wait wait wait

My blogs have been somewhat sparse and dull of late. This is due to a dirge of activity in recent weeks, I've literally been sat around waiting since mid-December. Waiting for my new job to begin. Waiting to move out. Waiting to hear if I've got into university or not. Luckily I was successful on the university front, and the date for moving has been confirmed as 20th Jan, but I'm still waiting on a start date for my new job in Walthamstow. Last time I checked they'd received all my references and health report, but hadn't got the results of my criminal record check back. In a position to offer me a start date they were then unable to proceed because the woman who's going to be my line manager was on holiday. Then factor in the two week shutdown that all educational establishments have at this time of year. Then you start getting a bit of an idea of where I'm at.

What's upsetting and confusing is that all this waiting is making me increasingly paranoid about the job, as if somehow in the past 4 weeks I have become a useless felon with a rubbish health history. This, of course, is not true, but I just want to START THE BLOODY JOB!!

And this, my friends, is why I'm not blogging much at the moment, because if I did then they'd all be like this tripe.

An O'Donnell Christmas

Crafty crap

I have a new favourite website. It is www.tamponcrafts.com. It tells you how to make beautiful crafty treats out of the most everyday (well, 5-7 out of 28) item in a woman's life.

This is my favourite decoration, for Hanukkah:



closely followed by this:

Tis the season to be...

... bored, actually.

New flat is sorted. Job is sorted. Work is nearly over (just one day left tomorrow). So now I am left with absolutely nothing to do. No more job applications to fill in. No more flat-hunting online. No more rabbits to clean out and play with. I've even wrapped all my presents and written out the tags.

Since returning from London on Friday I have achieved nothing whatsoever, proof is here, in the pudding:

In the last 3 days I have been:

- sleeping (I slept until midday today)
- watching repeats of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on Sky One
- breaking off chunks of marzipan from a big blob of it wrapped in cling film in the fridge, and eating them
- checking gmail 30 minutely to see if anybody else has a life that I can borrow in lieu of my own
- calling James incessantly while he's at work about pointless things
- going to the swimming pool with good intentions and...
- ... turning around and coming home immediately because it is closed all week due to 'technical difficulties'
- following my Mum around the house from room to room, saying very little, but simply enjoying close proximity with another human being
- avoiding my father, who is just as bored as I am
- going into the loft to retrieve items from past to take with me to new flat, and discovering my sister took most of them when she moved 3 months ago
- starting about 5 books and getting bored of them halfway through
- playing Super Mario Bros 3 on my NES, badly

???

I'm becoming increasingly confused by those adverts for the Jamie Oliver Flavour Shaker.



Apparently it 'makes food taste better'. How? By mashing up a load of herbs and other condiments to create marinades and flavoured rubs, supposedly. Things that seasoned cooks like my mother have been making up for years and years without the aid of a Flavour Shaker. Shaking it around with the aid of the 'magic ball' bashes up all the ingredients and mingles the flavours. So basically, what he's saying is that it does exactly the same job as a pestle and mortar, or, failing that, a chopping board and a heavy object like a rolling pin. And it's double the price of both those options.

Hasn't stopped my mother asking for one for Christmas though. She's a bit in love with Jamie Oliver. I begged my sister not to buy it for her but she failed to take the same moral standpoint as me. In fact, I don't think my sister has ever taken a moral standpoint about anything. She seems to go through life smiling or crying, reacting to circumstances beyond her control. A bit like a newborn.

Sometimes you just have to...

... fill in a dull questionnaire.

Part 1: The Birth of You

Were you a planned baby?:
As far as I know, yes, though my mother may just be saying that to make herself look less of a hussy.

Were you the first?:
2nd, well, 2nd carried full-term.

Who was present at your birth?:
Mum. Dad. A midwife from New Zealand.

Were your parents married when you were born?:
Boringly, yes.

What is your birthdate?
06/07/1981

Part 2: The Family

Are you parents married or divorced?
Married. Too married. They'll never split up. My Dad would perish within hours.

An only child?:
I have an older sister and a younger brother.

If you have siblings are you oldest, middle, or youngest?:
See above.

What are your sibling's names?:
Joseph and Maria.

Which parent do you get along with best?:
Mother is the more sensible of the two, but I love them both equally.

What do you fight about?
Money. Mess. The usual.

Do you have step parents?:
No.

Part 3: The Friends

Do you have more than one best friend?
Yes, absolutely. I have about 5!

What do you like to do when you are together?
Watch tv, drink tea, swear, shop, see gigs.

Do you share the same interests?:
Yes or we wouldn't do the above.

Which friend can you tell anything to?:
None. I never tell anyone anything important.

Part 4: Your Personality

How high/low is your self esteem?:
It goes through stages. Rapid cycling stages. It might have something to do with my condition.

Do you get depressed about things easily?:
Yes, yes I do.

Are you an extrovert (outgoing) or an introvert (reserved)?:
Both, depending on my mood.

Are you happy?:
I'm alright.

Do you live life to the fullest?:
If I did then would I have spent the hours between 2pm - 5pm fast asleep?

Part 5: Appearance

Are you comfortable with the way you look?
Not right now. I am hormone-spotty.

Describe your hair?
Disgusting.

How do you dress?
Topshop.

Part 6: The Past

Were you a strange child?:
Yes, I once went mute for two days. I also hated anything new and would wail like a bereaved widow if I came into contact with the unknown. I hated touching people. I thought the school doctor was a paedo (actually, in hindsight, he probably was). My Mum wouldn't let me watch the news or documentaries on health issues/murderers because they'd drive me insane and prevent me sleeping for nights on end.

What did you used to love that you no longer do?
Jordan Knight. Robbie Williams. Philip Schofield. Bugsy Malone. Dougie Howser MD. Hobie from Baywatch. All these men LET ME DOWN.

Do you have the same friends?:
As what or whom?

Was there anything in your past that was traumatizing?
Discovering that I was supposed to believe in God creating the world in 7 days and the existance of dinosaurs at the same time. I don't think I'm over that yet, actually.

Part 7: The Future

What is your ambition?:
To possess an item of large household furniture of my very own.

Are you scared of growing old?:
I'm still working on growing up!

Do you want to get married?:
Ha. Good question.

Part 8: The Outdoors

Do you prefer indoors or outdoors?
Outdoors has nature and wildlife and fresh air. Indoors has a teapot, Vanessa on ITV1 and biscuits. No contest really, is there?

Favorite Season:

Spring. It makes me smile for no reason. And thinking this is the only way I can survive winter. Only. A. Few. More. Months.

Do you like walking in the rain?:
No, because my fringe gets it's cows-lick back and I look stupid. Also, my mascara runs.

Part 9: Food

Are you a vegetarian?:
Yes, because I eat veg, and also meat.

What is your favorite food?:
Cake.

What food makes you want to gag?
Coleslaw. Potato salad. Ketchup. Mayo.

What is your favorite dessert?
Sticky Toffee Pudding.

What is your favorite restaurant?:
Pizza Express.

Are you a fussy eater?
No.

Part 10: Experiences

What was one of your greatest experiences?:
Louis Tussauds Wax Museum in Great Yarmouth.

What was one of the worst?
Leicester.

Have you ever done drugs?
Only the rubbish ones.

Have you ever thought you were going to die?:
Regularly.

Bluergh

I haven't blogged for a while now and that's because I've been up-and-down to London like a yo-yo viewing flats and finalising job details. It's all been incredibly stressful and I don't think I've had a full nights sleep for over two weeks.

So here's the latest on the moving situation - we think we've got a flat. This flat, in fact. We've paid our deposit and they've taken it off the market.

However, 2 things stand in our way:

1 - My terrible credit scoring
2 - James's recent overdue rent on his current flat (which was not his fault, but the fault of his housemate who didn't pay him on time, thus forcing James to pay some late, but hey, the landlords don't care about those human technicalities and may still penalise him)

1 could be overcome by the fact that I am not paying any of the rent anyway, it's all coming out of James's (healthier) bank account. But 2 is a problem. Hopefully they'll understand and accept it wasn't his fault. I don't really know what happens if they turn you down for bad references. Homelessness?

I'm trying not to think about it too much, because it makes me feel sick.

sniff sniff sniff

A gut-wrenching day today as I finally rehomed my two beautiful rabbits Big Bun and Mrs Bun. I had to put them up for adoption as I couldn't guarantee I'd be able to take them with me to London, and it seemed unfair to condemn them to an uncertain future in which the best case scenario involved living in a tiny yard in the Big Smoke.

I found a fantastic couple to adopt them, with a huge outdoor rabbit enclosure, a specially adapted home (with all the electric wiring above rabbit-height, and so on) and an organic allotment. I know it's an excellent place for them to go, but that didn't stop me booing and hooing like a baby last night and saying things like 'my baby's going away, she's taking my baby away'. I managed to pull myself together by the time the adopters had arrived and handed them over relatively painlessly.

Now I just feel a bit empty really, I've always had pets and feel a bit strange with nothing to look after. That'll change, obviously, when I move in with James in January and have to see to his nutrition, health and basic hygiene needs. Anyway, he's promised that when we're settled into our new flat I can have a little dwarf house rabbit. So 'nur'.

Cor

Goodness gracious!

