 Tonight is a very important occasion in the McNaught-Miaoulis social calendar, people – it’s the start of Big Brother 8. Why yes, we are that sad, thanks for asking!
The pizza is in the freezer. The wine is in the fridge. (Well, actually, the wine is in a box on the kitchen worktop, but don’t look at me like that, I’m having a poor month, OK?) We are in an absolute frenzy of excitement, which will probably last at least until Friday, when we’ll realise that, "Hey, this kind of sucks, doesn’t it?", but will keep watching anyway because, well, that’s we do around here.
To keep this blog free of my Big Brother related ramblings, I will once again be blogging the series over at Big-Blogger. Last time I tried blogging about Big Brother I got all kinds of abuse from the visitors to the site, which kind of makes me wonder why I keep on doing it, but don’t let that stop you popping over and taking a look. Just try and keep the abuse to a minimum if you can, OK?
In the early hours of Saturday morning, I woke Terry with a prod to the back.
"I’ve done pants for you," I informed him importantly as he turned round, blearily.
"Pants? Eh?" Terry rubbed his eyes, and stared at me, confused.
"Yes, pants. I’ve done them for you," I said again, clearly expecting praise of some kind.
"What do you mean you’ve ‘done pants’, though," asked Terry, carefully. "I mean, how do you ‘do’ pants? Have you made them? Is that what you’re trying to say?"
"I’ve done them!" I repeated, irritated. "Remember how we were just talking about them?"
"Er, no."
"GOD!" I said, now very annoyed. "Well, it’s far too complicated to explain now. Just… I’ve done pants."
Then I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Mental, no? And actually, this kind of thing has been happening more and more often. Why, just last week I woke Terry to thank him for the large balloon that was floating around the room, and which he had obviously bought for me. (Note: he hadn’t. And there was no balloon.) The week before that? I woke him by screaming that OMG! There were crabs in the bed! AGAIN!
Yeah, our bedroom is way too warm at night. Either that or I? Done lost my mind, people…
So, the car failed its MOT. I knew it would. As I pulled out of the driveway to take it for the test, ‘Help!’ came on the radio. And it started raining. I also have a suspicion that y’all weren’t praying hard enough during the vigil, were you now?
In my head, I’d had the figure of £300 floating around in reference to the MOT. This was far from my "worst case scenario" figure, but it was my "pretty freaking BAD" figure nevertheless. The price they quoted me was £240, which you might say was a good thing because it was at least lower than the £300 I had been bracing myself ("Brace! Brace!) for, but which I say is close enough, thanks very much. It was also – and this was pretty freaky – THE EXACT SUM OF MONEY I HAD AVAILABLE TO ME AT THAT TIME. So, basically, what I’m trying to say here is: THEY TOOK ALL OF MY MONEY. All of it. No green dress. No red skirt. No contact lens solution – BLIND! No Boots Refine & Rewind serum, which takes years off my face and I’m not even joking. Oh, and Terry? No birthday present for you, sorry. Terry did manage to "beat them down" to £210, but even so, ALL MY MONEY IS GONE.
So, just to recap: by the end of this month I will be blind, wrinkled, dressed in rags and probably divorced. So that’s good.
Of course, things are not quite as dire as they seem. Terry and I do have savings, which are there for occasions such as this, and some of these funds are to be made available to me now, in my hour of need. Even so, my life is over. And after the man from the garage called and broke the news, I did the only thing I could do: threw myself on the bed, wailing and thrashing around like a mad thing. Then I had to get myself back up again, because the man across the road was washing his car with the radio tuned to "louder than hell" and I don’t need to tell you how crazy THAT makes me.
Oh, and I also have my road tax to pay at the end of this month!This summer? Sucks.
It’s going to be a very, very long month, folks…
I’m on a Vigil for my car. If you care about me, you all will be too.
See, it’s that time of year again. Well, actually, it’s not that time of year, if you want to get pedantic about it. Technically speaking, the MOT on my car doesn’t run out until June 15, but I’ve decided to put myself through the SHEER HELL that is waiting for the results, purely because I can’t stand the suspense any longer.
