Just read someone's 'Interesting Facts About Me' (Them-me not me-me) Blog & thought I'd blatantly copy.
1) I use other people's ideas rather than my own....
Nah-not really. Here's my real list:
1) I am useless at most things on the computer. I can't upload my own photos, locate files without assistance, set & remember p4sswords or make my computer do anything at a faster pace than that of a telegram from Kenya to London during WW2. However I can make a graph on a spreadsheet with the aid of my OU 'How to' guide, very useful for any housewife...
2) I am a housewife. I don't tie my hair up in a teatowel, wear a pinny or have wash-days and bake-days as I am a housewife in name only. I tut at dust and trip over the hoover but I suppose I keep my house looking approximately tidy, keep my kitchen & bathroom clean and feed people who are in my house. The awful American term 'At-home Mum' is probably the best description as I am a Mum and I'm mostly at home...
3) I have a 2nd class Honours Degree in Science allowing me to use the letters BSc Hons (Open) after my name which as we all know is an essential credential for any self-respecting 'At-home Mum'.
4) I used to be an Aircraft Engineering Mechanic in the Royal Navy in my youth and serviced/maintained Lynx Helicopters. HRH Prince Andrew was on my squadron and despite non-officers being banned from using the officers corridoors as a through-route to the Wrens locker rooms I used to waltz boldy through, with my high ponytail swishing from side-to-side and make a deliberate point of saying a chirpy 'Morning Sir' to him as I passed. No-one tells me where I can and can't go...
5) A lot of my interesting facts might be linked. As a result of my time as an engineer, I was offered a job at my local college lecturing in Aircraft Engineering. I taught there for 18 months, well I say taught, one weekly lesson I had to cover was in a 'workshop' where the students could build anything they liked. One group built an autoclave, another a hovercraft...?! I was an aircraft engineer, I was also a fish out of water but I maintained the required blagging air of 'I'm not going to tell you how to do it, I'm only here to supervise' and when I left to have Son2 in 2001 I vowed never again to do a job which hired me for one thing but used me for another...
6) I have also worked as a teaching assistant at Primary level and hold the High Level Teaching Assistant status. There's another job that has a job description that doesn't quite feel quite the same as the work you are actually doing...
7) I use the form of punctuation known as an elipsis far too often.
8) I have three children, two sons aged 11 and 9 and a daughter aged 4. They are fab. Free-spirited and loud at times but they're great fun to be around! I won't mush on about them though-overall, to the casual onlooker, they look like any other snotty-nosed kids!
9) I am married to quite possibly the most grumpy man alive on this Earth. I have actually known him to go a whole weekend without cracking a smile. Honestly!
10) If I could live in a house with a big kitchen and a bedroom for each of my children, in the village that we live in now my life would be pretty damn complete. As it happens fact 10 could alternatively read 'I wish I could win the lottery'...
11) I love reading. I love books. I get the same feeling of anticipation when looking at my bookcases that alcoholics probably get in Threshers. I am reading a book called 'The Bolter' by Frances Osborne at the moment. It is the true story of the author's Great (Great?) Grandmother, one of the 'celebrities' of her generation and it is fascinating. I see a book as my friend but my poor memory forbids me from taking them everywhere I go. There is no more irritating moment than that where you realise, once tucked up in bed, that your book is in the car...
Note: I do not however, get much of a thrill when I see Mr T's Clive Cussler books or my son's 'Beast Quest' books-the latter of which are usually scattered throughout my house!
12) Mr T is waiting for me to go through and watch 'Hustle' with him. I must be quick now.
13) I like TV but not in the day. I rarely sit down to watch anything before 9pm and hold Sky+ largely to account for that-curse that Murdoch for making it that little bit easier for me to dither around a bit longer each evening... Marple, Poirot and Midsummer Murders are some of my faves, but I also loved Lost and ER. I also enjoy most of the one-off dramas on the Beeb and ITV and find seasonal programmes such as Big Brother *chokes back tears* and X-factor ridiculously addictive.
14) Rather than TV in the day I listen to 5live. I started listening in 1996 when my kittens chewed the ariel off the back of my clock radio preventing me from tuning into any British wavelength other than 909 or 693. I would love to be a journalist working for the station, the only thing stoppping me is their move to the North-West...oh and I suppose my lack of experience and qualification in broadcasting. Hmmm.
15) Grammar and spellling are really important to me. If I make a spelling error or miss an apostrophe I die a little on the inside.
16) I lost 3 stone in weight last year on Weight Watchers. It was easy as pie. Or Pi for those on a diet...
17) Mr T also read books by other authors too. Sorry...yes, it's supposed to be about me...
18) One of my favourite meals is Spag Bol. I'm also partial to Roast Beef, Fajitas, Tacos and Curry although the takeaway we had tonight (1st in 5 months) was utterly horrible-I shall stick to cooking my own I think...
I also love baking but it takes me a lot of time to create a masterpiece and in our kitchen with very little workspace, if baking overspills into normal-meal preparation time my kitchen feels like a not-so-fun circus tent (esp when the children come prowling & salivating like tigers) hence the desire for a bigger kitchen!
19) I am atrociously disorganised. If organisation skills were graded 1-10 with one being the worst I would give myself 1. (I could so easily be mis-quoted on that...) Part of it stems from an absolutely disastrous short-term memory-I forget children (including other people's), birthdays, to return texts/phone calls, to arrange appointments, to attend appointments, important school-trip reply slips, medication-giving, to go out for lunch with friends (yes-last year!), my own sons' birthday party (Mum of Bailey: 'What time's the party tomorrow?' Me: 'What party?' Mum of Bailey (incredulous as she can see the genuine 'I-don't-knowness' on my face): 'Billy's-your son's?!!!'). Everything. If you are my friend, you have to learn not to take offence, not to get cross and to remind me of everything. Always.
