La petite pauvre

I'm writing this from what might well turn out to be my death-bed. I have the flu, and I bloody hate it. I haven't had the flu in ages and I'm terrible at being sick. Even though I'm mad lazy, I still like to be able to get up and do whatever I need to do, without feeling like I'm literally falling apart.

Bah.

I slept for about thirteen hours yesterday evening, into this morning. And I've only gotten out of bed to hack up a lung and use the facilities. At least Mr Bunny is looking after me...sort of. He slept on the settee last night, so he wouldn't get sick, which is fair enough. But this morning he came up to check up on me, and he asked me if I wanted anything. So I said I'd like some tonic water and a cup of tea. He vanished downstairs and I've only just seen him, three hours later. So he's being dispatched to the shop to fetch me some Lucozade.

But he needs to hurry back, because our new washing machine comes today and I'm in no state to let anyone in. At least I have my new telly in my bedroom, so I'm here watching a Colombo marathon, in between bouts of conciousness. So, not all bad then...

Crackhead life, take two

So we've just moved into our new house and it all feels a bit surreal. I mean, we've never had this sort of space before, so that's weird. But the estate is lovely and it's great to be back in Preston again. The only downside is that we're back to living like crackheads. It's not as bad as boiling water in a pan, but we have no sofa and up until last night we had no curtains. So the marish and the parish could see into our living room and the fact that we haven't hung the telly yet and are sitting on dining room chairs and a pouffe. We also didn't bring up our entertainment unit (couldn't be arsed packing it up) so the DVD player and DVR are on the floor next to the telly. Before we got curtains, Mr Bunny suggested we hang a blanket over the balcony door, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this would be the pinnacle of the crackhead lifestyle. And this was one achievement I felt it would be ok to let pass me by.

Getting the curtains was painful enough. It involved a lot of shouting (both of us, but mostly me), foot stamping (me), cursing (both of us) and name calling (me). It was so infuriating. I just wanted to punch Mr Bunny square in the middle of the face. He thinks he's decorating some cool bachelor pad in a city centre, while I'm obviously looking to decorate a family home. But once I unleash my secret weapons (a shrill voice and the opinions of others), he's powerless to resist. So now we have curtains and can at least hide our crackheadness from public view.

But we still have no sofa (left the old one in Crewe. Couldn't be arsed faffing about, getting it out of the flat and up these stairs), no landline or broadband, the vendors left a load of garbage in the back garden that I really don't want to touch and last night Mr Bunny was testing out paint samples on the wall, so there's now two blots of colour on an otherwise pristine, white wall. Sigh.

But at least I still live up North, so I don't have to change the name of this blog.

By the by

Oh, I forgot to mention that I now see where the sister-in-law has discovered this hithertofore unknown love for brand of the douchebags, Jack Wills. All of her boyfriend's farmer/builder friends were sporting JW polos or rugby tops.

So once again, my sister-in-law basically changes who she is, because of a boy with terrible teeth. Par for the course. Out went the lesbo trainers, jeans and hoodies, in come the heels and skirts. She got her tattoo and wanted to get them things that stretch out your earlobes because of the last boyfriend (he was covered in tattoos and had in those things that stretch out your earlobes). He wanted to go to New Zealand, she wanted to go to New Zealand. She went bleached blonde and got a stupid haircut because of the one before that (he was bleached blonde and had a stupid haircut). So now the farmer likes Jack Wills, Mr Bunny has to drop fifty quid on Jack Wills' vouchers.

I've realised how lucky I am, that even though Mr Bunny isn't at all into designer labels (apart from his twenty-four pairs of Diesel jeans), he lets me indulge myself and he doesn't normally complain. Even though he sometimes annoys me to the point where I want nothing more than to punch him square in the middle of the face, he's always been happy to let me do my thing.

And I guess I'm also lucky because I sort of know who I am and I'm stubborn enough to stick to it. :P

What? More frigging Post Mortem?

We sit down at the table, and my poor sister is stuck next to Fat Suuuu (ok, I'd just like to clarify that Fat Suuu is not morbidly obese or anything. She's just a little bit chubby. But since I am one for nicknames, this is how I always refer to her). Fat Suuu was next to The Bell, and The Bell's boyfriend. Fat Suuu's boyfriend was next to Mr Bunny. It was a very odd seating arrangement, but the gin was kicking in, so I didn't give a shit.

So I ordered the pate to start with, followed by the potted shrimps. Mr Bunny ordered the potted shrimps to start with, followed by the lamb's liver. My sister chose the potted shrimps followed by the duck. Fat Suuuu ordered everything. Ok no, she didn't. I honestly didn't pay attention to what she chose, because I was too busy wondering if I should have the lamb shank instead. Then the waitress got to The Bell. The Bell dithered for so long, the waitress actually said "I'm going to have to take the order from the next table and come back to you. Is that alright?" The Bell just tittered and said ok and began to think out loud. If you had ever heard The Bell's voice, you would know just how painful this is. It was all I could do to not cringe and shout out"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Instead, I just chatted a bit with Mr Bunny. The waitress came back, took The Bell's order and that was that.

Then Fat Suuu clocked my bag. She was like "Oh, is that a genuine Jimmy Choo?" And I just looked at her and was like, in this fake posh voice, "It is indeed madam. I don't do knock-offs darling." And I smiled so she'd think "Well, at least she's a funny bitch." So then she asks where I got it, and I said "Um, Jimmy Choo." I mean, like d'uh. Steups. I was just waiting for the follow up questions and she did not disappoint. "Oooh, which one? Was it expensive?" So I'm like "Jimmy Choo in Cannes. It wasn't cheap, but I really wanted it. So they saved it for me, I sent them the money and they posted it. It was pretty easy." Then she says "Wow. That's cool. Was it for your birthday or something?" And this is where I saw my chance to put the boot in. Rub her nose in it. Make her regret her past mistakes. "Nah. I just saw it and wanted it. Like I said, it wasn't cheap, but I was like whatevs. I love it, so I'm having it." She goes a bit red, and I want to laugh SO badly. But then she goes "Didn't Mr Bunny say anything?" and says to him "Mr Bunny, you didn't mind?" And God bless Mr Bunny for saying "Meh. She likes her handbags. Everyone has their thing." and shrugging while smiling.

It was right then that it became clear to me why I married him.

So then she starts to ask him how he's finding life back in England and all that. I tune them out and chat a bit to my sister, who whispers to me that she thinks The Bell has noticed that every time she speaks, I make this face. My sister had noticed that every time The Bell said something, she'd look over at me to see what my reaction was. It looks like I was doing it unconsciously. Oh my.

I fully expected them two to be all up in my shits, prying into my business and trying to find out exactly how we live and what not. And so said, so done. All the questions were there, nosiness in full swing. To be honest, I didn't really care. I mean, if they wanted to spend their evening talking about me, then whatevs. They both had boyfriends there, but they only factored into the equation occasionally. I also wondered if the boyfriends knew about the history of this little incestuous group- The Bell and Mark, The Bell and Mr Bunny, sister-in-law with The Han, sister-in-law with Mark, The Bell kind of with The Han. It's all very 'Friends' and all very disgusting.

Fat Suuu's boyfriend is bloody brilliant though. He got drunk very quickly and was soon talking loudly and making jokes. When someone whipped out a camera, he began doing Magnum and Blue Steel in which ever direction the lens was pointing. At one point, he had to ask Suuu for money because he didn't have any cash. Turns out he has a massive gambling problem and isn't particularly 'solvent'. Oh me, oh my. The Bell's boyfriend only comes up to my waist, bless his tiny little heart. I got a chance to have a little chat with them, when the two harpies did that annoying girlie thing and went to the loo together. They're both really nice guys and they both have my sympathy.

The food comes, it's deelishis and we all chow down and make small talk. They seemed very curious to know what we did on the weekends. This meant that I had to reciprocate and pretend I gave a shit about what they got up to on Saturdays and Sundays. The Bell then brings up some restaurant that I simply must get Mr Bunny to take me to. It's called Cock & Barrel or something like that. Suuu's boyfriend latched on to that and started shouting out "Cock! Cock! Cock!" She was obviously embarassed. I mean, let's be honest, Mr Bunny would have gotten the look by then. So she says "Oi, stop it! Please, just ignore him. He gets like this sometimes." And I genuinely felt sorry for her. Mr Bunny can be a bit of a douche when he's had a few too many, so I know how annoying it is.

However all this sympathy flew out of my arse a few moments later. Mr Bunny went to the bar to replenish my uncomfortably low drink. Suuu and The Bell decided to go get another bottle of wine. I turned around in my seat to try and get his attention to tell him I actually fancied a vodka instead of gin, when I saw a white hand on his lower back, touching him in a way that most def did not say "Yeah, we're just mates." In a split second, I thought about going over there and punching someone out, about shouting across the room to startle them and about pretending as if I'd seen nothing. I went with option three. When Mr Bunny came back, he whispered to me "Fucking Suuu keeps touching me. What's her problem?" and I just looked at him.

They tried to convince us to stay out and follow them into Nantwich so we could continue the festivities. Um, no. I'm good thanks. I didn't even want to be in the stupid pub! I'd extend the torture by willingly going to another pub with them? I may be a little weird, but I'm not totally insane. As soon as was polite, we made our excuses and looked to hit the road. That's when it started "Oh no, you mustn't leave so soon. Stay for one more drink. Mr Bunny, why are you dragging her home so early? Oh come on, stay out with us. We'll make sure she gets home ok." And I'm thinking "Are these heifers for real? Like seriously? At what point in the evening did I ever act as if I wanted to socialise with you beyond these enforced social parameters?"

