A Run Down of The Past Few Days.

THE GOOD:
Mother has brought me an Easter Egg. And it's a posh one. Thorntons. In this country, you just don't get posher than that.
We are to share it tonight (Saturday, rather than Sunday, being our official 'Naughty' day).
All hail chocolatey goodness! Hooray!

THE BAD:
I saw a dead bird on the road on the way to work yesterday. It was a Long-Tailed-Yellow-Bellied Wagtail; a beautiful bird. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that there was another live Long-Tailed-Yellow-Bellied Wagtail hopping around nearby: it's mate, perhaps? I felt awful and at that moment wished bad things on both the inventor of cars and the person driving that particular one (though the latter blame perhaps was unfair; sometimes it's unavoidable rather than due to not caring).
Selfishly, I was grateful that I was on my way to work, because I knew that I would be able to be distracted, which I was.

Poor, poor little thing. I hate bloody cars. And I really really hate how bloody well necessary they've become.

THE UGLY:

My hair! Why does That Time Of The Month always cause two to three days of horrible feeling and looking hair? I get the cramps and the tiredness and the hormonal roller-coaster and various other delightful uncomfortable symptoms usually associated with it: why can't I skip that one?  

Also: the floor at work. No matter what I've done this week the result has been the same. I hate it when they use rock salt. You can't get anything bloody clean.

THE BRILLIANT:
My third volunteering session went well. It was only a couple of hours long - I don't have as much time on Fridays as I do Mondays - but I worked well and the manager is very happy with me and everybody I encounter there is still being friendly and I am now an official Sense Volunteer. I had to sign my name on the log in sheet and everything. It was great.
On Monday I am to undertake the health and safety tour. Having seen two other people go through it - with ground breaking things being warned about; such as "do not poke your fingers into sockets" and "do not try and leap head-first down the stairs" - I know it will be a riveting and fulfilling experience.

I'm getting dead good with the tagging gun as well. I think it's beginning to like me.
Oh, and the resident ghost seems to like me too (more on him later).
So, yay! It's going swell.

Ooh, also: The Grandmama gave me some of her costume necklaces and they're just lovely.

THE EVEN MORE BRILLIANT:
Mother and I saw a Heron yesterday evening whilst walking Bingo (before the weekly pilgrimage to The Grandmama's to pay homage to the greatness that is the Desmond Carrington radio show). It was hunting in the recently flooded wooded area near to the playground, and we were able to get very close - and thus get a good look at it with our breath held and our faces fixed with a probably silly looking "WOW!" expression -  before it got miffed and flew - very slowly and gracefully - away to settle by the stream a few feet away. By gum, it was amazing.

AND FINALLY, THE FUNNY:
A small child made me laugh on my way home from work on Wednesday, when he turned to his mother while they walked behind me and asked in a really loud voice:

"Mommy, what is that BIG FAT LADY wearing on her feet?? They're not SHOES are they? They don't LOOK like shoes. They're NOT shoes, are they??"

Mommy answered quickly and in an urgent whisper:

"No, sweetie, they're trainers, not shoes, and we don't say 'fat'."

"Oh," the small boy replied, with surprise evident in his voice. "Alright, mommy."

And I know that I've complained about this issue very recently, but I have to admit that I laughed, because, it was just - ah. Y'know?

Out of the mouths of babes...

To Make Up For The Last And Very Depressing Post, Here Is Another Dream From a Long Time Ago:

Brought Back To Mind By The Title Of A Recent Post:

 I Bring You "The Saga Of Geoff The Guinea Pig".

Enjoy.

A while ago, I went through a spate of having some very...odd dreams. Not so much whacky and so completely, completely unrealistic that it can't be anything BUT a dream, but stupidly unlikely while (at the time, anyway) rather plausible scenarios involving me, my family and my friends. Each and every one of them was funny, in their own way, and had me shaking my head and smiling when I woke up. But…BUT, my friends: not one of them was quite as funny and head-shakeable as the Saga of Geoff the Guinea-Pig. And it is that the dream that I am going to relate to you now.  

The dream began normally enough. It began with me waking up after a night’s sleep (you know, as you do), and taking Bingo for his morning walk.

It was a beautiful morning. We pottered along, Bingo sniffed about and exchanged the usual doggy greetings with friends we met in passing, and then, as always, when fellow dog walker and morning walk companion Jan  arrived, we started off on our daily ramble across the playing fields. All very regular and above board in the normality stakes.

It was when we were joined by Margaret and her dog Rosie that things began to take a bit of an odd turn. Margaret and Rosie joining us was not an unusual incident in itself of course, as they often did join us. But today, Margaret had a problem. Geoff: her Guinea-Pig. He had escaped, and was currently racing about by the canal, sporting a minor injury to his rump - caused by the brambles that he scrambled through whilst making his escape - and, she wondered, would we be able to try and help her catch him…?

We looked at one another and shrugged. Fair enough. Damsel and Guinea-Pig in distress: why not? And off we went, dogs following, down towards the canal. Sure enough, there he was. He was dashing up and down between two rotting tree stumps, trailing a little droplets of blood from the little scratch just above his bum, and looking very lost, and frightened, and, very...Guinea-Pig like. Right. So this was Geoff. All well and good so far… 

We made our way as quietly as we could (considering that we were accompanied by four excited dogs) and, without speaking to one another, decided unanimously to divide and conquer; walking slowly and calmly until we had the little fuzz ball surrounded. This accomplished, we began to edge our way forward, bit by bit, inch by inch, till we were very close indeed. Close enough for one of us to grab him, but who would it be?

Before anybody could volunteer to take a shot at being The Guinea-Pig Grabber, however, Geoff took matters into his own hands and made a dash: straight between Jan's legs and into the canal. And it was right at that second that a question I had asked myself once long ago was answered. The question was; could Guinea-Pigs swim? The answer: no…no; they really couldn't, not at all.

So there we all were, with little Geoff drowning right before our eyes. Something had to be done. And t'was I, apparently, that decided to be the one to do it.

So in I jumped.

The rescue was brief and uneventful, or at least I presume so. One second I was jumping in, next I was standing on the bank again, dripping, and holding a (dripping) and considerably annoyed and belligerent Geoff in my arms.

Margaret noted, in some distress, that he was still bleeding, but that was no problem at all. Alice, The Great Guinea-Pig Saviour, to the rescue!

Kneeling down, I produced from my dog walking bag my Black Pencil Case, which, in turn, produced a collective sigh of relief from everyone in our little group (except Geoff, who was too bust squealing his little head off and wriggling). My Great Black Pencil Case, you see, was legendary.

As well as my inhalers, it was known to contain all manner of wondrous and useful things: scissors, plasters, painkillers, stamps...and in this instance I also (miraculously) had a sterile bandage (that was also miraculously the correct size) and a safety pin.

Injured Guine-Pig's rump, plus bandage, plus safety pin, equalled me endeavouring to bandage said injured Guinea-Pig's rump. Easier said than done when said Guinea-Pig was decidedly against the idea of having his rump bandaged, especially when said Guinea-Pig was dripping wet. I managed quite well, though, until just as I was about to snip off the excess (and was already congratulating myself on a job well done), Geoff made another break for it.

This time, thankfully, he did not jump into the canal. He instead led every single person into the undignified position of scrambling on their hands and knees as he waddled his way between every last set of legs he could find. And quite a sight it was, I can tell you. Three ladies (and two men. God knew who they were or where they had come from), one dripping wet, all scrabbling about with their bottoms in the air trying desperately to grab hold of one very annoyed and very very mischievous Guinea-Pig. And not one of us caught him. Away he waddled, this time trailing a few inches of clean white bandage rather than blood, which made him look even more out of place and conspicuous than he had done before. And then, right before our very (astounded) eyes, the little blighter waddled his way straight up a tree.