20) I talk a great deal. I go on and on and on. People foolishly come back for more...
Friday 4 February 2011
Thursday 6 January 2011
What should have happened in Eastenders...I think...
Well it has been some week in Eastenders hasn't it? I mean it must be, because I never get to watch it and yet I am more familiar with the events of Albert Square this week than I am with the strange comings and goings of my own neighbourhood...
With thousands of complaints ranging from 'She'd definitely know it wasn't her baby' to the more painful reminders which it has envoked in other people who have endured a similarly horrendous loss in their own lives, the storyline has been one of the most controversial and emotional ever shown on a primetime soap. Having not watched it I am unable to comment (you'll be relieved to hear) on the story's relevance, worth or execution but I have nonetheless given it some thought & have quite unintentionally came up with an alternative which would have had the same qualities of shock and human predicament but with a festive-friendly humourous edge, and more importantly a distinct reduction in the all-too-high Borough of Walford death rate...
One thing which I must say about the current storyline (I didn't PROMISE did I?!) though is that I believe it is plausable that some people might not recognise their own baby when it is less than a couple of days old. Babies can be quite swollen, jaundiced and unusually-coloured in the days immediately following their birth. Most have blue eyes and not-much-hair (although my own Son1 had as much hair at birth as I have now but he's another story) and are all pretty much the same size. Son2 looked really butch for the 1st few days-baldy & red-faced (a bit like Phil Mitchell actually) but seemed to turn into a really lollipop-headed soft-looking teddy bear overnight. I'm willing to bet that if anyone glances into their pram & sees a baby in there wearing the same clothes it was wearing when they put it in there they'll not question too deeply any changes that could be attributed simply to washing the crusty bits off in the baby's first bath or the venthouse-head-swell finally subsiding etc. I say this in part, because my alternative story rests it's whole 'case' on the babies looking similar!
Okay, so this is it. I can't decide whether to do this as a script, a bullet-point list or a narrative so you may be in for an uncomfortable mix of the three. Just be relieved it's written at all-if I was saying it to you you'd have to bear with wild, unpredictable hand-gestures accompanying the story so you have something to be grateful for that I live too far away from most of you to put you through that as well.
Okay (again) so Kat and Ronnie have both got new babies. Cute little boys. Ahhh. Born on the same day at roughly the same time in the same places as the original storyline. So far so good. On the same day (1/2 days later) that the real Eastenders show the cot death, my alternative is one of happiness as both Mothers proudly go for a lunchtime drink and lunch (does the QV do lunch? In my one it does!) with their new babies and the head-wetting Dads. They both laugh when they see that (I don't know who?!) has been totally unimaginative in their gift to the babies, giving each identical sleepsuits from the market, which both babies are sporting on their first big day 'out'.
The matriachs that are Mo? (Kat's Nan) and Dot are sat together (I'm not sure if they get on but in that famous-since-Eastenders Eastend way, any differences are set aside for the welcoming of the Square's latest arrivals) and they are reminiscing together about new babies in their day ('All these new-fangled prams with thermometers and cup holders-you can't beat a good bouncy Silver Cross'/'proper knitted booties are the only way to keep a baby warm not these scrappy little leather things' etc) and the new Mums decide to hand the babies over to their respective 'Granny-figure' for 'photos' (but really to enable them to get a bite to eat!) The Vic is very busy and both Mums are chatting away to friends etc for some time. In the meantime the 'Grannies' continue their chatting and with the odd interruption of people wanting a quick cuddle with the babies, they are every bit as content as a Granny with a baby should be. What they haven't noticed is that on one occasion when they have released the babies from their vice-like grips for cuddles with a couple of the regulars, they baby they take back is the wrong one. No worries viewer, you know the Mothers will come over in a minute and spot the difference with that Mother's eagle-eye.
However, these Dads want to be good Dads. Especially in front of the assembled crowd, and so when said Dads are chatting together & notice the old dears may be on their third glass of Sherry they swoop in, rescue 'their' babies and suggest that they'll take their boys off home (or upstairs in Alfie's case) while the Mums enjoy a well-earned rest/social. By the time the babies wake up for a feed in their darkened rooms, the Mums are tired, go through the motions of feeding, changing and putting back to bed, and head for an early night. By the morning, slightly more alert and in good light both Mothers observe how their babies have 'lost some of that swollen look/filled out a bit (must be making good milk eh?!)', observations backed-up by the midwives who visit that morning and tell the ladies to prepare for the baby to change massively over the next couple of weeks and dangle that oh-so-longed-for carrot of the 'first smile' and so things go on...
This story could have been played out for months or even years with tantalising references to the fact that baby A looks more like Dad B 'Anything you care to confess?!!!' being bandied about in jest until one of the families has a distant relative with a genetic illness. Routine testing of the family could reveal the awful secret...and so could begin the 'Do they swap back?' storyline, the relevance of which has been highlighted by awful IVF mix-ups of recent years.
Okay, so it's convenient, unbelievable and ludicrous, but this is Eastenders, and it would be a rare Eastenders storyline that wouldn't feature a death...
With thousands of complaints ranging from 'She'd definitely know it wasn't her baby' to the more painful reminders which it has envoked in other people who have endured a similarly horrendous loss in their own lives, the storyline has been one of the most controversial and emotional ever shown on a primetime soap. Having not watched it I am unable to comment (you'll be relieved to hear) on the story's relevance, worth or execution but I have nonetheless given it some thought & have quite unintentionally came up with an alternative which would have had the same qualities of shock and human predicament but with a festive-friendly humourous edge, and more importantly a distinct reduction in the all-too-high Borough of Walford death rate...
