JUNE

Thursday 1

Will this be the day I discover I won the lottery last night?  The day I decide to hand in my notice at work?  The day I finally lose the plot Big Time and go on some mad cream-cake-tossing spree through the city centre?

The possibilities are endless ....

.... watch this space ....

Thursday 1

A strange thing happens once you hand in your notice (apart from losing all motivation because, lets face it, once you’ve given your resignation you really can’t be bothered).  Things suddenly seem better, not so bad, tolerable.  Today I found myself wondering if I’d done the right thing, if I couldn’t just put up with it?

No.  No.  And no again.

It seems better because the pressure’s off, because I know I don’t have to put up with the corporate bollocks, the gossiping and the whispering and the sheer nastiness any more.

It seems better because, finally, after months of excruciating angst, I can see an end to it all.

I’m escaping.

Friday 2

Bad bad day. 

When my ‘attackers’ found out about the new floor plan on Tuesday, they almost tripped over themselves in their haste to get to me.  “You’re sitting almost in the same seat as before,” one grinned.  The other sneered, “You'll be coming back to us then.  Nothing ever changes, does it?”

Every time I left my desk, I came across The Grinning One holding court over small groups of people, all whispering and sniggering and instantly falling silent when I appeared.  The Grinning One was, once again, thrilled to be the centre of attention as she buzzed the news around the entire office. 

I couldn’t even go to the toilet without finding The Grinning One in there, feverishly gossiping and glaring silently when I walked in.

This was beyond ridiculous, this has been going on for months. 

A body can only put up with so much. 

Saturday 3

The search for my sense of humour continues.  I know it’s out there somewhere, maybe quivering under the bed or sipping Pimms in the garden.  I don’t like it out there on its own – it’s never even watched a Ray Mears programme, it’ll never survive!

I must find it, hunt it down, put it back where it belongs – in the empty cavity where my brain used to be. 

The humour has obviously fragmented (shattered in the face of extreme adversity).  I keep finding bits of it all over the place and am diligently slotting it back together like a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle (most of it sky!). 

Come on, babies, come home to momma.

Sunday 4

Places searched for gobs of humour:

Monday 5

Went to docs, who is of the ‘pull yourself together’ variety.  I told her, “You work in my office for six months and you’ll be like this, too.”  Twitch twitch dribble.

She gave me a sick note.

For a week!

Go home.  Vac under sofa for specs of humour that have dried out. 

Tuesday 6

If you think these blog entries are a little ‘odd’, you should see what I’m like in real life.  Partner has a permanently stunned expression, the kind worn by bomb disposal experts when they realise they’ve cut the wrong wire.  I’m like a rubber ball bouncing between hysteria and catatonia.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a glimmer of light.

Small Son rings me up.  He says, “Go into the back garden.”  I go into the back garden and Small Son is there, leaning over the fence.  He has my granddaughter.  I’m inordinately pleased to see her, she’s so gorgeous.  He hands her over!  I get to hold her and cuddle her and stare at her beautiful face.

And, of course, I cry the entire time!

Wednesday 7

My God, the weather!  Sun.  Heat.  Clear blue skies.  It’s almost like summer!  And, even better, I’m not at work.  How fab is that!  I have time to stand and stare.  I’m starting to slow down from the hamster wheel of working life, I’ve sidestepped the rat race for a while and I like it.  I like it a lot.

Starting to feel much better.

Played with gobs of humour in garden while men in white coats stood by watching with stun guns.

Thursday 8

Middle Son (He Who Has Just Finished His Masters Degree in Astrophysics) came home for a long weekend.  I’m overwhelmed with joy to see him.  Sit in garden all afternoon yakking.  I could easily get used to this glorious life of leisure (although any mention of this drains the blood from Partner’s face).

Friday 9

I reckon I’ve got 51.7% of my humour back, which is good, I can just about function with that amount.  Not sure if it picked up a virus while it was out gallivanting or I’ve pieced it together wrong, but it’s a bit twitchy.  Last night, lying in bed at 3am with the windows open because its so hot, the sound of someone’s house alarm woke me up.  Dee daa dee daa dee daa for over an hour.  My Partner, still asleep, eventually mumbles, “I wish that police car would put his foot down a bit.” 

Could not stop laughing!  The mattress was a quivering mass of silent giggling, my Partner bouncing like flotsam on a stormy sea.  He eventually threatened to smother me with a pillow if I didn't stop.  I couldn't, so I got up and sat in a darkened living room tittering away uncontrollably.

