You Wouldn't Think That A Pifflng 6 Extra Hours A Week Would Make That Much Of A Difference...

...but they apparently have.
     Coming to the end of my second week as a 36 hour-er rather than a 30 hour-er, my body (feet in particular) doesn't know what has hit it; just that it doesn't like it, at all.

It doesn't help that the area of the store that the staff use (affectionately known as Out The Back), which has been added onto my already crowded rota, is deliberately kept at a temperature that is uncomfortably high for me. The radiators - which I am not allowed to touch. I checked - are all on full blast. Nice for the Store staff as they change in and out of their uniforms and/or use the loo and/or lounge around in the canteen during their breaks, but not so nice for the poor schmuck (right now, me) trying desperately to clean them and everything else around them.
     By the time I finish, I am drenched with perspiration.
     A sexy look, perhaps, on a bikini-clad waif modelling sun lotion.
     Less so on an overweight cleaner bearing a mop.

Anyhoot, that's been my week.
     And the week before that.
     And probably the next two weeks afterwards.
     And possibly even longer than that.

.....In other news, the choral concert is this Saturday coming.
     Tonight is the first of two Town Hall based rehearsals, starting, as usual, at the earlier time of 7-PM
     If the last five first Town Hall based rehearsals for the last five concerts is anything to go by, as well as starting half an hour earlier, it will also finish at least an hour late.
     Which considering how I am feeling right now, is just great.

.....In other other news, The Story has hit a wall. Other ideas for other Stories have taken this opportunity manfully and with gleeful abandon and have started not so much prodding me as hitting me across the back of the head with a plank of wood. Hard.
     I will stay strong.
 (OK, I did crack and write a bit of one of them out, admittedly. But it was only half a page, and then I made myself stop. Other than that I will stay strong.)

.....In other other other news, MJ still isn't fully stable, even with the medication. He is better, but not as level as any of us would like.
     The doctor has requested he attend an hour long appointment with the Mental Health Care Team next week, to "fully assess the situation and discuss options to help him move forward with appropriate support".
     As these were the same people that had a hand in him being sectioned, he's not thrilled with the idea. He has agreed, provisionally, albeit reluctantly, because as he angrily (and rightly) pointed out in the car on the way home, had he refused in all likeliness that would have been used as an excuse to have him "assessed" at the hospital anyway, by force.
     I am going to go with him. If my hours return to normal I should be working 12-4PM, but probably I won't be; I'm doubtful that Supervisor will be back at work until 13th April (she's signed off sick until the end of the month definitely and has holiday booked for the week starting the April 6th. If I were her, I would give myself the extra 7 days in between to make sure I was better, but perhaps she will see it differently).
     Anyway, if she is back, I'll explain and make the hour up later in the month. If she isn't, I'll be working 6-12NOON to cover hours left by One-Notch-Above-Useless-Collegue1's 3 day holiday from Wednesday to Friday anyway, so it shan't matter.
     Either way, I'll be going to the appointment.
     MJ is frightened about it. And having been sectioned 3 times in the past, who can blame him? Certainly not me.
     I'm pretty frightened myself to be honest.
     We'll see.

.....This year for Christmas I think I shall ask Santa for a worry free month. 28 days with no worry at all, about MJ or Mother or anything or anyone else.
     That would be nice.
     Wouldn't it?

 Alice x

Just Got In After Attending An Appointment With The Brother's Doctor.

.....Does anyone have any bourbon?

Alice x

Alice's Thought Of The Day:

Can one be said to be truly 'powerful' unless one has minions (the proper, scary evil kind that is; as opposed to the cute, yellow comedic kind that have recently taken the world by storm)?
     Indeed; would being powerful be in any way fun without them?

...Discuss.

Alice x

As I Currently Don't Have Anything All That Interesting To Say.....

.....ladies and gentlemen, I bring you:

The Sad, Sad Tale Of The Broken Window Motor.