One thing which I must say about the current storyline (I didn't PROMISE did I?!) though is that I believe it is plausable that some people might not recognise their own baby when it is less than a couple of days old. Babies can be quite swollen, jaundiced and unusually-coloured in the days immediately following their birth. Most have blue eyes and not-much-hair (although my own Son1 had as much hair at birth as I have now but he's another story) and are all pretty much the same size. Son2 looked really butch for the 1st few days-baldy & red-faced (a bit like Phil Mitchell actually) but seemed to turn into a really lollipop-headed soft-looking teddy bear overnight. I'm willing to bet that if anyone glances into their pram & sees a baby in there wearing the same clothes it was wearing when they put it in there they'll not question too deeply any changes that could be attributed simply to washing the crusty bits off in the baby's first bath or the venthouse-head-swell finally subsiding etc. I say this in part, because my alternative story rests it's whole 'case' on the babies looking similar!
Okay, so this is it. I can't decide whether to do this as a script, a bullet-point list or a narrative so you may be in for an uncomfortable mix of the three. Just be relieved it's written at all-if I was saying it to you you'd have to bear with wild, unpredictable hand-gestures accompanying the story so you have something to be grateful for that I live too far away from most of you to put you through that as well.
Okay (again) so Kat and Ronnie have both got new babies. Cute little boys. Ahhh. Born on the same day at roughly the same time in the same places as the original storyline. So far so good. On the same day (1/2 days later) that the real Eastenders show the cot death, my alternative is one of happiness as both Mothers proudly go for a lunchtime drink and lunch (does the QV do lunch? In my one it does!) with their new babies and the head-wetting Dads. They both laugh when they see that (I don't know who?!) has been totally unimaginative in their gift to the babies, giving each identical sleepsuits from the market, which both babies are sporting on their first big day 'out'.
The matriachs that are Mo? (Kat's Nan) and Dot are sat together (I'm not sure if they get on but in that famous-since-Eastenders Eastend way, any differences are set aside for the welcoming of the Square's latest arrivals) and they are reminiscing together about new babies in their day ('All these new-fangled prams with thermometers and cup holders-you can't beat a good bouncy Silver Cross'/'proper knitted booties are the only way to keep a baby warm not these scrappy little leather things' etc) and the new Mums decide to hand the babies over to their respective 'Granny-figure' for 'photos' (but really to enable them to get a bite to eat!) The Vic is very busy and both Mums are chatting away to friends etc for some time. In the meantime the 'Grannies' continue their chatting and with the odd interruption of people wanting a quick cuddle with the babies, they are every bit as content as a Granny with a baby should be. What they haven't noticed is that on one occasion when they have released the babies from their vice-like grips for cuddles with a couple of the regulars, they baby they take back is the wrong one. No worries viewer, you know the Mothers will come over in a minute and spot the difference with that Mother's eagle-eye.
However, these Dads want to be good Dads. Especially in front of the assembled crowd, and so when said Dads are chatting together & notice the old dears may be on their third glass of Sherry they swoop in, rescue 'their' babies and suggest that they'll take their boys off home (or upstairs in Alfie's case) while the Mums enjoy a well-earned rest/social. By the time the babies wake up for a feed in their darkened rooms, the Mums are tired, go through the motions of feeding, changing and putting back to bed, and head for an early night. By the morning, slightly more alert and in good light both Mothers observe how their babies have 'lost some of that swollen look/filled out a bit (must be making good milk eh?!)', observations backed-up by the midwives who visit that morning and tell the ladies to prepare for the baby to change massively over the next couple of weeks and dangle that oh-so-longed-for carrot of the 'first smile' and so things go on...
This story could have been played out for months or even years with tantalising references to the fact that baby A looks more like Dad B 'Anything you care to confess?!!!' being bandied about in jest until one of the families has a distant relative with a genetic illness. Routine testing of the family could reveal the awful secret...and so could begin the 'Do they swap back?' storyline, the relevance of which has been highlighted by awful IVF mix-ups of recent years.
Okay, so it's convenient, unbelievable and ludicrous, but this is Eastenders, and it would be a rare Eastenders storyline that wouldn't feature a death...
Saturday 25 September 2010
Waiting At the Window By A.A. Milne
Have returned to my Blog for the first time in ages! Have lots to tell to all 4 people who read this but must finish my OU first. However, I just wanted to throw this little poem in quickly to anybody confused enough to accidentally follow my link on Twitter who also, by complete chance enjoyed a summer of JJJ and Big Brother this year.....It's a long-shot but just in case such a person exists, here goes!
Waiting at the Window By A.A.Milne.
(A poem from the mind of a little boy watching 2 raindrops chasing down the windowpane.)
These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window pane
I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.
Both of them have different names.
One is John and one is James
All the best and all the worst
Comes from which of them is first
James has just begun to ooze
He's the one I want to lose
John is waiting to begin
He's the one I want to win
James is going slowly on.
Something sort of sticks to John.
John is moving off at last.
James is going pretty fast.
John is rushing down the pane.
James is going slow again
James has met a sort of smear.
John is getting very near.
Is he going fast enough?
(James has found a piece of fluff.)
John has hurried quickly by.
(James is talking to a fly.)
John is there, and John has won!
Look! I told you! Here's the sun!
Seems that even as early as 1927, the split personality that accompanies the name John James was being observed!
Thursday 8 April 2010
Bogged Down
Hello! Long time no speak! I have had no opportunity to do any leisurely passtimes on my PC since I began on my latest attempt to become a little more clever! My search for qualification heaven has taken over my life somewhat and I have become a whole different person since. You may be able to detect it if you compare this to my previous entries. But I am, sadly, no more intelligent. I feel a little bit of me is missing, a portion of my brain has been taken over. Strict word counts for my OU essays mean that I now pour over texts/emails/greetings cards for any words which can be removed without making any change to the overall message that I'm trying to get across. A birthday card that would once have read:
Dear (person)
I hope you have a lovely birthday today.
Hope you get all the presents you wished for (and maybe a little more)
Here's to many more birthdays.