Just weeks ago I was feeling trapped, scared, useless and unemployable. In the past 14 days I have

- been offered work with an educational employment agency in London
- been invited to interview for my PGCE course at my first choice university (London Metropolitan, on Holloway Road)
- been interviewed, and offered a job, as a Personal Tutor at a College in Walthamstow

I'm taking the Personal Tutor one. It's all come as quite a shock to my system as I only got the letter inviting me to interview on Friday last week, and here I am, just 5 days later, with a job offer. I can finally relax and start planning my move to London in the New Year now I know exactly what's going to happen to me. It's going to be a pretty harsh first few weeks learning the ropes at a new job and living in one room in James's squalid Chelsea flat, but we're getting a place of our own at the end of January and things should hopefully slow down after that. I'm praying they slow down, because James and I might both die of stress-related conditions if they don't.

I keep taking lovely deep breaths. The first I have taken for months. They feel gorgeous.

Ooh, I forgot...

I was in the queue Tesco to buy 10 Marlboro Menthols this morning, the man in front of me was incredibly smelly, had dirty grey hair, and a trolley full of Strongbow. I noticed these things about him, but paid little heed because (quite frankly) Wisbech is full of people fitting that description.

So he walked up to the counter and ordered "three lucky dips fer Wensdee and a coupla packsa Roffmans".

But then he enquired if there had been a Euro (but he said 'Uroe') Millions winner that week.

The lady on the counter replied in the affirmitive.

Then the man turned to me and said, "Probbly a fuckin' foreigner", before tipping me a conspiratorial wink, like I was somehow in on his little racist outburst.

I wanted to point out how it was 'Euro' Millions, and therefore it was quite likely that a 'foreigner' would win it, it being a competition that involves many EU countries, and all... I didn't though, because I was too scared of his wife, who'd suddenly turned up in her wolf-print fleece, brandishing an umbrella and looking like Bella Emberg.

Leaving yoooou is easy cos you're booootifuuul!

I resigned from my job today. I had hoped to put it off for a couple of weeks, but discovered that the daft college I work at has a six week notice period (What kind of place makes you give six weeks? Everyone knows that you give a month's notice. Duh), I start my new job in 6 weeks and 1 day, the time was now.

I wasn't quite sure how to draft the letter. So I wrote two. One was a fantasy letter that I would only send in my wildest nightmares. The other was a more realistic version which sucked up a bit so I'd still get a good reference. I then compared and contrasted the two and chose accordingly. I am going soon, and therefore don't really care about them being on the internet, so I'm posting up both versions here. They are preserved forever here in electronic form.

Realistic Version
"Dear ****,

I am writing to tender my resignation from the position of ****. I will work my six weeks notice, making my last day in your employment 2nd January, 2007.

My reason for leaving is mainly financial. I cannot afford to support myself any longer on a part-time wage. I am moving to London in the New Year, and starting a position as a LSA in a school in Hackney, before beginning my PGCE course in September 2007. Then I can hopefully begin the career I have been aiming towards; as a full time teacher of English and Media.

I have really enjoyed working in your department, and have found all staff to be helpful and supportive at all times. I will be sad to leave the college after over 2 years of employment, but I must move on if I am to progress further with my career.

I want to thank you for offering me the opportunity to work within your department, and to assure you that I will continue to work diligently throughout my notice period to make the staffing transition as smooth as possible.

Yours sincerely,"

Fantasy Version
"Dear Bureaucratic Workhorses,

I have finally succeeded in my task of finding a job that is not at your institution, and tender my resignation forthwith.

I think the straw that broke this camel's back was when you turned me down for a tutoring job because I am 'better suited to teaching', mere days after only offering me a paltry 1 hour a week teaching schedule with wages that, quite frankly, an illegal immigrant wouldn't be able to survive on. You were quite right, however, I am better suited to teaching, and that's why I'm getting the hell out of your institution and going to London, where the streets are paved with gold, not shit, and I can complete a degree course.

I will, grudgingly, work out my leave period, but don't expect me to care, or anything like that.

Please give my most heartfelt thanks to the canteen staff, who provided me with nourishment every day at 10.30am, and especially to whichever kitchen assistant ices the carrot cakes slices.

Viva!

Gem xx"

You probably can guess which version I went with, obviously. It felt good to type the angry one out too, though, and give vent to my frustrations.

So now I have no choice but to grow up, move to London and be with my lovely boyfriend. I just hope he doesn't change his mind or anything!

Oh... ok...

What a strange few days.

24 hours ago I was having hourly panic attacks and worrying myself into a frenzy about my lack of money and living situation.

Yesterday I went into my employment agency in Victoria and, straight away, was offered a full time job starting on Jan 3rd. Paying £65 a day. And it's in a school. Working with kids. So it's perfect practice for my teaching degree (fingers still crossed about that). Signed. Done. Dusted. Sorted.

£65 x 5 = £325 a week
£325 x 4.5ish = £1462.5 a month
- 25%ish for tax and stuff= £1096 a month

Voila.

I can move to London.

James, my long-suffering boyfriend, is delighted. But for me it hasn't quite sunk in yet. I feel like I can't let myself enjoy it all, that I don't deserve to enjoy it all.

We're going for a big curry tonight in my favourite Indian. So hopefully it'll sink in with my naan bread.

Does anyone else ever get this thing...

I keep getting this thing where I get a sudden craving for chocolate, and the more and more I try to forget about it, the more and more I think about it, so I call my boyfriend or talk to my friends to try and distract myself, and it's almost like I can hear what they're saying... I mean... their lips are moving and everything, and forming words, but all I can hear is 'mmm chocolate' over and over again, so I close my eyes to try to stop the noises and when I open them again they're suddenly not people anymore, but they are big bars of creamy chocolate, and they are wearing top hats and carrying canes and they are dancing around to cheeky keyboard music in perfect formation, performing a confectionary caberet before my very eyes.

Momentary happiness > all that other bollocks

So I've been on a bit of a downward curve these last few months and it's made me think a lot more about how I cope with situations and what triggers these depressive periods in my life. This, in turn, led me to consider what makes me happy. And I decided it's not earning over £20k a year, or having a nice flat, or being married or having children.

It's much more fleeting than that.

For me it's usually a Marlboro Menthol, a glimpse of my boyfriend, a word from my brother, a big crushing bear-hug from my Dad. It's a coffee and a chat with my best friend, driving my car through a big puddle and feeding my rabbits yoghurt drops through the wire of their hutch. It's watching tv late at night with my Mum, a piece of chocolate, a walk in Sandringham woods on a crisp autumn day and a cup of tea.

Those are the things that can cause me to stop for a moment and actually consider happiness. And even if I only have a few of those moments every year then it's worth all this bi-polar bollocks.

I can't be bothered...

... to think of anything witty to say about this illustration of Joe McIntyre from NKOTB that my sister drew in her holiday scrap book in 1990. I'm going to let the image speak for itself.



Note pencil 'x' on face. I did that when she pissed me off.

*shameless plug alert*

I registered with YouGov a month or so ago, thinking that perhaps I'd earn 50p for a survey and have done with it. But now I see that my account currently stands thus:

Bonus Credit (including Joining Credit)
1.00

Survey Credit
3.00

Referer Credit
7.00

Total Credit
11.00

... which means I am nearly 1/4 of the way to receiving a cheque for £50.

It is well easy to join up too, you just click this 'ere link and it lets you set up an account straight away. And if you refer a few of your mates you'll get extra credit for referring them!

Free money! It's like a dream I had once...

White hair, frogs legs and Hells Harpies!

I had yesterday afternoon off work and decided to go for a swim to try and release some of the cash machine anguish that had occured earlier on in the day. I checked the local pool timetable online and saw that 2-3pm was reserved for a Ladies Swim session, which seemed perfect. Driving into the leisure centre, however, I started having doubts. There appeared to be an extraordinary amount of 'mature' women going in through the front entrance, carrying suspiciously bulky Tesco bags. There were even more of them in the changing rooms, moaning about the slightly nasty smell coming from the drains and storing their fleeces and woolly hats in the lockers.

I showered and entered the main pool area.

It was awash with elderly women. All wearing plain black swimsuits, all with identical white perms and ALL doing breaststroke. I stood in the shallow end watching their white heads bobbing up-and-down, up-and-down rhythmically in perfect unison, none of them ever going so far into the water that they got their perms wet. It seemed such a shame to ruin this peaceful watery idyll with frantic frontstroking, so I found a relatively empty spot and joined in.

But I just can't seem to get the kick right. Old people kick just like frogs, only a bit more slowly. But, try as I might, I cannot get my frog kick to work. It took me about 2 minutes to swim a length using this method. And it only takes me 30 seconds if I just pump my legs up and down.

So I resorted to my time-honoured freestyle kicking method, with a front crawl arm movement, which annoyed the olds no end because there was a lot of splashing.

About half an hour in an old man appeared at the poolside wearing a pair of tiny speedos. A ripple of apprehension (or was it... hunger...) travelled through the pool. Surely this, this man was not going to attempt to enter the water, surely the lifeguards would do something about this travesty. The old man stood reading a notice for about 2 minutes, I suspect he was stealing sneaky gawps at the old totty out of the corner of his eye. I did a length backstroke and when I emerged from the water he had disappeared. Poof. Gone. I think the old women rose out of the water like aged Medusas and dragged him into the murky depths never to be seen again. I think that's why the leisure centre have to reserve an hour in their pool schedule, to provide hidden cover for these aqueous harpies. And I think the old man was provided by the leisure centre as a human sacrifice to sate their lust for the taste of human flesh and prevent them from reoffending in public.

I think that's what goes down at the Hudson Pool in Wisbech on a Tuesday. I'll never know for sure, because I'm at work on Tuesdays for the next couple of weeks and will be unable to observe the goings on.

Shame.

Back to the Future

The cash machine swallowed my bank card today.

I have a lot of sympathy with fellow debt-types.

I mean, essentially the reason behind debt is weakness, and I make no excuses whatsoever for my financial history, it is entirely my fault. But I still feel sorry for people in debt.

