Bless.

I'm feeling far too raw to talk about the events of the last nine or so days (even the good parts), so I shan't - for now, at least (sorry, Best Friend 0.5(1); I know you were looking forward to the second rendition of your Alternate History Lesson) - and will instead focus on something else, which in this instance, is the cat.

Suzie wanted to go into the kitchen. The door leading to it, however, was shut to and wedged against the skirting board (technically open, but with too narrow a gap for her to fit through).
     So! The following occurred...

At first, she tried to simply walk through into the kitchen anyway (as you would) but found - amazingly - that the door didn't yield to her will, opting instead to remain solid and un-go-through-able.

...Then she tried glaring at the door, but - more amazingly still - that didn't work either.

...Then she upped the ante and hissed at it, only to find that the door, which had already proven itself to be a bad sport, still refused to co-operate, which of course was so amazing as to beggar belief.

...Then, the piece de resistance: she bit it.
     Now, that, she was obviously thinking, that would surely teach that idiotic wooden affront masquarading as a door precisely who was boss...?
     But no! To her intense shock and disbelief, it didn't!

...Then, at last, realizing that all efforts had failed - and that to save what remained of her dignity, any effort to ask for help from the human in the room was obviously out of the question - she did what any self respecting female would do and turned her nose up at the whole thing before stalking away, presumably so as to ruminate on the appropriate method of revenge to deploy later in private, flicking the door dismissively with her tail as she did so.

...And now. five minutes later, having turned her back on the world, she is fast asleep, exhausted into dreamland by the ordeal of coming up against an object too stupid to listen to either reason or threat.

=smiles to self=
     ...Well.
     That was fun.

B.C.B.F.L.B x

Thanks, Mom.

~.START.~

Scene is set; Alice is sat in her seat during a rehearsal. The rehearsal gives way to an interval, as per usual, at 8:45-PM. Quiet is called for so that announcements can be made, and the chatter calms down into silence. This is the moment when Alice bends down to pick up her water bottle, and is also the moment that Alice's body chooses to let out the biggest and loudest fart that that church hall has ever seen. Cue, Alice jerking upright, with colour flushing her face. The other choristers do the good old British thing and pretend that nothing happened at all, and after a further moment of - now excruciating - silence, the announcements commence. Alice takes advantage of this to slip unobtrusively out of the hall and down the stairs towards the toilets. Once safely inside, she takes a few deep breaths, fans her burning face and fetches out her mobile phone. She needs sympathy. Somebody to say something along the lines of ..."oh, poor you, never mind, could happen to anybody, and it'll be forgotten next week"... something like that. So, she starts typing a text message...

ALICE: Oh God, oh God, I just broke wind really loudly, and it was really quiet and everybody heard it!

MOTHER: Blimey. I'll have to pretend I don't know you.

ALICE: (typing crossly) Hey! You'd deny your own daughter due to a fart?

MOTHER: Yep. Without hesitation.

ALICE: You cow! I reached out to you, my MOTHER, in a time of great embarrassment. I was expecting sympathy, and you say that!

MOTHER: Look, in times of trouble, generally I dispense hugs. But trump in public, dear, and you're on your own.

ALICE: Thanks, Mom.

MOTHER: Any time. See you at supper.

ALICE: (mutters aloud) ...bitch... 

~.END.~  

B.C.B.F.L.B x

Well, That's One Question (Asked Yesterday) Answered.

QUESTION: how many cleaners - momentarily distracted by a low flying dove - does it take to send a smallish child - completely distracted by having the time of her life skating up and down the aisles of The Store as fast as she can on a pair of Heelys - careering off course and into a wall?

ANSWER: just the one (me).

Thankfully, said smallish child was unhurt, and even more thankfully, there appeared to be no parent nearby ready to scream at me.
     All the same, though, after checking that the little girl was alright - which she was. A little stunned, but otherwise healthy - I gathered my equipment and took my leave in a hurry, just in case.

This incident, however, raises more questions:

1. why do so many (so-called) parents allow their children to race up and down in crowded places completely. unsupervised? Surely, even when not in a potentially dangerous place like The Store I work in, that is terribly treacherous?

2. yesterday's child may have been lucky, but how many children - along with innocent passersby - to date have been injured in accidents associated with Heelys?  And how serious an injury would it take to be for the imbecilic product* to be taken off the shelves? Does a child actually have to die?

