilation. When I get up in the morning I open the door to encourage a bit of through put and circulation but that only results in the Odour De Bastard drifting about halfway down the stairs over the course of the day. That means everytime I go up to the bathroom I have to pass through a wall of stink. This reek is like an invisible amorphous mass, somehow alive and malign. Then he gets home, gathers it up and takes it back into his room. He is Dr Frankenstein and the pong is his Monster.

Ew.

Evidence that I, too, am a moron

Apart from making the marriage from hell?

Further evidence necessary?

Dead end job: hateful colleagues, stupid customers, lousy pay, patronising management, decrepit infrastructure.

What in God's name possessed me to volunteer to Give Up Three Days Of My Fortnight Of Annual Leave In August To Be Trained In Yet Another Aspect Of My Dead End Job.

What an IDIOT!

Stupid Customer Anecdote #2

Read into that what you will.

A lady came into the store one day last week in search of a particular item - 35mm film. Fair enough. Approached a member of staff for directions and member of staff in turn asked me whether or not we sold said product. As happened I could see said product on display not more than 3 metres from me so pointed both staff and customer towards it.

Customer asked for more help with whereabouts because she couldn't see what I was pointing at. So I pointed again, and explained the product was being displayed in the top left hand corner of the nearest end-of-aisle fixture. "I can't see it," the woman complained and I realised that she was referring to the fixture, not the product - because she'd come out to look for photographic film and not bothered to bring her specs with her. She'd left them at home, as she admitted to me eventually.

Which gave rise to a few questions such as "Why would you?" and "How the hell did she find us?"

Idiot Customer Anecdote #1

And you may read that as you wish.

Customer approaches customer services window with query.

[Background: customer services desk window comprises bullet proof glass and communication is via a two way microphone/speaker system.]

Customer asks question, customer services cover (me) provides answer that is accurate, complete and consise.

Customer indicates she hasn't understood.

Customer services cover repeats answer.

Customer mutters "Oh, I suppose I should put my hearing aid in, wait a minute."

Yes dear, that would be a good idea.

The Ex

The ex-vacuum cleaner is currently in pieces on the floor of the living room, which is where it has been for the past week or thereabouts.

The bastard's announcement that the vacuum cleaner had broken itself wasn't properly investigated until today - he's been out and I've had the chance examine the evidence for suicide. I think it might have had help. The defect is a broken ring that holds two parts of the 'hose' together. It is a thin strip of yellow plastic that clips around the two parts when put together and acts to hold the two in place.

It has snapped in half. That would only have happened if someone really stupid had been taking the two apart and snapped it in pulling it off. Possibly old age had given the plastic a fragility that caused it to snap rather than flex. But only a fiddler incapable of leaving well enough alone would have taken the damned thing off in the first place. Or a fool who'd vacuumed up something he shouldn't have and was trying to retrieve it from the pipe work.

Funny how I can manage to clean the house from top to toe with the machine without dicking around with the assembly. Now I'm' doing the house work with a hand held cordless rechargeable.

What fucking pain in the arse that is.

I hate kids

Sadly, though they've given me numerous reasons in the past to harbour negative sentiments, I can't divulge the specific reason for being down on teenagers this morning, but as soon as I can.

Stupid creatures they are, though, and (hint) would be less hard up for money if they paid closer attention to national politics.

Muppets.

How stupid is this?

He can't get his act together enough to fix the handle on the toilet or the overflow leak from the water tank in the loft that threatens to undermine not only our house but the one next door. The neighbors are probably hoping we won't ever fix it so that the can sue us into financial oblivion.

He has the attention span of gnat. He picks things up and puts them down without a care for who might trip over the detritus of his life.

Now he wants an allotment (again, sigh). We've been here before. We had one ten years ago, then moved here so had to leave it behind. We took one here but I couldn't do it all on my own so it had to go. Now a mate of his has had a successful first year as an allotment holder and so the Great Nitwit is all fired up.

Sigh.

Too much to hope he'll set about this in an orderly fashion or demonstrate real commitment. This novelty will be clapped out before the first shoots of next season's crop appear.

Heavy sigh.

A handful of Deadly Sins

We're in a terrace of four houses, one of the end terraces; I consider all the occupants of the three adjoined houses immediate neighbors, and also those who live in the detached house on the over the other shoulder. For various reasons I haven't got a good relationship with any of them.

