JULY

Saturday 1

It's coming, it's coming!  Bear with me while I gather myself together ....

In the meantime, a regular visitor to Brummie Blogs read about the problems I've had at work (soon to be disclosed) and emailed me to say she had suffered a similar experience in her office.  She's done a website about it, which makes very interesting reading and certainly highlights the devastation cause by bullying in the workplace.  Have a look at her website, Bullied at Work.

Sunday 2

Ironing.  Oh no.  It's that time already.  Getting ready to Go Back to Work.  I have to leave my garden and my pile of books behind and Go Out There and Earn a Living.

Pooh!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Monday 3

Aaaaaaaand the hamster wheel grinds up again.

A whole month off work and now, suddenly, it’s back to the corporate world of commuting and rushing and chronic time deprivation again.   Oh woe.  Oh no.  Oh bugger.

Brushed the cobwebs off my furry pinstripe (yes, I still haven’t got a new one) and orf we jolly well go. 

Temping.  No proper job to go to any more.  A new place to work.  Nervous?  Oh yeah.  Took two Kalms tablets when I got up, then took another two before I left the house.  On the bus had to stop myself wrapping my belt around my head and saying “Peace, man” to all the passengers.

Nervous.  Hey, life is an adventure, dude.

I told my agency I liked large, open plan offices.  My first assignment was at an office slightly larger than my living room.  When I walked through the door I thought, “Oh, is that the back wall already?”  I also thought, because the whole of the city centre was melting in the heat, “Air conditioning, thank God!”

It was just me and a boss-type.  Two of us.  Alone.  In this tiny office.  Cosy.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, all enthusiastic like.  “Erm,” the boss-type said, “I’m not really sure.” 

I played with the computer, familiarising myself with their filing system.  No internet!!!!  I made tea.  I typed up a dictation.  Made more tea.  Helped assemble seven new chairs (wondering if I should charge extra for manual labour) and … made more tea.

The ‘proper’ secretary had left me a note saying they didn’t mind if I played games on the computer, read a book or magazine, or listened to the radio if I got bored!  How amazing.  I took advantage of the ‘quiet period’ (which lasted all day) to play Freecell.

Do not, ever, play Freecell.  It is massively addictive.  And I discovered you can only play it for a certain amount of time before the brain turns into blancmange and dribbles out your ears.  However, strangely, there are no side-effects to playing Solitaire for hours on end.

The office was on the ground floor looking out onto a busy street.  The windows were one way – we could see out, but from the other side the windows looked like mirrors.  It was funny to watch people walk passed, almost every single person adjusted their hair or their clothing as they went by, some even paused to check their posterior!  Apparently people often stood there brushing their hair or squeezing spots!  Very entertaining.

Had lunch with a friend who’s completely bonkers, which cheered me no end. 

Working hours: 9am until 5.30pm.  When you’ve spent a whole month sitting in the garden reading books and watching the plants grow, this is an extremely long day.  By the time I got home it was 6.30 and I was beyond exhausted.

Bed by 9.

Tuesday 4

Again?  Sigh.

When I got to the office, there was no-one there.  Luckily I had door keys … which didn’t seem to work.  I stood there for ages trying to get the door open.  A bit of a jiggle, a bit of a kick, more jiggling, more kicking, and I finally I burst through.  Turned on lights, turned on computer, played Solitaire while I waited for someone to turn up, then made tea.

Cushy job, but I was so bored I could have chewed my leg off.  I shredded some papers.  Made more tea.  Played more Solitaire.  Read a magazine I found lying around.  Did two crosswords.  Read every single word (including adverts) of a newspaper.  Clock watched, working out how much I’d earned so far (it passed the time).

Lunch with another friend, sitting on the steps outside the library in the glorious sunshine, people-watching and catching up.  Felt just like old times.

More Solitaire in the afternoon, along with more tea.  It’s incredible how slowly time passes when you have Absolutely Nothing To Do.  But it was pleasant enough.  The boss-type went out at 2.30 and didn’t come back, so I locked up when I left.

Managed to stay awake until 9.30, so obviously adapting to working life again.

Wednesday 5

On the bus this morning, going passed a school, the driver started honking his horn and shouting “Oi!” at a group of uniformed boys.  Eventually he yelled, “Hey! Tom!” and a red-faced 12 year old slowly turned his head and limply raised his hand at what must have been his dad, the bus driver.  His body language clearly indicated he wanted the ground to open up beneath his feet.  Tsk, kids.

Still nothing to do at work except a bit of dictation.  The two boss-types are in and out a lot, so I’m in the office alone for some of the time, which I don’t mind at all. 

I am now a grand master expert at Solitaire, and have perfected the art of sighing in a Really Interesting Way.  Stood at the one way window and pulled faces at people who couldn’t see me (yep, I was that bored).  Answered the phone and uttered the words, “Sorry, I’m just the temp,” several times (absolving myself of all responsibility).

Locked up again before going home.

Felt capable (ie could stay awake long enough) to go to pub to meet Partner after work.  The Swan in Harborne is open again!  Went to ‘check it out’.  Very nice.  Very minimalist and smart looking.  BUT … no ashtrays anywhere.  Horror of horrors, a no-smoking zone!  We sat outside and considered the 30p increase in a pint of Stella.

A nice end to the day. 

Thursday 6

Excitement!  A visitor at work.  “Could you bring some water into the [miniscule] meeting room?” the boss-type asked me.

I was thrilled to be doing something and searched the stamp-sized kitchen for a water jug.  There wasn’t one, just some awful plastic blue thing that looked like a cereal box with a handle.  Used that.  Couldn’t get the ‘cold’ tap to work on the water cooler, so used ‘room temperature’ aka ‘tepid’.  Walked into miniscule meeting room like a true professional, politely said hello to the visitor, put the water jug and glasses down on the table.  They both stared at the horrible plastic jug with ‘what the hell is that?’ expressions as I sloped back out again.  Good to make an impression.

Afterwards, the two boss-types left and I played Spider Solitaire whilst listening to the radio.  Had lunch with yet another friend and succumbed to a MacDonalds (because sometimes you just have to Do It).  More Solitaire in the afternoon, lots more sighing, locked up when I left.

Got to bus stop.  Sodding crappy bus went straight passed, despite me standing there holding out my arm like a bloody great teapot.  Cursed the driver to hell and back.  Waited 20 minutes for the next one and, of course, it started raining.  Crawled up Broad Street watching pedestrians racing passed us and then, just as we got across Five Ways island, the bus stopped and the driver told us all to get off.

What?

Apparently the driver had spent two hours in a gridlock in Harborne.  It was now 6 o’clock and his shift was over, he was going back to the depot, never mind us poor knackered passengers who just wanted to get home.  Driver pulled away from the crowd jostling at the kerbside shouting that the next bus was 2 minutes behind us.  Liar!  Another 20 minutes.  In the rain.  Listening to some mad pensioner complaining on his phone to West Midlands Travel that he was ‘going to have serious words with Mr Blair about this’.

