HelenMaryCatherine

I totally

2008-11-05T14:30:00.000-08:00

need to start putting stuff on here again.

Thats it really.

More tomorrow.

x

Relax.

2008-01-05T03:17:00.000-08:00

I'm back. Woo. Breathe a collected sigh of relief. As it happens, my decision to begin writing again currently coincides with The Bear having misplaced some photography magazines. I HATE when he loses shit. At the moment I am adopting the facade of an exasperated parent, trying to ignore the swearing and the clattering and banging emanating from downstairs, occasionally shouting 'have you looked in the magazine rack DEAR?'

I am refusing to go and help. Primarily because I know I will walk downstairs to find him scratching his head (Itchy Head Syndrome being a sure sign of proper Rage), swearing, knocking stuff over, and within thirty seconds I will locate the offending items. In. The. Exact. Same. Place. I. Told. Him. To. Look. In. To. Begin. With.

Soon it is going to move into Phase Two. The 'Coming Up With Wild Irrational Theories' stage. In the past this has included 'The cats have fucking had them' (car keys) 'You planted that there to make me think I was going mental' (mobile phone, when it was in the car, where I said it was all along) and most recently (about six minutes ago) 'Ah-ha! You've stuffed them in with my comics!' Cue the frantic rummaging and potentially very expensive damage of several hundred 2000 AD and Marvel specimens. I didn't. The offending articles remain unfound. Until I have finished typing this anyway.

So. A massive gap again. This is primarily due to :

A) Abject laziness. No excuses, just was all despondent and that, and couldn't be arsed.

B) The House Move From Hell.

We left the Village Of Vampires (thats Rowhedge) at long last. It was possibly the worst move in history. Ever. To begin with we turned up to pick the keys for our new house, and the promised cleaning and re-decorating had not been completed. Either that, or perhaps its terribly 'now' in interior decorating to adopt 'Le Chic De Crack House'

Then we moved house. I dropped a fridge on my hand in the middle of the proceedings. I tore my hand open. It flapped all the way back and there was loads of blood, and you could see the fat and everything. The Bear was upset, I had an attack of Insta-Cry (TM) and we ruined some nice bedlinen by turning it into a tourniquet.

In what was probably the most depressing experience of my life, we cleaned well into the night at the old house, and then got back there for eight the following morning. When the hatchet-faced bitch of a landlady turned up, she walked imperiously around the house running her finger across skirting boards, saying things like 'Will you just give that a little wipe for me, yeah?' until my mind was flickering backwards and forwards at high speed with a plethora of violent images (smashing her face in with a hammer, then smearing it across the skirting board, whilst firmly and repeatedly kicking her in the vadge) It was a bit like that scene in the boat in the original Willy Wonka film. Only no sweeties at the end of it. And no Gene Wilder. But I bit my tongue. Mainly because the hideous old cunt had twelve hundred quid of our money. Most of which we did get back (bar a £3.50 deduction for a missing lightbulb) Yep. A lightbulb. Anyway, her husbands just been made redundant, so hopefully they will end up losing everything they own and living under a bridge. Fingers crossed.

We then had to go back to the new house. And clean that. I have to say, cleaning vomit (someone elses vomit, I might add) one handed, off a radiator, probably represents a new personal low for me. But whatever, its done now. The house looks lovely and we are comfortably ensconsed in the Dutch Quarter. And it fucking rules.

3. Christmas

The usual combination of gluttony, avoiding socialising (why is it at Christmas I get about twelfty billion invitations to go out drinking with people I used to work with? I don't even socialise with the ones I work with now. You would think they would take the hint after the sixth year of telling them that due to having been involved in a freak sparrowhawk incident I won't be able to make it) and all that. I got some nice presents from The Bear. Including in the next couple of weeks, a sewing machine. So I can actually start doing something about making clothes and that. Hopefully finding a creative outlet will stop me spending most of my working life silently screaming. Although I doubt it.

So er, thats it for now. I've ranted for quite long enough. More soon about mine and The Bears radical lifestyle overhaul. Its all edge of your seat stuff round these parts. Oh yes.

Another Day, Another Blog

2007-09-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

Not that I know why I bother, as no fucker ever comments me anymore. Not since I stopped blogging on the 'spaz. Probably because I'm not simply posting up grainy black and white photos of my shoes.

Well. This is real life dammit.