We really ought to get together soon, it seems like ages since I saw you last
(goodness-it probably is!). I'll see if we can get over to you in the holidays.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx!
Now reads:
(Person)
Happy Birthday, speak soon. x
I now tweet and find I still have 50 characters remaining. My Twitter ID 'Talkloads' is in serious danger of a lawsuit and even my house has taken on an eerie silence as I precis sentences before I utter anything.
I miss my former self. I even look different. Within a week or so of my OU starting, I began getting headaches. It didn't register at first, I thought I had one of these non-descript viruses (doctor's diagnosis) that turn out to be brain tumors (only after it's too late to treat them). I would have eventually dragged myself to the doctor's but one morning, I went to my maths class (I am one of those duffers who at middle age is still trying to get my maths GCSE 'C' or above) feeling fine and happy. We were doing graphs and after two hours of trying to count pale green lines only fractions of a millimetre apart to put a fat 4-line obliterating splodge to represent the formula y=mx+c (or something) my head was killing me and my eyes were weeping independent of my emotions (although to be honest I feel like weeping after most maths lessons) and it ocurred to me that I may need to get my eyes tested.
A well-known money-spinning supermarket in my local town were able to arrange an appointment for me to see their optician the next day. So off I went. Late. After a very brief 'history' chat, I was sat in a chair in an unlit cupboard and a pair of remarkably unstable bulky goggles were placed on my face. With no word of warning, like a game of Connect 4 (or 4 in-a-row/ make 4 if you have the cheaper version) a black disc was slotted in the left eye and I was (I think) handed a mirror (or something-it was all a bit of a shock as I had expected bright airy rooms, white coats and a little board on the wall with letters that decreased in size, this felt more like I'd been abducted by aliens) but not asked to read off the letters reflected (I may be wrong) in front of me, but instead to confirm whether I could see the bottom row. I could have lied for all they knew. This was repeated with the other eye, then, as if the goggles I was wearing weren't precariously placed enough, something heavy was hung off them and I was given a heavy plate-sized tray-shaped gadget that closely resembled a baby toy without the bright colours.
I was asked to look at a portion of it that had a tiny circle with two lines, one above and one below, a bit like the sight on a gun. I was asked whether the lines were in line with one another or not. I didn't know. Sometimes they were, sometimes they weren't. I found myself apologising for being so indecisive but this lady was heartless, gave no reply and began slotting more discs into the goggles and repeating the question over and over again. I was feeling under immense pressure to say the lines were great as I felt she was getting increasingly irritated with my inability to say one answer and stick to it but as the lines were skewing in all directions I really didn't feel I could sound convincing. Finally, the correct combination of discs was found and the lines settled approximately together. The test was over. The lights were put on and we shuffled out of the cupboard, back in view of the queues of people waiting to pay for their groceries, plasma TVs and lawn seed. Humans doing human things-I was back on earth. The lady doing the test had transformed from the evil professor into a nice lady again and was telling me to go into the cupboard opposite for the next test....What?!! More tests? No!
In the next cupboard there were two huge machines, I was directed to one and told to sit on a stool with my chin resting on a....chin rest. A few twiddles of pulleys and knobs and these two 'things' were lined up with my eyes. The evil professor was talking but I couldn't hear her over the sound of my own beating heart. The next thing I remember was a cold blast of air puffing at high pressure into my eyes. Yikes! Three times it happened. I figured I was supposed to keep my eyes open for this but had no physical control over what my eyelids did. However, I apparently passed and was told that I was clear of glaucoma, not that I'd even expected I might have it in the first place? Finally I went to the other machine, complete with chin-rest, not, I suspect to keep one's head steady but to prevent one from collapsing into a heap on the floor through fear of what these aliens were doing. This test required me to look at pin-prick lights and click a button (similar to the one I had on my foetal monitor to track my contractions during labour) every time I saw the light go red-or something. I passed that anyway, and made to leave, thinking my work was done but the Jekyll/Hyde lady called me back. 'Excuse me-I need to write out your prescription' My what? I passed didn't I? Apparently not. It seems that I have a prism in my right eye (have or need one-I'm not sure) and it means that my eyes fail to work in conjunction with one another.
I needed to get glasses!!!
I was offered to look at the range displayed in front of all the tills, but was too traumatised by the whole debacle to be relied upon to safely choose a decent pair of glasses, so with prescription in hand, I scarpered home to lick my wounds and recover from my ordeal. Okay so it wasn't an ordeal but I certainly wasn't in the mood to buy a breadmaker. A few days later, The Grumpster and I visited a famous purveyor of fine spectacles. This was a whole other story but I'm aware I have a word limit so I'll give a brief synopsis.
Woman and man (35-40) enter spectacle store, look at glasses for 10 minutes, wonder why no-one is asking them if they need any help, chance upon a desk called 'Reception' where they ask if someone could assist, only to be told they needed to sign in. Sign in, mill about, see lots of old people wander in to be accosted at the door (despite having not attended the required sign-in point) by eager staff desperate to wear the 'I'm so good with the old folk' badge. At the point where this has happened at least 3 times, and knowing full well that these staff members know that they have been there for at least 20 minutes, the said couple make moves to leave to spec shop, aware that young children will be taken in by social services if they are not collected from school. Spec store staff practically barricade the door to prevent said couple from leaving and suggest it will only take 5 minutes to find a suitable style. Couple relent, find a style (not a good style, just the least worst) and then agree to go back to complete the transaction another day. The couple return the next day, with a three year-old child who systematically destroys the spectacle shop while the couple order the specs. Justice, they feel, has been done.