Got home at 7pm to discover half my garden decimated by the rainstorm.

Swallowed a couple of Kalms tablets with the aid of a very stiff whisky.

Friday 7

Friday! Friday! Friday!  Haven’t had the Friday Feeling for a month.  If I had the choice, I’d rather not have the Friday Feeling at all, I’d much prefer to stay home, but you can’t have everything.

Only one boss-type in the office when I got there, and he was leaving for the day at 11.  “What about the office keys?” I asked him, “Who shall I give them to when I leave?”

“Oh,” he said, “You’ll probably have to leave with me.”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

No.  He changed his mind, told me to drop the keys off on Monday on the way to my next temping assignment.  Damn!  He signed my time-sheet before he left and I tried to fax it, but it didn’t seem to go through.  I tried five times, so my agency probably have five copies of it, but just to make certain I scanned and emailed it to them too.  Imagined the agency screaming, “For God’s sake, how many times is she going to send this bloody sheet?” as it peeled endlessly off their machine.

Solitaire.  Bit of Spider Solitaire for variety.  A mindless marathon of Freecell.  Lunch finally crawled up like a sloth on tranquilisers and I decided to treat myself to some Philpotts thoup (to celebrate the end of the week – you have to go mad sometimes).  Couldn’t actually see the thoup in Philpotts, but spotted some hot roast on buns and couldn’t resist.  £3.50!!!  You can buy a whole roast for that!  Tsk.

Was just pondering about sloping off early (maybe 5 o’clock) as I unlocked the office for the afternoon, when discovered one of the boss-types had returned.  He sat in his miniscule office all afternoon (but a nice enough bloke) while I wondered if there was a world record for time spent playing computer card games. 

Went out for cigarette to break up the interminable hours.  Lighter didn’t work.  Stood there trying to get it to spark (and muttering a few mild obscenities) when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bloke in overalls lean out of a van window.  “Here, love,” he yelled, “I’ve got a light.”  Secretary snatched in City Centre flashed into my head, and I slithered back into the building.

Clock watched, which is absolutely guaranteed to make time stand still.  Did nothing.  Tick … tick … tick.  Sigh.  Eventually the boss-type came out of his office and said, all excited, “Well, I think you can go now.”  It was 5.15.  I’d have been more thrilled if he’d said this at, say, 4 o’clock, but hey ho.

Survived the first week of temping.  Yay!  It was a doddle, and the people were nice (a breath of fresh air after my last place).  The hardest thing I had to do all week was decide which radio station to listen to.  I quite enjoyed it.

Hope the next job is as good.  I’ll be working with lawyers again!  Argh!

Saturday 8

Did four lines on the National Lottery today.  I know I have more chance of being abducted by aliens wearing ballroom dresses and carrying electric sheep, but I live in hope.

Sunday 9

All hope dashed.

Damn!

Monday 10

Another day, another dollar.

It occurred to me on the bus this morning, on my way to a new temping assignment, that I hadn’t actually looked up where I’d be working that day in an A-Z or multimap.  I simply had an address and a vague idea of where it was.  I had a brief moment of wondering if I should worry about this or not, then decided against it, it was way too early to bother the comatosed brain with stuff like that.  It was in the city centre somewhere, I’d find it eventually (though not sure how my new employees would feel about me turning up at midday screaming, ‘Oh there you are!’).

I’d told my employment agency, “I like large, open-plan offices occupied by building surveyors, not lawyers.”  Emphasis on the ‘not lawyers’ bit.  Last week I worked for surveyors (yay) in a tiny office.  This week … large, open-plan office (yay) in a legal property department, not a surveyor in site [sic], just lawyers (sigh).

Ah well, need the dosh (poverty snapping at my heels like a rabid terrier), can’t afford to turn work down.

I arrived in reception and waited for someone to collect me.  The ‘someone’ came and spoke to the receptionists about the temp they’d had last week, who was ‘useless’ and had so much time off sick they’d had to sack her.  Hmmm, good start.  Worried?  Nah, s’just a job, and besides I’ve used up my lifetime quota of worry and stress at my last company.

Offices were splendid, all glass and chrome (newly furbished).  Impressed.  Walked into area where I’d be working and smiled at people like an insane Cheshire cat.  Only one response, not so impressive.  Said hello to my distant desk buddies and one responded, the other looked at me like I was an alien from another planet (thought they were fellow secretaries, but they were in fact lawyers, and there was little ol’ me being casual with them tsk).

I was shown to my desk (no phone, fantastic), told how to log onto the computer (brtemp is so anonymous) and left to get on with it.  Found the digital dictation system purely by chance and noted the 100 or so dictations listed, most of them red and urgent - at least I wasn’t going to be bored (there’s nothing worse than sitting at a strange desk in an unfamiliar office with Absolutely Nothing To Do).

Within an hour of arriving, I had a new smoking buddy who gave me her entire life story over three fag sessions (quite interesting actually).  Noticed with some amusement that nobody is allowed to smoke outside their own office building (doesn’t look good), so everyone smokes outside everyone else’s building – you can meet quite a few new people this way (smoking, the new social event). 

More letters.  And more letters.  And walking round the office asking if anyone needs a hand (and everyone saying, ‘Oh god yes!’).  More letters.  Pretty much the same ones.  Realised quite quickly that there are only five or six standard letters, typed up over and over again (unless you ‘save as’, giving you time to inspect your nails as you listen to what’s already typed up on the screen).  Not difficult, just dull. 

People warmed to me after a bit because I’m at the Don’t Give A ShDamn stage of my life, which is hugely liberating.  I surprised myself actually.  I’d forgotten how confident I can be, I wasn’t the least bit nervous.  Went up to lawyers with letters and grinned, “Need your autograph, mate.”  I am, after all, 'just the temp', I don't care.  They seemed a bit stunned by my blasé attitude, but it helped pass the time. 

Time!  Jeez, doesn’t it go slow at work!  Kept looking at my watch thinking the battery had gone flat.  After what seems like three and a half years had passed, lunchtime arrived.  I had no plans so just thought I’d wander around in the glorious sunshine, but outside my office building I bumped into a mate (now also a fellow temp) and we wandered round together, which was nice.  Then back to the letter factory.

Not a bad day, really.  I survived, which is good.

But I think parts of my brain have died off, hopefully not permanently.

Tuesday 11

Meeting today with my old company to ‘have a bit of a whinge’ about ‘what went on’.  I was as nervous as hell, my legs literally like jelly. 

Felt strange walking back into the building that had caused me so much angst for so many months, but there, standing in reception, were some mates.  They’d sneaked away from their desks especially to come down to offer their support and wish me luck.  I have some pretty good mates.

