Messed up dreams, tidying and couch days.

My twisted brain must be working on over drive at the moment as I'm having some really fucked up dreams. Like, scare the shit out of you, messed up dreams. Like waking up convinced it was real dreams and sweating and panting and almost crying out dreams.

And I can't seem to make them stop.

So this morning's delight was me with a group of people that I'm sure I knew but couldn't put a face or name with and there was some sort of infection or disease going around. I think we were in the play ground of my primary school, back up North, and as soon as the infection showed in, weirdly, your hand, it would then work it's way up your arm and through your body. So, as soon as it was visible, the men were using massive knives to chop off hands at the wrists or arms at the elbow or shoulder.

I kept thinking, I hope it doesn't get me, I need my hands, I'm a writer. But it kept taking down one by one of the people there with me. And various hands and parts of arms now littered the floor along with the gushing of blood and splatter of tears. The anxiety grew as the amount of people not infected decreased and I knew it was only a matter of time until the infection took me and I would have to lose a part of myself that I needed.

All sorts of weird things flashed through my head (still in my dream) about alternative ways of being able to write and how other people have triumphed with lost limbs, but still I selfishly hoped the infection wouldn't take me and then I could keep my writing hands, my typing fingers, the reason for my continued existence.

But then a took a look at my hands, arms outstretched and the red blotches of the disease travelled up my hands towards my wrist.

"No NO!" I screamed. "I'm a writer. I need my hands!"

But then I was thrust up against the wall, just like the others and out came the massive and already bloody knife. The infection began to spread further up my arm and I knew it would have to be severed at the elbow. The knife was held up, ready to strike and.........

BAM! I wake up, distressed and scared and quickly checking my arm was actually in tact.

Wow is it fun to be in my head, especially my subconscious. 

So, come on dream interpreters. What does that mean?

I have a few theories myself: Not that it's exactly rocket science. But I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that I haven't come to terms with quitting my job, I'm scared I'll never make anything happen with the writing. I'm worried I'm not good enough to be a writer. Blah blah blah. Plus it probably has something to do with all the horror/zombie/disaster films and TV shows we watch. Couple that with my twisted mind and the result is some freakin' scary ass nightmares. Urgh! I'm hoping they're gonna stop soon. The waking up at 3.30am every morning is getting old.

Anyhoo, I've had a week and a half of chaos due to having to clear out all my stuff from work, including all my musical instruments and stuff for my music classes. And for the last three weeks it's all been stuffed under the dining room table or wherever I could find somewhere to shove it. I think this has been contributing to the low levels of productivity and all around emotional turbulence I've been experiencing since the start of the new year.

But now due to hours and hours and days and days of cleaning and tidying and getting rid of stuff and recycling as much as humanly possible, the chaos has cleared and I have a tidy work space. So tomorrow the real start of the year will begin.

I couldn't work in chaos, because not only was the room in chaos, but so was I. My mind was such a tangle of nonsense and emotion and loss and the feeling of detachment, as though I no longer belonged to anything. Like I cut myself out of the World and no longer have a place in it, or I lost my place in the queue or something............Something equally melodramatic.....See what happens when you suddenly have only yourself for company. Ha ha.

So now things are in order-ish and I feel better, uncluttered both inside and out, I felt entitled to a couch day. And I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I love a good couch day. We don't have them very often but they basically involve, the couch, the TV, DVD player, remote controls, drinks and food. And of course, not doing a great deal. (Except of course writing this blog, whilst watching an epic film.)

We started on the series Homeland yesterday, which granted makes us well behind the times, but that's not unusual for me, and we are hooked. We sat and watched about three episodes back to back this morning. Claire Danes is pretty hot in it and it's very interesting that she is dealing with a psychiatric disorder as well. Normally spies are depicted with very little weakness, so it's interesting to see a main character having to not only deal with terror plots and saving the World, but also this vulnerability that she can't tell anyone about. And also the fact that it is probably her disorder that makes her so good at her job. (I do know it's not real.)

We've been interspersing this with episodes of Once Upon A Time and Series 6 of 24. He he. Good times.

Anyhoo, the couch is proving particularly comfy and inviting. I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna move much for the next few hours, so I'll skidaddle and hopefully return later this week with a holiday blog. I should be able to formulate the right mental mode.

Have a great rest of weekend. I actually used my blanket with the arms for the first time. We normally ignore the sleeves and just use it as a blanket but it proved great for a couch day blog. Shame they look slightly ridiculous really.

Toad in the hole for tea tonight, a British classic and one of my star culinary creations, believe me, there ain't many. Am excited about it already.

Have a chilled Sunday evening and maybe take advantage of a few hours on the couch. I'm sure you deserve it!

General rants.