We spent a few minutes stood stock still, blinking up at him (with him stood stock still on a branch, blinking down at us), before Margaret had the idea of phoning her husband Brian to bring a ladder. She didn’t have a phone, and mine had no credit on it, so it was Jan to the rescue (the two men that had appeared from nowhere had vanished to the same place). So she phoned Brian, and told him what had happened, and he agreed to bring his ladder. He would be just a few minutes…

While we waited the few minutes for Brian to arrive with his ladder, we sat down on the grass, leaving the dogs to stand guard by the tree, and had a nice little discussion about the merits of carpets verses varnishing, and took turns taking swigs from a bottle of Cherry Cola that I had apparently (and inexplicably) decided to bring with me. Then Brian arrived.

He wasn’t too pleased with Margaret, it had to be said; berating her, not harshly, but firmly, for allowing Geoff to run loose in the garden while she changed the bedding in his hutch, because after all, sooner or later something like this had been bound to happen. But he didn’t lecture his wife for long, for Margaret quickly started to cry (which left him looking as though he felt extremely guilty) and in any case; there was a job to do.

He popped the ladder up against the trunk, and tied it securely all the way around it with rope. Then all that was left to do was for somebody to climb up the ladder, and (hopefully) retrieve Geoff. And guess who that somebody was? …Yep.

Alice The Great Guinea-Pig Saviour; lover of hardwood floors and usually an avoider of anything involving ladders and climbing, climbed slowly and carefully up the ladder. I had expected it to wobble disconcertingly, but thanks to Brian’s careful rope winding it didn’t so much as think about it. But all the same, it took a lot more courage than I had previously imagined I’d got to not only step onto it, but to keep stepping until I reached the top.

The ladder was, of course, the perfect height.

So there I was, at the top of a ladder, with me looking at Geoff, and Geoff looking at me. There was nowhere for him to go. He couldn’t reach any of the other branches, and the ground was a long way down, and anyway, there was a canal running through it, and I doubted he’d want to go in there again. No, it was simply a matter of me stretching out my hand and grabbing him up, and then climbing back down. There was no other way: I knew it, and he knew it.

So, I stretched out my hand. Before I could grab him, though, Geoff decided to show me that he had thought of his own solution to the problem. Skirting around my outstretched fingers with a dexterity and skill that belied his fat little body, he waddled along the branch until his little nose was directly in line with mine. Then, knowing that I couldn’t fight back, and with a really spiteful expression in that silly looking little face of his, he bit my nose. Hard.

I would have cried out, but any thoughts about pain and suchlike, were immediately sidelined by the fact that Geoff had clambered onto my shoulder. Clutching desperately at the ladder with one hand, I tried to clutch desperately at Geoff with the other, but he wasn’t having any of that.

Giving a single, defiant squeak – “Give me liberty, or give me death!” said that Squeak – he braced himself, and, to the horror of everybody else concerned, he hurled himself into space.

I really did scream then, and fell off the ladder, backwards.

As I fell, I saw Geoff falling too. It all seemed to be in slow motion, with me flailing my arms in a futile attempt (attempting what, I haven‘t the foggiest idea, but I know I was attempting something, and I know it was futile), and Geoff, stiff as a board and with limbs splayed outwards like a badly designed parachute. We were both going to die, obviously, I knew that; I just hoped that it wouldn‘t hurt much.

I also hoped that Bingo wasn’t watching…

…I landed with an OOMF! On top of a mattress, held at each corner by one of the four that had remained on the ground. I had no time to wonder where the heck that mattress had come from, or to feel grateful for the fact that I was still alive, or even to move, because a second later, Geoff landed squarely onto my chest.

I flinched, his nasty sharp little claws digging into my breasts - they were sure as hell going to smart later, I could tell that for certain - but was too shell shocked by recent events to do anything about it.

Geoff, for his part, looked about him, perhaps dwelling on the fact that he too was still alive, but soon enough his mind turned to more important matters….He waddled up to my chin. Lifting my head forwards, our eyes met. Mine were glazed over and stunned. His were glinting with malevolence.

Opening his mouth wide, he bit my nose again. Harder than before, and gave another loud, defiant squeak. “Haha! Take that!”, it seemed to say. Then he turned, and waddled off my body and onto the ground, and trotted merrily away, back towards the tree.

It was around about that time that I began to really hate Geoff…

…And then I woke up.

End of dream and beginning of day; I got up and washed and dressed and walked Bingo with Jan and her two dogs and met lots of other dogs as I always did, including Margaret and Rosie (though thankfully without the actually non-existent guinea pig) and then I had my breakfast and headed off to work. But at the back of my mind for the next few days the question remained:

Why the heck did I dream that??

Dreaming of Escape.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday night I dreamed that I was a tall, slender, dark haired, slightly olive skinned young woman.

I was a captive. A slave.
We - there were many of us - were being kept in a walled/fenced 'community' that consisted of several barn like buildings and a few open spaces of grass/mud land. There were various wild stock - cows, chickens etc -  meandering around. There were many men - guards - patrolling up and down. And there were us. The women.

Why exactly we had come to be there, I don't know; details were blurred sketchy. It wasn't classed as a prison, though prisoners we undoubtedly were. The men guarding us called us "girls", regardless of age. Their tone and manner when they addressed us was leering and condescending at best, and brutal at worst. Most of the time they were brutal.

There were so many of us; young, middle aged, old...and we were trapped there. We worked the open spaces - farming type duties; what exactly we did was blurred and sketchy, just as the reasons for being there were - and washed our clothes and ourselves in tin baths filled with cold and grimy water (the guards watched the cleaning of ourselves), and huddled together at night on bare mattresses for warmth and comfort.

A single man lorded it over all. It was this man that decided who came and went, who said and did what, who lived and died. And who bore his children...

Many of us - including me - were heavily pregnant. We were his 'wives' and he had us any time he wanted. No woman, young or old, was pardoned. The actual having was something the dream lacked (thank goodness), but the bumps were there for all to see, and the shame and fear and anger and despair reverberated through the commune. All children born - those that survived the pregnancy and birth that is - were whisked away from the mother within seconds never to be seen again. No-one knew what happened to them, though rumours abounded. We knew there were other 'communities' that The Lord (that was what we called him: The Lord) ruled over; maybe they were sent there.

Nerves were jangled and there was an air of living on a knife edge. Nobody was safe, not woman nor guard, from the Lord's  wrath. If you displeased him, you suffered. If you displeased him enough, you died. The methods of death and torture were whispered about and sent shivers of terror running down the spine.

The only women spared death or torture were those who were pregnant. This was temporary, just until the child was born. Any transgression declared to be a 'crime' was punished as soon as possible after that. Many mothers were executed seconds after the child had been pushed out and taken away. But while the fetus grew in the Girl's belly; nothing happened to her. Nothing.

So just nine months of reprieve. Nine months to do whatever you liked before you went into labour and after losing the child to heaven or The Lord you most probably lost your life.
To most of us, that meant the opportunity to try and escape. And we did try. Over and over. Frantic and insane plans were thought of and then put into action. The details of each individual attempt are blurred (again), but many of them involved me and the end result was always the same: with me, looking up at the sneering face of a guard, and then being brought into the presence of The Lord. Each time He looked at me, lips pursed, eyes cold and glinting. He said nothing, just looked at me, then he waved his hand to the guard at the door and I was taken away and placed back into the 'community'.