We just swatted away all that bollocks, said our goodbyes, got our coats and left. And I do not think I have ever been more relieved to leave a social gathering in my entire life. Even though Mini Han didn't come in the end (turns out he has a life in London), the evening wasn't as terrible as I thought. It was a bit, but the excellent food sort of made up for it.

I realised that I feel a bit sorry for the both of them. I'm also a bit baffled by all these feelings. I mean, yeah I married Mr Bunny and he is the homme de ma vie, but let's be honest- he's not the best looking guy I've ever seen. He does have his moments though, I must say. *wink wink*. Why are these chicks still toting feelings all these years later? He and I have been together for nearly five years and married for nearly three of those years. It's been nearly half a whole decade. Even longer for Suuu, since they broke up when Mr Bunny was like 22. I am just left to wonder why after all this time, they're still acting like this. I understand that they might feel that there's some unfinished business between them, when you think about the reasons why both relationships ended. Mr Bunny found out Suuu was cheating on him and dumped her. The Bell played a game and it backfired horribly on her. So neither of them really wanted things to end. I can also understand the resentment they may feel towards me. I mean, as far as they knew, Mr Bunny moved up to Preston for work. Nothing more. But he moves in to a flat where the awesome black girl just happened to live, and is married two years later. I'm an outsider to their little group, I'm a foreigner, I'm wicked clever, I have a degree, I'm the first black person they've ever really had any extended contact with and I don't conform to the stereotype and now they just don't know what to make of me. I come in and invade their little comfort zone and upset their equilibrium. If I wasn't the one who was so awesome, I'd hate me too!

I catch them sneaking glances at my engagment ring (the diamond's not as massive as I'd have liked, but it's still bigger than average). I see them checking Mr Bunny's ring finger. I remember before we even got married, Suuu asked him if he was planning to wear a ring. Sigh. When a bit of Mr Bunny's hair was sticking up and I smoothed it down, out of the corner of my eye I saw her looking at me. Fat Suuu especially finds any reason to touch him, which I can't say I mind. Since it really just rolls off his back.

What I can't hack is the fake friendliness. We're all sat around that table and they're acting like we're all best mates and do this on a regular basis. "Oh, you really must come round to Suuu's on a Friday and have some wine with us." "Oooooh, you really have to come out with us in Nantwich one night. It'll be brilliant!" "Ooooh, next time you're going to the pub give us a shout."

Yeah right bitches!

You don't like me, you don't like me. That's fine. I'm ok with that. I don't expect you to like me. But don't pretend to be my best mate. The Bell seems to have completely forgotten her rather bizarre behaviour just over a year ago, when I nearly ended up cussing her out on the phone. Instead, when Mr Bunny phoned his sister, I kindly gave her a carefully worded message that I know she passed on. Long story! I don't have time for white girls like you. I knew enough of you at uni and they irritated me no end! I can deal with the fact that you're the exes and that you will all at certain times, end up hanging out together. I don't mind that you and his sister are all dead tight. I don't mind that he might run into you at her house or in a pub or something. It's ok. I trust Mr Bunny implicitly. I don't really trust you, but hey, them's the breaks. But you are not my equal in any way, shape or form. So I'm good, ta. I'll be civil and polite when we see each other, but please stop with the bullshit. It just does my head in and in any case, I'm better at it than you.

I mean after all, I am the winner.

A further Post Mortem

So dear reader, we left it with me deciding to look fairly casual, not wanting to waste any of my proper clothes on the world's worst guest list. I'd ordered a wicked playsuit from Topshop a few weeks ago, and it looked brilliant when I tried it on. But I didn't order it for this and I wasn't going to waste it on them.

We'd decided to drive to the pub and meet everyone there. And just so we wouldn't have to give anyone a lift back, we were going to go in the Alfa, since it only has two seats and we can say "Ah, sorry. Our car's only got two seats." But then my sister is staying with my for a couple days, and Mr Bunny practically BEGGED her to come along, so we ended up going in our boring car. So we're getting dressed and his sister texts him to say that we can all meet up at her place and we can follow them to the pub. We'd planned to follow the trusty sat-nav, since it hasn't failed us yet. But he told her we'd do it. So she said to be at hers for between half-six and seven. So I said we'd get there for seven, to minimise the awkwardness of just hanging around her house. Then she texts and says to get to hers for quarter to six. Twenty minutes later she texts again and says to get there for seven instead. At this point, I was ready to rip off my dress and climb into bed.

So I punched her postcode into the sat-nav and we set off. However, she neglected to give any information as to how to actually find her bloody house. She lives on a main road, in a place called Villa Farm. So the sat-nav says "You have reached your destination" of course, when we're on the main road. And we're there driving as slowly we could do without pissing off the drivers behind us, looking for the tiny sign that would say 'Villa Farm'. She could have said "Yeah, it's just past the village store, over the bridge on the right." But she just said "There's an electric gate." And we ended up driving up and down this road for about ten minutes, with Mr Bunny's blood pressure slowly rising and me wishing more and more that I was at home watching Harry Hill's TV Burp. Par for the course with her. So I had to end up ringing her and swallowing the urge to shout "You stupid bint! Give proper directions!!!"

Anyway, we finally make it to her house and she wants us to come inside. Right away I clock that she's wearing a dress and heels. At first I get pissed off, because I'm like "Wait a minute, she said no dresses, since it wasn't really a fancy 'do'." Then I'm surprised, because she never wears dresses and heels. Like, never. Seriously. She's always saying that she can't walk in heels and she loves her trainers and jeans. And of course that always makes me skin up my face and go "Oh, I don't wear jeans or trainers." I can't help it. So we go inside so she can show off her little love nest, then I realise that her car isn't there and I twig that she's actually coming with us! Yeah, thanks for checking that it was ok. What if we'd actually come in the Alfa? I mean, I would have happily strapped her to the roof, but I don't think she would have appreciated that. Steups. She finishes showing off, and we jump in the car and head off. I switched the sat-nav back on, but she was like "Oh no, you don't need it. I know how to get there."

Sigh.

Turns out the pub is fucking miles away and she is just as shit at giving directions in person. At one point, Mr Bunny had to do like an eight point turn in a country lane, because she didn't know her left from her right. But oddly enough, that wasn't the low point of the evening. So we're inside and I order a double G&T and a bottle of alcoholic ginger beer. And she's busy schmoozing and kissing her boyfriend, who really does look like a farmer. She then comes over to make the announcement that the two exes are going to be late, because The Bell is such a flake. Oh my God! Like totally! Yes, she and The Bell had made up a few weeks ago and she has been welcomed back into the fold as if she wasn't a class A fuckwit. Then again, they're all Class A fuckwits, so birds of a feather and all that.

Then the moment arrives. They arrive, all dresses and opaque tights and heels. If I was a paranoid person, I'd have thought that she said it wasn't dressy in an attempt to get me to turn up in jeans and slippers. But she clearly underestimated my powers. For in a simple black maxi dress, earrings and pashmina, I managed to look all classy and understated 'n' shit. While they looked like they were trying too hard. You can't polish a turd. Look, it's a fact. Deal with it.

So I'm standing next to Mr Bunny and my sister when Fatsooo makes a beeline over to us, abandoning her own boyfriend who just looked on, and kisses Mr Bunny on the cheek. And she stands there making small talk with me and trying to find out my business. However, all that ended up confirming, was the fact that the coven sit around talking about me. Because she brings up the Alfa and says "But isn't it your car?" To which I replied "Yeah, Mr Bunny bought it for me, but I think I fancy something else now." and also "So have you qualified yet? What are your languages again?". These are things neither myself nor Mr Bunny have told her. She knows nothing about the car situation from me and I have never told her I was doing my MA. She also sought out confirmation on certain aspects of our life "So does he just give you the card and let you go shopping?" and I answered loftily "No, we have a joint account and I have all his credit cards and access to his current account, so I just take as much as I want, whenever I want." She just looked at me and I smiled at her.

Then The Bell comes over and I am suddenly engrossed in the menu. But her shrill tones prove too hard to ignore and she touches me on the arm "Ooooh, nice to see you. You look lovely. That's a nice simple dress" And I just say "Yeah, didn't feel like dressing up just to come to the pub. Didn't see the point in it." And we all laugh like drains. I know I'm partly to blame for the continuing 'atmosphere' but I can't help it. I should be the bigger person and let these little comments and questions just roll off my back, but I just can't seem to do it. I know all I'm doing is throwing more fuel on to the fire, but is it really all my fault? Bah.

So I make a bit of small talk, get introduced to Fatsooo's boyfriend (who it turns out, is bloody hilarious and a very loud drunk) then we get told we can be seated. I go to the bar with my sister and tell Mr Bunny to get some seats. Another G&T and a pint for Mr Bunny. Mr Bunny then came to the bar with a fairly apologetic look on his face- we've ended up on a table with The Bell and Fatsooo. That, dear reader, was the low point of my evening. It could have been a billion times worse though. I could've ended up being sat next to the sister-in-law and the farmer.

...I guess.

I'm sayin' it loud...

Our new kettle is fucking brilliant!

That is all.

Post Mortem

So Saturday was the dreaded day and I have survived to tell the tale. Was it as horrific as I envisioned it would be? Only marginally so. Was it amusing enough to not be painful? Meh. Would I do it again? No, not so much.

This thing has been building up ever since she announced her intention to force us all to spend time in each other's company. This was done via the medium of Facebook. Facebook is apparently now a suitable tool for declaring such things. People will soon be announcing their divorces and death of loved ones on FB. Anyway, she created this event on Facebook and invited a load of people. But she was very crafty and made it super-private, so you couldn't even see who else was invited. Mr Bunny accepted the invite a couple days after she sent it out and I held out for as long as was decently possible, then caved to marital pressure and clicked 'attending'.

