Forever Amber

The Phantom Phoner Part 2: The Phantom Faxer

Remember my old friend The Phantom Phoner? Who kept phoning my house at stupid o'clock, and then failed to actually be on the other end of the phone when I finally stopped shrieking to Terry that SOMEONE HAS DIED, OMG! and picked the thing up?

Well, turns out he has an accomplice. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, meet The Phantom Faxer.

Actually, you should probably hope to God that you never do meet The Phantom Faxer, otherwise, you, too, will be forced to jump screaming from your bed at 6.30am in the morning, and scramble for the phone in the certain knowledge that, once again, someone has died. When you actually reach the phone, though and pick it up (an act complicated by the fact that there are TWO phones side by side on the same desk, both connected to different lines, and at 6.30am they both sound the same to you), you will be greeted with the infuriating BEEP! BEEP! of a fax machine.

And then you will hurl the phone through the window, raise your fist to the sky and declare that as God is your witness, you will not rest until you have tracked down that Phantom Faxer (and possibly also his Phantom Phoning Friend) and stuck his fax machine in a place where the sun don't shine. Then you will crawl back into bed and sleep until almost 10am, which will suck because really, you should've got up at 7:30, but you were so shaken by the whole experience that the "five more minutes" you promised yourself to help you calm down turned into, whoops, a whole lot more than that.

So, that was my morning. How's yours going?

This was not, of course, the first time that the Phantom Faxer had struck. It was, however, the first time he/she/it had struck in the wee small hours, though, as previously TFF has restricted himself to calling two or three times during the day. The ass.

Anyway, I've Googled The Phantom Faxer's number, and it turns out that other people have been having the same problem, with some of them receiving the calls at even earlier hours. And given that the Phantom Faxer sees nothing wrong with terrifying me in the early hours of the morning, I see nothing wrong with publishing his/her/its number here on my blawg: it's 01142 838840. If you, too, have been targeted by TFF and have found this entry having Googled the number: let's band together and fight the sucker. United we stand, divided we continue to be woken up by a fax machine, and that's just not right.

As soon as I get access to a fax machine of my own, I think I will do a bit of faxing of my own. At 3am, natch...

Their Parents Must Be So Proud

Today Terry and I didn't have time to go to the gym, so I decided to do my bit for the ol' waistline by going out for a run around the streets of the Ghetto.

Within ten minutes of leaving the house I was invited to "get my boobies out". About thirty seconds later I was called a "ho" (No, I didn't obey the first command, in case you're wondering if that was why...). And OK, both of these comments came from pre-teens, but seriously: the fact that I can't even go for a walk run within a few hundred metres of my own front door without being verbally abused by kids who clearly aren't mature enough to be allowed out in public without a minder is pretty disgusting to me. Seriously.

On the plus side, though, at least I can give up running now.

How We're Living

So, it turns out we COULD actually fit more kitchen stuff into the living room after all:

Kitchen sink: not even visible under all that MESS.

The rest of the kitchen stuff was delivered yesterday. The things in the picture above are the bits of the old kitchen that are currently sitting around in the living room before we turf them out into the back garden, where they will live in peace and harmony along with The Tree That Scratched Me. Or, at least, they will live there until the council come and take them away. IF, of course, the council agree to actually take them away, and that's not looking at all likely right now, let me tell you.

Conversation Terry had with the council:

Terry: Hi, I'd like to arrange a bulky uplift please. There's quite a lot of stuff because I'm putting in a new kitchen and throwing out the old one.

Council: No problem. What do you have for us?

Terry: Well, there's a cooker.

Council: Uh-huh, no problem.

Terry: A bunch of old worktops. They're pretty long.

Council: Sure!

Terry: There's laminate flooring that used to cover the floors of our entire house.

Council: No problem!

Terry: And the old kitchen units.

Council: Coolio!

Terry: A chair.

Council: Bring that chair on!

Terry: The kitchen sink.

Council: We love uplifting kitchen sinks!

Terry: Oh, and there's some small bits of wood that used to be the front of the kitchen drawers, but they're really small, so I don't know if they count.

Council: WHOA THERE, daddy-o! Did you say "small bits of wood?!"

Terry: Ummm, yes. Yes, I did. Old drawer fronts. Small, you know?

Council: We're not picking THEM up. They'll never fit into our van. And how will we carry them?

Terry: Well, I can pick them up in one hand, easily. They're small.

Council: Oh hell to the no. We're not taking them. What we'll need to do is send someone round to "assess" them, to see if there's the remotest possibility of us being able to uplift them for you. But I'll tell you now: there isn't.

Terry: Ummm. OK. But the cooker, worktops, large units, miles of laminate floor, office chair and kitchen sink: they're all OK?

Council: Oh yeah, they're no problem.

* headdesk *

So, once again we are faced with being "assessed" before the relevant authorities can help us. Great. And the beat goes on....