Saturday 10

Wasn’t there a football match on today?  Or something?

England won, just as everyone knew they would.

I can’t say it’s affected my life in any significant way, though.

Sunday 11

Up early, shorts on, out on bikes down the park by 8am.

It was blissfully quiet.  We took the tennis rackets with us – I don’t know why, we’ve never played, but I’d bought them (special offer at Tesco) and we were damn well going to use them.  I didn’t expect us to hit a ball once, but we were surprisingly good.

“We were surprisingly good,” I told Middle Son when we got back a couple of hours later (lobster red from the sun and stiffening with unaccustomed exertion).

“Who won?” he asked.

“Oh we didn’t play a proper game,” I told him, “We were just stunned we kept it going at all.”

MS – he who regularly plays squash and other competitive sports – just rolled his eyes.

I’m thinking of becoming a tennis fanatic.  Jolly good fun. 

I wonder if there’s an age limit for Wimbledon?

Monday 12

Hardly slept a wink last night.  Nightmares.  Much tossing and turning.  A few more nightmares.  Eventually I got up in the wee small hours to fill the living room up with cigarette smoke, studiously avoiding the whisky bottle (which was screaming Drink me! Drink me!).

As I’d pretty much lost the plot by morning, my mother came with me to the doctors to offer moral support and to slap me around a bit if I got hysterical. 

“Small Son … grandchild … next door,” I wailed at the doctor.  “Work … nasty people … panic attacks … major stress.”  The medical condition was also mentioned.  And a bit of misery and plot-losing thrown in for good measure.  Basically I dumped, big time.

It’s dead boring being depressed.  I don’t like it one little bit.  I’m not built for it, I don’t have the capacity to deal with it with any kind of style.  And it’s a bit bloody time-consuming, like an ugly pet that’s constantly whining for attention.

The doctor nodded sympathetically (unlike the last one) and handed over a prescription and a sick note.  I looked at both outside the surgery.  And, like I’ve been doing over pretty much everything recently, I immediately burst into tears.

He’s only given me two weeks off work, the last two weeks of my notice period! 

I don’t have to go back!

IT’S OVER!

Oh my God, the relief of never going back to that horrible place to endure those horrible people.

I feel I’ve been saved.

I feel like I’ve won the bloody lottery!

Tuesday 13

It’s taken me a few days, but I finally completed a ‘grievance’ letter to the Big Bosses where I work.  What happened* was wrong in so many ways.  I put all the facts together and included a few pertinent attachments.

Then I emailed it.

I’ve been with my service provider for years.  Never had a single problem with them, not once.  Today, with this ultra-important email, the email service crashed.  Couldn’t log in, couldn’t send or receive.

WHAT?  NOW?  BLOODY NOW?

I rang my service provider: “Imperative email … life and death … bloody won’t send,” I wailed.

The bloke on the other end remained calm, almost blasé – I imagined him at his desk, leaning back in his chair, feet up on the keyboard, smoking a joint or something.  “Yeah,” he drawled, “Bit of a problem with the server at the moment.”

Me (hysterical): When will it be fixed argh!

Him:  Well, they’ve been working on it all night (pause for drag of joint?)  Should have been fixed by 10 this morning.

Me: But it’s argh! 10.30 now.

Him: Yeah (man), they’re running a bit behind schedule.

Me: So when argh! will it argh! be working again snarlbuggery

Him: Well, it’ll probably midday now.

I raced back to the computer at midday.  Send/receive.  Error message.  Send/receive.  Error message.  Over and over for 10 solid minutes.

And then, finally, I could log in.  The email sent. 

Yes!

I thought I would feel panic once it had gone.  I’d sent a serious complaint to the Big Bosses, they were legally obliged to ‘investigate’ and get back to me.  It would (hopefully) cause a bit of a stir. 

I thought I would be pacing around the house, agitated, biting my nails, chain-smoking, swigging straight from the whisky bottle and jumping every time the telephone rang (Big Bosses ringing to say who the hell do you think you are?).

But, oddly, I felt enormously relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted.  It was as if I’d packaged up all the negative crap I’ve been enduring for months and sent it off for someone else to deal with.  Not my problem any more.  Gone.  Over.  Don’t have to think about it, don’t have to worry about it, nothing more I can do.

S’great. 

Life can once again return to normal ... or as normal as it gets around here.

* All will be revealed shortly. 