With every passing month I got bigger, as did many of us. During a transportation on a bus from one 'community' to another I and another woman - an elderly lady called "Withered Girl" - led an attack on the guards and forced the driver to pull over. The majority of the guards recovered in time to grab most of us, including me, but a few escaped. Withered Girl was among them. She hesitated at the door of the bus, looking back at me as I struggled in the iron grip of the man holding my arms. I urged her, urged all of them that hadn't been grabbed, to run; run as fast and as far as they could, and may whatever deity that may have been watching over us have mercy on them and grant them safety somewhere...

For me, that bus ride was the beginning of the end. The guard holding me, loosing his temper with me as I kept struggling, threw me down to the floor, where - to the horror of everyone watching - he kicked my eight months swollen stomach, as hard as he possibly could.
I felt a searing pain, and a few moments later felt the blood seeping down between my legs. I knew then that it was over. He had killed the child inside of me and it was over.

It was over. The guard would be killed, I knew, as well as me; to kill an unborn baby was a crime punishable by hanging drawing and quartering. I wasn't certain what my fate will be, though I knew death would be the end of it, and as my dream faded away to nothing I should have been afraid, but I wasn't.
More than that, I felt - as I lay there in a blooded, aching mess - that I had won.
I would die.
Heaven awaited me. Soon, very soon, I would be free; and I would never be caged, dreaming of escape that could never be, again.
Never again...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So there you go. That was it.

Incredibly depressing, huh?

*shrugs* 

Hopefully tonight's venture into the lands of slumber will be happier. We'll see. 

An (ongoing) Argument:

~ START ~

{Scene is set: Alice and Mother are sat in the living room, having a discussion regarding the mid-week shop. Alice works PART time, and thinks that as Mother works FULL time, that Alice should be the one to fetch the bread and milk etc. that the Collison's tend to purchase every Tuesday from the supermarket on her way home from her morning shift. This argument is strengthened by the fact that not only does Alice have more free time than Mother, but that on Tuesday mornings she tends to actually VISIT the supermarket, to meet with a friend in the cafe for a cup of tea and a chat. Mother, however, thinks that two loaves of bread and two (small) bottles of milk and the occasional (small) block of cheese is too much for one person to walk (twelve minutes) home. This is a bone of contention between the two that has been passed back and forth for some time and has yet to be resolved.}

ALICE: (attempting to be firm) Look, it's SILLY, you driving down specially just to fetch a couple of bags of shopping. It's not that much; I can carry it, honestly!
MOTHER: (breezy) I disagree.
ALICE:  It wastes petrol. And you're tired! You work full time, I work part time. I have more time than you do; time that could be spent doing useful things, like picking up the mid-week shop.
MOTHER: (stubbornly) It's too much to carry, and too far.
ALICE: (frustrated) It's two loaves of bread and two little 2L bottles of milk! Oh, and cheese. And it's a twelve minute walk.
MOTHER: (still stubborn) Sometimes it's more than that!
ALICE: Not often, it isn't, and it's never much more. We're talking three bags worth, tops. And one of those is filled with two loaves: not exactly heavy, is it? And anyway, you're forgetting something.
MOTHER: (anxious) what?
ALICE: (triumphant) On a Tuesday morning I am actually IN Tesco...with Emma. We meet there for a drink. So I can just pick up the things while I'm there.
MOTHER: (whining) But...
ALICE: (exasperated) oh for goodness sake! What's the problem? You're rushed off your feet all day teaching; by the time you finish of an evening you're exhausted. I work part time; the money I give you for living here is a pittance. We agreed that I would make up for this by cooking, cleaning and running errands:  this is an errand!
MOTHER: (pouts then smiles triumphantly) well, maybe you could do it in the future, but THIS week I have to fetch something, so it has to be me.
ALICE: (nonplussed then realization dawns) This wouldn't be because you want to buy me an Easter Egg, is it? (mother looks shifty) well that's no problem, is it? It's not exactly a surprise gift, is it? I can fetch it.
MOTHER: (sighs) look; I want to do the mid-week, alright? I like doing it.
ALICE: But WHY? You're so tired...I just don't understand why you wont let me help you.
MOTHER: I just like doing it each week. I like doing it; I enjoy it.
ALICE: (cross) That's not true.
MOTHER: (innocent) Is so.
ALICE: (cross) Is not! You're lying!
MOTHER: (innocent) I? Lying? Of course not. I like doing the mid-week shop.
ALICE: (smiling) Liar.
MOTHER: (smiling back) Not so.
ALICE: Is so! Alright, go on then; swear on your soul that it's true.
MOTHER: (eyes widen. swallows. pouts) I... ... ...I don't want to discuss this anymore.
ALICE: (hoots with laughter) SEE? I KNEW you were lying....Oh, God, that's funny! You are such a fibber!
MOTHER: ...(sulks. then smiles)...
ALICE: (still laughing) You realize that I'm going to write every last word of this on my Blog, right?
MOTHER: (sighs) Yes.
ALICE: Good. Just so's we're clear.

{Scene closes with Mother leaving the room to make her fourth cup of tea in fifty minutes and Alice turning on her computer.}

~ END ~

Apart from my little quip about my new snow boots, I hadn't intended to post today....

But THIS is too big a thing to stay quiet about.

My mother, as this Blog had no clue about, is in TWO orchestras: The Wyre Forest Symphony (amateur) Orchestra and The West Midlands Light Orchestra. It is the second that I intend to mention today.


The WMLO (as it's called by Us In The Know) is a truly brilliant thing. People travel for miles around to listen to their concerts - that feature "songs from the golden age of music" - and the hall they rent out from The Stone Manor Hotel (situated near Kidderminster) is always packed. Mother is part of the string section; playing a viola.
They've already made a CD - imagine! My mother playing in an orchestra that has its very own official CD! - and now it seems David Etheridge, the orchestra's conductor, has decided to up the ante. Because now, you see; it has been advertised on a radio programme.

Yes! The West Midlands Light Orchestra is now famous (well, in Hereford and Worcestershire, anyway)! There was an actual whole segment within the show with David talking about the band and a few bits and pieces from the CD being played.

How cool is that?
Mother was so thrilled.

"The WMLO" is on the radio!" she sang: "That piece is from the CD! I played in that! I'm on the radio!"

Well, you can imagine how chuffed we both were, can't you?

Funnily enough, I actually heard a snippet of the show as I arrived for my taster volunteer session at the Sense Shop yesterday, but as I only heard a few seconds (the very beginning of the segment, as it turned out) before being led upstairs, I mistook it for a few-second advert regarding the upcoming concert this Sunday evening. Which is grand enough in itself, actually, now I come to think about it. But anyway, I thought 'hey, cool! That's the WMLO advertising on local radio! How did Dave swing that! Rock on!' And then I forgot all about it, till today; when mother asked me to check her email account for her* and we found two messages from David.
The first, sent about a week ago, was all about landing a slot on the BBC Hereford and Worcestershire Radio Show. The second, sent yesterday evening, was a link to the show itself.
And here it is:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p015lwxj . 

The bit with David in is about 18 minutes long, between 31.24 and 49 minutes into the show, and that particular show itself will probably remain active on the BBC Hereford and Worcester site for a few days or so, so listen to it quick, all (one) of you!

