The Life of Kai

I have a confession to make. I've been quite sneering in the past about true movies (the genre, not the channel). Lately, I've found myself with quite a bit of time on my hands (college course has ended, job is... less than stressful), and I'm being forced to admit defeat on the subject.

Yes, True Movies (the channel, as well as the genre) has claimed me for her own.

I find the best (and by best I mean tackiest, silliest, most ridiculous) to be the colon brigade. Somehow, you know when you see a colon in the title the film is going to be fabulous. Take, for example For Love Alone: The Ivana Trump Story. This is possibly the oddest of all the colon movies. If it's the Ivana Trump story, why is the protagonist called Katrinka Kovar and not Ivana Trump? If Ivana is trying to protect her privacy, I'm afraid the ship has already sailed (the clue is in the title, honey). If it's meant to be someone else entirely, why are there such remarkable similarities between the life of Katrinka and that of Ivana? At first I thought maybe Katrinka was Ivana's real name, but that's apparently not the case.

How about Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story? This is so good they had to split it into two parts to save me from over-excitement. How did they manage to take such a fascinating story and make such a flat, lifeless film of it? Seven marriages, one of the richest women in the world, Farrah Fawcett in the main role, yet still it's slightly less interesting than watching paint dry. I understand it won a Golden Globe when it was released. Either standards were lower in the 80s or the film hasn't aged well.

There are also some fabulously awful films without colons. Both The Jayne Mansfield Story and A Woman Named Jackie are appalling yet bizarrely fascinating tosh. By far the worst (by which I mean best for entertainment value) is Women of Windsor. I can't really give you the sense of how truly, gobsmackingly, mesmerizingly terrible this two-parter is, but I really recommend you catch it next time it's on.

Women of Windsor tells the story of Princesses Diana and Sarah (mostly Sarah). Poorly scripted, poorly acted, hideous syrupy voice-over narration, tacky tacky tacky. I particularly love the fact that everyone in this film, from the Royals to the police to the paparazzi, speaks with a cut-glass accent. Just like real life.
I will share the final scene with you (sorry if I wreck the ending!). Sarah and Andrew have split, and Sarah has taken the children to Ascot (even though one of them is a toddler and the other is a babe in arms, somehow a crowded racecourse seemed an ideal place to take small children). Despite being a part of the Royal Family, Sarah is standing in the crowd like a commoner as the Royal carriage drives past. In vain she tries to attract attention to herself before being snubbed by the Queen, at which point she buries her head in the baby's shawl and sobs quietly. Class, pure class!

I am just returned from the most wonderful weekend I've spent in quite some time. This weekend I took my mother to Bath.

Having loved Jane Austen for many years, I have wanted to visit Bath for as long as I can remember, but this is the first time I have managed to get there. My expectations were so high I thought I would be bound to find reality a little disappointing, but for once everything was exactly how I'd hoped it would be.

Yesterday we visited the Roman baths. They were interesting, to be sure, but somehow I couldn't build any excitement over the fact that Roman sandals had once walked over the very same stones I was treading. Maybe that has something to do with living so close to Chester, maybe not.

The instant I walked into the pump room, however, I became almost feverish with excitement. We had afternoon tea at a table by the door, and the thought that Catherine Morland and Isabella Thorpe had taken a turn around the very same room was almost enough to stop me eating. Almost (well, the cakes were completely delicious!).

Afterwards we took a stroll round the town, and found for ourselves the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street - though I have to stress we were not chasing young men (more fool us).

Today, as a grand finale to our trip we walked from the Royal Crescent to the Assembly Rooms, and I stood by a fire in the Octagon Room; the very spot were poor Captain Wentworth was snubbed by the Elliots and Lady Russell.

Tomorrow, alas, I must rejoin the real world. This evening, I shall reread Northanger Abbey and sigh over the scarcity of Henry Tilneys in this modern age.

Firstly, let me apologise for any typos. I am writing this post on my groovy Pocket Surfer, whose miniature keyboard was sadly not designed with my rather pudgy fingers in mind.

I've now been working for Randy for roughly 10 months, and things have been cool, if a little... dull. My contract expires at the end of this month, and despite the offer of a contract extension I am quite determined to refuse further work there.

Once more I have been touting myself round the agencies and all the usual recruitment zones. It has been freakishly easy to find something new; I am currently haggling over money with two potential employers who are polar opposites in both company and role.

I know which job I will end up accepting - the easy, stree-free role working in the public sector - but I'm really enjoying the game at the mo.


Welcome back, real life. I've missed you!

For most of my working life I have been under stress. I worked as a cashier in a bank when I first left Uni, and that proved to be more stressful than I could ever have imagined. Trying to keep calm while a customer screamed insults at me, demanding to know why we had bounced a cheque, when all I wanted to do was scream back "well don't write cheques if you can't cover them, and since you're here... would you like to buy a pension?"... well, it was something of an acquired skill for me - it certainly didn't come naturally.

From the bank I moved into purchasing. Purchasing is, on the whole, less stressful (compared to the bank, what isn't?), but I chose to start my purchasing career at a company that was in the process of folding.
Each year I would be given increasingly ridiculous savings targets (let's cut 25% of our total cost and hey, let's have fun doing it), and was told that the site would close with the loss of over 300 jobs if the targets were not met (the cost savings targets - I don't think my having fun had any input on whether the site closed. Then again... who knows?).
Most of the machinery on site dated from the early 50s, so no spare parts were ever available and we couldn't afford to have them made by a specialist fabricator. Oh yes, and if a machine went down and we couldn't repair it immediately then production would stop and we'd start losing money, and once again, it would all be my fault. No pressure, then. I gradually turned into something of a stress bunny, but I enjoyed what I was doing.

When the site eventually closed ("what" I hear you cry, "you didn't manage to sustain 25% cost savings a year every year?". It pains me to admit such failure, but admit it I must) I temped for a while.
Temping is a strange state of affairs. I find it extremely difficult to feel job stress as a temp. Sure, I want to do a good job, but I'm not going to work around the clock, and if something goes wrong I don't dwell on it - I just dump the entire issue in my manager's lap (I'm only a temp, after all). Sadly, my finances were in something of a shambles, my relationship was crumbling and my family was disintegrating, so there was plenty of stress, just from outside work.