(Chill out boys, your photos are very nice, and I AM taking the piss)

I am concerned tonight. Mister Harman has gone skating and I can hear whooping outside. People who live in villages should not whoop. In fact, unless you live in Nowheretown, Middle America, then you shouldn't whoop. And even then it's questionable.

The Village (thats Rowhedge, not the disappointing film by M.Night Shamalamadingdong or whatever he's called) is starting to get right on my fucking tits. Friday night, we went to bed early (because, much as we hate to admit it, we are OLD) and at just gone midnight got woken up by some sort of to-do outside. Turns out that underneath our bedroom window was a fat woman with a pitbull, talking to a drunk man circling around in an unstable manner on a push bike. They were providing a running commentary on an even drunker woman who was wearing white denim, which is quite upsetting enough as it is, but who was crawling up the pavement making abortive attempts to grab what she claimed was her cat.

Cycle Man 'Where's she going then eh? hic!'

Fat Pitbull Lady 'Well Dave I dunno I feel really sorry for 'er. Its like what happened when my Barry left me innit?'

Etc etc. For about fifteen minutes. I decided to go for a wee, and promised myself if it was still going on then I would go postal. Upon my return it was, so I opened the window and screeched at them like a fishwife. I'm not proud, but it meant I could go back to napping. And to be frank, I wasn't that bothered about hearing about what happened when Barry ended up bumming Fat PitBull Lady's niece. Who incidentally, was just 18.

On Monday night even weirder goings on occurred. Mister Harman sat bolt upright at about half twelve yelling

'One of the cats is injured!'

And ran downstairs in his pants. The cats were sat in the kitchen looking nonplussed, and remarkably uninjured.

We returned to bed, by now, fully awake. Cats were scrapping outside. Thus the Harmans belief that ours were scrapping (despite our cats being overly pampered creatures, fat on Iams, who never actually leave the safety of the back garden, except to get stuck behind next doors shed). We calmed ourselves.

And then. The pan pipes started. Yes. The Fucking Pan Pipes. In Rowhedge. At one o'clock in the morning. Brilliant.

We are now moving out at the beginning of December. Not just cos of the pan pipes and Royston Vasey-esque goings on. Although that doesn't help. A move into town is just what I need.

What I need even more right now is a sleep. I got into work this morning at half six, I've been holepunched again, and I need a bloody nap.

Nigella has No Bite. Anymore

2007-09-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

I hate it when the people you look up to disappoint you.

I've just watched 'Nigella Express' The woman has become a caricature of herself. I always loved her despite her penchant for denim jackets and her peculiarly fat wrists. But now shes like an imbecilic rictus-grinned even more uber-posh shadow of her former self.

Fair enough (just about) poussin for a week night supper, although I can just imagine Mister Harmans face if I served him up 'midget chickens'. But caramel croissant pudding for an after the pub snack?

Does Nigella ever actually go out drinking? I know they showed her sipping demurely on champagne, but FFS. Most people are too busy smearing kebab in their eye, or spending fifteen minutes shouting at their front door out of frustration because the key won't go in the lock.

Are we going to come in and make CARAMEL? Something that I can barely do stone cold sober without creating a small house fire? Are we then going to whisk eggs into a hot caramel cream mixture without scrambling them? Are we then going to wait fifteen minutes for it to cook? Ladies and gentlemen...I give you ScramblyEggHouseFirePudding.

No thanks Nigella. I'm all for culinary experimentation, but when I'm horribly pissed, I'll settle for a bowl of crunchy nut.

I love

2007-09-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

...my best friend. Here is an old myspace blog which illustrates why. If it wasn't for her, I would have gone mad years ago. She is the tits.

So. Me and the Fox had a day out yesterday. We felt we deserved it, as we havent had a HelenandVickieDayOut for aaaaages.

I wanted to go to Lahhhhhdaaahhhnnn. She wanted to go to Bluewater. I gave in to her, as one of the prime reasons for going was for her to buy me presents.

Made it over to Kents little piece of Hades in record time. Three objectives consisted of getting a suit for Victoria, presents for me, and an outfit for a one year old.

Aimless wandering ensued, with Vickie shrieking about how fat she was whenever I picked a suit out for her. A detour to the Disney Store so that Vickie could try on witches hats and pull witchy faces whilst I took photos.

