Thank You Gentlemen.

IT'S OVER.

Those nice gentlemen from Drains Aid, they contract for Yorkshire Water, were here before we were even out of bed this morning, and bless them they were trying to tip toe around so that they wouldn't wake us. They were brilliant and everything was sorted by early afternoon. Smelling all wonderful and Pine fresh and they didn't just put the garden back as it was, it's even better.

So my heartfelt thanks to you gentlemen, you really have done a great job, not just in restoring my drains to working order, or my garden back to a beautiful oasis, but much more than that you carried out your work with a great deal of empathy, curtesy and above all determined efficiency. Not something you get very often these days. No tea breaks, although the large glasses of juice were gratefully accepted and drunk whilst working. So you have also restored my faith in British workman.

I'm sorry gang for harping on, but all too often we tend to give 'feedback' on the negatives and have a rant about things that don't work, or people who have given us bad service. But how often do we applaud a job well done or even worse forget to say thank you?

Oh Pooh!! (Caution, if you are eating, finish before you read this.)

On Sunday afternoon we had a storm of monsoon proportions.

After the rain had stopped his Lordship and I went outside to enjoy the post storm sun. And above is the sight that greeted us. Our garden had become a lake... we stood on the decking watching as the water rose.

Eventually the entire garden was submerged in four inches of water. It came bubbling up from the manhole cover in the back garden.

That was Sunday!

Today is Thursday! For the last four and a half days I have endured, the increasing stench of RAW SEWAGE, yes, RAW SEWAGE, all manner of unmentionable waste products floating about merrily in my back garden. As the temperatures have begun to soar over the past couple of days those nasty little pongy, whiffy organisms that enjoy this muck have begun to breed, and there is now a thick coating of frothy slime, seeping under the deck and hiding in corners. So what I am doing about it? Well so far three different teams of men have turned up, each has tried in vain to sort out the blockage. If another workman stands in my back garden scratching his chin and sighing, I will personally christen him in my new lake.

After much poking, prodding, sighing, tutting and some investigation, they have discovered that the main drain has collapsed down the road, some eighty metres away. Now forgive me for being a little crude here, but when I've completed my 'ablutions', I flush and move on. I do not expect to see the aforementioned deposits again. So it is somewhat disconcerting to have several burly chaps wading around and poking around in, well, my more intimate doings. I am not sure however that I take any solace in the fact that they are probably indistinguishable from those of the other dozen or so households whose 'doings' are now frequenting my garden.

They have assured me that they will clean up my garden and replace the paving etc. When, well that is entirely another matter. It is already 22 degrees and it is not yet mid morning. There I shall leave you, thankfully, not with the pungent aroma of sewer that is currently seeping through my home.

I Do Exist.

The young woman stood on the side of the platform at the train station. Her sobs inconsolable. Her reasoning impaired. Not drink. Something far worse, depression, medication, a world of issues too difficult to express. Her life falling away and her crys for help unheard.

Most noticibly by the ticket collector who had ignored her pleas for help and thrown her off the train and abandoned her, without a second thought. On a dark and empty station miles from anywhere.

Desperate she dialled a number and waited eagerly for her Mother to pick up, although she was over two hundred miles away, she needed someone who could understand her fear and although not able to physically hold her, could speak the words whose magic only came from knowing that she was loved.

Had her disability shown, there would have been compassion, understanding, assitance. But her scars are hidden, and so the world carried on as though she did not exist. She became a 'non' person.

Island of a Thousand Palms. (Part l)

Well my little foreign cultural exchange experiment went swimmingly.

Our flight took off on time, we only had to wait an hour after the stated time for the check in desk to open, and of course as always I had to go through the security scanning machine several times. removing ever more items of clothing until at last sick of the constant beeping, and with possibly the worry that the whole terminal might get rather embarrassed should they continue I was waved through with a dogged resilience on the part of the security bods. I have never discovered the reason for my wonderful ability to comfound the machines, but it never fails. Believe me when I say that I am on intimate terms with several security officers at a number of airports.

