Overheard On A Dog Walk:

.START.

(Scene is set; schoolgirl meets with schoolboy beside park gate. After cheery greeting, they begin walking and as they pass by Alice and Bingo, the following conversation ensues...)

SCHOOLGIRL: (ruefully) Guess what I did this morning? Dropped my mobile into a mug of tea.
SCHOOLBOY: (laughingly) Ouch...

.END.

I'm Back In The Library Again.....

.....listening to a mixture of music as I try to make my brain work enough to get some more of The Story down (560 words so far today, apparently).
     Nearby a woman is sat at the computer beside mine. Beside her is a young man; given the interaction between them, he is a family member, son probably.
     Anyway, Mother has been struggling to do what she wanted to on the computer and he has been helping her. This involves a lot of talking, obviously, which is fine (what do I care? I am listening to Diana Ross singing 'Chain Reaction' right now...); she is learning, interaction is necessary.
     Slightly bothersome, however is that rather frequently Son has been leaning over and swatting at her hands. This, presumably, is to stop her from doing something 'wrong' (I have no idea what), and I don't know about her, but every time he does it, I want to punch him.
     I mean sure, you want her to get whatever she is doing right and you don't want her to make possibly time wasting mistakes - there is a two hour limit, after all - but come on! Please; find a better way of getting your message across! Trying to hit your Mother's hands repeatedly is not only massively disrespectful (or at least I think it is), but it is also massively distracting to anybody (i.e. me) that has the misfortune  of sitting next to you both.

.....Oh, for (insert naughty word of choice) sake! There he goes again!
     Quit it, already!

.....Oh, thank the Lord, they appear to be packing up to leave!
     .....Yep, they're going.
     =breathes out in relief=

OK. Back to work.
     I've only got 34 minutes left.
     Lets' see if I can't add a few more words before the timer goes.

.....Because 560 words in an hour and a half is pretty pitiful, isn't it?

Even with Mr. Smacksalot.
     Right?
     Right...

Alice x

A Fat Girl Thinks.

{Warning. Not All That Much Sense Ahead}

* My brother keeps having meltdowns. 

     Some were large, two of them prompting police interference (though thankfully no arrests were made). The last big one unearthed the fact that he wasn't taking his medication, and hadn't been for a while.

     .....Yeah. Schizophrenic; highly intelligent and arrogant, with a persecution complex, and no medication to even out the serious chemical kinks in his brain. Not good.....

The latest one (small, by comparison) came to a head a few minutes ago. He is all calm now. Mother and I, after numerous text messages, are not. She is going to fetch him now to bring him here; to give him time away from The Hotel (my nickname for the 'emergency council funded accomodation' dump that he lives and works in).

.....What I feel right now is that both of us need a break from him.....

* I am half way through a week's holiday (8 days, really, as I have Sundays off). My body is very much liking the 7-AM starts (as apposed to 4:45-AM) much better. I am enjoying it immensely.

     It is not going to like it when work starts up again.

     Not at all.

* Speaking of my body; Operation Get Alice Healthier (which began mid-way through January) is progressing well.

     Or at least I feel it is. Others may disagree.

     Step 1: to stop binging on voluminous amounts of high calorie crap, is complete. Apart from one blip - when drunk m'lud; aggravating circumstances, surely - over the past four to five weeks I appear to have curbed it. I still have sweet treats, but that is all they are; treats. 

     Which is very good.

My portion sizes, however, are gargantuan. Much bigger than I need. This is what Step 2 hopes to address; to decrease the amount I eat as a whole.

     I intend to do it gradually. Bit by bit. 

     The first target is supper. 

     One sandwich (two slices of bread plus filling) instead of two (four slices of bread plus filling) is the first goal. And no crackers (especially not SIX to EIGHT of them). And only one itty-bitty mousse pot (well, they seem 'itty-bitty' to me. Apparently to the rest of the world they are 'average'). That is the objective in this mission.

....Yeah. I'm greedy. Very.

     But I am working on it, and that is what counts.

     Right?

     Right.

* Operation Alice Will Actually FINISH One Of Her Stories is progressing too.

     I'm not sure that I can say it is progressing 'well', however.