Then. Lunch. Subjects for discussion included who out of our friends is having affairs, Victorias general displeasure at her boyfriend (cue scared looking waiter nearly dropping a pile of crockery as Vickie announced 'Its only been eight months we should still be fucking ALL THE TIME!') and female circumcision (cue the same waiter nearly dropping dead as Victoria proclaimed 'Apparently in some countries, they sew the flaps up')

Then. Presents were bought. An ace wristband ('Boys are stupid throw rocks at them') and t shirt ('I'm a gold digger, its like a hooker, only smarter') from David and Goliath, and a stripy top thing and some accessories in Oasis. We managed to get Vickie a suit. We cooed over small clothes in Mothercare (I am still slightly worried about this) and purchased the child a nice outfit.

Then. Made our way home.

Except that 'Channel Tunnel' and 'Dartford Tunnel' are apparently interchangeable for Vickie. Either that or she wanted to abduct me to France.

Cue frantic phonecall to my Papa who managed to direct us back the right way. And then the best conversation ever, which started when we were talking about Lost

Vickie : 'Its all bollocks anyway, they would have eaten each other by now'

Me 'Well they dont need to, they have a sustainable food source'

V 'So, no one has said 'Why don't we eat each other?''

Me 'Nooooo'

V 'Oh right. Seems odd to me'

Me 'Remind me never to get on a plane with you again.'

V 'I'd totally eat you'

Me 'Wow. Remind me never to even share a bed with you again. I don't want to wake up in the night and find you gnawing at my shin'

V 'So you wouldn't eat me? Not even if you were hungry?'

Me 'I think I would be more traumatised about the fact that I had just been in a plane crash and my best friend was dead to be honest'

V 'You're overreacting. I would wait until you were dead. And I wouldn't eat your face.'

Me 'Thats the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me'

V 'Yeah I'd keep your head'

Me 'On a stick?'

V 'No in a jar'

Me 'So you're stranded on a desert island and you just so happen to have a human head sized jar laying around'

V 'No. I pack one every time I get on a plane. It would be good. I could take you out and talk to you, and stroke your hair. Sometimes I think I would give you crazy haircuts and put make up on you and that.'

Enough said really

Like a brother from another mother. But with girls, obviously.

Sunday Sunday

2007-09-02T06:55:00.000-07:00

Life has been taking over again. As has laziness. Thus minimal blogging for a while.

The Drama Llamas hit town again. I'm not going to go into details on here, those of you that know, know. Fortunately, we have plenty of amazing people around us who provide a faultless support network for Mark and I, for which we are incredibly grateful.

In any case, the end result of all the grief (not to mention this fucking medication) is that I am given to the fairly regular outbursts of inexplicable tears. This is a disturbing, and hopefully temporary phenomena.

I am not a 'crier'. A dear friend of mine once commented that she thought I only cried on average, once every six years. Not anymore...the floodgates are well and truly open. The television schedules have become a veritable minefield. Miami Ink, various wildlife documentaries, wedding programmes, all of these have made me well up recently.

The pinnacle of them all was watching 'When The Levee Breaks', Spike Lee's documentary about the aftermath of the disaster in New Orleans.

Until Mark came into the room. As we watched the distressing scene of an eighty five year old woman being taken back to the remnants of her house he snapped

Old Woman 'Whats that china cabinet doing there? That don't got no business being over there'

Mark 'OH MY GOD. Do you realise what happened here? Do you? 70ft of water came through your house, at about a hundred miles an hour. It doesn't have any respect for feng shui or placement of knick-knacks!!!'

Suffice to say its hard to carry on crying in that situation.

In any case. This weekend has been good, and has definitely lifted my spirits somewhat. Friday night was Stick On Beard night. We went to Vickies, drank wine, ate chilli, and wore stick on beards. Watching Vickie sing 'Baby Got Back' on kareoke, whilst wearing a giant black bushy beard, is a memory that will never leave me.

Russ' 30th was last night. I don't think I have laughed so much in a very long time. Good company, good Pimms, and amazing food, thanks to Heathers hostess skills.

Bad stuff happening makes you appreciate your friends more I think. And we are very very lucky to have the ones we do.

I'm off to make a roast chicken dinner. Laters.

The end result.

2007-08-12T12:22:00.001-07:00

Yep. Then I end up barefoot on the grounds of a beautiful house, thinking I am Karen O or something.

God I'm a knob.