His Lordship and I were not sat together on the aircraft unfortunately, but he managed to get the two old biddies, who wanted to tell him all about their lovely cat and their great-grandchildren... they had a lot of them and ample time to kill during the three hour flight, they had photos too :) He emerged at the other end with a rather glazed expression and face ache from all the attentive smiling and nodding.

I on the other hand managed to secure the only two other 'normal' looking people on the plane. A young couple on only their second post wedding holiday, ahh! Not flippin ahh at all. They may have looked about 25 years old, but they were as old as Methuselah, good grief, I felt positively pubescent next to them. As we settled into the flight, I immersed myself in my first book, one of the many I devoured over the course of the week, then he committed the first cardinal sin, he wanted to 'chat', but I had an open book in my hands. Hint, hint!! Noo, undeterred he ploughed on.

"Ooh, look we're reading the same book." He cooed.

"Mm." I nodded and smiled.

"What page are you on?"

"Eight." I replied.

"Huh, not a very fast reader then." he pointed out smugly.

"No, unfortunately I seem to be having a little trouble concentrating. I don't know why." I smiled my most sweet sycophantic smile.

He grinned and rifled through the pages of his book to, page seventeen. I resumed my labour and took several deep breaths... a couple of minutes of sheer bliss, then!

"Heck, fancy getting the job of your dreams one minute and then being brutally murdered the next, that's a shame, I really liked her." he suddenly blurted.

Alrighty, he had just commited the second cardinal sin, I'm on page eight, he's on page seventeen, the only 'her' in the book is in rude health at the moment, making plans for her future. HINT, FLAMING HINT. And thus our journey together continued. His final comment to me as we dissembarked, "I've really enjoyed talking to you it's so good when you meet a person with like mind and literary interest." I'm sorry I felt no guilt or shame for the monosyllabic content of my part in our conversation, or the constant images flashing through my tortured mind of limbs being torn asunder and general mayhem and carnage occurring in row 13, seats b and c.

And so we had arrived at our destination, the heat of late afternoon hazed over the tarmac of the runway and an incredible deep azure blue sky beckoned as we stepped from the plane.

The Eagle Has Landed.

I'm back. I arrived home at 5am this morning, so I'll catch up with you tommorow. Thanks for taking care of the place whilst I was away.

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It's the Admiral's turn to blow the trumpet on another awful book. I wondered when someone was going to get around to one of my favourite 'gongs' The Da Vinci Code. I'm with you Poopie, I cannot abide this awful excuse for a novel.

Back Soon.

Well gang I'm sunning myself in far off climes. I will be back on the 7th of May to catch up with you all and share the results of my little cultural exchange experiment.

Don't get up to mischief whilst I'm away, no wild parties, and make sure you keep the place tidy, I don't want to come home to a weeks worth of dishes in the sink. Oh and if you could get me some milk for when I get back, I'd appreciate it, I'll need a cuppa.

By the way gang, why don't you take a trip over and introduce yourselves to Kate and Beki while I'm away.

Celebration Time.

I did it. I am now officially a member of the working class.

Not only did I get the job, but they even threw in extra money to secure me!! They obviously don't know me that well, I'd have been happy whatever they offered. I should start in a couple of weeks time. So with that in mind his Lordship and I are going on a much needed jaunt, we fly off to Djerba on Saturday morning and we shall be sitting under one of the thousand palm trees reading a book or snoozing for a week. I can't wait.

Another Step Closer.

I'm sorry for the delay in reporting back. I had my neice and her nice young man staying over yesterday. By the way he is an IT whizz and did all sorts of wonderful things with my PC, he mended things I didn't even know were broken.

Well I went for my 'meeting' with the nice young woman from the agency. I was interviewed, tested and assessed to within an inch of my life. The only thing they don't have on file is my cup size. I'm pleased to report back that 'professionally' I am in tip top condition. So all of the nitty gritty out of the way she explained what the job entailed. It was everything I was looking for in terms of hours, pay, holidays and what's more it transpires that it will be a very interesting position. The catch in her view is the 'client base', it's working with ex-cons and some who are still being a bit naughty. In my view it sounds just up my street, I am after all the patron saint of lost causes, what more could they want?

I have an interview with the company tommorow morning. So wish me luck.
Ad posse ad esse!

Possibly Working Girl!