Sorry, the holiday blogs still have not materialised. Can't seem to access the right part of my brain but I'm definitely in need of some general rantiness!

Oh my god, how much does it cost to post stuff? I took a package to post today and it cost around half the price of a train ticket to the same place. (And it's a 2 hour train journey, not a local one.) Freakin' ridiculous. For that price I want it transported by fairies or wrapped in a cotton wool cloud and delivered by stork. Or I want it fitted with GPS so you can track it's every movement. Or I want it to appear in the arms of the recipient as if by magic. Fuck!

Talk about fleeced. I also sent a smaller package that barely weighed anything. £2.70. Bloody £2.70. I swear they don't even weigh things anymore they just take a look at the customer, work out what they can afford and then double it. Arse holes.

And what makes it more annoying is that the bigger package only had to be posted because Boots couldn't get their finger out of their arse enough to print my photos in time for me to complete the memory book for my friend's 30th last weekend. And if they had then I wouldn't have had to take additional trips into town, on the bus as I'm now poor and unemployed, and I also would have had it ready to take up to Nottingham with me last weekend, thus no postage charges.

Wankers!

Needless to say the customer service was so bad that I, Helen, one of the most patient and least likely to complain people in the World, (Well, I don't complain to people's faces, that's why I have a blog. Ha.) actually wrote a letter of complaint. So you can imagine just how terrible the service was.

Anyhoo, I've had a shocking eye opener into the world of freelance writing (AKA unemployment) and first impressions are that it's a lonely affair. You have way too much time with your thoughts to let a ridiculous amount of pessimism in and you kinda go a little loopy.

I miss my kids, which is not helping matters. If I had a shit day at work at least I could grab my favourite kid and have a cuddle, or engage them in conversations about ....well nothing really, just mindless prattle and nonsense. Or we could have a singing session and I would instantly feel better. Now it's like....Oh, I'll put a film on. Oh, look, I've done no writing. What a freakin' surprise! Or, oh look I've eaten all the biscuits and I'm now obese.

Why did no body warn me about these adverse side effects. Being a bum is supposed to be fun and exciting. But I just feel, for want of a better word.....blurgh! At the moment I feel blurgh! But I'm hoping once I can establish some sort of routine around my working day, then I will feel ever so slightly less blurgh and hopefully more productive.

That's not to say I've been sat on my arse doing nothing. No no. On the contrary, I've been running errands and making lists and crossing things off lists and researching article writing and tidying and rearranging and re-reading things I've already written, and...the list goes on.......

Still, I made nice burgers the other day for tea and I've been making plans to see people during the week, a rare thing that goes along with lack of regular employment. I have also finally found somewhere to recycle my VHS so am boxing up my Friends and Buffy box sets and posting them off. You just don't realise how much room they take up until you actually get rid of them.

Incidentally I was bought Buffy and Friends complete season box sets for Christmas and have already delved into Friends. (I've missed it so much since it went to Sky. The fuckers take all the good things for themselves. Greedy buggers.) There's something so comforting in episodes you can recite along with, and the knowledge of which line comes next. When you're laughing about the punchline of a joke before they've even said it, that's when you know you're home.

But each episode is longer, uncut and this is throwing my wenus out of whack (Friends joke. You either get it or you don't). There is at least a minute or two or new material in every episode. Some of it is terrible and some of it they really should have left in, but it's weird. I knew practically all the episodes like the back of my hand. And now my hand has become a stranger to me. (MELODRAMA!!!!)

Okay, enough of the insanity. I have writing and re-writing and editing and re-editing and re-reading to do, and it most certainly is not going to do itself.

I have to keep asking people what day it is as I've lost it completely. But apparently today is Thursday, so almost the weekend. Happy Thursday!

Risk...my arse!

Firstly, Merry Christmas. I hope you've all had a jolly time over the festive season.

Secondly, apologies for the absence of blogage, but leaving work was actually the most stressful thing ever and the last 3 weeks really sucked the life out of me.

Thirdly, Risk...my arse!

And so to the board game Risk, which the title would trick you into thinking meant you had to make risks. There's no risk. There's no skill and whilst you might need a strategy, or even have a strategy, let's face it; it's the luck of the dice throw. (You've all done probability.) And man, some people really take it seriously.

It was my first time playing risk, in Italy with A's family and over there it's actually called Riskio. He he. Playing a board game for the first time in a language you don't speak is interesting at best. But what is funny is that the dynamics are pretty much the same. The men think they know everything and really get into it (not including A who gave less of a shit than I did). And the women don't really care but sort of pretend to. A's Auntie was trying to be ruthless, but the dice were against her. A's sister was out pretty quickly prompting many arguments with her husband (one of the know it all men who took it very seriously) and I just found it all hilarious. I mean, it's little plastic tanks and aspirations of world domination. It's hardly realisitic or something I would ever dream of, especially when my political notions go as far as: I wish everyone would just get along.