     I mean, I am working on it, and it is growing, word by word and sentence by sentence, but...it isn't going as I had expected it would. I had it all mapped out, you see, in my head. But what I am typing isn't what was there. Some bits of it are recognisable, but the rest of it has morphed into something else entirely. Maybe that's good or maybe it isn't; I have no idea. What I do know is that it isn't what I had planned it to be and it isn't going where I had expected it to and that bothers me. It is becoming complicated and the premise was simple. The characters are developing, becoming deeper than I had intended them to be. And one character shouldn't be here at all; he just showed up out of nowhere and refused to leave. I'd already banished one intruder; a girl proclaiming to be the main character's cousin. Then this one showed up proclaiming that he was in fact said character's cousin, and unlike the wimp of a girl that had preceded him, he wasn't going anywhere thank-you-very-much.

     .....Don't you hate it when that happens?

Anyway, I had two choices. To doggedly try and keep plugging away at the story I had originally had in my mind, or to give in and just run with whatever it is the warped and crazily zig-zagging cavern that can be called my imagination is trying to push me toward.

     I opted with the latter, mostly to preserve what can be said to be my mind. Fighting against my imagination is a battle that I have lost before. For years I would start running with an idea for a story; indeed the entire thing will have played itself out in my head and all it would have needed was to be written down. And then soon after beginning my imagination would find another idea, another story mapping itself out. And then it would start screaming at me; poking and prodding and yelling at me until I gave in, abandoned what I was working on to start the new story, upon which my imagination would dredge up yet another idea.....and so on and so forth. And at the same time, irritatingly, all the other stories I had already started would take turns to prod me as well (seemingly just because they can).

     That was my problem, and it was going to be a hard one to overcome, I knew that. But in order to be able to finish something (.....and OK, also, I'll admit it; to win a bet.....), I decided that I was going to beat it, to ignore my imagination enough that I would be able to make my way through a story from beginning to end. And it has been hard, very hard, so far, as I had expected. Hard enough that I don't have the energy to fight anything else; hard enough that I am too tired and weak to throw myself into another battle.

     One battle, sure. Two? At once? Nuh-uh. =shakes head= Nope.

So, my imagination has won this one. I will let it drag me to wherever it wants to; to take the story to wherever it wants to. Fine. We'll see how it ends up. Maybe it will be for the best. Maybe I will produce a masterpiece (or at least something half way good). Or maybe it will be an utter disaster.

     Who knows? Certainly not me.

All I know for certain is that I am not stopping. Word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, I am getting this thing done, and within twelve months.

     I have a £1 bet riding on it, after all.

     The stakes are high...

* I am drinking far too much Pepsi-Max.

* The cat has decided to tag-team us to get more food.

     It has taken us nigh on two weeks to communicate with one another and figure this out.

I am not sure if that makes her clever, or us stupid.

     Or both?

     Probably both, right?

* To make sure I take regular sanity keeping breaks from The Story, I have a Mythbusters episode loaded at all times.

     Today's chosen are the two Pirate Specials.

     They are very good.

* ..... 

I have run out of thoughts.

     I know I had more, but they are gone; disappeared as though they had never been.

.....My brain is mocking me.....

Alice x

Harry Potter.....the Musical?

Last night a large proportion of the cast of Harry Potter invaded my dreams. And not content with that, they decided to up the ante. Not only would there be magic and adventure; this time, there would be singing...

The start was Harry and rival Malfoy locked in tuneful battle, arguing over which one of them was the chosen one destined for greatness (lots of glaring and pleasing harmonies).
     Then a magnificent feast was held in honour of the arrival of two distinguished dignitaries that were going to be giving lectures on the scope and power of various "unsee-isms". They arrived in style and with great ceremony to a dazzling chorous. Their daughter had been due to meet with them at the school gates, but had been held up by a passing storm and would not be arriving until later.