Wednesday 14

This is where I’ve spent pretty much the last two weeks.

Indulging in a mad frenzy of book reading in the glorious sunshine, getting a pretty decent tan whilst watching fledgling birds and baby squirrels race across the lawn looking dazed and confused, watching plants grow, listening to bird song (and lawnmowers), pace of life almost grinding to a halt.

S’bloody great.

Am I keen to rejoin the rat race?  Am I getting bored without the daily routine/grind of working life?  Am I in any way missing the commute, the frantic rushing, the office bitching, the crowds, the pollution and the constant exhaustion?

I most certainly am not.  I have found my true vocation. 

I wish to become a full time slob.  A lady of leisure.  A kept woman (hint hint, partner … no, it’s okay, you don’t have to start screaming and pulling at your hair like that!)

I am enjoying my brief time of blissful freedom.

And recovering.

[Rather oddly, this is what the garden looks like at night. 

Not sure if I should worry about the freaky ‘ectoplasm’ lights or not … nah, probably not.  Except ... other strange things about this picture is there's no net curtains up at the shed window (!) and I've no idea what that metallic structure is next to the tree on the left ... weird].

Thursday 15

Two fabulous, astonishingly excellent things happened today.  Small Son (who doesn’t work on Thursday) casually shouted over the garden fence, “Mom, do you wanna come round and see [granddaughter]?”

Oh, wait, I think I might be a bit busy at the minute!

10.5 seconds later I was holding her and playing with her and making her laugh.  She likes my funny voice (think Mickey Mouse sucking helium on fast forward).  She’s fascinated by my mad mop of hair.  I see my son in her face.  She really is the cutest thing on the planet.  I adore this child.

It was Absolutely Fantastic.

Then, later, Middle Son rang me.  He said, “Mom, I’ve got my degree results.” 

The air suddenly fell heavy with anticipation.  I could hardly breathe.  “What did you get?” I gasped.

There was a long, long pause.  Time stood still.  I could hear my own heartbeat … pound … pound … pound … and then it stopped, which was worrying.

He said, “I got a first.”

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeell, cue hysterically proud mother.  “Oh my God!” I shrieked, bouncing around the room like a rubber ball, “I knew you would, never doubted it for a nanosecond, OH MY GOD!  YOU’RE A GENIUS.  Well done!  Congratulations!”  Repeated several times with increasing vigour and volume.

WELL DONE! 

It’s moments like these that make life worthwhile. 

Friday 16

Work sorted (as in, I don't have to bloody go there any more yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaa).  Annoying medical complaint sorted (hopefully).  Middle Son sorted. 

Insanity so far kept in check, which is v.good.

Time to try and resolve the granddaughter situation.  Not being able to see her when she only lives next door is beyond ridiculous. 

I went round to speak to them.  My sister came with me.  We kept it very casual and pleasant and gently put our point across – the family would like to see the baby occasionally. 

It was like trying to kick jelly up a ladder, they simply don’t talk, it’s almost as if they don’t know how. The other grandmother just shrugged a lot, vaguely denied about the fence, and blamed it all on her daughter.

The daughter just walked out, packed baby into a pushchair and promptly left without saying a single word.

So that went well!

Later I proved Einstein’s theory of relativity using some bleach and a candle, which was infinitely easier.

Saturday 17

A mate from work rang me yesterday.  She said, “I’m coming to do your feet.” 

No answer to that really, is there.

She arrived today with her car loaded up with all kinds of bags and chairs and enough towels to stock the Hyatt Hotel.

Reflexology.  I lay on this chair bed for an hour while she manipulated my feet to the sounds of soothing music.  I was blancmange with a face.  Thoroughly recommend it for inducing a mild state of catatonia.

Afterwards, Partner suggested a body massage to complete the whole ‘spoil me’ theme that was going on.  Wow!

I was beyond relaxed after that, I was practically floating.

Stressed?  Moi?  Pah.

Sunday 18 – Father’s Day

While Partner’s daughters came down from Yorkshire to indulge in his home cooking, I dashed over with my dad’s pressies.  I found him in a state of high excitement (and not because of the microscopic plant I’d lovingly grown from a difficult seed either).  He was buying a new car.

My dad is like a cross between Alan Titchmarsh and Eric Morecombe.  Calm, funny, nothing much fazes him.