I have been a very busy bunny over the last few days. Yes I know... me! Wait for it, I have decided to join the 'working classes', I am getting a job. After a moment of madness on Friday I decided to dip my toe back in the water and see what bites. I didn't think there would be much on offer, after all lets be honest I'm not exactly young free and single, but I thought they may be able to find me an opening as a tea lady perhaps.

So I dug out my CV and after dusting off the cobwebs from this venerable tome, I did a little re-jigging and zapped it through the ether to a couple of agencies. Then off to the shops with JT for a little light relief. I have to say I didn't hold out much hope, I had been rather specific on what I was and was not prepared to do. Part time only, no full days, I do have other interests, nothing dull or boring, oh and it must be well paid. So imagine my surprise when on my return home there were two messages on my answer machine.

The first was from a very nice young woman from the 'slaves R us' agency, she was as you would expect very, very, bright and enthusiastic, so much so that I have to be honest and say that after five minutes on the phone with her I was exhausted. Anyway I agreed to go in and see her and have a chat. One of us will definetly need some chill out sweeties before we meet, anyway that's later in the week. Before I dared call the next one back I thought I had better prepare myself, so I made myself a very large Earl Grey and headed for the phone.

The young woman who answered was again enthusiastic, but not quite so animated as the previous character, thankfully, at least she didn't talk eighty words to the minute and I could get a word in edgeways. After confirming the details of my CV, a little tricky as I didn't actually have a copy of the aforementioned fiction in front of me, she announced with great satisfaction that she had a position that would be ideal. WHAT! It is part time? Tick. Interesting? Tick. Well paid? Tick. And what's more there is 28 days holiday a year, plus stats. So what's the catch? I'm meeting up with her at 3pm this afternoon, so I'll let you know when I find out.

Gasbag Review - Nightmare

It is the turn of our Gasbagger Nightmare to review this week. So Check out his review of 'Up Town Girls' here.

If you would like to join the Gasbaggers then follow this link.

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Admiral Pooper Scooper - Roll me over Royce in my Rolls Royce

Rhonda - Artificial Intelligence

OneEar - What to Expect Misses Expectations

St Jude - Tall Poppies

Meg - The Truth About Diamonds

Sven - Harry Potter And The Goblet of Fire

Anonymity.

There has over the last week or so been a number of references to anonymity amongst the blogging fraternity on a variety of blogs that I have visited. It started me thinking of why, exactly, did I take that route. It's taken some mulling, let me tell you!

My own reasons for taking the path of concealment were simple, to begin with. I was unsure if I would be able to make a blog work, and rather than unveil myself to the world as a potential failure, I decided to create my quasi-character. Nothing earth shattering there, I am simply being honest, I would rather fall on my backside in privacy, thank you, than in public. I assume most of you are the same?

Another reason for choosing anonymity was to allow me to have an 'uncluttered' arena for my writing. That is to say, I could if I wish write on any subject I like without the constraints of having to consider the opinions or reactions of people who know me. Yes I know the Captain and my sister JT do read this blog, but they know me well enough by now, I hope, to have a good idea of where I stand on most things. But that last point also leads onto another reason. I also chose to maintain anonymity for my family. Quite simply they did not sign up for this blog as I did, they are here by association and as such have a right to remain anonymous. It is for that reason that I would never use their real names or include their photographs.

However as time has gone on and my experience of this 'blogging' community has grown, I have begun to establish new reasons for remaining anonymous. I have, before I go any further, to point out that on whole I have 'met' a lot of people whose' company I have enjoyed and still enjoy, and although I have only known them for a short time, I consider them friends. Still, it is never as it seems this 'other' world. I cannot dictate who has access to my blog, so far I have chosen to allow free comments to anyone who cares to drop by. Yet this is still strange and somewhat unnerving at times. My 'door' is always open and I am always here to listen to what you have to say, whether I would actually like to hear it or not. Not so in the real world, but here in lies the paradox;

Why then can I still be hurt, offended or 'intimidated' by comments in a box, or in another persons blog? They are not physical, the person doing this has no contact with me other than their imagined context. I am merely an aging photograph attached to a screen name. No, I am a person behind the mask of anonymity, who despite all of her misgivings, albeit in a lighter vein, under the guise of superficialdom and fluff, shares her life, thoughts and perhaps one day her dreams. I have discovered that I am no less exposed than those of you who choose to share your true identities.