In other news, the more observant of you (and those not reading via RSS or email) may have noticed a fugly little doo-dah called "scribit" sitting in my sidebar. This is a new thing I am trying out, which basically allows you to ask me questions which I can then answer here on the blawg. Which means I don't actually have to think for myself, EVER. I am convinced this experiment will fail miserably, but until it does, if you have a burning question, or just something you would really, really like me to write about, ask away. (You just click the "What should I write about?" text to enter your suggestion.) All I ask is that you not make your questions:

a) rude

or

b) maths related. So none of that whole, "If a train leaves the station at 2pm travelling at 70mph...." nonsense, 'kay?

Spoke too soon...

Remember that whole, "Hey, I am totally not bothered by the renovation of the kitchen, and the fact that I haven't been able to use the ground floor of my house for three weeks now AT ALL" thing? Well, this was my cooker and food preparation area yesterday:

It's worse now. Oh, so much worse! And no, the empty wine bottle isn't empty because we drunk it in a fit of kitchen-inspired rage. In fact, I have no idea what Terry was doing with the empty wine bottle. And I don't want to know.

So, dinner at ours this week, anyone? ANYONE?

Luckily, that cooker is getting replaced soon, because I don't think I'd really want to use it again now. In fact, it's lucky that it's ALL getting replaced, because to be perfectly honest with you, when a house gets THIS MESSY, I just want to sell it and start over somewhere else. Somewhere clean, with a working kitchen and no sink in the living room. Speaking of which...

Kitchen sink watch 2008! Kitchen sink in da house! It's planning on crashing on that couch for a while longer, while it works through its issues and learns to accept that yes, it is a kitchen sink, and its role in life is to... do sinky things. In the kitchen. What really annoys me, meanwhile, is the fact that these pictures don't even come CLOSE to illustrating what a total and utter wreck we're living in right now. I mean, seriously, that picture just looks like we have a normal house, albeit one with a sink on the couch, doesn't it? What you can't see, of course, is the fact that the floor you can see here? Is the only clear area of floor in the entire room, the rest being taken up with mess. MESS.

Still, at least that whole wooden cutlery tray thing is working out pretty good for us:

Also pictured: Mr Potato Head. Hi, Mr Potato Head! It's just a shame we can't use you no more on account of no longer being able to, you know, EAT, thanks to the building site that is our kitchen. Hey, remember FOOD? Man, that stuff rocked. Oh, and yesterday? The toaster broke. Now we're having to use the grill to make toast, the food of champions, and given that I didn't even know we HAD a grill, that's not been much fun at all.

About three more weeks of this to go. Send food parcels to the usual address... (And also: wine)

The Christmas sprit is dead in my vacuous, frigid, cold heart

Well, 2008 has arrived without incident. There was food. There was wine. There was karaoke. There was an email from an idiot telling me that I have a "vacuous frigid cold heart" (lack of punctuation his, I hasten to add), but that happened at the tail end of 2007, so so far 2008 remains unmarred by Stupid People, although probably not for long, knowing my luck.

And why was I told I have a "vacuous frigid cold heart" (that's so going to be my new tagline next time I re-design this site, by the way), I hear you ask?* Because I would not let the person in question post spam on my fashion blog. When I told him this I got an email back saying:

"Nice to know the Christmas Spirit is dead in your vacuous frigid cold heart

Good luck in hell..."

Which was...nice. The guy is the owner of a website selling t-shirts. I don't want to send him any traffic, but I promised him I'd be sure to tell everyone how totally lovely he is to deal with, so if you were to Google the words "Retro God", you'd probably find him. Not that you'd be able to buy anything from him, though, because I'd imagine he's probably topped himself by now, having sent me a follow up email telling me I was "ruining his life", but that this was OK because he'd "had enough of it, anyway". Weirdly, this melodramatic missive also included the question, "How on earth do fashion designers without a budget get noticed by you anyway?" Answer: NOT BY SENDING ME INSULTS BY EMAIL, EINSTEIN.

Anyway, that was 2007. I kind of miss it. It was the year I got married. Had my first holiday since Terry got sick. Returned to my sort-of-second-home, in Florida. Started going to the gym. Spent a memorable couple of days with orange teeth. Yeah, 2007 was a good one, alright. I just don't think 2008 can match it, and this makes me worry about what hellish things 2008 may have in store for me. On the other hand, I guess it could have some pretty cool stuff in store, too: I'll just have to hope that my vacuous, frigid, cold heart is up to the challenge of enjoying it all.

* Not really, but let's pretend you care.

The Really Quite Short Arm of the Law

So, another party, another opportunity for Amber and Terry to have a close encounter with the police. Ho-hum.

Last night our friends Greg and Claire had a party. Now, last time Greg and Claire had a party, Terry and I were pulled over by the police for no reason whatsoever on the way there. This time we decided to mix things up a little (well, it's boring to pull the same stunt twice. Not that that's stopped us before, of course.) so this time it was US who called the police out on arrival at the house, after a gang of marauding teenagers decided to jump on top of Terry's car and then RUN RIGHT OVER THE TOP OF IT. God, I hate people.