Except buying a new car, which he does every decade or so.  He and his wife had diligently been saving for over a year, and now the time had come to ‘find a replacement.’  They’d been looking for weeks.  The criteria seemed (as far as I could fathom from my dad’s high pitched shrieking) that it had to local, five doors, better than the car he had (which actually isn’t difficult) and either green or red.

Dad was in the midst of a nervous breakdown because he’d just viewed two potential cars – one red, one green - and was in a quandary about which one to buy.  No, quandary isn’t the right word – blindingly hysterical is a more accurate description.  This is a man who had major heart surgery a couple of years ago, and he was pacing up and down the living room like a caged animal, holding his head in his hands and wailing about which one to get.

“This one is newer,” he howled, stabbing at the advert in the local paper, “But that had a bigger boot, but this had cleaner upholstery, but that was more expensive, but the bloke selling this one seemed a bit shifty, but they had a nicer garden – “

“Dad!” I finally said, “Get the green one!”

He looked at me, eyes glazed.  “Why the green one?” he gasped.

“Because its newer, cheaper, has a bigger boot and is more local.”

“And green is a much better colour,” said his wife.

“Yes,” said dad, “Yes, the green one.  We’ll get the green one.”

And they did.

Another family catastrophe narrowly averted.

Phew.

Funny funny funny (nicked, as always, from Abroath)

Monday 19

In a moment of panic, when I was convinced I would never find another job and abject poverty was waiting to clobber me one, I put my CV on an internet job site.

BIG mistake!  My phone has not stopped ringing!  Good, you might think, but no, they’re all employment agencies wanting me to register with them.  Some are based in Leeds and Manchester! 

All the people from these agencies sound exactly the same, like children's television presenters, hyped up to the gills.  “Hello this is Charlotte/Alison/Jemima calling from Blah Blah & Co.  We have some vacancies you might be interested in if you’ll just register with us.”

“Are they vacancies with legal firms?” I ask.

“Yes!” they reply enthusiastically.

“And did you read the bit on my CV where it says I’m not after another position in a legal firm?”

“We have some great positions in building construction departments.”

“At legal companies?” I ask wearily.

“Yes!” they shriek.

Right.

A couple of agencies emailed me a typing test to do online, to calculate my typing speed.  I tried to do one yesterday, but just as I brought the page up my Partner’s daughters arrived from Yorkshire.  I left it on the computer screen and promptly forgot about it (just like when I’m cooking).

Later, my Partner wanted to show his daughters something in the study.  They noticed the typing test.  They all sat down and had a go.  Typing speeds were 0, 19 and 38 words per minute (zero?!).

I suspect the results were sent straight back to the employment agency.

I suspect I won’t be hearing from that particular agency again.  Which is no bad thing.

[My typing speed is actually 83 words per minute – non-legal companies in need of a fast, efficient, reliable secretary, get in touch.  Employment agencies, stop bloody ringing me!]

Tuesday 20

Went into town to get a reference book as, apparently, I agreed (clearly when drunk or off my rocker) to cycle along the Grand Union Canal to London.  Next week.  Hmmm, better get a book to guide us to b&bs and stuff, though suspect we’ll end up kipping under hedges in the pouring rain.

My mom came with me.  Difficult to pick a book when someone’s leaning over your shoulder saying, “Is that the one?  Is that the one you want?  Are you going to buy that one?”  Mom is more a WHSmith person so, despite the fact that Waterstones sell every single title ever printed, off we toddled to WHSmith.

“Now,” mom said, hauling me over to the self-help books (which, oddly, is right next to the section on ghosts and witches), “What you need is a good book to get you back on track.  How about How to Increase Your Self Esteem?”

“My self esteem is fine,” I whispered.

Mom didn’t whisper, she spoke in a normal voice, so everyone around us (and the place was surprisingly busy) could hear.  “Increase Your Self Confidence by Paul McKenna?”

“Self confidence isn’t a problem,” I breathed back.

A woman browsing through Derek Acorah’s codswallop glanced over at us.  “How to Make Friends and Influence People?” mom suggested.

“I have loads of friends, mom.  I don’t think I really need … oh wait a minute, what’s this?”

How to Deal With People You Can’t Stand.  Bit late now, of course, but I curiously flicked through the pages.  It had sentences like, “I understand what you’re saying, but – ”  Didn’t mention anything at all about use of baseball bats.  Pah.

I urged mom to put down the book entitled Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff and eased her away from the self-help section.  As we rounded the display, a WHSmith worker who had diligently been stacking books on the other side glanced over at us (obviously having heard every word).  For a moment, our eyes met, and I had the overwhelming urge to twitch, or dribble, or maybe throw my hand to my forehead and wail, “Oh woe is me.” 