Here Comes The Bride Part Two

2007-08-12T12:13:00.000-07:00

Friday night ended up being quite messy, and finished off at about one. On Saturday morning we all had The Worlds Most Disappointing Breakfast (TM) and set about getting ready.

The venue was perfect, the ceremony made me cry. We all looked the part, I wore a retro frock and a hat, The Bear was all suited and booted.

However, two hours of drinking kir royales, not to mention the Pimms, in the sun, then wine with our meal, champagne for toasting, then onto more wine, and I seem to remember vodka, and I was feeling extremely 'refreshed'

The hat was off. The shoes were off. The make up was looking a bit smeary. Eventually you go outside the venue...and then....

Here Comes The Bride

2007-08-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

So. Claire and Damo's wedding this weekend in Chippenham. A beautiful part of the world and a beautiful wedding.

We took Friday off to travel down. It ended up taking five hours instead of three, The Bear had road rage to whole other level by the time we arrived. A beer soon sorted him out. The boys went to the village where Damian was staying, us girls hung out with the bride at her hotel (which was MUCH more glamorous than ours, but ours was called The Bear so had a greater comedy value) It all started out quite civilised.

Feeding Time

2007-08-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

So. After weeks of being stuck indoors, I was understandably very keen to spend a great deal of time outdoors this weekend in the good weather. Indeed, as much time as possible.

But it would appear that everything has a price.

The price in this case being 37 mosquito bites.

Yep, count em, 37.

Featuring, one on my jawline, one on my right hand, two on my left, one on the arch of my right foot, and no less than six on one arse cheek.

Plus a plethora of others. And as I react badly to being bitten, they are all large, hard, angry looking welts now.

We have a wedding to go to on Saturday. I have a beautiful outfit planned, but at this rate I will have to go in a burkha, to prevent myself from becoming a gnat buffet again.

Fucking Excellent.

Lawns and Frocks.

2007-08-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Yeah so I'm back. Phew. Bet you're all relieved.

I say back, but I haven't actually been anywhere. Just not been doing this gubbins. Chiefly because of...well, i was going to write a list of frankly lame excuses, but what it boils down to is just laziness.

So. Things which have been happening with me. In a list like format :

1. Wedding Dress Shopping.

Me and the Fox went round some of Colchesters finest bridal shops. I say finest, but we went to three and there is to my knowledge, only four. I fully expected to hate everything I tried on, and true to form, I mostly did. With one exception. The second dress I tried on in the first shop was everything I didn't want in a dress, but it made the Fox well up, and made me feel like Scarlett O'Hara. I have since taken Kaffina Del Kaffage back to see it, and she cried and told me I looked like Audrey Hepburn. I know that this is of course, utterly fucking absurd, and patently untrue, but I do like the dress. A lot.

The second shop we went to had dresses that started at about 1,800 quid. I love fashion, but I think that is obscene. We wandered about anyway, selected five to try on, and waited for the women to come and help. They didn't. We waited for twenty minutes and ran out of the shop (literally). The longer I stood there the more uncomfortable the place made me. They had an entire section of pink wedding dresses, covered with crystals and fuck knows what else, that Jordan would probably have turned down on the grounds of being too ostentatious. The pink monstrosities just lurked menacingly in the corner, looking like a Barbie factory had thrown up. I couldn't take the pressure.

By the time we hit the third (and most stuck up) shop we had consumed a large lunch, with wine. Almost everything in the shop was too small. And oddly, too understated. I don't want a dress that makes me look like a baked Alaska, but I do want to feel special. Oddly, (possibly as a result of the wine) Ma MacGregors voice had come into my head by this point, doing her critical Jewish mother routine.

The (incredibly stuck up) woman put me in a plain silk satin number.

'What do you think?'

'I think my mother would say it looks like I've come out in my nightie'

Pursed lipped and muttering something about nighties not generally costing fifteen hundred quid she shuffled off, and returned with a halterneck number.

'Well?'

'She would say it makes me look like Titsy Galore.'

Incidentally, I have no idea who Titsy Galore is. I think my Mum just made her up. But its always been shorthand for 'You look like a two bit hooker, put the shirt potatoes away'

So we found a dress and I upset some old women. A good day all in all.

2. The Crazy Neighbour.

Or Old Gobbo as Kaff has taken to calling her. (I really like Old Gobbo as a name, but I'm sure it was a character who lived in the Faraway Tree)

Somewhere nearby lives a crazed single mother. Recently she has taken to waking us up either in the early hours of the morning or late at night by screaming some of these choices phrases at her toddlers.