However, at one point earlier this month, Mr Bunny and I had a massive blowout (about his sister. Another long story in itself. Sigh!) and he shouted "Fuck it! I can't deal with this shit. We're not fucking going to that dinner." As if that was supposed to be some sort of punishment. A couple days afterwards, she texted him to ask why he wasn't coming, since he'd apparently changed his RSVP to 'not attending'. He made up some bullshit about not being able to see who was on the guestlist, so he just thought he'd do that in case it wasn't on anymore. Steups. So she said she wasn't aware she'd done that and she'd change it, so we could all see the guest list.

And just like that, we were going again.

When she did that, it was then that the full horror of the event was unleashed upon me. The Bell was going. This surprised me greatly, since she and The Bell had fallen out in a big way a few months ago, and she moaned about it at great length the last time we had a drink with her. So imagine the groan that arose from my throat when I saw that The Bell was meant to be in attendance. In addition, there was also Fatsooo, who is still obviously in love with Mr Bunny. But it was all going to be tolerable because Mini Han was meant to come up from London. Mini Han's good people and very lovely to hang around with. So at least I had that to hang on to. With Mini Han there, the evening would be bearable.

I obviously had no desire to go to this little soiree, but I knew if I didn't go, it would look bad on a couple fronts. But mostly to the two douchebag exes. You see, you have to play the game. They're already looking for any chink, any crack, any dent in the relationship, so my non-appearance will be fodder for gossip. Mr Bunny does not understand this. He has no idea that every single word coming out of their mouths is loaded. He thinks it is just my imagination. But my female friends totally get what I'm saying. "Where's Bunny? How come she didn't come? Is everything ok?" It'd be a lose/lose situation. I'd either be a bitch who hates her sister-in-law, worried about the exes and thus want to avoid them, or having marital problems. Plus if he didn't go, they would all think exactly the same and blame ME for it. So the path of least resistance was to just go to the bloody thing, grin and bear it.

So a couple weeks ago, or maybe last week, I texted the sister-in-law to ask her what the dress code was for this pub. I texted from Mr Bunny's phone, pretending to be him. She said it wouldn't be at all dressy, since it's just a country pub, so he could wear jeans and a shirt and I wouldn't need to wear a dress or anything. But I still wanted to buy something new, since I just wanted something new. I didn't find anything, but decided to wear a maxi dress I pulled out from my wardrobe. I just couldn't be arsed really. And I thought "Well, she did say no dresses, but this isn't too dressy. So it'll be cool."

Or that's what I thought.

In memoriam

Our new kettle has just arrived, so I'd just like to have a moment of silence for our crackhead lifestyle. The saucepan used to boil water will now be relegated to the cupboard. Unfortunately, I've not been able to try out the new kettle yet, because I'd just boiled the crackhead pan for some fresh tea. So once I've guzzled this pot, I'll be plugging in and switching on.

On a more sombre note, I cracked my cafetiere on an empty jar of pasta sauce. Don't ask. So now I need a new one, or a nice posh teapot that has a press for looseleaf tea.

The Lord giveth with one hand, and taketh away with the other.

Hurts doughnut?

My mom phoned me this morning, just to check in and say hello. She does this a couple times a week, and usually it goes well. And it was going well this morning, as per. Y'know, just chatting about our imminent move, my sister, Mr Bunny, the weather, the usual bollocks. But then it all went straight to hell. You see, I mentioned the upcoming dinner from hell and my profound desire to pass the evening tucked up in bed, watching Golden Girls and eating smoked salmon. My problems with the sister-in-law and the two exes are well known to my mother.

Anyway, I told her that I really couldn't be arsed to go, based on the guest list. And her advice to me? "Well, just make sure you don't do anything...just handle the situation in a, you know, dignified manner. Don't be difficult, eh?" And that just pissed me off. I mean, what the hell does she think I'll do? So I said to her "Eh? Who do you take me for? What do you think I'm going to do? Cuss them out and spit in their food? Yeah I'd bloody love to, but I'm not going to do that. Steups." Then she had a go at me for not inviting that chick to my wedding, telling me I behaved badly and I was in the wrong. And I wanted to release a barrage of F-bombs down the phone. But she's still my mother and she can still lay down some slaps on me if she wanted. So I just let out a long steups.

Look, I have NO regrets about not inviting that girl to my wedding. There were 10 people at my wedding, including me and Mr Bunny and the priest. Same for the meal. The problem arose when Mr Bunny, in a drunken haze decided to invite his mate, The Han. The Han's brother, Mini Han was best man. It was really a toss up a to who would get the gig. Mini Han won. Anyway, after the ceremony, we're back at the hotel having some drinks and Mr Bunny decides he wants to invite The Han to the meal, which I had zero issue with. I like The Han. He's a good laugh and he's always been very nice to me. My only stipulation was that he couldn't bring his girlfriend, since it wasn't a 'plus one' situation. My mate The Princess didn't bring her boyfriend, even though I knew him really well and she'd invited both of us to her wedding later on that year. Mini Han didn't bring his boyfriend, even though we also knew him and I quite like him. The Han's girlfriend on the other hand, I'd met her only once and she was a complete sour faced cow. PLUS The Han was thinking of breaking up with her! AND there were loads of close friends I hadn't invited because we were having a small, intimate wedding.

Why the hell would I want her at my wedding? In my pictures? Why should my dad pay for a meal for some girl I barely even know? I mean, if there were going to be hundreds at my wedding, yeah come in, sit down, get lashed. But I'd booked a table at this fab little restaurant for a nice quiet meal with our nearest and dearest. And that did not include her. Steups. In the end, I had to phone The Han myself, and tell him that 'plus ones' weren't invited. I did feel a little bad, but whatevs. But the way my parents reacted, you'd swear I just called up and cursed out my gran! Steups.

So anyway, homie is still toting feelings. Almost three years later. Bah. I maintain that I was in the right, and there is no one on this earth, who can tell me any different.

What really aggravates me even though, is that not only does my mother still think I was in the wrong with this whole wedding malarkey, but she obviously thinks so little of me that she feels I'm going to be a twat at the Meal from Hell TM. It's like this- I know I'm better than all of them. I'm better looking, better educated, a better dresser, classier and have cooler hair. In short, I'm just awesome. But I'm ace enough that my aceness just shines through. So there's no need for me to cuss up anyone or make sarcastic remarks or be a bitch. I can just sit there, being fab and smiling serenely and they won't have any choice but to sit there and take it.

And I guess it's just a little hurtful that my own mother doesn't see me like that. Instead she felt the need to make stupid remarks and piss me off, as is her wont these days. Steups.

Instead of wallowing though, I had smoked salmon, cream cheese and Ryvita, for it is the breakfast of the awesome!

I don't think he'd be too flattered...

So on Saturday, we went to Chester ostensibly to get a present for my sister-in-law's birthday, but also just to get out and enjoy the sunshine. It's that time of year when you have to run out and bask in the sun whenever you get the chance, what with the constant rain and barely six hours of daylight. Sigh. I personally prefer to sit in and keep warm and watch the tits who think wearing four layers of clothes is better than staying inside, wearing some fuzzy slippers and drinking a hot chocolate.

Anyway, we got the train and it looked like everyone else had the same idea. The train was surprisingly full and Chester city centre was a bit manic. A lot of the mania was thanks to tourists, since Chester is a historical city, full of Tudor buildings and Roman ruins. Admittedly, it is a lovely place and the buildings are listed, so you have all these shops in the original tudor construction, complete with uneven floors, bumpy walls and super-low ceilings. It's kind of cool, methinks.

I'm woefully off-track here so I'll try to rein it in a bit.

The reason why we ended up in Chester and not say, Manchester or Liverpool was because the sister-in-law (I really must think up a suitable nickname for her) wanted either iTunes vouchers or a gift voucher from this shop, Jack Wills. Now, when she first requested this, I was like "What the hell is Jack Wills? Sod it, just get her twenty-five quid in iTunes vouchers and leave it." Turns out that Jack Wills is a fashion chain, and their nearest branch is in Chester. I'd never in my life heard of this store so not only did Mr Bunny have to ask her what the hell she was talking about, I had to google it. Well, let me tell you I was not impressed in the least. Firstly their prices are ridiculous- I saw a dress for £730! And it wasn't even a nice dress! So we decided to actually go to Chester, kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

After the obligatory stop in Primark, Marks and Spencer's, Topshop and French Connection we found Jack Wills and went inside. And it was shit.

Jack Wills appears to want to be the British Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger, complete with exorbitant prices but with none of the brand recognition. I consider myself to be pretty au fait with well-known international brands. Mr Bunny would say I'm a brand whore, but that's just semantics in my opinion. I've always liked to wear 'name' products, ever since I became aware of the concept. So we used to wear LA Gear or Nike or Reebok or British Knights. Then I went through my phase of being 'understated' so I would only wear Keds. You had to have a 'genuine' rasta bag (though I don't really know what made one bag more genuine than the other. The length of the salesman's dreadlocks, perhaps?). Folders had to be Trapper Keeper. Then there was the whole 'choonky bag' phenomenon but some memories are best left repressed.