I had a hunch that there was something amiss, because the chip and pin machine in the chemists played up when I tried to pay for my sackful of eczema creams and special shower gels. So after the chemist I hightailed it to the bank to try and get some cash out. I typed in my pin, hit 'Cash', chose '£50' and then the machine ATE my bank card.

I started to get that sick, sweaty feeling I always associate with money problems. But rather than run away and hide in bed (which is what I usually do), I walked into the bank, went up to cashier and said 'THEMACHINEATEMYCARDANDICAN'TGETITBACK', to be fair, she didn't stare too much at my wild-eyed, looney face.

It transpired that I had gone past my overdraft limit that one time too many, and that meant that they were withholding my card until 'my account is in order'. I immediately transferred funds from my ISA into my current account to bring it back down below the limit. But then I had the shame of calling up Telephone Banking and ordering a new bank card.

"I can only offer you a Solo card today, Miss O'Donnell, I think you know why."

Great. So now I'm back to using a cash card that I grew out of when I was 18. And the sad thing is, I am actually a bit relieved. This recent setback had infantalised me and forced me to organise my cash differently. And, let's face it, a Solo card is the monetary equivalent of a straight-jacket.

*blubs*

Not a lot of people know about my secret penchant for the ultra-silly, sci-fi chick-prog 'Charmed'. It's something I keep to myself, as the mere mention of it usually causes rolly eyes and tuts. For those of you that know nothing about it, it's a bit like Buffy, only it's about three witches. It's extremely silly and makes very little sense to those who don't follow it, but I really enjoy Charmed.



It's usually on Living TV about 3 times a day, and if I've nothing better to do I'll watch an episode, even though I've seen most of the old ones about five times.

But tonight was different, it was a show I hadn't seen before and it felt all sad and weird. And when I clicked the 'info' button on my remote control it said it was the 'very last episode'.

I was NOT prepared for that.

I feel all sad and empty. A bit like I did when Denise Van Outen left the Big Breakfast (except this time I didn't cry).

My Christmas List

Yes, yes, I know it's only November, but this is more so I can keep track of them than you!

1. A Take That Official Calendar priced at £4.99
2. A Pink iPod Nano priced at £129
3. A Take That Tour DVD priced at £12.99
4. An Art Of Bathing hatbox from Lush, priced at £39.95
5. A Topshop voucher priced AT YOUR DISCRETION
6. A Deal Or No Deal board game
7. Some Vera Wang perfume priced at approx £50
8. An Indoor Rabbit Cage at £49.99
9. A Dualit Waffle Iron (price unknown)
10. A Stewart Lee ticket for December priced £15
11. Back to Basics by Christina Aguilera, approx £9
12. Rudebox by Robbie Williams, priced at £8
13. A Checked dress from Topshop at £38
14. Some cozy pyjamas £22

A Guide to Halloween Decoration

Make porch as gaudy as possible, this is essential whilst trying to create a dilapidated effect on a Bovis home that is less than 10 years old.


Unintentionally carve pumpkin in the way that a five year old would, get away with it by saying you wanted a 'minimalist' look.


Go so crazy in Halloween aisle at ASDA that you have to resort to tying skelingtons and severed heads to bits of wire near your front door.


Always, ALWAYS hang a plastic bat from the porch ceiling.

Nonsense

I've finally succumbed to using one of those internet face recogniser sites.

I tested this photo:



and here are my matches:

1. Neve Campbell (?) 72%
2. Carol Vorderman (???) 71%
3. Drew Barrymore (that's better) 68%
4. Meg Ryan (urgh, she's old) 64%
5. Roseanne Barr (Get. To. F**k.) 64%

so then I ran this photo, to test the software further



and, once again, here are my matches:

1. A Japanese MAN called Kangta 78%
2. Susan Sarandon 75%
3. Tina Turner (?!) 73%
4. Marilyn Manson 72%
5. Greta Garbo 72%

Though, special mention must be made to my sixth match, I am also 72% Frank Lampard, woo!

I thought I'd give it one last try, so I uploaded this pic:



But, instead of becoming clearer the results just got more and more bizarre:

1. Lisa Left-Eye Lopes 72%
2. Jared Lato 68%
3. Heather Locklear 68%
4. Kate Bush 67%
5. Stephen Baldwin 67%

I have come to the conclusion that it's a load of bollocks.

I'm a c**t sometimes

Sometimes my pedancy is embarrassing and annoying, I seem to have compulsions to correct spellings and grammar that make my life a misery sometimes, even though I sometimes offend myself and spell things wrong. Last night, at my friend's party we were discussing Torchwood, and my friend Beccy stated that she hadn't realised until now that Torchwood was an anagram of 'Doctor Who'. I had to admit I hadn't either. Then, my friend's son piped up

"Huh, well you don't wanna know what Newquay is an anagram of!"

Everyone giggled, but I sat with a puzzled expression on my face for about 30 seconds. I'm quite good at Scrabble and Countdown, you see, and was trying to work out what exactly it was an anagram of, and I couldn't find one, and I certainly couldn' t find one that was amusing. I asked my friend's son what it was, he looked a bit shifty and then said

"Wanker innit?!"

Everyone laughed again. I continued to stare stupidly, not getting it. My brain actually did this:

Newquay - N.E.W.Q.U.A.Y.
Wanker - W.A.N.K.E.R.
Common letters in both words - N.E.W.A.

I couldn't just leave it, I'm not built that way, so I said

"But... 'Wanker' has a K in it. 'Newquay' has a Q and a U and a Y in it. I don't get it."

The son got a bit defensive then.

"Well I dunno! I'm dyslexic!!"

I pointed out that yes, he was dyslexic, but that someone must have told him that joke in order for him to repeat it, which they had, so that meant that there were other non-dyslexic people out there that also made spelling errors in attempts to create rubbish jokes. And thus his dyslexia claim fell flat. He's not stupid anyway, not by a long shot. By now everyone else was a bit fed up and wanted to move on to the next subject.

I can't actually help being a nitpicker. It's not my fault that I can spell properly. Was I just supposed to laugh along with everyone else and leave this mistake unchecked? But what if it spread to other parties, and a pedant more annoying than I pointed it out, things got ugly, there were a few punches thrown and a man got KILLED?? I couldn't have that on my conscience, no, best to nip it in the bud there and then to prevent further embarrassment.

I think so anyway.

A quickie

I delete all comments by 'anonymouses', no matter how long they are.

This blog has my name on it, at least extend me the courtesy of providing yours.

Old boys with a twinkle in their eyes

I keep getting chatted up by very old men at the swimming pool. Last week a really old guy offered me tips for improving my front crawl, and this evening an even older man with white hair asked me how many lengths I had done before enquiring about my job, family and location in relation to the leisure centre. I particularly like getting chatted up by geriatrics, it feels safe. I know that, if they tried any funny business, I could tackle them with ease, and probably defeat them. I can also swim a lot faster than most of them, that makes me feel smug.

I stay well away from any men under 60, because they all seem a bit creepy in their tight shorts, showing off as they swim up and down and up and down without stopping. Also, why do all men under 60 wear googles? Is there a biological reason for this?

Sometimes I don't think I've ever properly grown up...

I'm on edge a bit this week. My teaching application is all but ready to send off. It's a bit like a regular university application, except you get less choices. I chose my old Dept Head as my referee, because who better to comment on my suitability for the teaching profession than the man who employed me as a lecturer? The minute he completes the reference I get to send my form off to the first institution, and I'd really like to get this uni thing done and dusted by Christmas so I can start thinking about moving to London and temping to save cash. So, as you can imagine, I am somewhat impatient for him to complete it. He said, in an email, that he'd write it this week, but he didn't say when this week, so I've been checking my application page obsessively, every hour or so, from approx 8am until midnight - which is the adult equivalent of sitting by the window with my face pressed against the glass waiting for the postman to bring me parcels.

I'm frequently struck by how often the small child in me nearly bursts out of it's adult confines. Dept Head says 'this week', the 5 year old in me says 'YES! NOW!'. I know it's irrational, and only a small part of me takes any notice, but it's most definitely there.

This childish streak is most obvious in my new swimming hobby. I usually swim up and down the swimming pool in neat lines, bobbing up and down rhythmically like all the other pensioners and fitness freaks, but the 5 year old in me occasionally causes me to swerve off-course, do a somersault underwater and backstroke into an old man wearing nose-clips. It's the wide-eyed childish jubilance at bouyancy, the novelty has never quite worn off. Sometimes, when the pool is quiet, I lay in the deep end in a big star-shape, bobbing around in the water like some kind of fat ocean mammal. I used to do it when I was small, I'd try to count all the ceiling tiles in the St James's Pool, at least I've since realised that that is an impossible and useless venture.

And yesterday I laughed at a man because he fell off his bike and 8 cans of Special Brew fell out of an ASDA carrier he had balanced on his handlebars, rolled off down the road and all went underneath the wheels of cars. Age 5 I wouldn't have understood the significance of Special Brew in this slapstick situation, but I'd have at least appreciated the terrible misfortune and laughed gleefully, which is exactly what I did, as I drove over one of the cans on my way home from work.

The Perfect Blend

I've spent the past half hour reading Neighbours spoilers on the internet. My suspicions about Sky's pregnancy were not unfounded, I see...

I should feel bad for wasting thirty minutes of my life on a soap opera, but the truth of the matter is that I actually think Neighbours is brilliant. It's what I come home from work every lunchtime for! Take today's episode for example: Lou Carpenter found a phone, picked up a call from it and discovered it belonged to one Elle MacPherson. This prompted a conversation between him and Harold, extolling the virtues of her lingerie line. Things are set to take a 'bizarre turn' tomorrow!