Eventually I accepted a permanent job at Doris. I'd temped there for a few months and had been bored witless, but the job offered was sufficiently enticing for me to accept. I don't believe I have ever been so stressed in my entire life.
The direct supply model Doris used meant that we delivered pharmaceuticals directly to patients, rather than to a wholesaler or retailer. Just like the bank, any slight issue became a huge deal. Patients were spooked by any slight change as their life literally depended on a continuous supply of medication. A change to the typeface on the packaging of the gloves we supplied with the drugs caused weeks of panicky phone calls from patients. As I sat in the middle of Patient Services I was forced to face the consequences of every stock out or late delivery. Once more I got the adrenaline high from the stress, and this time I stayed for a few years.

Randy is as different as it is possible to be. I am a temp, so there is little stress. This is the highest paying job I've had, so cash is not an issue. I've not a huge amount to do, and my job is indirect purchasing, so what I do doesn't in any way impact the finished product. I am looking at building works, facilities contracts, minor cap-ex.
Best case scenario: I work my bum off, and I save a couple of bob that won't amount to a drop in the ocean for a multi-billion dollar company. Worst case scenario: I don't do anything, I don't save anything, I just sit here biding my time and collecting my pay until my contract expires.
I've never had so little stress in my life and I'm finding it... unsettling. I find myself putting work off until the last minute in an attempt to create some tension. It's not working, but you can't blame a girl for trying!

My manager is pushing me to take a holiday. If I don't book anything I will have worked for ten months without a break (apart from the 11 days over Christmas which my manager has conveniently forgotten about). Yes, because I am so overworked I desperately need a break. Oh look, it appears I'm in a sarcastic mood this morning. Who knew?

According to Tennyson, in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. According to Kaikai, in the autumn a thirty-something's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of education.

Every year I consider taking up an evening class in early September. I love the crispness of autumn days spent poring over course catalogues, picking out interesting curricula. For the last few years I have been in the middle of doing my purchasing exams (and by 'doing' I am referring to the age-old practice of enrolling on exams I've no intention of working towards), so have felt duty bound to study for those or study nothing. A few years of studying nothing has made me impatient to get back to some form of education.

In a stroke of lucky timing, I finally sat my last purchasing exam last November, so I am now free to pursue a course of learning that actually interests me. I was looking at some work related courses; a sensible option considering I will be looking for another job in January. Sadly, they are just as boring and overpriced as they have ever been, with a three day purchasing management workshop (the least blatantly boring option) coming in at £1500 plus accommodation in Mayfair. Yes, £1500 - that wasn't a typo.

Who, therefore, can blame me for spending less than £600 on the OU's Introduction to Humanities course? It will take me 9 months to complete, and will cover art history, history of science and technology, religious studies, literature, music, history, classical studies and philosophy. At the end of it (assuming I pass) I will get a Certificate in Humanities and will be entitled to use the designation Cert Hum (Open). I will never use that designation (can you imagine the business cards if I started using them? Kaikai BA(Hons) MCIPS AIITT ACMI Cert Hum (Open) - what a laugh!), but it's nice that there is a recognisable qualification at the end of it.

The range of subjects covered on this course reminds me of doing A level classics. At 11 I started secondary school in quite a good school, where for three years classics was a compulsory subject. We were taught by the sweetest old lady, and every week our homework was to colour in a picture of that week's god or goddess and fill in the blanks on a basic fact sheet about them (for example: Here is Zeus. Zeus is the god of *blank* and is married to *blank*. Zeus' symbol is the *blank* - hardly taxing stuff).

Somehow, at the age of 16 when I was choosing A levels I imagined the study of classics to be all colouring in and filling in the blanks. Hold me back - that's the qualification for me!!!
How disappointed I was when I received my plan and found out what we would be studying in some detail during the two years: Greek tragedy, Roman comedy, Greek vase painting, Roman architecture, Greek epic, Roman epic, Athenian Democracy, Roman empire, on and on and on. The list of set texts included Herodotus' Histories, the Aeneid, the Odyssey, Thucydides' Peloponnesian Wars, Tacitus' Annals, Suetonius' Life of Nero, Aeschylus' Agamemnon, Sophocles' Oedipus the King, Electra, Euripides' Medea, Hippolytus, Bacchae, Horace's Satires, Petronius' Dinner with Trimalchio, Juvenal's Satires, Pliny's The Letters of the Younger Pliny, Aristophanes' Peace, Wasps, Acharnians, Lysistrata, Assemblywomen, Tacitus' Agricola, Caesar's The Conquest of Gaul, Menander's Dyskolos, plus all the textbooks.

I was gutted - I'd bought a new set of pencils ready for the colouring.

I have never been a creative person. I appreciate the results of other people's creativity, but I'm a bit rubbish myself. I can't draw, paint, sculpt, sew, knit, make cards... pretty much anything creative is beyond my powers. A while back, it was pointed out to me that I live pretty much entirely in my head. I logically analyse situations and events instead of allowing myself to feel emotions. Some of this is down to my job, but a lot of it is to do with my lack of creativity.

I adore jewellery. I think I always have. One of my memories from when I was about 5 years old is being given a huge box full of costume jewellery by a friend of my mum's. It was gaudy 70s diamante, and started a total love affair with sparkly jewellery that, 25 years on, is stronger than ever. In an attempt to do something (anything) with a hint of creativity about it, I enrolled on a sunday morning jewellery-making class. It was pretty basic (well, it was only a three hour lesson in fairness) looking at making earrings with beads, but it felt suitably creative (look at me folks, I'm MAKING STUFF!) whilst also giving me a cheap way to satisfy my craving for glittery tat.

I expected to be fairly rubbish. I am so ham-fisted that I envisaged a total massacre during a freak bead-related incident (well, bodily injury at the very least), but in reality I took to it and decided to buy all the gubbins to carry on at home. When I got home I excitedly unpacked all my purchases, only to find a giant box of seed beads at the bottom of the bag. For most people, this wouldn't be a huge issue, but immediately my palms felt moist and my pulse quickened as I furtively hid the beads at the back of my bureau. Seed beads, you see, are still on the List Of Banned Items - items which, for the benefit of my health and the sanity of those around me, I'm not allowed to own. Common sense tells me that my mum is not going to storm my house in an effort to seize such heady contraband, but the effects of my childhood conditioning are hard to shake.

The LOBI is quite an extensive one, containing items from the mundane to the completely bizarre. Sadly, every item has good reason to be there, and no embargo has ever been lifted. Here is just a taster of the items.