The lady at the far end is a widow (a state to be envied). On the other hand she's in her seventies and arthritic. She's housebound and her even her grandchildren who once visited her frequently are going their own way more and more. Once she's got hold of your ear she's almost impossible to shake her off, even if doing so would leave you feeling like you would for kicking a confiding puppy.

So I've cleared her drains, weeded, pruned and tidied up her roses and listened as she's told me the same story over and over again.

At the end of the day, though, she and I have absolutely nothing in common.

The next house is currently empty. The owner scurries in occasionally, usually under cover of darkness. I wouldn't mind living somewhere else and being free to pick and choose when to come (or not) and go. Oh dear, more envy.

The house next to ours is home to a couple less than half my age who have a daughter just a couple of months old. They seem to be happy together and have the prospect of more children ahead. Oops, envy alert.

He's a builder and it is his parents who live the other side of us which is cosy to the point of being oppressive. The problem really is that they make me feel crushingly guilty by the singular effort they put into family and their home. By my reckoning the parents' house has been practically rebuilt twice in the time they've lived there and the house adjacent to ours in which the son and his wife live with their daughter has been rebuilt once.

Ours hasn't had a lick of paint slapped on it in the time we've been here, leave alone any substantial and desperately needed restoration work.

In the meantime the baby is keeping my idle husband awake at night. Many's the night since the baby arrived he's been swaying with what he insists is lack of sleep at 9pm. Eighteen years from now, and in all probability given the general level of cowardice and sloth herein, it will be the baby's music that will be keeping him awake at night.

And then, as now, the three bottles of wine, cider, vodka, lager and anything else alcoholic he can afford will have had nothing to do with the sway in his step.

God Has Sick Sense of Humour - final conclusive proof

Earlier this week some boffin or other came out with research suggesting that there is a direct link between longevity and the number of moles a person has. The more you have the longer you live. Obviously all other things aside this would put people with aplastic nevus syndrome on the brink of immortality. And that's why God had to invent melanoma.

Through the Looking Glass

Lib Dems. advocate Tax Cut.

The Lib Dems like to think they're the most environmentally sound of the 'main' national political parties. They are certainly the most consistently voluble outside the fringe and single issue parties, not withstanding Cambo's efforts to usurp them on that policy front.

Any hoo, now we're on the verge of runaway warming we've kindly been provided by the Lib Dems with incontovertible evidence of a safe harbour downstairs; hell has obviously frozen over.

Pole dancing

Like every other town we've our share of migrants from central and eastern Europe. Probably the story here is one that would be told in each of those towns, too; or indeed everywhere except between the covers of the Daily Mail. The vanguard was a woman who married a Brit oh, about thirty years ago, had a couple of kids then divorced him not long after, stayed, married another bloke, had another kid and then about eight years ago sponsored one of her two brothers, his wife and their two kids to come over and Set Up A Business.

They're still here and a few friends have dribbled across the channel more recently. So now we have our own little Polish Enclave.

On the whole these people are so thoroughly integrated they're invisible. The only time they'll be noticed is when they say please or thank you which obviously sets them a mile apart from the locals. And the men will tilt their heads by way of a mini-bow to the ladies as they pass in the street. Such behaviour is totally alien and therefore deeply suspect.

Until yesterday I hadn't heard a single negative word - and then there was a conversation between the Handmaiden and the Bolshy Book Worm about one of our shop floor employees (Polish woman, hard worker but married with very young daughter, husband holding down two jobs). She's struggling to keep her shifts while her husband isn't available to care for their daughter - because he's working two jobs.

And one of the two of them did say that she had a problem with this. She doesn't mind them coming over, but when they take a Second Job she can't help feeling they really are starting to nick jobs from under the noses of otherwise hard working Brits.

Let's be clear about this - the husband spends one third of the day stripping asbestos out of the London underground and one third of the day working on the demolition of a nuclear power plant and there was Fuck All Competition for those jobs from Local Hard Working Brits.

Proportionality please.

Death of an old friend

'Tis a long time since we've been beforehand with the world. For some years now we've coped with a state of being other than awash with money.

This year's reward from our local supermarket arrived about a month ago now, over £100 that we agreed should be put aside against Christmas spending or some emergency.