I shan't post the spoilers on here, because I know how important Neighbours might be to some of you. If you want to know anything juicy then you can leave me a comment.

I fucking love Neighbours, I do.

Gettt In!!!

I returned home in my lunchbreak today and found a recorded second-class envelope, with my name on it, bearing the Waitrose logo. Inside was a letter apologising for my unfortunate illness, and expressing Waitrose's doubts that their products could cause such terrible stomach upsets. It suggested I had picked up the bug elsewhere. I hadn't, but it didn't really matter what they thought anyway, because attached at the bottom of the letter was a voucher for £25!!!

Gemma 1 - Waitrose 0

A small victory , I think.

He was like, 'GRRR', and I was like, 'WHATEVER!'

A couple of girls got BUSTED by the ticket collector on the train back from London today. It was one of those moments that unites all the other passengers on the train through shared amusement. It appears that one of the girls bought two returns using her young persons rail card, but the other girl didn't have a card of her own and was therefore DENIED the right to travel cheaply. Usually I am on the customer's side in these situations, as I think that rail companies take the piss. I would have taken pity on these girls, despite their obvious sloaniness, if it weren't for the following conversation that ensued:

Collector 1: Well, sorry girls, but I'm going to have to charge one of you for a full single.
Girl 1: How much is that?
Collector 1: Eighty four pounds.
Girl 2: Urgh! You horrible little man! Do you get JOYS out of this?
Collector 1: You must have read the rules when you got your card, surely?
Girl 1: Er, no! That was, like, MONTHS AGO!
Girl 2: It's not like we're adults or anything, we're STUDENTS!
Collector 1: Look, you must have known, because they'd have asked when you booked the tickets, so just pay up, and then we can sort this out.
Girl 2: Duh! Why would she do that on purpose? She's a GIRL! She's not a thief or anything, she's a girl!
Collector 1: I need your address, miss.
Girl 1: I'm not giving you my address! I don't give my address out to strangers!
Collector 2: Excuse me miss, are you refusing to cooperate? Because if you are I'll have to put you off at the next stop and turn you over to the police for fraud and deception.

The girl gave him her address. Obviously.

Girl 2: Just ring your mum. She'll sort this out.

I bet she does as well. I bet she rings them up and gives them sloane hell. But the girls were guilty as sin. They as much as admitted they hadn't bothered checking it all out properly. Their first mistake was to launch an all-out offensive when confronted. If they'd been quiet and contrite instead of behaving like

then they'd have probably got away with it.
Their second mistake was to change their story frequently from 'we didn't think you had to' to 'we forgot' to 'WELL YOU HAVE SO MANY RULES FOR EVERYTHING!!! WAAAAHHHHH'.

Fools.

I'm glad they have to pay £84 (+£10 administration charge).

One more thing...

I am still updating my Fitday journal every day. It's very tempting to lie and leave out the bars of chocolate and croissants with jam, but, seeing as this fitness thing is essentially benefitting me and not you, I'd only be cheating myself. I reserve the right, however, to call it 'Fitgay' from now on, as a sort of childish rebellion against authority.

I've put a link to it on the left hand side of this blog.

Note, if you will, the loss of four kilos and the two swimming sessions this week!

*is shattered*

It took a massive 20 minutes to register at the local sports centre today. My doctor has prescribed exercise for me, which means I have a special card that lets me swim for free as often as I like, for three months. So I took along all the relevant forms, signed by my GP, and was treated like a leperous freeloader by the tubby wench on reception.

To begin with she eyed me with suspicion, trying to suss out what on earth could be wrong with a middle-class twenty-something girl with nice shoes. Secondly she peered very, very closely at the doctor's signature, suspecting me of fraud, I think. She flashed me a look that said 'well, you don't look depressed'. Perhaps I should have messed my hair up a bit, scratched at my arms and walked into the reception wailing and beating my fists upon my chest. She might have believed me then. Because that's what all depressed people look like, you know. Mental. Then she made me sit in the corridor with all my swim gear in an ASDA carrier badg while she fetched some gladiatorial fitness instructor, who barked instructions at me about when and where I could go with my free invalid pass. I am NOT allowed to swim after 6pm. I am NOT allowed to use the gym then either. I am NOT allowed to attend fitness classes for free.

I did try and tell the man that I didn't want to use the gym anyway, as I hate it, and can use the pool during the day on Mondays and Fridays, because those are my days off work. But I didn't really get the chance. I felt really confused and depressed after all this, because I only want my free swimming and didn't ask to be so much trouble. It's not even like I'm a freeloader. I work, even though it'd be perfectly easy for me to be signed off onto Incapacity Benefit or some other such thing, and to have all the other benefits (Housing, Council and suchlike) that go with it. I could do that, and fester in a council flat watching Trisha every day and getting even more depressed. But I don't. I work and pay tax and the only other help I receive for my bipolar disorder is medication. Which I pay £6 odd a month for.

Luckily I finally got the chance to have my swim and felt a lot better once I'd exercised all the confusion away. As I walked out I gave a really cheery wave to the receptionist, who sneered at me again, doubting me to the last.

I love public facilities. I really do.

Fox News coverage...

... of the North Korea nuke testing is hilarious.

They have this brilliant teaser they play between reports that says

North Korea

MENACE!

It takes up the whole screen.

They are currently showing everyone how nasty nuclear tests are... I guess the USA should know, they do enough of them!

Blast from the past...

I had an awful dream, it was all my old friends from school, ones who have, in the past, turned a blind eye to my obvious bullying at the hands of two other friends and then not invited me to their weddings. I'm not actually sure why I call them 'friends' at all, but from the age of 11-15 they were all I had, so it seemed to make more sense to hang around with a bunch of people that wrecked any shred of self-confidence I had than to sit on my own every lunchtime. Don't worry, I got wise to them once I hit 16 and kept them at arm's length. Natasha and Sarah G were 100 times more genuine anyway.

So, the dream. I was at a graduation ball. During the course of the dream I:
- was accused of stealing a handbag
- was accused of stealing a bike
- was the subject of mean chinese whispers around the room
- was befriended, and then shunned by the aforementioned friends
- was reduced to tears by friends
- was left in a heap outside the ball venue sobbing quietly in the rain

That pretty-much sums up my high school experience, actually. I have no happy memories of school whatsoever, and just remember suffering extreme paranoia and self-doubt caused by two friends in particular pulling my strings like a marionette. I never did anything to warrant it, I was too frightened to be myself. It was only when I got clever and discovered books that I realised I'd be able to escape them one day, and started pulling away. But what worries me is that, when depressed, I still have dreams like this that obviously mean I am still suffering at the hands of these fucking morons. And what's worse is, I don't think any of them have any idea what they actually did to me. I was on antidepressants at 15 because I couldn't handle going to school without having panic attacks, and they never knew. My mother actually banned a few from her house, but I never told them, because that'd have made my life hell.

I can't really believe that, as a grown woman, I am still having flashbacks to a past that I thought I'd got over years ago. It's troubling me. Perhaps I should have a showdown with them all.

Nah, can't be arsed. Instead I'll give a shout out to all my laydees: Elin, Anna, Tash, Kaff, Layla - you five girls have renewed my faith in friends. Seriously. I thank my lucky stars for you lot.

*polishes halo*

I've not been too well these last few weeks, the depression's been rearing it's ugly head again and I've been finding it hard to get on top of it. When I'm depressed I go into auto-pilot mode. I'm up and running (well, kind-of...) but I'm really just going through the motions until I can lie on my bed and close my eyes. Then I go into shutdown until it's time to get up again. Restart. Auto-Pilot. Shutdown. I'm basically a robot.

However, I have been trying very hard this weekend to keep myself out of bed, but not do so much that I make myself feel unwell. It's a tricky balance, but you get the hang of it after a while. So yesterday, James and I spent the afternoon wandering round a National Trust castle, and then we walked all the way around the top of the moat, and, because I live in the Fens (very, very flat) you could see for miles. The air was all fresh and clear, I was with my lovely boyfriend, and it really made me feel better.

Then today I dropped James off at the station, got home and started feeling all down again. So I forced myself to get up, got into my car and went swimming for an hour. Sheer agony, it was, but BRILLIANT!! I felt AMAZING after I'd got out of the pool, so much so that I think swimming might be some miracle wondercure for me. I'm going to go twice a week from now on. I went onto google and typed in 'swimming + depression' to see if there was some sort of scientific evidence to explain my change in mood, but most of the websites were about the health benefits of swimming with dolphins. I don't ever want to swim with dolphins. They're sinister.

What's great is that my body actually made some endorphins instead of letting them slide into my pillow while I sleep/doze.

Oh, and I haven't smoked for a week. Hurrah!

Watch my weight struggle!

It's better than Wife Swap! I have signed up to this website that lets you keep tabs on your daily food intake and tells you how much weight you have to lose. I'm a bit overweight for my height, I'm only little and can't seem to carry a lot without it being really noticable. So I've been inspired by a recent bout of gastroenteritis to try and lose a little weight. Eating nothing but pasta and ginger nut biscuits all week has showed me that starvation is possible, if you BELIEVE! It does lie though. There's no way the small bowl of pasta I had with one teaspoon of pesto for my lunch contained 358 calories.

So here are the calories I have to munch my way through:
To maintain my current blimp-like state:
2027 Calories/day
Fat Loss:
1622 Calories/day
Extreme Fat Loss:
1338 Calories/day

I have made my online profile public so you can all go there and laugh at my lapses and chinese/indian binges, just click this link 'ere and you'll be transported into my diet journal. You will note that today I digested 1175 calories. Good start, even though I have gastroenteritis. This must be so much fun for you, you lucky, lucky devils.