I wrote this a long time ago, inspired by an hour and a half long journey in my aunt’s car, back from visiting my great aunt in Cannock. Enjoy...

~~~~~

It was a dark and stormy night.

(...well, in actual fact it was a brisk and sunny autumn afternoon, but that is neither here nor there...)

The heroines of the tale, Mum; Aunt Amanda; and Alice; were sat in Aunt Amanda's car as it tootled its way home from a successful visit from Great Aunt Betty’s. The overall atmosphere in the car was jovial and jubilant. Everyone was happy. Life was good.

     And then: It Happened.

Alice, feeling a little hot, said; “I’ll just open the window”.

Pressing the button, the motor sprang into action, and there was a WZZZZT sound. The window opened far faster than Alice had anticipated, causing her to let go, but she did not read too much into that. It often did such things, and so at that moment there was no cause for concern.

“Oops, silly me”, said she.

She pressed the button again, this time to go UP instead of DOWN.

      Nothing happened.

“Odd,” says Alice. 

She pressed the button again, and then again, and again. 

     .....It was after the fifteen press of the button that she began to get concerned.....

“- um -” admitted Alice, eventually; “the window doesn’t seem to be working...?”

The others were also concerned, but as they were currently tootling down the A460 at 60-70mph, there was not a lot that could be done about. 

     Upon returning home, Aunt Amanda and her husband (Uncle Guy) wrestled with the offending window, and managed to get it up and closed again.

So! Alls well that ends well, I hear you say.

Not so, says I! 

     For there is, alas, more.

Several weeks later, another visit to Great Aunt Betty was arranged. 

     Remembering the window, Alice made a joke about not touching it and the other occupants of the car (this time Granddad as well as Mum and Aunt Amanda) laughed, and off they tootled to Cannock.

     The journey there and the visit were successful, just like last time. The overall atmosphere in the car as Aunt Amanda began backing out of Great Aunt Betty’s drive was jovial and jubilant. 

     All were happy. Life was good.

It was as the car finished its three point turn and prepared to drive off that It Happened.

     The windows, you see, were all steamed up, and Alice and Granddad couldn’t see Great Aunt Betty as she stood ready to wave them off. So instinctively (and most definitely without thinking) Alice leaned over, and pressed the button to open the window, so that those sat in the back could see her properly.

     As soon as she had done it, she regretted it. 

     Almost instantly she removed her finger, but it was too late. 

     WZZZZT went the motor. 

     Down went the window, fast and unstoppable. And there, down, it stayed.

She clicked and she pleaded and she threatened, but to no avail: there it was and it flat out refused to go back up again.

     Alice was guilty. Alice was sorry. The other occupants of the car were sorry too, but not particularly concerned, and certainly not as sorry as Alice, who had to sit close beside a fully open window being rained upon on a dark and stormy night (really, this time).

Five hours later, the car is back at Aunt Amanda’s and has been for some time, but in this instance there is unfortunately no happy ending.

      Despite their best efforts, Aunt Amanda and her husband (Uncle Guy) could not get the motor working again. The window was well and truly stuck and intended to remain that way, forever more.

And there you have it.

     As of this moment the motor is dead, the left hand passenger seat is open to the elements (which at this point in the year are not hospitable), Aunt Amanda is facing the prospect of taking the car to a garage, and Alice is feeling very, very sorry indeed.

And there, on that melancholy note, endeth The Sad, Sad Tale Of The Broken Window Motor.

~~~~~

Alice x

It Is 8:25-AM.....

.....I am due at work at 10-AM (hours are being messed around massively; don't ask) which means I need to start out at 9:25-AM.
     I need to vacuum. The floor in every room in the house is disgusting. Everything else is just about passable (for now) but the floor's aren't. They really need seeing to.
     If I don't do it now, I won't have a chance to do it at all today. I don't finish until 4-PM and once I have trudged home again almost every second of the evening is taken up with other stuff that has to be done.
     So I have to do it now.

BUT, I have a dog on my feet.
     He has just a few moments ago decided that that is where he wants to be and after arranging himself artistically so that he was both comfortable and definitely pinning me down at the same time, he immediately fell asleep and started snoring contentedly.
     He hardly ever gives me affection like this.
     If I move either of my feet the likelhood is that he will get off in a huff and stalk off into a corner to sulk.
     I don't want this to happen.
     I want him to keep on cuddling me (shut up. In Bingo's World, this counts as cuddling, OK?), because it hardly ever happens and it is really lovely and I am really enjoying it.
     So I can't move.

.....That's a good enough excuse to leave the floors disgusting, right?
     .....Right??

Alice x

35 Minutes Later:
     Damnit, the bugger moved!
     If I get my skates on, there is still technically time to vacuum at least the majority of the house.

=SIGHS=

To All You Kids Out There (That Aren't Actually Reading This):

Today is Mothering Sunday.
     So! Go spoil your Mother's.

And spoil them mightily, indeed; as much as is financially and physically possible. Facilitate their every whim and bend to their every desire.
     Remember, these women gave birth to you; carried you in their wombs for 8-10 long and at best frustrating and uncomfortable months, then endured the labour or operation necessary to bring you into the world (something that when upset, she might more than once have mentioned to you. 14 endless hours of excruciating pushing, apparently, in my case).
     Add to that, for your entire childhood (in 99% of cases, at least) she has fed you, clothed you; provided unconditional love, support, succour, encouragement...they've bathed you when dirty, tended you when sick, praised you in success, commiserated with you in failure. They've been there through thick and thin, laughter and tears; through everything.