Anybody with answers to either of those, would you please get in touch?
     Ta.

B.C.B.F.L.B x

* should anybody stumbling across this Blog be offended by my comments regarding Heelys, I have the following to say: 
a) there is a time and a place for pretty much everything, but with regards to skating; in an enclosed space, littered with large immovable objects (many of them with very sharp edges) and surrounded by crowds of people is not one of them.
b) I am thinking primarily of the safety of the children involved, here. To me, at least, the idea of little heads being cracked open on shelves is an unpleasantly realistic one.
c) bite me.  

Okay! Now, give Me A 'B'! Give Me A...

~.START.~

Scene is set; Mother, Alice and Brother are sat around the table in the kitchen, faces set with competitive concentration as they stare down at the scrabble board in front of them (well, Brother and Mother's are; Alice has little chance of winning, and thus is simply having fun). Presently, Brother, who's turn it is (and who is determined to make use of a particularly inhospitable spot that is enticingly labelled as 'treble word score'), speaks...

BROTHER: (after very long pause) how do you spell 'jot'? Does it have two T's or one?
ALICE: (pondering) um...one, I think. ...Yeah. One, I'm pretty sure it's one. Mother?
MOTHER: (a little absently, concentrating on her letters) er, yep, it is spelled j-o-t. Unless you have 'jotted' something down, in which case, it uses two: j-o-t-t-e-d.
BROTHER: (mutters something under his breath) ...well, how about 'jut'?
MOTHER: same principle: j-u-t, or j-u-t-t-e-d.
BROTHER: (after very long pause) oh, bollocks!
MOTHER & ALICE: (instinctively in unison) ...and that would be: b-o-l-
BROTHER: (sarcastically) ...oh, ha ha, very funny...

Scene ends; with the whole family exchanging glances and dissolving into helpless laughter, which lasts for quite some time and is engrossing enough to temporarily stall the game. 

~.END.~

B.C.B.F.L.B x

I Think I May Be Allergic To The Cat...

...at a distance, I am fine, but as it turns out, close up; my allergies play up massively and I suffer from what feels like Hayfever-X-10.

The problem with this is that it took quite a while for my brain to make the connection between cat and allergy - shut up; it's easily done when one suffers regularly from allergies anyway - and the cat (who I am having to lean over gingerly to type this) has been curled up comfortably on my lap for some time now, purring gently in her sleep (sweet).

So; I am feeling quite poorly.

BUT, I do not want to disturb the cat.

...Help!...

B.C.B.F.L.B x

UPDATE:

While I was still fiercely debating the remove-or-not-to-remove-the-cat issue with myself, the outcome was unexpectedly decided for me when the dog let out a sudden loud sneeze, which caused him to wake up, and the cat to fall off.

    So; she is now sulking in the corner, glaring at the dog, who unfortunately for her is totally unconcerned by her steely gaze as he has fallen back to sleep.

     On the downside, my allergies are settling down, which points very strongly towards my suspicion of my reaction being caused by my beloved Suzie's unusually close proximity being correct.

     However, on the plus side, her being foisted from my lap was the dogs fault and not mine, so; she still likes me. Yay!

=SIGHS=

     I am such a coward.

I Am Sat In The Living Room With The Pets...

...and I think the cat just told me to shut up.

It's common knowledge that I talk to the television / computer about what I am watching - in this instance, 8 Out Of 10 Cats Does Countdown, which I am still working my way through whenever I get a spare hour, during which Mother is not here - and usually, this is fine. The dog pays no attention, and the walls are thick enough that the neighbours don't either.
     Not so, the cat.

A while back, Suzie started infiltrating the living room. She started subtly, just sort of edging her way in bit by bit - she has never been banned, you understand; she has the run of the house. She just hates and avoids the dog (who, in turn, is rather terrified of her) - before upping her game and taking possession of one of the arms on Mother's chair. Then she tried to lay claim to the chair as a whole, but mother wasn't having that, so she relocated to the mat beside the door, only to find that it wasn't a wholly ideal place to lay one's head due to occasional foot traffic (we considered the idea of only coming in through the back door, but just as with the idea of giving up her chair, Mother found the concept excessive), then she decided upon lying beside Mother's chair - looking disgruntled, until everyone was out, upon which she would zip into position and sprawl out right in the middle of it - and finally, she has decided that the table tucked away in the corner where Billy The Computer is stored (along with everything he sits on while in use) is the perfect place for her; secluded away from the dog while giving her a good view of the room and easy access to the door in case quick escape is needed.
     So, there she is, and there she intends to stay (Mother and I are still arguing that point, but meh; I'll find somewhere else for Billy to live).