I expected to be slaughtered at the meeting for daring to bring a complaint at all, but (finally) they seem to be taking it seriously.  The mate I took in with me was beyond brilliant, she was on the ball, outspoken and made some extremely valid points.  I was pretty good myself, no stone was left unturned in the quest for justice.  Basically, we slaughtered them.  We were marvellous.

Afterwards, I felt inordinately relieved.  I’d done my bit (because it had to be done), it’s time to move on now, to leave all the stress behind and carry on with life. 

I like my life.

Time to enjoy it again.

Wednesday 12

Well, enjoy it as much as possible when you’re typing the same letters over and over again.  It’s like Groundhog Day!

Took some amended letters to the boss I’m working for, and he said, “Have you made the changes I asked you to do?”  My brain snapped, ‘Nah, I couldn’t be bothered, I was busy filing my nails’.  Instead (magnificent restraint here) I simply raised an eyebrow and said, “Yes, of course.”

Later, he came over and told me to send a letter by DX.  “Do you know what DX is?” he asked.  I looked up at him, smiled sweetly, and said, “Yes.”  He then spent a whole five minutes standing at my desk explaining how DX post works in excruciating detail, while I nodded and kept a frozen smile on my face and thought, Honestly, this is just so interesting, no, really, absolutely riveting stuff, marginally more enthralling than, say, sticking paperclips in my eyes or hole punching my earlobes.  At the end he said with a flourish, “And that’s how DX works.”  “Yes,” I said, “I know.”  So, five minutes of our lives completely wasted.  Still, breaks the monotony of clicking ‘save as’ over and over again.

Joined a new employment agency at lunchtime (hoping they might know what ‘no lawyers’ and ‘large office’ means).  A young thang took me into the testing room, aka a cupboard with a computer.  “Do this audio test, this copy typing test, this Word skills test and this Excel test,” she said.  “Would you like me to whip up a soufflé and solve the mystery of the universe while I’m at it?” I joked, but the woman looked blank.  Sometimes people just don’t get me.

I’d left my reading glasses in the office (wouldn’t ya know!) so the screen was a blur – if I leaned right back in my chair and looked at it sideways I could just make out words.  So that’s how I did my tests, leaning back, slightly askew, eyeballs straining from the closeness of it all.

I was on my lunchbreak.  I had one hour to complete the myriad of tests.  Let’s get this over with as fast as possible.

Audio test: swear to god the narrator couldn’t have spoken slower if he’d tried.  Speeded the tape up but it still came out as “and … we … are … pleased … to … inform … you.”  Get on with it, I can feel my life force ebbing away.  No need to pause or backspace, finished the dictation before the time allocated, so sat there watching the seconds ticking passed before the test came to an end.  85 words per minute.

Did the Word skills test next, just for variety.  40 bloody questions!  “Format the highlighted paragraph in bold”.  Yeah, done, tick tick tick, Next Question, pause, argh, Question 2.  I was slumped in my chair by the end, having almost lost the will to live.

Copy typing test.  Starting to feel claustrophobic in the cupboard, need to escape pretty soon before the air supply ran out.  My desperate fingers were a blur on the keyboard.  91 words per minute!

And finally, the Excel test.  40 questions.  The testing programme inordinately slow.  The will to live vanished entirely.

40 minutes later I burst out of the cupboard gasping for air.  “Have you finished already?” the young thang asked me.  “No, I just needed to see daylight.”  Again, she didn’t get me – young people aren’t equipped with a sense of humour these days, or maybe it’s me.

Walked back to the office feeling quite pleased with myself.  91 words per minute and an ‘expert’ rating on Word and Excel.

I know my stuff.

Clicked ‘save as’ all afternoon.

Thursday 13

You know how sometimes something just tickles you and you lose all control.  Today I heard one of the secretaries say into the phone, “He’s not at his desk at the moment, but it looks like he might be coming back soon.” 

My brain (because it works of its own accord most of the time with hardly any interaction from me) thought, How does she know he’s coming back?  Is there a smoking cigarette in an ashtray on his desk?  A half eaten sandwich?  A note on his computer screen saying ‘I’m coming back soon’.

As it’s a quiet office (think morgue), I couldn’t laugh out loud, so I tried to suppress it, which made it worse.  There were some mild snorting noises, a bit of mouth covering, some eye watering, then I finally had to admit defeat and scuttled off to the toilet for a bit of an hysterical moment (which hopefully nobody heard … ‘Hey, that temp’s in the loo laughing maniacally, do you think there might be something wrong with her?’ Oh yeah!).

Afterwards, rearranged my streaming makeup and made a dignified return to my desk.

[The worst tickle moment I ever had was at my first proper job, where we had a message programme that the secretaries used to send (non-work related) messages to each others screens.  I sent one to a mate reading, ‘Hey, did you know there’s a place in Thailand called Phuket?’  She replied, ‘Yeah, was going on holiday there once but didn’t in the end’.  I was already suppressing an explosion of laughter when I replied, ‘What, you nearly went, but then thought phuket?’  I had to hastily leave my desk and race to the toilet, snorting, crying, a hand clamped over my mouth.  My mate chased after me and found me bent double over the sinks, completely unable to control myself.  It set my mate off too, and then someone else came into the loo and started laughing at us laughing – mass hysteria, a wunnerful thang.]

Lunch today with some mates.  We sat in the scorching sunshine on the steps outside the library, eating McFlurry ice cream and listening to a school jazz band playing in the square.  It was One Of Those Moments.

The afternoon was pretty much the same as this morning.  And yesterday.  And the day before.  De ja vue gone mad.  When clicking ‘save as’ got too much, I sneaked into the toilet with the Evening Mail and scoured the job vacancy section.  I thought I was being discrete, until I noticed half the newspaper was underneath the toilet door so everyone coming in (and there were quite a few) saw it sticking out.

Friday 14

Friday! Friday! Friday!  I may look calm and composed on the outside, but inside I’m screaming and waving my arms in the air and whooping for joy because it’s the end of the week. 

Bus came early this morning.  A couple of regular passenger hadn’t made it to the bus stop on time and were valiantly sprinting up the road.  I paused for a full second by the open doors, giving them time to catch up.  The bloody bus driver started closing the bloody doors on me!  Fortunately, I managed to throw my bags out and made them open up again.  I glared at the bus driver as I got on, he glared back and promptly closed the doors on one of the sprinters, who threw herself through the closing gap like an action hero.  “There’s someone else behind me,” the sprinter gasped.  The driver ignored her and closed the doors, started to pull away from the kerb.  “There’s someone behind me!” the woman said again.

The driver, obviously realising he had a near-riot on his hands with the woman standing by his cabin and me standing behind her, stopped and opened the doors again (people power!).  The other sprinter barely made it through the doors before they slammed shut once more.  Git.