Now, I'm a grown-up and I still like to make sure my clothes and shoes are from reputable stores. I mean, yeah I shop at Primark and I rock the hell out of my five pound jumper or eight pound pinafore, and I worship at the altar of Topshop. But I'm awesome. I can get away with it. When I do want something classy and well made, I head for a place people have heard of. A lot of my winter wear is Ralph Lauren and I have a few Tommy Hilfiger polo shirts. When I worked, I had a couple of lovely Burberry shirts. The combined worth of the four handbags I use the most work out to about thirty-five hundred pounds. I bought two pairs of shoes from Russell & Bromley and nearly passed out when I got to the till and the girl told me the total, and Kurt Geiger has a fair amount of Mr Bunny's money. While I don't own any clothing from a major designer like Prada or Versace, I do know who they are. They've earned the right to charge ridiculously high prices. Their clothes are quality and amazing... a bit like me. *wink wink*

So what was this ill-thought out rant really about? The fact that Jack Wills thinks that by putting leather labels on some ugly plaid shorts or a tartan duffel bag, he has automatically earned the right to charge eighty-five quid for said items, I think says a lot more about the douchebags I saw in the surprisingly lengthy queue, than about Mr Wills himself. But why do I think he's imitating Ralph? Well, you know how Ralph has the polo ponies? Jack Wills has some sort of bird in a top hat and carrying a cane. You know how Ralph likes stripes in bold, contrasting colours? Jack Wills has stripes in bold contrasting colours. You know when you walk into a Ralph Lauren store, and it's instantly 'horsey'? There might be a saddle, some polo sticks or riding crops, and the mannequins will be in jodhpurs and riding boots. Well, in Jack Wills there was a pair of ice skates, a lacrosse stick and other assorted tat too dull to even remember.

But what shocked me the most, is the sheer number of people in the wretched place. When we first walked in, it was buzzing. But hey, everyone likes a browse, n'est-ce pas? It was only when we went to the join the queue to pay, I realised just how many knobheads there are in Chester. After three minutes of waiting, I was like "Fuck this. Just buy her some sodding iTunes vouchers so we can get the hell out of here." In an odd display of patience, Mr Bunny suggested we go to Starbucks, wait it out then come back. He is very cunning, because he knows that promising me a Hazlenut hot chocolate with whipped cream on top, will get me to agree to many things. So I had my hot chocolate, watched an obese barista throw out some croissants and pain aux raisins, imagined her going back to the bins after everyone had left and fishing them out so she could hoover them up, while Mr Bunny had a filter coffee and read the paper.

We walked back to Jack Wills, only to discover that even more tits had been suckered in, and the queue was even longer. I wanted to shout out "If you want clothes that look like Ralph Lauren's SHOP AT RALPH LAUREN!! The Big Pony Collection is ACE!!!!" But I felt that that would have been frowned upon by the shop staff who forget that they're earning minimum wage selling rip-off clothes and clearly feel that the only reason they haven't been recognised by the Nobel Prize committee is due to a mere oversight. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I wonder what Mr Lauren would make of the wholesale theft of his 'look'.

Anyway, we waited for what seemed like the rest of my natural life, and Mr Bunny swiped his card for a fifty quid voucher. As we were leaving however, I made my peace with the whole thing, by realising that my sister-in-law would fit in perfectly with the clientele there. The downside, is that this gift will be handed over during the dinner from hell.

But on the way home, we stopped at a chippy and I had what can only be described as a tower of chips. Saturated fats make everything better.

Tis a different kettle of fish

Yesterday I returned our kettle. It was the third time I've had to take it back and it pissed me off. I mean, it was a brilliant kettle. It was called a Hot Cup and it was by Breville. It boiled one cup at a time and it just looked cool. But the lid on the first one we had kept jamming, so I exchanged it for a new one. That lid stopped working as well so I took that one back. The lid on the third one started jamming as well, but I couldn't be arsed to return it so we soldiered on. But then it started cutting out for no apparent reason. This started a few weeks ago, but once again I couldn't be arsed to return it so we kept it. Then I nearly snapped one day and almost threw it through the window at three-legged cat, who just happened to be opening his bowels in my flowerbed at that moment.

So I went onto John Lewis' site to see what else they had to offer me and I found a wicked cool black and stainless steel kettle by Bosch. So yesterday I made the trip up to Preston with Mr Bunny and took the car while he was busy earning the money to keep me in Mulberry bags. After sitting in traffic caused by some terrible fog, I returned the kettle to the branch we originally bought it from, got my refund and just browsed for a bit. When I went to buy the new kettle, turns out they were out of stock, but the nice chap told me they should be getting some pretty soon. I decided to go to the Trafford Centre and try the branch there. After standing in a queue that could have easily been mistaken for the queue to draw one's pension, turns out that branch was out of stock too. But this even nicer man told me he could take my name, address and card details, and when the shipment came in, it would automatically ship the kettle to me.

So now we have no kettle and have been reduced to living like crackheads, boiling water in a saucepan. And seeing as I drink about seven or eight cups of tea in the morning, and the only liquids Mr Bunny drinks are tea and beer, we need a kettle and we need it fast. This gives the phrase 'a pot of tea' a whole new meaning.

This is my life and sometimes it's shit.

Give me strength

Exactly one week tomorrow, I will be attending the dinner from hell, with the guest list from hell. My sister-in-law's birthday is this month and as such, she wants to go for a meal next Saturday. I do not care very much for my sister-in-law. When we first met all those years ago, she was not very nice to me. It was as if she felt the need to make some sort of statement about control or whatever (LONG story). The fact that she did this in my own home was what I took umbrage at. It was so bad, even my future father-in-law (who was visiting us) was like "What the fuck's she playing at?" But no one said anything to curb her behaviour. I continued to make the effort, but after a while I was like "Wait, why the hell am I being a knobhead? Fuck it!" So I stopped. But now, she wants to make nice and I can't be fucking arsed. My feeling now is- I already have sisters and friends and I need more of neither.

Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I being petty? Possibly. Do I give a shit? Not really. Mr Bunny cares though, but he can suck my plums. My feeling is that when he had the chance to nip the shit in the bud, he wimped out. He wanted to avoid confrontation, like he avoids his sister. So now he's trying to guilt me into making amends. But I'm still like "Fuck it."

But I digress.

So it's her birthday soon, and we have to go to this meal. So why is it going to be so hellish? Well in attendance will be both of Mr Bunny's long-term exes; or as I like to refer to them "The Losers." Oh did I not mention that my sister-in-law is best mates with them? Sigh.

Both of these exes hate me, for obvious reasons. In particular, the one who was with him months before we met despises me. I call her The Bell. I don't blame her though. For hating me I mean. It was her own stupid fault that they broke up. You see, they'd been together for two years, off and on. They lived together for most of that time. Then she broke up with him and vanished for like four months. When she reappeared, they got back together ad all was well. But then she broke up with him again. He then moved to Preston and met the awesome black girl and the rest is history, as they say. From what I was told, they were supposed to get back together and settle down. And up until a few weeks before we met, she and Mr Bunny were doing that typical ex thing, of hanging out together and boning down. So she thought they were on track for a reconciliation and the happy ending. And to some extent, so did he.

But then in swooped the black girl to jumbie her scene. Diddums.

The hilarious thing is that she so blatantly still fancied Mr Bunny and he was so horrifyingly oblivious. It all came o a head the night I went out with his friends. Yes, The Bell is part of his circle. She tried all sorts of tricks to catch his attention, including sexy dancing and a sexy walk. But on her best day, she's not as ace as me on my worst day. Added to this, Mr Bunny is the most unobservant man I have met in my entire life, so this all went over his head. Anyway, we got back to another friend's house and all went inside. I went up to use the loo, while Mr Bunny's dad phoned and he stayed outside talking to him. When I came back from using the 'facilities', The Bell was sat on his lap, speaking to his dad "Oh Gerry, I miss you so much. Can't wait to see you again! Miss you loads, love you lots." When Mr Bunny clocked me stood in the doorway, he kind of looked at me as if to say "What could I do?". I went back inside and sat on the sofa, watching a bit of telly. The Bell then came inside and sat next to me and was like "Look, you mustn't be angry. Just so you know Mr Bunny and I have been best mates for ten years, so you know, we're just close. It's just that we've been best mates for ten years, y'know. So we have a lot of history. It's been ten years, y'know?" She just kept on saying ten years, like some sort of mad old woman. When she was finished, I just looked at her, smiled a little and said "It's cool you know. But just so you know, I don't play games and I don't do bullshit. I'll just tell you like it is. Anyone who knows me knows that they shouldn't fuck with me. Just so you know." *little smile* She just gave a little laugh and went back outside to have a fag. By the by, I later found out that Gerry could not stand The Bell. He used to call her 'Einstein' behind her back. She is a bit of an idiot, to be fair.


Mr Bunny had no idea all this was going on inside. He was outside having a beer with the lads. But when we were leaving, The Bell walks up to him and whispers in his ear. Later, I learned that she told him that she was still in love with him. His response? "Um, nice one."

When we've met subsequently, she's been nice to me and I've been pleasant to her. She's always been one for the underhanded compliment though. One Christmas, we all went out again (including Fatsooo, the other ex he lived with) and she was like "Oh, I love your shoes. You're looking a bit thin though, is everything ok?" And I just laughed said "Yeah. Sorry, still married." She just looked at me with some nervous smile and went to the bar.

I won't even go into Fatsooo and her constant questions to Mr Bunny "Are you happy? Are you sure? You always said you'd never get married. Are you travelling, like you always wanted to?"

So needless to say, I'm in no way looking forward to wasting a whole Saturday night, sat next to any of these three. I've already told Mr Bunny that he is the designated driver, since I will need to consume copious amounts of alcohol just so I don't end up slitting my own wrists and trying to drown myself in the ladies' loo. This isn't even taking into consideration Mr Bunny's best mate's ex, who is STILL pissed off at me because I didn't invite her to my wedding.

Garcon! I'll start with the quadruple gin and tonic please, followed by a triple vodka and cranberry. No, no food for me. But do you by chance have a bottle of Scotch? Many thanks.