After a bit of watching and misunderstanding  I eventually understood what the hell was going on, but with A as a partner (who couldn't give a crap) we had no strategy and kept stuffing it up. Our objective was to gain 24 (out of 48) countries and the most we managed was 14. Ha!

When they told me the game went on for hours, I didn't realise just how long. This was quickly bordering on Monopoly territory, in terms of length. (Of course, Monopoly is well better is all other ways! Especially the Wigan version which I incidentally left at my old flat and never got back. Urgh.) So after around 4 and a half/5 hours the rest of the family revolted to watch a 3D film and the game was left. Though the men couldn't help taking a sneaky peek when the lights were off to check for possible ways to change the inevitable outcome of the game.

And when the film finished they went straight back to the table, hoping to resume. (I bet they were just thinking about it all through the film. Ha ha.)

I basically said, "Let's just say you've won. You've got the most countries and the most tanks." Plus who really cares????
Eventually we persuaded him to admit he'd won (by compromise, he grumbled). Really he wanted to destroy everyone in order to win. Maybe we should be slightly worried that the Mathematician wants to take over the World. We'd all be subjected to useless, number related board games and complex theories and equations. Argh! The World would never be the same again.

He he. And let's face it, Risk was aimed at men: Armies, strategies and the desire to destroy everyone else. Not that I'm saying women can't have those aspirations, it's just that mostly they can't be bothered and those aspirations would probably be interrupted by a nice pair of shoes or a pretty bag or cocktail night with the girls. None of these things particularly conducive to taking over the World.

And so, I begin my freelance writer-dom in a matter of days (2nd Jan to be precise) and I already have a plan for the 2nd -4th Jan, which is several pages in my notebook. Whoop! Am very excited about it all. Just having the time to work through everything with a fresh mind instead of looking at things after hours and hours of poo and screaming and shouting and wee and frustration and annoying people. I'm hoping not having to filter out the stress of the day will give me much more constructive time to work through the re-edit of book 1, the beginnings of some picture books for smaller children and maybe even some non-fiction books around music and early years.

Still, It's all well and good having a plan, but I still have to stick to it, and avoid Netflix and the three box sets I got for Christmas. Ha ha. I will have to be strong! But I know I can be and a sneaky episode of something here and there could help, especially if I get stuck or need an incentive. You know? If you complete a chapter of the re-edit you can watch an episode of Friends (22 mins), but if you write 1500 words in one sitting then you earn a Buffy episode (45 mins). Ha ha.  

Anyhoo, I think The Sarcy Traveller will be taking over in January, as I begin my very belated holiday blogs from each of our destinations. Expect pictures and suggestions on the best places to go, eat, shop, sleep etc. And a lot of them aren't even in guides. They are smaller places, some not even named in guides or on maps, but I feel I not only owe it to those places, but also to the people from those places that made our stays ridiculously good! So watch out for that.

And all that is left to say is: Have an amazing New Year full of interesting trips and adventures. Follow your own direction and don't let others sway you from it. If you're making a tough decision, make it for the right reasons and make the best decision for you! Sometimes you do actually have to be selfish in this life. I've realised that (it only took 29 years) and whilst it can be hard, it is also your life and you should be the one taking control of it!

Okay, enough of the New Year lecture. Enjoy your night, whatever you may be doing, or wherever you may be. I hope you're with loved ones and basically eating and drinking the night away. I think A's mum's lasagne is on the menu tonight, which makes me a very happy bunny! All the best for 2013 and keep reading! A blog ain't the same without an audience.

Cheers!

Display despair and uber wedgies.

So now it's no secret I can announce it via blog.......I handed my notice in 4 weeks ago, and have only 2 weeks left of ass wiping (except of course, my own); snot wiping (except of course, my own) and general grey haired induced stress.

I will be keeping on with my music lessons, but that will be my only form of employment, or self employment. Yes, it's official! I'm going to be a bum. A poor writer, a tortured artist but presumably a happier person and who knows, maybe the grey hairs will back off.

So in true fashion, shit is hitting the fan at regular intervals at work, roughly every five minutes or so. Management are no where to be seen and I'm having to deal with it, making my last few weeks and the run up to Christmas: Well to put it bluntly....fucking shite!