I didn’t, but I did almost ask him if they had a book on How to Make Your Mother More Discreet. 

She means well, though.  In fact, she's great, my mom.

Wednesday 21

Do you know what I did today?

Absolutely Nothing.

Nothing at all.  Not a thing.

Just slobbed and read and slobbed some more.

Have you any idea how great that was?

Thursday 22

I noticed a friend had a copy of Paul McKenna’s ‘confidence’ book and borrowed it.  Inside was a CD.  No harm in trying, I thought, and slotted it into the stereo.

Closed the curtains and lay down on the floor like a starfish.  Fidgetted.  Got comfortable.  Dragged cushions off sofa.  Decided I needed a drink of water.  Lay down again.  Tossed a bit.  Turned.  Sighed a lot.  Noticed ceiling has cracks.  Walls could do with a lick of paint too.

Started up CD.  Twinkly music and what sounded like a load of people in an echoey room all going Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh and Oooooooooooooh.

“You are a fabulous human being,” breathed Mr McKenna.

“Tsk, I know,” I said.

PM: “You can do anything you want to do.”

ME: “Yeah, I know.”

PM: “Locate your internal voice – “

ME: “It’s over here, yoo hoo, on the floor mate, feeling like a complete plonk, actually.”

PM: “You are an extremely lovable person – “

ME: “Oooh you old charmer you.”

PM: “Think of yourself in the future, how do you see yourself?”

ME: “Well, a bit older, a bit greyer probably, a few wrinkles and – “

PM: “Concentrate on your future self – “

ME: “Er, excuse me, I was trying to when you so rudely interrupted – “

PM: “See yourself as a more confident person – “

ME: “What, are we talking like Hillary Clinton type confident or more warrior princess  – “

The phone rang.  “Ring you back,” I screeched, determined to see it to the end as I threw myself back down on the floor, almost concussing myself in the process.

PM: “You are feeling very relaxed, you can hear your own breathing, your own heartbeat, very, very relaxed.”

Outside, a couple of neighbours started arguing.

PM: “You are a wonderful, wonderful person.”

ME: “Shucks, mate, don’t overdo it.”

By the end of the 30 minute CD I was lying on my side on the floor, inspecting my nails and wondering what to burn for tea.

I guess the confidence is okay then.

Must be this book I need.

I now have over 1,000 visitors to my site every month from all over the world, which is nice.  Feel free to leave a comment, even if it’s just to say ‘Hi’ (Haloscan gets all huffy if its not used on a regular basis).

To the person who found my blog by searching for ‘corporate bollocks’ on Google, let’s meet to discuss!

I’m off on the Great Cycle Catastrophe on Monday so won’t be around next week (hopefully just figuratively speaking).  Coincidentally, it’s also National Cycle Week, so expect to hear on the national news about the ‘Nutters Causing Havoc on the Grand Union Canal’ – that’ll be us.

And something else to look forward to (!).  Now that my employment contract is at an end, I’m ready to spill the beans and tell all about what really happened in my office.  Max Clifford is currently negotiating a deal with the News of the World – “Sexy Secretary Shocker Shakes City Slickers.”  The corporate world will crumble.  You read it here first.

Monday 26

THE GREAT CYCLING CATASTROPHE

The plan: to cycle 137 miles from Birmingham to London along the Grand Union Canal, taking in the scenery and stopping off at whatever hotel or b&b that took our fancy along the way (because we hadn't booked anything). 

The training: two trips out on bikes, one to the local park to play tennis!

The preparation: Went to a sports shop in Merry Hell Shopping Centre (argh!) to stock up on panniers and (get this) cycling shorts (terribly flattering!).  Partner went all manic, I had a job keeping up with him as he raced around tossing t-shirts and hats into the basket with wild abandon.  Spent an absolute bloody fortune.

The promises: Partner said we would cycle for an hour and then take a rest.  He lied.  Partner said we would cycle for 4 hours at most, then stop for the day.  He lied.  Partner said we would reach Warwick, our first stop off point, by lunchtime.  He lied.

The reality

“You ready?”

“Yep, ready.”

We were standing in the living room looking like shrink-wrapped sausages in our cycling gear.  The bikes stood outside, groaning under the weight of our stuffed panniers.  We had a good luck hug (just in case it was our last), and then we were off.  It was 9.30am.  We were enthusiastic and excited.