New Kid on the Block

This morning I was standing at the kitchen window again, waiting for my kettle to boil again and keeping my eye out for mad cat...again. When I noticed an addition to the feline menagerie plaguing the estate. Reader, I give thee fat cat. I have never seen fat cat before. But goodness me, is it fat. Like all the other cats (apart from mad cat), fat cat is black and white. But he has a fair bit of white on his coat, unlike blind cat, three-legged cat and broken-legged cat. Mad cat looks like he's mixed with leopard or tiger or something. His coat's a bit stripy and mixed up. I sometimes wonder if that's what contributing to his madness.

Anyway, I clocked fat cat while he was waddling past the same spot that mad cat always hangs out. It's almost as if he was marking the path as his own. He even heaved himself up on to the massive boulder John used to put tuna for mad cat on. I have no idea where the hell fat cat wobbled in from, but I think he's too fat to be a stray. I mean, a fat stray animal is as much an oxymoron as a fat vagrant. Hmmm.

So now we have fat cat thrown into the mix. Steups. What's next? Well-read cat? Handsome cat? Foolish cat? Sigh. I just hate them all. Haven't seen mad cat since Friday afternoon though. In my head, he's in some evil lair throwing darts at a picture of me and making notes about my daily routine.

Friday is my Flyday

I've just been standing at my kitchen window, waiting on my kettle to boil and just basically staring into space, when I spotted this cat staring at me from under my neighbour's car. I hate cats. Cats are evil. You never know what a cat is thinking. I mean, dogs are fairly open with their emotions. If a dog hates you, it will growl and snarl and snap at you. If it likes you, it'll wag its tail and bark joyfully and jump up on you. If it's horny, it'll hump your leg. So dogs don't really hide their feelings very well. But cats are a different issue. A cat will look at you, and you'll have no idea whether it's thinking "Oooh, that man is fit! I hope he bends down and strokes me." Or "God I hate you. I'm going to wait until you're asleep then scratch the fuck out of your face."

There are rather a lot of cats on our estate, and a disproportionate number of them are disabled. There's the three-legged cat who likes to shit in my flowerbed, the cat with the broken leg who actually really resembles the three-legged cat, the blind cat and the mad cat. Queens Park Gardens appears to be some sort of cat convalescent home.

The cat that was staring, or rather he was glaring, at me was mad cat. Mad cat has been so named, because it went mad and just started howling and hissing at this fence one day. It also keeps on digging up the bit of grass near to the walkway that leads to our building. Digging for what? I had no idea that cats were diggers. Anyway, my neighbour has taken to feeding mad cat and I had to have words with him about it. Cats like to hang around close to their food supply and mad cat freaks me out so I really don't want it outside my building.

The odd thing is, I think mad cat understood what I was saying, because the same day I told John to stop putting tuna out for it, I went to get into my car and mad cat actually stood on the path and hissed at me, as if to say "Listen bitch, I've got a good thing going here. Don't you dare fuck it up for me or I'll fucking 'ave you!" Yes, in my mind mad cat sounds like an East End gangster. And now John has stopped leaving tuna out for it, I think it hates me, hence the glare from under John's car.

So that got me thinking about animals and how aware are they of what's going on around them. I mean, is mad cat really aware that it's my fault that he doesn't get tuna anymore? Is mad cat plotting my demise? When I shout at three-legged cat to get out of my flowerbed, and he just stares at me, is he thinking "Look lady, I'm not done yet, so take it easy" ? Is blind cat going "I wish I could claim benefits, like half the losers in this town. I mean, I've got one bloody eye!" Who knows? All I know is that mad cat seems to be literally stalking this building, pacing up and down, digging up the path and checking the flat stone John used to leave the tuna on, while throwing me dirty looks. I daren't tell Mr Bunny about this though. He thinks I'm weird enough as it is.

I wish I could kick mad cat. He has grey whiskers.

Living the dream?

I had to go do my Life in the UK Test today. I was not happy about having to do that for a number of reasons. First off, my husband is back working in England, so he is driving my car, since our other car is just a weekend car and isn't for a daily commute. This meant I had to get the train. This then meant that I had to walk to the train station, since the bus that goes to the station from outside our flat, wouldn't come in time for me to catch my train. So I had to make the forty minute walk.

Secondly, I had to pay to do this bloody test. It costs £34 and it's non-refundable if you fail or have to cancel for any reason. This means that if you were to drop down dead and therefore missed your appointment, in addition to having to fork out for your funeral, your family will have to make sure the UK Border Agency got their £34.

But the main reason why it pissed me off, is the sheer stupidity and banality of the bloody questions. I've been here for eleven years. I've done two degrees here and I'm from a former colony. I know more about life in the UK than a lot of people who were born here! Not only that though, the questions are just absolutely pointless. How is me knowing the distance from John O' Groats to Land's End going to make me a better citizen? Why should I have to pay to take a test with questions like "If you are renting a property from a private landlord, you will normally be required to pay a deposit which is equivalent to one month's rent. TRUE or FALSE" Quantum mechanics this is not.

So I get there, and there's a few other people there, looking around nervously. They were all sat down, furiously revising before the test started (you need to read the Life in the UK Test book, £20 from The Stationery Store. I downloaded it off t'internet) and taking deep breaths. I was BBMing a friend and checking my email. The American guy sat next to me was busy scrolling through his iPhone. He looked just as annoyed as I felt.

So I walked for forty minutes, spent seven quid on a train ticket, rode the train for ten minutes, walked to the test centre, signed in, and took a total of six minutes to complete a test they give you forty-five minutes to do. That works out at just five pound something per minute. Not exactly value for money. The good thing is, you get your results straight away. You click 'Finish' and it automatically sends your results to a printer. A nice lady then calls you over, tries to make a bit of banter, stamps the printout and signs it. And that's it.

I passed. I will take this to mean that I now know all there is to know about Life in the UK. I mean, I just paid £34 for the pleasure.

You can never go back again

This morning I decided I was going to clear out my hotmail inbox. I have close to forty pages of emails, and I thought that half of them were probably shitty forwards so a clean up was in order. And I was actually shocked at what I found. Emails I hadn't read in years, from as far back as 2002. Emails I'd forgotten I'd sent and received, situations I'd long consigned to the history books; memories both happy and sad.

One of the first emails I read, was one from my friend Des. Des was one of the Irish, who lived in my halls in Annecy. I spent nearly six months in Annecy, France, working in a business college. I lived in halls of residence, which appeared to be the dumping ground for foreign students and society's rejects. I was there for about two weeks, before I realised there were other English-speakers living there. And it made me so happy! I remember I'd just come in from work, and was having a word with Vince, one of the residents who also worked in the admin office, when I heard a girl shouting something in English, up the stairwell. So I said "Oh my God! Are you English?" and she said "No, I'm Irish. Are you English?" And that was how it began. Her name was Sarah, and she was one of four Irish people there. And through them, I met Reynaldo who was from Uruguay, Henry who was actually English and the eight other Irish and the Yank who lived in Pre St Jean, the other halls of res up the road.

But out of all the Irish, Des and I hit it off the best. We just clicked. We became quite tight and hung out together all the time. We'd go into town and knockabout, sit in the residence computer room and talk a load of shit, or go down to the the lake and lay around on paquier all day, eating Quick and drinking. One day we just got on the bus and just rode different routes just so we could see where they led to. And then there were the parties in the basement. Des was easily the best dancer out of all the Irish, so we always had a blast. I even dragged him to the cinema a couple times. And when I got my bonus at work, just before I left, he was the one I celebrated with. But the best part of it all? There was never anything sexual or romantic about it. He was like my twin or something. We made each other laugh and told each other nearly everything. I think it remains my best male friendship...ever.

So I ended up reading some of those emails and I'd completely forgotten the sort of things we spoke about. He was the one who comforted me after the whole Cute French Guy debacle, who listened to my whingeing about work and the bitch students at the college who hated me because I was their age and had my own office instead of classes. He was the one who realised that I had a thing for Henry...even before I did! And when Brian and I hooked up, he scoped him out for me and didn't give him the seal of approval. Ha ha ha!

After reading the emails, I went and dug out my album and flipped through it. I named it "Adventures in Foreign Lands" and it's got pictures from my time in Spain, France and odd nights out in Preston. And there's a 'page of Des' with just pictures of me and Des hanging out. It brought back so many memories- me and Des eating a Munich burger (which remains the best burger I've ever had in my life!) in le Munich down by the river, me and Des at the bus stop, waiting for our connecting bus to come home one night, me and Des hugging up at one of our basement parties (we were both sweaty as fook, glistening in the night. Twas ace!) And then there's that classic memory I have of me being in a cage in a club, sandwiched between Des and Paul, dancing to Starlight by Supermen Lovers.

One decision basically led to me having a fabulous walk down memory lane. It's like looking back on a completely different life, which is actually pretty cool. It's good to have these memories stashed away, so I can remind myself that I wasn't always this dull, going to bed at eight-thirty and spending my days knitting. These memories remind me that I once flew to Paris for a weekend of dirty sex and ended up fracturing my foot shagging in a shower. They remind me that I got a tattoo one afternoon after work in Annecy, just because I fancied it. They remind me that one weekend I hopped the Swiss/French border with the guy I was doing a bit of the ol' horizontal jogging with, and went to the Geneva motor show on a whim. They remind me of a much simpler time, when all I had to do was worry about keeping my office door shut while I played my D'Angelo and worked on the college prospectus.

So, while they say you can never go back again, it's very nice to pay a visit once in a while.

HAPPY 50TH POST TO ME!!!

Anniversaire, cumpleanos, old-age

Happy Birthday to me.

Today's the big day, and I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Well, actually I am pretty sure. I feel old and a little bit worthless. I'm thirty years old today. Thirty. Three, zero. Just seeing it here in black and white is slightly distressing. I am thirty years old, and I don't really have anything to show for it. What have I achieved in my thirty years on this planet? Fuck all. Sweet fuck all.