We had just parked, and were making our way cautiously across the frozen ground towards the house when we noticed The Gang, but it was only as we knocked on the door that we heard the car alarm go off. Now, because Terry's car alarm has earned itself a reputation for being a little bit over-zealous in its protection of the vehicle, I thought nothing of this, and so it was that I had been inside the house for a few minutes and was merrily drinking wine and chatting to our hosts when I suddenly realised that, "Hey! Terry didn't actually come back after he went to switch off the alarm, did he? Maybe he is dead?"

Well, I went outside and had a bit of a look around. Terry was standing by the car, and seemed to be talking to someone on the phone, so I went back inside, happy to assume that, I dunno, that he had decided that now was a good time to catch up with an old friend or something? You can see why I decided against becoming a detective, can't you?

A few minutes later, Terry finally arrived at the party, and the whole sorry tale was told. It appears that as he turned back to investigate the car alarm, he noticed the aforementioned gang of "youths" jump onto the car bonnet and then proceed from there onto the roof, and finally down the back window and off into the night. God, I really wish they had fallen off and hurt something.

Terry gave chase (my hero! And also: stupid!) and managed to catch one of the little gits. Unluckily, this was one of the gang who HADN'T jumped onto the car, so the fact that Terry managed to get the kid to empty his pockets, and found some kind of ID card with both his name and address on it will probably count for nothing. So Terry phoned the police. Uncharacteristically, the police arrived two minutes later, took the details and went off in hot pursuit of the miscreants, although, given the time that had elapsed, I really, really doubt they would have caught them - or that they'll actually do anything about it if they did, given that these kids were all about 13 years old.

We weren't able to examine the car very well at the time because it was too dark, but this morning it appears to have a slight dent in the roof, plus several muddy footprints on the bonnet, roof and back windows. I was thinking the police really should have taken some kind of tracing of these, because that's always how they catch criminals in the Famous Five, but no, apparently not. Terry is going to call them anyway to let them know that there is some damage (to be honest, it's not particularly noticeable, but I'm vindictive enough to press charges if it was at all possible - which it won't be, because of their ages), but I'm guessing the end to this story will be that there will BE no end, and that we'll just have to cough up to repair senseless damage by the lobotomized-at-birth.

Have a great Christmas, everyone, and if you're planning on leaving the house at all, take care - the stupid people, they are everywhere.

Stop the Press! No longer looking like a student: now looking "butch" and "ugly" apparently

Well, folks, it turns out that looking like a student was the very least of my worries. Just for the record, I probably still do look like a student - but I've now been informed that I now look "butch" and "ugly" too. Which is, you know... nice.

You see, way the hell back in August, I wrote this column for Shoewawa. For the benefit of those of you who really couldn't give a damn about shoes (!), allow me to summarize: it was about trainers. More specifically, it was about my abiding hatred of them. It's true, I really don't like trainers. Sure, I wear them for the gym, where I have absolutely no choice in the matter, but it's always been my firm belief that trainers are only for the gym. I would not, for instance, wear them to go shopping in. Or out to dinner. In fact, I wouldn't wear them anywhere I wasn't going to be engaging in some form of physical exercise, such is my dislike of them.

In stating this dislike, though, I was very careful to try not to offend the trainer-lovers, and to make it clear that this was just a personal preference, and no reflection on them and their beloved footwear. In fact, I even went so far as to say that I think trainers can and do look good on other people. Just not on me. This is MY irrational hatred you see, and I was talking about myself, so if you like trainers, then good for you: wear them with pride, and may you have much joy of them. Just don't expect me to do likewise.

Today I wanted to link to that entry from something else I was writing it, so I went back to it and decided to take a quick look to see if any new comments had been added since the last time I viewed it.  One had: a comment by a girl called "Saelynne". Here is what "Saelynne" had to say about me:

"You look butch enough to pull off trainers.
Only pretty girls can wear heels or ballet flats & look cute.
You my dear are definatly not one of them."

So, bringing my powerful intellect to bear on this statement, I dunno, but I don't think Saelynne likes me, do you?

Now, I would be lying if I said this comment didn't sting just a little. I mean, one minute I'm being told I look like a student, the next I'm a dog-rough, "butch" looking student to boot. Looks like that lucrative modelling career I've been planning will have to go on hold, then. And was that my ego I just saw limping out of the room there?

Now,  at first I thought this I had inadvertently managed to offend one of the trainer-lovers after all. I seem to do this quite a lot, and not just to the trainer-lovers: there's a freakishly large number of people out there who just CAN'T STAND the idea that some people have different taste from them - hence the fact that when I wrote about a dress I didn't like last week, someone emailed me to say that I was obviously just saying that about it because I am fat. So, let's see, what do we have so far: I'm fat, ugly, butch, and I look like a student. Thanks, Internet! Love you too!