Ever since we got back from our honeymoon, I’ve been worrying about my MOT, and specifically – how much it’s going to cost me. These fears are not unfounded. This one time? Damn MOT-ers charged me £300 for something they refereed to as “CD shoes” and which I’d never heard of in my life. How can that happen? How can something I didn’t even know existed cost £300 to replace? And seriously, I don’t spend £300 on my own shoes (or my own CDs, come to think of it. Although I would like to). Why should I spend it on shoes for my car?
So, I’ve been worrying about the MOT. For the past two years, it’s got through the MOT without needing anything done to it. My luck has run out for sure. I just know that this time it’s probably going to need every single thing on it replaced. Every. Single. Thing. It will cost me hundreds – nay, thousands – of pounds. I don’t have them. Where will I get the hundreds of pounds to fix my car? WHERE?
Also: I have no clothes. None. And I have no shoes either. I need clothes and shoes. How will I buy them if I’ve spent all my money (that I don’t have) on my car? HOW? All of this has been going around in my head for weeks now. It has been keeping me awake at night. So this morning, after another hour of: “And what if it needs more CD shoes? And a new engine? Where will I get the money? What about that green dress in Asda that I want? I won’t be able to get it, will I? What if we have to sell the house? Or Rubin? What about that skirt I saw in Zara that time? And also, I need new black skinny jeans, because the ones I bought in April went brown. What if the car needs a whole new body, WHAT IF?” Terry decided he had had ENOUGH ALREADY. So he called up and booked the car in for its MOT. It is at 3pm. His thinking is that, even if the news is bad, at least it will end the torture of suspense I am under. Well, that’s the theory, anyway.
“I’ll come with you to drive you home,” Terry said. “Unless you want to just wait there for them to finish the MOT?”
This is a good example of how Terry is clearly on crack. Because sitting in the waiting room while your car goes through its MOT is like sitting outside the operating theatre while a loved one goes through emergency surgery. You see the doors fly open as surgeons burst in and out, worried expressions on their faces. Through the window in the door (why is there always a window in the operating theatre doors on TV? I mean, surely that’s the LAST door you’d want to put a window in?) you see them scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders. You see the defibrillator come out, and hear the cry of “CLEAR” as they try to restart the heart. You see the monitor flatline… God, I really shouldn’t have watched Neighbours, yesterday, should I?
Anyway, this is my car:
Pray for it, please…
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Yay, it’s Friday! Thank Crunchie it’s Friday! Oh no, wait… I freakin’ hate Fridays, don’t I? They may be the day of the week when all the rest of the world winds down and gets ready for a fun-filled weekend, but for me, Friday is when I sit at my computer until midnight, getting all of my Shiny posts for next week written in advance so that I have time to do all of the other work that won’t stop pouring in, no matter how much I wish it would. So Friday? You suck. And because I’m bored, here’s the second part of my honeymoon report, which I know you’ve all been dying to read…
What I Did on My Holidays by Amber McNaught
So, for the first week, what I mostly did on my holiday was feel ill with that cold I told you about way back when I first started writing about the honeymoon. The cold sucked, and it sucked bad, but it didn’t suck nearly as bad as the cold Terry got exactly one week into the holiday. Terry, you see, is fairly unusual ("yeah, we knew THAT," I hear you say) in that, other than the small matter of having kidney failure, he doesn’t really get ill. When Terry gets "the cold", for instance, he just gets a bit of a sniff. (Unlike, say, when I get the cold, and hover on the brink of death for a few days). This, however, was a proper cold, and thus it was that we spent the one week anniversary of our wedding huddled under piles of blankets (and also: towels), sniffing and whining, and generally feeling as ill as two very ill things.