Seed Beads. Added to the list in 1980 after an over-enthusiastic opening of a Christmas gift friendship bracelet kit led to a million billion beads flying around the house, up my nose, up my dog's nose, embedded in the carpet and (this may have been the deciding factor) one down my mum's ear. Sadly the ear bead was resistant to all our attempts to remove it, and led to a boxing day trip to the local hospital. We moved from that house two years later, and when we arrived in the new house we were still picking beads out of our belongings. Fair play, they were designed for the LOBI.

Plasticine/Play Doh. On the list since time immemorial. Come on, I can't open a bracelet kit without damaging the house, who in their right mind would let me loose with plasticine? Meet Aunty Sheila. Having no kids of her own, she had no idea the amount of damage a hyperactive six year old and a box of plasticine could wreak. I made her a plant saucer, which was well worth replacing the carpet, curtains and lounge suite, along with my entire outfit (including shoes) and her dog's blanket. Truly. Incredible how far a small gob of plasticine will smush into a swathe of fabric. It's like chewing gum, except that freezing it doesn't work.

Permanent Marker. On the list since 1982, when my short-lived tattoo parlour closed. It was a glorious day. Not so glorious for my dad, who woke from an afternoon nap to find I'd drawn him some shiny black hair and a rather lobsided anchor on his neck (see the first paragraph. I repeat: I can't draw). Poeple pay for tattoos, and there I was doing them for nothing. Boy that permanent marker is hard to wash off.

Scissors. On the list since 1978 when I gave myself a bit of a hairdo with some safety scissors we were given in nursery. I used to wear my hair in a plait that started quite high on my head. When I cut the plait off I was left with quarter of an inch of hair on my crown, with a good six inches at my neck. My mum took me to the hairdressers to see what could be done, and the advice she was given was to shave the lot and start from scratch. There's still something of a frisson when I snap a pair of scissors closed, but I'm sure my mum couldn't have expected that ban to lest forever. Could she?

Lemon Bleach. On the list since 1979 when I drank it. Look, it had lemons on the bottle, looked lemonish, smelled of lemons... It even had lemon in the name. Who could blame an interested five year old for figuring out how to undo the childproof cap and having a good old swig? The ambulance was great; flashing lights, sirens, the full works. This gave my mum and dad the first hint that I was going to be a taster. I followed it up by drinking purple paint (looked like Ribena), drinking shampoo (VO5 really smelled of apples), eating I don't know how many rubbers (remember the 80s craze for novelty rubbers? They are also on the LOBI)... If it smelled good, I'd have a taste, no problem.

Superglue. On the list since 1978. The white PVC glue at nursery peeled off skin. Superglue doesn't. Rubbing it with a scouring pad didn't help, though I like to think that cutting a four year old free from a brillo entertained the hospital staff for half an hour. It's something to do, isn't it?

Part of my jewellery making paraphernalia is a pair of pointy pliers. I can't find them on the list, despite the carnage I could cause with them (like it or not, someone's going to lose an eye). Wa-hey!

My last post, and the naming of my current employer, has set me to thinking about names in general. How does your name impact your life? Would taking my mother's (very Irish) surname impact my life in a completely different way to taking my father's (slightly Welsh) surname? Would people react differently to me if I had a less traditional name? Just as the episode of the Simpsons where Homer changed his name to Max Power, would changing my name change my life?

I like the Victorian tradition of using floral names to imply the flower meanings: Ivy or Veronica to mean fidelity; Fern to mean sincerity; Holly for domestic happiness; Iris to mean faith, wisdom and hope.

Would I choose a meaningful name? Vashti with its feminist overtones, perhaps? Would I be swayed by the sound of a name? Whitney has such a lovely sound. Maybe I would choose a trendy name - Emily or Chloe? I could choose a name from fiction: Lorna or Becky. How about a name with historical resonance? Eleanor after Eleanor of Aquitaine, or Nancy after Nancy Astor? Then there are the descriptive names: Hope, Joy, Felicity, Charity. Celebrity names: Cameron, Kylie, Paris. Ooh, Paris takes me on to place names: Kerry, Clare, Shannon. Hippy names: Leaf, or Star. Perhaps a bastion of taste and elegance such as I am, I'd choose a tacky name: Chardonnay, of Chantelle. Ooh, or Chanel. Or call myself after Wayne and Waynetta Slob's first born: Spudulike (pronounced spud-you-lick-a; "it's exotic").

Maybe I'll stick with the name I've got - I'm not sure the world is ready for the person I'd be if I named myself Spudulike Chanel Cheapo-Knockoff (though I quite like Cheapo-Knockoff bit. One of the Russian Knockoffs perchance?).

Today's post was brought to you by the number three, and six cups of espresso. Does it show? Hurrah for caffeine!

Memory is a strange thing. I can't remember what I ate for dinner last night, yet when I hear Crazy in Love by Beyonce I am transported back to my first few weeks working for Doris. I'm in the top floor of a two story portakabin in the warehouse. It's a glorious summer but I can't see whether it's light or dark, and as I go out for lunch the brightness of the sun is shocking. I've very little work to do, so I spend most of my time cleaning my desk and watching the guys buzz around the warehouse in their forklifts. I can smell the dust and the diesel fumes, with an undercurrent of sweet milkiness from the products stored. Beyonce is playing on the radio, and the sound distorts slightly as it echoes round the cavernous roof space. All those memories, from one hook.
So why, when I'm having a conversation, do the things I should have said only come to me half an hour after the event?
Why, when I log onto the internet every day, can I never think of anything to post until 2am in a long, unsettled night of sleeplessness when a post appears fully formed? Worst of all, why, when I finally get some sleep, do I forget this elusive shimmering post, waking to find a blurry, shambolic ramble has replaced the beautifully ordered outline in my head?

Plenty has happened since my last post. My new new job is working out far better than my old new job, though my contract is only until Christmas and I've a feeling I'll be slightly relieved when December arrives. Whilst the job is useful for the experience and will undoubtedly look nice on my CV, the monotony of tender after tender after sodding tender is starting to grate.
The best thing about the new job is that I am hourly paid. As the company (and I really must come up with a name for it. I like Audrey, but this company needs more of a man's name. Keith? Geoff? It's an American company... Dwayne? Jerry? Brad? Bear with me - I'll give it some thought and get back to you) don't want to pay out more than they need to, they don't want me working overtime, so at 4.30 I'm free as air (midday on Friday, although not today as I'm providing on-call cover this afternoon). This means that all the things I couldn't do working for Doris due to unpredictable working hours (such exciting, glamorous things as... go to the library, plan a social life, watch a TV miniseries in the knowledge that I'll see more than just the first episode) I can now plan in. I'm seeing far more of my friends and am attending a jewellery making workshop this weekend with a friend of a friend. I don't think it'll be too in-depth, as it's only 3 hours (it will probably only be beadwork) but I'm really looking forward to it.