Being feckless and wasteful he's spent the lot. The last of the money went yesterday. He had to spend it yesterday because he'd spent the month's pay with days still to go before the next wodge arrives.

There was something poetic about the timing of the death of our dear beloved (much used) microwave oven. Another item added to the list of unaffordable expenditures after New Loo and New Vac.

Shit!

I know ... let's try this

More foolishness from the nether regions wherein lurk those with grubby fingers clenched around the shafts of power. Don't bother to tell anyone. They'll fuck up several times before they establish the 'right' way of doing things now, and that's several simply adorable little excuses to exert authority with a gratuitous if badly spelled, syntactically convoluted, grammatically innovative reprimands.

Another rainforest just died in vain.

Bugger it

She's got piles.

Never mind who for the moment. She's a bit mystified by the appeal of 'the whole gay thing' at the moment, as though taking it up the arse amounted to The Whole Gay Thing.

Don't know why I mentioned it except that it rather appeals to me that she has piles and can't ... [see previous post, and if you still don't understand - move on].

Mean time the staffing situation isn't any better. I gave half an hour of my precious life to persuading someone who can't cope with the pressure of an isolated environment selling booze, fags, lighters and gambling products that she remains a Valued Member of Staff.

That's half an hour of my life the company haven't adequately compensated me for.

Fishing expedition

I'm married. The man I'm married to is a serial prop finder - these are women who sleep with him, after he's convinced them he's trapped in a miserable marriage, his wife doesn't understand, blah, blah...

I don't particularly care who it is. It used to be someone out of town, but she's moved on so who is it? Just from time to time, when I haven't anything better to do, I turn possible candidates over in my mind.

In a town this size there must be a certain number of women prepared to put out for the going rate, but I believe he's more resourceful than that. I believe he'd also prefer to spend what cash he has on booze then women.

So it follows he's conned some poor bitch into giving it to him on a promise, or else she can't do better than him. There are plenty of potential candiates for Bit on the Side-in-Chief. I spent the evening baiting one of them.

I didn't enjoy myself quite as much as I'd imagined.

War

The civil libertarian in me has a solution to the perceived problems of under-age and binge drinking: Give the stuff away. Give as much away as is necessary to dispose of the problem makers.

Take away the mystique and the thrill. Serve it up with School Dinners. Rope brewers and drink makers into Back To School promotions : have Free Four-Pack with every Pencil Case offers strategically positioned at the check-outs. Place theBaccardi Breezer/WKD stand right next to the Rimmel make-up/Lynx presentations.

And while we're at it make condoms Free for fifteen and unders.

Abolish the age restriction on purchase of tobacco and related products. Similarly, remove constraints on gambling.

Why?

Well, yes, there is an elaborate libertarian and economic argument for free trade and individual choice. The statist left-of-centre politician won't listen to it, on principle, and the conventional right of centre politician won't buy it because lurking somewhere in the recesses is his terrible fear of unleashing the proletariat, if they're just like me and their kids are just like mine how do I justify myself?

Blunt pragmatism on the other hand leads us down one of two paths and one of them is to lock the little fuckers (and their irresponsible parents) away and melt down the key. The other is to give in, yes give in. But why can 18 year olds drink and 17 year olds not. The party of government is considering lowering the voting age to 16. Capable of voting but not deciding whether to drink? Entitled to marry, have responsibility for children but not to choose whether to drink. Old enough to go to the middle east, to kill and be killed by iraqis and afghanis, but not old enough to decide whether to drink?

Now the 'smoking age' in this country is to be raised to 18. The change is appealing in that it has the slender merit of edging towards an internally consistent stance on the sale of harmful consumables. But as with anything this government does it moves us towards a better approach and manages to undermine that advantageous development simultaneously.

At least the law almost cuts both ways when it comes to alcohol. It is a criminal offence to sell alcohol to someone under age, but the underage consumer is also committing an offence in purchasing the alcohol. Before the end of the year it will be a criminal offence to sell tobacco to someone under the age of 18.

This is where the civil libertarian in me really begins to come unstuck. Mummies and daddies who find precious slumped on the doorstep clutching one of our bags containing an empty will march down to the police in a fit of righteous indignation; but to lodge a complaint about the careless retailer mis-selling, not to hand over the criminal consumer or careless parent allowing a child out unsupervised and in circumstances such as would expose it to alcohol.