The drive into the city was hair-raising to say the least.  The driver (clearly a psychopath) ignored all road rules and made up his own.  Thus we regularly found ourselves on the wrong side of the road overtaking traffic queues, with cars and trucks coming straight towards us blasting their horns.  Traffic lights were ignored (which made for an interesting trips across major crossroads) and there was no pausing at junctions or islands, it was like sitting on a giant dodgem car. 

Honestly, some of these bus drivers need to be taken to the back seats and given a good thrashing by traumatised passengers.

Groundhog Day Part Five.  I won’t bore you with the details (I can sense your relief).  It’s a nice enough office with nice enough people, but no real ‘characters’ except the mad woman who runs the photocopier room (who I can clearly imagine wearing leather gear and carrying a whip).  Even when I got my timesheet signed, there was no feedback about the 197 dictations I’d done that week.  But I made some dosh and lived to tell the tale, and that’s what it’s all about.

Sigh.

There was some excitement today (apart from leaving at 5.30).  As I walked up the road to my house, I saw a cyclist coming the other way.  He looked remarkably familiar – tall, handsome, smiling, just a vision of perfection on wheels.

Middle Son (he who’s just got a first Masters in astrophysics) came home for a visit.  He gave me a sweaty hug, raced into the house, showered, put on the clothes I’d ironed for him (!) and left within 20 minutes for a night on the town with mates.  Hopefully see him (dreadfully hungover) tomorrow.

All in all, a pretty good week.  After the last six truly horribilis months, life seems to be getting back to normal again.  The ‘dark period’ is over.  And thank Christ for that!

Saturday 15

Middle Son eventually emerges (he lives! but only just). Had a really nice day yakking in the garden, then over to my dad’s house for more yakking in his garden, then one of my partner’s famous curries before MS cycled back to the train station.

I’ll see him again on Wednesday.  BIG day on Wednesday.  I’m trying to keep my bubbling hysteria in check but fear I may, ultimately, lose the battle.

Sunday 16

So we force ourselves to go shopping for food, our least favourite chore.  But behold, what is this at our local shops?  A man riding around on a horse wearing a suit of armour.  Not what you expect to see outside Sommerfield on a Sunday morning.

The (rather handsome) rider was advertising an ‘event’ taking place at a nearby ruin, sword fighting was involved, one simply has to be there.  Starts in half an hour.

Partner and I hesitated outside the supermarket entrance.  Perfect excuse Not to Shop and do something less boring instead.  Except there was no food in the house.  With abject misery, we realized it had to be done.

At the speed of light.

Got to the event in plenty of time.  The venue was the remains of a fortified manor house, an open space with some strategically placed rocks/walls.  There were hundreds of people and it was great fun.  The man on the horse stood handsomely in the middle of an enthralled crowd and told us the history of the house, then donned his armour and screamed, “Ouch! It’s hot!”  Shouldn’t have left it lying in the blazing sun then!

Afterwards, brain boiling, skin shriveling in the heat, we had a quick tour around the rocks led by a man who couldn’t have been more Brummie if he’d tried – his accent was so strong it was almost a parody.  Fabulous.

Partner took 1,765 photographs of rocks, and 1 of me, so suspect the honeymoon period may be coming to an end.

Got heat stroke and sunburn, but another great day.

Monday 17

Groundhog Day, Part VI.

Day actually went quite quickly despite work being mind numbingly boring – I didn’t sit rocking on the toilet seat thinking ‘this is so boring’ as much.  My ‘regular’ boss came over to me at 5pm with draft letters I’d done for him. 

“Change that word,” he said, so, a bit surprised, I did.  “And change that word,” he said. 

I looked at him.  “Don’t you usually do this?” I asked. 

“Do what?” 

“Make the amendments to the drafts, then give them back to me?” 

“I thought you could amend it directly onto the screen,” he said.

“No,” I told him (pretty bloody firmly), “I don’t work like that.”  Not with the boss breathing over my shoulder watching my every keystroke!

I thought he’d go back to his own desk and do things The Proper Way.  He did not.  Instead, pulling up a chair, he sat next to me, amending the letters and then immediately handing them to me!  He nudged me with one letter and I turned to him with eyes as wide as dinner plates.  Nudged me!  I snatched the letter from him and slapped it down on the desk.  “The rest will have to wait until tomorrow,” I told him, “I’m going home now.”

And I did, with a very large smile on my face.

Very strange!

Tuesday 18

Digital dictation system at work absolutely heaving with work (mostly the same letters, repeated over and over again ad nauseum).  The Temp (aka me) gets to pick and choose what to do (ooooh fun, fun, fun).  I usually go for the big ones (dictations that is).  Did a couple for one boss and went to question him about something.  He was at his desk and when I (very pleasantly) said ‘Hello’, he gave me such a look I immediately changed my tone to ‘you’re near death, pal!’  Later, I approached him again with a query and THE MAN ACTUALLY HUFFED AT ME.  LOUDLY!

Right.  Fine.  No problem.  I know you’ve got 163 dictations waiting to be done, but they sure ain’t getting done by me.  You may think that I, as a temp secretary, am the lowest of the low, but you, as a lawyer, don't rate very high with me either.  Oh no, wouldn’t touch your work with a bargepole, lets see how fast bad manners gets your work done, shall we, eh. 

Rude sod.

Have to admit, it is very liberating being a temp because I don’t have to put up with that kind of bollocks (not any more, yeeeehaaaaaa).  Anyway, his rudeness served a purpose – it made me decide that doing Deadly Dull work with ‘huffy’ people just ain’t my thang.  With perfect timing, the Second Agency called me shortly after the huffing event and offered me a far more interesting job next week for more money, which I immediately accepted.    

Rang the First Agency to tell them I’d finish the week at this job but didn’t want to come back after that. 

“Oh,” said the agency girl, “You don’t want to stay there?” 

“No,” I told her, “It’s so boring I could chew my own leg off.” 

“Oh,” she said again (with an inflection of disappointment/surprise/amazement/horror – honestly, do they send these people to acting school).  “Okay,” she finally said, “That should be okay.” 

I know its okay, I wasn’t asking, I was informing you of my plans.  Tsk.

“Well,” the girl said, sounding by now as if I’d just told her the end of the world was happening on Friday, “We’ll try and find you something for next week then.” 

Try?  Oh, that’s my punishment for daring to reject a temping assignment, the threat that They Might Not be Able To Find Me Something For Next Week.  No worries, if you can’t find me work I’m sure someone else can (am I getting arrogant?). 

So yes, being a temp is very liberating, I get to call the shots, I get to say Hmmm, don’t like this place, let’s try something else (hope saying that isn’t going to curse me and the better paid job will fall through and no temping agency in the land will employ me again because I’ve Turned Down Work).   