Gasbag Review - Sven

It's Svens turn this week to entertain us with his review of J K Rowlings 'The Goblet of Fire', Sporadic Gasbag vs Excessive Windbag. I know who gets my vote.

If you would like to join the Gasbag Roundtable, then follow this link. The more the merrier. If you would like to catch up with the previous posts then follow the links below.

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Admiral Pooper Scooper -

Roll Me Over Royce In My Rolls Royce
Rhonda - Artificial Intelligence
OneEar - What To Expect Misses Expectations
St Jude - Tall Poppies

Meg - The Truth About Diamonds

The 'Natives' are Revolting.

I was just reading Admiral Pooper Scoopers latest post and it got me thinking. Yes I have been known to on occasion. He mentioned the scorpions and big hairy spiders that inhabit his neck of the woods, or should I say desert to be correct. We don't have that kind of problem here, our wildlife are all... well rather civilised.

There's lots of it, but on the whole they are harmless. Oh yes you could get a nasty tickle from a jimmy spinner, Crane fly,

Or bumped on the bonce by an out of control bumble bee. I love to watch people flapping about when one of these things approaches.

You may even manage to raise a nasty stare from a squirrel...

But on the whole, the natives are really quite sedate in their day to day lives.

Then that last statement got me thinking again... twice in one day. Because you see that cute little chap above, the squirrel, not poopie, is not actually a native, he arrived in the mid 19th Century. This is our native squirrel;

Unfortunately this little chap is now under serious threat of extinction, for two main reasons, it's habitat is under threat from us and the grey squirrel, giving the evils above, although not aggressive to the red squirrel, is better at competing for food, it has a wider diet and can eat seeds and nuts before they are fully ripe, unlike the red squirrel.

When I moved South to Kent a decade ago, our garden was home to hundreds of common frogs.

During late March they would descend on our pond and we would hear the deafening cacophony of the frogs chorus throughout the evenings, heralding the onset of spring. A few days later the pond would be a seething mass of frogspawn. I had no need for slug control, the frogs were my slug soldiers, my plants flourished. Then four years ago the chorus began to wane, as did the frogspawn. The following year a mere handful of frogs arrived. My little soldiers were losing their battle. Not against the slugs, who were happily munching their way through my now unprotected plants, but against a terrible virus that was imported with fish intended for garden ponds from Israel and the States. My little friends had no immunity to this terrible virus. The following year only two frogs arrived. This year there were none. They are now being replaced by another import, the bull frog, courtesy of another garden centre craze that went wrong, when so many of them escaped or were released when children got bored with them.

So here we go, I'm on for a hat trick of thoughts. Talking of natives and endangered species, when, if ever does an imported species become native? Is the Bull frog, now a native of this island, in terms of, it has settled in and is happily living here and breeding here? Is the Grey squirrel a native, by virtue of the fact that it now populates every corner of the island and has been in habitation here for almost two centuries. Or is the absolute winner in this contest the Roman snail.

It was introduced here by the Romans, so it's had plenty of time to settle in then, and it now has the double whammy of being on the list of species that is in danger of becoming extinct here, so we accept it's right to be here enough to want to protect it from disappearing from our shores. And why are these little 'suckers' so endangered... escargot, yummy garlic flavoured snot in a shell!!

The Yorkshire Tropics

The packing fairies have been visiting this weekend. It's been great catching up with them. As we are suffering from a bad dose of April showers at the moment, we decided to take a trip to Tropical World, just down the road from us. Indoors, warm and most importantly dry. The day before, on their journey up from Kent, the packing fairies had decided to call Mrs Beeton and ask her if she would like to accompany us. She had said yes.

Shortly before we were due to set off, the telephone rang;

"Hello." I answered, as you would.

"Oh hello, it's only me, (Mrs Beeton), I was just thinking, would you prefer to go to the garden centre instead, they have animals there you know."

Now I should point out at this stage that Mrs Beeton is not the best explorer, she tends to prefer familiar ground, which for her is the local supermarket or the garden centre, and she likes to get her own way.