Anyway, Saelynne wasn't actually disagreeing with me about the trainers (in fact, trainers are the only shoes I should wear, according to her, because I'm too "butch" for heels. Looks like there's a whole lotta size 4 stilettos coming to an eBay auction near you, folks: get 'em while they're hot!). So she was just a random, spiteful bitch. Wow. I mean, I've always known that if assholes could fly, the Internet would be an airport, but sometimes amazes me the lengths people will go to to prove what assholes they really are. Also, the fact that there are STILL people who don't know how to spell "definitely" correctly is pretty amazing too. (I know, I know, it was a cheap shot. She wasn't brave enough to put her photo up above her comment, like I did on my post, though, so it's all I've got to go on. That and the fact that she's a complete freaking loon, obviously.)

And while I guess I should be flattered that people like "Saelynne" consider me to be so important that a few words from me about shoes is enough to turn them into raving lunatics, I'm thinking that "influential among crazy people" probably isn't too much of an accolade, is it? Not really one to write home about. Women, huh?

This is Fat Amber, the Butch Blogger, signing out...

I look like a student, apparently

Folks, take a look at this face. Um, the one in the top right of the screen, that is. Now tell me: does this look like the face of a student to you? And if so: WHY?!

I have been told I look like a student. I'm not quite sure whether to be flattered by this because it means I look like I'm fresh outta high school (unless the person meant I look like a mature student, obviously), or insulted because... well, because I'm not fresh outta high school, and where I come from, students tend to look a bit like they just went out in their pyjamas, and without brushing their hair. I mean, no offense to any students reading this, obviously, because I'm sure YOU are a fresh and fragrant student, and as well groomed as a show pony! No, really! But back to me, because, after all, it's ALL ABOUT ME, oh yes it is.

My accuser is a random Internet person who sent me a Facebook message this morning saying that he goes to a college near me (well, in the same country, anyway. So, not really that near me.) and can he just ask what it is I'm studying, and which course I'm on? And also: can we be friends, please?

Well, at first I thought this was some weird kind of Facebook spam, and that I should just ignore it, but then I thought, "Be nice, Amber. For maybe there is another Amber (!) who actually is a student as this dude's college, and maybe it was this other Amber he was trying to reach!" So I sent back a short but polite message saying "Sorry, dude, I think you have the wrong Amber, for I am no student, not I!" Or words to that effect. This is what he sent back to me:

"no amber i found u on facebook last night,and sent u message,i asked u if ur student and if ur student then wht course ur doing,and if ur not student then its ok,u looks like an student thats why i asked u,anways take care,im living in XXXXX and studying in XXXX,wana ask u if we can be friends???"

(Note: the bold text is mine, and he didn't actually write "XXXXX" - I did that because I figured the seat of learning in question might not want people to know it's apparently churning out illiterates. Miaow!)

Anyway, shocking use of txt spk (AAAARGH!) aside, I was bewildered by this message. I LOOKS LIKE AN STUDENT? Really? WHY? I mean, I use the same photo on my Facebook profile as I do on this blog, so my question to you all is this: what is it about me that just screams out to people: "I IS AN STUDENT! Write me messages in txt spk! I will like it!" WHAT?

I did appreciate his "quick recap" of the previous message, though, because my feeble brain needed that to be able to grasp just what exactly was going on. Those of us who is students are like that, you see.

ETA: It's not the idea that I look younger than I am that made me scratch my head over this a bit, by the way, it's the fact that my appearance apparently identifies me as having a specific occupation, with that occupation being "student". You know, like if someone looked at you and said, "oh, you look like a nurse," or "you look like a train driver" or something. So my question isn't "do I look younger than I really am", rather "what it is about me that says "I am a younger person who is a student" as opposed to "I am a younger person who works as a receptionist in a cardboard box factory", for instance. 

The Whistler

I went to the gym. In fact, I went twice - GO ME! The first time I went, I forgot my membership card. The second time, I forgot the pound coin you need for the locker, so spent the entire visit worrying that when I emerged from the pool, all my stuff would have been stolen and I'd have to go home in a wet bathing suit. As it happened, I only had to worry for about twenty minutes, though, because that's how long I was in the pool. And the reason for that? It was The Whistler.

There's a Whistler in almost every crowd, I find. You probably know one yourself. He (for it is almost always a he) is the person who finds it impossible to exist without emitting a loud, tuneless, shrill PEEP! every few seconds, regardless of how appropriate it may be to make that noise. And as far as I'm concerned? It is NEVER appropriate to make that noise. Never.

I can't stand whistling. I know you're all probably sitting there going, "Ah, but it's so CHEERFUL!" It is not cheerful. It's freaking annoying, is what it is, and no one will ever tell me different. I think it's the shrillness of the noise that bothers me the most. That high pitched, totally tuneless PEEP! hurts my head in just the same way as nails scraping down a blackboard, say. Or someone rubbing their hands against a balloon. (WHY DO PEOPLE DO THAT?) And just when you think the torture is over, it comes again: PEEP! Gah.

The peeping started almost as soon as I got into the pool for my swim. This, in itself, had been something of a trial, because the swimming pool, it was PACKED. Where do all the people come from? We deliberately got a membership that only allows us to use the gym during the day (it's cheaper) thinking it would almost certainly be quieter then, because most people would be at work. What we had forgotten, of course, was that most people don't actually seem to work these days (How do they afford the membership? Surely they can't ALL be self-employed, like us?). And that everywhere we go, we always take The Others with us.

