Idle musings of an idle girl

I bought some cotton buds tonight, and fell to wondering why the heck they're called cotton buds; it's not as if they develop into full blown cotton flowers is it? Actually, looking more closely at the packet, I see they're calling them 'cosmetic buds' these days, which is slightly better from the accuracy point of view. Rather alarmingly, they're described as being ideal for all your beauty needs and general family care. I don't recall anyone in my family caring for me with a cotton bud previously, but then I don't have a very normal family.

Whilst I'm on the subject of how things are labelled, another product of the feminine hygiene variety which I use has the following message printed across it: 'new packaging coming soon'. Huh? Why are they going to all the bother of printing that instead of just getting straight on with the new design? Are they fearful I won't recognise the product in its new guise? There doesn't seem to be any indication what this fantastic new packaging will look like, so maybe they've already introduced it, and I've not noticed because they now look like carrots or something.

Appraisal stats: No, not today. Sometime before the end of the week perhaps.

It's that time of year again when I find myself spending my waking hours poring over a copy of the Yellow pages whilst clutching a fistful of scribbled notes. I refer, of course, to car insurance renewal time.

Normally, I'm fairly on the ball and am badgering my current insurance company for renewal details around the beginning of June, but on account of my not-botheredness about things these days, I just waited until the renewal notification plopped through the letterbox, which it did today. So, after a bit of feverish multiplying by 12 and working out of percentages, it seems that my car insurance has gone up by 36% since last year. This despite us now having a car which is 2 insurance groups lower than the old one.

After spending 34 minutes on the phone to the lovely people who currently insure me, I learnt that the reason for such an increase is because I had a 'fault claim' in the last year. Since I've only had glass claims in the past year (2 of 'em, which thankfully don't count), I became a little, erm obstreperous with the poor woman who meekly explained that the claim from last January (that's January 2003) was only actually settled in September, so didn't count as a claim in the previous year's insurance. She let slip that they'd paid the car stereo people on 21 March, so what the hell they'd been pissing about doing between March and September is quite beyond my comprehension.

If it wasn't quite so illegal, I'd consider doing away with having insurance, and just stumping up the cash for whatever damage the oiks manage to inflict upon my car during the year. I doubt I'd be any more out of pocket.

Appraisal stats: Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

Himself decided that because it was Monday night we needed cheering up, so we went to a wonderful Chinese place on the other side of town who do one of those deals where you can order whatever you want for a set price. I think the general idea is that they'll end up with the better deal, on account of most people not really wanting to order too much lest they appear greedy in public. Obviously that was before they factored us gluttons into the equation. I expect they're running at a loss after this evening; we were the only customers in the restaurant for a significant part of our meal, and it was rather disconcerting to have 3 Chinese people attending to your every whim. They ever so politely didn't bat an eyelid as we kept adding to the list of dishes which we wanted. It would probably have been easier if we'd just told them what we didn't want come to think of it. As ever, the food was fresh, tasty and plentiful.

At the end of our sumptuous feast, we were presented with a fortune cookie each. Rather worryingly, mine foretells:

You will find the strength to let go of the past this week

I decided it was time to tackle the books issue today when I went to put a few away which had been kicking around on my desk for a bit too long. This would be an ideal opportunity to have a bit of a sort out and decide which books to get rid of. Unfortunately, as soon as I started looking at them, I was reminded of all the wonderful words they contain, and what could I possibly do but keep them?

I'm sure if someone actually asked me if they could have a particular book, I'd have no qualms about handing it over, and with few exceptions wouldn't expect to have it returned. There is however, a pile of books which I have no desire whatsoever to keep. Unfortunately I'm ashamed to admit that I even own them, being as they're the collected works of Penny Vincenzi. If anyone wants them - perhaps to bulk out sparse bookcases in a rented house - they're welcome to the whole lot for free. I'm even willing to split the set, and I'll chuck in a few lovely Escher postcards which can be used as bookmarks. Please?

Because Himself was off paintballing today, I had the day to myself. There were all kinds of vague plans in my head to be productive, or to do things I don't normally do because Himself doesn't wish to partake of them. On account of the pissing rain, a trip to town was quickly dismissed as there's nothing worse than being all soggy whilst traipsing around shops. I might've hired a DVD, or even watched one of the many which are still loafing around the house in their still-bought state, except I'm not entirely sure how to work the DVD player. Don't laugh - it's not a normal DVD player (that would be far too easy) - it's apparently a Multitainer or something. You even need to use the cordless keyboard and fiddle about with Windows and stuff. I could probably thrash about a bit, and get something working, but I'd probably end up having to watch the movie with Spanish subtitles.

Instead I ventured outside to get some stamps for work (I know I should go in work's time, but it's less stressful this way), find something exciting for my lunch and get completely drenched. Obviously I wasn't planning on the complete soaking (right down to my knickers in fact), but I suspect the rain was waiting until I left the house before becoming torrential in nature. Then I came home, snuggled up on the sofa and watched hours and hours of cooking shows. TiVo has been saving them all up for me. TiVo is my friend.

No crying today. Well, not yet anyway, so I expect that's a good thing. No appraisal today despite it being the last day of the week in which our appraisals were to occur. Big Boss apparently didn't fancy doing appraisals today, so signed some credit card mandates instead. He must be desperate.