Ooh, and while we're on the subject, if you want to learn more about the WMLO, how about you read about it at source: http://www.wmlo.org.uk/ . There's even a picture of my mum in it! Hold on...

...There she is! **

She is last on the right, the nearest one to the camera with her viola sticking out at an angle. Don't mind her frowny expression; the picture was taken during the recording session for the CD and she's concentrating hard.

Anyway, pretty good, eh?

Whoops, got to go. There's only about 45 minutes till we are due to leave for The Grandpapa's and the dog (who I might add has already had TWO walks so far today. Smallish ones, I'll grant you, but still) is staring at me, meaningfully. So! I must go and find my faithful blue waterproof, pull on my boots and face the mini snow storm. Wish me luck.

Tara! 

Alice 

xxx

* my mother's hate-hate relationship with computers is a long, long story for another time.

** if you ever meet her, don't for the love of God tell her that I have put her picture on here. The internet freaks her out something chronic. She's peeved enough with the idea - when she allows herself to think about it which thankfully isn't often - of being on the WMLO website and therefore mentioned on the World Wide Web at all, let alone being talked about on O.F.G.A.H.T by me, and If she found out I'd posted a photo - and a rather unflattering one of her at that - on this Blog...well. I don't know precisely what she would do, but I do know that it wouldn't be good. So let this be our secret.

T'is Snowing.

*walks on*

It's snowing.
The weather reports indicate that we could have a few inches by tomorrow morning (which here - don't laugh - is a lot). But I don't care; for I have a pair of funky and brilliantly grippy snow boots.

Thank you. That is all.

*bows. walks off*

Just A Quickie* Before Bed:

Back By Popular *coughs* Demand!

Yes, folks! You guessed it!

It's Time For Alice's Fun Friday Fact! Whoo!

DID YOU KNOW that...

...the tune to 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' is exactly the same as the tune to the 'ABC Song'??

True Fact that is (definitely, this time) true.

And as an aside: It is also true that 99% of people reading this that know both songs will now sing them, just to check if that's right.

Which it is. They're identical. Honestly.

Yep.

*nods*

Alice 

xxx


* minds out of the gutter, people, please. 

Today Has Been Good.

{WARNING: this turned out to be a lot longer than I thought it would be.}

Today I arrived at SENSE, a charity shop situated at the edge of the town centre, armed with my waterproof coat (it was sleeting hard), sensible shoes and a willing smile. I was there, you see, to be shown round before  starting what the manager called a "taster".
Yes, readers (all...one of you); I am now a Trainee Volunteer for the Sense Charity.

The idea came into my head quite a long time ago, as I slouched my way home from another rewarding (*sigh*) cleaning shift. I noticed a beautiful necklace on display in the window of a charity shop - not Sense, but another one - and I popped in to find out how much it was. Finding that it was about £3 more than I would be willing to spend on a second hand necklace, no matter how beautiful it is, I thanked the man manning (ha! pun) the till and left again; but not before I caught sight of the sign posted on the door asking for volunteers.

"Got a few hours a week to spare?" it proclaimed; "Volunteer! An excellent opportunity to learn new skills, meet new people, and even better; to really make a difference!"

'Hmmmm,' thought I. "That sounds like an idea..."

I carried on thinking about it for a while. Working part time, I knew I had time to spare; even if I am the household cook/cleaner, along with being the family's official errand girl and visiting The Grandpapa/The Great Aunt on Tuesdays and Saturdays (a lone visit on the Tuesday and a group gathering of all of us - dog included - for chips and games on the Saturday) and The Grandmama every Friday (to listen to two radio shows and let her spoil the dog). And I knew that it would be useful; it would reaffirm all of my previously learned retail and customer service skills, as well as looking impressive on my CV while I carry on my (seemingly fruitless) search for full time work. And it would be good to get me doing something productive outside of the house during some otherwise free time; I couldn't mope around - and therefore stuff my face - that way.
Despite all that was going for it, however, I hung back.
It wasn't laziness, per say; more a fear of the unknown. Was this idea a mistake? Would the people in whatever charity shop I chose to volunteer at like me? Would they be nice to me, even if they didn't like me? Would I be able to do what was asked of me without buggering up both that and everything surrounding it? If I wasn't very good at whatever it was, would anybody be angry with me? Would I be fired??

So I put it off. And put it off. Until Monday evening, when, impulsively and unexpectedly I sounded mother out about my possibly really stupid idea of volunteering somewhere an afternoon or so a week.

"Great idea!" she enthused; "I think that would be brilliant!"

Hearing someone else agree that it was a good plan (and being reassured that the likelihood of having the hounds set on me - metaphorically. Or at least, hopefully it was - if I moved slower than people would like or broke something) spurred me into action, and the next day I took the bull by the horns and got on with it.
I visited five, walking straight up to the desk and beaming at the person behind it before voicing the following query:

"Hi! I was wondering; how do you go about volunteering here?"

I said exactly the same thing each time. My theory was that by doing this I could gauge the reaction of each shop and make my choice as to which one I thought would suit me best accordingly, and boy; did it work.

The first shop reacted in a very stiff and formal (and not at all happy or enthusiastic) manner,saying little and dismissing me as quickly as possible with an application form (an application form! For a voluntary position!) that I had to fill in - in BLACK BALL POINT PEN, and no other - before the manager would even deign to speak with me. Right-ho.
The second greeted me warmly, but was in a state of disarray of such magnitude - with six members of staff all there at the same time with nothing to do (by their own admission), badly displayed stock (some of which was broken) and a till that somebody had left hanging wide open. And that was just front of house. God knew what was going on in the wings and back stage - that I had the uncomfortable impression that things were a hairs-breadth away from breaking down completely. The smell of cannabis didn't help, either. I was asked if I could come back another day when "the woman who knew what she was doing was in", which I agreed to readily if only to get the heck away from there.
The third greeted me nicely enough - though I was given another application form. Maybe I was wrong to be so surprised - but that didn't feel right either. I can't explain why. It just didn't.
The fourth looked shocked and disapproving, staring at me for what felt like a disproportionate amount of time before informing me curtly that "they were not looking for volunteers at the moment, but thank you for enquiring". In their defense, I noted as I left that they did indeed not have a "volunteers wanted!" sign posted on their door, but I still feel they could have been a littler friendlier about it.

