Things not to announce to a roomful of people #1

"I have got piles"

Yes. This was announced to me yesterday by someone who should know better. Surely ANYONE would know better wouldn't they?

Headline of the Week

Chris De Burgh healed my withered arms - you couldn't make stuff like this up :-)

Girls in songs

Listening to the radio every day, it strikes me that they must have passed a new law making it compulsory for song titles to have girls names in. The Zutons are mostly responsible for this with "Oh Stacey look what you've done" and "Valerie", now there's "Sophia" from Nerine Pallot. Then there's "Chelsea Dagger" by the Fratellis which I always think is a reference to Prince Harry's girlfriend when it's more probably about gang warfare in Chelsea. And of course "Jenny don't be hasty" by Paolo Nutini.

I'm getting fed up with it frankly. Unless someone does a song with the name Barbara in it, I'm vetoing the radio. So there.

Gambling is a Bad Thing

I have discovered that I have inherited the family Gamblers' Curse. My Dad is infamous for this - whenever he had a flutter on the Grand National (probably the only time he ever gambled apart from the Pools and that doesn't really count) - you could put money on the fact that the horses he backed either died or never raced again. In the end we had to persuade him to stop betting on it. Last night me & hubby went to the dogs. Hubby loves a flutter, he'd bet on your nan making it to the postbox without pausing for a rest, and it's quieter in the week, not so full of chavs, so I agreed to go. I usually do ok at the dogs, win a couple of quid and go home happy. But to my horror, last night the Gamblers' Curse struck me down. My first dog finished about 10 minutes after the others, the second one finished lame, the third and fourth were last, the fifth had a fight halfway round the course and so finished last, the sixth was bumped and finished (you guessed it) last. I put 50p (last of the big spenders me) on the dead cert and cursed it completely. We had to leave early. I can only hope it was a one off, or we ain't going to Vegas again!

Write to your MP

Or don't. I did, in a new scheme I found called "Write to your MP" where you can email them directly about any concerns you have. My current gripe is that our borough has stopped ante-natal classes and is instead publicising a course which costs £80 per person (run by midwives who have gone pro incidentally). It makes me mad, how am I supposed to know what I am supposed to be doing - and I ain't paying for the privilege of being told nasty things that are going to happen to me. So I emailed our local lady MP with my concerns. Her response? (I suppose I should be grateful that I got one) "Oh I didn't realise the Council were responsible for providing such classes!" ????? I replied saying "Oh I don't think it is the Council, I'm pretty sure it is something to do with the NHS but as my MP I thought you might be able to do something". Clearly not. The woman is an idiot.

Neighbourhood Watching

We have been invited by our nice local bobby to form a Neighbourhood Watch. I can only assume that he hasn't met our neighbours. We have lived here for over a year now and nothing - that is NOTHING - gets past our neighbours. In fact, I think one nice lady a few doors down has made it her mission in life to watch her neighbours. I think forming a NW would be a little like bolting the door after the horse has legged it. The only benefit of joining would be that you can get together at monthly meetings and drink tea and get all the gossip instead of standing outside in the cold. "She did what?" "What time did they get home last night?" etc etc. I have over time figured out the best way to get the word on the street. Befriend the local windowcleaner and also the nosey lady I mentioned before. Between them (they live on opposite sides of the road and have slightly different agendas) you get the goss on everything that has happened since you last bumped into each other. The latest scandal is a single lady who seems to have a lot of gentleman callers of an evening. And as a bonus the windowcleaner tells me what we are supposed to have been doing (or not doing) according to the neighbours. Mainly not opening the curtains on a weekend - this seems to drive them to distraction which entertains me no end :)

But who is going to tell the poor keen policeman all this? He will think we are all rude anti-social not caring about our neighbours people. Maybe we should join just to appease him, we might get biscuits out of it!

I'm sorry I just can't wear that catsuit dear

This made me laugh today - apart from the whole almost being murdered thing obviously. A woman allergic to latex met her murderous other half on a fetish website. When things soured he then stuck a latex glove in her mouth to try and kill her. A fetishist who is allergic to latex?! Whoever heard such a thing! He could have done a goldfinger on her and used that spray on latex stuff instead.

Dinner or tea?!