Bonfires and Exploding Shoes

The annual O'Donnell family firework party is in the embryonic stages of planning at the moment. It's going to be the biggest one yet, and Dad's thinking of having an actual BONFIRE in the garden this year. This is exciting because usually we just chuck a load of old twigs in the chiminea.

And, this year, we're having twice the normal amounts of guests, so therefore TWICE THE AMOUNT OF FIREWORKS!!

This all got me thinking about Guy Fawkes, every year everyone in England celebrates a failed attempt at terrorism by setting off miniature explosive devices and burning effigies. When you consider it, all this is in very poor taste, but it's so far back in history that nobody really cares.


Scarier than Al Queda?

So what failed terrorist plots then, will people celebrate in years to come, when we're all clothed in silver space suits and driving flying cars? I've come up with some suggestions for future events, think far into the future... like 500 years or more:

21 July 2005 - Failed London Bombings. (When four attempted bomb attacks disrupted part of London's public transport system two weeks after the 7 July 2005 London bombings. Metropolitan Police later said the intention was to cause large-scale loss of life, but only the detonators of the bombs exploded, probably causing the popping sounds reported by witnesses, and only one minor injury was reported.)

Suggested future celebrations:
- Catherine wheels on the hubcaps of flying buses
- Bonfires in underground stations
- Popcorn to be sold on street corners

7 July 2006 - Hudson River Bombing Plot. (The FBI announced that they had foiled a plot that was in its "talking phase" by foreign militants to detonate explosives in tunnels connecting New Jersey with Manhattan and drown the New York financial district with a torrent of water. This was unfeasible because the tunnel is embedded in bedrock, and the target is above sea level. The report, however, made international news.)

Suggested future celebrations:
- Giant 'Water Parties' where people squirt each other with hoses, ride down giant tunnely water slides and play in wave machines
- Big public gatherings around rivers and lakes to watch official organisers set off huge jets of decorative water
- Tossing of FBI agent effigies into nearest river/lake

22 December 2001 - American Airlines 63/The Shoe Bomber. (During this American Airlines flight, as it was flying over the Atlantic Ocean, Richard Reid — an Islamic fundamentalist from the United Kingdom, and alleged/self-proclaimed Al Qaeda operative — carried shoes that were packed with two types of explosives. He didn't set the explosives off. He is in prison now.)

Suggested future celebrations:
- Jumbo jet flyovers in all towns
- Firecrackers in soles of shoes
- Moccassin-shaped exploding candy for kids

We shall never know if all this catches on, of course, because by then we'll be long gone. One thing we must never do, now or in the future, if burn giant effigies of Al Queda terrorists. That will cause more trouble than it's worth.

Oooh, it's all swanky round 'ere!

I've converted to Beta Blogger!

I'm not really sure what that means, but it has allowed me to tidy this place up a bit, and make it look more Gem-ish. You can also subscribe to posts now, like you could when I was back on myspace (duh, like nobody blogs on myspace anymore, get with the programme, Grandaddyo!).

Now I am off to the nurse because I haven't been able to hold solids for 5 days. Maybe I'm regressing into a newborn again... I'll have a tug on Mum's norks and see if I get any better.

xx

Force 4, I reckon...

My stomach just gave this ALMIGHTY gurgle/creak. I swear it measured on the richter scale. It started low down in my gut and bubbled right up. However now, touch wood, I feel ever-so-slightly better.

Was it the creak that broke the bug's back?

We shall see...

**UPDATE**

I just ate a chicken dinner... as yet nothing awful has happened. I wait with baited breath...

A ripple of clarity in a sea of nausea...

Welcome back. Well, that was aimed more at me than you, as I have been away a-visiting my boyfriend and picking up a very nasty bout of food poisoning from a Waitrose Tuna & Cucumber sandwich (How do I know it's the sandwich? Believe me, I know it's the sandwich... when I think about it I practically retch). Those bored by illness details or of a nervous disposition may want to skip to the next paragraph while I whinge. Have only eaten the plainest of foods such as rich tea biscuits and toast, since Sunday, and still have stabbing pains and alien faecal matter. I was up until about 3am last night shivering and enduring stabbing gut pains, and flopped downstairs this morning at 8am unwittingly walking into confrontation with my father, who was in what can only be described as 'rhinoceros mode', nostrils flaring, fists clenched, red-of-face and ready to charge. He proceeded to tell me all the usual parents bollocks, that I wasn't ill, that I was pathetic, blah blah blah. Stuff he said when I was 15. I wanted to point out that if he had been shitting unidentified disgusting objects for the last 48 hours and having to lie very still all night to prevent vomiting he'd probably have made the same decision. I wanted to say that, I really did, but I felt dizzy and sick so I just turned around and walked upstairs without saying anything. I'm hiding now. It's ridiculous, we're locked in this stalemate, because he's my father, so thinks he can still tell me what to do, like a child, and I'm an adult, but still occasionally fall into the trap of thinking my parents always know best, again, like a child.

Yesterday I caught the train from King's Cross whilst suffering the aforementioned bug. It was awful and scary, but then, just past Hyde Park Corner tube station, an idea popped into my brain, a brilliant and amazing idea. My train of thought went a bit like this:

"Gemma, you don't like your job, it doesn't pay you enough money. You don't like living with your parents, even though you love them to pieces, and you don't like being away from your boyfriend. The only job you want to do is teaching, it's the only job you've ever loved and found truly rewarding. So why the fuck don't you just go back to uni for a year and get your bloody PGCE?"

I was a bit shocked by this. I wasn't expecting to think it. But then I thought on:

"Once you've got the PGCE you'll find it so much easier to get a job in a college or school, and you'll be earning a lot more so you can really start making a dent in your debts. Why haven't you considered this before, you foolish wench?"

So, when I got home, I looked into finances. I reckon, with loan and grant and bursary I'll have about £300 a week coming in for the duration of my course. It's definitely do-able, even if I have to live off canned goods for the 9 months I'm a student. Then I also remembered that full-time students don't have to pay council tax, and that made me even more optimistic.

So I'm applying for 4 courses in London, with London Metropolitan right at the top. We shall see what happens...

I've been staring at clocks...

I am waiting for college to call me back and tell me how I did in the job interview I had today for the £14,000 only-working-36-weeks-of-the-year Personal Tutor position. I had to go up against my friend Liz from work, who is identical to me in age and qualification, but not height, as she has that advantage over me. She is well over 6 foot and practically Amazonian. This will definitely work in her favour, as I look like a dwarf in comparison, and am much tinier and fairer than her.

I prepared for this one, unlike every other interview I've ever gone for. I even had my questions all thought out before I got in.

I talked too much. I think I confused the panel. There were FOUR of them. And a fly kept flying around my head and I didn't want to swat it away in case they thought I was inhumane.

James says to not get stressed if I don't get it, because what I really want to do anyway is go and be in London with him, therefore it doesn't really matter if I don't get this, but he doesn't UNDERSTAAAAAAANNNDD.

*Girly rant alert*

I believe it was the famous poet and philosopher Paul Draper (sic!) who once said

"Being a girl, being a girl
I want to experience being a girl
I want to experience being a girl
I want to experience being a girl"

Well, I'd like to get hold of Mr Draper by the scruff of his skinny little indie neck and tell him a thing or two about what it's really like to be a girl. Whilst wearing nice skirts, makeup and being able to buy pretty shoes is wonderful, there are one or two things that ruin the feminine experience. Take today, for example. I spent most of it munching on a family-sized Galaxy Hazelnut, fully aware that it's going to make me fat, yet unable to stop because if I do I'll be grumpy, tired and my stomach will contract and bloat. And, as if this hormone-induced gorging wasn't enough, halfway through the drive home from work I was suddenly overcome with what felt like a tidal wave of sadness, and started crying. I knew I wasn't sad about anything in particular, yet I couldn't stop.

That Nicky Wire is no better, look at him whinging

"And I wish I had been born a girl instead of what I am
Yes I wish I had been born a girl and not this mess of a man
And not this mess of a man
And not this mess of a man"

No, Nicky, I really don't think you would. Not unless you actually want to lie in bed with a hot water bottle covering your womb, mewling in agony and running out to the loo to empty your bladder every 25 minutes. And if you do then, quite frankly, you are even more of an idiot than I thought you were. Because, gentlemen, this is oestrogen at work, and it's something I think Mssrs Wire and Draper overlooked in their quest to achieve gender satisfaction. Yes, they can put on eyeliner and mascara and swing their snakelike hips, they can even wear blouses and feather boas, but until they've made a complete tits out of themselves, suddenly turning into sullen or hyperactive morons, because their female sex hormones are out of control, then they are in no position whatsoever to yearn for femininity. I think they are confusing tranvesticism with actually becoming women in the physical sense, becoming a woman might stop them feeling all weird because they like wearing skirts, but it won't make their lives any easier. In fact, it'll make their lives a lot more difficult, because they'll have to do everything they did as men, but with added eyebrow plucking, leg shaving, bikini line waxing, tampax buying, child bearing, breast sagging, anti-aging cream applying and, eventually, support stocking wearing.

They really should have thought this all through before they wrote those silly songs, you know.

Work-based BONG!!

I do so love it when the work newsletter falls into my pigeonhole and brings a little light relief to that grey area in the mornings between arrival and coffee break. This fortnight's gems include:

"EMERGENCY PROCEDURES.