An hour later, Harry was bored stiff (cue a woeful internal solo with a definite baroque feel) and alone. His two friends Hermione and Ron arrived (#hello, hello#) only to leave again straight away (#goodbye, goodbye#). Other than that, everyone was ignoring him; too busy talking and having fun as they ate to notice him.
     Then the daughter of the dignitaries - me! - made an appearance, peeping out from behind a pillar then melting away into the crowds. His curiosity piqued, Harry jumped up from his chair and made efforts to find me; eventually catching sight of me just as I slipped silently past a snoozing knight and out into the gardens.
     Running after me, he caught up with me by a tree. I was leant against it, with my back to him, my palm outstretched against the bark. Grabbing at my cape he pulled back my hood, causing my chestnut mane of hair to spill out over my shoulders. Other than the tumbling of my locks and heaving of my bosom, I didn't move or respond in any way, instead staring fixatedly into the distance with the air of someone seeing something terribly dramatic.

Moved by how stunningly beautiful I was (oh come on, don't laugh! In the dream I was!), Harry began to serenade me with a moving aria. In it he declared his love for me and his hatred of life at Hogwarts. He felt his future lay elsewhere; he could sense the call of adventure beckoning over the horizon. Oh, would I not come with him to fulfil his destiny?!

Coming out of trance with a start, I began to sing a beautifully melancholy tune citing danger. There was danger from all angles and all of it after him, after us. I could sense it, I could see it. The ability to detect unsee-isms was a talent I had possessed from birth and I could see and feel them now; scores of them, everywhere, closing in. Closing in...
     The energy created by the unsee-isms becoming to much, I began to be wracked and overcome by violently powerful visions. Overcome himself - in his case with emotion - Harry followed as I staggered around, being thrust by the visions this way and that, and joined in with my song by adding his own; creating a poignantly discordant duet.....

.....and then I woke up.
  
My first thought was: '- what-??'.
     My second was: 'damn, I was good'.
     My third though was: 'ooh Lord, I need to pee!' (which did ruin the moment somewhat).

But still, the usual first morning toilet stop aside, it was a ruddy good dream.
     Beats the heck out of zombie apocalypses. 

Alice x

Another Needless Post (Lucky You):

Howdy.

I am currently sat in the library.
     Usually, whether I am trying to read, browse for a particular text, use one of the computers, or a combination of the above, this is an exercise that I find acutely annoying.

     The reason? Teenagers. Lots of them. Making noise. Lots of it. And unpleasant noise at that.

     I could cope with the varied bleeps, squawks, whistles and buzzes that emit from the mobile telephones they all appear to have glued to their fingers. 
     I could cope the never-ending myriad of sound produced by the various websites they browse and play around with. 
     I could cope with the odours wafting around them; a mixture of sweat, cheap perfume, chokingly strong body sprays, cigarettes, marijuana and various food/drink substances that hovers around their persons in a nauseating mist. 
     I could cope with the (I’m sure usually adorable) badly misbehaving small children and wailing infants that some of them bring in with them and then promptly ignore.

What I can’t cope with is all of the above at once, AND the incessant chatter. Loud chatter, peppered with bad language (fair enough, I am no saint myself on that score) and word and phrase bastardisation on a soul withering scale (sod being fair minded; on that score, I say NO, NO, NO! Bad teenagers! Naughty!).

 So, usually I avoid the library. Particularly the computers, where they tend to congregate in vast numbers (four to one computer is the norm. Plus infant in pushchair). And if I have no choice, I am in and out as soon as I possibly can be. Which is a shame, because when I was in my late teens I used to love wasting time on my lonesome at the library. Reading, writing, messing around on the newly installed computers; it didn’t matter. It was FUN. And now, it’s been ruined. There are no quiet corners left to sit and read, write or watch people as they come and go; either they have already been claimed by one gang or another to lounge about on (usually due to them not being able to get a computer), or even if they are free you can still hear them. Wherever you are, there is no escape.

(…..OK, I have just used a variant of the phrase “when I was young -”. I think that means that my 30 year-old self is officially the wrong side of ‘old’. It’s all downhill from here, isn't it? =sighs=.....)