I now have my glasses. I'm getting to grips with the idea of wearing them and in all honesty, with my young daughter not sleeping well at present they feel as if they are the only thing that is stopping my eyes from falling out of my head right now. Many people look really good with glasses. I don't. I was wearing them in a maths lesson last week, waiting for the tutor to come and help me with a 'hard sum', and as he approached and I looked up at him to catch his attention, I felt a look upon my face that you only really see in comic book pictures or sitcoms. Some people look really hot in glasses, that iconic image of a woman removing her one hair clip allowing 10 heads-worth of glowing hair to tumble down their shoulders, then removing her glasses seductively, putting the end of the arm innocently into the corner of her mouth etc ( etc??? See how clumsily I ended that-seductive I am not!) doesn't come without precident. Other people look spectacularly intellectual. In most TV programmes, doctors, scientists, serious journalists etc will have glasses as their no. 1 prop in order to look the part. The seductive look is often combined with the intellectual look -intellectually hot? Incredibly popular on the TV as it allows the viewer to believe there is nothing but science and maths going on in a character's head until their night-time alter-ego appears...
The third look can be called simply gormless. Generally accompanied by a flycatcher mouth and a constant forefinger flick on the bridge of the nose to shove the glasses back into position, this look (which in films would feature bottle-bottom glasses) can combine with neither sexy or intellectual, no matter how hard the wearer tries. Of course, as I appealed for help from my maths tutor in that lesson, the latter was the look which fell upon my face like a favourite glove, and I realised in that instant that all the study in the world would never improve what was inside, the glasses confirmed what I have maybe always known. Inside of me is a gormless numpty who may forever chase the golden egg that is the maths GCSE! Watch this space come late August...
So my followers (if indeed anyone is truly reading this tripe) I leave you for the time being.
Happy days, Lucy!
Dear (person)
I hope you have a lovely birthday today.
Hope you get all the presents you wished for (and maybe a little more)
Here's to many more birthdays.
We really ought to get together soon, it seems like ages since I saw you last
(goodness-it probably is!). I'll see if we can get over to you in the holidays.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx!
Now reads:
(Person)
Happy Birthday, speak soon. x
I now tweet and find I still have 50 characters remaining. My Twitter ID 'Talkloads' is in serious danger of a lawsuit and even my house has taken on an eerie silence as I precis sentences before I utter anything.
I miss my former self. I even look different. Within a week or so of my OU starting, I began getting headaches. It didn't register at first, I thought I had one of these non-descript viruses (doctor's diagnosis) that turn out to be brain tumors (only after it's too late to treat them). I would have eventually dragged myself to the doctor's but one morning, I went to my maths class (I am one of those duffers who at middle age is still trying to get my maths GCSE 'C' or above) feeling fine and happy. We were doing graphs and after two hours of trying to count pale green lines only fractions of a millimetre apart to put a fat 4-line obliterating splodge to represent the formula y=mx+c (or something) my head was killing me and my eyes were weeping independent of my emotions (although to be honest I feel like weeping after most maths lessons) and it ocurred to me that I may need to get my eyes tested.
A well-known money-spinning supermarket in my local town were able to arrange an appointment for me to see their optician the next day. So off I went. Late. After a very brief 'history' chat, I was sat in a chair in an unlit cupboard and a pair of remarkably unstable bulky goggles were placed on my face. With no word of warning, like a game of Connect 4 (or 4 in-a-row/ make 4 if you have the cheaper version) a black disc was slotted in the left eye and I was (I think) handed a mirror (or something-it was all a bit of a shock as I had expected bright airy rooms, white coats and a little board on the wall with letters that decreased in size, this felt more like I'd been abducted by aliens) but not asked to read off the letters reflected (I may be wrong) in front of me, but instead to confirm whether I could see the bottom row. I could have lied for all they knew. This was repeated with the other eye, then, as if the goggles I was wearing weren't precariously placed enough, something heavy was hung off them and I was given a heavy plate-sized tray-shaped gadget that closely resembled a baby toy without the bright colours.
I was asked to look at a portion of it that had a tiny circle with two lines, one above and one below, a bit like the sight on a gun. I was asked whether the lines were in line with one another or not. I didn't know. Sometimes they were, sometimes they weren't. I found myself apologising for being so indecisive but this lady was heartless, gave no reply and began slotting more discs into the goggles and repeating the question over and over again. I was feeling under immense pressure to say the lines were great as I felt she was getting increasingly irritated with my inability to say one answer and stick to it but as the lines were skewing in all directions I really didn't feel I could sound convincing. Finally, the correct combination of discs was found and the lines settled approximately together. The test was over. The lights were put on and we shuffled out of the cupboard, back in view of the queues of people waiting to pay for their groceries, plasma TVs and lawn seed. Humans doing human things-I was back on earth. The lady doing the test had transformed from the evil professor into a nice lady again and was telling me to go into the cupboard opposite for the next test....What?!! More tests? No!
In the next cupboard there were two huge machines, I was directed to one and told to sit on a stool with my chin resting on a....chin rest. A few twiddles of pulleys and knobs and these two 'things' were lined up with my eyes. The evil professor was talking but I couldn't hear her over the sound of my own beating heart. The next thing I remember was a cold blast of air puffing at high pressure into my eyes. Yikes! Three times it happened. I figured I was supposed to keep my eyes open for this but had no physical control over what my eyelids did. However, I apparently passed and was told that I was clear of glaucoma, not that I'd even expected I might have it in the first place? Finally I went to the other machine, complete with chin-rest, not, I suspect to keep one's head steady but to prevent one from collapsing into a heap on the floor through fear of what these aliens were doing. This test required me to look at pin-prick lights and click a button (similar to the one I had on my foetal monitor to track my contractions during labour) every time I saw the light go red-or something. I passed that anyway, and made to leave, thinking my work was done but the Jekyll/Hyde lady called me back. 'Excuse me-I need to write out your prescription' My what? I passed didn't I? Apparently not. It seems that I have a prism in my right eye (have or need one-I'm not sure) and it means that my eyes fail to work in conjunction with one another.
I needed to get glasses!!!