In other news (well, it's not really news, but I keep forgetting about it until I go to bed, and by then it's too late and I can't be bothered to haul myself back in here to write it down because it's oooh, all of about 15 steps, but then I'm a bit idle really), the bedroom refurbishment is coming on apace and we now have paint on all 4 walls. You may recall (in fact you probably won't, and I could hardly blame you really) that part of this whole business was to have new lights installed. Himself has been busy fiddling about with such things for some time, and I've had my severe doubts about whether these lights would ever end up on the ceiling and that they'd actually work in some kind of meaningful and reliable fashion.

The grand unveiling of the new lights happened the other week, and they're FANTASTIC. They look very groovy, are operated either by wall switch or remote control. And the best bit? They 'ramp down' and 'ramp up' which means they dim down and up slowly so as to not hurt your little eyes when it's time to turn on the lights. For some inexplicable reason, when Himself told me about the 'ramping', I found this so absolutely amusing that I giggled until I nearly wet myself. Now he just has to mention that he's going to switch the lights on or off, and that there might be a bit of ramping for me to dissolve with mirth. I expect you had to be there really.

It didn't seem like a particularly bad day, but it must've been because I started weeping once I got home and haven't felt much better since. Too many nasty things and not enough niceness going on I reckon. Thankfully my lovely husband is here for me and looked most bewildered when I started wetting his shoulder. Erm, that's it. What more do you want - blood?

It's a pretty poor show when the most exciting thing about your day happens to be delivery of some new Post-It notes in neon colours. Well, that's what happened today. Thrilling innit? Actually, that's not the only exciting thing which occurred in work. No, I actually got to play a bit of Radio 1 over the tannoy. It was the 'listen again' thingy which was spouting the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who spookily enough are playing in Cardiff tonight. And you'd never guess it from the amount of traffic heading the same way as me as I effected my escape from the horror which is work towards the only marginally more interesting Tesco. Whilst browsing the aisles, Himself and I chuckled mightily at something proclaiming itself to be a Log of Fire. Sadly it seems to be something with which to start a fire, rather than the after-effects of a curry packaged in paper. Although quite why Tesco would be selling such things kind of escaped my attention until I started typing it. Yes, well.

Ordinarily I expect most women would love to be knocked up by a gorgeous young man at 6.30am. Lucky old me had just such an experience this morning.

Unlucky old me opened the door to find that my gorgeous young man was dressed as a policeman (mainly on account of him actually being a policeman), and was asking me if that was my silver Focus parked over there. When I asserted that it was, he informed me in the kindest possible way that some little bastard had broken into it. He seemed vaguely surprised at my reaction, which to be honest was rather more of the 'Oh good grief, not again' variety than I'm sure he's used to. I believe this to be at least the tenth time such a thing has occurred in the space of the last 6 years. To say that I'm a bit pissed off is to put it in the mildest possible way. Of course, good old plod was full of platitutes about it not really being much of a bother because I've got insurance and that.

Indeed I do have insurance. Possibly the most expensive insurance in the world. In fact, it's due for renewal in the next few weeks and I shudder to think quite how much I'll be paying them for the pleasure of um, not much actually. Of course, paying the the glass excess of ?50 isn't really seen as much of an inconvenience to good old plod. Nor is having to piss about with the glass people all day because they (a) couldn't find my place of work and (b) had managed to bring the wrong piece of glass with them - this despite being quizzed by them earlier in the day as to the colour of my car. Dashed if I know what difference it makes. Evidently them knowing the colour doesn't help with knowing which piece of glass might fit.

Good old plod even had the audacity to offer me Victim Support. I'd foolishly agreed to this on a previous occasion, and all it turned out to be was a booklet stuffed into an envelope along with the badly photocopied letter on which my crime number was scribbled (for the insurance you know). This book, which incidentally has to be twice as large as would ordinarily be neccesary (because of the Welshification of official documents y'see), offers handy hints about parking your car where it's safe. In a busy place (check), well lit (check), in sight of your house (check). There are then further elaborations about engaging all of the security features - immobiliser (check), crooklok (check), steering lock (check), double locking (check). Then come the usual bits of advice about not leaving anything valuable in the car (check), having a stereo with a removable facia (check), removing the facia from the car (check). I declined his offer rather graciously given the circumstances.

As if my day couldn't get any worse, the phones in work decided not to work. This might have been a good thing, except Polish boss noticed, so I had to call BT. Shock of the day - they weren't crap. Ace!

Great news! As well as learning today that my annual appraisal will be 'sometime this week', I'm also informed that not only will Polish boss be appraising my performance, but also Big Boss too! Hoo-bloody-ray.

Given that last year's appraisal (my first whilst working for this employer) went a bit like this, I can't quite see things going terribly swimmingly:

Polish boss: Is there anything about your job which frustrates you?
Me: Well, it's quite a worry that I'm allegedly in charge of keeping track of how many holidays everyone has taken, and yet it's a bit of a secret as to each person's entitlement
Polish boss: Ah yes, that's something which Big Boss controls. He doesn't discuss salary or holiday entitlement with anyone except the employee.
Me: Oh, jolly good. I should probably just guess then should I?
Polish boss: Just keep a record of everything. I'm sure it'll be alright

It wasn't. Someone took too much holiday last year, because of an (allegedly) innocent misunderstanding on their part. There's a big fuss about it all now. Thankfully I'm not implicated, apart from it having been mentioned that perhaps I should've alerted someone to her excessive taking of leave. Ho hum.