There is a paradox here. The younger they are, the less capable they are (broadly) of making an informed decision whether it be about sex or alcohol or tobacco or which party to vote for, and on the other hand the more easily spotted by us they are as underage consumers. The closer they are to the age at which they can legally purchase and consume, the better able they are to make the right decision, the harder they are for us to identify.

The poor kid or old boot at the till is being paid minimum wage to uphold and enforce the law and that job is impossible, because there isn't a kid in the land who is scared of being caught attempting to purchase alcohol. The worst that can happen is the old boot will say no, and perhaps laugh at you while doing so.

There are two viable options: one is to make it much, much more difficult to obtain alcohol (or whatever) and much, much more painful if caught out. The other is to hand whatever over on a plate.

Why does this matter? Personally speaking the only reason it matters is because all my staff are increasingly shit-scared of working anywhere requiring them to sell age-restricted products I'm having difficulty covering the opening hours.

Thanks!

Trouser down moment

Last year his mother sent her away for a week, with his connivance and against my wishes. This was great as the stress caused me to lose the very best part of a stone in weight, and most of that I'd wanted to lose.

I swore blind I'd not let him do it again. I was aware that the same activity company were mailing us with this year's range of offerings. I was aware that he'd not Asked me if I'd Mind her going away for a week. I told her, when she let slip she'd like to go that she wouldn't be going if I wasn't given the courtesy of Prior Consultation.

He got the message and asked if I'd mind her going. He made a great play of contacting about available weeks.

Then last night he let slip that since the price of the week she wants to go on has been reduced "mum will only have to find another £50". This shows that he still hasn't sufficient self-respect to stand on his own two feet when it comes to raising his child but instead quite happily sponges off an eighty something year old widow so that he doesn't have to curtail the alcohol, nicotine and junk food consumpton rates chez nous.

Oh dear.

It also shows that the great show of consultation was just smoke and mirrors and he is still a gutless, conniving Bastard.

Touching Florence Nightingale Moment

Colleague yesterday blundering about without his glasses which he has broken. Much laughter. He develops a headache, natch. Customers notice no decline in customer service provided by his department. Office manager cannot dispense paracetamol as a first aider, but can tip half a pack down his throat 'as a friend'. How sweet.

A shoddy work man blames...

The transient proportion of our population inhabit a delusional universe wherein our fairly new local Tesco 'Express' is civilisation's last remnant. For these people the preponderance of ready meals, snacks and cheap (and very nasty) swill lager on the few shelves merely serves to reinforce this belief.

Perhaps some locals greeted the news of the imminent arrival of Mighty T enthusiastically; most have long since returned to one or other of the other supermarkets in town, tails between their legs after taking on board what a shoddy offering a Tesco Express really is. In truth it isn't much more than a tacky corner shop, offering junk at inflated prices.

Imagine the consternation though when Mighty T shut its doors in the face of die-hards for a refit. A refit? We went over, just to be nosey, when they reopened a little later than scheduled in the early evening. They'd imported labour to carry out most of the work, but the shelves were only half full, and staff were all complaining at being left in the lurch. The greengrocery offering has been reduced, the lager offering has been extended, the fresh bakery has been tarted up but acutally reduced and they've replaced the tills while bringing the total number up one to five.

Last night the staff were complaining about how the 'manned' (personed?) tills are uncomfortable to use. This morning someone in a suit was fiddling with the self-service tills, setting them up presumably so that they can be used. Each time he pressed a button on the machine he was in front of it let out an ear-splitting, headache inducing squeal.

The student part-timer serving me from behind the adjacent till made a remark about how irritating the noise would be.

"You'll not notice it after a couple of days", Suit replied. How charming. Not "I'll reduce the decibel level." or "I can replace that tone with something a little less unpleasing."

You're a trained monkey, and we know that trained monkeys will tolerate anything given enough time.

Spike in crime figures

I've often thought we'd be dead easy to do over ... but that it would never happen. I've grown rather blase, wandering about with great wodges of other people's cash in my hands. Perhaps I've overestimted the common sense of the people I live and work amongst - after all the entire building is usually* subject to blanket security camera coverage.

This is such a dead-end place it doesn't even merit a pier (though the next town down the coast has one) or a row of those hideous tat 'n' tacky post card stalls. Then yesterday the card and trophy shop over the road from my home was held up by a couple of numb-nuts. The perpetrators were either sad out of towners who thought there might be something worth committing an armed robbery for in this town, or a couple of local yokels who've never been far enough afield (like the nearest town worth the title) to know better. Personally I favour the latter: a couple of opportunistic home-grown pot-heads out to make a quick quid.