It was the fifth that was the charm. The SENSE Shop. I was greeted by a round and smiley woman with beautifully fluffy dark hair, who exclaimed herself to be "delighted" that I had come in. It was great that I wanted to volunteer: how about I came in for a "taster" session on Friday of this week, just to give me a feel for the place?
I agreed, and we parted on friendly terms, each of us assuring the other that while we meant well we would have forgotten one another's names by then (I had forgotten hers within the five minutes we were talking, to be honest).
Fast forward to today, and I turned up at the appointed time, nervous and wet (damn weather) but sporting my most willing and eager of smiles.
I was ushered upstairs by the manager, who was harassed but nevertheless gracious and welcoming. I would be tagging stock and a young woman called "Jade" (whose name I promptly forgot again) was going to show me what to do, which she did.
I was to check the stock - in this case clothes - to make sure that it was clean and undamaged. If it was, I was to write the label accordingly - size, price etc - and then hang it up before attaching the label with the tagging gun to the left hand of the sleeve/pocket/trouser leg/etc.
It took a few false starts (the tagging gun didn't like me) and a few label rewrites, but eventually my nervous-to-the-point-of-stupid brain got the hang of it and the young woman left me to it so that she could man the till.
There were two other women - and a man called Aman, but he left soon after I got there, so I didn't get a good look at him - doing the same thing I was on the other side of the table. One of them was called Jane, and she was unwell. The other woman offered to walk her home (they declined my offer to order her a taxi. Or an ambulance. She really looked ill) and while she waited for Jane to fetch her coat two other people showed up. One was a man called Paul, who walked in through the fire exit, dumped a bag of curtains on the floor by my feet and called down to the manager - who was running up and down the stairs fetching and carrying and doing other manager-like sorts of things - that he was going to have a cigarette and left again. The other was a short haired woman who was called Barbara, and during a cheerful conversation between her and the blond haired woman that was waiting for Jane, I found out that she had an psychologically abusive ex-husband (who had rung her up to berate her on what would have been their wedding anniversary the day before) and an addiction for collecting ornamental pigs. While they chatted - and I continued to get used to using the tagging gun - several boxes of shoes that were stacked nearby decided to get attention by throwing themselves into the air and dumping their contents all over the floor, making everyone jump out of their skin.
Jane returned, having fetched her coat and bag - she had been sick, which was why she had taken so long - and she and the blond haired woman left. I helped Barbara to put the renegade shoes back into their rightful place, and then she escaped before she could get "roped into another shift".
For a few minutes I was alone, and then Jade (whose name I had forgotten) returned with a mass of black bags that were so full that they were almost bursting. My nerves came back again - she was around my age, maybe a bit younger, and thin and pretty and confident looking - but not for long. I'm not sure what started it, but before I knew it we were chatting away as though...not as though we were old friends, exactly, but as though we had worked alongside each other for years. We compared work experiences, compared notes on   our dysfunctional families, and giggled about the various items of clothing we were tagging. It was great, and apart from aching feet (so much for 'sensible' shoes), I felt completely contented and very much at home.

Two and a half hours later, with my feet not just aching but absolutely screaming at me, I admitted defeat, said goodbye to Jade (after reminding each other of our names) and called it a day. The manager (Christine, as it turned out she was called) beamed at me and asked how I liked it.

"It was great," I replied, truthfully. "I really enjoyed it. I'd like to come back."

"Brilliant!" she sang. "When are you next free?"

We set the date for next Monday afternoon. Before I left, I expressed worry that although I had tried hard, I hadn't got very much done.

"Oh don't bother about that," she assured me; "this kind of work is never-ending. Sometimes I slog it out for days on end and get practically nowhere. It's that sort of work. You just do your bit and make a difference in whatever small way you can. That's all a person can do."

We nodded at each other, and I left. It was 3:30pm. I had been working in the clogged and disarrayed backroom of a shop tagging clothes, work I will not be paid a penny for, alongside a group of people that I had never seen before. And I felt good.

I still feel like that now. And I'm looking forward to next week. That's something that hasn't happened for a long time. A very long time.

Toady has been good.

*smiles*

Alice xxx

While I'm Still Logged On, On A Happier Note:

A Conversation Between Me, A Spider, And A Passing Member of Store Staff:

 ~ Start. ~

{Scene begins; Alice is wiping down a self serve till as per usual and humming a tune to herself to drown out the sixty-millionth rerun of the same set of songs on the same CD (also as per usual). Suddenly a movement just below her hand catches her eye. Looking down, she sees a small spider working its way carefully along the neon orange plastic edge. Alice is pleased: she likes spiders. A conversation ensues…}

ALICE: hi there! (smiles) You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?

SPIDER: …..

ALICE: Tell you what; I’ll leave cleaning the spot you’re on, and so long as you stay there I’ll pop you outside to safety as soon as the store opens. *checks watch* That should be in just a few minutes now.

SPIDER: …..

ALICE: Because, you know, this isn’t a good place for a spider such as yourself to be. Some people are scared of spiders. In fact, some people actually hate them. You could get stomped on. Or squished by some careless idiot who hasn’t noticed you, and that’d be just awful. So as soon as I can I’ll pop you outside, OK?

SPIDER: …..

ALICE: (thoughtfully) Of course, there is the question of where to put you. Just dumping you on the floor wouldn’t be any good, because you could still get stomped on…maybe on the outside of the exit window; what d’you think? You could build a web there.

SPIDER: …..

ALICE: (moving on to next till) Yes, the outside of the exit window; that's where I'll put you...Now, where was I? Ah yes, I just started this till here...I wonder when they’re going to start putting all those BBQ sets out in the entrance again? I know they’ve got them in. I best remember to clean all the ledges off today, just in case; ‘cause last year once those damn things were in I couldn’t reach them for love nor money….And I must remember to mop the manager’s office FIRST today, before I do the others, ready for when they have that meeting later…Speaking of which, I hope they haven’t had donuts again; that jam was a bugger to get off…

PASSING MEMBER OF STORE STAFF: (stops, stares, bemused) Um, Alice?

ALICE: (looks up) Mm?

PASSING MEMBER OF STORE STAFF: who are you talking to?

ALICE: (cheerfully) that little spider over there.

PASSING MEMBER OF STORE STAFF: (now more scared than bemused, takes a step back) Spider?

ALICE: Mm. See? He’s just down there.

PASSING MEMBER OF STORE STAFF: Ohhh, right. (cannot see spider as is keeping careful distance, but nods anyway) But, I don’t…why are you talking to it?

ALICE: Oh, just to pass the time, y’know. Till I can pop him outside.

PASSING MEMBER OF STORE STAFF: (wide eyed. nods, slowly) Right. Right. Ok, I guess...

{Scene closes with Store Staff Member walking away, shaking his head ruefully. Alice, seeing that the main doors are being opened, pops spider outside, deposits him on a ledge, thanks him for being a good listener and then goes back inside and carries on with her work.}

 ~ End. ~ 

I Hate Mean People.

{WARNING: Long and bitter rant ahead. Those who wish to avoid, particularly those apposed to the idea of violence not just being advocated but imagined with bitter relish, please look away now.}

OK. I get it. I know, alright? I am aware that I am fat. Of course I am aware: it is a fact that cannot escape my notice, just as it hasn't escaped yours. You know and I know and the whole world knows that I AM FAT.

Does it bother me being fat? Well, sometimes. It no longer bothers me as it used to (when, ironically, I was a whole lot thinner than I am now), but I am bigger than I would like to be, yes. I am three stone heavier than my body likes to be – and even at the ideal weight for me, I’m still a good few stone heavier than the NHS declares to be within the “normal” range – and I know that that isn’t good, that it isn’t healthy. I keep meaning to sort it out, but a mixture of compulsive comfort eating and a current unwillingness to do the hard work necessary to change is keeping me that way for now.

In any case, I am a little bothered by it, but not much. I am certainly not as bothered by it as you seem to be, oh random anonymous stranger(s) passing me in the street, which is confusing to me. When you look at me and see me in all my great, flabby glory, I can understand that you might feel sorry for me or think that as a fat person I must be dreadfully unhappy and that nobody could possibly love me looking as I do. I can even understand feeling momentarily repulsed as my size 24 XL self waddles past you. But why, in the name of heaven, is my passing by you noteworthy and distressing enough for you to loudly call attention to it?

It happens all the time. Not every day, maybe – the ‘oh my dear God look at the size of THAT’ looks, now; THOSE happen every day – but enough that it is not a miraculous freak occurrence, but rather a fairly steady epidemic. And every time it happens I react in the same way. I outwardly hold it together, but feel shit for the rest of the day. Because for whatever reason you’re singled out; be it because you’re fat, thin, tall, short, ugly, pretty…It’s not nice, having someone loudly and publicly insult you merely because they can; It just isn’t. In fact it’s actually horrible. And I just don’t understand why it happens. And why it seems to happen to fat people more than it happens to anybody else.