"I'm not sure that Bizziebot, (grandchild #1), would fully appreciate the garden centre, she is sort of looking forward to seeing the insects etc at Tropical World." I replied.

"Hmm, well you don't really need me there do you I'll be alright here on my own."

"It's not a case of 'needing' you there so much as they would like you to be there." I was trying to stay polite. Mrs Beeton has a way of making steam appear from places you didn't know existed.

"Well this weather is so awful, it doesn't seem fair to take the little ones out in it. You could come round here if you like. If it were me I wouldn't take them out in this rain but then I suppose times change, don't they."

Yes they bloody well do, we don't use Shanksies pony anymore, we have cars. No we are not going to the garden centre, or to your house, we are going to Tropical World, with or without you.

"Yes I suppose they have. You don't have to worry about the children, they are well wrapped up and we will be in the car and then inside when we get there. So shall we pick you up, they will be disappointed if you don't come?" I said, calmly.

In her best 'feeble' voice she answered yes. What was I thinking, I should have known better.

So having packed everything bar the kitchen sink for our expedition we set off in convoy. As we approached Tropical World the clouds darkened and the heavens opened in a torrential downpour. But as it was only a short dash to the entrance we decided to brave the elements. The packing fairies were already prepared, they were out of the car, Benjamin Bunny, (grandchild #2), safely tucked inside his Dad's coat and they had cleared the barrier before his Lordship and Bizziebot had made it halfway across the car park. That only left Mrs Beeton and me... great. Ok so she is 84yrs old, but I have to say a very spritely 84yr old, believe me if you've ever seen her muscling her way into the mark downs at the supermarket, you wouldn't mess with her. But today she was not going to play, so, it took us almost ten minutes to cross the now flooded car park. Feet soaking, hair drenched and dripping we entered the ticket office.

We started our tour of with the insects, Madagascan hissing cockroaches, locusts, millipedes, spiders, all good stuff, Bizziebot was suitably grossed out, as was Mrs Beeton. (No I wasn't gloating, I was too busy trying to de-mist my glasses.) Then we entered the butterfly room and as we stepped inside the heat hit us. Steam began to rise from my sodden clothes, and a mist descended all around us. I took my coat off and slid it under my arm, ah relief. The butterflies were flying everywhere, so many different sorts it was an amazing spectacle. As we meandered through the paths they would flutter past and occasionally land nearby allowing closer inspection. But there's always one.

As I neared the exit a rather larger than average butterfly was for some reason completely mesmerised by my nose, the damn thing kept trying to land on it. Ok so it might look like something from the last iceage, my nose, not the butterfly. I am I have to say not normally taken to panic with insects, however when something the size of crow decides to land on your noggin, it is a natural reaction to try and deter it. I thought a gentle nudge with my hand would do the trick. Unfortunately the combined force of it's determination to land and mine to bat it away resulted in a very dazed and confused butterfly flapping about on the floor. Ah... well I could hardly leave it flapping about where someone might stand on it, so I opted for plan b. There was a hand rail next to the path, so I scooped the aforementioned flapper up and placed it gently on the the lower rail. Safe. As I began to step away I suddenly noticed that beneath the path there was a pond, a pond full of the most enormous carp I have ever seen in my life. Before I could retrieve the now recovering flapper from the rail, it managed to wriggle to the edge and gracefully float down into the wide open mouth of one of the waiting enormous carp. Gulp!

I looked around quickly to see if anyone else had witnessed what had just occurred. A small boy stood a couple of feet away staring open mouthed, remarkably similar to the carp in fact. I gave him a smile and lifted my finger to my lips tipping him a wink. He returned my smile, then at the top of his voice yelled, "Mummy, that lady... Before he had time to finish I had dashed for the exit and was mingling furiously with the crowd in the nocturnal habitat. I managed to catch up with the packing fairies and his Lordship in the desert room. As we stood watching the meerkats it suddenly dawned on us that one of our party was missing. We had lost Mrs Beeton somewhere in the jungle.

"Well you had her last, where did you leave her?" his Lordship asked accusingly.