As a special treat for Himself, I offered to drive us home from his birthday lunch out so he could indulge in a couple of pints of the alcoholic stuff. This is a fairly major concession on my part because I really dislike driving on motorways.

I'm not really sure why this should be so because I'm perfectly happy to drive around town and on dual carriageways, but having analysed this deeply, I think it harks back to 2 separate events. The first was more of a conditioning than an event. Being as it was that we lived in Germany for most of my childhood, and most of our relatives lived in Scotland, we used to undertake fairly long car journeys on a regular basis. Quite why our relatives could never quite see their way to visiting us never quite became apparent to me, but anyway long journeys we did make. To keep us amused during these journeys which seemed to take days and days, my Dad would tell us to call out the junction numbers so he didn't miss the correct one. He'd make it very clear that was our job, and if we failed, we might get lost. I feel this to be a contributing factor to my fear of motorways because I'm always obsessing about junction numbers.

The second incident really was an incident. I learned to drive in Germany, and before you're allowed to take your test (a sort of hybrid UK-German one to keep everyone happy), you're obliged to have driven on the motorway. Because I was learning to drive in a Metro, I was confident that my instructor would either let me off that part of the requirements, or find a more suitable vehicle in which to perform that part of the pre-test checklist (which incidentally also included driving at night, in the rain and in sub-zero temperatures). She didn't. I had to drive from Hildesheim to Hannover and back again (about 50 miles each way), essentially in a car which was designed to go no faster than 50mph on an Autobahn where the average speed is around 85mph. It was terrible. In fact, on the first occasion I made her let me come back by the A roads because I was so fearful. She agreed, but on the second occasion, it was even worse because it was raining. Of course, I managed it, and even went on to pass my driving test first time around - much to everyone's surprise. In fact, such was my Mum's faith in me that she'd bought me a consolation present because she truly expected me to fail.

Of course, I managed just fine today, but traffic was light and I've got a nice powerful car. It doesn't help that they've mucked around with the junction at which I exit and the one before it. There seems to be some kind of 4-lane superhighway affair going on now, but with the hard shoulder in use as a 'get in this lane to come off at the next junction' which is a feature of the M4 around here. Most disconcerting.

I seem to have done nothing but sleep all day. Well, apart from doing a little light shopping, sorting out the washing, making lunch and dinner, and watching some truly horrifically awful episodes of JAG (note: Christmas episodes of shows are generally only to be watched in times of direst emergency. Doubly so if it's an American show). Either I'm very broken, or my body is preparing itself for the excitements which lie ahead in light of it being Himself's birthday tomorrow.

I'm really rather hoping it's the latter, because I'm not sure I can cope with being broken.

By 11am this morning, I'd decided that I didn't think I'd make it through the day if I stayed in work for very much longer. So it was that I found myself at 11.03am begging Polish boss to release me for the afternoon by signing my leave form. Thankfully she saw the look of desperation in my eyes, and hastily signed the form before any harm became her.

I seriously considered just getting on a train to somewhere but decided that because I'd need to go into central Cardiff before any destination more exciting than Coryton was available to me, I couldn't really be bothered. Instead I departed work at 12.45pm, drove to Tesco and after having availed myself of their car parking and toilet facilities (Himself reckons the car park and toilets are for customers only. My excuse is that I was a customer - one who used their toilet and car park. I just didn't want to buy anything today), wandered down to the path which runs alongside the river Taff. It was very lovely wandering along there reminiscing about the times when I used to have to make the same trip three times a week on a bike with no gears in order to mate bacteria on stones. Aaah, happy memories indeed. Well, distant ones anyway.

The area seemed to be full of the joys of summer: I saw ducks, cormorants and swans. The ubiquitious flying beasties which seem to have a death mission straight into my mouth were there too, as well as cyclists, joggers, and of course, the ever-present scum and crud which accumulates along the edge of any British waterway. Then I washed the car. At the carwash, not in the river. Obviously.

Today marks the first anniversary of the birth of the PuzzleDonkey concept. Seems like it all started an eternity ago; so much has happened over thee past year that sometimes I really have to stop and wonder if some of it really did happen, or if I might have imagined it.

I think the thing which has staggered all of us is just quite how popular PuzzleDonkey is. We honestly thought we might get a couple of hundred people to do it when we launched back in August last year. It took just about 3 weeks for the site to gain 1,000 registered users, and after a further 3 weeks we were up to 4,000. When PD2 launched, we made everyone re-register, and managed to get 1,118 registrations in one day.

As you might have gathered, these statistics have become somewhat of an obsession for me, and my poor donkey chaps grew heartily sick of me telling them exactly how many new users had signed up over the last however long. I did assure them that I'd calm down eventually, and although I didn't actually believe it might be possible, seemingly it's happened. We passed through the 20,000 barrier during the past weekend, and I have no idea exactly when it occurred. But I don't think I'm entirely cured because I still managed a whoop of joy when I realised.