So, random anonymous people: why is it?

I could understand if being fat was catching: that if by walking close to me your lithe, slim-line form would spontaneously mutate, leaving you as fat and (according to you) ugly as I am. Or if you had to sit next to me on the bus, or train, or something, as the seats on such things are designed for thin, pretty people like you rather than lard arses like me and my bottom ends up spread across not only the seat I am sat on, but a quarter to a half of the one beside it. Or worse, if I for some obscure reason fell on top of you and by doing so left you gravely injured. THEN you would have reason to complain.

But none of those things have happened here. All that has happened is that you (and possibly all of your friends/family/acquaintances/fellow aliens/innocent members of the public) have walked down the street and seen me coming the other way. I don’t look at you, or speak to you, or jump on top of you, or molest you and your senses in any other way: I am just walking, just as you are. So why the need to snigger and point at me and make comments? I just don’t get it. If you are feeling insecure and want the adulation of your friends/family/acquaintances/fellow aliens/innocent members of the public, surely there are better ways to go about it than making fun of the Passing Fat Girl? Guys, couldn’t you go and spray paint a wall, or shoot tin cans, or something? And girls, couldn’t you go and get your hair or nails done or go and try on clothes to model your perfect size 8-10 little bodies, or maybe, just maybe; not pander to the bitchy-skinny-girl stereotype and grow the hell up? Just a thought.

*Spreads hands*

Or maybe you’re just mean, all you random anonymous strangers that feel the need to SAY SOMETHING to a person that you have never seen before and probably (hopefully) never will again. Maybe it’s just because they’re there and they happen to be bigger than you and that is enough to create a little unhappiness. Is that it? Do you get a kick out of knowing that your nasty snide little remark may well ruin the passing fat person’s day, because yet another arsehole just couldn’t keep your nasty, snide little thoughts to yourself? Really? Is that all it is??

News Flash: fat people exist, but unless you get sat on by one of them their existence really doesn’t affect you, negatively or otherwise. We may walk by you in the street or be in the same building as you or sit in the same carriage as you in a train or behind or in front of you on a bus, but that in itself in no way has any actual impact on your life. Unless we know each other, we are nothing to each other, and our existences shouldn’t matter to either of us beyond that we are two human beings going about their day.

So here’s the thing; unless you are going to tell us that our shoelace is untied, or ask us the time or how to get to somewhere, or need us to help you in some way, or we need you to help us in some way, or some other compulsion for contact not involving trading insults arises, allow us the same courtesy that we have allowed you and LEAVE US THE HELL ALONE.

And to those that enjoy the idea of making someone else unhappy, BE WARNED: because I don’t know about anyone else, but I personally believe that all bullies of all kinds will get their comeuppance one day, if not in this life then in the next. And I have a strong suspicion that there is a special place in Hell reserved for skinny people that make fat people miserable; a place where you get sat on and kicked and punched by the very people you made fun of in your previous smug skinnier-than-thou existence. Oh, and then all the fat people will draw up a stool to the dining table and will feast on a 10 course meal, enjoying every mouth-watering bite, while you, racked with starvation, can only watch.

So there.

…Oh, and for the record; whatever startling witticism you think you have dreamt up, chances are that it isn’t as brilliantly original as you think it is. We may not get accosted every day (I certainly don’t, thank God), but it happens enough that over the space of even a short lifetime, we have pretty much heard every variation of “you’re fat” and “you’re ugly” and “you’re fat AND ugly” that has ever been uttered.*

So you’re not original. You’re not funny. You’re not cutting-edge, or whatever-the-heck else it is called. You’re just an idiot. A pathetic, mean, stupid idiot who may or may not have a special place reserved for you in Hell ready for when they die. And you never know; whilst going blithely about your business, one day you may very well pick on the wrong fat girl/guy and find yourself on the receiving end of a beating such as you have never imagined.

And when that happens, if I’m around, I am going to laugh for a few minutes before I take pity and call an ambulance to rescue your sorry, spiteful arse, because you bloody deserve it.

This is angry Alice; signing off.

* I do give admiring credit to the teenager who took one look at me while I was in my thick, dark work fleece and exclaimed in an overly loud stage whisper to his friend that I looked like a; “giant black jelly baby”, because while it was a mean thing to say, it was quite true. And though considering the rest of my rant it may be hypocritical, I found it to be hilariously funny. 

The dog just walked up and hit me...

...why, you ask? Well, because he wanted access to his water bowl, which is in another room. As it is cold and the fire is on, the door was closed, and rather than go and stand/sit by it and whine like a normal dog would do, he decided that the best course of action was to get up from his bed, trot the few steps over to the sofa I was curled up on, and belt my leg with his paw.

Yes, I was cross.
Yes, I told him off.
Yes, I then gave him what he wanted (once I figured out what that was).
Yes, the dog has me well trained. What can I say? Bingo is an evil genius and I'm..well, I'm not. What chance have I got??

In other news: I saw the heron while walking Bingo by the canal today. He/she took off and flew past just a few feet away - after giving an angry squawk, presumably because I disturbed his/her fishing - and circled overheard a few times before flying away. It was spectacular. Also, more unexpectedly, I saw a tiny little mouse. All that was needed was to see a toad or a snake or a buzzard or something to make the hat trick, but alas t'was not to be.

In other other news: why does The Brother always seem to pick when I am busy/stressed/asleep to text me and ask "how I am doing"? I know that he's reaching out and that considering how he used to be before his medication was sorted out, that it is a really good thing, but...why does he always pick those times? It's never a time like right now, when yes, I am about to go to bed, but I am awake and not doing very much other than watching an episode of CSI (praise be to Project Free TV. T'is blessed indeed). Nope, it's never at times like now. It's always the other times. You wait. He'll text me at 11pm tonight. Or at 6am tomorrow when I am hanging my coat up after walking into work...

In final news: someone left a comment on one of my posts! How cool is that! Her name is Eli and she's pretty and has curly blond hair and is the proud slave of at least three dogs (I've only read one post so far and my brain turned to mush after seeing a picture of 'Bones', so I'm not actually sure now how many. I think three, though) and she seems to like me, so things bode well.

Five (is it five) posts in and already I have a fan. Go me!

Alice. xxx

PS: I am aware that one comment probably doesn't equal a 'fan', but I don't care. I got a comment and it was from someone nice and not a Spam E-mail advising me to buy a penis enlarger or something, so I am happy.

The Saga of the Recycle Bin Part 1:

See, here's what started it.
A few weeks ago (three, precisely, in fact), we popped the Recycle Bin out as per usual routine. It was the second week of the fortnight, you see. First week of the fortnight is the Rubbish Bin, second week the Recycle Bin. Simple.
So we, or rather mum (because after waking up at 5 in the morning and having to leave by 5:30, I have neither the time nor the inclination to do that), popped the Recycle Bin out ready for collection. Again, simple. Poetic in its simplicity.

But! Last collection, t'was not to be! Simple, that is. For the Recycle Collecting people did not come at the predesignated time - i.e.; any time between 7am and 2pm - and so I did not bring it back in before Bingo's dog walk and then after Bingo's dog walk I forgot about it. ALL about it.
It was three days later when mum finally remembered the Bin - because our indoor 'can't be arsed to take the recycling outside yet so we'll put it in here for now' box was overflowing - and realized that neither of us had collected it. And upon going out of the front door to fetch it from outside our house, where she had left it, found it not there. It was upon popping out of our stupidly over-sized wooden gate that locks (story for another time, kids) that she found it. Wheeled up to the spot beside next door's back door. And sat beside their own Recycle Bin, which was so solidly filled to overflowing that its green lid wouldn't shut.
Cue: panic.