What else... damn it, I'm not finishing this post until I've said every single thing I could possibly want to.
My cousin got married in June, and the wedding was so beautiful that for about ten seconds I could see myself in the big white frock. Thankfully I went for a nap and the feeling passed. We had one glorious day in the last three months, and it was the day of the wedding. That was just before the rain started. I've never known such a wet summer. Apparently, neither has anyone else, since it is officially the wettest summer on record. In years to come we'll all be talking about this summer... "I remember the summer of '07. May through to August, not a single day without rain... Felt like building myself an ark...". On the plus side, the beautifully manicured grounds at... Ryan? Chuck? Buddy? are still lush green, where by now they would normally be parched and dismal patchy yellow. Sure you can't enjoy them unless you risk being washed away, but my desk is at a window and I can see them through the rain. Look, you take your pleasure where you can, alright?

Had another car crash; this time a huge great wagon took the side off my car when he pulled over without realising I was there. I tell you, those wagons are big buggers when they're six inches away from your face... Sadly, as the driver was Polish it doesn't look as though I'll be able to claim against his insurance, making it two "at fault" claims in a period of thirteen months, neither of which was actually my fault. I'm now paying over £700 a year in car insurance for a Peugeot 206. Maybe it's time to reconsider the paint job and opt for a car without a huge target on the back of it. Maybe. Still, two pretty bad crashes and I've walked away from both - look on the bright side.

I think that may be all for now. All until the early hours of the morning, when I'll wake with a gasp and remember what I ought to have posted.

After the bad, bad news that was my last job, I have the fabulous news that I start a new job on Monday.

It took me a total of three days to find a new job, working as a buyer in an organisation I know well and deeply respect.

My old manager is trying to lure me back (there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make me want to go back) and it is such a relief to now have a reason to not go back. It's hard to justify refusing work when you're unemployed!

In the meantime I've had a week's holiday, tidied my garden, washed my windows, deep cleaned my kitchen, polished my shoes, found an outfit for my cousin's wedding, cleaned all my jewellery, hoovered the cobwebs from the coving...
Not that I've been bored at all. Much.

Wow - no post for yonks...

I left Doris a fortnight ago, and immediately started at the new company.
Big mistake. Big mistake which was immediately apparent. After two weeks I knew the role was really not for me, so I left on Friday and am now unemployed.

Can't help feeling this wasn't quite what I planned when I left Doris.

Still, nil desperandum. Doris is trying to woo me back. I am currently resisting as it seems a fairly pointless step backwards; the issues that drove me to look for a job are still unresolved and are likely to remain so.
I have an interview this afternoon for a role I'm really keen on. I have a preliminary agency interview tomorrow for a role I'm... less keen on.

In the meantime... hurrah for rubbish daytime TV!

It had to happen eventually and I am delighted to say it happened at 4.50 last night: I’ve been offered another job. I am currently haggling over money, but expect to settle at around £5k more than I’m currently earning, for a far less stressful job.

Since I was haggling in the office, my project team know I’m working on terms, but I’ve yet to tell my manager. There is a reason why I’m not telling: today is his first day as a Doris employee, and he is only here for two days this week on a brief induction.

Picture the scene “Oh yes, pleased to meet you. Here’s my notice. The remainder of your team are a bunch of monkeys – good luck”…

Today is the first day of spring, and it is gorgeously bright and sunny. Can you imagine the grin on my face today?

Hurrah!

Well, it’s mid-March and there is still not even the faintest hint of a job offer. I have a second interview next week for a job I don’t really want, but will take if offered (more money for less responsibility – let me think about it…).
I’ve gone after all kinds of jobs, had interviews for a few, yet here I am, still working for Doris. The project I’ve been seconded to ends in June, after which point I will have no job. Do I swallow my pride and stay put, taking whatever I’m given, or do I continue to scrabble around for whatever I can find? Since the jobs I’m going for pay on average 25% more than my current role I think the answer is pretty obvious.

Colouring everything at the moment is an uneasy sense of approaching doom. I don’t know what is going so badly wrong, but I feel as though the sky is about to fall in. The feeling grew so strong at the weekend that I took some time out to clean out some shelves in an attempt to fool myself into feeling that I can regain control by controlling my environment. Yes, I know that it’s not going to work, but I cleaned my bookshelves for the first time in about five years, so at least some good came of it. I’ve also got 7 bags full of books in my car boot ready to go to Oxfam tonight. I’m not exactly in control, but my mountain of literature no longer looks to be close to an avalanche.

Still feel edgy…

Tonight I’m going to have a night off, and re-read North and South. Eeee lass, it were grim in t’mills. Doris may have her faults, but at least she’s never given me fluff on t’lungs. Well, not that I've noticed, at any rate.

Holy long time between posts, Batman. Yes, after more than two months away from blogging I finally have enough motivation to post. Either that or I’m bored and have internet access – you be the judge…

So, what has happened in the last couple of months? Doris continues to needle me, gradually making my job completely unbearable (to the point where I’ve told my manager about my approaches to agencies and that I will be looking to get a new job by the end of Feb in order to give my notice and be gone by the end of March).
In work I feel as though some wannabe Machiavelli somewhere is watching and laughing. “Really, she put up with that? OK, lets make her walk round with a box over her head, see how she likes that”. “No, she actually went along with it? Fill the box with rats, see what happens”. “She still hasn’t walked? Alright then, inject the rats with rabies – see if that pushes her over the edge”.

Outside work things are picking up. I was ill over New Year and ended up signed off work for three weeks – the longest I’ve ever been off sick from a job. Of course I would have enjoyed the time more had I not been sick, but there you are.

Last week I found out that I had passed my final purchasing exam – after ten years of inertia I am now a fully qualified buyer. Hurrah!

Erm… that’s it. I may go joyriding and ram-raiding, just to have something to post (well, it’s something to do, isn’t it?). I can’t help it – life in Kaisville is bland. Dull, even. How is life with you?

The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that Christmas is on its way, and with it the same old, same old ridiculous family rows.

It wasn’t always like this. I am naturally a huge fan of Christmas. I love going carol-singing, I love going to mass on Christmas Eve to see my cousin’s daughter in the nativity. I love playing stupid party games to entertain the kids – from the relative normality of charades, sardines and twenty questions to the more bizarre Kazoo Name That Tune and Humbug Rapper. Most of all I love the feeling of togetherness and closeness as a family.

