Friday 13th July

I have to say, I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to chocolate. And while we're on the subject, I'm not a total chocolate addict - it's rare for me to eat chocolate bars - chocolate cake maybe, or chocolate ice cream - but not often just chocolate. And when I do eat it - well, not for me are any of these jazzed up versions of old favourites - coconut Toffee Crisps, for example, or mint Crunchies - whoever heard of something so foul? Things like Skittles - with their new sour and mint versions...that I can understand. But to take a nation's much-loved chocolate bar - Wispa, for example - and stuff it full of fake flavourings that merely distract from the chocolate itself seems silly to me. (I'm not including Wispa Golds in that statement - I will make an exception for Wispa Golds). Next thing you know they'll be doing breadfruit flavoured Yorkies or cappucino Flakes. Pah, nothing could make a Flake better than it already is apart from perhaps making it twice the length and three times the girth.

All this ranting is why, when my manager Cathie offered me a share of her bag of strawberry chocolate Buttons on Monday, I very nearly refused. Chocolate Buttons?! How on earth could those be improved? For anyone who has not had the dubious pleasure of meeting either of my parents, I will explain why chocolate Buttons hold such a dear place in my heart. My parents had decided they'd bring me up right (and skinny, presumably) by not letting me have chocolate so that I would develop a natural dislike for it. Their plan was sadly foiled when my Grandad, God bless him, decided to give me some chocolate Buttons when I was a baby. Thereafter, nothing else had quite the same shutting up power. So to be presented with a chocolate Button with a swirl of pale pink through it, looking like the bloom chocolate gets on it when it goes stale, was not, as you can imagine, a particularly joyful occasion for me. But I didn't want to seem rude so I gulped it down anyway, and was very pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly, instantly-addicted surprised, actually. I have spent the past few days scouring the shops for said Buttons, in vain. The only place that sells them is the little shop round the corner from where I work which is a bit of a trek really. Well, it's probably just as well I suppose. And I still don't think it does any good to monkey with tradition - I'm not saying strawberry chocolate Buttons are *better* - but they might be a very very close second to the original.

Work's going very well - I get on nicely with everyone although it's not difficult, considering there are only 9 employees. Was a bit worried on Tuesday when I finished doing all the change of address letters - figured I'd put myself out of a job - but then I was handed a list of debtors and told to write to them all, and when I finished that I started going through boxes of orders dating back to 1972 with Cathie, which should keep both of us occupied until the end of next week, which is when I'm booked until. It was a bit clever to put me in charge of the debtors list - I've had about 6 phone calls ranging from the "slap your wrists ha ha because I have paid" to the "we damn well have paid you idiot and we don't see why we should make the effort to post you a copy of the receipt". I've tried to treat them all with my same cheerful "oh aren't I blonde" voice but it wasn't very easy today when Mrs Tickle (yes...really) rang up and sounded ready to come down and lynch me. It was only a little letter for crying out loud!

The company itself does some really interesting work. They don't just make sails - they did the canopy for the Coq d'Argent restaurant in London (one of Conran's places) as well as the canopy thingie in the garden on Big Brother. I watched an episode of Big Brother to see it last week and am in serious danger of being hooked on it. Last night I even considered ringing up to vote until I got a grip. There's something dangerously compulsive about it - I'm not honestly that interested in the every day lives of a dozen people who do nothing all day but sit around, sleep or play volleyball, yet I can't stop myself from wondering what's going on. Considering that I rely on people being interested in *my* every day life to get them to read this, though, I feel I am on thin ice here and so will stop spouting on, I think.

Have been trying to cultivate new hobbies, since decided that "boyfriend, web page, books" were a bit unsuitable for my CV. I have also been utterly inspired by Cathie at work, who does about 7 million things in her spare time and sounds like she has so much fun. She has singing lessons, which were her present to herself when she gave up smoking; she does tapestry in the winter when it's cold; she's doing a writing course from the Writer's Bureau (she too is a frustrated writer - kindred spirirt); she's doing driving lessons....alright, maybe not 7 million but the point is that she thinks she might like to do something and then actually goes and does it instead of procrastinating. It set me thinking. I mean, it's all very well to watch Charlie's Angels and say, "WOW I want to be a Charlie's Angel", but then at the end of the day I spend so much time on the sofa watching Charlie's Angels and saying "WOW I want to be a Charlie's Angel" that I never get around to doing anything about it. Admittedly, I must admit to myself that I may never be part of an elite crime fighting squad funded by a reclusive millionaire. But that doesn't mean I can't learn to speak fluent Romanian or kick box in platform heels. I carted my Romanian language tape nearly 9000 miles around America with me and listened to it a grand total of zero times. Mr Z is rumbling about the kick boxing idea because he says it's dangerous (being a bit of a martial arts buff himself) and I think it might be a little bit energetic for me at my present level of fitness.