We were idiots.

Took us almost an hour to get into the city centre and the start of the Grand Union Canal.  Except, the GUC isn’t actually signposted (it’s only the main line to London!).  We stood under an ugly concrete structure trying to figure out where it was - had a fag, had a Mars bar (Partner apparently had a pee, but I was too busy pouring over the map trying to locate the canal to notice this). Eventually Partner’s in-built compass decided the way, ie he guessed.

And we were off.

The weather was crap.  Grey, overcast, drizzling, and bloody cold.  Fine while we were cycling, but we were a mass of shivering goosebumps every time we stopped.  But we could do this.  It was going to be fun.  It was an adventure.

According to a man we passed on the way, there was a nice pub where we could stop for lunch.  In Solihull, 15 miles away.  So off we toddled. 

I thought we were never going to get there, the canal just went on and on.  The straight bits were the worst because you could see what was up ahead (more canal!), at least with the bendy bits you could convince yourself it was just round the next corner.  It never was.

We eventually made it to Catherine de Barnes near Solihull (18 miles) but couldn’t see the pub.  We clambered up the canal bank hauling our heavy bikes behind us.  I got stuck on some concrete steps and fell – I thought I’d shattered my kneecap and the agony brought tears to my eyes and a few well chosen profanities to my lips.

I hobbled across a hump back bridge that had no path, narrowly averting death from the heavy traffic.  And then, thankfully, we found the pub – The Boat Inn.  Food was quite expensive, they obviously didn’t cater for knackered cyclists who just wanted something hot and cheap (and, judging by the state of us, why should they).  We ordered ham and chips and sat outside, next to our heavily laden bikes, freezing to death.  At one point I caught Partner staring wistfully at a group of male cyclists at the next table.  “You wish you were with them, don’t you,” I breathed, “Instead of with the whingey woman.”  He said not. 

Partner then made the huge mistake of showing me the mapbook, pointing out how far we had to go to get to Warwick, our first stop off point.  Three whole pages! 

Motivation took a nose dive (it would have ran off, screaming and waving its arms in the air, but it didn’t have the strength).  I expressed concern, partner expressed enthusiasm.  We clambered back on the bikes (me whimpering slightly) and cycled on.

And on.  And on.  And bloody on.

In Birmingham, towpaths are pretty well maintained.  Outside of Birmingham, they’re not.  Some were so narrow it was like trying to ride a bike along a tightrope.  In other places it was just mud with a wheel track down the middle (sometimes the wheel track veered off towards the water, which was alarming).  But the worst, when you’ve been sitting on a saddle for six hours, were the towpaths that were comprised entirely of rubble.  My nether regions were decimated, every brick, every dip, every concrete block caused the bruise forming between my legs to turn a darker shade of purple.

As for taking in the scenery, forget it!  You couldn’t take your eyes off the ground in case you hit some obstacle and went sailing into the water.  Now and again one of us would say, “Oh look at that” at some bird or some boat or some point of interest at the canalside, and the other would hiss, “I can’t bloody look.”  We saw nothing, we just pedalled.

The ‘saddle sore’ became so bad we kept getting off to walk to give our bums a much needed rest – getting back on again afterwards was excruciating.  Cycling shorts need to have padding at least 12 inches thick to be of any use at all.

And in the midst of all this agony, in the wind and the rain, employment agencies kept ringing my mobile … I nearly threw the bloody thing in the water.  My agency said they’d found me a job for next week (thank God) and asked me for my bank details, but I couldn’t read my bank card without my glasses, and I couldn’t find my glasses in the now mud splattered panniers.  “Do you have your national insurance number,” the agency woman asked.  “Not on me,” I cried. 

A new agency rang and said, “Is it convenient for you to talk about a position you might be interested in?”  “I’m cycling down a canal to London,” I hissed, a little too hissily, “It’s raining, it’s blowing a gale, and I’m knackered, so no, it’s not terribly convenient at the moment!” 

By the time we got to Shrewley Tunnel (where you have to climb up a steep pathway and then up steep steps to get to the other side) we were almost sobbing with exhaustion.  My knee had turned black (just like my posterior, I suspected) and my arms and legs were lacerated from the constant whipping of weeds.  I would have given up then, but we were in the middle of nowhere, the only escape was to carry on.

And on.  And on.