Fire - Raising the alarm

The person discovering the fire should raise the alarm by:
- Operating the nearest fire alarm button and by shouting 'FIRE, FIRE FIRE' until the alarm has been raised..."

I like the part about the shouting, especially the comma after the first "FIRE" to allow you to take a breath.

I also liked:

"Medical Emergencies

When giving any form of first aid it is vital that staff assess the situation and:
- Take care not to become a casualty themselves..."

Brilliant! I love working in places where rules have to be followed so strictly that we have to be told when to shout.

Mummy O'Donnell

I'm feeling a lot like a parent at the moment, M & D are away in Barcelona for 5 days, and, as I'm the only sibling with a car and a driving license, I have been required to ferry my brother (18) and sister (28) to and from work. It's not a responsibility that I find particularly laborious, but it is a responsibility nonetheless. For example, last night after collecting my sister from the train station 10 miles away, I returned home, checked all the lights were off, checked the locks and left the porch light on for my brother, who was coming back late from a gig. I sat in bed reading until I heard his key turn in the door, and, after checking he'd taken his epilepsy pills, allowed myself to fall into a deep sleep. My sister, as far as I know, just went to bed.

This morning I woke up at 6.30 am, 90 minutes earlier than I usually get up, as I had to take my sister to the train station and then my brother to ASDA. This little commute took 40 mins. I then returned home, folded up their towels, turned off their bedroom lights (they'd both left their lights on, what?!), took the bins out, turned the dishwasher on and loaded the washing machine, eventually setting off for work at about 8.52 am.

I can actually see now why some parents enjoy coming to work as a sort of respite from the responsibility of providing transport and general support for their loved ones. I'm shattered, but feel cosily cosseted in my office. I do love my sister and brother stacks and I really don't mind taking them places in my car, but sometimes I don't think they realise how that then makes the responsibility fall on my shoulders instead of theirs. Example - if my sister gets stranded at the train station at night and there are no buses then it's my responsibility to go and fetch her home safely. If my brother needs to come home from work sick then the responsibility falls to me to go and collect him. Likewise it's my responsibility to ensure that they both get to work on time, and I have to sacrifice about 2 hours of my day to ensuring that this happens.

Petrol costs are another thing. How do you charge your beloved family, begotten from the same womb as you, for lifts? I'm telling you it's a very tricky one to handle. I could only bring myself to ask my brother and sister for about £3 each yesterday, which is actually about half of the money I need to fill my car up with sufficient fuel to take them to all the places that they need to go, and I only asked them because I have approx £12 to live on until Friday, which has to pay for sawdust, rabbit food, a bus fare to Peterborough and a prescription. If I had more than £12 I'd probably have let them off. Because I'm soft, even though they both think I'm hard as nails.

It just seems that, for some bizarre reason, my parents and siblings have picked me out as the next most responsible adult; it's me that's getting the mince out of the freezer and planning when everyone will be at home for dinner, it's me that knows when and where both siblings need depositing/collecting from, it's me that checks the front door and locks the patio doors at night, and it's me that gets the least sleep. I find it telling that my brother rang me, and not my sister, to tell me that he'd be home late and to check it'd be ok. It's not that she's irresponsible, I just think she's more able to pass responsibility for herself over to others. Christ, I'm a parent, and I haven't even given birth. I only have Neighbours at lunchtime to look forward to and a pile of laundry. Mind you, I reckon a baby'll be a cinch after this...

A plague on all dentists!

My arsehole dentist butchered my teeth again today. I went back on Monday, complaining of pain in the tooth that was filled a few weeks ago. The dentist was very suspicious and basically treated me like a big liar. He kept saying 'not just sensitive tooth, pain in tooth, yes?'

'Yes' I replied.

Then he gave me some Sensodyne. Fucking Sensodyne?! That made me angry. 'No, look, it's not just sensitive teeth, or I'd have it in all my teeth wouldn't I? It only hurts on the tooth YOU messed with. It canes after I eat and throbs at night. It keeps me awake. I have to take Neurofen EVERY SINGLE DAY BECAUSE OF YOU.'

'Ok, ok.' He relented and told me to make an appointment for later in the week.

So I returned today to yet more suspicion. He kept trying to be all clever and catch me out by tapping all the other teeth in my mouth and going 'Same pain, yes?' but of course it wasn't, because when he tapped the other teeth it just felt odd, but when he tapped the affected tooth I nearly hit the ceiling. That finally convinced him. Thank God. It's all very scary at the dentist, you basically put yourself at his mercy. You lay there, pathetic in plastic bib and Woody Allen glasses, with your mouth open, helpless against the dental rape that's about to occur. Nobody can perform self-dentistry, it's not like you can do first aid on your own teeth is it? So you have to just lie there and trust in the NHS, and that's quite difficult when you think your dentist is TYRANT.

I just don't understand why he thinks I'd drive 15 miles to the dentist over and over again ... for kicks, perhaps? I don't enjoy being prodded and drilled. In fact, I hate going there, I feel sick in the run up to the appointment and sometimes have to swallow to prevent myself from vomiting when I'm in the chair. Perhaps he just couldn't be arsed to drill my tooth again. Fair enough, I suppose.

So the dentist finally did what he should have done 3 months ago and filled my root canals. He irrigated them and squirted medicine in them to clean out all the nasty badness. And then he put something like Plaster of Paris in my cavity as a 'temporary filling'. I have to go back in two weeks for more work but apparently THE BUTCHER is on holiday (I nearly did a little victory dance), so I am having a competant dentist instead. The saga continues...

DO THE RUDEBOX! SHAKE YOUR RUDEBOX!

I saw pop supremo Robbie Williams for the 5th time last night. He only gets 7/10, I'm sad to say, I've seen him on much better form.

I tnink poor Robbie might have been ill, because he seemed flat and lacking in the usual energy he has onstage. The audience, despite their giant pink sequinned cowboy hats and fluffy bunny ears (yes ladies, that will definitely make Robbie notice you and want to have sex with you) weren't enraptured by him like they have in the past. So what we ended up with was a handful of new songs, mechanically performed, a few old favourites, and a few Jimmy Tarbuckesque jokes.

I will never understand why he always gets that rentatwat, hanger-on Jonathan Wilkes on stage with him, if you're not au fait with the Robbie bandwagon and don't know who I'm talking about then you only need look at his face:


Yes, now you understand what I'm talking about.

Wilkes was monkeying around for a good 20 minutes or so. I just wanted him to fuck off so Robbie could do his job properly and get on with singing some songs. But oh no, we had to stand and wait, while Butlins Redcoat Wilkes attemped to get the audience to participate in his low-rent caberet, watching it was akin to attending a Hoseasons Saturday night 'Little Tigers' disco (with free BBQ!) aged 8 and being forced by your parents into doing the hokey cokey.

Nevertheless, I liked:
- Feel
- Kids
- Come Undone

Yes, they are my faves, but I do like Rudebox, even if the lyrics are ridiculous.

Robbie's definitely not as pretty as he used to be. Approximately three years ago he was an unstoppable force of SEX, but now he makes me squirm a little. I wanted my lovely boyfriend, not this gurning moron. I was standing (quite near the front!) thinking, "well, you're very pretty, Robbie, but you're not half as good as my Jamesy". He kept kept putting his hand down his trousers and all the girls were swooning, but it rather saddened me because his package is VERY disappointing, and I have it on good authority that he is gentially-challenged.

The evening ended well though, I was feeling very pleased with myself, because when I saw Take That in June (MUCH MUCH better concert than this, btw) I was stuck in the car park until 2.30am, eventually arriving at my house past 4am to discover my parents had called the police in my absence. This time we parked the other side of the bowl and walked to it, and I was home just before 1am. Get in!

**Just seen a review on the Observer website here: http://observer.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,1874008,00.html

Go read, it's better than wot I writ.**

Gemma - Smarter Than Rabbits

I outwitted my rabbits today. I'd been feeling guilty about keeping them cooped up in the hutch since Sunday, so I let them out in the garden for a couple of hours to run around, eat all Mum's plants and dig up the lawn. When playtime finishes I usually have to run around the garden for about 30 minutes herding them towards the hutch and then catching them. It's no fun at all. But not today! Oh no!

I realised last week that Mrs Bun (the smaller, darker of the two) is much better at being herded than her wayward husband, but boy is she fast! So, ignoring Big Bun (the huge white lump) and his attention-seeking circling around my feet, I concentrated on getting Mrs Bun within the hutch. After she'd jumped in I SLAMMED the bottom door to prevent her from getting out. I then left the door on the top floor of the hutch open, because I know that Big Bun is capable of leaping up 2 storeys and getting in through it.

I stood back and watched my stupid white rabbit try and work out what had happened. He 'knew' his missus was inside the hutch, he knew he was outside the hutch, it's just that he couldn't fathom how or why it had happened. So, after a few nose-rubs through the bars, he started peering upwards on his hind legs trying to find a way in. And about 4 minutes later he worked out what to do and jumped inside.

Ha ha! Stupid rabbits. They are so predictable. I am much cleverer than them. I don't care if their brains are only the size of walnuts, it's still a victory in my eyes.

Has anyone got a spare tenner?

I have foolishly allowed myself to get carried away and bid on this:

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=260027839276

It'd be ok except I can't actually afford the item. So if any of my friends are reading, can I have it as a gift please? You get my friendship guaranteed for the next 10 years in return, and if you think about it, that's actually a real bargain, especially when you factor birthday and Christmas presents in.

Revel Roulette

Dad bought some Revels tonight for us to eat during the TERROR docu-drama on BBC2. I ate a couple of small handfuls. The experience went off without a hitch and was going surprisingly well until THREE COFFEES IN A ROW. They are disgusting, I have no idea why Mars even bother putting them in the Revels mix, unless it's all a cruel joke, in which case I both despise and respect them.