But! I have a list of local yoga classes (plucking up the courage to go alone is another matter entirely of course, but watch this space) because I realised that the only bit of exercising (in the traditional sense) that I actually like is the stretching at the end so yoga might be just my cup of tea, or indeed, glass of diet coke. I have borrowed an encyclopaedia of knitting from the library (after Mr Z made countless jokes about me going respectable and joining a knitting circle when I move to Bristol, I decided the only thing to do was knit him a wonky puce and khaki scarf that he'll have to wear all the time to prove he loves me, heh heh heh). And last night I went ringing for the first time in nearly a year. Embarrassingly realised I have actually forgotten practically everything except how to ring a plain course of Steadman on the three (which was always my favourite anyway - to the extent that I can *almost* remember the bobs and singles). However, since I'm back for a few months I've got plenty of time to relearn everything from Plain Bob up.

Every time I go back there are more people I don't recognise but the same old faces popped up last night with the glaring exception of Petra-the-joke-lady, but complemented by the reappearance of one or two people I hadn't seen for years - namely Lee, who I hadn't seen for about 8 years and who is now as wonderfully camp as a row of pink tents. We always suspected he was but it's a bit difficult to tell when someone's only 14, I think. I did something totally blonde though - I couldn't work out when I got home why I was so, so totally hammered, because I'd only had 3 pints. Nevermind, I thought, I'll just take my antibiotics and then go to bed...

It took me about 15 minutes of lying there and marvelling at the spinning room before I realised I'm supposed to "avoid alcohol" with these particular antibiotics. Ringers being such sociable people, I naturally went to the pub and totally forgot I wasn't allowed to drink this week. I suppose I was lucky really because Jen was on the same ones a few months back, and went out for a drink 4 days after finishing the course, only to crawl home after 2 pints, throw up all night, sleep for 20 hours and suffer a 4 day hangover. She discovered on the web at a later date that alcohol should be "avoided" ("But I did avoid it Officer, it chased after me and forced itself down my neck...") up to two weeks after the end of the course. The only ill effects I seemed to suffer were spouting unusual amounts of crap in the pub (or maybe not unusual - maybe I'm just being paranoid) and then actually getting drunker once I'd gone to bed as a result of the additional pills I popped before getting there.

Sometimes I wonder how I've survived this long.

There are some lovely clouds outside, they're all heapy and fluffy and luminescent and looking at them makes me think of the mountains in Las Vegas, except that there's a big Somers Town tower block masking half of them from view - but nevertheless, I am much cheered. Friday 13th never phases me (I'm not superstitious - it's unlucky) - only Monday 13ths, as anybody who's been reading this for a long time will know. So it's been quite a good day really - I even saw an old friend from school, Sarah, who has just finished a physics degree at Imperial (got a first, no less) and is off on a sailing holiday before trying to make a go of being an inventor and making pots of money. Was thinking last night about my friends from school and what they wanted to be and how close any of them were to achieving it, but for most of them I couldn't think of any single ambition. Sarah always wanted to be an astronaut, though.

Anyway, I'm off to find my Romanian tape...

Monday 16th July

You might think that, having left a certain pair of neighbours behind when I came back to the UK, I might have been spared, recently, neighbour-sexual-relations noises. Actually, that's a bit unfair to my Vegas neighbours because I never heard them again after I hammered on the wall. But last night, I had just about dropped off to sleep...it was about 2am...when I was woken by the sound of a couple going at it in the garden next door. It took me a while to work out quite what it was because all the moaning was interspersed with chatting but it went on for about 45 minutes, on and off, and in the end the girlie yelled at "Tom" for leaving her outside with no clothes to put on.