Yes, The Others were out in force at the pool. There was one Other in each lane, so I selected the widest lane there and got in, being careful to try and stay at the opposite end from The Other, so that when he turned, I turned at the other end, and we passed each other in the middle. Within seconds, though, three more Others had appeared and - get this - EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM GOT INTO MY LANE. Why? Why do people do this? Sure, it was the widest lane, but now there were five of us in it. We were like some kind of half-assed synchronised swimming team, while the people in the OTHER lanes swam alone, in glorious seclusion, each with an entire lane at their disposal.

I ask again: WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS? I mean, what on earth would compel you, upon entering a swimming pool, to insert yourself into a lane that already had four other people in it, as opposed to a lane that only had one other person in it? And yes, my lane was considerably wider, but it was so overpopulated by this point that it was also considerably more cramped. And all the while, the dreaded PEEP! echoed around the room every few seconds.

I swam for as long as I could tolerate it, all of us moving as one giant mass, but finally I could take no more, so I got out of the pool and headed into the jacuzzi. As I slid into the warm water I looked back at the lane I had just vacated and saw that every single other person who had been in it was following me out. GOD. "If I jumped in the fire, would y'all jump too?" I asked bitterly. In my own head, natch.

I crossed my fingers and prayed that they wouldn't all be following me into the jacuzzi. My prayers were answered. Well, sort of. My fellow swim-team members didn't follow me into the jacuzzi, which, to my great joy, only contained one other person. Unfortunately, that person? Was The Whistler.

I sank down into the bubbles, anticipating a long, leisurely soak, alternating with short swims, until such a time as Terry finished doing MAN THINGS in the gym and was ready to leave.

PEEP!

I opened my eyes. Across the pool, The Whistler smiled at me benignly. I closed my eyes again.

PEEP!

I frowned.

PEEP! PEEP!

I opened them. It was hard to catch The Whistler in the act, but there was no doubt that it was him. Every time I started to relax and enjoy myself, he would start up his tuneless, high-pitched peeping. And like nails down a blackboard, it very quickly drove me to the point of insanity. I sat it out until the jacuzzi finished its cycle and the bubbles died down. As I stood up to leave, though, The Whistler stood up too. YES! I could yet wrest some relaxation from this experience, I thought, preparing to sink back down again.

The Whistler walked to the button that operates the jacuzzi and pressed it. The bubbles started up again. So did The Whistler.

PEEP! he said as he sat back down.
"Screw this!" I said, as I got out of the pool and flounced into the changing rooms, the effect ruined only slightly by the factthat I had to come back for my towel. PEEP! said The Whistler as I picked it up. It was like Chinese Water Torture. I'm actually amazed that I survived to tell the tale.

Back in the changing room, I checked to make sure my clothes hadn't been stolen, got dressed, then spent a few happy minutes playing with the GHD hair straighteners before retiring to the lounge to read Cosmo and wait for Terry. I only have to go through this another 12 times this month and I get a free towel. Free! Towel! WHY?!

I liked the hair straighteners, though.

I See Stupid People In My Inbox

GOD. As if it wasn't enough that we have to fight them on the beaches, in the fields, streets and outside the doctor's surgery, now the Stupid People are freakin' EMAILING ME.

Last week this flooded into my inbox:

-----Original Message-----
From: A stupid person  ]
Sent: 03 October 2007 16:06
To: Amber McNaught
Subject: how?

how do i submit my work?

Now, on the surface of it, this may not seem too bad - until, of course, you realise that I get emails like this all the time and I have NO IDEA what these people want from me. Straight away it got my back up: I mean, did this guy's mother never teach him how to send emails? In MY day it was the belt for us if we didn't observe proper email etiquette: a salutation, a sign-off, correct punctuation, some clue as to why the hell we were writing to the person... Nowadays these crazy kids are all just "HOW?" As if I will know what they're talking about. Jesus.

Well, I thought on this for a couple of minutes, but during that time I did not miraculous become involved in any kind of enterprise in which people would need to submit their "work" to me, so I wrote back an equally abrupt:

What are you talking about, dude?

In return I got this:

03 October 2007 16:11
To: Amber McNaught
Subject: Re: how?

on a site i have just been on it said to contact this address to ask any questions, i would like to know ho wi submit my work onto the site

Now, this obviously helped me quite a lot, because luckily it's not like there are millions of websites in the world or anything, is it? To be honest, though, it was news to me that one of these millions of sites was advising people to contact me (Me! Little me!) with any questions, so I asked my mystery correspondent if it wouldn't be too much trouble to tell me which site he was talking about.