Not only is our newest member of staff a complete knob and at times a liability, but all the rest of the staff are taking holidays and sick days and just generally leaving me in the crap. There should an actual law against holidays in December, especially when I have to write, rehearse and organise the Christmas Show (for 18 months to 4 year olds); put the decorations up, make decorations to put up (as ours all got wet in the shed and I had to chuck a whole bag of tinsel), and make all the props for the show. And still do all my other jobs and work and paperwork and reports and parent teacher meetings and.......Yes, my head is about to explode which isn't helped by the 7 extra hours I've done in the last 4 days and the lack of sleep.

Apologies, I don't mean to whinge but I've had four and a half years of this and it was obviously too much to think my last 6 weeks could actually be enjoyable. Silly of me really.

And now for the worst thing of the week, which to others would seem like the smallest thing but for me just induced a mega rage the likes have never been seen at Flat 19. Poor A who had to put up with the aftermath, which continued all night, as my rage took a long time to subside. Sorry love!

Anyhoo. So I'd done some nice printing with the children using shaped sponges and we decorated them with pom poms and snowflakes and I was excited to hang them up on the washing line, like a banner. Now I'd mentioned this a few times in the day and I had them out waiting to dry.

Strangely I'd actually had a good afternoon doing singing and music time with the children, so I was feeling in a good mood. I was actually ready to leave at 6.05 and it was refreshing to finish on a high note. Until, I emerged from the bathroom with all my bags (we don't have a staff room, just a staff toilet) and I see my favourite member of staff (the knob) putting the - not dry yet - pictures on the window, ruining my display that was already on there. Now I do realise that I sound like a crazy person. But it was my activity so she had no need to interfere. I like to follow things through to a conclusion and this made me mad.

And what's more, she didn't even put them on nicely, she just slobbed them on.

The horror on my face must have shown as our cook/cleaner noticed my pained expression and shook her head. I was so close to screaming at her. But I did realise how unreasonable that was, so I refrained. Instead, I bit my fist, screamed inside and left.

But it really grated on me all the way home, so much so that I couldn't read my book. I was livid, all tense and teeth clenched.

Then I poured it all out to A and all night (we were at the awesome Willie Mason gig), at random intervals I would shout, "But she didn't even put them on nicely!"

Luckily, I was also laughing every time, though dying a little inside.

And guess what the first thing I did on Thursday morning was? Yes, you guessed it, I took them down and did what I originally wanted to do with them. Ha. In your face rubbish display destroying monster.

Argh! Running out of time (on lunch break) so I think I will finish with that most uncomfortable uber wedgie that I had last night on the way home. I tried a sneaky grab on the escalator but it was right tucked in.

Anyhoo, after a cheeky pull on the platform I released the most uber of wedgies and again could travel home in comfort....well ish, it is the tube.

After today, ten more working days. Whoop! Bring on the unemployment....at least for a short time.

Happy Friday.

Public Transport and People. Worse combination imaginable!

My hatred of buses (or Buzes as we say in Wigan) began many years ago, around the high school age.
It never helps when you have no one to catch the bus with, you're large, bookish and unpopular, but the staring, giggling, sometimes even pointing and the fact that I would always have to stand up, made me miserable.

I've always much rather walked. So that's what I did after a few particularly uncomfortable journeys. Come rain or shine I would walk the 45 minutes to school and 45 minutes back.
But then college struck and we didn't have a choice but to take the bus. Luckily it was a bus reserved strictly for our college so I knew most of the people on there and I did have the opportunity to sit with friends etc.
Not too bad, though I know there was still sniggering and whispering. I guess there always will be. People are pretty hideous at times.

For my commute to Uni, I had to use bus and train and actually it was often the train that caused issues. Crazy people tended to get on the train. I experienced a lot of odd things, like stopping at a station and a group of youths throwing glass bottles into the carriage, smashing everywhere. There was once a cow on the track and I've also experienced lots of fights, both verbal and physical. And this one time there was even a really creepy guy who pretty much stared at me the whole journey and then afterwards the train manager came out and asked if I was alright. Apparently he was prone to staring at young girls.

Well thanks for the heads up.  There's nothing like feeling safe on public transport. Ha!

So to be honest I've had a lot of issues with trains and buses.

But the icing on the cake - as it were - was when I worked in Didsbury and I commuted by bus. I was approached by lots of older men that wanted my number and stuff. Creepy as hell. And there was of course the tramp that got on and pooed on the seat at the side of me. That was my singularly most painful memory of public transport. I stripped off as soon as I got home as all I could smell was shit.

Now in London, I avoid buses like the plague as there really are a lot of nutter that take the bus, more so than the tube, as the tube is way more expensive and there is a lot more staff at stations, even at night.
Some of the 24 hour buses can be pretty scary with some rather unsavory characters around. And when you get one by yourself, you tend to be on tender hooks the whole journey. Because whilst there may be a driver on board, that's one against a bus load, but if something's kicking off it's not nice!