So annoyed was I with this confectionary game of chance that I jovially described the experience of eating the Revels as being 'like Russian Roulette'... then I started wondering why they stopped making them with peanuts in and decided that my analogy has probably, in recent years, become literal, what with fatal allergies increasing. It'd give eating them a new edge though, wouldn't it, if you knew you could go from healthy to full-blown anaphylaxis in a heartbeat.

The TERROR programme was funny, lots of mentions of 'asses', 'balls' and 'butts'.

Money and that

Join up with this reputable website (it is reputable, otherwise I'd never recommend it) and you can get CASH for doing fun surveys when you're bored.

http://www.yougov.com/users/registrationintro_ref.asp?refid=369551&jID=3&sID=1

"As a member of the YouGov Panel you will be invited from time-to-time to participate in surveys on topics ranging from from politics to painkillers to pensions. Each time you take part in a survey, you will have your virtual YouGov account credited with cash amounts depending on the survey's length, or you may be entered into a prize draw. When you reach £50 in your account, YouGov will send you a cheque for that amount."

Starspotter

Walking back to my boyfriend's flat from Gloucester Road station, after a cross-London jaunt from dropping my car off in Crouch End (the only place, it seems, in this fucking city where you can park a car for free) I saw infamous womaniser Darren Day run past me. I must admit I was surprised that his highly-trained nostrils didn't sniff out my female hormones and cause him to gravitate towards me. He must have been in a real hurry to pass up the opportunity of a casual shag (I do not want to shag him, I just think that his body is incapable of passing female bodies without causing him to stop and try and put his penis inside them). He was wearing flip flops and ripped jeans and looked a bit like Jason Donavan circa 1988. As I watched him sprint down the street, dirty feet running awkwardly to conteract the flipping and flopping occuring through an ill choice of footwear, I thought of all the poor women that have laid their hands upon his backside; Anna Friel, Maxine off Coronation Street, Isla Fisher, her out of Hearsay...

What did shagging him ever do for their self-confidence, or their careers? Nothing. Yet they still fall for him, these blonde idiotic nymphettes... when will they ever learn?

SPACE INVADERS!!!

The X1 bus service runs a shuttle coach service from Peterborough station to my village every 30 minutes. It's mainly used by teenagers and old people, because the local yokels tend to use the cheaper, skankier Norfolk Green service. I prefer the swifter service because the tall seats offer less opportunity for interaction with locals.

So I was sitting on this bus, suffering with a migraine that I've had on and off all weekend. I was closing my eyes to shield them from the sickening glare of the sun, and happily daydreaming to myself about celebrity weddings. I opened my eyes briefly to check our position. Just then, a local's head (shaven and adorned with tattoos and flesh tunnels) popped up from the seat behind mine and addressed me directly, "Oi reckon you was asleep just then."

I was a bit shocked by this uninvited observation, so just smiled limply and replied in the negative. This would be enough, in normal circumstances, to repel any more unwanted comments, but this man obviously wasn't one for subtle nuances, and continued, like a vocal bull in a china shop, "Oi reckon if you wasn't then you was gettin' that way, why you asleep on the bus for?"

This too caught me off-guard, I firmly said "I. Am. Awake." and turned to look out of the window. 'Ha", I thought, 'try talking your local talk to the back of my head, you incoherant simpleton!' This wasn't what I should have said, obviously, what I should have said was "NOT THAT THIS IS ANY BUSINESS OF YOURS, MR YOKEL, BUT I HAVE A CRACKING MIGRAINE THAT FEELS LIKE PART OF MY BRAIN HAS DETACHED FROM THE REST AND IS WOBBLING AROUND LOOSLY INSIDE MY HEAD, AND I WAS CLOSING MY EYES TO SHUT OUT THE LIGHT BECAUSE IT FEELS LIKE A MILLION DAGGERS STABBING ME IN THE BACK OF MY EYES. AND FURTHERMORE, YOUR HARSH NORFOLK ACCENT IS CAUSING EAR DISTURBANCE AND GENERAL AWKWARDNESS, RESULTING IN NAUSEA. NOT THAT ANY OF THIS IS YOUR BUSINESS, YOU UNDERSTAND, I'M JUST SAYING THIS TO TRY ANDMAKE YOU STOP TALKING TO ME."

Harsh, you might think. Not really. When you catch a bus or tube or plane alone then you have paid for the right to sit/stand ignored for the duration of the journey, you can then pretend to ignore everybody else and amuse yourself by making mental observations about their dress/behaviour. It is an unwritten law that anyone who tries to chat with fellow passengers is either a child or a mental, and I don't want to talk with either of them. Why then, did this man think he had the right to question my bus slumber? Has he never encountered people catching a quick 40 winks on public transport before? This and the fact that he INVADED MY PERSONAL SPACE tells me that he is not a regular user of the Cambridgeshire bus services, or any public transport service for that matter. I was on the 10:35 from King's Cross earlier, no words were exchanged with my fellow passengers other than the perfunctory smile and nod, which is the only interaction you should need to have with strangers at any point on any journey, unless they offer you their newspaper or help you to put your bag in the rack above. Even then you should only make the politest of comments, unless invited (by body language or otherwise) to continue and have a conversation.

I am also concerned that this SPACE INVASION is continuing over into my blog, as a few comments recently left by 'anonymous' have suggested potential sharking, this is in breach of blog etiquette and all such comments will be ridiculed or deleted as appropriate.

Today's blog is dedicated to Croc-Agitator Steve Irwin



RIP Steve, keep worrying those snakes in heaven.

I have a new job!

Yes, after a few weeks of agonising poverty and bleak thoughts of begging I have finally secured some paid employment that lasts beyond September. You are now reading the blog of the 'Aim Higher Project Worker' for the Fenland district. This means that I'll be helping kids from local schools to experience university, by organising workshops, outings and residential schools. The idea is that we get more kids from this district to apply, because the Fenland region has an appalling track record of adult illiteracy and progression past the GCSE stage.

I did have to explain to HR (after accepting the job) that I had another job application in the pipeline. They'd only find out about it anyway, seeing as it's with the same institution. I think my honesty was appreciated.

It's not against any kind of rules to apply for two different positions within an organisation is it? I'm sure they can't penalise me for it.

I hope they can't.

Now I'm worried. Hmm...

Off to London I go...

... well, I'm actually leaving in a couple of hours. Going to have a short nap, a shower and get changed first.

It's very sad that I am actually really looking forward to getting the GNER fast train to London this evening. 45 mins and I'm there! It seems so luxurious compared to what I'm used to! And there is a buffet carriage! AND WI-FI INTERNET ACCESS!!!

None of this detracts from the fact that it's fucking sad to be excited about going on a train at my age. I am definitely going to try and squidge my laptop into my weekend bag, though, because I want to surf the net on a train.

A word from our sponsor

"Greetings Humans of Earth 2006 AD. I am come to give my endorsement to this, the blog of Gemma O'Donnell (that's this blog you're reading now). I have perused the comedic musings and heart-warming anecdotes within and feel obligated to spread the word of this witty young lady and her written offerings around the internet and beyond.

You may wonder what I'm getting out of this sponsorship. Gemma provides me with human flesh to feast upon every full moon. I meet her round the back of the hospital and she opens the 'limb bin' for me. I can't do it because I have these USELESS PUNY LITTLE ARMS. Then I place my giant head inside and tuck into all the amputated arms and legs that nobody wants anymore. Don't you moralise with me, readers! THEY WERE ONLY GOING TO BURN THEM ANYWAY!!

So please continue to offer your support of this most marvellous internet weblog. It's the best journal I've read since I got hold of a copy of that Anne Frank's diary, and, well, that was a bit disappointing really. So much unnecessary death... But this knocks spots off it!

Love and kisses,

Mr T. Rex

P.S. RAR!

This money-saving lark...

... it's a lot easier than I thought. If only I'd known all these short-cuts years ago, think of all the money I could have saved. It's not that I wasted all my cash through extravagance, though that does account for some of it, it's just that I never considered looking into the possibility of finding a cheaper deal - I always went for the easier option.

Today, for instance, I was looking on the internet, looking up trains to London this weekend. By surfing around different sites I eventually found myself on the GNER website, where I was able to purchase two single tickets departing from Peterborough (a 30 minute bus journey away) for £10 each. Now, normally I'd just hop on the train at Watlington (the village nearest my home) and pay £35 for the return trip. But by doing it this way I've saved over £10. I know this doesn't seem much, but that will feed me for two days. Or pay for my tube travel for the whole weekend. And if I continue to save £10 with each journey then by Christmas I'll have saved over £50.

I've sold over £120 worth of stuff on Ebay, all the proceeds of which have gone straight into my knackered bank account. And I made over £90 at the car boot sale on Saturday, so that's my spends for the next couple of weeks.

Now all I need to do is find a housewarming gift for under £5 before Saturday afternoon and I'll be laughing.

More Upside Down Heads

I've had a few excellent suggestions for upside down head candidates. However, it would also seem that there are some doubters among us, some people who think that these phenomena do not exist. Well let me present you with Exhibit A.

Exhibit A


"Yes Gemma", you say, "That is the late Buster Merryfield of Only Fools and Horses fame." Why yes, it is. Note, if you will, his bald head and exceptionally fluffy beard. Now let me show you Exhibit B.

Exhibit B


Concentrate carefully on looking at the mouth. The rest will fall into place. Just look at that wonderful white monobrow, and the little piggy nose! Buster (God rest his soul) would have been just as handsome a gent upside down as right way up, and his baldness (once a weakness) is now his crowning glory! I can see a few of you are still not convinced. This is fine, more evidence is needed. May I introduce Exhibit C.