Luckily for us, this happened on the worst day of the holiday weather-wise, so we didn’t miss much. And although the cold stopped both of us sleeping at all, ever, it didn’t stop us doing anything else. Some of the things we did:
Went to Los Hervideros:
Note: if you’re ever in Lanzarote, don’t bother going there, because it’s kind of rubbish. It’s basically a place on the coast where the sea bubbles about inside caves. It did give Terry the opportunity to start his "comedy poses" series, though…
Went to some salt flats:
It was here that I managed to capture what I modestly believe to be the best picture of Terry ever taken. (Oh, and the pointing-at-the-hip thing? Is an in-joke directed at my mum which would totally take too long to explain. Sorry.)
I had been to these salt flats before, with my parents, back in the days when I was an obnoxious teenager and was more interested in whether I would be allowed to go out clubbing that night, and if so, what would I wear? My 17-year-old self would no doubt be appalled to learn that Terry and I, despite having no curfew, didn’t go out clubbing even once during this holiday, but then my 17-year-old self was a bit of an ass, so really, who cares what she would have thought?
Went to the Mirador del Rio…
…which is a thingy at the very tip of Lanzarote where Ceasar Manrique has built a little viewing point where you can stand and look out over the little island of La Graciosa. I had been here with my parents too, but that time I wasn’t choked with the cold, and this time I was – d’oh!:
Went to the Cesar Manrique Foundation. I had been there with my parents and… oh, blah, blah, blah. No pictures of it because Terry filmed every single second of it instead. It was good, though.
No pictures, either, of our our visit to Timanfaya – big fire mountain, rar! I totally would have taken pictures of this, but it’s kind of hard to hold the camera properly when you’re clinging onto the seat in front of you for dear life… The volcano tour, you see, involves getting on a bus and being driven over the most bendy, frightening roads I have ever been on (including that time in Crete where every hairpin bend had its own shrine to the person who had died on it). They also do some cool stuff like throwing twigs into a hole in the ground and letting them burst into flames, cooking food over the volcano, and pouring water into a small hole so that it can come bursting back out, geyser-sty;e. Most importantly of all, there was a woman whose job it was to actually hoover the mountain, which I thought was pretty cool. We had lunch in the restaurant here, which is something I didn’t do with my parents that time, probably because my dad would’ve said it was too expensive. (It actually was too expensive, but it still rocked).
Went on a camel ride
Note: never try to touch a camel. Only stupid people do that.
As well as being lots of fun, this was mostly notable for the fact that the camel behind us was a total badass who never stopped making weird, threatening noises at us the whole time. He didn’t have anyone on him (presumably because he was too kerrazy), and also had a full mouth protector thing, to stop him spitting (or maybe because he was playing ice hockey later that night, who knows?). Terry and I christened him "Mad Boy". Here he is:
We also went horse-riding, but took no pictures of that because, well, we were on horses at the time. First of all they put me on a pretty little chestnut pony, but then I let slip that I can actually ride, so they took away the pony and brought me out the meanest, fiercest horse in the stable. Yay for that badass horse! His name was Igloo (which was actually pretty cool because our business is called Hot Igloo), and the stable girl gave me lots of dire warnings about him before we left.
"Now, Igloo here, he likes to kick. And also bite," she said, seriously. "And he hates other horses. In fact, one time? He kicked off another horses leg. So don’t let him go anywhere near the rest of them, OK?" She seriously said that about the kicked-off leg thing, which actually? Freaked me out a bit. "Oh, and Terry’s horse?" she called as we filed out of the yard. "He hates horses, too. Have a nice ride!"
I actually did manage to have a nice ride despite the heart-stopping fear anytime another horse came near me. And Igloo was impeccably behaved, which either means that they were totally lying to me, or I am one skilled horsewoman, seriously. So, lots of material for my next pony story, anyway.
So, I think that about wraps up the first five or so days of the honeymoon (Yes! There is more of this to go! You lucky, lucky people!) except for one more thing that I did quite a lot of:
I shopped.
Yup, that’s right, I’m calling off today’s Vigil before it even started. Terry was just getting ready to leave this morning when the phone rung and he was told that whoops, sorry, the surgeon is off sick today, so it’s back on the waiting list for Terry.