One of the complications that arises out of marrying a southener is the language barrier. I realised today that I have had to adapt my northern ways to be understood by hubby and his family. It has made me cross. It is mainly in the meal department, for example:

I call the meal you have at midday "dinner". The southeners call it "lunch"

I call the evening meal "tea". The southeners call it "dinner".

So you can imagine the difficulties when I asked hubby at 12.30 - "what do you want for dinner?". He would always reply with "sausage and chips" or "chicken curry" or "pizza" which left me mightily perplexed when I was planning a cheese sandwich. Then I realised the language barrier. And despite me telling him thousands of times that when I say "dinner" I mean "lunch" he doesn't get it, so I found myself using "lunch" against all my northern principles. I also used to say "butty" instead of "sandwich" and "ought" instead of "anything" but more and more I sound like a bloody southener.

I worry for my child I really do. I am going to have to have regular visits oop north and expose Baby Babs to the most northern old chap I can find in the pub. Otherwise it is going to grow up a southern softie - and an Essex one at that!!

A passage to India

My friend Miss S has gone on her hols to India for 3 weeks. I'm not sure if Lady L and me were more excited than she was. Now I have to live my life vicariously through other people I get super excited about other people having fun. Yesterday I was asked about catching night buses in London and my response? "My days of night buses are long gone". Anyway, Miss S was on the email and the only advice I could think to give her? "Ride camels and haggle if anyone tries to sell you a rug". Her brother warned her about stampeding elephants. The poor girl will be highly paranoid about wildlife and shopkeepers now, I hope she still enjoys her holiday!

Oh and if anyone is wondering, Baby Babs is kicking the crap out of me. It's either a boy or a very butch girl. Joy.

Scary husbands...

I have had a week of comedy conversations. One of my colleagues has a very needy husband who rings about twelve times a day to speak to her. This pees the rest of us off as he always phones the desk, not her direct extension, which means one of us usually has to run down the Library to answer the phone, or stop helping whoever is at the desk. But the nicer side of me assumes there must be a good reason for all this phoning. Yesterday I had an insight, and it wasn't good.

The phone went and it was matey. For once, his wife was busy so I said could she call him back? He got very stroppy, "no she can't ring me back! That's just no good!" to which I paused, thinking about the best way to handle this, then he said very grumpily "oh, I suppose I'll just have to remember to tell her we have no teabags when she gets home then!".

Whilst trying not to pee myself, I said "oh I am sure I can tell her that when she's free!".

I was so tempted to say "Your husband says you need to buy coffee" and mess with their heads but life really isn't worth trying to explain myself to them afterwards.

Tin foil helmets all round please!

Today I met the world's Most Hypochondriac Barrister. The Library has recently come out of the Dark Ages and got a wi-fi signal so people can use their laptops for internet access. So, said barrister comes up to the desk and asked me about the wi-fi signal. I told him how it worked and said if he wanted to use it he had to sit in a certain area of the Library. In true Librarian style we have a laptop free zone - other hypochondriac barristers in the past have complained about being disturbed by loud typing! Anyway, today's nominee for crazy customer of the week said "oh doesn't the signal go down to the other end then?" - at this point I thought he was trying to flout the rules! - so I said "oh it probably does but we don't allow laptops down there". He then looks pained and says "oh, but the wi-fi signal gives me a headache!" to which I went "oh! Well I am sure if you sit at the very far end you'll be ok!". Man whatever next? Does he avoid coffee shops now too, they all seem to have wi-fi signals. And certain parts of London do too don't they? He should really move to the countryside. Or the Moon.

I saw stars...

As if going to the hairdressers wasn't torture enough, today surpassed my expectations. The music in hairdressers varies quite alot. Today when I got there they had some kind of instrumental jazz thing going on in the background. Quite inoffensive and easy to block out. But while I was having my hair dried someone obviously changed the cd...

The hairdresser switched off the hairdryer and I was suddenly listening to Simply Red. Loud. And it wasn't a single. Oh no. It was the whole album.

It was all I could do not to go, "Thanks that looks great, must dash!", with half my head looking lovely and half a bit shit and run out of the shop as fast as I could. Do hairdressers know no boundaries?

Is that your child or are you a kidnapper?!