Wednesday 19

A big, BIG, day.  We’re talking HUGE here.  Oh the excitement!  I can barely contain myself.  I want to jump up and down and scream in a really high pitched voice – except I don’t have the energy.

Struggled home last night with a special cake in a BIG box, desperate not to drop it as I dodged through the city centre crowds and hauled myself up the stairs on the bus as it rounded a corner at some considerable speed.  Got it home in one piece, which was nothing short of miraculous.  Blew up balloons with my last remaining breath, wrote out cards, tossed things into a bag with wild abandonment and watered the garden profusely.

Today was Small Son’s 21^st birthday.  He is officially A Man – tall, handsome and funny.  I’m so proud of the adult he’s become (after the nightmare of his teenage years).  And he’s now a dad, a very good one, father to the most beautiful baby ever born (wait whilst I wipe away a tear … daft cow). 

SS came round early for his cards and pressies (and car shaped cake), and I hugged him and got all excited while he remained quite blasé about it all (tsk).  Then he left, somewhat embarrassed loaded down with a huge collection of balloons and a bright yellow cake, and I raced around the house tossing more random items into a bag whilst trying, at the same time, to water the garden some more.

And then we were off.  Up the motorway.  To attend the second big event of the day.

Middle Son’s graduation.  Just in case you might have missed me bragging and oozing pride like a mudslide, Middle Son got a first in his Masters Degree in Astrophysics.  Please read again for full effect.  This wasn’t just his big day, it was mine too – I take full credit for all his achievements! 

I imagined arriving at his house, taking him out for a spot of lunch, checking into the hotel and pampering myself for the ceremony at 5pm.

Pah!  Just shows how wrong you can be.

Arrived at Middle Son’s house at midday and found him and his dad (my ex) leaning out of a window shouting that we were late.  Late?  Raced in for a cup of tea, said hello to other proud parents and various assortment of relatives, shot into the city centre in ex’s car.  Walked what seemed like hundreds of miles through a crowded (and flipping hot) shopping centre until we found a rather nice restaurant.  Yakked, ate, left at 2.30.  The plan: to go back to Middle Son’s house and change into my Glam Gear before driving back to the uni. 

The plan was, basically, bollocks. 

The city’s council had decided, despite the fact that two universities were holding graduation ceremonies that day, to retarmac the main road.  The traffic was at gridlock.  Middle Son eventually had to jump out of the car to pick up his gown before it was too late, while we inched back to his house.  Finally made it, leapt out of ex’s car into ours, inched back to university for a ‘meet up and nibbles’ before the official photographs was taken.

Did I mention I’d imagined I’d have a couple of hours at the hotel to get ready?  Reality can be cruel sometimes.  I actually got changed in the car, in the middle of a gridlock, which means I was, at one point, naked on the front seat trying to pull a cotton top over my head and haul up a pair of trousers with the faces of oncoming drivers looking quite startled. 

Got to uni, leapt out of car whilst dragging a brush through my Medusa hair and raced to the buildings pulling on my jacket and trying not to trip and break any appendages in my High Heel Sandals. 

Middle Son said he’d meet us outside.  We rounded a busy corner and there he was, standing tall and proud in his gown.  My heart just ballooned to Zeppelin-size proportions.  SO incredibly HANDSOME.  I could have cried, but there wasn’t time. 

“We’re late!” he told us, and off we went again, racing (miles!) through the university to the physics department.  No time for drinkies or nibbles, a quick Hello Hello Hello and we were hauled out for the official photographs outside.

Hottest day of the year, everyone MELTED (especially the graduates in their suits and gowns).  But my God did they look handsome.  Clever young people at the beginning of their lives, degrees in hand, the world at their feet.   And, of course, My Son was the handsomest of them all.  My heart pushed aside all other internal organs and just throbbed.  30 graduates on the steps, 15,495 parents and family taking photographs in front of them. 

Afterwards, a wander round the university taking yet more photos, me staggering in my heels up billions upon billions of steps (was the uni built on the side of a mountain or wot?).  A gathering of the multitudes in a pleasant courtyard and a welcome jug of Pimms.  Could it get any more perfect?

Oh yeah.  We were eventually herded into a large hall (the rush for the good seats was rather like a rugby scrum).  Ex and I were up in the rafters overlooking the whole ceremony (poor Partner, who didn’t have a ticket, watched in another hall).  Oh it was good.  So official and important.  And My Son, part of it all.  Cue another heart swell.

They called out his name and up he went.  My Son.  The graduate.  The genius.  The Mphys.  Of course I cried!  Whilst holding the camera, videoing it all for posterity.  And my son looking up into the rafters and giving me the thumbs up sign, making me blart again.

It was all so wonderfully emotional.

We went for a celebratory drink in a nearby pub after it was all over, where I raved and praised and generally behaved like a complete mother.  And then he went out for his own celebration with friends, ex went back to Birmingham, and we drove to our hotel.

Well, I say 'hotel', but that's probably too grand a word for our overnight accommodation.  I’d found it on the internet (at the last minute, suddenly realising I hadn't actually booked anywhere).  It had a really nice photograph of the building, looking quite splendid.

So I was somewhat surprised when, after looping around the city’s one way system several times, we pulled up outside what can only be described as ‘rough’.  It was Fawlty Towers with a lift, a lift that took 5 minutes to travel three floors.  It was clean and pleasant enough, but definitely on the Wrong Side of Town.  This is the view from our window.

Pretty, isn't it!

On either side of Fawlty Towers were some pretty dodgy looking pubs with crowds of pretty dodgy looking people.  Well, when in Rome and all that, and besides, our hotel room was too small to stay in for any length of time (that’s my excuse, anyway).  We had a couple of drinks, struggling to stay awake after such a hectic day, then fell into our room.  Fawlty Towers or not, the bed was certainly welcoming, and we were so tired we barely noticed the riots when the nearby nightclubs closed at 2am.

A lovely, perfect, brilliant day. 

My sons, my men, my greatest achievement.

Thursday 20

Up early, showered, got to car before we had to pay £12.50 for an overnight stay (£2.50 before 8.30am, enough incentive to shower and dress at the speed of light, bouncing off one another in the tiny hotel room like rubber balls).

Outta the city and into the glorious Yorkshire countryside, slightly hungover, definitely still knackered.

“Let’s saunter back,” I said to Partner, “We’re in no rush.”

And so it was that we found ourselves at Holmfirth, where they film Last of the Summer Wine, having breakfast in the cutest café (not the famous one, which was closed and looked a bit ‘tacky’ with a plastic Compo standing outside).  Lovely little village, very peaceful, very relaxing, very hilly.  Bought a rock cake roughly the size of a casserole dish – didn’t actually eat it, just kept looking in awe at its enormity.