An armed robbery less than a couple of hundred metres from my front door isn't funny. There are very, very few advantages to living here; freedom from fear of serious crime was supposed to be one of them.

The Big Swinging Dick's reaction to news of an armed robbery less than a mile away from his own little retail empire was a succinct and expressive "Fucking Hell!". I hope that the Handmaiden was present to soothe the savage little beast's fevered brow.

Let's go fly a kite...

Or alternatively spend the entire day together at a wind tunnel where you'll try your hand at hang-gliding or parachuting, or some other neutered form of once genuinely dangerous not to mention out door activity.

I mean if you're going to parachute you might have the guts to put your life somewhat on the line.

Actually it wasn't me, and I wasn't there, and I had forgotton all about it until just before 9:00 this evening. In the mean time I'd fielded calls from an increasingly concerned son of the Big Swinging Dick. Dad, you see, left the house at 7:00 this morning to Go To A Meeting.

What the fuck am I supposed to say? Your dad's taking the Handmaiden up the wind tunnel? Yoda finally reminded me that this cosy excursion was the Big Man's gift to the birthday girl herself. The two of us could only goggle at each other, neither quite prepared to unburden. I think they're a useless grubby pair of degraded middle aged fools. Yoda is likely to come over all morally indignant. You see even in extremis the two of us cannot tune to the same frequency. Locked in our own individual loneliness and isolation, separated by a few unbridgeable feet we said our goodnights a few minutes later and went our separate ways.

This is a story that I'd quite have enjoyed sharing with my own Grubby Bastard, under certain circumstances - such as sobriety. Chance would be a fine thing. Not withstanding the responsibility he shoulders in my absence for the safety and well being of one young child he was legless and jabbering innanities by the time I got home. Unfortunately since he'd heard about the trip on his own jungle drums mostly he droned on about the pair of them.

Half a whole fucking hour I had to listen to him as he swayed about the kitchen. That's a whole half hour of my life he won't give back to me - along with a lot of other stuff the fucker's stolen from me down through the years. By my estimation tonight's was a three bottle sway. About as bad as it get's before he actually falls over. One day, if I'm really lucky, he'll crack his head open and set me free.

The Non-Marriage proposal

The Big Banana doesn't want to marry me, and that too is official. He told me so earlier this week. It is probably for the best since he's only 16 year's old and that means I'm very nearly old enough to be his grandmother let alone his mother.

Also I know his parents and a couple of facts here are particularly salient or pertinent or something: the Big Banana (what a glorious piece of self-promotion from someone 'working' in greengrocery) looks just like his dad only a good deal younger; his dad is a big, fat, grey, fat, hairy shambles.

If I do ever acquire a toy boy it sure as fuck isn't going to be someone who'll evolve over time into my (hopefully one day ex-) husband.

Something I forgot to mention

I've been accused of flirting with the area manager. He's fat, balding, middle aged and pompous. Perhaps all Area Managers are thus. I've seen no evidence to refute the notion. This accusation gives rise to an intriguing problem. Do my colleagues think so little of me, or are they that stupid? These are people who think I'm frightfully clever because I can turn on the computer with an unfeigned air of insouciance. Possibly they're too stupid to entertain the notion that I might have been having just a little fun at the Fat Area Joke's expense. Oh, and I've already got more than enough fat, balding, middle aged men in my life thank you. At least one too many.

Untitled waffle and background.

Fun and games on the work front.

Yoda is up to her usual tricks, the Bolshevik Book Worm is looking for a new job (or so she claims) because of the way the Big Swinging Dick speaks to the Handmaiden.

In the mean time Dave's 60th has been and gone. We scraped together enough for a couple of very decent bottles of plonk and travel vouchers. Dave was almost gracious in accepting the birthday tokens of esteem from colleagues then shuffled off for the weekend and a couple of days leave to be spent bird watching. Back in yesterday he mentioned to Linda that while he appreciated the booze he hadn't touched it because he "doesn't like drinking alone". She happened to ask him if he'd liked his card. Dave hadn't noticed the card (or found the vouchers) which would still in the boot of his car if he hadn't already thrown them out.

