Marching onwards

Legal limbo.

We are still in legal limbo. The exchange still hasn't taken place.

Fuck.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/30/2004 06:34:00 PM |

Teeny Weeny Bit Stressed.

The exchange of contracts still hasn't taken place, and we are supposed to be moving in two and a half week.

I haven't packed a damn thing yet.

Hollie will not come out from the sofa.

The Baron is being a pain about all of the above.

My sister is planning on leaving her partner (my friend) and is being a bitch about it. Leaving your partner of four years, whose best friend has just died, BY PHONE is evil.

I have run out of chocolate.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/29/2004 06:33:00 PM |

To The Citizens of the United States of America

In the light of your failure to elect a President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective today.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchial duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories. Except Utah, which she does not fancy.

Your new prime minister (The rt. hon. Tony Blair, MP for the 97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a minister for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how far off the mark you were. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up "vocabulary". Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up "interspersed".

2. There is no such thing as "US English". We will let Microsoft know on your behalf.

3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard.

4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys.

5. You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen", but only after fully carrying out task 1. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through.

6. You should stop playing American "football". There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game. The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays "American" football. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which is similar to American "football", but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies). We are hoping to get together at least a US rugby sevens side by 2005.

7. You should declare war on Quebec and France, using nuclear weapons if they give you any merde. The 98.85% of you who were not aware that there is a world outside your borders should count yourselves lucky. The Russians have never been the bad guys. "Merde" is French for "sh*t".

8. July 4th is no longer a public holiday. November 8th will be a new national holiday, but only in England. It will be called "Indecisive Day".

9. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

10. Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us crazy.

Thank you for your cooperation.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/28/2004 06:57:00 PM |

Hollie

Hollie and I have returned from our epic journey. I am shattered, and she is hiding under the sofa.

(Upon arrival she squeezed into an impossibly small place and ended up under the bath behind the panel, requiring the trashing of my bathroom. So I'd say she is tired and stressed. Makes two of us).

So I have been a-trawling through the blogs. In the main this is a fun exercise, but every now and again there is a post that makes me want to pull out my own hair/beat my head against the wall/beat the writers head against the wall. And I found it this weekend.

ARRGGGGGHHHHH.

I feel better now.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/26/2004 02:10:00 PM |

Bored

So. Very. Bored.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/23/2004 04:08:00 PM |

Things I have learned this week

According to the Boy, Jesus was killed because he told everyone he could feed a party with four fish, two apples and some bread rolls.

Cats look really silly when they fall in the toilet.

Sod's Law dictates that when you are less than four weeks away from moving, your crappy heating unit will die and require vast injections of cash to resuscitate.

Mentioning solicitors to your annoying neighbours clears up disputes really quickly.

Agreeing to take in your sixth cat four weeks early isn't a good idea. Your cats won't thank you for it.

It is impossible to buy a pressure canner in the UK.

Bluetooth is bloody annoying.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/21/2004 10:30:00 AM |

Catch up

OK. Everyone comfortable? Shall we begin?

The week began with a visit to West London. Not the easiest of treks from my house, it involves an overground train, then an underground train, a walk, a bus and another walk.

Monday.

A glorious day. My bag was heavy, so I thought I'd leave the umbrella at home. Ha! As soon as I left the underground for my walk to the bus stop, I saw the clouds, which before were beautifully white and fluffy, were now lead grey. And lower in the sky. Much lower.

I got to the bus stop. There was no shelter, so I had to stand in the drizzle. After an eternity, the bus arrived and I got on with all the other miserable and wet people who had been waiting.

I got a seat. That is unusual, to be honest, so I wondered why.

Not chewing gum on the seat. Not unidentified gunge. Not a broken seat.

The reason the seat was empty was the man sat next to it. He looked fine. He wasn't obviously mad (a particular hazard on London transport).