Well, I'll try and get to the point. Last Saturday, I was meeting the girls from work for a meal and this had to be the one time the Northern Line is closed all weekend. So I weigh up the options and realise that a quick 214 to St Pancras and then a hop on the Piccadilly line would be best. Except my quick 10 mins to St Pancras became 25 minutes of hell. Here are my notes from the journey:

Feeling particularly claustrophobic on this 214. And there is a very grumpy driver who is refusing to go anywhere because someone got on at the back and didn't swipe. People are shouting and it's all very disconcerting. Did I mention I hate buses?

There's a lot of traumatised people on the 214 tonight. The driver had crammed that many people on that every time the doors opened he trapped this woman's foot in the door. He kept closing the back doors before people had managed to get off, including two women with buggies and an elderly couple.
People from the back were shouting. People in front were shouting. Two women were having a fight by the front door as one kept pushing the other. Ahhhhhh, confrontation, right in front of me. You know I can't hack it.

I managed to get a seat but that meant that I was cornered and had peoples' legs pushed up against mine and a sea of bodies that I couldn't see through or over.

Nasty stuff!

Every stop I was willing to be St Pancras, but 25 minutes later I managed to disentangle myself from the rest of the people and get out.
And to top it all off. Not only am I pissed off and angry by this point, but it's also raining and it's the first time in probably 5 months since I straightened my hair, so it would actually look nice.

Not anymore!

Fuckin' buses.

Fuckin people!

What the fuck?

Oh, and another thing. I know I don't know anything about fashion, but fuckin' patterned leggings, shorts, socks and t-bar shoes.........What the fuck????

Argh! Lunch break almost over. Final installment of Twilight tonight with the ladies. L, T, C and S. Whoop!

And just in case the sentiment wasn't clear.....I freakin' hate buses. They are evil contraptions and I will avoid them as much as I can, for as long as I can. People can also be quite evil, but avoiding them might make me a bit of a recluse. Hmmmmm. Will contemplate that one for a while.

Happy Wednesday.

Rants are like sweetcorn????

Eeee, it's been a while. Though I hadn't realised it was almost a month. Jeez. That's a long while in the life of Helen and her ranting. I wonder if they've all been building up inside and I'll puke them all over you right now. Rants are awfully difficult to keep down, especially this long. They're a little like sweetcorn, you know, you're incapable of digesting them, so they just come out in your poo. Ha. Okay, I do realise what I've just written and yes, I am a loon!

And so, it's been a month of excitement and discovery due to a mega holiday in the states. Now I will hopefully be turning into Travel Blog Helen at some point to give a thorough haul through the wonder of the holiday and some of the amazing places we visited. But for now you should know, we managed seven states in 16 days; drove over 3,500 miles (well A did); avoided superstorm Sandy (much to the delight of my mother) and even won some money in Vegas. We visited 4 state houses (I'm a geek for this stuff); saw two of the most amazing natural wonders on Earth and experienced two holidays (as in celebration holidays), one ridiculously early.

Intrigued? I hope so. Watch this space for The Sarcy Traveller, coming soon from my living room.

Am currently multi tasking to the extreme. I have my travel journal at the side of me, with New England guide open, finishing off the final two days of the trip, as we were that busy I got completely behind. And in between that I'm writing this and checking mail and running through the ridiculous list of stuff I've got to do and thinking about food (tummy rumbling) and watching Alias season 3. Oh yes!

Does anyone ever have the urge to physically push someone off their bike?
No?
Is it just me?

I'm not a naturally violent person, but I am northern so it's down there somewhere festering (only kidding, I don't for a minute believe that northerners are any more violent than southerners or midlanders. I'm sure we're all equally violent minded.). But today as I was crossing on the green light and he was clearly on red as all the cars had stopped, this cyclist drove through the light ridiculously fast and there were other people on the crossing. What a dick! I was so tempted to run and frickin' clothes line him or something, or dive on him, or just push him really really hard.

There could have been elderly people or kids or any combination of people on that crossing and he was going so fast that he would have had no chance. It really does take dick head cyclists to draw out that inner violence in me, though of course my stupid sensible side beat the crap out of the violent side and I didn't do anything but curse under my breath. Urgh! I have ranted about this many times cyclists, but if you are going to be a road vehicle which in fact you are, then could you please fucking follow the pissin' rules of the bloody road.

It's not a tall request. A very simple one actually, because next time my sensible side may falter and I could come flying at you and knock you off your bike, you complete knob!

And breathe! Oh, I may go and pop the oven on to preheat, the stomach is definitely ready for some nourishment, especially as I'm currently excreting rants. Ha ha. You have to replace.