In return, he sent me a URL. Just a URL, mind. Because that's a nice way to communicate with people. Polite. Makes you want to help them, you know? Anyway, luckily the URL was that of my infrequently-updated and actually pretty-much-forgotten-about freelance writing blog. Which does not accept submissions of people's work onto it, so really, we were no further forward. I brought my mighty intellect to bear on the problem before me, though, and managed to deduce that he was probably referring to the writing competition I had posted about a couple of days earlier. That would be the post which states "For more information and submission guidelines visit <clicky linky>." NOT the post that states "Feel free to send me one-line emails trying to submit your work to me," because that post? Doesn't actually exist. Gah.

Sure enough, when I emailed my new friend to tell him that no, my blog does not accept writing submissions, I got back:

ok then, how do you enter the competition then?

Now, why coudl he not have just said that in the first place? Why could he not have just written somethinhg along the lines of: "Hi, I was just reading your blog and wondered if you could tell me how to enter the writing cometition you posted about? P.S. You rock."  Why could he not have written that? Sure, I'd still have thought he was a bit of a dumbass because the instructions are IN. THE. POST. but at least I'd have thought he was polite.

I told him to just read the post about the thing and follow the instructions in it. I didn't hear from him again, so he's probably off emailing other people about it now. I bet he wins that writing competition, though, if he ever works out how to enter it  - talents like his don't come along very often, you know?

And so it goes. Every week brings another email from someone who wants to know how to become a professional writer, but who has barely mastered the art of communication/ writing. Every week I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from telling them honestly what their chances are. Mostly, though, I wish they would just stop emailing me. Or would at least learn how to communicate people with something approaching manners, rather than just firing off one-line, un-punctuated emails saying "HOW?"

Not So Far From the Madding Crowd

It's One of Those Weeks, folks, and by "One of Those Weeks" I mean, "Oh my good God, is it not the weekend already? And also: where is the wine?"

Even although it's turned out to be a pretty crappy week, though, it did start off reasonably well, in that I I got to go shopping at the weekend. I love me some shopping. The problem with that, though? Well, there were a few problem with that. Allow me to list them for you:

1.  I went specifically to buy a new winter coat
2.  I did not get a new winter coat
3.  OMG, how will I keep warm this winter?!
4.  Oh. With the *ahem * thermal vest I bought.
5.  Shut up.
6.  You know you'd buy a thermal vest too if you lived in Scotland.
7.  No, you really would.
8.  Where was I?
9.  Oh, yeah. I didn't buy a winter coat, but I did buy a whole bunch of other stuff.
10. That I didn't really need because, hello! Winter coat, anyone?
11. Why am I writing like this, all listy? I should stop that now...

The main thing that troubled me about my shopping trip - that troubles me about every shopping trip, basically - was all the other people that were there at the same time as me. God, I hate other people. "Hell is other people," said Jean-Paul Sartre, and all I can say is that ole  J-P must have shopped in the same places as me because yes, it really was hell.

They were everywhere, the Other People: whole crowds of them, all doing that Slow-Walk-of-the-Shopping-Mall thing where they spread themselves across the entire aisle and then walk reeaaallllly, reeeaaaalllly slowly, stopping randomly to look at things and totally disregarding the fact that THERE WERE PEOPLE BEHIND THEM WHO NEEDED A WINTER COAT, DAMMIT. Most of them had those massive strollers that you can fit five babies in at once with them. Most of those babies were screaming. So was I at some points, I think: it was hard to tell over all the noise.

No matter where I went, the crowds of people would follow. It was a bit like being a famous person, except without all the money and, well, fame. In the first store I went into, the fitting rooms seemed to be closed (WHY?) but  I was only trying on coats, after all, and, OK, some sweaters, so I took my haul to the emptiest, most obscure corner I could find, far from the madding crowds and close to a mirror. Except it wasn't far from the madding crowds at all, was it, because the freaking madding crowds CAME WITH ME. Everywhere I went, in every nook and/or cranny I found for myself, the Madding Crowds would all appear as if from thin air and squeeze themselves in next to me. Then they would blatantly watch me get changed. GOD.

Finally, in my desperation to just get the hell out of Dodge, I grabbed things more or less at random and paid for them, and that's how I came to have two new sweaters that are all but identical, and no winter coat.

How was your weekend?

Back to School. Not.

August tomorrow, then, folks - almost the end of the summer already. (WHERE DID IT GO?!) Soon I'll be sharpening my pencils, packing up my satchel and putting on my blazer and tie, ready for another new school year. Except, no, I won't be doing that at all, will I? No, because I'm thirty freaking one, aren't I? Try telling that to the random people who like to stop me and buy one make comments about my age,though. They all think I'm still at school, apparently. I kid you not.

It happened again, today. I was standing at the checkout in WH Smith, buying a Grace Dent novel (which, OK, was really written for teenagers, but I didn't know it at the time. And it was totally in the General Fiction section.) a Really Useful Box (I have a number of these boxes. I keep my makeup in them, organised by skincare/face products/eyes and lips and they are, like, really useful. This latest one will hold my nail polish, because I am THAT kind of crazy. Oh yes.) and a 99p pink pencil case (FOR MY MAKEUP BRUSHES! I mean, what do you keep your makeup brushes in, I ask you?) when I realised that someone was standing so close behind me that I could actually feel their breath on the back of my neck. I hate that.