His problem was of an odiferous nature. The man smelt like a bag of rotten potatoes. I know the smell of rotting potatoes, as the Baron likes to move any bags out of his way and so puts them on top of the fridge. I am five foot two, so I am not likely to see them unless I happen to be on stilts, and I only realise

a) when we have run out of potatoes and it is a mashed potato emergency

or

b) I can smell them.

So the stench enveloped me. Being a polite Brit, I try not to say anything. It might not be his fault. Then nausea overcomes me and I cough. And stand up near the exit, in case the reek embeds itself in my skin.

The man stares straight ahead, oblivious.

I arrive at my destination, wet and smelling slightly of potatoes.

I sign in and wait for the receptionist. I tell her I am here to see Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire in Finance. Ok, maybe that isn't his real name, but it ought to be.

This review was booked months ago. After an ill-fated visit where he told me there was nowhere to sit in the office and so I should rebook. I had an empty diary and allowed him to pick the most convenient day for him. And so it was noted. In my diary, in his diary, and in my pissed off managers diary.

Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire has buggered off on holiday. When I retrieved my jaw from the floor, I asked to be taken to the department to speak to someone.

Twenty minutes later someone finally comes over to take me through security (no-one wants to mess with pissed off tenants, and I am beginning to understand why they need such stringent security. I want to hurt people - after the last debacle I had called ahead to confirm - that morning - and no-one thought to tell me of the change in plans).

No-one is willing to help me or tell me anything. So I write an extremely snarky note and inform them I will be back tomorrow when Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire returns. This is agreed, and I wend my way home.

The Parcel Force Man has been and gone, leaving me a little card saying I should go to the post office to retrieve my parcel. Great. It is pension collection day and the old folk do so like to make a whole day of it, catching up in the post office queue. Fab.

But it is my new PDA and I WANT IT NOW! Even auditors can act like Veruca Salt when necessary.

So to the post office I away. There is nowhere to pack, so I block a car in and head off. The only people likely to park there are going to be in the post office, and since I WANT IT NOW! I don't give a flying fuck anyway.

The queue is stretching out the door. Old people for as far as I can see. One man my age stands behind me for ten minutes and then stomps out, muttering about old people today.

I start twitching. I haven't had a great day, and I need a shower. Fortunately the potato smell isn't so noticeable, as one of the people in the queue reeks of urine. A woman of about ninety behind me starts complaining that pensioners have all day to go in so why do they choose lunchtime? I try to keep a straight face and sympathise. I WANT IT NOW! so I will endure.

Almost an hour later I get my parcel. Woohoo! I get to the car to find the car I blocked in was gone, and yet not a mark on mine. Magic? Who cares! I have a PDA!

I race home, shedding packaging as I run into the house. Tearing off the final layers I can hardly wait. I have been looking forward to this for so long.

Guess what? I bet you have. No fucking PDA. It was some books that weren't due for another few days.

Monday's score. Five hours of travel. No work done. No PDA. Serious nasal assault. One seriously pissed off person.

Tuesday

Tuesday dawns. The sun is shining. I pack my umbrella. No PDA is delivered, but Amazon promises, cross its heart and hopes to die that it will be there tomorrow.

I am optimistic that today I will get lots done. I will kick auditing bottom.

I take the train. Uneventful. The Tube. Boring and hot. Walk. No rain and I pick up a yummy sandwich from my favourite shop - I am in that good a mood.

The bus. Well, it was nearly empty. I got a seat and stared out the window, mentally planning my days work, without the assistance of my PDA.

We got a couple of stops down the road, and a young man gets on. Looks normal, but I am used to public transport and so stare straight ahead and chant in my head

"sit somewhere else, sit somewhere else, sit somewhere else, not next to me.".

And he did. But it didn't make a difference.

I clean littertrays on a regular basis. Five cats produce a lot of pee. It isn't a pleasant job, but it has to be done. And when he sat down behind me and my eyes started watering, I wished I had a nice cat littertray to sink my nose into.