Anyway, today I had time to kill. 
     I wasted an hour in a Weatherspoon’s Pub eating lunch and reading (well, re-reading) a book, then killed 19 minutes ringing up a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while and having a long and detailed chat. 
     Then I wasted some more time meandering in and out of shops trying to find a new pair of headphones for £5 or less that didn’t come with a computer speaker thing attached (a tricky task, apparently).
     Then, finally, in Poundland, I found what I was looking for, which I hadn’t expected to be frank. I had all but given up hope at that point and was heading morosely towards Wilkinson (which I knew had a spiffy set on sale for £7) when I glanced at the door of Poundland and thought; ‘ooh, unlikely, but you never know…’ and there they were! Blue, not too chunky, nicely cushioned and for the low low price of (as the name of the shop may have given away) £1. I was thrilled. Sure, they might have been no good, but c’mon; they were £1! As far as I was concerned, it was worth the risk.

 …..It was as I walked out of the shop with my spiffy (and hopefully of better quality than the price suggested) headphones that I had my big idea.

     Computers have a little thing to plug headphones into, I found myself musing. Or at least all the ones I have encountered do, including my own. As well as my Trusty Walkman, that’s what I use headphones for in the first place. 
     So if a computer happened to be free at the library right then, I could commandeer it, test my new headphones worked, drown out the annoying teenagers and kill an hour all in one go!

     ‘Great idea’, thunked I; ‘go me!’.

So, having had that awe inspiring epiphany, that’s exactly what I did.
     And I'll be damned if not only was there a free computer (unheard of at this time of day) but it actually worked. I am sat at a computer typing this, wearing my spiffy new headphones – which work brilliantly, by the way. Thus far it looks as though I’ve scored myself a first class bargain – and listening to music and I couldn’t be happier.
     Good or what?

 …..of course, now I have had this awe inspiring epiphany of a big idea, there is ne’r a teenager to be found and the library is silent and respectful as a church.
     But that doesn’t matter! 
     What matters is that the next time I need to be in the library, I am READY for them!

 Yep. Go me.
     It’s only taken me 10 years to come up with that.

.....I’m so clever…..

Alice x

I Am Wearing Black Socks.

Why, I can hear my (non-existent) public asking, is this worthy of a Blog Post?
     Answer, t'isn't. Not really.

I love colour, is all. My trousers (or on the odd occasion, skirts) are uniformally and boringly black, but my tops are anything from pastel blue to neon red and my socks are the same. Pink, blue, green...stripes. I like colourful tops, colourful jewellery and stripey, colourful socks.

But today, thanks to being behind with the washing, the ones I have on are black. They have purple tipped toes, but still; predominantly, black.

...That's it.

It's a none story, isn't it? I know it is. I know it isn't the least important to anyone else.

But it is to me.

When I walk my way around work wearing my boring black trousers and boring sensible shoes and boring (and unflattering) navy blue polo-shirt (and no jewellery. Other than my pendant watch and dad's cross, which I don't take off, ever), I have the knowledge that underneath it all I am wearing a splash of bright colour, and that knowledge makes me feel better. It really does.
     It's silly, very silly, but that's the way t'is.

So now here I am. Colourless.

And to be honest, silly or not, pathetic or not, as a result I have felt fairly 'bleh', all day.

OK. That's it; all done. Whine over. Time to get ready for choir.

...in my black socks...

=SIGH=

Alice x

Overheard Snippets And Subsequent Thoughts:

.START.

(one woman to another as we passed each other entering Tesco's)

"...I know I am coming down with something because I'm shivering at night..."

- I'd have thought that if you were 'coming down' with something you'd have been shivering all the time, to be honest.

~~~

(a man to a baby in a high chair, in Tesco's Cafe)

"...and the little red fish goes 'bubble, bubble, bubble'..."

- And the great big shark goes 'GULP!'.

~~~

(a woman to a man, also Tesco's Cafe)

"Four, four, four, four!"

- Er...five!

~~~

(between two women, somewhere nearby outside the toilet cubicle I was sitting in)

WOMAN 1: but you must be wearing new leggings!
WOMAN 2: (bemused) nope.
WOMAN 1: but...
WOMAN 2: really, I'm not.
WOMAN 1: but you must be! All your old leggings have holes in; these are perfect.
WOMAN 2: oh really? Take a look...
(... long pause ...)
WOMAN 1: (shocked) oh my!
WOMAN 2: (amused) see?
WOMAN 1: (awed/disapproving) you are a very bad girl...

- One of two possibilities of what was viewed there, one presumes.