I'm not a perv, honestly - it gets horribly stuffy in my room so I couldn't shut the window, and I didn't want to call out and complain because, well, *cough* of that quid pro quo stuff - you never know which room they might occupy next door *blush* but really...2am on a Sunday night...I was knackered at work today. I spent most of the time with a pillow wrapped around my head until they'd finally shut up. If anyone would like to write to my neighbour and complain on my behalf, it's 112, The-road-that-Sally-lives-on, and the bloke's name is "Tom". I don't think he lives there - it's a student house, and I have a feeling that the resident is the girl, but I don't know her name. Bloody students.

Mother Hand had a go at me the other day for saying that but I've waited ages for the chance! So I will. Bloody students *scowl*

Tee hee.

Mother Hand had cause to threaten to start her own web page this week, because she thinks I recount her every smallest deed here. It's not true! But I did tell her I was going to put something she said on here because it was just so blonde it has to be shared. She was writing some email on my computer in notepad, and I said I could set her email account up to download on my computer, but it meant that it would be only on my computer and she would only be able to access her old mail there from now on. She said, "What...you mean they won't have it down at the internet cafe anymore? That's where I keep it..." Last week she said she was going out to get some bread so I could make sandwiches for my lunch, and she asked if I'd like her to get me some rolls as well. So I said yes and she almost said, "Oh good, that means I don't have to go out and buy bread if you're having rolls..." Durrrr! The funniest part is that she told me about it. But to be fair, she's working very hard lately, between her usual job and all the overtime. I must say, it's taken me some time to get used to working again, I really miss having as much time to read and mooch and stare into space and daydream. This week though I'm just sorting out papers so I can daydream at work a bit.

I bought a copy of Charlie's Angels today, too, which should help with the day dreaming. As a result, I have taken the plunge and told the yoga teacher I emailed that I will go to her class on Wednesday, even though it's the last one I can attend before the end of her term. She might not want me there, considering that, but nobody can say I didn't try.

Tuesday 31st July

My bad, you might all be thinking. I promised to update this more often. But, well, I came home last Sunday to do my usual Monday night update after spending a lovely weekend in Bristol to find my poor, brave monitor, having been lugged all the way down from London in an Ikea bag, which had behaved so well up until that weekend, had been savagely destroyed by Sibling. Alright, I'm being overly-dramatic - the on/off switch had finally given up the ghost. I knew it was dodgy - it's been dodgy since before I went to Vegas - but I never switched it on or off using the switch, for that reason. Enter Sibling. So now we have two broken monitors (and one working one..but more on that in a tick) and the whole of last week I was champing at the bit to update this, because Mr Z suggested it would be a good idea to take down the address from the last entry on account of it being a danger to my security. Bless.

He also wanted me to explain about him thinking kick boxing is dangerous. Apparently, he thinks that the way I phrased it implied him to be the sort of over-protective boyfriend liable to say such things as, "You're not allowed to do kick boxing because as my girlfriend you are supposed to be a wilting flower, a delicate petal, a fragile snowdrop. As such, it is not suitable for you to kick box because it is too dangerous for the likes of you." I therefore needs must explain. Mr Z is the sort of hard bloke who has done martial arts and weight lifting for as long as I've been on solid food (heh heh heh...sorry honey) (he can actually lift me off the floor without visible pain and doesn't mind me sitting on his lap, another reason why we are the perfect match because he make me feel all wilting flower and delicate petal when it's quite obvious I'm in fact massive old tree trunk and clomping...(I'm having trouble trying to think of an ungainly plant)...Venus flytrap with eating disorder).

Where was I? Yes. Mr Z is against kick boxing because he believes it to be bad for one's joints on account of it being a contact martial art (dodge sniper shots) sorry, sorry, SPORT (apparently it cannot be a real martial art because it steals its moves from other arts) - which is apparently not a good thing. I can see his point of view - he no long participates in all that breaking cinder blocks with his forehead (whoops that's contact...but you know what I mean) because he broke his foot on someone. So, he thinks if I'm going to learn to be a Charlie's Angel I should do something more disciplined than kick boxing. He might well have a point. That said, I found a non contact boxercise class at a new sports centre near where I live, handily followed up by a yoga class, so I am slowly plucking up the courage to attend, even though when we peeked through the doors when we went swimming last week the class was full of skinny sporty types clad in clingy pastel Nike garments. Enter one tree trunk draped in grey marl jersey? Hmmmm.