His feet were the worst smelling I have ever had the misfortune to smell. My eyes are watering now even thinking about it.

This wasn't a case for politeness. This was a get the hell up and off that bus as soon as possible situation.

I walked the rest of the way, rejoicing in the comparatively sweet polluted Ealing air.

Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire had returned from his holiday.

But had scheduled meetings all day. He took five minutes out of his busy day to thank me for coming back, but could I please reschedule as it wouldn't be possible to conduct the review after all.

AAARRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

So after telling him I would still be charging for all my wasted time, and that I would not be coming back ever, I left. In a film, I would have been walking down Ealing Broadway into the sunset, discarding my laptop, files, calculators etc to the wind. Since it was reality, I flounced out, tripped over the cobbles outside, and landed on my arse outside Blockbuster Videos.

No smelly people on the way home. Just a typical man who felt the need to sit with his legs open as wide as possible. Encroaching on my seat space, and then hogging the armrest. I smacked his leg with my laptop, shoved his arm off my armrest, reclaimed my space and glared at him until Liverpool Street.

I got home to find that the litter tray needed cleaning.

After a cup of tea and a biscuit, I decide to tackle a report. All well and good. Then Charlie sat on my file. I tried to move him. The little bastard spat at me. I tried again. He bit me. I booted the little git outside with the others and decided that another cup of tea would be a good idea.

I went to retrieve the cats. Four cats sat on the roof of my car. Only one cat was one of my collection. Bizarre, but it explains the cat paw print in the mud decoration I sport. Ellie was chewing my aerial, which is probably why it doesn't work anymore. I grabbed her, and pulled her down. And my aerial, which was still in her mouth. She went in.

Charlie was sleeping in an empty cement mixer in the sun. He doesn't bear grudges with me, so he waddled over and headbutted my bitten hand. He went in as soon as he could smell food.

Frankie was under the car playing with a spider. He goes in when you tell him to. He took his new playmate with him. I believe Ellie ate it later that evening.

Harvey. Harvey. My troublemaker. I called, and called him. No response. I rattled his biscuits. Nada. Twenty minutes later, I went in. I discovered Harvey fast asleep in a towel on the bathroom floor.

Tuesdays score. Four and a half hours travel. No work done. GBH committed against my nose. No PDA. Bite marks in my hand. Criminally deranged person.

Wednesday.

I stayed home.

At 7.30AM my PDA finally arrived. I spent Wednesday setting it up and syncing it with the desktop and the laptop. Oh, and trying to keep the Baron's sticky mitts off my new toy!

Wednesdays score. No travel. No work. PDA!!!!!!! Happy person!

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/16/2004 01:14:00 PM |

Irony.

My last post I complained I had nothing to say.

Now I have so much, and yet no time. The matchsticks are failing me.

I shall return, post slumber, and relate my week. It's funny if you don't actually have to live it.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/15/2004 07:47:00 PM |

Tar

There are days that I sit down to write, and my mind is overflowing with things I want to say. And then there are days like today. Where my mind feels like it is felt with slightly gooey tar.

I mean, things have happened today that I could talk about. For example:

• I discovered the manufacturers lied about the top speed of my car. They told me it should be 107 but in reality would not be more than 105. I clocked 108 today. Ha!
• My sister discovered the truth in the old saying "a drunk speaks the truth of a sober mind". She was crying on the phone today after a so-called friend ruined her 25th birthday party last night.
• Willow seems to like Charlie and Frankie. Two more to go.

But I can't be bothered to write as I can't form proper sentences.

So I am off to imbibe beer until I have achieved fake fluency, and then collapse in bed.

Au revoir, mon petite choufleurs.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/09/2004 08:20:00 PM |

Decisions, decisions

We have to make decisions every day. Stuff like:

"What shall I have for lunch?"
"Do I want tea or coffee?"
"Should I move over for the police car behind me?"
"Should we elope to the Carribean?"
"Do I want children?"
"Should I wear the black or the red shirt?"
"Is 105mph a little too fast to be driving?"
"Is new white Daz really better than improved Persil with scented fabric conditioner?"