Sigh!

Y'know, as children, we all have these visions as to what our lives would be like when we hit this age. I mean, when I was nine, thirty seemed SOOOO far away. Hell, when I was seven, twelve seemed like it would never come. But I thought I'd be at a different place by now and the painful realisation is that I am indeed in a different place. Just not the place I'd envisioned.

It all hit me a few months ago, that the sum total of my achievments is being married. I don't work, I don't have kids, I don't even own my own car. What have I got to show for my time on this earth? Some really expensive handbags, ninety-seven pairs of shoes and cool hair. Hmmmm. I did own a car once. Little green car. It was an M-reg Ford Fiesta, and it cost me £700. I loved that car. It was mine. Yeah, Mr Bunny hated it, but I didn't care. Little green car was ace. I had to sell it though, when I decided to head back to Trinidad for an extended period. And oh, it was so hard to let it go. Now I drive a nice, silver Ford Focus. It's all reliable and safe and economical, and we have a black Alfa Romeo Spider for sunny weekends. But the less said about that car at the moment, the better.

What's my point, I hear you roll your eyes? My point is, those things don't belong to me. My husband paid for them. He pays for everything. He bought both cars, he owns this flat. And the really depressing thing, is that I have allowed this to happen. I've made poor decisions and that is what angers and upsets and saddens me more than anything else. I've done this to myself.

So what am I going to do about it? Well, I've decided to go back to work. Going back to do anything (except clean loos). But I need to regain some self-respect. So maybe this mini-mid-life crisis happened for a reason. Silver lining and all that, I guess. I'm extremely grateful that I'm able to have the lifestyle that I do since I know there are those much less fortunate than we are. But trust, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's lonely and a trifle boring. So I'm going to look for some part-time work to tide me over, until the baby Bunnies come. And when I made that decision, I felt a bit better. It's all about taking action baby!

Shall I break out the cake and ice cream?

Football's coming home

I'm not crazy about football. I think I've mentioned this previously. So the World Cup and other assorted tournaments, are torture for me. Yes, I go see my friends play in their League matches, but that's different. Even when Trinidad qualified, I couldn't bring myself to watch their games, I was so nervous. But I did proudly sport my Soca Warrior t-shirt.

However, living in England, it's hard to escape football. The English have this sense of superiority when it comes to football. I mean, yes they invented the game, and yes they won the World Cup. But that was once...44 bloody years ago. And they still won't stop going on about it. They haven't won a major tournament since, or even reached the final round! Yet, to hear them talk, the only reason they haven't won is because the rest of the world is against them. It's the refs, the linesmen, the press, the fans. The ball is too light, the pitch is too poor, the altitude is too high. Our shorts were too short, the shorts were too long, the t-shirts were too tight. Blah, blah, blah! The truth is, the team just isn't good enough. They aren't good enough to beat Argentina (the fucking Hand of God gets trotted out EVERY World Cup campaign, as if THAT was the reason why they didn't win in 1986. Steups!), they aren't good enough to beat France, they aren't good enough to beat Spain. I mean, FFS, they could only muster a 2-0 win over Trinidad...and that was after a goalless first half! What the hell makes them think they can overpower Brazil, Germany or Argentina?

Anyway, they stumbled through the group stages, much to their embarassment. It was funny to watch, because I remember they were so cocky after the draw. The husband and I were in Ireland and The Sun had on it's front page the day after the draw-

England
Algeria
Slovenia
Yanks

They thought they'd piss the group stages, storm through the knockouts and quarter-finals and arrive at the semis, where the real work would begin. But sadly (or happily if you're not an England fan), twas not to be. They could only muster a 1-1 draw with said Yanks, a 0-0 draw with Algeria and a 1-0 win over Slovenia. Yes, quite the footballing powerhouse. So they limped through to the knockout stages, not even as winners of their group. Yes, the Yanks who they derided so early on, managed to beat them. So, it was on to Germany; their footballing nemesis.

I read my Saturday paper yesterday. I like to leave it a couple days, for when the boredom truly kicks in. It made for hilarious reading though. The Sport section had the headline "We are a better team than Germany and we will beat them". This little prediction came from the goalkeeper, David James, who is actually one of the better-looking men on the team. Oh, how we laughed. Why?

Well, on Sunday, they were thrashed 4-1 by said German side. Despite all the jingoism in the press, harking back to fecking WW2 (two twats even turned up at the game dressed as RAF officers) and England's last victory on a world stage (bloody 1966), England lost and they lost badly. So they were out, and out in a most humiliating fashion. But I'm a bit sad that they're out. I can almost see your double take, dear reader. Why the hell am I sad, that a bunch of cocky, overpaid and overrated footballers have lost?

Well, it means that life has gone back to normal here in Merrie Olde England. On Sunday, I went to the Trafford Centre to exchange our kettle. I live life on the edge. But I thought Sunday would be an ideal time, since the rest of the country would be glued to their tellies. My need to go out was further encouraged by the sight of my neighbours erecting a gazebo in their front garden, and hanging a large England flag out of a window on the top floor of their house. Apparently, the eight flags on his car weren't enough. When I saw him dragging the bbq out of his shed, I mentally planned what I was going to wear and hit the showers.

Oh, and what a magical afternoon it turned out to be. The roads were clear, I had my pick of parking spots right outside the entrance and there were no queues in the shops. The only downside, was that all the staff in John Lewis were glued to the tv screens. I was able to wander around without being touched by some sweaty man in an ugly shirt and trackie bottoms. It took me two minutes to get a green tea in Starbucks, and there were loads of seats if I'd wanted to stay. I didn't have to push my way through any crowds in Marks and Spencer's to get a decent look at the food.

In short, it was bliss.

But because of the general shittiness of the England team, I shall never have another afternoon like that again. Well, at least not for another four years...provided England even bloody qualify for Brazil!

So I shall remember Sunday 27th of June with great fondness and nostalgia. You shall always be in my heart. Football's coming home, a trifle too early and not in the way they meant when they sang that song (which is so catchy, I'm humming it as I type).

Bless the little losers.

...and I would've gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for those pesky kids!

I'm old.

I'm not even thirty yet, but I'm old. How have I come to this conclusion? Well, Friday night, "Ferris Beuller's Day Off" was on. I remember when I first saw that movie and how much I loved it. I loved it so much, I even watched the mega-lame series (that actually starred a pre-friends Jennifer Aniston). I mean, this guy managed to trick all the adults in his life, and his annoying sister always lost out. But she ended up hooking up with Charlie Sheen, when he was still hot and before he, um, lost his way.

So I left it on Film4 and decided to watch it. I shouldn't have done that.

I HATED it this time around. I hated it so much, I switched over about half-an hour into it, to watch an episode of "Mock the Week" I must have seen about fifty bajillion times (thanks Dave). But why did I hate it so much? Well, in the ten years or so since I last properly watched the movie, Ferris turned into a bit of a little shit! Why do his parents believe him, and not Jeannie? Jeannie is a bit mean, yes. But she seems to be fairly honest with the people around her. Why is Ferris so mean to Cameron? He's a bit of a bully and a narcissist. The Dean of Students is a bit of a penis, I'll admit. But he's just trying to do his job, which is ten times harder, because of twats like Ferris, who think it's their right to skip school and steal classic cars. And what irked me more than anything, was that he never got his comeuppance. He just got away with it! Life isn't like that.

So that got me thinking, have I skipped my thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and seventies and jumped straight to my eighties and my curmodgeonly years? Why am I so crotchety? I mean, Ferris is just a fictional character. Then it hit me. I'm no longer that movie's target audience. I've outgrown it, as I've outgrown a lot of other things. But even more worrying, was the realisation that I'm turning into my mother! This is the kind of show my mother would roll her eyes and steups at, refusing to believe the antics on screen. And now I find myself doing the same.

Sigh! Who knew growing up would mean you lose part of your sense of humour? Luckily for me, I still find fart and poo jokes funny, so I won't lose all hope just yet!

Make me somewhere...

Today is Sunday and the weather is absofuckinglutely fabulous! Yet I am indoors, listening to music and reading the paper. But I've got all the windows open so it's not all bad.

Unlike most Brits, I don't jizz myself at the sight of sunshine. I mean, I grew up in the bloody Caribbean. So I actually dodge the sun as much as the Brits embrace it. It doesn't help that I'm married to a complete sun whore, who, once we're in Trinidad, would happily spend eight hours on the beach...every single day! My response when people see the sun and get all excited is "No, it's ok thanks. I saw the sun once."

Anyway, I'm here today, iPod in the docking station/ speaker, soca blasting, sipping on various alcholic tipples and feeling particularly homesick. Mr Bunny is still in Libya, all my friends had previous commitments with other halves and what not this weekend, so I'm on my own, and it feels a bit rubbish. I've put on on my favourite playlist, which is of course packed with soca. And with the sunshine and me wearing not very much (but still enough to be seen in public in and not make anyone sick), I'm still feeling a bit down.

I get this way from time to time, not knowing where I belong, not having any 'roots' anywhere. I mean, I'm West Indian (which is what I tell people where they ask where I'm from. I sense disappointment when the answer isn't Nigeria or Ghana) and of course narrowed down to Trinidadian. But I've lived here for so long now and all but two of my friends are British. One of those friends has lived here since she was 11, so I don't always consider her West Indian (she's Jamaican), but she'd scratch my eyes out if she knew I'd said that.