"She's not the flipping telly remote you know." I rounded, "if we all split up and take a section each we'll track her down. We'll meet back here in fifteen minutes."

I decided to backtrack through the nocturnal habitat. It was dark, obviously, with only the thin red gleam of the low level lighting. I scanned the bodies huddled in front of the exhibits, all too tall, or too young, then out of my eye corner I spotted the cotton tufts of white hair glinting from beneath the hat. I headed over and took her arm.

"Where have you been? We've been worried sick about you." I demanded. The arm pulled away only to be replaced by another much stronger arm on my shoulder.

"Ere, what the ell are you doin. Get yer ands off me Gran." Came the gruff reply.

Same height, same hat, same hair. Wrong old lady. Apologies spluttered, I headed back into the Butterfly room, past the scene of my earlier 'incident', through the insect room and back out into the ticket office. There sitting by the ticket desk, cup of tea in hand was Mrs Beeton along with another lady. It appeared that she had just sat down for a moment whilst we were looking at the butterflies and got talking to the other old lady now sitting next to her. When she had got up to follow we had gone. After yet more apologies to the nice young man on the ticket desk, who told me that this sort of thing happens all the time, but we really should keep a closer eye on them, Mrs Beeton and I headed back to where the rest were waiting for us.

From then on Bizziebot took it upon herself to look after Mrs Beeton, hand held tight they 'oohed', squirmed and giggled their way to the end. I on the other hand kept my hands firmly in my pockets and stuck to the middle of the path head bowed. Just another day in the Yorkshire Tropics!!

Gasbag Review, Meg.

It's that time of week again when we are entertained by another gassy review. This time it is Meg's turn, so get on over there and check out her review of 'The Truth about Diamonds' by Nicole Richie.

If you would like to join the Gasbag Roundtable, then follow this link. The more the merrier. If you would like to catch up with the previous posts then follow the links below.

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Admiral Pooper Scooper - Roll Me Over Royce In My Rolls Royce

Rhonda - Artificial Intelligence

OneEar - What To Expect Misses Expectations

St Jude - Tall Poppies

Nurse Bustle 1- St Jude 0

I am a very grumpy saint this morning. I know that it is for my own greater good and that in the long run I will be a better person for it, I even know that I am more than capable having done it once before, for two whole years. But I am still GRUMPY.

It all started yesterday. Well actually a week ago today. If you have a minute.

As I have moved house I needed to sign on with a new GP, so I looked up the local GPs on the internet and found the one in my area. I telephoned them;

"Good morning, Just Down the Road Medical Centre!" The dragon receptionist answered.

"Good morning, I've just moved to the area and I would like to register with the Doctor please." I replied.

"If you would like to drop in and complete a registration form, we'll pass it to Doctor and see if they will take you on."

"WHAT, what do you mean if they will take me on?"

"Well under the new legislation they are under no obligation to take patients just because they are local, so if you would like to complete your registration form and drop it in we'll see if they are willing to take you." A hint of smugness had crept into the dragon's voice.

So I toddled off to the Just Down the Road Medical Centre and requested my form. After filling out the hundred and one questions re; my medical history, I approached the final leg, two more questions and then I was done. Do you smoke? Urm, ah, well, sort of, maybe, were not options, it was either yes or no and if yes how many? Busted. So in the spirit of honesty I completed the question. Yes.

I crept back to the dragon at reception and slid my form under the glass screen. Reading through it briefly to check that I hadn't omitted anything she came to the last but one question. Peering at me over the rim of her glasses she sucked in her breath and with a slight shake of her head she placed the form into the Doctor's tray.

"If you call tomorrow we'll let you know the 'verdict'." The old smug tone had reappeared.

Head down I slinked out of the now packed waiting room.

The following day I telephoned, a new dragon answered, younger more chirpy.

"Good morning, Just Down the Road Medical Centre."

"Good morning, I completed a registration form yesterday, can you tell me if if has been accepted?" I replied.

"Name?"

"St Jude."

"Hmm," piped music, I was on hold, "No."

"But, but why?"

"No, Doctor hasn't had chance to look at it yet. Doctor is a very busy person you know. (No I didn't know, I assumed Doctor was sitting on their hands all day.) Call back on Monday."