Some decisions are bigger than others. But I encountered the biggest and hardest decision of all today. A humdinger of a decision. A potentially painful decision, with far reaching consequences.

"Should I stop for the toilet now, or press on homeward and hope there is no traffic?"

You see? This isn't a decision that can be made lightly. If I stop, I have to get off at the next exit, find a toilet, park and go. Not necessarily as easy as it sounds. What if I can't find a toilet - some exits lead straight onto other motorways.

Or should I wait? Drive as fast as I can get away with and hope that there are no accidents further down causing a delay. Can I last until I get home? Can I last if I hit traffic?

What is a girl to do?

Make an attempt on the landspeed record (M25 version), that's what.

I made it home in time.

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/07/2004 06:36:00 PM |

Peace

'Twas a peaceful weekend.

What else could you ask for?

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/05/2004 06:51:00 PM |

Brief update

Slices of pollo ad astra pizza scarfed - 4

Cat beds thrown downstairs by feline reprobates- 2

Dead spiders - 1

Reports written - 0

Regrets over amount of pizza scarfed - 0

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/03/2004 11:00:00 PM |

I tried to be good but the cats got in the way

I've done the washing. I answered the e-mails. I ate my dinner, even all the peas I cooked myself, and I don't even like peas. Why did I cook them? Issues.

But everytime I sit down to write a report, Charlie makes himself at home on either my laptop, or the file I am reviewing. And he has a face full of love. I can't boot that face off. I tried, but I felt so guilty that I still couldn't work.

And now there is a HUGE spider somewhere downstairs. I didn't do anything when I saw it as the cats were all around and I thought one of them would catch it and torture it.

Did they bollocks.

The five of them, yes all five, bopped it and then ran away when it came towards them. It disappeared under the TV stand. Useless creatures. So now there is a HUGE spider roaming around the house.

So I sat back down to do some work. Ellie decided to dive bomb my file - she wanted to play with the laser pen and she is coming up with more and more outrageous stunts to get me to try and distract her from her naughtiness with the laser pen. I started to pick up my scattered papers.

Within milliseconds, Charlie leapt off of the cat tree, where he was pouting, and was taking up both my seat and my laptop. I gave up.

So here I am. Avoiding both the HUGE spider and the report that I really should be writing.

Not that things are much saner up here. Harvey is sleeping in a box. Not a box designed for cats, but just a random cardboard box filled with odds and ends. Sounds normal? This box is half his size. He does not fit in the box by any stretch of the imagination. No limbs are in the box, his tail is draped across the floor and his throat is laying on the edge of the box, making him produce some very strange noises. I probably should be wearing ear plugs. But I can't. For reasons I shall get to.

Willow is sleeping in my dressing gown, on the loft bed. Tabby cat. In a cream dressing gown. Tabby cat. Known to bite when comfortable and forced to move.

Frankie is stealing my clean underwear. He thinks I can't see what he is doing, but I can. He is slowly advancing along the bannister where they are drying , and then he steals them, and runs back with my little lacy numbers to stash in his catbed. Along with the socks, earplugs, boxer shorts and mousies that he has stolen today. I have a kleptomanaic cat.

Help!

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/02/2004 09:38:00 PM |

The counting game

One recovered kitty.

Two piles of washing waiting to be washed.

Three reports to write.

Four other kitties driving me mad.

Five bags of shopping to put away.

Six weeks until we move.

Seven cooked chicken breasts in the fridge (leftover from my sister's BBQ) that I need to use up.

Eight reviews scheduled between now and moving.

Nine e-mails I need to answer.

Ten minutes until my dinner is cooked.

Perhaps it is time to stop reading my bookmarked sites!

posted by DMouse007 @ 9/02/2004 05:28:00 PM |