Then off home down the motorway.  I slept most of the way, head lolling on my chest like a pendulum.  Pulled up outside our house to find Small Son fixing his car on our driveway and, joy of joys, he had my granddaughter in his arms.  Had a good 10 minute munch before she was called away again – will keep me going for a while.

Watered gasping garden, pottered, recuperated.  Then Partner decided we needed a Pimms to go with the glorious summer day.  “But we don’t have any Pimms,” I said.  “Ah ha!” he cried, “I’ll make my own.”

I foolishly didn’t ask what he’d put in this two pint plastic jug of liquid, I just drank it.  Tasted quite nice, very fruity.  It was only when the jug was empty and the world suddenly turned a bit wavy I thought to query the contents.

“Lemonade,” Partner burped, “Apples, oranges (unskinned).  Some orange cordial.  Ice.  Quarter bottle of vodka and a good shot of brandy.”

Jesus Christ.  5.30 in the afternoon and we were bloody bladdered.  Instant intoxication (email me for recipe!).

Will definitely be trying it again.

Friday 21

My ‘regular’ boss came over to me when I got to work this morning and said, “Where have you been?”

“Son’s graduation,” I told him.

“Nobody told me.” He looked quite upset!

Later he came over and said, “Let me show you where to find something on the system so you’ll know how to do it next time.”

“No point, it’s my last day.”

“Your last day?”  Again, he looked quite upset.  “But who will be here next week?”

“Another temp.”

“Oh.”  Pause.  “Leave me your contact details,” he said, “I’m leaving soon and I might need a secretary at my next job.” 

Er, don’t other companies usually have their own secretaries?  And besides, nice enough as he was (if a little odd … actually, a lot odd), I couldn’t work for him full time – he’s Chinese, his dictations sound like Chinese, his grammar is notable only for its complete absence, and he clearly never learned how to say please or thankyou.  “Yes,” I said brightly, “I will.”  Like hell.

Later, he came over and said, “You’re leaving now that you’ve learned how to do everything.” 

And, because I’m a ‘liberated’ temp who’s just rediscovered her confidence and can be a bit arrogant just for the fun of it sometimes, I said, “But I already knew how to do everything.”  This isn’t, after all, rocket science!

“Give me your name and I’ll make a note of it.”

I laughed.  Honestly, ridiculous.  “I’ve been here two weeks and you don’t know my name?”

“No, what it is?”

I told him.  He couldn’t pronounce it.  Then he sat down next to me and started amending letters I’d typed for him, again.  I was so firm with his demands (“Amend this.  Change this.  Print this”) I wanted to rush over to the photocopier woman and borrow her leather whip.  At one point I actually slapped his hand away from my keyboard – it’s my keyboard, don’t touch it!  He seemed to find it all highly amusing.  I just kept one eyebrow in my hairline and a What the bloody hell is going on here expression on my face.  It was … surreal!

This continued all afternoon.  He’d scribble on letters and pass them to me, point at the screen as I was trying to amend them and attempt to steal my mouse (swine!).  I mostly told him to wait, and he’d sit back in his chair and wait – very strange.  After a while I got up and he said, “Where are you going?”

“To the toilet!”

Fortunately, I found it incredibly funny – it was that, or club him to death with a stapler.  I’d amended the same letters several times and he’d sit next to me amending them again - I think he just liked being there! My patience was wearing a little thin by now.  I printed the letters out for the forth time and slammed them down in front of him, saying (a little louder than I’d anticipated), “Don’t read them, just sign them!”  A boss sitting a little away from us looked over, more than a little surprised.

Ya gotta know how to handle these lawyers!

When we’d finally finished amending and amending and amending again, he said, “Give me your phone number so I can contact you.”

I wasn’t sure exactly how to take this, so I told him to get in touch with my agency.  He said, “What was your name again?” and my brain cells nudged the inside of my skull and said D’ya know, we think we’ve had enough now.

We most certainly had.

5.15pm came and he asked me to type up another dictation.  They'd already signed my timesheet until 5.30, so I I turned to him and said, “No.  I’m off now.  Bye.”

And I left.  Been there two weeks and only one person came up to say farewell.  No thanks, no it’s been great.  Nothing.  My smoking partner (the temp they’d taken on permanently two weeks previously) had been sacked.  A secretary had had a birthday and nobody even bought her a card.  No banter.  No atmosphere.  Just dull and bland.

Walked out with a feeling of relief.

On to the next.

Monday 24

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand here we go again.  Off I tootle to Yet Another Job.  Law firm, but interesting non-corporate department (I hope).

Arrive in city centre and walk confidently to where I think the building I’m supposed to be working in is.  Except it’s not.  Wrong building.  Slight panic as I try to discover where the right building is.  I ask a couple of random people (standing around having a faaaaaaaaag).  Find it.  Approach reception and ask for the contact name I’ve been given.  No such person working there.

Good start so far.

Eventually a person is located and I’m taken into the office.  First impressions: oh God.  Dark.  Not terribly large (though not as small as the cupboard on my first assignment).  And bulging files everywhere, on desks, on filing cabinets, piled up like teetering walls on the floor.

A typical small lawyers office.

Sigh.

Okay, think positive, smile, say hello to people.  They respond but with some surprise (like its not the Done Thing).

My desk is an explosion of The Previous Person’s detritus.  I create a small space in the middle of it and begin. 

I can’t open the dictation software.  My printer won’t print.  I feel like I’m saying, “Excuse me but …” all the time.  Ah well, wing it, see what happens.  No point getting flustered.  I am calmness personified.

I’m sitting with two other secretaries (another one is on holiday).  They’re nice, but busy, so incredibly busy.  There isn’t much banter in the whole office at all.  I start the dictations.  One after the other.  There’s three bosses and they’re at they’re desks all day, dictating, so we never actually come to the ‘end’ of the work.  It’s all rush rush rush.

Well, they have been without a secretary for a while – 3 days, in fact – there’s bound to be a bit of backlog.  I ask.  Not a backlog, this is how it is.  Relentless.

Oh.

I am a typing machine.  No chance to look at the ‘interesting work’, just type, get that work done, as the dictations just Keep On Coming.

Middle Son (who came home for the weekend to attend a wedding) rings and asks to meet me for lunch.  I imagine some civilised restaurant having adult conversation with my grown offspring.  We got to MacDonalds (I pay!) and sit on the grass in St Phillips Square having a deep discussion about who should pay for MS’s household insurance.  Ah, reality.  Then he leaves again, as children are apt to do – parting is such sweet sorrow.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand back to the typing factory.  At least I’m not sitting there bored to my wits end (such as they are).  Time goes fast, so that’s good.  And I’m being paid pretty well, so stop the whinging, woman, and just get on with it.

So I do.

Tuesday 25

Same stuff, different day.  Hey ho.