"I hate to be a nuisance, but I need a repeat prescription, pretty urgently. I run out of my meds next week." I persisted.

"Call back Monday, we'll see what we can do." The phone went dead.

So the following Monday I called again. Doctor still hadn't seen my form. I was advised to call again on Tuesday. I called at lunchtime, they were closed for staff training for the rest of the day. Oh joy. So as time was fast running out now, I called first thing yesterday morning. I enquired as to whether my form had been seen. This time it was dippy dragon who answered:

"Good morning, Jus.."

"Yes, yes, I know who you are, I just called you, remember," Calm down St Jude, possibly not the best approach.

"Yes madam?" she enquired.

"I am enquiring... (you know how it goes now, after three, all together now)." More piped music.

"I'm sorry but we don't have any forms for a person by that name." dippy dragon replied at length.

"You must have I completed it last Thursday,"

"Oh. Are you sure you remembered to bring it back in?"

"I completed it there and handed it straight back in," The now frustrated 'three year old' replied.

Dippy dragon placed me on hold again, only to be replaced by the original 'horn rimmed' dragon. Who informed me that I should come in and complete another form, which would be handed to Doctor... hold on a minute! So once again I explained my predicament. Alright, she relinquished, as they had misplaced my original form they would 'fastrack' me. So once more I toddled off to the Just Down the Road Medical Centre, and completed another form. On handing it back I again reaffirmed my need to see the Doctor asap. They could fit me in with the nurse an hour later and I could be 'squeezed' in to see Doctor after that. Result.

So off I toddled home again. Then back again to the JDtRMC. The nurse called me in, a friendly lady, all bustle and ruddy cheeks, I felt safe with her, she had obviously been doing this from the year dot. She briskly checked my form, and double checked what meds I was on and why. Then she checked my blood pressure. It was high, very high.

"What did you say your medication was for again?" Nurse Bustle asked.

"High blood pressure," I squirmed. "It's normally alright, I haven't had any problems before." I asserted.

"When was it last checked?"

"Urm, six months ago."

I was ushered back into the waiting room and told to sit 'calmly' amidst the snotty children and the wailing babies waiting for the baby clinic. Think happy thoughts St Jude, beautiful meadows, waves crashing on a shingle beach. Half hour up I was back with Nurse Bustle. Still high. Staring at my form she traced her finger down the answers to the questions. It stopped abruptly at the last but one.

"You've answered yes,"

I nodded. The three year old was back.

"Doctor doesn't want any more smokers." she said slowly.

There was no need to check my blood pressure anymore, I could feel the steam rising myself. I skulked out of Nurse Bustle's room and headed towards the waiting room once more, just in time to hear my name being called for my appointment with the Doctor. Despondently I walked into her room.

"Good morning. Nurse Bustle tells me your blood pressure is up. We need to keep an eye on that. I'm glad to hear you've decided to quit smoking, you know it makes sense. Nurse Bustle tells me you are going to be attending her 'smokers' clinic." The Doctor said cheerily.

I nodded meekly. So that is how 'I' decided to quit smoking.

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Day 1 - (It will be a victory just to get through today).

Check This Out.

I was just doing the rounds yesterday when I stumbled across this blog. I think Attila and Admiral this will be right up your street. It certainly gave me a giggle.

Also very worthy of a look see, (I am doing my saintly duty here), have a look at this too.

Things That Should Not Be Shared.

1. Close up shots of footballers clearing their nasal passages or re-arranging their 'tackle'.
2. Garlic breath.
3. Intimate details of your sex life. I have my own thanks, (unless it's a funny story).
4. Sneezes.
5. Used hankies, especially when it's to clean your glasses.
6. Other people's farts.
7. Your car, with your teenage children. It will always be returned promptly when the tank needs filling, and have little mementoes of all the fast food chains they've visited.
8. Off hand remarks, they may be off hand but they are never off the record. They are guaranteed to come back to haunt you.
9. Pubic hair, especially when found in the bath in a hotel.
10. Your opinion on someone else's fashion sense. The person you're talking to is going to be either their mother, sister or best friend. There is never a big hole when you need one.
11. False teeth.

Any other submissions for the list?