What did we do, she agonized over her necessary-to-survive-post-work-cup-of-tea? We could leave it there, hoping that next fortnight they would have their own Recycle Bin emptied and give it back - it was obvious it was ours and not theirs. Ours had our house number emblazoned across the front and back in waterproof white TipEx - but what if they didn't and just decided to keep it? But if we did take it back what would happen? Would they get angry? What if they got angry? They were the the wrong - and it was already in use, I might add. Our Recycle Bin with our number on it was being used by those Recycle Bin nabbers. And AS A RUBBISH BIN!?! -but it would be little consolation to us if retrieving our rightful property caused all out war.
Sound silly? Sound over-dramatic? Well, one day I'll tell you the story of The Hellhole That We Used to Live In, but in the meantime, I'll just let you know that we learned the hard way that upsetting your neighbours in any way - even when you are right and it really is wrong to allow an eight year old child to continue to try and club your small and cute guinea-pig to death with an iron bar. Or to say "sorry, it's sweets or nothing" when upon one dark Halloween night a whole troop of kids from age three to teenage knock on your door and chant "trick or treat: give us money". And so on and so forth - can lead to Hell becoming even worse.
So you can understand her hesitation. I, however, did not hesitate. I felt angry. And righteous. How dare these anonymous people - we had never seen them. After our last set of experiences we decided that in our new home we would remain as unnoticeable as possible - STEAL our Recycle Bin, just because they had (presumably) forgotten to put theirs out and we had forgotten to bring ours in the very second the Recycle Collection Men had finished doing their thing? And not even to use it for Recycling: they were filling it with Rubbish bags! Some of which were open and had spilled out all sorts of...stuff...into our previously pristine Bin! Anyway, we NEEDED our Recycle Bin! Our Rubbish Bin only needed to be emptied every six weeks or so, but  our Recycle Bin was always groaning and desperate to be emptied by the time each council regimented fortnight had past. And in any case, we were right and they were wrong, so there! I was angry righteous woman, and I didn't care if the whole street heard me roar!
With that in mind, I stormed out there, grabbed the bin and made to bring it back inside. Whereupon I found two of the neighbours on the back door step about to let themselves in. And now rather than using the key in the man's hand, both the man and the woman were stood motionless, staring at me.
My heart leapt into my mouth. My stomach turned over. I knew I had to do, or say, something to try and keep the peace and not begin Hell all over again. So I said the first thing that came into my mind.

"See?" I exclaimed with a beam: "I TOLD her we wouldn't have lost it. I knew it would be somewhere. She worries. Bye!"

And with that, for better or worse, I dragged the Recycle Bin into the garden, positioned it into its rightful place and came back inside.
Later the same day, I saw them again when Bingo trotted out for his evening constitutional in the garden. They were smoking in their garden, and when they saw me they smiled at me and I smiled back. I took that as an encouraging sign. I told myself I was being silly to panic. The exact same thing had happened with the other set of next door neighbours from the same house (it's a split building) soon after we had moved in three years before - only this was with the Rubbish Bin - and we had taken it back under the cover of darkness and worried ourselves stupid for days and nothing had happened. It was fine.
Everything was fine...

Fast forward three weeks to today. The Recycle Bins of the street were emptied while I was at work and anxious for there to (NEVER) be a repeat of the Recycle Bin Saga (which I considered now to be over) I did as we had always done before the Saga had ever happened and collected the Bin in immediately. No problem.
Fast forward through today until about an hour and a half ago. I let Bingo out for his 2pm-ish constitutional in the garden (so that he is comfortable and his walk can be later, giving me more time to ignore the desperate cries of the housework and watch TV shows online instead) and followed him half way up, talking to him as I always do (the neighbours that live on the other side of us think I am mad because of this). The door to the Recycle-Bin-Stealers' house was open, as it often is, and a delicious cooking smell wafted through the air, as it often does. I just had time to note this while chattering away to Bingo, however, before the man that had seen me reclaim the Recycle Bin then smiled at me whilst smoking a cigarette popped into view with a really odd look on his face and slammed the door shut, then locked it. Then I can't be sure, but I THINK, he shut the window, too. I didn't hear or see it close, but I'm sure it was open when I walked into the garden, and it was closed when I walked back inside again, so he probably closed that too.

It came as a horrid shock, and I've been brooding on it ever since.
You can see why I am unsettled, right? He seemed upset. Was it with me - or us, as a household - or was it with something or someone else? Had he closed the door because he was angry that we had taken back our Recycle Bin and wanted to show me that he was angry, or was it merely a coincidence? Perhaps he had a private conversation he needed to have and realized that if I was in the garden performing my usual dance of having to call "do a wee-wee, Bingo!...Go on!...Go on!...Bingo, get on with it...Bingo, really; your walk isn't till later: DO A WEE-WEE", I would be able to hear him, and so shut the door, which is fair enough. Perhaps he just decided to shut the door that very second, and seeing me in the garden made him jump, explaining the odd look upon his face, which again is fair enough. Perhaps he simply didn't want to hear the usual round of ""Do a wee-wee, Bingo!...Go on!...Go on!...Bingo, get on with it...Bingo, really; your walk isn't till later: DO A WEE-WEE" and that was why he shut the door, which is fair enough, too...
...Or, perhaps, he hates and despises us.

*BITES LIP*

I know I can't do anything. If he despises us, he does, and that's that, but what if this is the precursor to another round of misery and distress and terror, albeit with different people? What if I have ruined our chances of a happy, quiet, SAFE home with my recklessness?
Am I overreacting? I hope I'm overreacting. I mean, even if he does hate us, it might not mean anything will happen, right? He might just avoid contact - not that we had much, if any, bar a few tentative smiles over the garden hedge - and that wouldn't be so bad, would it? That's probably all that will happen.
And he might not hate us anyway! It may all just be a coincidence; me reading too much into something that is actually nothing...

...I have no idea if this post makes any sense, but I had to get it out there and talk to someone - I can't talk to The Mother; she'd have another breakdown, I just know it - before my head exploded from the inside out. I feel a bit better now I've done that, although I'm still petrified of what might happen.
It's probably nothing, though.
*BREATHES*
Nothing at all...

*SIGHS*
Here's hoping that The Saga of the Recycle Bin Part 1 ends up staying at Part 1 and never develops, huh?

Feeling A Bit Better.

Feeling better now, after my angry rant yesterday. A few hours vigorous cleaning (thank God I get paid for that) and half a day spent in the company of Best Friend 1 - along with her adorable but exhausting and today very cranky toddler, henceforth known as Squidgum - followed by a short but pleasant walk with the dog - well, it was short for me: he ran around like a mad thing after his ball for half an hour or so - will do that for you, I think.

*BREATHES. SMILES*  

See? Much happier. And the dog is now snoring, rather than whining, which is what he was doing when I finally returned from my shopping trip (to buy me a can of chopped tomatoes and Best Friend 1 a new indoor clothes hanger: exciting) not only several hours later than I said I would be, but empty handed rather than bearing treats. So things have improved for him, too. We're both happy.

Also: Oasis Citrus Punch squash is beautiful tasting stuff.