Finally, around 5pm, after 6½ hours of hard-slog not-bloody-fun-at-all cycling, we reached Hatton Locks.  We’d covered 32 miles and I’d gone from an average of 8.5 miles an hour to 4.3.  The relief of going down the locks without having to pedal was enormous.  According to the now dreaded mapbook, Warwick was at the bottom.

It wasn’t!  Argh!  At the bottom was more canal.  Endless.  Infinite.  We would be cycling forever.  There was no end to the torment.

I lay down on the last lock gate and struggled with the urge to wail like a three year old.  Partner gave some encouraging words and I was eventually persuaded to put my bum back in the saddle because, as he’d been saying for the last 20 odd miles, “its just round the corner.”

It bloody wasn’t.  I considered throwing my bike into the canal and saying, "Ooops, ah well, better go home then."

After what seemed like decades, we did manage to reach Warwick.  We got off the canal and looked around.  No hotels.  We’d checked the internet, and there was supposed to be a Travel Lodge around somewhere, but it was obviously camouflaged.  We asked a passer by, who seemed a little alarmed by our appearance – we were muddy, with bloodied limbs, looking really thoroughly pissed off.  He vaguely waved up the road and said the Travel Lodge was by the train station.

We plodded on, risking certain death hauling our bikes across a congested traffic island, but by that point I didn’t really care if I lived or died, I was that tired.  We found the train station (Warwick Parkway), but not the hotel.  I wanted to throw my bike on the ground and give it a damn good kicking. 

“What do you want to do?” I asked my partner instead.

“I don’t know,” he said, diplomatically, “What do you want to do?”

“Can you imagine doing this again tomorrow?” I pushed.

“No,” he said, “Actually, I’ve pulled a tendon at the top of my leg, I’ve been in agony for the last 15 miles.”

That was it.  We went into the station and bought tickets back to Birmingham, tossed our bikes onto a train and collapsed onto comfortable seats.  Back in Birmingham, my Partner tried to get our bikes into a taxi, but they wouldn’t fit.  “We’ll take a taxi each,” he cried, obviously having completely lost his marbles on the canalside somewhere.

We caught the local train and cycled (very very slowly) home from there.  I didn't think we'd make it.  I just wanted to lie down on the ground and sleep.  But we kept on pedalling.  Average speed now 1.4mph.

We left at 9.30am, had an hour’s break for lunch, and caught the train from Warwick at 6pm.  Arrived home, wailing with relief, at 7.30pm.

It wasn’t fun.  It wasn’t an adventure.  It was sheer hard slog.  We saw nothing except the (often diabolical) path ahead of us.  Not at all how we imagined.  In fact, it was awful.

Never again!

Tuesday 27

We lay stiffly in bed, side by side.

“Can you move?” Partner asked.

“No,” I said, “Can you?”

“Not a thing.”

My kneecaps are screaming balls of agony, I can’t move my head because my neck has seized, and my arms barely have the strength to lift a cup of coffee to my lips.

We stayed as still as possible all day.

Wednesday 28

Right, we’re on holiday, clearly not cycling (ever again), what shall we do?

Went to the cinema, a rare thing despite the fact we’re both huge film buffs (DVDs are infinitely cheaper).  We were going to see …

… The Da Vinci Code.

I’m a big Dan Brown fan (he spins a good yarn) and I’d read Da Vinci twice.  My partner, who thinks all fiction is a complete waste of time, had never read it.  I hoped he’d be able to follow the plot.

As we stood in the queue for our tickets, two women behind us were chatting.  “Have you seen the Da Vinci Code?” one asked.  “Yeah,” said the other, “It was dead boring.”

My Partner gave me a ‘this better be good’ look.  I gave him my best ‘trust me’ eyelash flutter.

We bought nachos and found seats in the almost empty theatre (it was only lunch time).  We chomped our way through the adverts, freezing in the intervals with our mouths full and almost choking with the effort not to make a noise (we looked like stunned hamsters).

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, the film started off pretty weighed down with info, and I hated the monk bit (stared at the ceiling while he self-flagellated, the poor bugger just needed a good hug).  But it was riveting.  I glanced at partner, who looked pretty riveted too (phew, relief).  Half way through he leaned towards me and whispered, “It’s the bloke with the sticks, isn’t it?”

I thought it was great, and so did partner.  Tom Hanks’ hair was a bit weird (I kept thinking run a comb through it!), and Audrey Tautou was a bit too girly for my liking, but definitely one to buy when it comes out on DVD.

If you haven’t seen it yet, go, now.