~~~

(a child - around 10 - stood beside me at Tesco's Self Scan Checkouts, to someone apparently far, far away)

"...WHAT?!..."

- I have no idea 'what', kid, but shout like that in my ear again and I swear by all that is holy; I will punt you across the store.

~~~

 (between two young men - presumably students - outside Kidderminster College)

STUDENT 1: Hitler was insane. And evil. And a dictator.

STUDENT 2: so, exactly like every high ranking politician that's ever existed?

STUDENT 1: (wearily) if you discount the mass slaughter of Jews and disabled people, then yeah; 'exactly'.

- As WOMAN 1 in Tesco's toilets said: "oh my!"

~~~

(man to woman as they walked past me)

MAN: ..but honestly, that's how I would want to go.

WOMAN: (stunned) really? You would??

- I really, really want to know what the start of that conversation sounded like. Really, really.

.END.

How Cool Is This!

Reading past posts on a Blog I frequent called Thumper Thinks Out Loud, I came upon one that has been translated into "Gangsta" by something called Gizoogle.
     'Cool', thinks I! 'I'd like to do that...'

.....and so, to cheer myself up as I am stuck at home stuffed up with cold right now rather than making joyous noise at the weekly choir rehearsal (as I should be doing; the concert is in just 6 weeks!), I did.

And here it is: a Blog post of mine from late last year, translated by Gizoogle into Gangsta.
     Enjoy (and beware to those who are sensative to bad language).

***

Friday, 6 December 2013

A Note To All Cold Callers:

Dear Cold Callaz Callin From Various Organisations & For Varyin Reasons:

Please, fo' tha ludd of God, STOP PHONING US! We is never goin ta buy/sign up for/say shit bout whatever it is yo ass be aimin ta sell/promote/research, so it would be easier on all involved if you would all just bugger off n' leave our asses tha Hell ridin' solo.

Thank yo thugged-out ass.

Yours faithfully,
Alice.

Seriously; dis is beyond a joke now, nahmeean?
    Unlike other (lucky) people, I aint gots tha option of leavin tha telephone whenever it rings n' lettin tha answer-machine pick up tha slack. Cuz of mah motherz line of work, if it rings n' we is in, we HAVE ta pick up tha phone; just up in case. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So unlike other (lucky) people, rather than bein inconvenienced every last muthafuckin now n' again, both mah mutha n' I is inconvenienced several times a thugged-out day.
    I used ta feel wack bout spittin some lyrics ta tha playas on tha other end of tha beeper - as politely as possible - dat we weren't interested n' hangin up. No longer n' shiznit fo' realz. Afta two muthafuckin yearz of this, wit calls increasin up in frequency over dat time, I be no longer simply fed up; I be incredibly pissed off. I be aware dat tha thug rappin' ta me aint directly at fault (everybody need ta git a livin somehow) n' cuz of dis I still try ta keep mah tone as polite as possible but afta politely n' firmly sayin mah piece (usually either "sorry but our phat asses don't conduct surveys over tha phone. I be goin ta hang up now, bye" or "sorry yo, but we never purchase or order anythang over tha phone. I be goin ta hang up now, bye") I hang up; often while tha skanky biatch/man is still bustin lyrics.
     How tha fuck do these g-units make any scrilla from this?, biatch? They must do, otherwise tha bidnizz of cold callin would no longer exist (apart from tha hawkin done on behalf of various 'charities', fo' instance, tha bidnizz of callin from door ta door ta push varyin wares be all but gone) yo, but I be damned if I know how tha fuck or why it happens. No Muthafucka dat I know appreciates receivin unsolicited phone-calls; nor has mah playas I know eva been convinced tha fuck into buyin or signin up fo' anything.

... =sighs= ...

Sorry. Ya Mom shoulda told ya, I had a wack week n' three such calls up in tha past two hours. I be feelin mo' than a lil cranky right now n' dat shiznit was either scream all up in tha sickest fuckin lost ass dat had tha misfortune ta rang me at dat second (from tha soundz of it, wit tha aim of rappin' me tha fuck into agreein ta pay fo' a cold-ass lil computa screenin service) or rant on here.
     I chose tha latter.

Got ta bounce tha fuck out. My fuckin mini shift at SENSE awaits.