Don't get me wrong, Wales is a lovely place to live. Or at least the part in which I live is most agreeable (apart from the thugs who regularly break into my car, but I reckon you get those everywhere). The people are lovely, there's nice scenery, good shopping, blah-blah. It's wonderful.

There is, however, something about the Welsh which bothers me. It's not actually the Welsh themselves - just the media. They seem particularly bothered about attempting to make Wales seem like the centre of the universe, when quite clearly it's Croydon which fulfils that particular role. I'm sure all local radio and TV shows go on about how their particular locale is the bees knees. Local papers are generally full of how great the place is, and to an extent there's something of this in my observation, but unfortunately it seems to go much deeper. It's much more desperate than that.

Tom Cruise is linked to Wales because he bought a horse which was trained somewhere in the Principality. This was headline news - truly! We're reminded at every opportunity about how Tom Jones is Welsh you know. And Anthony Hopkins. Oh, and Catherine Zeta Jones. I gave up watching the local news about 2 years ago because no matter what the national headlines were, it would appear there was some kind of Welsh connection - be it that the getaway car in a national robbery was registered in Wrexham, or perhaps some famous person who'd just had a baby once had a pint in Cardiff.

I believe it all stems from the rather shaky cultural roots which don't seem to be terribly apparent if you scratch the surface. Yes, they have Eisteddfodau, and rugby, and they used to have coal. But that's about it really, so they seem to feel the need to invent additions to the culture which I'm sure even the most gullible tourist is bound to see through. We've seen tartan, whisky (Scotch which is bottled in Wales apparently) and even gin which all claim to be truly Welsh. Tonight in Tesco, I could hardly contain myself when I saw tins of Welsh Rice Pudding on the shelf. What makes it Welsh? Do we grow rice here in the verdant valleys? Do we heck! It's made in Wales, innit!

Much as I seem to be enjoying being a blogger (and I use the term in its loosest sense), I'm beginning to have some real dilemmas about the whole process.

As our glorious leader has chronicled elsewhere, there are the issues of repetition. In fact, someone commented the other day about one of my entries and how he was sure he'd read it before. I'm pretty convinced I hadn't blogged about it, but it's more than likely I'd bored him to death with the same story at some stage in the past year or so - either in real life, or via the medium of instant messaging. So now I have to worry about repeating myself. Should I have a list do you think?

The other thing to consider is that there are people who read this (gluttons for punishment, I know) who are involved in significant portions of my life, so I don't exactly feel entirely free to talk about them, at least not in any kind of derogatory way. Well, not too often...

Yet another issue which plagues me on a daily basis is comments. Now you have to understand that I partake in this blogging lark for my own benefit. Once it's out there, I do feel a mild sense of liberation in some kind of strange way. Each and every comment comes as a complete surprise to me - more due to the fact that it brings home that someone has actually read what I've written. Of course, that's the whole idea of blogging, but it's something which is a minor consideration to me. It's truly lovely to read what other people have to say about my witterings; whether it's some kind of similar experience they're sharing, or advice, or just to point out my typos.

The problems begin when I feel the need to respond to their comments. Is it the done thing to comment on your own blog? I know that some people never do. Others seem to have some dialogue with their readers through the comments - almost like another mini-blog. The problem I have is that whenever I post a comment, it increases the tally, thus making it look like I'm trying to bump the comments up to make myself look popular. I frequently consider removing the whole comments thing, but then reading a blog which doesn't have the facility for leaving comments frustrates me as a reader.

Why is life so complicated?

It being Monday meant that I wasn't looking forward to returning to work at all. Having failed to spot a 19 on the way there (it's been nearly 2 weeks now you know), I decided on a short detour to Focus DIY before I faced the inevitable. This turned out to be a rather depressing mistake because the place was completely deserted and smelled of hamster bedding. I think I can score through that as one place I won't be wanting to work.

When I did eventually drag myself into my own workplace, it turned out to be not quite as horrific as is usual. For a start, most of the morning was spent in persuading Polish boss that the birthday present she'd chosen for Big Boss, which is to be from all of us, was tasteless and horrid. Instead, myself and a few select colleagues decided on something which, even if it's not to his liking, shouldn't cause too much offence to anyone else looking at it. On account of living on 'the wrong side of the tracks'*, I was volunteered to go and buy this gift on my way home. Fortunately this necessitated me leaving work a good 20 minutes early. Unfortunately it involved me having to fork out ?124 of my own money to pay for it.

*that's the not-posh bit of Cardiff

Over the past few years I seem to have accumulated lots of different accounts on the internet. I generally try to use the same username and password wherever possible on account of it being a bit easier for my feeble brain to remember. This tactic fails, however, when some other git has seen fit to steal my name, or the password requires 16 characters, two of which must be numeric and neither of which may be first or last letter. Up until about a year ago, I didn't really have much difficulty remembering all of these details because there weren't so many to remember.

Since then, I've had a radical change in lifestyle, and seem to have access to lots of things which require a password, so I've devised a cunning scheme whereby I write the details for each account on a piece of paper, and scatter these through the many layers of junk on my desk. Of course, that's not really the plan - it just seems to happen like that. Helps enormously when I'm looking for some particular details to remember what I was doing at the time I wrote my details down, because the two are usually mixed in together. So it is that I find the details for the PD1 stats page buried alongside the stickers for making Easter cards.