Ungrateful old swine.

Is The Bookworm really looking for a new job? Two years in her current role have made her remarkably employable, and in middle age too. A woman who's spent most of her life as someone else's cleaner and part time bar maid now pays someone else to do her garden for her. I can't begrudge her that and in my reduced circumstances ought to be looking to her for inspiration. Trouble is though that she reveals herself all too often to be made up mostly of hot air, where most people are bone and water.

There's nothing new about the Big Swinging Dick and the Handmaiden. Cheryl told me all about it years ago, long before I stooped to accept their job offer when everything was falling apart and it was the best I could do. I passed her house one morning on the school run, she invited me in for a coffee. Over coffee and through a pungent hand-rolled fug she told me all about it - or at least her version of all about it. That included details (served with relish) of the beatings he receives at the hands of his wife, or that he hands out to her. I can't remember, or perhaps I didn't pay sufficient attention at the time.

Subsequently other gossips have lent the tale she told me some credence; a neighbor with stories of late night ambulance visits, surgery to damaged eyes and shoulders. Certainly Mrs Big Swinging Dick was recently in court on a Drink Driving charge and has lost her licence. This isn't gossip, it was in the court round up of the local rag. The others in the office, or most of them, are in the know but none has had an unvarnished, unspun conversation with me on the subject. The Paper Shuffler-in-Chief is the exception, she is in denial because she's in wholly unrequited lurve.

The newest member of the office staff is in need of a proper induction. The Senior Frustrated Novelist and I did our best on Tuesday when the three of us were together. For reasons I can't recall the conversation turned to How The Yardman Spends His Summer Holiday. He goes to Spain for a fortnight and spends those 14 days shagging prostitutes. In this he's aided and abetted by his sister who keeps an eye out for him. He suffered a serious negative reaction to an innoculation as a baby that left him with what I believe I'm supposed to refer to as Learning Difficulties. He is largely self sufficient, lives off the compensation payout and does the job for us to keep himself occupied (and pay for his summer holiday?).

The Novice didn't believe us at first, but its true. And if you're really unlucky he'll tell you ALL ABOUT IT, at the top of his lungs and in quite grotesque detail.

We were sharing this background information with her as Sexy Steve from head office was flitting about, worrying about a fruitless trip he'd made that morning to another outlet. She disappeared for a short while and in that time Frustrated Novelist and I led Sexy Steve gently towards an understanding of why his trip had been fruitless. When he achieved enlightenment he celebrated the moment with a hearty "Well I'll be buggered!". Unfortunately for her FN was sitting right next to him so could only go scarlet. I was luckier in that I had a partition to hide behind so I could enjoy an unhibited smirk.

By the time the Novice came back Sexy Steve had minced away to other parts (to dance at the other end of the ballroom as someone put it earlier this week?). Our opening gambit in her further education was "and he's another one", to which she quite innocently asked if he visited prostitutes, too, which of course set the pair of us off again. Patiently we peeled away her layers of innocence or naivety. He's GAY! she finally shrieked. And he'll, be buggered - and that's official.

The novice isn't exactly a feather weight, and she sat down rather hard at this point, which was rather fortunate because it gave us something else to be laughing at when Pea Brain tottered in and wanted to be let in on the joke. Spanish prostitutes and barebacking are not subjects for her delicate ears, at least if you want to be able to get anything out of her at some future date - and she does control payroll for the site, so let's be forgiven a moment of pragmatism.

Sooner or later Pea Brain will give up, and though she suspected she wasn't being let in on the joke she did eventually realise the need to check her lippy and hair. Since she has the attention span of a moronic gnat, we didn't have to keep straight faces for too long.

The evening shift last night was grim, grim, grim. There was absolutely nothing to do, and too many staff to do it. As a result I had ten people wandering about the building for five hours, looking for someone in authority to give them direction.

It was the Handmaiden's night on duty, officially, and that meant we had the Big Swinging Dick on the premises, too. Neither could be found. All night. That's one hell of a shag. The Big Swinging Dick has some sort of MBA-type qualification. I doubt that Fuck Your Subordinates into Submission was part of the curriculum, but he passed anyway.

No-one doubts the reason for their absence - we just want to know where they hide themselves on nights like last night so that we've got somewhere to hide away when we too (chance would be a fine thing) get lucky.