And continuing with the annoying transport related issues, I am getting right royally fucked off about the walk to the Northern line platform at Kings Cross/St Pancras. It's a lovely wide corridor, more than ample space for two way traffic, obviously with no need for massive signs or a barrier, just that lovely skill that a ridiculous amount of people, are without: common sense. So today I have to squirm and push and shove my way through a wall of six abreast, all desperate to get out, leaving no room for the rest of us trying to get in. Then they look at you with disgust as though you've inconvenienced them. Sometimes I just want to shout, "It's two way traffic, move over you twats!" But again, those damn manners I was taught as a kid, they stick with you and instead, I curse under my breath (a common recurrence it appears) and shake my head and radiate anger.

It does actually say on the walls at various points, keep left, but then most people are too focused on getting where they're going to actually look up and take a hint. But really, it's not hard to just move across when you see oncoming people and you're taking up the entire space. Just sort it out okay?

Oh, I haven't experienced cold feet from writing, in ages. I may have to go and get my slippers. I think it's probably because I'm drawing all my power, wisdom and thoughts into writing and somehow that pulls warmth away from my toes. Hmmmm, yeah, I'm sure that's in a medical journal somewhere, along with an article about bollocks.

Actually, I've just realised my fingers are freezing too, and they're doing the typing....hmmmmm. Maybe my theory doesn't hold out. Damn. There goes my PhD Thesus.

I came back to work last Monday, literally straight off the plane and into work, with roughly 45 minutes sleep on the plane home, so that was fun. But what really got my goat was when I walk through the door to the usual hellos and what not, then I say, "I'll just freshen up abit." And I go into the staff toilet and there is no light. So not only can I not change clothes and freshen up, but I also have to pee in the dark for the next three days. Welcome back Helen!!!! Aren't you glad you came back?

And, twenty minutes after I returned, I ask, "Where's D?(one of our staff, due in at 10 and this is 10.05 and no sign of her and I'm thinking if I can make it from Boston US then you can make it from wherever the hell you live in London). And this is when they choose to reveal that said member of staff did a runner when I was on holiday. (This is not a one off. This has happened at least 3 times out of the 5 times I've been on a mega holiday during my time there. It's becoming almost expected.) Great! So not only am I tired, smelly, grumpy and other dwarf names, but I have to deal with a new member of staff and be on shift with her. Urgh! I do not like these types of surprises, though when it was S that started working with us after US trip 2010, that was actually a good thing!

The worst part was the fact that I couldn't pronounce or remember her name the whole day and had to keep saying things like, "your new teacher" or just pointing at her and smiling. And it doesn't help that her name is remarkably like Golem and every time I go to say it I have to stop myself from saying Golem. He he. Still, it's fun to say it in my head. (Yes, I do realise how cruel this is but I'm getting better and now I hardly ever think Golem before I say it and I can remember and pronounce it.)

Oh, today she was doing my head in though. We were understaffed (or under-competently- staffed) and I actually had to have a mini go at her. Yeah, I moving up in the World. We had 17 kids, two of whom are under 2 and 8 of whom are under 3. Yes, a nightmare in itself. Each of the three teachers have a group at their table and the odd wanderer that just floats around knocking things off and refusing to do anything. And then part way through, while ignoring everyone on her table she came with one of my kids and sat down at my table. Now, let's consider the common sense here. There are 6 kids on her table messing around, needing help and she sits on my table where I am already sat.

Dick!

So I say, "Can you just go back to your table."
"But, he wants to work with this."
"Okay, but I can do that. Your table needs you."
"But he wants to work with this now."
"Yes but I can do that and he can learn to wait a minute. There are a lot of children."
"But what about the activity?"
"It's more about crowd control now."

Eventually, she got the fucking message and went back to her table, tutting and murmuring to herself. Stuck up Montessorian. She basically asked me yesterday if I was Montessori trained and I said no, so obviously she thinks I can't present a piece of work. Oh my god, it is number beads not freakin' rocket science, silly cow. And I'm more concerned with the kids hanging off the light fittings, running out of the classroom or strangling each other, not an impatient older child who won't wait for me to help him.

Okay, that was fun.

I feel I could write all night, it's like ranting diarrhoea. Ha ha. I said it could all come flooding out.
Still, I'll hold some back, otherwise there might not be another blog for ages.

Slippers for my cold feet and the left over roast dinner that I'm about to pop in the oven are definitely calling to me. Thanks for reading and I hope this has made up for the almost month absence, or at least gone a short way towards forgiveness. I would appreciate it.

It's the middle of the week slump for me, I just hope the beginnings of this cold are gonna piss off. My throat is sore, not great when you are employed to talk all day, with intermittent shouting when the unruly kids break your patience level. (Mine is particularly low at the moment, so.....a very sore throat.)

Okay, I really am going now.