Mr Z continues to be the perfect man, with no visible chinks in the shining armour. On hearing of my monitor's timely demise (it was an Escom monitor, if that tells you anything about its age) (Escom went bust about 7 years ago) he rang up his mate who works in the computer bits business, got him out of bed, and bought me a new one, then demanded it be delivered the next day. I'm all fluffy and bouncy with the novelty of this treat-Sally-like-princess. He also bought me a USB hub so I was able to download the pictures from the digital camera FINALLY. I suppose I should point out that it's my birthday on Sunday (it would have come out sooner or later - I still haven't reached a point where my birthday isn't exciting so everyone hears about it all the time for the fortnight before it actually happens) and so they were technically birthday presents but I love that he used his initiative.

The weekend my monitor broke I was in Bristol, and we drove around a few of the suburbs on the Saturday, then walked around the city centre eating ice cream in the sun and bacon sandwiches in the rain. I wasn't feeling quite myself - whether it was ill effects from the night before (highly unlikely) or a precursor of the wicked cold I caught 4 days later, I'm not sure. Friday night was a bit of a winner though. We drove out into the middle of nowhere (I believe it was somewhere in Wales...no just kidding) to watch a band called Old Man's Hat. Sibling Z, Simon, was driving his 'normous sofa-making van with the bassist's equipment in, and he kindly furnished Mr Z and I with a sofa in the back so we didn't have to sit on the floor (proved useful later but I digress) (no, not for that, tsdk). So, well, we sat in the pub where I drank a pint of very normal fizzy cider before Mr Z and Simon decided to goad me into drinking Black Rat - a cloudy, still cider which actually tastes of, um, nothing but is as potent as, um, rubbing alcohol - by telling me (a) that I would get pissed and therefore shouldn't drink it and (b) that I would go down in the estimation of Mother Z. Eager to prove them wrong, I think I managed 3 pints of the stuff throughout the 3 hours we were there, being careful not to spill it on any varnished surfaces or my carefully painted toenails, and ended up being (a) very pissed and (b) exhibiting behaviour which doubtless did not go down well with Mother Z, although she didn't actually comment on it (think, big round purple neck adornments usually sported by teenagers).

I managed to wangle the front window seat home on account of scaring Simon by suggesting I might be redecorating the inside of his van with the contents of my stomach, but instead I promptly fell asleep, presumably dribbling on Mr Z's shoulder as usual, until they leapt out of the van to help Nick the bassist unload his stuff. While they were gone I vamoosed into the back and went back to sleep on the sofa, pausing only to remove my shoes, to much general amusement, and might have stayed there because Simon started to drive off after Mr Z had got out but then for some reason he thought it best not to. There ensued a mini-drama where I lost a shoe only to have it turn up just outside the van door (a bit like yesterday when I lost my phone and so rang it to seek it out, was puzzled as to why the noise moved around and why I couldn't find it, and then realised it was in my pocket). Managed to get to bed without any more serious incidents happening and tried to write Jen a text message but got frustrated that I couldn't press the buttons so just gave up in the end and went to sleep. I woke up at 6.50am, dreaming that I was drinking an enormous, cold glass of water, then reached down to the floor where I expected to find such an item (water by the bed is an absolute necessity at all times as far as I'm concerned, if not for drinking then for throwing at one's lover) only to be disappointed. I lay in torment for about 10 minutes listening to a parent Z wandering around, then finally decided the coast was clear and made a dash for the bathroom, resisted the urge to drink from the toilet (well, that house is bloody clean) (although actually, drinking from the toilet never crossed my mind - I just added it now for comic effect) and drank as much as I could from the tap. Sated, had to make a bit of a run for it because I had no sooner left the bathroom then Father Z started coming up the stairs (nightwear is not my strong point so when I do make the effort it's not exactly a pretty sight).

When Mr Z came to wake me later, I asked him to bring me the biggest glass of water he could find and he returned with a ceramic jug, which I drank about half the contents of and then left on the window sill. Unluckily for me, Mother Z decided to go in and change the bed before I left on Sunday, thus not giving me a chance to remove it and prompting her to wonder aloud to Mr Z if I might be diabetic because I drink so much water. What can I say? - I'm just a thristy person.