Last week I went for lunch with a friend and her 2 year old daughter. I don't see her very much so her daughter wouldn't have remembered me as I last saw her about a year before, but we had a very nice time. Towards the end of lunch it became very obvious that a nappy change was in order, but mummy had lost the baby wipes somewhere between the London Aquarium and meeting me. Baby wipes are crucial when dealing with babies' bottoms, tissue just doesn't cut it. So I piped up helpfully, "I'll watch the little'un if you want to nip out and get some more" (this is from a shop 2 doors down so I didn't envisage she'd be very long). Everything was fine to begin with. Little'un seemed quite happy with me, and we were playing with a jigsaw. Then someone came to clear the table. When faced with yet another stranger, little'un looks very perturbed and pipes up "I want my mummy!" and looks at me like I'm a complete stranger. Louder "I want my MUMMY!!!" and tears weren't far off. The lady clearing the table looks worried and frowns at me. It's all I can do not to say "hey, I'm a helpful librarian not a childnapper. Back off lady!" but I just tried to smile reassuringly and attempted to distract the child from getting me arrested. I am sure this made me look even more suspicious.

The minutes until mummy came back with the wipes were interminable. I was starting to think she wasn't coming back. There was me, stuck with a very smelly bottomed child, a jigsaw that was rapidly losing its appeal, and half of the shop staff discussing whether to call the police or not. When mummy finally showed up again I could have cried, never mind the baby!

That'll teach me to be helpful. Probably.

A large dog did it

We caught a bit of the X Factor last night, this is the beginning bit where they mainly show all the rubbish people and slag them off and make them cry. Last night actually made me cry - with laughter. They single certain people out who have "stories" to try and make their attempt at fame seem more meaningful, and possibly get them more votes if they make it further on. One older lady who got her 5 minutes of fame with an interview said she had had a life threatening injury a year ago, and her recovery had made her keen to live life to the full and to "make it". When the intrepid interviewer asked what happened to her, she said (and I quote):

"Well I was at the top of some stairs and I tripped over a large dog, fell down the stairs and broke my spine".

A large dog?! Was she not expecting one to be there?! Did he jump out of nowhere going "Raaar"?! Hee hee. Why she didn't just say she fell down some stairs and broke her spine I'll never know. The introduction of the "large dog" just made it hilarious. Well I know Miss S would have found it funny, especially if was a large fluffy doggie!

Good news for the lady though, she is walking again - and "dancing" - and her exuberance at being alive got her through to the next round, despite a decidedly ropey Kylie impression.

Pft

I am half way through my 2 week "holiday" and I wish we'd ignored our "sensible" heads and just gone to Magaluf or somewhere hot. It would have been cheaper too. Poor Mr B is putting in a new bathroom, which seems to involve lots of swearing and more problems every time he moves. I'm sorting the rest of the house out - that I can get to for ladders, drills, crap, old toilets etc. - and you know what, being at work seems kind of preferable! When I go back next week I am going to have the almighty hump as I won't feel like I've had a holiday. But hopefully I'll have a lovely new bathroom, at the rate we're going I don't think it'll be decorated, and it will probably stay like that till next year, but it won't be green. And that is a bonus.

America!

If I didn't get such brilliant material for this blog, I would refuse to be taken out for dinner ever again. I'm starting to think it's me, the amount of freaks we encounter on a daily basis is getting ridiculous. Saturday night, we ventured out for dinner again. The restaurant was quiet, no mention of "tits!" by the main course, I started to relax. BIG mistake. A group of people showed up and were being shown to their table. They spot whoever is sat behind me, and chaos ensues...

Characters:

Group 1: Let's call him Sean, wife Brenda. Another younger couple with them, never speak, just look blankly around.
Group 2: Quietly eating their meal, let's call them Colin and Edith and their kids.

Sean: "OH MY GOD! Look who it is!! Brenda, look who it is!!"

Brenda: "OH ... MY ... GOD!!! We f'ought you was in America!! Didn't we Sean?! We f'ought they was in AMERICA!"

Sean: "Yeah that's right!"

Brenda: "Yeah we saw Barry and he said you was in AMERICA! Massachussets or somewhere beginnin' with M"

Colin: "Ah ha, ha, erm, no, we was in Somerset"

Brenda: "No!! We f'ought you was in America! Didn't we Sean? And to see you here when we f'ought you was in America!"

Colin: "Erm, no, Somerset. Got back last week. In a caravan".

Sean: "Well that's great that is, you can come round to ours tomorrow now we know you're not in America!"