Not the only Wiganer in the room.........the 100th

Now to clarify, there were only two Wiganers, not 100, but it is my 100th Blog and has been a long time coming.

Man have I been stressing about this one. It has to be amazing. It has to be spontaneous, not planned, but it's impossible for me to blog as things are happening. So I resigned myself to the fact that if I wanted this to be epic then it would take some assemblage on my behalf, much like my stories. Luckily that's something I'm fairly good at.

And to clarify, the two Wiganers were in our office at work today. (Me being one of them of course.) I was having an area SENCo meeting and the woman taking it clearly had a northern accent. So I asked where she was from and she said, "Manchester." So I said, "Oh I used to live in Manchester but I'm from Wigan." And then she said, "I'm from Wigan too. I just say Manchester 'cause most people don't know where it is." Ha. So there you go. Two Wiganers together in our tiny office in Russell Square. Bizzaro!

And now down to business. Over the last few weeks I've been recording my rants in order to create the most epic blog ever. So here goes nothing.

Soiled nappy. Always a good one to start with and actually nothing to do with work. This was my first entry to blog. I came down one Monday morning to take the rubbish and there on the floor outside the bin store was.....yep you've guessed it, a soiled nappy, complete with wipe. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. What a bunch of disgusting buggers that live in our neighbourhood. I mean, it wasn't even in a nappy bag. Who would ever just dump a dirty nappy?

And don't get me started on the morons that go to the trouble of opening the bin store doors but then leave the rubbish in the doorway instead of putting it into the bins. It's not freakin' rocket science you scummy beggars.

Crotch moment in the lift. Fairly self explanatory but nasty all the same. This guy got in the lift and turned round so he was facing me but my hands were holding my bag and it sort of coincided with his crotch area. Ewww. Why couldn't he just face the same way as every one else? Maybe that's how he gets his kicks.
But even worse than that was the fact that he was then breathing in my face. Argh! And no he didn't have minty fresh breath. Skank!

If one more person asks me about marriage................ (Don't think we need to elaborate there.)

The late 20's almost 30 crisis. Okay, so why does no one warn you about this? We've all heard about the midlife crisis, men in their 50's buying ridiculous sports cars and thinking they can date supermodels, but no one ever warns you about the crisis you have before turning 30. And practically everyone I know is having it simultaneously. If it's not a job/career crisis, then it's relationship crisis or a rush to get married, or a panic that we're not where we wanted to be, or dreamed we would be. Is anyone?

It's exhausting and in my case, bad for your health.

My particular crisis is in the form of lack of career and I know the longer I stay where I am the worse it gets, but how do you just quit not knowing if you'll have anything to go to? How do you overcome the fear? (I'm reminded of the Friends episode in which Chandler persuades Rachel to quit her job at the coffee house. She doesn't want to be 30 and still working at the Coffee House. Well I most definitely do not want to be working at the same place when I'm 30. It may just obliterate my remaining sanity and I'm down to critical levels as it is. So, it's all about plans and stress and depression at the moment.

Anyhoo, if you weren't aware of the almost 30 crisis, well you are now. So prepare. Plan ahead and try not to get bogged down with shitty jobs or crap relationships (I know, easier said than done).

Cultural differences. This was hilarious! One of our little boys is picked up every day by his grandma who is Chinese and speaks no English. Just recently he's been peeing his pants quite a lot. This particular day she came in the classroom, screaming at him in Chinese, which quite often sounds severe anyway, but when shes bellowing at the top of her lungs, Jesus. I was scared.

She burst in, didn't even say hello to the child and just started shouting at him, presumably about the bag of wet clothes on his peg. The poor kid was petrified. She then noticed he'd had to borrow nursery clothes and she stripped him, right there on the carpet in the classroom, trousers and pants together.

Meanwhile, me and the other member of staff were torn between laughing and crying. It was evil. Any British parent would think it bordered on child abuse. Any childcare worker would think of the implications of a child being stripped in front of the window. But of course, she just continued to shout at him, discard our clothes and redress him in clothes she'd brought with her.

Another thing which made the moment even more bizarre/spectacular was the fact that whilst all this was going on, all but one of the children had stopped to listen and wonder what the hell was going on. But not JM. No no. He was sat in the corner singing and pretending his hands were the Olympic flame. He he. What a bunch of cranks!

The students are back. Argos must be fresh out of value pillows and duvets, the amount I've seen walking around. They're just so young and giggly and care free. Makes you want to hurl really, but then I guess I was like that once.