"What are you buying those for?" demanded the newcomer (a female) suspiciously. "Are you going back to school or are you going back to college?" (Now, even this strikes me as strange. I mean, why would she care? Do people really ask strangers stuff like this? "People like to start conversations with children," said Terry when I told him this story. BUT I AM NOT A CHILD! Please, people: NOT. A. CHILD. Yes, even although I sometimes behave like one.)

"I'm not going back to either of them," I replied, bemused. "I finished school quite a long time ago, actually." I was going to go on to explain the whole "I am really anal about the organisation of my makeup" thing, but really, why should I have to explain myself to complete strangers? Especially ones who are looking at me funny.

"Really? Did you?" asked the neck-breather, giving me a look that clearly said "I don't believe you, you dirty rotten liar". I quickly paid and moved away, my precious pink items safely stowed in my bag. I mean, it's always flattering when people mistake you for a teenager but I'm thinking I may have gone too far with my "buying of teenage fiction" thing, no? In my defense, though, I am a huge fan of Grace Dent's Big Brother blog, and, because I am stupid and not really "down" with what the kids are into these days, I didn't actually know she wrote teen fiction, too. Still, it would honestly never occur to me to question a complete stranger on their purchases in a store, you know? Is it just me?

Speaking of dirty rotten liars (which we weren't really, but hey), remember the eBay seller whose dog ate my boots?  Well, you will never believe it - I certainly didn't - but the dog has miraculously regurgitated the boots! Of course by "miraculously regurgitated the boots" I actually mean "that didn't happen at all, but it's no less believable than what the seller is telling me, so hey, let's go with it."

So, last time on "The Dog Ate My Boots", the seller had said that she would send me a cheque for the £3.20 she owed me, and I had said that no, she wouldn't send me a cheque, because I couldn't accept one for that amount. So, yesterday morning, she sent me a cheque for £3.50. Groan.

I have to admit that it was sheer bloody mindedness that made me pursue this. I am poor - oh, so poor! - but not poor enough to be in desperate need of the £3.50. However, I'm not much of a one to tolerate fools gladly, either, and this woman clearly thought I came down in the last shower, so I emailed her and carefully explained the difference between "No, I cannot accept a cheque" and "Sure, send me a cheque!"

Two hours later, an email flooded in. It seems that, in the short time that elapsed between receiving my email and replying to it, the seller had somehow managed to have the boots re-heeled. They are now as good as new, apparently, and will be on their way to me today! Phew! Looks like the dog only chewed the very tips of the heels after all, eh? What a stroke of luck.

I'm still trying to decide whether I should give her a big fat "negative" feedback for all of this (if and when the boots arrive, of course). Meanwhile, I am struck once again by the sheer stupidity of strangers.

"Please Miss, the dog ate my homework!"

Now, I didn't think people actually used the "the dog ate my homework" excuse in real life - but it seems that people do. And not just for homework, either.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I won a pair of boots on eBay. I use the word "won" pretty much literally here, in that I got them for the princely sum of £1.20, which I thought was a bit of a steal. Apparently the seller thought so too, for two weeks passed and ... no boots.

Because it's summer (well, sort of) and I have no pressing need for boots at the moment, I had actually forgotten all about them until something else arrived from eBay (yeah, I've been going through one of my periodic "buying things on eBay" phases) and I thought, "Hey!I wonder what happened to m'boots?"

So I sent the seller a quick email, asking if she'd posted them yet. Two minutes later, I got a response, and you'll never guess what?

Her dog ate my boots!

I mean, I guess she could be telling the truth. If I had a pound for every pair of shoes Rubin ate when he was a puppy, I'd have... well, I'd have £3 by now. But that's not the point. Even if the dog did eat the boots, when was the seller going to tell me about it, I wonder? Did she want my £1.20 (plus £2 postage) that badly that she was just going to sit tight and hope I forgot all about it? Apparently so, for she still has it. Says Paypal "won't let her" refund it to me. And, to be fair, she did offer to  send me a cheque for the amount, but God, do people still use cheques? For real? And would you get in your car and drive all the way to the bank for the sake of £3.20? I wouldn't. (No more than I'd list a pair of boots on eBay, wrap them and take them to the post office for £3.20, for that matter. And here I think we have the crux of the matter.) I mean, I don't even get out of bed for less than £4...

So, no boots for me. And no £3.20 either. Maybe my "dog" will jump onto my computer and leave that seller a big far negative feedback, hmmm?

Married to the M.O.B

Because I've been so busy bringing about the death of journalism this week, I forgot to tell you about last Saturday, and the very special brand of torture it provided. See, Saturday was the day I had set aside to kill myself with heat exhaustion go shopping with my mum for her M.O.B (Mother of The Bride) outfit. We went to Edinburgh. Now, it being Edinburgh, and it being September, I assumed it would be cold, so I had dressed accordingly, in my fabby new mustard-yellow-sweater-that’s-also-a-jacket thing.  “I’ll be totally snuggly and warm in this!” I though, smugly popping an extra sweater into my bag JUST IN CASE.