***

Alice x

My Life Is Filled With Excitement.

Today, while I waited for the lady from Shaw Trust Employment and Training Agency to ring back so that I could arrange for phone interviews to take place on MJ's behalf while he is barred from the building (long story. The upshot is that he has started taking his medication again) I decided to run a little experiment.
     I wanted to find out what it would taste like to mix Coca-Cola (naughty sugar) with my usual tipple, Pepsi-Max (even more naughty chemical laden sweetners instead of sugar).
     The results were...interesting.
     Not particularly pleasant, though: shan't be doing that again.

Also today, a man turned up to look at our defective boiler.
     As we had been given no warning that he was coming the room hadn't been emptied (again), but at the sight of the clutter, Boiler Man was undaunted. I did not, he assured me smilingly, have to move everything out. Nay, I did not have to move ANYthing out; he was certain that he would manage just fine, no problem.
     Fear not, pretty lady; for I, Boiler Man, am here. =cue heroic pose=

(Well, alright, he didn't actually say that last part. But considering the mountain of debris he had to clamber over - which he did. And cheerfully, no less - he may as well have done. I was certainly impressed.)

The visit lasted a grand total of seven minutes. Turns out our boiler needed water in its tank. So he put some in, ran a few safety checks and presto! We have hot water, which is lovely.
     It's been really annoying having to wait for two kettles to boil every morning just to do the washing up.....

.....Which is not a massively big problem in the overall scheme of things, of course.
     Just...annoying.

Alice x

To The Lady That Jumped A Red Light and Raced Around A Corner Through A Pedestrian Crossing;

Hi.
     Remember me? I'm the poor innocent pedestrian that you very nearly ran straight into as you zoomed your way around the corner at a time when every vehicle coming from four different directions should have been stationary.
     And this - =points= - this is my dog, another pedestrian and as innocent as innocents get.

I bet you felt real smug, didn't you, beating all those other cars (the drivers of which, incidentally, were all obeying the law and staying put) by those precious few seconds. How many was it? 45? Maybe even 60?
     You certainly looked smug. Even as I - after darting out of the way pulling my dog with me - spread my hands and glared at you in angry disbelief, the realization that your impatience had very nearly caused a collision didn't seem to concern you in the least. Instead, you looked right at me, your phone to your ear - which is another bone of contention, by the way - with an infuriatingly casual expression and shrugged. Actually shrugged. 
      'What is all the fuss about', your face was clearly saying?

I'll tell you what the fuss was about, shall I?
      It's perfectly simple:
     OK, so I managed to get out of the way. Just. No lasting harm done. But what if I hadn't gotten out of the way? Would you have felt as smug and indifferent about your blatant and reckless law breaking if you had actually hit me with your car? Or how about my dog? Or how about if it hadn't been me, but a little old lady pulling a trolley? An elderly man with a walking stick? A person in a wheelchair? A mother pushing a pram?
     And how about if the person you ploughed into died? 
     Would those few seconds shaved off your journey have been such a boon then??

I doubt it.

So next time, for whatever reason you feel tempted to ignore the rules of the road, think about it. This time you were lucky. And thanks to reflexes I didn't know I had, so was I. Next time you might well encounter someone with slower reflexes and your luck, and theirs, may just run out.

And when that happens - and believe me, if you keep on doing what you are doing it will, eventually - that person's blood will be on your hands, and be there forever.
     Could you live with that?
     I couldn't.

So seriously, think about it.
     Please.

Yours (currently utterly despairing of human nature),
     The Random Girl You Nearly Killed.

I Am Currently Curled Up On The Sofa...

...wearing thick trousers, socks (also thick) and shoes - rather than slippers. Damn foot condition - on my lower half and three layers consisting of a thermal vest, a jumper and a fleece on my top half.
     Oh, and gloves.