I'm leaving. Oh no I'm not. Parents messing with my head. I am told a child is leaving so therefore I have certain documents to fill out and files and reports to complete. So I waste my time at home doing this and then come in the next day and find out he's not actually leaving. He's staying to do two afternoons a week. Well thanks for the heads up. It's not like I gave up my precious few hours of free time to do all this extra work for him. And what's worse, even though he'll be at another nursery five mornings a week, I still have to do files, portfolios and all that jazz for him. So he'll have two lots of stuff and let's guess which one will actually have any weight with big school. Hmmmmm. Not mine. Freakin' waste of time!

The fuck tally. No, it's nothing dirty. And it's kind of lost it's meaning now. But the fuck tally is nothing to do with the bedroom, it was simply about how many times I said the word fuck over breakfast that day. Yes, I was particularly pissed off and it was only breakfast time. Shockingly, I didn't manage to tally up, but it was a lot!

The shower time warp. Do you ever have the feeling that you've been in the shower for ages but when you come out it's only been like five minutes? I feel there's some sort of shower time warp, in that time stands still a little when under the flow of a nice hot shower. It's just a theory but especially when I've washed and conditioned my hair, or shaved my legs or something, you get a guilty pang of, shit how much water did I just use, I must have been in there for at least half an hour. But then again you realise it's been about 12 minutes. It's like my perception of time is skewed by the steam and overall wet goodness of the shower experience.
Weird but true!

Extreme Scrapbooking. Been making the scrapbook from last year's Japan trip (better late than never), as I wanted to get it done before this year's very imminent trip to the states. But it's epic and exhausting. I filled one entire massive scrapbook with just five days in Tokyo. Eek. I'm now over half way through the second scrapbook and have five more days of the holiday to do. EXTREME!

I'm going through pritt stick like no body's business. And they cost a pissin' fortune. £2.19  for a bloody pritt stick. It's a good job there was an offer on a triple pack. Bankrupting myself for a bloody scrapbook.

The Miss Trunchbull Syndrome. Defined as: The actual desire to fling a child out of a window or swing them around by their pigtails and let go. .............Oh yes. I definitely have it!

Irritating woman on the tube. You can tap your fingers as much as you like love, but I ain't getting on the tube until the people have got off, so quit it!

Little Madams. New children with zero manners. Bearing in mind this child is two. I asked her to keep her voice down because the other children were sleeping. She turned to me, threw me this look of disgust and said, "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to her." I said. I know you weren't talking to me but I was asking you to be quiet. To which she replied (and louder this time). "I said, I'm not talking to you!"

Ooooo. This definitely called for a Miss Trunchbull moment and what was even funnier is that the child's name is the same as the book from which the character Miss Trunchbull comes from.

My kids are all insane. If they're not twating each other with sea creatures, they're throwing themselves on the floor and having screaming fits. Little buggers.

And almost sackage. I won't go into this in too much detail but basically helping people is not all it cracked up to be. I did a favour for a friend, sort of going against a policy and I ridiculously unluckily got found out. Ooooo, my manager was pissed, but what was funny was the fact that upper management and the owners didn't give a shit. Still I'm getting a bit of attitude from my manager but honestly, I won't be helping anyone else in this way, so please, no one ask me.

Did this happen to the good Samaritan? Or did he die? Hmmmmmm. Can't quite remember, though I do remember playing the part of the good Samaritan in assembly at primary school. Ha. I digress.

Feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Not ugly, just not right. Like someone is pulling the the rug out from underneath me, leaving that weird underlay underlay areeba areeba stuff. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Deciding on a fancy dress costume for our Salem Halloween Ball has been tricky, but I think I'm there. Obviously I want to look uber creepy and at least stand a chance at the fancy dress prize. He he. But watch this space. I have no doubt there will be a lengthy Halloween Ball Blog after the big night.

Well, It's been a week since I completed my charity half marathon. 13.1 miles of pain. I went way too fast in the first 6 miles and suffered in the remaining 7. For me it was a battle and not of fitness or distance, but a battle of wills. Me versus me. Evil negative me, versus,  positive me. And evil won out a lot, thus all the pain. I swear the full marathon two years ago was way easier. They say it's psychological and it is! Shame my psychology is fracked!

Anyhoo, I raised £460.00. No mean feat. And I finally got to meet a few members of the Nordoff Robbins fundraising team whom I'd been liaising with for over two years. Lovely. Oh and the little thing of beating my PB. Yes, I almost forgot to mention that. New PB is 2hours 15minutes and 52seconds. And I will beat this.........one day. Or maybe in my mind. Ha!

I told you this would be epic. Man this is long. Anyhoo. I hope it was ranty enough and fulfilling for the 100th. I thank you for reading. As always it's nice to have someone to hear my randomness.

Here's to a 100 more????????

Well I've got 8 minutes before Vampire Diaries Season 4 airs on ITV2, so I'd better go and prepare. Giddy!