Anyway, I've digressed again I'm afraid. The reason I've been thinking about passwords is because I've been fiddling around with some donkey-related stuff which includes passwords. Just out of idle curiosity, I wondered how many of the 18,800 users had chosen 'password' as their password. Turns out that 170 people lacked sufficient inspiration in the password-thinking-up challenge. 4,000 users share a password with at least one other person, with 'donkey' being the next most popular password. 'Cardiff' beat 'Swansea' by 5 to 3, and I'm pleased to report that mine was unique.

Well hooray for good old Ikea! They rang this afternoon and told me they'll be bringing my half-bed tomorrow morning. Hooray also for Arriva Trains Wales who gave me a half price ticket into town because I was sat next to a man with a season ticket. Well yes, it was Himself I was sitting next to, but how did the conductor chappy know that, eh?

As part of my spending spree in town, I purchased a heat-it craft tool, and jolly good at heating things it is too. On account of it looking remarkably similar to a hairdryer, but obviously not being suitable for such purposes, the manufacturers have helpfully put a picture of someone drying their hair with a line through on the side of the implement. Just in case you forget I suppose. Might be handy if it wasn't on the opposite side to the one you'd see if you were to pick it up in your right hand. Which more than half the population is predisposed to do.

Having just received a telling off for not putting enough links in my blog, here's a site to keep Himself amused whilst I tell the rest of you about my extremely exciting day.

Umm, well. There's a bit of a problem with that y'see, mostly on account of it not being in the least bit exciting. No phone call from those gits at Ikea, no sign of a 19 adorning a number plate - I'm beginning to wonder if I might hallucinate one out of nowhere someday soon, and no idea what I want to do when I grow up.

Never mind, at least it appears to be the weekend.

I've just bought half a bed. Unfortunately, it's a bit of a long story and involves a rant about Ikea, so look away now if you're of a sensitive nature or Swedish or something.

Himself announced on my arrival home that Ikea were holding a 20% off everything day today, and suggested it might be a good idea to go and get The Bed because we'd save about ?100. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but my Mum and brother had invited themselves to visit us this evening for some purpose related to goods which are duty free, but we won't go into that right now. We calculated that we should be rid of them by about 8pm, which would leave ample time to go and get the bed before Ikea closed at 10pm.

In the event, we didn't manage to get rid of our visitors until 8.30pm, so our arrival at the store wasn't until 8.45pm. I've just got back. It was busy. Very busy. Despite being all organised and having a list of our needs, we were thwarted by the sudden change in mattress types which seems to have happened over the past 3 or so months. Actually, it's a bit more like 6 months, but never mind, they still changed things without telling me which isn't so good. After doing all the bouncing about on a few different mattresses, the decision was made and we joined queue 1 - the bed department queue. This is where they ask you what you want to go home with, then produce a picking list for you to go to the warehousy bit and know where to find everything. We were advised to hurry on account of it being 'a bit busy down there'. We hurried.

The list of items was on two pages - four things we had to locate and carry through the till ourselves (mattress, slats, mattress pad and some kind of board thing). The other page contained items (bed head and sides and something else which I've forgotten - legs?), which would be picked from the warehouse for us - collect after payment. This is a particularly crap system because we arrived downstairs to find that not one of the items on our own pick list was actually on the shelf - they'd run out - despite the bed department telling us they were all in stock.

Then we joined the second queue - the till queue. I reckon we were in that one for a good half hour. We paid for the goods we hadn't yet received, and were told to join the collection queue.

Turns out the collection queue wasn't actually anything like a queue - more a meleé of people with trolleys. There was no system at all - you just had to wait for your order number to come up on the screen. At the time of us arriving, the highest number appearing on that screen was 98600000 something; our order number was 99700000 something. The word from the old hands near the front of the crowd was that they'd been there for over 2 hours with nothing at all to show for it.

Not only was the prospect of at least a 2 hour queue not terribly appealing, but there was also a further queue to organise home delivery. Ikea subcontract deliveries, so the people who are sorting out that side of things have nothing to do with the people heaving the bits of bed around in the warehouse. A most strange setup if you ask me. Unfortunately they haven't, so I don't suppose it'll change anytime soon. I guess we hung around for about an hour, attempting to find out exactly how the system worked, and how to go about getting a refund on goods which weren't actually in my possession. By this stage, the prospect of saving ?57 didn't really seem to be worth the monumental waste of time that was occurring.

Then a second queue formed, so I joined that. Turned out there was a manager at the front of it who was taking people's phone numbers so she could organise free home delivery. Well, hooray! And why didn't they think of that in the first place? So now we'll have a bed. But only half of it - the other half was out of stock. This means we'll have to brave the system on another occasion, for which I think I need some time to summon my strength.

One of the allegedly revolting habits I have is to crunch ice cubes. I don't find this to be of particular not, but it drives Himself mad. If that's my only fault, then I reckon I'm doing pretty well.

As a consequence of this need to munch on the cubes of ice, we tend to get through a fair few of them when the weather turns a bit warm, so we buy those little bags for making ice cubes - or rather ovals. I know that this isn't a very cost effective way of making ice, but I'm not too keen on the rigid plastic trays which I find a bit unhygenic to say nothing of their propensity for causing the cubes of ice to skitter about all over the kitchen floor when you try to extract them. The similarly shaped ones which are made of rubber are no good because of my latex allergy, so this leaves the bags.