'Fuck you, shut the fuck up'

'Get the fuck off me'

'Daddy hates you and is never coming to see you'

I could go on. I snapped the other weekend and stuck my head out of the window and screamed at her to shut up, much like a fishwife. The Bear was mortified, and wrestled me back to the bed and put his hand over my mouth. He explained that he wanted to deal with it in a British way. That is, sitting inside getting more and more angry but not saying anything about it.

I want to report her. I think its unacceptable. But as I dont know where she lives this might be a problem. The Fox has suggested we dress up as bins and shuffle about the neighbourhood until we work out where she resides. It may come to that.

3. The Lawn

We hadn't cut our grass for a disgusting eight weeks. I started it today. The small Flymo was having a great deal of trouble coping with the Amazonian type undergrowth. The Bear found me in the garden, head in hands, in utter despair, surveying the garden, which with its bare patches and huge tufts of grass combination, closely resembled a mental patients haircut.

What it essentially boils down to is, I'm not good with gardens. I don't understand people who spend hours in them, gardening. My garden is for laying in with a glass of wine and a really good book.

In any case, The Bear took over, muttering something about if you want something doing, do it yourself. And now it is done.

Barbecue today, barbecue tomorrow. Thank God that the summer has finally arrived. Hurrah.

Ennui and Laziness

2007-07-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

We have been proper idle all weekend.

Yesterday the only time we left the house was to go to Tescos for supplies. Other than that, we mostly slept. Finally persuaded Monsieur Harman that we should watch Casino Royale. I fancied something non-cerebral, with explosions. He usually doesn't object to this. But is aware of my previous burgeoning obsession with Daniel Craig. In actual fact, whilst I quite fancied him in Our Friends In The North, and Layer Cake, my ardour cooled completely when Mark pointed out that he actually bears more than a passing resemblance to Sid James. The scene where he emerges from the waves in small trunks would not have quite the same effect if, as he walked up the beach, he was making faintly offensive misogynistic remarks to anything in a bikini.

Thus I have gone off him. In any case, the film was, as you would expect, a silly Hollywood bit of fluff. But good fun. Although there was far too much lovey dovey smoochy nonsense towards the end. I enjoyed it, and now Mark wants to be a secret agent.

Today has been similarly non eventful. We had an indecently long lie-in. Mark regaled me with a description of his nightmare from the night before (whole world gets taken over by zombies, is up to the crack team of Mark, Kanye West and errr...Gok Wan from Channel 4's How To Look Good Naked to kill them all) Mark has now gone skating, and I, against the advice of Ella, have just been for a two mile run (she told me I shouldn't run with a head cold) Turns out that the head cold was the least of my worries. On the way back, something went 'ping!' in my right foot, much like an elastic band.

I have no idea what. But it really fucking hurts. So I am off to get the tiger balm. And have (yet another) restorative nap.

And Baby makes three

2007-07-07T03:54:00.000-07:00

Calm yourselves. I am not suggesting there is to be a new edition to the Harman household. Far from it.

There is a great deal of pregnancy absolutely everywhere I look at the moment.

I have decided I have nothing other than the utmost admiration for my pregnant friends. Not only having to deal with the changes to their bodies, and the craziness of fluctuating hormones, but the dismaying fact that being pregnant seems to instantly make you public property.

A good friend of mine was commenting recently on the invasion of her personal space, with almost complete strangers thinking it is acceptable to touch her bump. This strikes me as kind of creepy. And not something I imagine I could deal with in any other manner than swiftly slapping their inappropriate paws off. But the real problem has to be the giving of unsolicited advice.

Babies are obviously a truly happy event. And people wanting to talk to you about it, is obviously both natural, and fine. But it would appear that the impending arrival prompts people to foist their opinions on you in a way that just would not happen with any other subject. Some of what I have been witnessing recently :

1. Opinions on childbirth, and how to deal with it, being given, in some cases, by people who don't even have children yet.

I have on more than one occasion, been truly surprised by my pain threshold. But then, I have never attempted to squeeze something the size of a chicken out of a hole the size of my nostril. I would not therefore react in a sneery way to pregnant ladies who suggest that they will want an epidural. I will sit and nod sagely, whilst privately thinking that A) it isn't really my business as B) I don't think anything will have prepared you for that, least of all having your fucking wisdom teeth out and C) when my time comes, GIVE ME ALL THE DRUGS. Even the ones not related to labour.