Later (as I believe teenagers now say. Or is that 'laters'?). 

Alice xxx

*SIGHS*

My brother was due to pay a visit today. He's not coming. An 'upset stomach', apparently.

On the one hand, it's a relief (for reasons that I'll explain another time).

On the other, it's really pissing me off. REALLY pissing me off. In fact, I'm furious. 

Here's why (this time):

Last Sunday was Mothering Sunday. I told my brother what mother really, really wanted; a full afternoon playing board games, all three of us. Emphasis on "all three". Because that's what she wants. Me and her AND my brother all playing together; not just me and her, as it usually is. Because while games played with me (or The Grandpapa or Great Aunt, or The Cousin; we are a board game oriented family) are fun, games played with The Brother, her son, are SPECIAL. Because EVERYTHING to do with The Brother is SPECIAL. 

So that is what I told him that she wanted, and he agreed; yes, he would come over and spend a whole afternoon playing board games and he would pretend to have fun. 

As Mothering Sunday was tight for time, we arranged for him to come over the following Saturday; yesterday. Yesterday came and he arranged to come over Sunday instead, and I didn't mind. OK: as mum didn't have an orchestra rehearsal, there was just as much time on Sunday afternoon as Saturday, so what did it matter? Sunday was fine, so long as it happened, because mother was looking forward to it. 

Fast forward to today, and he isn't coming. He will "see us in the week".

I don't know why I am surprised; this is what always happens. I don't know why I care; I should have learnt by now. But I am and I do. I wanted him to come over and MAKE AN EFFORT. He didn't have to do much; just be here and smile every now and again. He'd even be fed; he always is fed, and mother probably would have given him something special; she always does. Hell, he wouldn't even have to walk the 30 minutes home again; mother would drive him. All he had to do was SHOW UP. That's ALL.

He came on Mothering Sunday. He brought a card that he had made himself with one of his special abstract drawings and a witty note inside, which made my store brought card look...well. Stupid, frankly...he gave her a gift; a beautiful tea-tray that mother fell in love with. And that was fine. That was great. But he KNEW what she really wanted, what she always wants and always has wanted: HIM. And he's blown it. And I'm probably more disappointed than she is; I know that - she accepts everything so much better - but I'm so FED UP. Why can't he try, just a little bit? We try so hard for him. More fool us, we know that, but we do: it's an irresistible compulsion. 

It's always been that way: us bending over backwards and slogging and him just watching from afar with a nonchalant expression on his face. When it matters to HIM, it's achieved, but nothing more. Never more, and never for others; not even us, the only two people that care enough about him to keep loving him no matter what happens or what he has done. 

The merest hint of effort and he can succeed so easily; he always has. But he doesn't, because he doesn't seem to want to; for himself (not when there are others to put in the effort for him) or for others. Especially not for others. Why? Why doesn't he...CARE? Why  doesn't he feel COMPELLED, ever?   

...Ugh. I'm typing myself round and round in circles. It feels good to be able to rant, though. I can't show my displeasure to HIM without upsetting HER, and I won't upset her if I can help it; never. But it feels good to - metaphorically - scream about it.

Whew. I need to cut back on the caffeine. Damn Pepsi Max. Why does it have to be so good? And why does it keep having to be half price? 

- Ah, sod it. I'll drain the rest of the bottle.

And yes: that would be a 2 litre bottle, in one day, drunk by one person. Yes: it's terribly bad for me. So sue me. We all have vices. Mine is compulsive comfort eating and an addiction to tomato ketchup and sugar free fizzy pop, particularly Pepsi. It could be worse. It could be Red Bull. *shrugs* 

Tara For Now. 

Alice xxx 

At this moment in time, life is good.

It is 8:30pm.

It is cold and raining outside, but warm and toasty in here.

Mother is out at a concert with a friend and shan't be back till at least 11 O'Clock. Maybe midnight.

My favourite two NCIS episodes (which mother is not fond of) are loading on the computer.

There are two stiff slugs of whisky in the kitchen with my name on them, ready and waiting to be enjoyed.

The dog is snoring on the sofa beside me.

As tomorrow morning is a Sunday and my shift starts at 7am rather than 6am, I get a whole extra hour to sprawl in bed. 

Should I get bored of NCIS, a group of people are having an interesting and incredibly loud Eastenders-esque argument not far from my front door.

There is chocolate in the fridge that also has my name on it.

Ahhh. Life is good...

To Blog - *sighs* - Perchance to Dream...

I have no clue why I've started this, really. It was just a sudden urge to start talking. I'm not even certain that I have anything all that interesting to say. But here I am.

I used to have a Blog. A long time ago - or at least, that's how it feels. It was called One Girl and Her Cats (and, rather stupidly, jabbered on about pretty much anything and everything but the damn cats. They did get the odd mention, though) and I had followers; can you believe that? People actually logged on and deliberately clicked a link to my Blog in order to read what I had put, just as I logged on and clicked the link to theirs; sort of a mutually beneficial orgy of egotistical gratification. 

But then life took over, and upsetting things happened, and I wasn't able to think of what to write anymore. Or at least, not the sort of things I wanted to write. There was nothing interesting or funny to say; just me stumbling about blindly in a fog and trying to think of something original and witty but only able to come up with a bleak blankness of repetitive boredom. 

And it wasn't just me; almost all of the Bloggers that I had found by accident and then through my own writings become (or thought I had become) so close to were vanishing, one by one. Life and its goods and bads and ups and downs had taken over for them, too. For all of us, suddenly there was either no time spare and no inclination to write anything down even if there was. So they stopped. All of them. Some of them tried to keep going, as I did; posting erratically and infrequently, knowing what was happening but refusing to accept the inevitable. But eventually the inevitable won through. Some left their Blogs open - some still are, I think - and let them sit there; relics to Blogging Days that once were. Others deleted out right, or left them open for a short spell and then deleted. I was one of the ones that deleted outright. 

I tried to restart - changing the name a little to something more appropriate; One Girl and Her Dog - and begin afresh, but it didn't work. Nor did tentative dips of the toe into the worlds of Twitter and Facebook - although to be fair Facebook did snare me for a while. Damn Farmville; that was an unexpected addiction that was bloody hard to kick - and MySpace. None of it worked. My heart wasn't in it. I had nothing to say and no-one to say it to. So I accepted it, and I stopped.

Until now.

As I said; I don't think I have anything all that interesting to say. Nor do I believe that anybody will listen. I shan't be advertising this anywhere - why the hell would I? The only way anybody would stumble upon it would be by accident, and even then they might not like what they read. But I'm doing it anyway. Because I need to talk. I need to vent and muse and let out all of the feelings that are bottled up inside of me. I could do that privately, in a diary, I know, but I've never been very good at that; I'm best typing rather than writing. I could create a Word Document and hammer out my thoughts there, I know that too; but that doesn't feel right either. Maybe it's my inner egotist, consumed with the urge to spew out its worthlessness into a vast and eternal pool because in such a vast and eternal pool it is possible - unlikely, but possible - that somebody, somewhere, might read it and rather than being uninterested would be awed and impressed by the brilliance of it. 

So there you are, mystery and possibly non-existent awed and impressed (rather than uninterested and underwhelmed) reader; that is the story of how One Fat Girl and her Thoughts came to be. And for my first brilliant and raptly engrossing observation of the world I inhabit, I will say this:

Animals that appear in TV shows - and their handlers, of course, but mostly the animals themselves - are absolutely bloody marvelous. So there.

Tara A Bit. 

Alice xxx