When I was a kid we would go to a favourite aunty on Christmas Day. We would arrive around 6ish and be home again by 10. My brother and I were allowed to take one present to show everyone, and it quickly became a way to tell which presents held our imagination the longest. We would sing songs, play games and eat turkey sandwiches spread thickly with piccalilli. As we were leaving each kid was allowed to take one novelty from the tree. Every year I would choose a chocolate umbrella. They were home-made, and although they were made from Scotbloc (bleurgh) you got loads of chocolate as they were solid. I’ve always been the type to go for quantity over quality!

When I was in Uni my aunty died. Another aunty stepped in to host Christmas, but it just wasn’t the same (as it was the most miserable aunty in the world who volunteered). My parents and I started taking holidays over Christmas and new year in order to avoid spending Christmas at my aunty’s and New Year at a country and western holiday camp (I kid you not).

Sod me, just as we’re getting into the swing of things my dad buggers off, leaving me and my mum to shift for ourselves at Christmas. By now my mum’s family have settled into a routine. A tooth-grindingly, toe-curlingly awful routine.

Christmas eve: 6.00 at my cousin’s for a hot buffet and to church for 7.30 ready to see my cousin’s daughter in the nativity. Back to my cousin’s afterward. This is possibly my favourite evening of the whole Christmas family spectacular.

Christmas day: 11.00am at my aunty’s to cook Christmas dinner for five. Dinner at 2.00pm sharp. Clean up afterwards, then cook buffet for thirty and lay it out before escaping home at around 6ish. 7ish, back to same aunty’s for evening spent entertaining my least favourite cousins. Just to make the festive mood complete, the entire family hates my aunty’s husband and spends the whole evening wondering if they could murder him without being tied to the crime.
Ho ho ho.
11.00pm, tidy up and put the house to rights before we are allowed to go home.

Boxing Day: 2.00pm to another aunty’s for my cousin’s birthday party, which normally spreads into the evening. Home for around 11.00pm.

27th: 12.30pm at a cousin’s house for lunch and to make a fuss of her kids (very easy since her kids are absolutely adorable and we go home before they start kicking off).

28th: 5.00pm at another cousin’s to prove that the cousin from the 27th is not actually our favourite and we love them all (no mean feat as the cousin from the 27th actually IS my favourite).

Fortunately, they then all go away for new year, and we couldn’t possibly go because of work commitments. Well, that and the fact that we don’t want to.

In a normal family, this would be a strain. In my mum’s family, this is worthy of a horror movie. Five days together, when none of us do anything in between visits, so have run out of things to say by Boxing Day. Then it starts...

My mum is the baby of her family (and she is in her late fifties – we’re not talking about a gang of teenagers here).
“Do you remember when I was ten Dad came upstairs ‘cos he could smell ciggie smoke and you threw your fag end under my bed and told him it was me smoking and he gave me a hiding?”
“Well I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t shouted him.”
“But I only shouted him because you were burning the eyes out on my Cheyenne posters!”
“Yes but he always took your side since you were the favourite.”
“No, YOU were always the favourite, little miss prissy. He gave me a good hiding because you were picking on me!”
“Oh yes, of course I was the favourite. Who got whole packets of custard creams to herself? Was it me? I don’t think so”.

After fifty years you would think they could move on, get over it. The worst thing is, my cousins seem to be intent on repeating the pattern. The two children of the aunty who died are both in their early forties, and have fallen out over who was offered babysitting when their kids were little (nearly twenty years ago). Little wonder that, according to the Samaritans, 60% of the population said they find Christmas stressful or depressing.

Tidings of comfort and joy anyone?

So... a survey out today has shown that since Jamie Oliver's campaign to make school dinners healthy started in September, the number of children having school meals has fallen by between 5% and 30%.

I hate to say I told you so (actually I lie. I love to be able to say I told you so. I even have a little I told you so dance that I like to do.), but I have been telling everybody so, loudly, for months.

I appreciate School Meals is woefully under funded, and for the most part, ridiculously understaffed. My mother is a chef who, for her sins, works in a school kitchen (presumably as a punishment for spending a past life pushing pins into the eyes of fluffy little kittens). Fair play to them - every day they turn out 250 meals with only 15 man-hours. That is no mean feat, especially when you consider that in order to break even, the food content of each meal must cost just 30p.
Luckily, the companies employed to provide lunches have found a quick, cheap way to provide these meals: feed kids crap. Mechanically recovered mystery meat in the shape of a dinosaur anyone? Yummm... On the plus side, the schools didn't have to worry about the mad cow crisis, as the closest their "beef"burgers ever got to a cow is the leather shoes worn by the immigrant packing them up in the factory.

Bearing this in mind, I applaud the work Jamie Oliver has done to raise the awareness of child nutrition and to increase the amount of money used for school meals in an attempt to improve their nutrition. I can't help feeling however that he is missing a vital fact: kids currently choose what to eat and they appear to like eating crap.

So, as I said, my mum works on school meals. Up to two years ago, around 70% of kids at her school had a school dinner. Two years ago the LEA issued a dictat to the effect that chips should be served a maximum of once weekly. As soon as the rules came into force the number of kids having a school meal dropped sharply. Within walking distance of the school there are two chippies and a McD's. This is where the kids now go for lunch (McCrappy meal, anyone?).
Since that worked so well and the kids were so much healthier, the LEA decided to capitalise on this success by banning chocolate and fizzy drinks vending machines. Now at break times the kids cross a busy road to get to a newsagent where they buy all the sweets and pop their podgy little overstrained hearts could desire. Not only are they no healthier, but the school is missing out on a revenue stream. No matter, they can make another dinner lady redundant and that will help financially...

Have I mentioned that my mum is a chef? Once or twice? Well she is. Growing up she taught me a lot about nutrition (not that you'd know it when I appear to be living on cheesy wotsits but that's another story), and taught me how to cook, where my food came from, knowledge and skills which only a couple of generations ago would have been passed on as a matter of course. Sadly at my school our cookery lessons were very limited (we made sausage rolls using frozen pastry and ready-cooked sausages in one memorable lesson), as we were expected to take on good careers and therefore would have neither the time nor the inclination to cook (the headmistress' attitude, not mine).

We now have kids (and for that matter adults) who don't understand where their food comes from, what is in season when, how to prepare a meal from scratch. They live on take-aways. Kids know what a curry is, what a pizza is, what a burger is, so that's what they eat. That's all they eat. If they aren't on offer at school then the kids simply choose to buy them elsewhere.