I've always found them to be a bit fiddly to fill up, but that's only because I'm not terribly deft when it comes to dealing with slippery things in the kitchen. I'd sussed out a technique by which I'd leave the top row of ovals devoid of water, rip the two flappy-tabby things away from the rest of the bag and tie a knot before everything vanished down the sink. They were then in a fit state to be lain flat in the freezer until frozen, and it was a simple matter of tearing a couple away from the rest of the bag, plopping them into my drink and thence into my gob for a good old crunching-up.

This evening though, a revelation! They've invented a new ice cube bag which defies the laws of physics. No really! The water goes in the small hole at the top, and because I was having a devil of a job finding out how to fasten it all together, I resorted to reading the instructions on the box. Seems all you need to do is turn the whole thing upside down and it will seal itself. I did so in a rather disbelieving fashion (over the sink, just in case), and was more than a little surprised to find that it worked. My flabber is gasted.

During a conversation with someone I had today, I was reminded of the times when I used to venture into the watery depths which is the River Taff.

During my sandwich year (ie that which was between the first and second years of tuition in college, not the year when I did nothing but eat sandwiches - that's a different year entirely), I worked at the 'proper' University in Cardiff. I call it that to distinguish it from the other places which seem to affect such a name these days, but as we all really know are just technical colleges. Don't get me wrong, I have a great affection for Llandaff Tech (latterly UWIC - Llandaff Campus), because that's where I learned everything I needed to in order to face the big bad world of work, but it having delusions of grandeur certainly bothers me more than a little. Sorry, back to the proper University. First day in work was rather memorable in that nobody was there to greet me in a kindly fashion; attached to the lab door was a scrawled note:

GONE TO POLICE AUCTIONS IN BRIDGEND. NIGEL IN AT 10ish. HE'LL LOOK AFTER YOU

Good old Nigel duly turned up and showed me all the best places to go for a skive which I think is certainly the best way to start a new job. My second day in work actually saw me meeting the rest of my colleagues who'd all returned from the Police auctions in Bridgend rather satisfied with the way things had gone. They'd been to buy some more lab bikes, and had managed to pick up 3 for a bargain ?20. Never mind that one had no handlebars or seat, another one had no brakes, and the third had no gears. The last one became mine for our many, many excursions to the dreaded river.

First and most important task of the day was to sort out my pay. On our way back from the admin building, my new boss asked me if I was OK with needles. After checking that he meant inoculations, I affirmed that I was quite alright with such things, with which he whisked me into the health centre and instructed them to give me the 'G43 usual'. This turned out to be Tetanus, Polio and Typhoid, and as the nurse was organising the needles and vials, she asked me if I was going anywhere exotic. When I replied that I was needing all of these injections before being allowed to go into the River Taff, she gulped and said no more.

Anyway, to cut to the chase... most of that particular year was spent with the River Taff threatening to spill over the top of my waders whilst I fished around for stones in a net bag. The story of how the stones came to be in the net bag is one for another day, you lucky reader. The location of our foragings had been chosen with care: behind some bushes, down a steep and muddy bank and right beside a sewage outfall pipe. The bushes were there to protect us from members of the public prying into what we were doing, on account of it taking absolutely ages to set everything up, and us not really wanting to return the following day to find our stones floundering on the riverbank.

Unfortunately that didn't really seem to help, so during school holidays we'd have to have been to the river and back before the little darlings were up and about - about 9am. I have no idea what the people who did see us thought we were up to - standing at the side of a river with syringes and tin foil in hands would hardly have looked entirely innocent.

My heart's in the right place. It says so right here on this badge you know. Jolly good job too because there'd have been an awful mess if it was somewhere else when they were removing an armful of the red stuff from me this evening. Not such good biscuits this time; but then no mad nursey-type women either. Swings and roundabouts I guess.

Still no sign of a 19 for my CNPS tally. It's my belief that they're all hiding behind locked doors until I'm safely in work. Cheeringly I saw a 666 on the way home, so Himself's fear that I'd get that far and be stymied seems to be unfounded. He was convinced that the good people at the DVLA didn't issue such emotive numbers, but seems he was wrong. Perhaps 19 is a forbidden number and everyone forgot to tell me?

I'm far too hot to think of anything else to blog about, so it's quite clear that my plea to whatever omnipotent beings happen to be out there hasn't been heeded. Either that or they don't exist.

Another amazingly lovely day doing not very much at all. This is how life is supposed to be - all the time though, not just for a few hours on a Sunday. I'd like whichever higher powers happen to be reading this - I know you're there on account of being omnipotent and all - to organise things so that I have a nice time every day. Oh, and while you're at it, turn the heat down a bit would you? Nice weather (ie no rain) is great, but I'm not fond of being hot. Send it to Africa or somewhere; I expect they're used to it.

Dunno why I'm wittering on about higher powers because I'm a bit of a nothingarian when all's said and done - although I do have some kind of belief in fate. Some people I know really do have an unshakeable faith, and for that I salute them. To my way of thinking, if you're going to do something (or believe in it), then do it properly. No use namby-pambying about and only doing bits that suit you as and when. I don't think I could live with myself if I did what lots of other people seem to do by getting married in a church and even Christening their children. I suppose old habits die hard, and it's easier to go with the flow than to stop and question why you're actually bothering. If I ever was to take up some kind of religion, I think I'd have to go the whole hog and convert to something like Judaism or Islam where your religion becomes part of your life, rather than something you might remember to do once a week if you can be bothered.