Everything that you are in adulthood is, for the most part, down to you. You shape yourself in your own image and in your own way, no matter what happens to you or around you; that's what for good or bad makes humans such wonderfully versatile and unique creatures.
     BUT, it is important to note; those building blocks that you have used to sculpt the masterpiece that is You originated somewhere else, with someone else, and for many, that someone else is The Mother.
     Your Mother.

So spoil her, kids. Make her happy.

After all, she deserves it.

Remember, however, something important to bear in mind:  a Mother is for Life. Not just for Christmas.

.....Or something like that.....

=shrugs=

Go, anyway. Be gone. Shoo.
     And get spoilin'.

Alice x

You Know What Is More Annoying -

- than not having quite enough clothes to make even half a load, but thanks to said clothes being essential having to shove them in the washing machine and set the thing going anyway?

.....Finding a solitary dirty sock lying on the stairs all on its lonesome, that you unknowingly dropped on your initial trudge down; that's what.

=insert expletive of choice here=

Alice x

For Future Reference...

...upon being asked by your tearful mother - after a bout of stress induced hysterical crying - if she "tires you out" and is "a little bit difficult to live with, sometimes"; a brief but obvious hesitation is not the correct response.

That is all.

=bows. walks off=

Alice x

Overheard At B&Q:

~~~

(Scene is set; two men are walking down one of the larger aisles. They are talking animatedly. As they pass Alice coming the other way, she overhears a brief snippet of conversation...)

MAN1: (confidently) No need to worry; I know a man that will do it for £50, no problem.
MAN2: (impressed) Nice...

(End of scene)

~~~

A D.I.Y problem, one presumes. And a D.I.Y solution.
     But still.
     It does make one wonder. Because after all, £50 is £50.

You can do a lot with £50, I'm sure...

Alice x

In No Particular Order, Here Are A Few Things I Have Said (Either To Myself or Someone Else) During The Course Of Today:

.START.

Exasperated, upon re-sweeping bottom end of store for the umpteenth time:
     - whose bright idea was it to store loose plaster dust in thin paper sacks?


Furious, upon finding the little pile of cat poo beside the toilet in the bathroom:
     - You bad, BAD cat! BAD BAD BAD! WHY do you do this?! This is unacceptable, totally unacceptable!
     .....(cue: stomping away, then stomping back to yell at unimpressed cat again).....
     - I FED you your snack today BEFORE I had my lunch! Before I had sat down, even! And this is how you repay me! I am cross with you, very cross and you don't care, do you, you don't care a jot! Look at you, sat there blinking up at me totally safe in the knowledge that nothing bad will happen because you know we won't have the heart to kill you; well, I had the shift from Hell this morning, cat and you have seriously pissed me off, so think again!
     .....(cue: stomping off again, leaving cat sat on the stairs; still unimpressed).....


Blushing, as girl in sandwich shop wrote down my order without my needing to say anything:
     - .....yeah, that's it. I guess I can be classed as a 'regular', huh? .....and boring.


Pained, after sharp contact to heel by new, hard to manoeuvre giant mop bucket: 
     - ow, ow, ow, ow, ow...


Upon opening file containing The Story: 
     - please not read only, please not read only, please not read only, please not read only...


Wearily, standing in back garden with throbbing feet: 
     - Bingo, you ASKED to go out. I didn't get a break and I've just got home; I haven't even sat down yet. Get on with it.


Slightly irked, upon remark from passing man regarding 'niceness' of job as I drove past on mopping machine:
     - Oh, yeah. If you discount the getting on and getting off and getting on and getting off and getting on and getting off...along with the continuous destructive interference from B&Q staff and B&Q customers, plus the sweeping and mopping and wiping and sweeping and mopping and wiping for ever and ever A-men, then yeah; it's just peachy, thanks.


Musing, peering at fingers: 
     - boy, my hands are dirty. Probably should have washed them before I ate.


Thrilled, upon finding a new Emoticon by accident (typed): 
     - I made a smiley face with a mustache! .....is that how you spell 'mustache'?


Half awed, half freaked out, upon waking up:
     - I just beat the Hell out of my Grandfather. Wow. Why did my brain cast him, of all people, as a deranged, evil serial killer?
     .....and where did that Basilisk come from??

.END.