I did not need the extra sweater. I did not even need the kicky mustard yellow jacket thing. Nope, the temperatures in Edinburgh on that September 9th day hit about 30%, people. Everyone was walking around in shorts and T-shirts – everyone, that is, except me and my mum, who were walking around like refugees: me in the grubby old grey vest that is only ever worn underneath other items (To keep me warm. Because I needed to be warm in that there 30% heat, for sure), and never, EVER allowed into the public eye, my mum in smart clothes and a pair of red deck shoes that she had to buy when the TREMENDOUS HEAT caused her feet to swell up and rendered her totally unable to walk. Seriously, I’m surprised no one offered to spare some change, that’s how bad we looked.

This “out in public in my grubby grey vest” experience was far from the worst thing that was to happen to me on that day, though. No, I’d say the WORST thing that happened was being accosted by Edinburgh’s resident batshit crazy person, while standing in the queue for the bathroom. For real.

We were in John Lewis at the time. We’d noticed the Crazy Lady as soon as we got off the escalator. She was walking along talking loudly to herself, and also FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. I kid you not.  Well, as soon as I seen her, I knew. I knew that sooner or later, that Crazy Old Lady and I would be getting better acquainted.  Remember that sign I have on my forehead, the one that only the insane can see? That sign did its job good.

As I stood in the queue for the bathroom not five minutes after seeing The Crazy, I felt an uncomfortable pressure on my arm. I looked down. Yup, sure enough, there she was, and she was now attached to my arm. “It’s very hot today,” she observed (It always starts thus, with a comment about the weather), foam dripping from her lips. “Yes, it is!” I answered, trying desperately to quell the urge to shout “MUUUUMMM! The old mad lady is taaaaallkingto me!” She looked at me. She looked me up and down, appraisingly, before pursing her foaming lips in disapproval. “Hmmmmmm,” she pronounced, looking as though there was a bad smell under her nose. At the other side of the room, a small child exited a cubicle. I threw the child out of my way and took refuge in the stall, barely able to believe that one of the Foaming-at-the-mouth-totally-freaking-batshit-crazy brigade, had turned her nose up at me. Me!

And that was our day in Edinburgh. We were also served diet Coke by the devil, but ach, you’d have to have been there.

Ikea Watch:
Meanwhile, back at The Igloo, the Ikea furniture is still status: unchanged...

I see stupid people. They walk around just like regular people.

I swear to God I must have some kind of invisible sign on my forehead that only the truly crazy and/or obnoxious can see. I'm not sure what it says exactly, but it's probably something along the lines of:

BATSHIT CRAZY? STOP ME AND TELL ME ABOUT IT! I'M LISTENING!

Yeah, I have a pretty big forehead.

Anyway, this morning I headed out to the doctor's surgery to collect a prescription. Just as I reached the doors of the building, a man came out of them, and started mopping his head exaggeratedly. "It's too hot in there," he said, nodding back towards the surgery. "Had to get out."

"Yes," I said brightly, for I have made a resolution to try to be nice to people who talk to me in the street. My usual death glare just wasn't endearing me to anyone. "It's very warm today, isn't it?"

My new friend nodded, encouraged. "You know what else?" he said, looking shifty. "There's a f*****g sheik in there too. With a mask on. Shouldn't even be in the f*****g country."

Now, in my head, where I am a brave person who is not afraid to stand up for her beliefs, even when accosted in the street by someone who might just have been there to pick up his methodone, I would have stopped, turned round and demanded to know just what part of my "Yes, it is very warm today," translated as "If you have any offensive, hate filled views, please tell me about them!" before... well, I dunno what I should have done after that. In the real world, I was already halfway through the door when he said it and I thought, "nah, he can't just have said that to me. Can't have."

But he had. As I reached the reception I saw a Muslim woman standing there, dressed in a burkha, with three children. Minding her own business. Harming no one. And while I have my own views on cultures which force women to cover every inch of their flesh in that way, I try not to make a habit of stopping people in the street to spout off about it. I can't believe there are people who think it's acceptable to do that. Actually, scratch that - I can believe it. I see examples of it all the time, particularly in our post-9/11 world where it seems that all of the racist, biggoted asshats out there appear to have found validation for their hate filled views. GOD.

The woman spoke perfect English, with a Scottish accent - she'd clearly lived here for a long time, and had probably been born here. Nevertheless, when she reached the head of the queue, I noticed that the woman on reception spoke to her very. slowly. and. clearly. as. if. she. was. a. bit. simple. What is wrong with people?

It took the best part of an hour for my prescription to be ready, so I bought Heat magazine and sat and read it the car, in a bid to stay away from the Crazies. When I finally did go back to collect it, some old biddy pushed straight to the front of the queue and was served first. No one questioned this. God, people annoy me. I mean, this is exactly why I try to live my live vicariously, through the internet. Nice to live vicariously through the internet!

On the way home, though, I did see a dog in a poncho. So it wasn't all bad.

Tags: racism dogs in ponchos