I was offered to look at the range displayed in front of all the tills, but was too traumatised by the whole debacle to be relied upon to safely choose a decent pair of glasses, so with prescription in hand, I scarpered home to lick my wounds and recover from my ordeal. Okay so it wasn't an ordeal but I certainly wasn't in the mood to buy a breadmaker. A few days later, The Grumpster and I visited a famous purveyor of fine spectacles. This was a whole other story but I'm aware I have a word limit so I'll give a brief synopsis.
Woman and man (35-40) enter spectacle store, look at glasses for 10 minutes, wonder why no-one is asking them if they need any help, chance upon a desk called 'Reception' where they ask if someone could assist, only to be told they needed to sign in. Sign in, mill about, see lots of old people wander in to be accosted at the door (despite having not attended the required sign-in point) by eager staff desperate to wear the 'I'm so good with the old folk' badge. At the point where this has happened at least 3 times, and knowing full well that these staff members know that they have been there for at least 20 minutes, the said couple make moves to leave to spec shop, aware that young children will be taken in by social services if they are not collected from school. Spec store staff practically barricade the door to prevent said couple from leaving and suggest it will only take 5 minutes to find a suitable style. Couple relent, find a style (not a good style, just the least worst) and then agree to go back to complete the transaction another day. The couple return the next day, with a three year-old child who systematically destroys the spectacle shop while the couple order the specs. Justice, they feel, has been done.
I now have my glasses. I'm getting to grips with the idea of wearing them and in all honesty, with my young daughter not sleeping well at present they feel as if they are the only thing that is stopping my eyes from falling out of my head right now. Many people look really good with glasses. I don't. I was wearing them in a maths lesson last week, waiting for the tutor to come and help me with a 'hard sum', and as he approached and I looked up at him to catch his attention, I felt a look upon my face that you only really see in comic book pictures or sitcoms. Some people look really hot in glasses, that iconic image of a woman removing her one hair clip allowing 10 heads-worth of glowing hair to tumble down their shoulders, then removing her glasses seductively, putting the end of the arm innocently into the corner of her mouth etc ( etc??? See how clumsily I ended that-seductive I am not!) doesn't come without precident. Other people look spectacularly intellectual. In most TV programmes, doctors, scientists, serious journalists etc will have glasses as their no. 1 prop in order to look the part. The seductive look is often combined with the intellectual look -intellectually hot? Incredibly popular on the TV as it allows the viewer to believe there is nothing but science and maths going on in a character's head until their night-time alter-ego appears...
The third look can be called simply gormless. Generally accompanied by a flycatcher mouth and a constant forefinger flick on the bridge of the nose to shove the glasses back into position, this look (which in films would feature bottle-bottom glasses) can combine with neither sexy or intellectual, no matter how hard the wearer tries. Of course, as I appealed for help from my maths tutor in that lesson, the latter was the look which fell upon my face like a favourite glove, and I realised in that instant that all the study in the world would never improve what was inside, the glasses confirmed what I have maybe always known. Inside of me is a gormless numpty who may forever chase the golden egg that is the maths GCSE! Watch this space come late August...
So my followers (if indeed anyone is truly reading this tripe) I leave you for the time being.
Happy days, Lucy!
Wednesday 17 February 2010
The Lottery
My current kitchen.
Note the lack of space for simultaneous prep of healthy suppers and baking.
I'm listening to the radio at the moment. There is a phone-in on at the moment about whether money makes you happy. I cannot believe how many people are ringing in to say they would not want to win the lottery!
We don't really play the lottery. The Grumpster and I chose a set of numbers each when the Lottery started in 1994, based on things like the phone number, door number, birthdays, lucky numbers and the odd dream-like vision. Not understanding the lottery fully at the time, we felt obliged to buy our two tickets every Saturday, because obviously the week we didn't put the numbers in would certainly be the week our numbers would come up. We became slaves to it.
The Grumpster would attack me as I walked through the door, hands full of shopping bags with an urgent 'Have you bought the lottery tickets?' Inevitably I would feel my heart drop into my stomach, I would struggle to gasp in oxygen, I would feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I would barely manage to whisper 'No' in reply before he was grabbing his coat and car keys and running for his life into the darkness (or gorgeous sunshine for May/June/July-we had hot summers back then).
We kept this going for quite some time. If we knew we were going to be busy on the Saturday, we'd plan ahead and buy our tickets on the Friday. We couldn't afford to buy a number of weeks ahead (we had a 30K mortgage to pay-we were positively poor!) and for some unfathomable reason we felt we felt it was perhaps frivolous-or maybe too addictive to buy more than one day ahead, so there were occasional slip-ups. A mistaken Saturday evening would go as follows:-
Grumpster (mixing concrete to scree the floor/slapping paint on a badly-plastered wall) : 'What time does the Lottery close tonight?'
Me (Heating up microwave food on the skanky kitchen floor as the worktops were out for about 8 months) : 'Oh my Goodness!-I'll run up to the Spar and see if we aren't too late.'
Grumpster (grumpily) : 'Well that will be our numbers coming out of the machine tonight then'
(I must note that I'm pretty sure the lottery was played at random times depending on the TV schedule, we can't have been that crap at remembering a fixed time for 'last orders')
Shortly after my empty-handed return, we would sit, scooping our curries out of the black plastic trays that they were heated up in, eyes fixed on the screen with the multi-coloured balls rolling mesmerically before our eyes. Under my breath I'd be muttering 'not my numbers' over and over again like a woman posessed, The Grumpster to my side, his steely-face willing our numbers to stay in the huge bowl. As the first number was drawn up the tube, our nerves would reach the sort of height normally experienced in the face of abject danger. My eyes would be dancing like bees around a daisy as I tried to read the number on the side as it rolled down the little slope. A small bounce at the end of the run, and I could again breathe. Not my number. No missed millions this week. By the time I'd tuned my brain back into the TV I'd be relieved to see four balls sitting at the bottom of the screen, none with our numbers, not even a tennner missed, and a pound richer. The Grumpster, true to form however, would still be bemoaning his luck 'Our bloody numbers never come up'! Oh, how half empty his glass is!