On the Saturday night, after a highly successful dinner cooked by myself, we went to the local to find the usual crowd - Wayne, Char, Scott - and a couple of people who decided to be very chatty but who nobody actually knew. One of them claimed to be a columnist for Maxim, who knows? He still spilt a pint all over Char and was promptly forced to not only buy her another but to buy me another too. The night passed quickly but that might have been because we went out late - so ended up being quite a sober one, for once. Shock. On Sunday we went, at my request, to a "little pub by a river" - actually next to a lock, and a weir, full of people in canoes and adventurous ducks trying to swim the wrong way up the weir. The pub was very crowded, lots of brats running around just begging to be pushed into the water, but it was still lovely - very serene. Yokel life, I might get used to it yet. We also saw this incredible dog which appeared to be a corgi-alsation cross - the body of a corgi, the coat of an alsation - which raises the question, um, which was which? Because if the corgi was the mum it would have surely been quite a painful match.

Funny the things one finds to talk about, isn't it (grin)

I'm not working at the sail makers anymore - I finished there on the Friday I went to Bristol. Cathie let me have an hour for lunch and took me out to buy me a pint; the last week was as much fun as the rest of it, although I felt terrible leaving Cathie to move the whole office by herself. But last week I went up to London on Tuesday for a night of the usual (heavy drinking) with Jen and Kez and Ler (Kez has a new tattoo on her thigh and Ler has glasses, but other than that they seem pretty much the same as ever). I spent Wednesday in the company of the lovely Justine, who was still in her pyjamas when I got round to her flat - just like old times (grin). She showed me her portfolio for her photography courses and then we went to a tarevl agent with her friend Sylvia so they could book a holiday to Madrid, then we went for lunch (at 5pm..heh heh heh) at my favourite restaurant, Wagamama. It was great to see Justine again, we both said how strange it was that out of everyone at uni the two of us should stay close friends, considering we weren't really friends until we moved in together. Maybe that's why things worked so well.

Sadly, when I returned to Portsmouth with my enormous suitcase, complete with computer, printer, rollerblades and whiteboard, I also brought with me a nasty nymph who spent all its time pouring glue into my sinuses. I was ill for 4 days, still not right now but I've had to normalise myself quickly because I started work on the Playscheme this week. I was very nervous beforehand, as we trained with a boy who couldn't feed, toilet or lift himself, stand, or speak - and I started to worry about what I'd let myself in for. But it's been fine. Yesterday I had two children - one has something called Fragile X syndrome, Haydn, but he was fine - just liked saying Hiya a lot, and got very very wet and turned out not to have a change of clothes; the other, Rebecca, has Downs syndrome but a sunnier child you could never hope to meet, she was an absolute babe, and also enjoyed getting very wet. Hence, I also got very, very wet - especially when we got the hose out - but it was very hot and I got sun burn, so it was quite pleasant really.

I made the mistake on Saturday of asking my senior, Sheila, if I could work with Dan, an ADHD boy, this week - since ADHD is my special interest - and somehow that got translated into "Sally would like to work with the challenging children". Hence, today I was working with one Lorren, who is absolutely precious - long blonde pigtails, big brown eyes, big toothy grin - but has a genetic disease which means that she is gradually worsening - last year she could apparently speak but this year she can do little more than grunt, and sing the Pompey football chant. What's really sad is that eventually she will slip to the level of a cabbage and have to be tube fed and everything. But at least she can have a little fun beforehand - and she did. She ran everywhere, and ate everything. I let go of her reins because I thought she'd like to run at will, and she couldn't go faster than me - but I took my eyes off of her and when I looked back she had a mouthful of soil. Lovely! She scoffed all her lunch, then started on a paper towel, and finished the day by eating half an orange crayon. Heaven knows when she picked that up, she didn't even pause in her wanderings, but suddenly there were crumbs of wax all over her chin. Apparently it's not dangerous but quite disturbing when it happened. Anyway, we got on very well. I think the worst part of it is to think that these children will never get better - but they are so much fun. I get to be silly and childish and it actually makes me a better employee than some of the others. Marvellous! I'm a bit worried about this "Sally wants the challenging children" though. Still, I suppose it'll keep me occuiped. It already feels like it's the middle of next week and I've only been there two days!