I am dressed thus because, as you may have inferred, it is very cold. The house is, generally; apparently due to us having a cellar (which is suitably dank and morbid and unfortunately for the Electrical Division of the council's Health & Safety Inspectors is where the fuse box is located). This is a blessing in summer, of course, but of course in the winter that same blessing becomes a curse.
     It doesn't take much of a drop in temperature to create a chill like the one I am experiencing now throughout the property, and although this may make me sound like a wimp, it really can be quite unpleasant.
     As a well organized and civilized family unit my mother and I deal with this in a suitably mature and civilized way and play games such as Rock-Paper-Scissors, Heads & Tails and I Am Older/Younger/Tireder/More In Pain Right Now Than You Are Therefore It Is Your Turn Not Mine So There to determine which of the two of us has to leave the blissful warmth of the living room for whatever reason and face the arctic regions beyond. We also have electric blankets on both of our beds that we are massively grateful for.
     The central heating is never turned on (the reasons for this are complicated and involve a fridge), so everywhere else in the house stays as cold as it gets. But between the warm and toasty living room and our warm and toasty beds, we manage just fine and can cope with the stark frigidness of the rest of the place.

.....Usually.

Right now, however, the living room is not all warm and toasty.
     Right now the living room is as starkly frigid as the rest of the house is. I want to turn the fire on, truly I do (the dog truly wants me to, too), but I can't. Because the Gas Division of the Council's Health & Safety Inspectors is due any time now to service the fire. And  as one cannot service a gas fire that is has been on for a long time without burning oneself, off the gas fire stays. Hence the thermal vest and gloves. And if I had them, I would be wearing long-johns, too.
     .....Of course, said Gas Man (for want of a better term) could have with him special safety equipment in order to circumnavigate said heat - special gloves, for example - in which case I shall feel very silly. But then again, he might not have (particularly as he is employed by local government, which is known for his penny pinching) and if I took the chance and it turned out he hadn't he would have to leave doing his inspection and service, which in turn would upset the council. And one does not want to upset the council when one is residing in one of their buildings because trust me, it is not a good idea; not at all (even if unlike a lot of their tenants, you are paying both rent and tax in full every month).

So here I am. In thermal vest and gloves (thin ones, which is why I am able to type this without  - too much - difficulty) and waiting for a Gas Man that might not turn up, or might have turned up already while I was still at work (the lady I spoke to on the phone assured me that they would "note on their system" that there would be nobody there except the dog and cat until 12:45, but still you never can tell, can you?) and left again in a huff because nobody let him in, or might turn up and have special heat protecting gloves to wear in which case I will feel silly.

Either way, we shall see. And in the meantime, despite all the layers I have on, I am still cold.
     So is the dog.
     Of the two of us, I think he is the more upset (something he keeps reminding me of).

Alice x

UPDATE:
     The Gas Man arrived as I was signing my name to this whine of a Blog post, causing a mad scramble as I a) collared the dog (who always goes demented when the door knocks), b) found the key that I had carelessly left in the kitchen rather than in its customary place on the windowsill behind the TV and c) rushed to empty the cubby hole housing the diva of a boiler we can't actually make work so that he could service that as well.
     Lest anyone of a judgeful nature think me neglectful and lazy, by the way, with regards to (c), I wish to inform you all that I was assured by the woman I rang regarding my work schedule yesterday that it was a "gas fire service ONLY" and that the boiler wouldn't be touched, and therefore there would be no need to empty out the room it was stuck in the back of behind mountains of essential junk; but it turns out she was misinformed. That, or she is a spiteful wench that derives pleasure from the thought of causing chaos in the life of some poor council tenant that has done her no ill whatsoever, but on balance, I reckon the first assumption is probably correct.

Anyway, the room containing the boiler (and everything else we can't think what to do with) has been cleared, the Gas Man - having finished in the living room - is in there right now doing whatever it is Gas Men do to boilers, the gas fire itself is now on having been thoroughly (or at least I assume...?) serviced, the living room is toasty warm and the dog is stretched out on the carpet in blissful toasty warm comfort sound asleep.

All is well.

P.S. in case anyone was wondering; the Gas Man did have special heat protecting gloves, BUT upon curious questioning he confided that in the circumstance of continually touching a scorching hot surface for a great length of time (rather than taking hold and quickly letting go), they weren't all that much use. So he was grateful that the fire had been off; it meant that he could get straight in and plough his way through rather than having to wait or continually take breaks.
     So there, possible naysayers. Vindicated is I.
     =sticks out tongue=