Colin and Edith: "Erm .... [desperately thinking of excuses] ... yeah, maybe."

Colin: "Why don't you go and get sat down and I'll come and have a word when I've finished me dinner?"

Sean: "Yeah ok Colin, but don't be a stranger!"

Colin: "???"

It was all I could do not to turn around and go "they weren't in bloody America!! They were in SOMERSET! Now piss off!!". Then they went and sat down but bloody Brenda could still be heard chirruping "I f'ought they was in America!" every few minutes. Then every five minutes they reappeared to plague poor Colin and Edith's dinner. And ours. Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

"I told you we were closing..."

Man this story hit a nerve with me! It is a terrible story and the poor lady really didn't deserve it just for going to church, but his excuse for killing her? "Ms Lonati, who was a student, had hit her head during a row sparked by her refusal to leave the church so he could lock up. "

Come 6pm tomorrow evening, I'm handing out copies to my barristers and saying "come on, do you feel lucky...?"

Rock n' roll

So the Priory is the new PR stunt for rockers? Pete Doherty, Justin Hawkins and now Tom from Keane have all signed themselves up. God help the poor other people in there who have real problems. It'll be karaoke every night, singalongs around the piano, presumably not in the bar though. I love the Darkness, but the idea of being in the Priory after paying shedloads for the privilege and ending up in a self help group with a self-obsessed rocker would piss me off. I'd be there having to admit I'm an alcoholic and open up my darkest secrets to complete strangers, then in the middle of it Justin pipes up with "ooh that gives me a great idea for a song, la la la..." and whips his notebook out. They'll all write touching memoirs of their time for the newsrags (Pete Doherty for the nth time, a bit like his prison diaries but less angsty), and sell more records, and feel a bit more "rock". But it is hardly Hendrix choking on your own vomit rock is it? Or Keith Richards falling out of a tree while stoned out of your head rock?

And I bet they aren't addicted to anything rock. It'll be coffee and fig rolls, or milk, cheese and Gaviscon that are their demons! Or Rennies! They are SO addictive! Rock!!

And another thing...

I haven't had the best of weeks. Yesterday at a routine hospital appointment to get my blood test results, I experienced the NHS "how not to act around patients" demonstration or perhaps their "let's scare our patient half to death just for a laugh" routine. Let me explain.

Step 1: When queried by patient, claim that a blood test wasn't actually done, and patient is lying.

Step 2: Some bright spark thinks to ring the lab. Gets results over the phone. Spend alot of time going "A-ha, erm, ok, a-ha" whilst frowning into the receiver. (Patient must have a clear view of this for best effect).

Step 3: Doctor puts phone down, calls for senior doctor. Both medics frown over patients notes, muttering and looking worried. (Obviously in front of patient, but not close enough to hear).

Step 4: Send random other doctor in every 5 minutes to ask patient where notes are.

Step 5: Call senior consultant out of meeting. 3 medics now repeat step 3. More shuffling of notes, frowning and occasional glances at patient.

Step 6: Senior consultant approaches patient. Demands full medical history from junior medic, while rifling notes distractedly.

Step 7: Announces "well everything is fine! Come back at 41 weeks if you haven't had it yet".

Step 8: Leave bemused and by this stage quite upset patient to it.

I'm with stupid

My god, I hate hate HATE the "vacation hours" I am currently being forced to work. We close at 6 instead of 8. There really isn't the demand for proper hours, including weekends, at the moment. So we advertised the fact long in advance, we put it on the web, we put it on the answerphone, we bloody leave notices on EVERY desk. Has this had any effect at all?! NO!!!!!!!!!!! AAGGGHHHHH!!! It drives me mad. Trying to get people out of the library at 6pm is the most stressful experience of my week. It's like they are aliens and don't understand a word I say. The fact that I have to ring a big bell 5 minutes before closing doesn't have any effect either.

Then tonight. The icing on the cake. Stupid barrister man comes up at 6.05 when I am despairing of ever being allowed to go home. "'Scuse me, where are your Saturday opening hour sheets?" Me (not fully understanding): "Oh they haven't been printed yet, they don't start till September". Barrister: "So who's open tomorrow then?". Me: "????"

My god. These people are supposed to be educated. The cream of society.

I used to have a tannoy at my old job, that worked much better, and you can tell them that the doors WILL be locked in 2 minutes if they don't get their asses outta there. Grr.