2. The Competition Factor

'Oh you got that from Mothercare did you? Well, we got Noah/Araminta/Insertwankynamehere a travel system from Harrods, Only the best for our little one.'
Your baby is going to be completely unaware whether it has the latest 'travel system' with retina scanner, rocket launcher and other multiple gadgets, made out of gold. The said buggy (because thats what they are) does not need to cost twelfty billion pounds. Because the wee one won't know, or care. They want to be fed, warm, dry, and loved. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a bit of a fucking spond. And you wouldn't buy a couture gown for your incontinent nan to wear round the care home, so designer togs for the sprogs are also stupid. They will just get covered in milky vom.

3. The Sneering Factor

'Well, SHES looking thin. I certainly NEVER looked like THAT after MY baby'

So said someone, lets call them Person X, just a few days ago, about a new mum, lets call her Person Y. Person X is an idiot. Person Y is probably genetically fortunate. Everyone is different, every pregnancy is different. Person Y didn't look thin in a Nicole Richie way. And the then ensuing implication that she was somehow a not very good mum, was gratuitously spiteful, and almost certainly untrue. Person X might like to consider that Person Y probably didn't use her pregnancy as an excuse to mainline eclairs all day. I agree that the current celebrity skinny mother presents a horribly unrealistic image to live up to. But I also think that if Person X thinks two bags of wine gums, a slab of gateau, a catering size bag of kettle chips, two kit kats and a Twix, BEFORE lunch is ok for her baby, then she probably wants her fucking head checked. Fair enough, take care of yourself, avoid the stuff that could be harmful, don't diet, and eat for two. But unless the 'two' you are eating for is you, and Johnny Vegas, then that much scran is just not right.

4. The Gina Ford Factor

So once the small person is here, it appears you have to contend with people telling you how to raise them as well! Brilliant. And not just the people who write books and do those problem child programmes. But people you barely know! Excellent. Bedtime routines, what you should be feeding them...blah blah blah. Fixing a nosebag of Haribo to their face and plonking them in front of CBeebies is obviously not the way forward unless you want them to end up on a colony of feral children on the Isle Of Man (this doesn't, as far as I am aware, actually exist, but judging by Tescos on a Saturday, perhaps it should), but Christ! A friend of mine was talking recently about his three year olds party, where some cherub reached for a cocktail sausage, only to have it smacked out of her hand by Mummy who explained 'India is a vegetarian'. Well, obviously. At three years old you are equipped to make those kind of lifestyle choices. India (who had Mozart played to her in the womb, and is already being made to read 'the classics') will probably either end up with a prodigious coke habit, or hanging herself at sixteen because she is convinced she didn't do that well in her GCSE mocks. Laissez-faire might not be the right way, but kids should be kids, not show-dogs. Let them climb trees and eat mud.

You will all know when I become pregnant. It will be the day Mark whisks me off to live on a deserted island, for fear that I might end up killing someone who criticises us for not buying a Bugaboo.

Todays Breaking News

2007-07-04T04:50:00.000-07:00

....is that I have decided I don't really like bananas, as they are too banana-y.

I know this makes little or no sense.

I am starting to slowly but surely feel better. Which can only be good news. All doctors are still knobs though.

We had a rad night in last night. Sal and Sandy came over. We ate bangers and mash and watched the CSI season finale. I got shrieky when I thought they had killed Grissom off, but then they didn't. I am utterly bummed that I have to wait a year to find out what happens next. This both sucks, and blows.

Today is going to be a slow burn of utter ennui I think. I can't focus on anything, I just want to go to the gym and then go home to eat some mackerel. Such is my exciting life.

The Fox just sent me an email which says 'what gives sister?'

This made me laugh so hard I spat some banana on my work. Gross. But the point is, we all need to make an effort to speak more like Beatniks.

Carry On Doctor. On second thoughts, don't.

2007-06-27T04:40:00.000-07:00

In an ironical turn of events, The Fox forgot to bring Post-Its. She did however bring a jar of whisky marmalade, so I can forgive her this. Although as I am supposed to be adopting a wheat-free regime, I am not sure how this will work. Marmalade is only any good on bread really. Proper bread, not that spelt stuff which could easily double as a weapon in most cases.