So now we wait. Again.
But on the plus side, at least he won’t miss Neighbours, now.
As you were.
I worry too much. I worry about stupid, insignificant things like work and doing the ironing, and whether my butt looks big in those skinny jeans I got last week. (It totally does, by the way. Stupid skinny jeans.) What a freakin’ idiot I am, no?
Terry is having an operation tomorrow. Now, it’s a fairly minor operation, to disconnect the fistula he used to receive dialysis through. It’ll be done under local anesthetic, he’ll be back home the same day, and really, this operation is a good thing. The fistula is being removed because Terry doesn’t need it anymore, and there’s really nothing to worry about here. Needless to say, I am going to worry anyway. I am probably going to worry A LOT. In fact, let’s make no bones about it: I am going to hold a vigil ALL day tomorrow. Want to join me?
Luckily (or “not so luckily”, depending on how you look at it), I am one of the world’s foremost authorities on holding vigils. I hold them a lot – more than you do, anyway. Terry late home from somewhere he’s been? Why, he has probably been killed in a car crash! Haven’t heard from the parents in a few days? They must be lying dead on the floor of their carbon-monoxide-filled home! Motorway pileup on the news? It will probably involve EVERY SINGLE PERSON I KNOW, even the ones that don’t live in this country. Yes, I worry a lot.
Of course, holding a vigil doesn’t help with the worrying one little bit. In fact, you could argue that it actually makes it a whole lot worse. I mean, you could argue that, but I wouldn’t care, because I know I’m going to do it anyway. Now, there are 7 basic stages to any given Vigil:
Stage One: Mild alarm
This stage involves nothing more taxing than looking at the clock a few times and thinking, “Hey, times a-movin’, wonder where <insert name of loved-one here> is? Possibly dead?”
Stage Two: Growing Alarm
This stage follows hot on the heels of stage one, occurring at the point where it becomes impossible to ignore the non-appearance of The Loved One. You’re going to want to do some mild pacing here, taking in all of the windows of your house as you watch and listen for The Return of T.L.O. You should also pick up your phone a few times during this stage, just to make sure it’s still working. (It will be).
Stage Three: Raising the Alarm
It’s now time to try and make contact with the missing person. At this point you will realise that your mobile phone, which is the only place all of your important numbers are stored, has run out of juice, so you’ll need to plug it into the charger, cursing as you do so. It won’t really matter, though, because once you’ve dialed the number, you’ll find that The Loved-One’s phone either rings out un-answered or goes straight to voicemail. (Leave a slightly hysterical message at this point if it does).
Defcon 1 alert: sometimes during this stage, if you are very unlucky, the phone will be answered but there will be no one on the other end. Feel free to crap yourself at this point because OMG, what if the injured loved one has just managed to pick up the phone but has passed out from the effort, WHAT IF?
Stage Four: Panic Attack
Heart palpitations, cold sweats, churning stomach, the runs…. Fun for all Vigil-holders!
Stage Five: Vigil Proper
Pour yourself a coffee, folks, because this is the main part of your Vigil and you could be here for some time. It’ll also give you something to throw up later, should the need arise. For this part of the Vigil, you’ll want to choose yourself a window to stand by. Experienced Vigilers will already know which window affords the best view of all approaches to the home: choose well, here, because this window is about to become your best friend.
Stage Six: Calling in reinforcements
During particularly long vigils (i.e. That time Terry went to some bar to meet people from a discussion forum, and six hours later he still wasn’t home and other members of the forum started posted messages saying, “Hey, I went to the bar like we agreed but there was was no one there – what happened?” This Vigil also included a Defcon 1 alert, in which I called Terry’s mobile and it was answered but there was no one there. GOD.) it may be necessary to call in reinforcements to talk you through the vigil and repeat the words, “I’m sure he’s just lost track of time” several times per minute. When you’re calling other people out on a Vigil, it’s best to choose people who are, themselves, experienced vigil holders. In fact, to be perfectly honest, it’s best to call my mum. Don’t, though: she’s got enough on her plate with all of my vigils, give the woman a break.