Thursday 29

Right, we’re on holiday, what shall we do?

There was a bit of searching on the internet for cheap flights to Paris (not sure what that was all about), but we eventually decided to Go To The Seaside.  Yay!  We decided on Barmouth in Wales and set off in the car in glorious sunshine.

The Welsh scenery is fantastic, all huge hills and deep green valleys and sheep, so many sheep, sheep everywhere.  (Why don’t sheep shrink in the rain like woolly jumpers in the wash?  You never see sheep after a rainstorm hobbling around wearing fleeces fifteen sizes too small do you). 

We arrived in Barmouth and thought, “Wow!”  A typical seaside town.  Very pretty.

Gobbled down a burger and raced across the soft sand to the sea.  The water was crystal clear.  I tossed aside my sandals and did my best slow-motion Baywatch impersonation into the water.  Partner did his ‘typical Englishman at the seaside’ act and rolled up his trousers.

Fabulous.  We paddled, we sauntered along the front watching people fishing, eating shellfish from polystyrene pots (followed by a flock of ravenous seagulls), absolutely chilled.  I took a phone photo of the boats bobbing on the water and sent it to Middle Son.  He sent me a picture of his office computer.  He’s working while I’m gallivanting, the tables turned at last!

A really, really nice day.

Friday 30

Right, we’re still on holiday, what shall we do?

Ikea, of course.  Had to be done.  Our living room is west facing and every night the sun blazes through the windows and we have to close the curtains to avoid being burned to a crisp.  So, after 24 years, it finally occurred to me that adjustable blinds might be a good idea.

Down the motorway and into the dreaded warehouse that promised to transform our home into a vision of Swedishness with furniture called 'Harold' and 'Bjorkudden'.  We weren’t tempted by the bedroom displays, we barely cast a glance at the kitchen area (although a cheese grater somehow found its way into my hands, not sure how).  We went straight to the blinds area and got what we wanted.  There was a dodgy moment as we walked through the plant area (“You have enough plants!” partner wailed.  “You can never have enough plants!” I wailed back), but I resisted magnificently.  2 blinds, 1 cheese grater, nothing else.  We were dead good.

11am.  We’re still on holiday, what else shall we do?

The sun was blazing and the temperature was hot enough to fry an egg on the car bonnet should the urge to fry an egg grab you.  Despite being a fervent gardener, I hadn’t been to Birmingham’s Botanical Gardens since I was little.  I’d been promising to take my partner for six years but, somehow, we never got round to it.

Now we could.

We raced through the glasshouses crying, “Bloody ‘ell it’s hot!” and made it outside without collapsing from heat exhaustion.  There we found a mad woman standing next to the cockatoo and parrot cages shouting, “Come on, Jenny, say hello!  Say hello, Jenny! Say hello, Jenny!”  The poor cockatoo looked quite stunned, probably too terrified to say anything as the woman hollered, “SAY HELLO!  COME ON, SAY HELLO!”

Out on the terrace we found some incredibly well dressed people.  Women in long dresses and men in morning outfits wandered around sipping elegantly from champagne glasses.  A wedding!  How interesting.  But really, who would hold a reception in a public place with crowds sitting around watching you have your photos taken whilst, in the background, chocolate covered children ran around shrieking hysterically? 

We wandered round the gardens hand in hand, marvelling at the plants and the serenity of it all in the middle of the city.  People walked passed discussing what they had in their gardens, how they looked after this plant and that plant – it was quite informative, a gardener’s paradise.  Not to be outdone, I pointed at things and loudly declared, “Our sunflowers are bigger than those” and “Tsk, those petunias could do with a bit of water.”

The peacocks screamed like starlets in a horror film, the sun shone, the plants bloomed and it was all so very calming.  Afterwards I hyperventilated in the garden centre, wanting to buy pretty much everything but settling for a flowering hosta.  We chatted to a woman in the gift shop about how to attract birds to her garden, she recommended copper strips to stop the slugs chomping their way through my garden.  All terribly civilised and pleasant.  I didn’t want to leave.

Afterwards, Partner did the power tool thing with the windows and, after almost a quarter of a century, we’re no longer blinded by evening sunlight … which is nice.

And for my next trick, The Truth About Office Life.  Be enthralled, be flabbergasted, be utterly amazed at the horrors and the sheer eye-watering arrogance of 'foot stamping princesses'. 

Be here to read it in next month's Brummie Blogs, coming soon to a computer screen near you.

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