Wednesday finds me housebound again, like a consumptive character in a period novel. I made it into the office on Monday and Tuesday. Which was good. Being out of the house felt slightly odd. Being around lots of people felt slightly odd. But I soon adjusted. Then ended up feeling like shit again.

Ended up back at the doctors yesterday. Have decided I hate doctors for the most part. Well, not hate them. But certainly don't have any faith in them.

Yesterday went something like this

Me 'I'm losing a lot of blood, and I'm in a lot of pain.'

Posh Doctor 'Oh dear. Well thats not very good, is it?'

Uncomfortable silence. Posh Doctor is smiling benevolently.

Me 'Ummm no. So.....?'

Posh Doctor 'Oh right. I suppose I'd better look at my dictionary of medicine'

Ten minutes pass, he rummages through pages. Some tumbleweeds roll past (in my mind, at any rate)

Posh Doctor 'Yep. Thats definitely not very good. I need to talk to my colleague. Hes not here until tomorrow. In the meantime, I will give you something to stop the bleeding that will give you an upset stomach.'

Fucking excellent. Six years of medical school. None of the answers. With all the various stuff I am taking at the moment (medicines, supplements etc) I am starting to feel like The Old Lady Who Swallowed A Fly. Yesterdays episode of medical indifference would not have been so bad were it not for the fact that it follows hot on the heels of last weeks episode.

Me 'I just wanted you to look at my stitches and bruising and check that they are OK.'

Other Doctor (not looking at stitches or bruising) 'Are you running a temperature?'

Me 'Well, shouldn't you check that?'

As far as diagnostic tools go in this age of enlightenment, asking a patient if they have something isn't the best. 'Have you got cancer? No? AIDS? No? The screaming eeebiejeebies? No? Good. On your way then'

I didn't have a temperature, the thermometer told us this. So. I asked him about the medication I was due to have. Wanting a brief synopsis of what it does, and what the side effects were, etc. Essentially, just looking for some medical reassurance.

Other Doctor (shrugs) 'I don't know anything about it.' (starts tapping away on computer)

Me 'Are you looking it up on Google? Because I can do that myself'

Other Doctor (ignoring me) 'Its VERY expensive'

Me 'So? I've paid a lot of tax. You know what, forget it, I'll ask the nurse'

What I really wanted to say was 'Funny. So...when are you sending me in to see the real doctor?' But I held back. Its almost enough to drive someone to hippie medicine.

Now where did I put that homeopaths number....?

Insomnia and other nightmares.

2007-06-23T03:14:00.000-07:00

My beloved had snores reaching epic proportions last night, due to the consumption of several cans of Stella. Meaning that even above Broken Social Scene at full volume on the i-pod I could still hear his unique brand of noise pollution, which for the uninitiated, sounds like a cross between some malfunctioning Victorian bellows, and an aggravated bull elephant. I resorted to retiring to the spare room for a few hours but even this didn't work.

This village makes too much noise at night. Last night, between the hours of one and two the silence was punctuated by the following :

1. dogs howling
2. numerous women clip-clopping by
3. what sounded for all the world like someone roller-skating into a pile of crockery.

The first two were far too eerily reminiscent of noises you would expect to find in a cheap horror film, the third, much like a standard sound effect in a kids cartoon. Just adding weight to the fact that I find this place a bit sinister. Nothing against this village in particular, just villages in general. Every time I go wandering through it, I think of Straw Dogs. Or Royston Vasey.

I'm not alone in this. A recent visit from Kaff, on the day of our enagagement party, required that she visit the village shop, due to us running out of icing sugar. On her return she breathlessly exclaimed 'Three people said good morning to me!' in a tone that would suggest they had just tried to kidnap her, or had bared their arse, rather than bestowed a greeting. But she has a point. And the point is, if you haven't been raised in a village, you get creeped out by them. Quite right too, bring on the move into town, I say.

In other news, my injections are now fully beginning to take effect. Primarily, the hot flushes have fully taken hold. But secondly, and rather more upsettingly, they are making me lose my mind a bit. I am spaced out and forgetting where things go or where I have put them, and I walk into rooms and instantly forget why I have gone there in the first place. I like to organise things with military precision, so I don't really know how I will cope with all this. The mother in law has suggested gingko bilboa for memory loss, and The Fox is coming round later with some Post-Its.

Expect the MJH house to be a sea of yellow stationery any day now.