...Anyway! Back to Countdown. I was laughing - possibly a little loudly - at something the brilliant Johnny Vegas had said, when I heard an incredibly annoyed yowl sound from the corner, and turning to look, found Suzie, apparently shaken out of slumber, glaring at me pointedly.
     Stunned, I said; "...sorry...?", which got a sort of sighing huff in reply.
     Then, sighing a second time, she curled herself back up and closed her eyes.

So there you go. The cat just told me to shut up, so that she could have some peace and quiet.

To which, I (maturely) give the answer of this:
     =BLOWS RASPBERRY=

Thank you.
     That is all.

=bows, walks off. ...then walks back...=

By the way; in honour of Best Friend 0.5 (1) - t'is his Birthday today - I have decided that from now on, I will be referring to myself by my nickname: Batshit Crazy, Big Fat Lesbian Bitch, or B.C.B.F.L.B for short.

Okay.
     That is all.

=bows, walks off again=

B.C.B.F.L.B x

Bid-um Bid-um Bi-di-di-dum: Phwoarr.

During my ‘relaxing’ time (or my ‘avoidance’ time. Whichever), I have been watching the utterly splendid 8 out of 10 Cats Does Countdown, and during this highly enjoyable viewing process I have come to a realization:

Sod Rachel Riley. I fancies me some Susie Dent.

She's unutterably lovely. 

Thank you.

     That is all.

=bows. walks off=

Alice x

It's That Time Of Year Again...

...autumn is here, and the temperature of Worcestershire is dropping, slowly but surely.

This is great news for me, overall.
     It means that I can conduct my normal day to day life without sweating like a pig (sexy). It means that I can enjoy being outside without worrying that I will either smell or burn. It means that walking becomes pleasurable for me again.

This is all very lovely, obviously.
     However, there is one downside to this, as the coming of autumn/winter brings with it a change in the temperature inside as well as out, which is bad news for me, because in our family, our home has a nickname. It is called 'The Icebox'.
     And true to its name, it is (something to do with the cellar, apparently); it seems to draw cold air in, and kick warm air out. Which is brilliant, in summer, but not brilliant at all in winter.

Today, therefore, the Icebox is an icebox. Outside, the sun is gently warming the ground below and all is pleasantly cool. Inside, I am wearing thick trousers, thick socks, a thermal vest and a thick dressing gown. That would be enough, usually, but since returning from taking the dog for his morning walk - we saw pheasants, coal tits and gold finches, and there was a tantalizingly brief glimpse of a king fisher as well - I've been sat here in one place all morning not moving all that much. First I had to finish sewing the makeshift tail feathers onto Paddy's bird ready for Mother to take it with her after lunch, and then I got down to dealing with deactivating all of those darn e-mail alerts from the recruitment websites that have been bothering me for the past few months  (my Lord, do the designers of the websites make that a long-winded process, or what? Are they hoping people will just give up?), and I am now coming to the conclusion that all the garb I have on isn't enough, actually. I may have to go and fetch a blanket as well.

...I know what you'll be thinking.
     Turn the fire on, you berk! Activate the central heating!
     But the thing is, I can't.
     The central heating we simply don't use ever (long story. I think I've told it, actually. Look back a-ways), so that's out. The fire, we do, and usually the living room is nice and toasty from the first sign of nip in the air (gas bill be damned), but this year, Mother is, well... - how can I put this delicately? - ...Mother is getting very warm at the moment, and with increasing frequency.
     So, I can't put the fire on. Or at least not yet. She is due back from church any minute (late service: Harvest Festival), and she will almost certainly be hot and bothered and probably very much looking forward very much to entering The Icebox. It would be the height of insensitivity, given her current delicate and precarious hormonal condition, to turn the living room into an oven in the meantime.

She will be leaving again shortly afterwards, though, and then will be out for the majority of the afternoon (with a brief reappearance in the middle to bring the dog back), so the fire can go on then.
     Until then, though...

=gets up and hurries off to fetch a blanket=

Alice x

UPDATE

Mother just got back, and upon entering the room, shivered and said "brr! It's cold in here! Pop the fire on for a bit, will you?"

=rolls eyes=

...Go figure...