I think Himself is slightly concerned about the amount of interest I show in the Kosher goods on sale in our local Tesco. It's only because I'm genuinely interested in the Kosherness of Coca Cola. I'm told that European Coca Cola isn't Kosher because it's made from cane sugar which is refined by processing it with crushed up animal bones (or some other technical reason which I've yet to suss out). American Coca Cola on the other hand is Kosher because it's made with corn syrup which isn't processed with any nasty parts of animals. Unfortunately these Kosher goods seem fearfully expensive, so I don't think I'll bother yet.

Nothing in your childhood really prepares you for real life. Well, at least mine didn't. I'm talking about everyday stuff here - how to write a cheque, or pay money into the bank. Even setting up a bank account isn't something anyone feels is likely to be of any importance. Being able to do algebra is seen as having much more use to you in later life. I can't really see how this is so, but I suppose I'm not in charge of such decisions so I shouldn't complain.

Today I had to go to the hairdresser to, um, get my hair cut. This is one of those situations with which I still feel completely out of my depth. I've never yet made an appointment because they don't actually seem to run an appointment system; people just turn up and get seen to. This being the nearest hairdresser to my house, I'm not too bothered if they're really busy and tell me to come back later - it only takes a couple of minutes to get there anyway.

The place is always populated with little old dears having their hair 'done'. This seems to involve having it washed, put in rollers, being sat under a big hairdryer-hood thing, then having the rollers removed and their hair faffed about with for a bit. They willingly part with ?9 for this service, and because they all know each other, it's a social occasion and there's much cackling, gossiping, and generally making the place look rather fuller than it should.

So I go in and am told to have a seat; there won't be a long wait. The December 1998 edition of Homes and Antiques might make a slightly interesting read if I hadn't read it last time I was there, so I just sat and watched the old dears having their hair done. Because it's a multi-staged process, there's some sort of bizarre system whereby everybody but me knows whose turn it is next.

Eventually I was led to the basin for the process to begin. This is where it starts to get really complicated because they want me to make decisions about things which I don't really feel qualified to know about. Is the water too hot or too cold. Seems fine to me. Am I sure? Uhm, yes (is this a trick question I wonder?). Do I want conditioner? My stock answer then comes out "if you think I need it". How am I supposed to know? This person washes hair for a living - surely they'd be better placed to know about this sort of stuff?

I'm then led out to be placed in front of my stylist. Let me tell you that I've been going to this place approximately every 6 weeks for the last 10 years, and in all of that time have only had 2 different people cutting my hair. Every single time I go, I'm asked what I want doing, so again, my stock reply is "the usual please - just cut it off and make sure people don't laugh when they see it." My theory (again) is that this person makes a living out of cutting hair and is unlikely to cause so much damage that it won't grow back again. When I was at boarding school in Scotland, as a money saving exercise, I used to let my fellow schoolchums cut my hair, so I sincerely doubt that anyone could make a worse job of it than they did.

Next big hurdle to overcome is the small-talk. I generally manage to avoid this at the hair-washing stage by keeping my eyes closed and pretending to be meditating or something. Not so easy when the stylist is asking what I'm doing today - stock answer of "a bit of shopping, cleaning and cooking". Am I going out tonight? "No". Going anywhere on holiday this year? "No". I don't really mind speaking to people, but I'm useless at this kind of small-talk. Trouble is, if I told them what I was really doing (loafing about in various donkey-related websites mostly), I very much doubt they'd understand.

Since nothing even remotely exciting has happened today - apart, of course from spectating at the hugely entertaining Dressing Up Game, I've decided to bore everyone with the story of when I worked in telesales.

Now, first thing you have to understand is that I was an impoverished student at the time. I only did it for the money. Getting the job was marginally more difficult than getting into college - which in itself was easier than falling off the proverbial log. The person 'interviewing' me (which was conducted by phone of course) was most insistent that there was no cold-calling, and it was all legit. Sounded decidedly dodgy to me, but I was desperate so decided to give it a go.

My first task on arrival was to read the script aloud to one of the supervisors. My reading skills were deemed suitable without any further training, and so it was that I found myself thrown straight in to the deep end by having to speak to customers. When I say customers, they weren't really customers at all - they were just people who didn't know any better. The sales reps used to call at houses in certain areas with a stack of postcards, knocking on people's doors. Would they be interested in winning a holiday? If so, all they had to do was fill in their name, address and telephone number, and that was it! Naturally, that wasn't it. The cards found their way back to the dingy room which served as an office, where there was a bank of 6 telephones and six suitably bored employees who had the dubious task of contacting these unfortunate souls. The script went something like this:

Hello! My names .............., and I'm calling about the prize draw you entered. Do you remember that? [wait for customer to speak and remind them if they forgot]. Anyways, Im just calling because, say you won, when would be the best time for us to contact you to let you know? [let customer speak. If they say 'any time', ask them if that's because they're not in work. If not in work, say goodbye. If evenings only try to find out what they do]. OK, so evenings would be best then? Thats great! Have you heard of the Kirby vacuum cleaner? Its an american one, and really good. We're in the area right now and offering a free demonstration to people. It only takes about half an hour or so. Can I book you in for tommorow nite at 8? Will your husband/wife be there? Yes, we really need both of you there you see, its for safty reasons. [make sure to write appointment on card. Dont speak to customer about holiday prize drawer at all. Just be vague. Confirm appointment]

As you can probably imagine, the spelling and grammar got to me almost immediately, but I was severely reprimanded for attempting to alter the script. The person who wrote it had lots more experience than I did, so it mustn't be changed. The whole rigmarole of the prize holiday nonsense and finding out what time they'd be in was to check they could afford one of these vacuum cleaners; at the time (about 15 years ago) they cost around ?800, so no unemployed people, and only wealthy pensioners were allowed to proceed.

The worst part of the experience is to have someone stood over you whilst you're making these calls, who urges you on when the customer quite clearly isn't interested. My biggest dread was to hear the words "But I've got a Vax", and yet have to continue, despite knowing it wasn't going anywhere. I got to be quite adept at ending calls by surreptitiously pressing the 'phone down' button, but carrying on speaking as if there was really somebody there. The amount of abuse that I received was probably fairly normal for someone who works in telesales - about one customer in 5 was abusive, and probably 1 in 10 just put the phone down.

I guess I really must have a conscience after all. I only stuck it for 3 days.

Eventually there will come a point where I'm just going to have to leave my job. One of my colleagues did just that today - she sent a fax this morning saying she was tendering her resignation, effective immediately. And all because she's been off sick for a few months, wanted to come back gradually, but Big Boss was being a complete arse and trying to make her work without a paid coffee break. Lovely lady too - and now she's gone. Just because of 15 minutes a day.

Today's crises involved him not trusting the staff on the site at which he works to deliver some documents to him, so he came to our site to pick them up himself. Wouldn't take a parcel back with him, so we had to call a taxi for that. He's not a courier service apparently. Just as he was about to leave, he mentioned some other item which was urgently required over at the other site, but he didn't have time to hang around and wait for the parcel to be made up, so we'd have to send another taxi. Defies belief really.

He also managed to have a strop about signing a credit card mandate. It's my job to complete these forms on his behalf, then just point him in the direction of the appropriate place for his signature (whilst proffering a pen - of course). He insisted he wouldn't be signing anything until I could prove that the number I'd written was correct. Now then, leaving aside for a moment that I don't actually have access to his credit card which is tucked away in his jacket pocket, he signed another one of these forms not a week ago with exactly the same numbers transcribed thereon, and not a murmur was uttered. Value of today's mandate? $85. Last week's - $3565. How I can work for someone like that and manage to be polite, calm and cheerful defies even me. I'm definitely not right in the head.

Perhaps I should just count my blessings and be happy with my lot. I have a bit of a problem with just doing that though - especially when it comes to work. The problem has been resolved (at least in my head) about what's wrong: there are no more challenges. I could do my job in my sleep - and frequently do.

Today I decided to use some of work's bandwidth and time to have a little browse through the local jobs website. Oh my word, and how depressing was that? Very.

Nail technicians apparently require "recognised nail qualifications" - whatever they might be. Out of 100 jobs, ther were probably about 40 for care or support workers - believe me when I tell you that I'm definitely not of the caring type; more the 'get a grip and stop complaining - there's no blood is there?' variety. Another 20 or so were for sales - I'm rather rubbish at sales and must tell you of my rather amusing times as a telesales operative one of these days. The remaining jobs were of the "how little can we get away with paying these people whilst they work their fingers to the bone?" (chefs, bar staff, cleaners, office temps etc).

A couple of adverts rather caught my eye though:

CRAZY PEOPLE NEEDED!
and
Night & day shunters

I have rather a sneaking suspicion that the first job is probably best avoided. I'm not quite sure what it is about the advert that's telling this, but I have rather a bad feeling about it all. The second one intrigues me rather, and I think warrants further investigation.

Obviously any return to work is traumatic, but it seems doubly so after a Bank Holiday weekend. Thankfully, due to some mysterious forces, there seemed to be a dearth of traffic on the roads today, so my journey to and from work was cut to a third of its normal time - just over 10 minutes to get home this evening. I expect it may be due to the kiddiwinks having the week off school for no apparent reason.

Of course, one of the major disadvantages to the absence of lots of traffic was the complete lack of CNPS opportunity. I'm sure there's going to have to be serious wanderings around Tesco carpark before much longer; unfortunately I rather seem to be becoming obsessed.

Speaking of obsessions - of which I have many - I've rather run out of bookshelf space. Thing is, I can't walk past a bookshop without going in (just for a sniff of course), and then there's usually a special offer or three which just have to be snapped up. I've actually taken to hiding new books in work so I don't get too told off. Himself rather refuses to build me any more bookshelves, and insists that I have to get rid of some of the books before they completely take over the house. I'll get around to publishing a list of those which I can bear to part with sometime soon, if anyone who wants a book or two. Unfortunately, I have so many that this may well take some considerable time. Nobody is getting their hands on the Enid Blytons or Elinor M Brent-Dyers though. They're mine.