I meet a friend for lunch to break up the monotony (oh do stop whinging).  She’s slightly manic … actually, she’s as mad as socks, which can be entertaining but can also be somewhat embarrassing.  She’s loud.  Really loud.  Coming out of Sommerfield a man walked passed wearing slightly short trousers and she bellowed, “Look at him, is he expecting a flood?” (you can see what I mean about funny and embarrassing).

“Stop being so nasty about people,” I told her (whilst pulling a paper bag over my head and muttering ‘I’m not with her, I’m definitely not with her’).  “Try being nice for a change.”

We’d sat down in St Philips Square by now next to a bloke reading a book.  My friend immediately turned to him and bawled, “Hello.”

The bloke turned puce.  “Hello,” he said, looking at her like she was an unexploded bomb.

“My friend said I have to be nicer to people,” said the bomb, “So I’m going to be nice to you.  How’s your day been so far?”

“Okay,” the bloke mumbled.

She turned back to me and her voice echoed across the square, “See!  I can be nice!”  And she proceeded to say hello to passing pedestrians.  I wandered off (trying not to break into a run).  My friend followed, saying hello to people who clearly thought we were escapees from the local mental institution. 

She dragged me into a phone shop and marched up to the counter.  “Can you show me where my messages are on my mobile phone?” she barked at the assistant.  He did (didn’t dare not), whilst I (again) wandered around with her calling out my name – half of Birmingham now knows who I am!  I resisted the urge to ask the bloke behind the counter for a Really Big Paper Bag.

“I know where we can go for a nice, cool sit down,” she told me.  As the temperature was somewhere in the 90s and my exposed flesh was beginning to crisp, I followed.

Straight into our employment agency, where she promptly sat down (to the amazement of the staff).  “What are we doing here?” I whispered.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, “I haven’t decided.”

Interesting, velly interesting. 

Afternoon in the typing pool not so interesting (I am not a number I am a human bean – or I used to be).

Ah well, they’re paying me, just get on with it.

Wednesday 26

Interview for a permanent job (gotta look to be making an effort).  Didn’t want it.  Didn’t fancy it.  Agency had talked me into attending and I thought at least the interview would be good experience.

Good chance to nose at another office too.  And wow, was it a nice office, all glass and chrome with a calming aura.  Interest perked.  Job description given and interest perked a bit more.  I turned from louching secretary with attitude to attentive secretary with enthusiasm.

It went well.  I cracked some funnies to break the ice and basically claimed to be the Perfect Secretary Personified.  Office software?  Know it all.  Spreadsheets?  Piece of cake.  Increasing the company’s profit margin by 3,000%?  Not a problem.  I am so the person you’re looking for.

As the temperature outside was similar to that used to fry chicken, I wasn’t wearing a suit but a cotton skirt and top.  “Do you like coming to work?” I was suddenly asked.  “Why?” I replied, checking my top for visible signs of dribbling, “Don’t I look as if I do?”  She laughed – phew.

Returned to the typing pool a revitalised woman – which lasted a whole 15 minutes.

Ah well, they’re paying … yadda yadda yadda.

Thursday 27

A frantic phonecall from my employment agency.  Another position (another legal company sigh), only doing interviews today, could I go along at lunchtime.

“It’s a bit short notice – “

“Understand that but they’d like to see you.”

“But I’ve made other – “

“They really want to see you.”

“But – “

“They realise you won’t be prepared so just go as you are.”

Pause while I considered dashing out for denim dungarees and Wellington boots, just for the hell of it.

“Can I tell them you’ll be there at 1pm?”

“Well – “

“I’ll tell them 1pm.”

“I suppose - “

“Fabulous, bye.”

Its agency calls like this that make me wonder about alternative planes of existence, or if there’s a factory somewhere churning out cloned agency personnel (no hate mail from agency staff please).

So off I go to the address I’d been given.  And once again I end up standing outside a building which I think is the right one, but isn’t.  A man in a suit walks by as I’m standing there thinking ‘oh bugger!’.  “Excuse me,” I say with a huge smile, “I’m lost.  Do you know where such-and-such is?”

“It’s just down the road,” he says, returning the smile.  “I’m going that way anyway, I’ll take you there.”

I end up walking down the road with a complete stranger having a conversation about the weather and men having to wear suits in the office – I am Audrey Hepburn being escorted to Tiffany's.  All terribly pleasant.  Outside the right building I say, “Very kind of you to walk me to the door,” in a voice that would make plums envious.  He walks off with a some-women-are-just-odd expression.

Man interviewing clearly in a hurry (or else I’m his last interview and he’s really had enough).  Explains the job on fast forward.  Explains the boss I’ll be working for – words like ‘ambitious’, ‘driven’, ‘just given birth and moved from London to be a partner here’ turn my blood cold.  When he says, “She’s expects the most from her people,” I saw working late, I saw stress, I saw me walking out with a wave shouting ‘Thanks but no thanks’ over my shoulder.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked with a final flourish.

As he’d just given me the entire history of the company from inception to date, I didn’t.  But good form to ask something anyway.  So, while my brain was contemplating how quickly I could leave without it appearing rude, the mouth uttered, “Er, what are your offices like?”

“I’ll show you,” he said, and did.

Nice office.  Tidy.  Bright.  Open plan.  I smile at people sitting behind computers.  Their response is to stare.  Just stare.  Bad bad sign.  I am so outta there.

“Yep.  Thanks.  You’ll be in touch with my agency?  Fabulous.  Bye.”  And gone.

Not.  A.  Chance.

Just as I make my escape and reach the outside world, I bump into someone.  No, not another terribly pleasant chap willing to escort me back to work but (cue dramatic music) my boss from last week – the odd one who sat next to me, the one whose hand I kept slapping away from my keyboard.

Great.

“Where you working now?” he asks, spotting me as I tried to slither unnoticed along the wall.

“Ah, so-and-so,” I tell him, “Really must dash – “

“Any vacancies there?”

“No.  Small company.  Tiny company.  No vacancies at all.  Really must – “

“I finish on Friday, need job.”

“Really?  Oh, well, good luck with that, but I really – “

“You know of any vacancies anywhere?”

I am, by now, half way up the road, trying to dash off while he insists on continuing the conversation.  “No, sorry, must – “

“You know of any good companies to work for?”

“Why don’t you join an agency, that’s your best – “

“No join agency.”

“Ah well, see you.”  And I quickly zip round the corner out of sight.

Interesting lunch, if time wasting is your thang.  Agency emailed me shortly after.  ‘Please ring as soon as possible re feedback on interview.’  Rang them.  “What did you think?” they asked, madly enthusiastic.

“Didn’t like it,” I said.

“Oh?”  That ‘oh’ that sounds like you’ve just won the lottery but can’t be bothered to collect your winnings and they can’t understand why not, all compacted into a single vowel.  “You didn’t like it?”