A while ago, I had a slight panic attack when I realised that my future child/ children would not be fully Trini. It actually freaked me out. I mean, I knew they'd be mixed race, but it hadn't properly occurred to me that they wouldn't actually be 100% Trinidadian. My husband is half-Irish and half-Polish, and unless I have them in Ireland (the thought has crossed my mind), they'll be British. So it's fair to say that my kids will have a very diverse heritage. It worried me a bit. Are they going to feel at home anywhere? I mean, I know where I'm from, but will they feel the same way? I mean, what if they don't love soca or Carnival or pelau and macaroni pie and callalloo? What if they don't get how hilarious a meggie is and salivate at the mere mention of the word 'doubles'? And here comes the panic attack again!

One of my favourite songs is by a duo called Zero 7. It's called Home, and it is one of the most melodically pure and sweet songs I have ever heard in my life. And the chorus goes "Take me somewhere we can be alone. Make me somewhere I can call a home." And I guess in my semi-pissed, mega-maudlin state, it's resonating more than ever.

What's the solution? Well, right now, it would be to crack open that bottle of Cosmopolitan mix and get glugging. I mean, it's not as if I have to work tomorrow... ;)

Well sober me up!

I was watching 'Grand Designs' last night. It's this show where people build their dream homes while a smug presenter makes snide remarks and hopes it all goes tits up. So, this couple in London were gutting their Victorian terrace and completely remodeling it. They were doing the inside, but couldn't touch the exterior because of planning permission laws that say the exterior of these properties have to maintain their traditional look. They'd put in this metallic guttering so Mr Smug was like "Are there going to be problems with this, seeing as this is a conservation area? Is it going to have to be painted black?" and the equally smug homeowner replied "Well I don't think so. Our previous guttering was painted black only because our door was."

I then realised that if I lived on that street, and these tits were putting in silver guttering, I'd be straight on the phone to the local council to complain. And I guess that makes me a bit of a tit as well. Who knew I was so cantankerous? Am I acting out my old-age before I even hit thirty?

Twas a sobering thought indeed!

Today

I'm sitting here, in the midst of the most awesome green tea high and pondering certain things. I am mostly in a pensive mood because I have a lot of work to do, and according to the law, I must become distracted as soon as possible for as long as possible, until I lose the will to live.

I know I've been gone for a very long time. Well, first off, I spent five weeks in Trinidad, chilling out. I was meant to stay for only three weeks, but realised that I had nothing waiting for me here so I stayed. Good thing I did, because my evil granny popped her clogs. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but she was very difficult, to put it kindly. The odd thing is, I had a dream about her last night and I actually had a very good conversation with her. But she's at peace now, and my dad has one less thing to worry about, so it's all good.

So I came back, the husband came back, we spent two weeks together then he left. We went to view a house that we were both quite excited about. It turned out to be a massive disappointment. It was a gorgeous four-bedroom detached and it looked so good on the internet- ensuite, conservatory, garden, double garage. But the bedrooms were surprisingly small and the lounge was just awful! So it looks like it's a pass. Ah well...

What else has there been? Well my laptop seems to have retired from its earthly toil. Ok, it isn't really mine. It belongs to Mr Mjsbunny, but I had commandeered it. And it took its last breath yesterday. So I'm bashing this out on his other shitty laptop, which crashes all the time and is insanely slow. Much patience required, but little at my disposal.

I did have the misfortune to have to go into town on Tuesday though. I had to go to the Post Office to post off a package. I'd ordered some tights from Topshop, and they bloody laddered on the first day I wore them, so I was returning them. Let me just say that there cannot be many more depressing places on this earth, than Crewe town centre. I believe the bus station and the post office are the places where chavs are born and return to die. There are enough muffin tops, Croydon facelifts and tracksuits to last a lifetime. I actually feel a little part of me die whenever I have to go to the Post Office or pass through the bus station. Sigh! And to top it all off, the weather has been unseasonably warm, so there is now an abundance of flabby, white arms, legs shoulders and backs at every turn. These people haven't seen proper sun since their last trip to Tenerife in June of 2008 and the fake tan is always poorly applied and shit. So in between all the orange dimples, are stretches of pure whiteness. It scares me a little bit.

Then I had to go out to Hanley to pick up the dying laptop. I like the drive out to Hanley. And with the weather being nice, I was able to have the windows down and enjoy some 3Suns, Machel and Blaxx. But then that SWV song came on- the one remixed with Human Nature, and I actually burst into tears. It was so bad, I had to change the song. Sigh! Oh Mike!

I haven't left the tiny flat since Tuesday. It feels safe and secure. Plus I've been distracted by my new phone. Yes, I caved. I've jumped on the Blackberry bandwagon. I know I'm late to the party but it was there, so I took it. I mean, I'm paying Orange £30 a month, even more over the past couple months because I was roaming. My contract was due for renewal and I was eligible for a Blackberry, so of course I went for the newest one. It's been a bumpy ride thus far. I don't like change. I mean, I had a Samsung Tocco, which is a touch screen. I also have an iPod touch which I can get wi-fi on. So I've grown used to my touch screens. My fingers now feel uber-fat and it's taking me ages to tap out a simple text. It also takes great strength of will to ignore that little flashing red light. I don't want to turn into one of those people who sees the light flashing, and the rest of the world ceases to exist. They are the Pavolv's dogs of the 21st Century! But it is excellent being able to chat to my mates, especially my two best friends. I've known them since primary school and they live in the States and Canada. So chatting to them for free does kind of makeup for my terror.

So that's where I am today. Judge Judy is on, and I'm drinking my seventh or eighth mug of tea. I'm currently doing a taste test on different brands of green tea with Lemon. These are things that I do to fill my time. I am also excited because Waitrose will begin to restock my favourite apples in one week. So I have that to look forward to. Tis a simple life I lead.

The weather is nice, I have some nice soca on my iPod and school will be re-opening soon so I can go to the shops during the day without having to deal with shrieking teens. Plus Mr Bunny is back in four weeks and hopefully we'll be in a new place by July. So life could be better, but it could also be a lot worse. Here's to optimisim and contentment. Today.

'Tis a harsh reality

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MJ and me

I'm sure the reader of this blog hasn't failed to notice that my 'pseudonymn' is about Michael Jackson. I'm a huge fan. Have been for about fifteen years now. Before that, I was just a fan. But when I was fifteen, my dad gave me HIStory for Christmas, and that was the trigger. That was also the year he gave me Prince's 3-disc epic, but that didn't have the same effect. Hmmm.

Anyway, I love Michael Jackson, and for a while was slightly obsessed. I remember downloading his autobiagraphy from the internet one afternoon. This was in the days of dial-up, so it took about four hours. I then stayed up until half-two the following morning reading it. I would record any little snippet of news or telly to do with Michael Jackson- three minute reports on Inside Edition, a mention of him on Hard Copy, a clip of an interview on regional news. Usually, I'd just program the VCR, but I didn't trust it when it came to MJ, so I'd actually set my alarm to wake up so I could go downstairs and press 'record' myself, if something was on late at night. I also used to set my alarm to wake up to watch porn, but that's by the by. Hey, I was a fourteen-year old virgn, going to a convent school. Gimme a break!

I'd visit all these fan sites and download and print off photos of him. I'd print off the black and white ones at home, and the colour ones at my dad's office. And because I chose to spend my allowance on other things, I'd do a sort of homemade laminating with scotch tape and lots of patience. I'd put these pictures up in my MJ corner, which was up by the head of my bed. I'd go to second-hand book stores and look for magazines or books that had his photo on the cover or his name in the title. I'd post in fan forums. And when we went to St Thomas on holiday in 1997, I found the most perfect video called Michael Jackson: The Legend Continues. I also ended up snogging the salesdude from the record store I bought it in. Go me! I ordered a Jackson 5 Anthology, which was effing awesome and which I listened to constantly. I made mix-tapes...about fifteen if memory serves. And my parents got me a walkman one year, because they were sick of me begging them to play my tapes in the car when we were on holiday. I'd make my dad bring me CDs or tapes whenever he went on a business trip. And for a few years, I signed all my emails and letters "Peace, Love and Michael Jackson". I think this lost me a few friends and a lot of respect, but I wasn't running for public office so it was cool.

I could go on, and on and on. I did it all. The only thing I didn't do was see him perform and I'd planned to do that when he finally returned to the stage in London. My Nigerian posse over here are huge fans as well, so we were all hoping to get tickets. But the fates were against us. I was even considering buying one of the VIP tickets at £730 a pop.

And then the news broke.

I was having trouble sleeping that night, because my husband was getting on my nerves...as per. And just as I was dozing off, he shook me to tell me that Michael Jackson was being taken to hospital. I was like, "Oh, ok. As long as he isn't dead." Then my mate The Princess texted me to say that Michael Jackson was dead, and I replied "Well, BBC News says he isn't, so I'm going with that. Talk to you tomorrow!" Then my ex (who is also The Princess's brother) phoned me to tell me that Michael Jackson was dead, and I was like "BBC News says he isn't, so I don't know. Can I ring you tomorrow?" This is all hazy because I was at that halfway point between sleep and wake. I was actually more annoyed that people were texting and calling me at that hour of the night, when anyone who knows me properly, knows that I don't like being disturbed after nine o'clock!

But then the next morning, when I switched on BBC Breakfast, I realised it was true. And I couldn't believe it. I didn't cry though, but I was just incredibly sad. Let's get one thing straight. I may be a bitch, but I do have a heart. However, I do not cry for celebrities. The only people that are worth my tears are my friends and family, or ordinary people who are going through extreme hardship. So as sad as I was, my eyes remained dry. When I went to the dentist that morning, the shop opposite was blasting a radio station that was obviously paying tribute to him, and taking calls from listeners. Good music all morning. When I came home, I knew that the music channels would be showing interviews and what not, so I kept the telly on them.