Gasbag Review

Ok so I am only a week late. But here is my offering for the Sporadic Gasbag Roundtable as requested.

For my little critique I have chosen Tall Poppies by Louise Bagshaw. Yes for my sins I have actually read this precocious excuse for a book. I should have known better and run for the hills when I read the blurb on the cover;

'They call it the tall poppy syndrome. If you are too successful, you must be cut down to size.

Nina and Elizabeth are tall poppies. One a poor Jewish girl from Brooklyn who becomes a top-flight business woman, the other an English public schoolgirl who not only succeeds at business but also establishes herself as an Olympic skier. (What!)

As both women make their mark, there are enemies hell-bent on destroying their careers.'

So there you have it... the bod in the marketing department can probably write better fiction than Ms Bagshawe in their sleep. Even before I enter the realms of the 'storyline' you have two clues as to why this book is such a load of codswallop.

a) I have never met an English public schoolgirl who had any ability to redeem themselves academically.

b) An English Olympic skier. Oh for heavens sake behave yourself woman. What on earth possessed her to chose that, why not crown green bowls, or curling.

The characters are introduced within the first few paragraphs, personally I don't know why she bothered, they are the usual gross caricatures of their 'type'. Nina Roth the feisty, (her words not mine), Brooklyn girl whose parents marriage has broken down, drunk mother, disinterested father who slobs around in his vest all day, who rely on their daughter to keep the family business from going under. Elizabeth, Lady Caerhaven, whose mother died when she was little, and whose father is a bully named Tony Savage, the thirtieth Earl of Caerhaven. Ok so which titled aristocrat is going to christen any of their little offspring, let alone the heir, Tony. Good old Tony is a tycoon, who owns masses of land has a mouse for a second wife, and thinks that women should be seen and not heard. No stereotype there then.

So having established that the characters are based on the sort of fictional scribblings you would have produced in your playtime at primary school, we'll move onto what is laughingly called the plot. The story starts when both girls are seventeen years old, Nina gets herself pregnant by the rich boy from the other side of the tracks, he doesn't want to know, (why am I not even interested, let alone surprised). Lady Elizabeth, (as her friends like to call her), is such a little rebel, she actually refuses to attend her own 'coming out' party... shock, horror, she is packed off to finishing school in Switzerland. Nina climbs the corporate ladder with her feisty determination and incredible ability to learn everything there is to know about everything in ten seconds flat. (By the way the baby is conveniently 'lost', early on, just in case we weren't being sympathetic to one of our heroines.) She ends up working for, guess who? Good old Tony. Actually in more ways than one. Meanwhile back at finishing school, Lady Elizabeth attends a talk by a very old, very famous ex Olympic skier and hey presto, she becomes an Olympic skier in line for Gold. Eventually good old Tony p****s them both off so much by taking everything away from them, they decide to get their own back, become best friends and ruin him.

Hold on, lets just back track a moment, did I say British Olympic Gold medalist in Skiing... yes I did. Ms Bagshawe, YOU CAN WRITE FICTION. Ah but this is not the best bit, my favourite part of this whole gigglefest is the location of the British Olympic skiers training camp. Tunbridge Wells in Kent, where of course the mountains are filled with snow all year round. Which planet is our dear Ms Bagshawe from? Having lived a short hop, skip and a pirouette, from T-Wells for the last ten years I have to inform you that she could not have chosen a more ridiculous place. It is in the main inhabited by the retired, blue rinse brigade. The only slopes are those from the pavement to the road for the wheelchair users. Of course none of this matters in the least as poor old Lady Elizabeth never wins her dream gold, in the final run she has an horrific accident putting an end to her skiing ambitions, and thankfully putting us out of our misery too. This book has more formulas than a maths text book.

A note on the author taken from the book: Elizabeth - with her natural beauty and long blonde hair - bears a marked resemblance to Louise Bagshawe herself. 'It is not just our looks,' Louise confesses. 'In fact I went to school with many girls like Elizabeth and grew up with them. (I rest my case for point a) above.)

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It should have been Oneear's reveiw this Sunday, but he decided he couldn't wait and so posted his review last Tuesday. I thank him, for taking the heat off me. However you can catch the re-run here .