At some stage, possibly a year into the lottery, someone (I suspect Mother-of-The Grumpster) gave us a small gift. It was intended to be useful to us, but proved to be more ruinous to our Lottery journey than anything. It was a pen. Cheap, not very tactile and too clumsy to use, but there was more to it than the pen 'feature'. The pen was the standard length of a biro, maybe a little skinnier which contributed to it's unusability as a pen, which was then compounded by the main feature- a large, globe-like sphere which rattled it's cargo of mini balls around with every movement. Yes, you got it, it was a Lottery-number-selector-pen! The idea was, you held it with the globe-end pointing down, shook the balls to ensure random-ness, and then flipped it over, pen-end down, and there, in the shaft, would be six balls, randomly chosen from the 49 available, for us to copy onto a lottery-form and morph into a winning ticket!
So exciting. But we already had our numbers, and as I have previously explained, burdened by an enormous 30K mortgage, we could never have afforded to buy three tickets each week, but we had the pen (of fortune?) and we couldn't discount the possibility that this pen would make us winners! We could afford to pay someone else to scree our floor and paint our walls, and maybe pay off the gigantic mortgage under which we were forever shadowed! But neither of us wanted to give up our own numbers, because of course, they would then be guaranteed to come up. Until a solution to the affordability of three tickets-a-week issue was found (lottery win?) the pen was abandoned.
Given to aimless tom-foolery as we all are in the you-don't-know-how-lucky-you-are days of no children, one evening, the pen surfaced, and made it's way into our bored hands. We decided to see how many times we would have to go through the shake/tip sequence until one of our sets of numbers came up. I don't recall at which point we gave up, but suffice to say we never got our numbers. In fact, not even three of our numbers in any one attempt. For me, this became the point where I decided not to ever panic over losing something I didn't have in the first place. The Grumpster, for all his pessimism continued to ensure the tickets were regularly bought for quite some time after this. I think it all fizzled away once the Wednesday draw was started. £4 per week was too much, even for him.
One day, a couple of years after we gave up on the lottery, we bumped into a friend who was going to the local shop. He was off to collect some lottery winnings. 'Six numbers' he told us! Why was he going to the local newsagent to collect the wonga? Because he had two lines of numbers that he always used, and each had come up trumps for a tenner. His numbers had been chosen as randomly as ours, and I was left feeling that he was one of the unluckiest people I knew, how easily he could have put those six numbers on the same line, but I have a feeling if he had......
Anyway, the original premise for this Blog was that on the phone-in, quite a few people said they would hate to have the amounts of money generated by a lottery win! Are they mad? I would love to have a load of money. All I actually want is a house here in my current location, with enough bedrooms for the boys to have one room each and my daughter to have one with a bit more space, a bedroom for guests, a kitchen big enough for me to put aside my baking while I prepare a healthy lunch (yeah right-but if I had that kitchen I would cook properly!), a room entirely devoted to washing and ironing with a sub-room off that, never to be seen by visitors, where the boys' football boots, enormous school-bags, plethera of coats for various weather-conditions and perhaps a little dog could live....
Yes, I really would be very happy to win the lottery, if only we could get into the habit of buying a ticket!
For now, not in any state of riches, take care. Lucy.
Mr Wenger, you may thank me at your leisure!
Just a quickie. The Grumpster is watching the Arsenal v Porto Champions League game. I am listening in the small, healthy-food/baking-prohibitive kitchen. On my DAB radio. Anyone who is interested in sport and has left 5 Live on whilst watching a match on Terrestrial TV will have noticed that the streaming on a DAB radio is about 2 seconds (maybe more) ahead of that on the TV. I use this fact to help in crucial World Cup games etc by leaving the radio on loud whilst watching to enhance my enjoyment of the sporting experience. When something exciting/terrifying is happening, I drown out the TV commentary and focus on what is happening on the radio ahead of what I can see, thus preventing me from getting too excited by something which may ultimately let me down. In a nutshell, it somehow lessens the disappointment (which comes a lot with the teams I support- Arsenal/Portsmouth/England).
The Grumpster (like most) finds the same thing immensely annoying. He likes to let hope dwell in his heart. I think it feeds his Grumpy side as he can really moan when it goes belly-up. To avoid irritation tonight, the lounge door has been firmly shut to prevent any spoilers, but our daughter keeps going to see him and leaving the door open. I have therefore, out of the kindness of my heart, kept the radio on a low volume to ensure he enjoys the game 'to the Max'.
However, I had been busy (doing nothing) and wasn't listening to the commentary for a few minutes when the lounge door opened and I could hear The Grumpster pleading with aforementioned youngster to shut the door. I couldn't resist yelling 'Yeah-Go Arsenal!' at the top of my voice to annoy him, and not a word of a lie, When I stopped, the commentator could be heard yelling 'And Arsenal have an equaliser...' My plan had backfired in a weird sort of favourable way! The joke hadn't worked at all, but I took solace in my psychic affect on the Gunners.
So Mr Wenger, read my previous post re: money, and make the cheque payable to........
Lucy
ps-anyone who reads this may be starting to understand why The Grumpster is so grumpy...He's grumpy now as while I have been doing this, the children have left a trail of destruction throughout the house. Time I got going!
The Grumpster (like most) finds the same thing immensely annoying. He likes to let hope dwell in his heart. I think it feeds his Grumpy side as he can really moan when it goes belly-up. To avoid irritation tonight, the lounge door has been firmly shut to prevent any spoilers, but our daughter keeps going to see him and leaving the door open. I have therefore, out of the kindness of my heart, kept the radio on a low volume to ensure he enjoys the game 'to the Max'.