And then I became angry.

All these celebrities being interviewed, talking about how great he was and how sad they all are now that he's dead, and I just thought "Fuck you. Fuck ALL of you! Where the hell were you when he was going through hard times and all he wanted was a kind word and some support? Fucking bastards! Now all of you 'can't stop crying' and are 'devastated'. Fuck off and die, the lot of you!" And that feeling continued throught the day. But I still didn't shed a tear. My husband went back to work the following morning, and I was heading off to the Manor (which is where The Princess lives...obviously) for her anniversary party. As I was getting ready to go and packing my suitcase, You Are Not Alone came on the telly. And THAT was when I shed a tear.

All Michael Jackson did was love and he wanted love in return, and the world just shat all over him. And as cheesy as it was, You are Not Alone was very apt, because he was sort of alone. It just made me so sad. Sad is the only word I can think to describe how I felt. I have never in my life cried over a celebrity death. Never. But I think MJ was worth it. That Saturday in June, at the Manor, the Madams and our Nigerian posse paid tribute in our own way. We danced all day and all night to Mike, stopping to shake our heads in shock. But it was a brilliant day.

His memorial service was another issue entirely. I cried like a baby for most of it, and I even bought a copy of it in Trinidad. But I haven't had the stones to watch it yet. It's even on my DVR, but also can't watch it again. Sigh!

This post became even more relevant, because last night his 30th Anniversary Special was on telly. It was like a car crash. I wanted to watch, but I couldn't. So I kept flicking back and forth. And in the end I couldn't sleep. I stayed up way past my bedtime, just laying in bed willing him back to life. Let's see if it works...

In the mean time, here are some of my favourite MJ songs, from different stages in his career. I haven't chosen well-known songs, so hopefully dear reader, you will appreciate them.




He recorded this early on his career with the Jackson 5, so was between 11 and 13, and his voice is just amazing. I love the haunting quality of the first lines and remember when I first heard it. I couldn't believe that this song existed. I fell in love with it immediately, and was like "YES MIKE!!! YOU CAN SEE ME IN THE MORNING!!!" Oh my.




This song reminds me of nighttime in Spain. I'd have this song on loop overnight, to help me sleep. so when I hear this, I'm just reminded of me laying in bed in the dark, dreaming about the guy I fancied at work and MJ in alternate fantasies. I love his voice on this track. So smooth, so perfect. The tonal quality is excellent and when he gets to the end and is singing in the higher key, almost like he's pleading, it just kills me. Even listening to it now is a bit much. It makes me shake inside.





I first heard this song on that video I bought in St Thomas. I loved that it was a live performance as well, since until that point the only live video I could think of was 'Another Part of Me'. I'd never heard this song before, but I LOVE it and I love his perfomance of it and the irony is that this video is from the same tour as 'Another Part of Me'. It looks like he's somewhere in Asia and everyone's just bloody loving it. And the fact that he's enjoying this performance so much, even though it's an older song just shows that he was simply born to do this. I love that outfit he wore on the Bad tour. I think it's my favourite.





My favourite song from Invincible. I honestly can't describe how it makes me feel. I remember putting this on when I went to the Academia on Saturdays to work on lessons and materials. I'd sit there, eating pizza, drawing out clocks on sheets of bristol board, and singing along to this. He is voice on this track gave me butterflies. I think it's right up there with Don't Stop Til You Get Enough as my all time favourite MJ song.

I think Micheal Jackson's is the only celebrity death I've ever really cared about before and it'll probably be the last. I mean, I don't think I'll be that bothered when Justin Timbertesticles goes over to the other side or when Madonna finally does the respectable thing and surrenders what's left of her soul.

Michael Jackson was special and even though I've never met him and most like never would have, I honestly miss him.

About two feet tall

Haiti. When I was at school, we learned about Haiti's history and about Toussaint L'Ouverture. This was all explained in David Rudder's brilliantly sad song Haiti I'm Sorry. And these words are no more relevant than today.

Haiti seems to be a country blighted by everything known to man. Rampant poverty and illiteracy, crime, corruption (Papa Doc and Baby Doc ruled for for years, draining any wealth out of the system) and now natural disasters. They've been hit by hurricanes, floods, mudslides and now an earthquake.

I feel particularly small today, as I've been so wrapped up in that blanket of myself lately. And here these people are trying to yet again, come out from a dark period. It's things like these that do make me question the existence of God. But I have to keep my sanity by telling myself that all things happen for a reason. And maybe this time it's to help the rest of the world put things in perspective. We seem to be not learning any lessons. There's a train of thought in Trinidad that goes "Some people need a tap on the shoulder, and others need a cuff in the face!" and it seems that we need that cuff in the face to wake up to the reality of our lives.

I just hope they catch a break soon. How much more can these people take? Haiti, I truly am sorry.

Doh hol meh back, ah feelin' RHELLL slack!

I am currently in love with 3 Suns' new song, Wine Low. I have ALWAYS liked 3 Suns and have been baffled by their lack of commercial success for Carnival. They have great songs and I luurrrve them! This year they come REAL good. RHELLLLLLL good. I don't know if it's as good as We Eh Leavin', but it's at least as good as Levitate, Elevate.

I downloaded it on to my iPod this morning for my journey into uni, and had quite a nice time listening to it on the train. It made me so happy, I was there wining in my seat. As far as I'm aware, Virgin Trains do not have a policy on people bussing a small wine in their seat, so I did so with reckless abandon. Luckily I was in the Quiet Coach and it was fairly empty. This, and the fact tha Thunder was on my playlist just before this song, made me so happy, even though it was all grey and cold and depressing. All I could see was me in my costume, Wining lowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlow!!!

So, take this and enjoy. :)








Oh gad-oh!!!

The weather outside is frightful, but I find it so delightful!!

Today is day 412 of the Big Freeze TM... or so they'd have you believe they way they're carrying on.

A few inches of snow have fallen in the UK over the past few weeks. It's caused some inconvenience across the country, but according to all the 24 hour news channels, we're losing billions in lost hours and people are dropping like flies. We've been encouraged to stay indoors for fear of freezing to death in our cars. People haven't been going in to work, airports have been closed, entire towns have been cut off from the rest of the world. There was a report about some New Year's Eve (Ol' Year's Night, to thee and me) partygoers who were stranded in their hilltop pub for three days. Talk about the party that would never end! Not surprisingly, that pub landlord is now selling up. Bless him!

People have put the cost to the economy in the billions of pounds. A&Es around the country have been swamped with little old ladies with broken wrists sustained while taking their terriers for walkies, students with shattered ankles sustained after falling off of homemade snowboards and middle aged-men with torn tendons sustained while running through the snow to get make sure they really did lock the car before they came inside. Cost to the NHS? Who knows? All we know is that it's been an absolute TRAGEDY for the country. Disaster! Anarchy! Catastrophe!! Or so they'd have us believe. 24 Hour news channels (Sky, I'm looking at you!) are the bane of our modern-day existence. They take any little event and blow it up. So a few inches of snow have somehow morphed into "The Big Freeze".

It started snowing a few days before Christmas. It was interesting at first, nay even a bit exciting. I mean it very rarely snows in the UK. And when it does, it doesn't stick. So the fact that it was sticking made the place look all lovely and Christmassy. People were making snowmen, familes went sledding together, and every twat with a mobile phone camera became a wildlife photographer- as evidenced by the pictures being sent in to various news programmes.

Yeah, the roads were a bit icy, but you just drove more carefully. Yes the sidewalks were more slippery, but you just put on some sensible shoes and watched your step. Yes your car was covered in frost and snow in the mornings, but you factored that in and took the extra five minutes scraping it off and spraying on the de-icer. No big whup. But there is a tendency for people to go beserk and act like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are saddling up and punching co-ordinates into the sat-nav!

Schools were closed because teachers couldn't get in to teach the little darlings. This meant that parents had to be off work to stay home with their kids. This then meant that wherever the parents worked, had to do without them for a few days. Twas a vicious cycle. Sigh.

I myself had a snow-related adventure last week, when my car skidded into a curb when I turned the corner into my estate. Then I almost died when I went into town to go to the market and the butcher's. I swore my limbs were going to fall off. But I survived. Made it home to catch an episode of Judge Judy, slip into my Crocs and guzzle some tea.

However, in some parts, there have been reports of supermarkets running out of bread and milk as people stockpile supplies. Some stores have sold out of duvets, which begs the question, what were people sleeping with before? A nice thin cotton sheet? And when I did my shopping last week, I noticed that the shelves were completely bare of salt and all its derivatives- rock salt, sea salt, table salt. One store even reported running out of condoms! Well, if you're stuck indoors, might as well shag the hours away, eh? Generate heat and all that...

I guess I should count myself among the lucky ones though. I don't work and don't have any kids so I could afford to just sit on my window seat and watch the flakes fall. My sister wasn't so lucky last week though. She flew back from Trinidad for the start of the new term. She was supposed to land at Gatwick then fly up to Manchester, where I'd pick her up and drop her off at her place. But The Big Freeze showed no mercy. Gatwick airport was closed, so they were diverted to Stanstead, from where they were bussed to Gatwick. Of course there were no flights leaving there and there was no guarantee of a flight the next day or the day after, and nary a hotel room to be had. So she took a taxi to London Euston (cost £125!) and a train to Liverpool (cost £43!) and finally arrived at her flat nearly twelve hours after landing in London that morning. The poor lamb.

But at least it meant I didn't have to go out and pick her up. ;) Someone did ask the very important question though- is the NHS going to be able to cope with the inevitable increase in births nine months from now? I know I am waiting with bated breath. For now though, I shall sit here in fuzzy socks and dressing gown, sipping on tea and feeling smug.