So what is the answer? Don't look at me, I don't know. For me personally, the answer was to meet a meat inspector and to visit an abattoir. It was such a harrowing experience that I started to learn about how I could eat meat (which I love) without the animals having to suffer unnecessarily. From there I started to talk to farmers, particularly organic farmers, and to get a feel for my food. I have grown my own fruit and veg, and am passionate about sustainable farming methods, which in turn led to an interest in biodiversity. No, I can see that it's not a route for everyone.

In the meantime, Jamie's "revolution" in school meals will make absolutely no difference to the health of our kids, unless we can go back to old fashioned school meals where kids have no choice - there is one meal and they are all forced to stay in school and eat it.
Try doing that and they'll have you in court - it probably breaches their human rights to a McD's...

Wow... so much to say today I may have to split posts.


Firstly, today is one of my absolute favourite days of the year. The child in me loves yesterday: bonfire night - the fireworks, the charred potatoes cooked in the bottom of the fire, the fun of making a guy and watching it burn. When I was a child I lived on a council estate that had a playing field at the back of it, and (bliss for bonfire night) a fair amount of scrub land to the side of it where we could build the biggest bonfire we were capable of with no fear of it burning any of the houses to ashes.

Backing on to our estate was another estate - an older, more run-down, rougher estate. During October we kids would hoard anything remotely burnable (of COURSE shoes will burn...), filling our gardens with all kinds of broken chairs, bits of wood and cardboard boxes. At the start of November we would gather them all together and build our bonfire, competing with the neighbouring estate.
Competition was fierce, to the point of regular raids being made on the other estate's bonfire to steal their hoard of litter. Eventually the realisation dawned that if we were stealing from them then it was not outside the realms of possibility that they would steal from us. Each following year we would organise security, where we would take it in turns to stand guard over the precious mound night and day (though I only joined in through the night, being far too chicken to skip school during the day).

Eventually things changed. We moved home, and although I lived less than a mile away it may as well have been on another continent. I was too far away to take a turn on guard duty, and although we could go back and watch the fire burn it was somehow not the same when I wasn't involved from the start. In our new street there was no patch of scrubland we could make a bonfire on, and the kids didn't knock door to door asking for any burnable rubbish - a huge shame as we had replaced doors, floorboards, furniture and hardboard panels which the kids on the estate would have sold their souls to get.
Gradually the appeal of bonfire night dimmed.

I still like bonfire night. Last year I got tickets for the Mersey Ferry bonfire night cruise, where we had the most fantastic view of the fireworks being set off on the river as well as all the displays lighting the Liverpool skyline. This year I didn't bother much. I had a walk along the shore when it got dark, but then tucked myself up on the sofa with a giant mug of coffee and a guilty pleasure film (Shining Through - Melanie Griffith makes an entirely believable secret agent in war-torn Germany. No, honestly...).

My pleasure in bonfire night as an adult is almost entirely based around the morning after. I love getting up really early and going for a walk before anyone is around. The acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke is still heavy in the air and seeps into my clothing, making me smell like a slightly overcooked smoked chicken.
My dog was a joy on these morning tramps. He would find the remains of last night's rockets and bangers, and would bound up to them sniffing hungrily only for the smell to make him sneeze non-stop for minutes at a time. Wouldn't stop him doing exactly the same thing to the next one though!

I have worked in purchasing for approaching ten years. I’ve worked for a wide variety of companies, industries, teams and systems, and have dealt with all kinds of vendors from a global behemoth to an old-fashioned one man and his dog company.

In the run-up to Christmas purchasing is a nice department to be a part of (if you like cheap tat, which I do). From November onwards the post tray for purchasing is tightly packed with diaries, calendars, pens, coasters, mouse mats and the occasional bottle of wine.

Previous employers have taken receipt of gifts ranging from sides of salmon to holidays, Premier League season tickets to hampers. Thankfully Doris is a company less susceptible to either bribery or fraud, and allows only reciprocal gifts – everything with intrinsic value gets raffled for charidee in January.

I normally put all my tat gifts into the raffle as well – I don’t use a diary or calendar, have enough pens to start my own shop and if I wanted a new coaster or mouse mat would probably prefer to buy my own.

That said, I have received my first calendar this week and there is no way I’m going to part with it. It is a desk calendar from one of our suppliers, and features my name in a variety of pictures (for example, in November it is spelled out in fireworks, in April it is painted on Easter eggs, in July it is spelled out in sunflowers, in December it is written in fairy lights).

What an innovative idea. I have one and my manager has one, and neither of us will give them up. If we feel like that, what are the chances that every person to receive one of these calendars will feel the same way?

Bravo to the producing company http://www.gettingpersonal.co... , and bravo also to the purchasing person at my supplier for spotting the most unusual corporate gift before everyone else jumps on the bandwagon.

One post in a month and it's a moan - not even a laugh. To make up for it: Why are pirates called pirates? Because they arrrrrr.

Lord, it’s been a while since I posted. Sadly, nothing has changed at all. Well, to clarify, nothing has changed for the better, and since I prefer to dwell on the positive that has made is exceedingly difficult for me to find a topic I’d care to post about.

My job, for example, is rapidly becoming intolerable. The job itself is fascinating, and holds me in thrall as much as ever, but the company seems intent on driving out anyone remotely capable of getting another role, by fair means or foul.

The company (let’s refer to them as Doris. That’s not their name; it’s just a name that makes me smile). Anyway, Doris has always paid very badly, and so has had increasing problems attracting and retaining decent employees. After a lengthy and expensive consultation process (which discovered, amongst other things, that the reason people were leaving tended to be the low pay), Doris decided in her wisdom to launch a huge employee benefits program. Cheap electrical goods, last-minute holidays and discounts with local small businesses being far more likely to attract top-calibre people than, say, a salary increase.

At the back of all this there have always been a couple of incentives worth having. There is a death-in-service payment of four times annual salary, and a generous final salary contributory pension plan.

Aha – keep your eyes fixed on that pension plan, for it is here that Doris has fixed her covetous attention. Pensions in the UK are generally suffering. To find a final salary scheme is akin to finding a hen’s tooth. This particular plan (closed to new entrants eighteen months ago) gives 1/60th final salary for every year’s service. Sweet.