Stage Seven: Standing Down the Vigil
Obviously, this stage is only reached when the Loved One’s car pulls into the driveway. Congratulations! You made it through your first vigil! Have a cookie! And also: a strong brandy.
So yes, this is what I’ll be doing tomorrow between the hours of noon and whatever time Terry gets out of theatre. Why yes, I do feel a bit stupid about it, but hey, I didn’t choose the Vigil, the Vigil chose me. And, on the plus side, holding a Vigil like this certainly helps get things in perspective for you: like the ironing and the Project O’ Doom and those skinny jeans (which seriously, I think give me a bit of muffin top). There’s nothing focuses the mind quite like having someone you love go through an operation, and while yes, this is a good operation, an “end of an era” operation, getting rid of the last remaining symbol of the time Terry spent on dialysis, it also serves to bring that time back to me in horrible, Technicolor close-up.
I always told myself that I would never let myself forget That Time, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I rarely think of it these days. It feels like something that happened to someone else, and I can’t quite decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. When I do think about it I tend to find myself overwhelmed by the thought what if it happens again? I don’t like to think about that too much, but maybe I should, because lately I’ve been letting myself get bogged down and hacked off with work and with all of those other things that don’t really matter, when the reality is that, compared with the way things were when Terry was ill, we’re actually living the dream here, folks. Really.
Still holding that vigil, though.
Sometimes I surprise even myself, you know, I really do.
So, yesterday, while I was cleaning the kitchen? I picked up the new aerosol room spray thingy that Terry bought because Rubin just WILL NOT STOP PEEING on the washing machine. "I know!" I thought. "I will give the room a quick squirt with this here spray. It will make the house smell lovely and homely."
So I point the can at the washing machine, take aim, and… fire it RIGHT INTO MY OWN FOOL FACE. Because the nozzle? Is supposed to point at the thing you’re spraying. Not at your own face.
Of course, I don’t need to tell you guys this. I expect you learned how to use air freshener when you were still in short pants. Me, on the other hand? Still learning. I do smell "pine forest fresh" now, though…
We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the news that after more than a year of neglect, the lawn of Nigel: International Man of Mystery Next Door was cut this afternoon. Front and back, people. The lawn was not, sadly, cut by the IMOM himself – that would have been more excitement than I could take on a Monday afternoon (and would also have broken Nigel’s “not seen since February” record, which would have been a shame, really). No, the lawn was mown by a workman who had obviously been employed for that very lawn-cuttin’ reason. The question now is:
WHY?
I mean, it’s not like Nigel has ever bothered about the state of the lawn before. Other than that two-month period just after he moved in, when he would tend the garden obsessively, obviously. Why, last year the lawn didn’t get mown at all, and we had to rely on the neighbourhood kids trampling the grass down every day to keep it in check, and reassure us that there weren’t people living in it or anything. So why now? Could it be that Nigel is planning a return to the neighbourhood? Is he thinking of selling the house? Have the police finally caught up with him, and now he’s languishing in jail, and the house is being sold off to pay his debts?
More importantly: if someone is, indeed, coming to live in the house, HOW WILL I COPE? I am, as you all know, notoriously intolerant of noise and, well, other people. And because Nigel has been MIA for around three years now, I’ve become used to not having neighbours. I don’t want neighbours. They will annoy me. They’ll be all trampling up and down their stairs, playing loud music, having their TV on all the time, and just generally BEING THERE. I hate that.
I mean, it could just be that he sent someone round to cut the grass because GOD, that grass needed cut. Please let it be that.
In other news: I am once again up to my eyeballs in Huge Projects O’Doom, and barely even have time to breathe at the moment, let alone update my blog. Expect lots of updates this week, then: you know how I love to procrastinate…
Tagged International Man of Mystery
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