However, I had been busy (doing nothing) and wasn't listening to the commentary for a few minutes when the lounge door opened and I could hear The Grumpster pleading with aforementioned youngster to shut the door. I couldn't resist yelling 'Yeah-Go Arsenal!' at the top of my voice to annoy him, and not a word of a lie, When I stopped, the commentator could be heard yelling 'And Arsenal have an equaliser...' My plan had backfired in a weird sort of favourable way! The joke hadn't worked at all, but I took solace in my psychic affect on the Gunners.
So Mr Wenger, read my previous post re: money, and make the cheque payable to........
Lucy
ps-anyone who reads this may be starting to understand why The Grumpster is so grumpy...He's grumpy now as while I have been doing this, the children have left a trail of destruction throughout the house. Time I got going!
Monday 8 February 2010
Web-love
Why oh why did I think it would be a good idea to sign up for an OU course that involved spreadsheets and creating my own Website??? I have made no secret of the fact that I am not to be combined with most post-war technology yet I persist. I believe my new moblie phone may be to blame. To refresh, I bought a phone called an HTC HD2 which was recommended to me by a friend's husband. He then sold his a week after I bought it, citing the complexity of the phone and the many functions which he would never use as reasons for flogging it on (thus using the remaining 18 months of his contract on the old phone he had been so desperate to replace in the first place). I on the other hand, was able to use the phone most successfully for many of it's recommended uses, and even The Grumpster was calling me names like 'nerdy geek-face'. I think a false sense of communication confidence had overtaken me.
So I needed another 60 points to complete my degree, and signed up for a course called The Environmental Web'. The 'web' part is nothing to do with spiders, more to be associated with the world-wide variety, but Hey! No problem for moi-I own an HTC HD2 and I can take photos on it and upload them to my Facebook page almost instantly. Modern technology has caught up with me, I have joined the communication generation. Computers-schmuters, IT will no longer stand in my way, I can now do anything.
Except anything required of me on my course.
In just under two months, I need to send via the computer (rather than post or even hand delivery at midnight as in the former years of my degree) typed answers to questions on a word document, a spreadsheet of something, and 6 graphs done on spreadsheets. Yes 6! Zipped? How on earth am I going to manage that??? Before that, I need to participate in an online Tutor-group forum and I tried my bloody hardest and I could NOT log in to the said forum so my contribution is going to be pretty poor. I tried to join all the clever people who had gone in on the course forum to say a little bit about themselves and ended up putting my two-penneth in the middle of someone called Lisa's offering. I can only hope to do something similarly stupid on the tutor-monitored, mark-grabbing forum, just as someone's adding something really profound and claim it as my own. But only if I can work out how to log in.
The course website is something to be feared. In the centre, highlighted in blue, dominating the page is a section which I am going to refer to as my Mother. The course planner. Every chapter, paragraph and activity is listed, week-by-week with a little check box next to each to show your progress. Or not. And because I am such an old lady I don't know whether it is something my Tutor can access to see if I am working hard. I can hardly tell him 'Well I am working so bloody hard at the computer stuff I haven't read the environment bits' Instead I am going to check them off, convincingly, bit-by-bit to look genuine, and then nod knowingly at the day school in March as all the brainboxes and whizzkids discuss the issues associated with the course.
I am also doing my Maths GCSE. We use paper for that. The tutor uses an interactive whiteboard to show us how to do hard sums and we copy the method onto paper. Maths used to be my nemesis, it is fast becoming my friend. I should soon be able to calculate what percentage of my OU course I have been unable to do and express it as a fraction or a decimal. But I won't be able to put it on my course forum....
I must go now as The Grumpster and I are going to watch TV. I will leave him in charge of the remote control.
Lucy.
So I needed another 60 points to complete my degree, and signed up for a course called The Environmental Web'. The 'web' part is nothing to do with spiders, more to be associated with the world-wide variety, but Hey! No problem for moi-I own an HTC HD2 and I can take photos on it and upload them to my Facebook page almost instantly. Modern technology has caught up with me, I have joined the communication generation. Computers-schmuters, IT will no longer stand in my way, I can now do anything.
Except anything required of me on my course.
In just under two months, I need to send via the computer (rather than post or even hand delivery at midnight as in the former years of my degree) typed answers to questions on a word document, a spreadsheet of something, and 6 graphs done on spreadsheets. Yes 6! Zipped? How on earth am I going to manage that??? Before that, I need to participate in an online Tutor-group forum and I tried my bloody hardest and I could NOT log in to the said forum so my contribution is going to be pretty poor. I tried to join all the clever people who had gone in on the course forum to say a little bit about themselves and ended up putting my two-penneth in the middle of someone called Lisa's offering. I can only hope to do something similarly stupid on the tutor-monitored, mark-grabbing forum, just as someone's adding something really profound and claim it as my own. But only if I can work out how to log in.
The course website is something to be feared. In the centre, highlighted in blue, dominating the page is a section which I am going to refer to as my Mother. The course planner. Every chapter, paragraph and activity is listed, week-by-week with a little check box next to each to show your progress. Or not. And because I am such an old lady I don't know whether it is something my Tutor can access to see if I am working hard. I can hardly tell him 'Well I am working so bloody hard at the computer stuff I haven't read the environment bits' Instead I am going to check them off, convincingly, bit-by-bit to look genuine, and then nod knowingly at the day school in March as all the brainboxes and whizzkids discuss the issues associated with the course.
I am also doing my Maths GCSE. We use paper for that. The tutor uses an interactive whiteboard to show us how to do hard sums and we copy the method onto paper. Maths used to be my nemesis, it is fast becoming my friend. I should soon be able to calculate what percentage of my OU course I have been unable to do and express it as a fraction or a decimal. But I won't be able to put it on my course forum....
I must go now as The Grumpster and I are going to watch TV. I will leave him in charge of the remote control.
Lucy.
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