On Saturday Doris sent me a very abrupt letter informing me that as of December 31st, my pension would be changing from 1/60th final salary to 1/80th average salary. But wait, that’s not all. When I finally receive my pitiably small pension, the annual inflationary increase (currently capped at 5%) will be capped at 2.5%. When was inflation last below 2.5%?

If I work for Doris for another thirty-seven years, I will retire at sixty-nine years of age on half my average salary over that period. Hold me back. I can’t live on my salary as it is and I spend half my waking hours in bloody work, unable to spend anything! But hey, if I die in service I’ll be quids in.

On a positive note, the new coffee machine makes a top mochaccino. See, Doris loves me really.

I've had some fabulous interviews, both as interviewer and interviewee (ooh, sarcasm on a Monday). As interviewer I had a woman tell me that what motivated her was her mortgage (yes, I sympathise as that's probably what drives us all, but it wasn't really the answer I was looking for), and her greatest achievement was her son (ditto). As interviewee I once answered the question "tell us about yourself" with the announcement "my friend's got a horse", followed by complete silence (long story, you're probably better not asking). On another memorable occasion I fell off a chair and knocked over a jug of water that soaked the whole pile of application forms along with two of the three interviewers. Unsurprisingly, I didn't get these jobs.

It's now been around three years since my last interview, but having carried out around a dozen interviews in those three years as interviewer, I felt sure I would be able to cope with an agency preliminary interview. Off I went on Thursday evening, address proudly programmed into my satnav and wearing my favourite suit.
Bear in mind the job I am looking at is with one of the giants of the pharmaceutical industry - we're not looking at a cowboy operation here. 42,000 employees, you'd expect them to use the best agencies around. Imagine my surprise when I eventually found the agency's offices, only to find it was a flat above a restaurant in a decidedly dodgy area, and was shared with an immigration agency. Not quite what I had expected, but fortes fortuna adjuvat and all that. Gathering my courage and my wits, I marched up the stairs to find a tiny deserted office with three seats and a sign directing me to take a seat and fill in a form.

After around ten minutes a young lad came in, apologised for the wait and showed me into a poky hole of a meeting room, before giving me a copy of the Manchester Evening News in case I wanted to read the paper while I waited. By now I was getting the picture: this wouldn't be like other agency interviews I'd had.
A few minutes later the same lad came back to tell me he'd made a mistake and had put me in the wrong office. Aha - at last they would start showing a bit of professionalism. Or not. I was shown into another room containing a small round table and three chairs. Sadly, the room was so tiny that only one of the chairs could be pulled away from the table, so that's the one I grabbed.

A short wait later, my interviewers arrived. Immediately, I could see what was wrong: it was like those kid's books - What Is Wrong With This Picture? One was so off his face on coke he had no pupils at all and was twitchier than a rat with a ferret on its heels. The other was giggling and had the most enormous pupils I've ever seen. At a rough guess, his drug of choice is pot. Mr Cokehead introduced them before leaping over the arm of the chair in a move strangely reminiscent of Starsky and Hutch getting into their car through the window. I don't suppose he had much choice as the room was so tiny, but it still surprised me.

What followed (as though that wasn't enough) was possibly the most bizarre interview I've ever had. I was asked to explain the intricacies of the production process at every company I'd worked for (not what I'd done there, just the mechanics of blowing bromine from seawater, replicating DNA, forming cans for soda and manufacturing parenteral nutrition). Every company history started with the question "and who did you work for there?". When I named names there was much scratching of heads, followed by "no, don't think I know him/her". That's a shocker - my last manager is from Barcelona and I really expected this two-bit agency to know personally every purchasing staff in Europe.

All I could think the whole time was "I can't believe this world-leading company would hire YOU to find them employees". Sure enough, it transpires that the job I'm looking at has been vacant for over six months - I think this agency are at the bottom of a very VERY long list.

The funniest part of the whole interview experience (beating even the moment where I asked, not unreasonably, "can you give me any more detail about the role" and Mr Pothead burst into a fit of giggles before saying "no") happened the day after. I got into work to find a message from Mr Pothead asking me to call him. When I tried to call I was told that he had gone for something to eat as he "had the munchies". Again - not exactly a shock.
I asked him to email me his questions, only to find that he emailed me an entire interview. Every question you would expect to answer in a normal interview was answered over the email, as the two of them had been completely out of their trees the night before.

If they stay clean long enough to put me forward for the job, and if I get it, this agency will be the first company I kick off site. That's breaking with tradition, as it is normally ADT and/or Initial in one of their various incarnations. If I don't get put forward I am going to go direct to the company and put myself in for it anyway, and if I'm not offered the post then I think I'll start an employment agency. Lord knows I'd be more professional than those two!

I have worked in purchasing for eleven years now. I’ve worked for petrochem, chemical, biotech, FMCG, heavy manufacturing and healthcare companies. I’ve worked in blue chip companies and I’ve worked in start-ups barely making a profit. I’ve worked in teams of 20 and I’ve worked alone. I’ve worked with people I’ve loved and with people I would happily slap if I thought I could get away with it.

My favourite job so far is probably the one I’m currently in. It is in a small healthcare company (only five years old), which is part of a much larger healthcare corporation (one of the blue chip big boys). The company is a very friendly one (the MD knows most people by name and chats happily to anyone he passes) and there is a real sense that what we are achieving matters, and contributes to society. Does that sound unbearably pompous?

I have been here since easter 2003. I never intended to stay so long in such a low-paid job, but no sooner had I arrived as a temp than a new purchasing manager arrived from Spain and swept me along with her. She is an incredibly charismatic leader, and in the three years we have both been here she has moved from purchasing manager with two staff to operations director with around 150. I have moved from being a temp in a two man department to being a team leader in a team of five, and that is testament to my manager who has actively pushed me to push myself further than I believed possible.

Thanks to her, I have been through the management training scheme, sat my professional exams (I am one exam away from gaining MCIPS designation), and have become a more confident and forthright person. I have changed beyond all recognition, and that personal growth has more than made up for the low salary and long hours. No, really, it has.

You can imagine now how upset I was when I heard that the best manager I've ever worked for will be moving back to Spain to be closer to family and friends. I can understand the decision (realistically I could never work abroad for the same reason), but I still feel somewhat bereft. I am left evaluating my options. Of the team that is left, there is only one guy I would choose to work with. Two of the assistant buyers are twenty-watters (one of them is an obnoxious time-waster who is currently playing freecell whilst complaining about how much she has to do - fortunately she is the one who doesn't report to me), and the other team leader has less people-skills than Monty Burns. There is no doubt in my mind that I need to get out of this company. I've a training course in three weeks, my last CIPS exam in November and then I want out. I want out so strongly it shocks me.