So I told them about driven and ambitious and just given birth and moved from London expects the most from people and I didn’t do overtime and I don’t do stress and I don’t work for females bosses who will undoubtedly be a pain in the posterior.

“Oh,” they said again.

“What was the feedback from them?” I asked.

And, like a sulky child, they said, “It doesn’t matter now.”

Guess not.

A quiet lunch would be nice, just for a change.

Friday 28

I survived a week of incessant dictations and constant typing without any banter and hardly any interaction with other human beans.  Miraculous.  Check sanity – its there, but looking a bit green.  Check enthusiasm – there’s a space where it used to be, tendrils of lethargy creeping into the remaining void.  Checked voice box to see if it still worked - barely recognise my own enunciation, think I may have forgotten how to speak Brummie (mutter ‘foive’ and ‘buzz’ and ‘bluddy ‘ell’ under my breath, just to remind self).

Employment agency rang, good chance to practice speaking again. 

“Do you remember that vacancy at such-and-such we mentioned?”

No.  “Erm, yes.”

“They want to see you.”

“Oh.  When?”

“Today.”

De ja vue prods me and says, ‘Didn’t we do this yesterday?’

“I’m not sure I’m interested – “

“Fantastic opportunity,” the agent raved, “They were very impressed with your CV.”  Appealing to my vanity, eh, a cheap shot.  “They’d really appreciate it if you went along.”

Well, it was human interaction, why not.

De ja vue followed me up New Street and into a building with the right name.  DJV pissed itself laughing when it clearly wasn’t the right place.  I stood on deserted stairs, pondering the meaning of life a bit, until a person appeared.  Yes, the person confirmed, that was the name of the building, but that company wasn’t there. 

I turned and walked back down the stairs with DJV shrieking its socks off.  “But,” the person called after me, “There’s a building with exactly the same name just a few doors up.”

That made sense, what idiot decided to give two buildings the same name – have them shot immediately.

Kicked DJV firmly to the side as I entered the right building.  And very nice it was too.  All marbled lobby and high ceilings, a veritable monument to magnificent architecture.

Top floor.  Pristine new offices, more impressive glass and chrome (definitely must be the ‘in thang’ this season).  Chatted to receptionist until I was taken into the biggest meeting room I’ve ever seen – felt like atom floating in space iwithn its vastness.

Usual stuff, I’m brilliant, I can do it all, I am so the person you want for this job sigh.  Try not to slouch.  Try not to fall asleep.  Try to look interested.

Brand new company.  Just starting up.  Not legal.  Not surveyors.  Something completely different.  Government.  Work I’ve never considered doing before.  Company history (brief).  Duties explained (basically ‘help us, we don’t know where to start’).  Huge responsibility.  Huge salary. 

Left feeling tempted and terrified.

Decisions decisions.

Fate gave me a break and I ran into a friend.  Sat chatting by the Floozie for the rest of lunch, and very nice it was too.

Aaaaaaaaaand back to being a typing machine.  Needed incentive.  Decided to get all dictations done by end of day.

Bloody did it!  Nearly killed me.

Timesheet signed and I was off like a rocket.

Home to a Seriously Stiff Whisky … or two.

Or three.

Saturday 29

My partner’s place of work is having a new machine fitted by the German manufacturers.  German blokes (who don’t understand a word of Black Country).  Fortunately my partner is Yorkshire and they understand him well enough.  They’ve been teaching him German.

He asked them round.  They duly arrived at 6pm and walked into the house with rather startled expressions.  First words (after hello and pleased to meet you and all that) was, “How many metres is this house?  In Germany houses are a lot bigger.”

Hilarious.  No, really, it was so funny, they were so surprised by the non-enormity of it.

“Do you want to stay for a home-made curry?” partner asked as they sat down.

“We’re not sure,” they said, clearly leaving themselves open for a hasty exit if necessary (if we were too boring).

“Would you like a drink?”

Again, they weren’t sure. 

Half a hour later they were eating and downing cans of lager, so clearly we’d passed the hospitality test.

Proudly showed them the blooming garden.  “Small garden,” the said, “In Germany we haff much bigger gardens.”

Hysterical.

Showed them the downstairs (and only) loo.  They laughed.  They asked if there was another one upstairs and when partner said not, they thought it highly amusing.

Tears streamed from my eyes.

“Its not perfect,” I heard partner say to them in the kitchen (while I sat wiping eyes in living room come cupboard), “But we like it.”

“Like it a lot,” I shouted.

“It’s comfortable,” said partner.

“Its home,” I shouted.

I expected them (as is the German stereotype) to be very sombre and brusque and ‘without humour’, which I can’t relate to at all.  They were certainly blunt, but subtlety in a foreign language must be difficult.  In fact, they were very funny (not always intentionally so) and highly entertaining.  And if I stuffed plums in my mouth and talked very clearly (keeping the Brummie accent down to a bare minimum) they actually understood me, which was a relief as charade conversation on a Saturday night didn’t appeal.

Partner, having downed a couple of cans (as did they) then started talking about a mutual interest – films.  He then started talking specifically about war films while I tried to discreetly punch him in the ribs.  It was very hard not to think of Basil Fawlty screaming “Don’t mention ze var.”

We watched Little Britain, which one of them liked.  The other one just sat there with a pronounced WHAT? look on his face.  “Dat is man?” he asked about the only gay in the village.  “Men in vomen’s clothes?” he asked about the laydees, “Ah, transvestite.”  I don’t think he got it.

“You should get big tv screen,” they told us.  “In Germany we have big tv screens.”

And yet, despite the absurdly amusing ‘tinyness’ of everything, they referred to us as ‘middle class’.  I dragged my soap box out of a cupboard and announced, “Working class, mate.  100% working class.”  I think they understood

Thoroughly enjoyed the evening, it was certainly different.  And I think they enjoyed it too.

Midlands hospitality in a tiny shack with a microscopic garden, a tiny tv and only one loo (gasp) – ya just can’t beat it.

[PS: They said I looked 36.  I preened as partner proceeded to tell them my real age (37) and received a very indiscreet punch in the ribs for his trouble.]

Sunday 30

Partner went to Yorkshire to visit family for the day.

I was left alone, totally unable to fend for myself.  I didn’t dare approach the Dreaded Cooker (which hates me).  I got hungry.  I rang him and told him to come home and feed me.  He described the vast Sunday lunch he was eating at our favourite Yorkshire pub.

Swine.

I defrosted the remains of a takeaway curry.

It was 'orrible.

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DISCLAIMER: This is a personal weblog.  The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer(s), work colleagues or family.  My experiences are written purely from my point of view and are intended to be a humorous depiction of my somewhat chaotic life.  No malice is intended in any way, it's not in my nature. The names of real people and companies have not been used.
 

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