I have posted my CV on a number of job search sites, and last night I took a phone call from an agency who would like to send me for interview at one of the true pharmaceutical giants. The job sounds interesting, nay fascinating, but I am concerned. For three years now I've been a big fish in a small pond. I'm worried that if I am offered this job and decide to go for it, I will be insignificant within the company - just one more buyer among thousands of employees. The job is on far more money than I'm currently making, but I wonder if the recognition I get in my current post makes up for that.
I have a first interview with the agency on Thursday. I'm so nervous I could wee myself - not how I thought I would react but there you are.

Do you have a favourite word? One that gives you a little jolt of pleasure each time you are able to wangle it into a conversation? Apparently the UK's favourite word is Serendipity. It's a nice word, and I've been known to use it myself from time to time. For me though, there are many nicer words. Here are my favourites (in no particular order):

Thither. Actually this could be replaced by hither, yonder, or any other words of that ilk, but thither is my absolute favourite of that little lot. As well as being a wonderful word it is a joy to say. Go on, say it, you know you want to. There, wasn't that fun? It's such a shame it isn't used more often. Thank heavens for the enduring popularity of Jane Austin or it might fall of the face of the earth altogether!

Bugger. This is a very useful word. There is something so evocative in the word - it's a real old man's swear word. You stub your toe, what could be more satisfying than muttering "ooooh, bugger"? I get a lot of use from this word.

Gobshite. Gobshite is such a fabulous word, but almost entirely unknown outside of Liverpool and Ireland (where it is more "gobshoite"). I know a lot of gobshites, more's the pity.

Git. I have been accused of gitishness, to the point where my pseudonym on a couple of BBS is Old Git. Git conjures up a miserable, bitter person delighting in the misfortunes of others. I can see why the word might be applied to me on occasion. Git is useful in conjunction with other adjectives also: fat git, old git, boring git, lazy git, thick git. As a kid I was never sure whether git was a proper swear word, so I used to mutter it. Now, I'm loud and proud in my abusive terms! GIT!!! GIT GIT GIT GIT GIT!!!!!

Spangle. This word is a favourite just because of the effect saying it has n me. Weirdly, bangle and sparkle have no effect. Spank might raise a titter, but spangle is the best of the lot. I yearn for Spangles sweets to make another comeback, as going into a corner shop and asking for orange Spangles brought such joy to my life.

Shenanigans. I think this may be another Irish word, since I've not heard it in general usage. Other words could be substituted: kerfuffle, with its Little Britain overtones, or tomfoolery with its slightly condescending nuances, but none captures the joyous twinkliness of shenanigans. Did ever a word hop with mischief as much as shenanigans? Do you think you could have one shenanigan?

So, back to the beginning of the post: do you have a favourite word?

I have a friend who hasn't read a newspaper in close to ten years. Apparently news is just too depressing, so he avoids it at all costs. He doesn't watch the news, read the news, listen to the news or discuss the news.
I have to admit, he makes a compelling case. Most of the news is filled with hatred and bloodshed - you rarely come away from a news broadcast feeling uplifted.

In everyday life I consciously look for the positive. I'm a fairly happy bird, my emotional barometer seems to be stuck on warm and sunny, and I am more comfortable imagining that everyone has a spark of innate goodness within them than imagining that everyone is secretly evil and out to kill us all. Just my opinion of course.

I follow the news. I read broadsheets, I have a subscription to the Economist, I read internet news, I watch the news on the beeb and I listen to the news on radio 2. I take in a lot of information, skim over a lot of opinion and pass few judgements.
Today I have no intention of watching the news, in fact I will probably avoid it at all costs. I know what will be said, and I know I've no desire to relive the horror of five years ago all over again. In my lifetime, September 11th will only ever mean one thing. I know the point will be made about honour through remembrance, but who the bloody hell could forget?

As the great philosopher Bob Dylan once wrote "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows". Of course, he also wrote "Frog went a-courtin' and he did ride, with a sword and a pistol by his side, uh-huh", which just proves that all great philosophers have an off-day occasionally.

I don't normally pass on glurge, but this... it really touched me.

In 1986, Mkele Mbembe was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from college. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air.

The elephant seemed distressed so Mbembe approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant's foot,and found a large thorn deeply embedded in it.
As carefully and as gently as he could, Mbembe worked the thorn outwith his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.
The elephant turned to face the man and with a rather stern look on its face, stared at him. For several tense moments Mbembe stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned and walked away.

Mbembe never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.
Twenty years later he was walking through a zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Mbembe and his son Tapu were standing.

The large bull elephant stared at Mbembe and lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.
Remembering the encounter in 1986, Mbembe couldn't help wondering if this was the same elephant.
Mbembe summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder.
Suddenly the elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of the man's legs and swung him wildly back and forth along the railing, killing him...........

Probably wasn't the same elephant.

Touching stuff indeed...

What are you up to this weekend? I have big, exciting plans. Actually, they are not big plans, and they are not all that exciting, but since Monday is a bank holiday, I feel obliged to come up with something to do during that extra one day of precious free time.

At the risk of sounding like The Fast Show's Brilliant Kid: Aren't bank holidays brilliant? The religious ones are fine, but I absolutely adore the obscure holidays; whit Monday, May day, August bank holiday, boxing day (though boxing day tends to get swept up in the Christmas shenanigans...).
I love that on Monday I will be having a lie-in for no good reason, just because in 1871 the Bank Holidays Act was passed. Hurrah!

I love the fact that the entire country will wake up on Monday and frantically find something, anything to do, so that when they go back to work on Tuesday they can amuse their colleagues with bank holiday anecdotes. Year after year the roads grind to a complete halt, every theme park is full, every shopping centre is a heaving mass of frenzied shoppers. Fabulous!

On a less enthusiastic note, this will be the last bank holiday until Christmas (humbug).

So... my plans. Well, my friendly neighbourhood farmer (farmer Phil of Love Meat Tender - isn't that the best business name ever?) will be displaying his wares at the Wirral food festival on Sunday and Monday. I'm opting to go on the Sunday, as I would expect the Monday to be pretty damned hectic. Plus, by going on the Sunday I get to do my absolute favourite brilliant thing on the Monday: set my alarm for 6am as normal, then when I wake up and realise that I don't have to go into work, turn the pillow over and go back to sleep on the cool side.

Isn't life brilliant?