Exhibit C


That's right, it's deep-voiced, regal Englishman Brian Blessed, in all his right way up enormous glory. Note the presence of both facial hair and head hair, this is very important, he is folically gifted in more ways than one. Once again I ask you to keep all this in mind as you peruse Exhibit D.

Exhibit D


Look at the mouth once more. Amazing. Upside down he resembles none other than the Honey Monster!!

Growlers and Upside Down Heads

I've recently become aquainted with the term 'growler'. I'm sure I've heard it before, but have never really considered it as an alternative name for the female genital region. Now, however, I am finding myself using this word more and more frequently, not just to describe women's nether-regions, but also as a sort of boredom mantra, a bit like Tourettes in reverse. In moments of extreme dullness the word just pops into my head, and then I have to say it to get it out; "Growler", I say (yes, I do think the capital 'G'), and instantly feel better. I know it's not particularly nice, and conjures up mental images of monster-like hairy openings with snarling teeth, but I honestly cannot help it. I am hoping it will end soon and I'll start on a more pleasant word.

Another thing I can't stop fixating on at the moment are upside down heads. I told James this on the phone tonight and he sounded baffled, he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. "Upside down heads", I said, "you know, heads that'd look exactly the same if you turned them upside down than if you looked at them the right way up". Despite this more than adequate explanation he still sounded baffled. I tried a new tack, giving some examples of famous people with upside down heads, but I really think it's a phenomena that needs to be illustrated visually to be fully appreciated.

Thus:



I don't have my photoshop loaded up on the Mac. If I did I'd have done a proper job on this, taken the head off the shoulders and turned it round, placing it back upon the shoulders and thus creating even more of a visual impact. But I couldn't so you'll just have to imagine the shoulders are at the bottom of the second picture. Also, Photobucket is going a bit weird and keeps turning the second picture back the right way up, which is very annoying, it might not be Photobucket anyway, there might be a Fred Elliot loving poltergeist living inside my laptop that is annoyed with my photographic tampering.

Bald men, obviously, are the best for upside down fun. This is because of the continuity of skin from chin to forehead. Men with beards also make good upside down candidates, providing they have a head of hair equal to the hair upon their faces (sparse hair and whispy beards work well, as do thick lustrous hair and massive beards).

If anybody else has any good photographs of upside down men then please let me know and I will post the best ones here for all to appreciate.

How much vitamin C...

... do you think there'd be in a smoothie made from 2 bananas, 10 strawberries, 20-odd blueberries and a big glug of orange juice?

I'm trying to bump up the old immune system because I'm awaiting the arrival of James, and he has Man-Flu.

WOO! Job interview!!

At last something that's guaranteed beyond the next two months and offers me REGULAR hours.

It's a NICE job too, going round colleges and schools, trying to help kids from lower-income families get into university. Which is nice, because I was once in the exact same position as the kids I'd be talking to. One of Labour's little ideas...

I shall do my very best, and next Thursday at 10:30am I want all readers to cross their fingers and toes for me.

A blast from the past...

One of my ex-housemates from my time in Norwich has finally got around to posting one of the films I helped out on on youtube. It's particularly frightening because of the ventriloquists dummy. I had to order that fucking dummy from the States and when it arrived my ex used to terrorise me with it.

No Fair

I did the lighting for a little comedy show (it's called Sandy Hole and it's going to be brilliant and I hope you'll all know what I'm on about in the not-too-distant future) in Camden a couple of weeks ago, the cast of whom are all comedians. This evening I rang James because I was feeling a bit lonely and bored, he was out having fun at shows and bars with all the lovely people from Sandy Hole, because they're in Edinburgh for the festival, obviously. I spoke to Leanne on the phone and she was lovely, they are all lovely, and they're having a lovely time, and they think I'm lovely, but I'm STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE WHERE THE POST IS DELIVERED AT MIDDAY AND HAVING TO CLOSE ALL THE HOUSE-WINDOWS TO PREVENT THE SMELL OF MANURE FROM PENETRATING MY BED LINEN.

It's ok... no, really, it's fine. They can keep their ... drinks, and their ... fun, and their ... laughing, and .... merrymaking. I'm perfectly happy sat here watching Living TV +1, scratching my elbow and eating my family-sized bar of Galaxy all to myself. I don't even want to be up there with them. It sounds really BORING.

Wisbech is where it's at anyway. That's what all the kool kidz say.

Mmm... Ebay...

So 6 of my 13 items are currently selling very well on Ebay, which is just serving to make me more and more hungry (well, greedy) for cash. I went through my bedroom yesterday manically searching for items to sell, and managed to find a further four. This new-found selling kick is partly pure greed, partly desperation and partly boredom, because I'm off work this week and have, thus far, spent my time obsessively checking 'My Ebay' every 15 minutes, antagonising my rabbits and watching satellite tv chat shows.

Boyface is really missing me in Scutland, which then had the knock-on effect of making me realise just how much I miss him, and so the two of us have been sending pathetic texts to each other and generally acting in a sickening fashion.

Please DON'T, for the Love of God, buy any of my Ebay products, because I think this is starting to get out of hand!

Buy my wares!

I'm a bit obsessed with Ebay at the moment, and the accumulation (as opposed to careless squandering) of wealth.

I have a few bits and bobs for sale and you can buy them here!!

It's mostly junk though, but if you're in need of a flush camping toilet then be my guest!

Sometimes I am ashamed of being British...

So a bunch of white-bred British tossers kicked off at an airport boarding a flight to Manchester because there were two 'suspicious' men in the departure lounge. Their crimes were checking their watches frequently, appearing to be asian and talking in a language, possibly Arabic. A family of seven made a fuss on the plane and refused to fly unless the men in question were taken off. The men were removed from the flight and all the white folk could fly home happy and free from TERROR.

So let's examine the young men's crimes: Talking in Arabic, yes - ARABIC, that most evil of all languages! They must surely have been talking about blowing things up, otherwise why wouldn't they speak in English like everybody else?!
Having dark skin, their skin... it's... DARKER than everyone elses! Only dark people do evil things like blow up aeroplanes and buses.
Checking their watches regularly, well, they must have been deciding when to set THE BOMB off, because they can't have been keeping an eye on the flight like the rest of those peaceful white folks. EVIL MEN!!

So I assume that now closet racists will be able to eject ethnic minorities from any form of public transport they choose, under the guise of being TERROR vigilantes. I fear for this country, I really do.

Get Well Soon, Nana Hawkins!

My Nan had a fall. She slipped on the way to the bus stop and broke her nose and arm, and knocked her teeth into her face. She's 77. And quite frail. And she lives alone in a council flat with no family nearby, so I'm a bit worried about her, even though she's abrupt and has the tact of a bull in a china shop.

I might have to spend my week off work visiting her in Kent and listening to her ranting about the Post Office and the Council and her GOODFORNUFFINBRUVVA!

Hmmm.

This is probably a blog no-no

But I have to go somewhere to whinge about missing my boyfriend and at least if I do it here my whining noises won't penetrate your ears and cause further offense. James has been in Scotland for nearly a week now, doing all sorts of comedy whoring at the Edinburgh festival. He'll be there until next weekend. I'm too skint to go visit him, and even if I did I'd be abandoned in bars and dingy clubs at 2am while he pimped himself out to some comedy promoter with probably 3 months more experience than him. So here I am, in Cambs, saving pennies and selling things on Ebay to desperately cobble together enough green to visit him in London within the next month.

It's not me making all the effort, if you were thinking it seemed that way, he's coming here in 2 weeks, but that's not the same. Firstly, my parents are here, so that's a bit ... odd. Secondly, I live in a village, which is as far removed from South Kensington (Boyface's patch) as it's possible to be. That means that we can't roll around in bed all day smoking and being filthy. We also can't nip out to the shops/pub for a nice brunch and read of the Saturday papers. We have to do that in the living room while Dad watches UK History documentaries on Stalin, belches and scratches his arse. We have to laugh at Mum's hilarious tales of doctor's surgeries and receptionist gaffes. We have to try not to laugh at every word that comes out of my brother's mouth.

What's going to make this next visit particularly FUN is that my big sister will be in residence at Casa O'Donnell. James has never met Maria. I am waiting to see what he makes of her. I have pre-warned him. I told him some of the little gems she's come out with in the last 12 months like "Oh, my ears are ringing! Can you hear?" and "I want to go out for the day, do we live near Bath?". He laughed at these. She is worse in real life. Oh dear.

I miss him so much that none of the above will stop me from dragging his boney arse to the Fens and clinging to him like a limpet for 3 days.

I am so pathetic for this man. It's embarrassing.

Hermit woe...

I'm feeling a bit cross with myself and guilty today.

Last night I was supposed to be attending a friend's Big Brother BBQ at 8pm. But by 8:15 I was still wearing my pyjamas and throwing homemade spaghetti bolognese down my throat. "At the end of the first half", I thought to myself, "I'll go to the party."

The first half ended. I was still wearing my pyjamas. I wore them through Eat Out Of Tin Cans (but I didn't watch it because Jimmy Carr's face gives me uncontrollable rage blackouts). The second half began. I was still wearing my pyjamas. I decided that the party obviously wasn't going to happen for me, so texted the hostess to try and explain my absence.

The best I could come up with was: 'Hi. Haven't got money for meat or booze and can't get lift in. Sorry. Xx'

Even reading that back to myself now I am squirming with shame. And I wrote it. Fucking terrible.

You see I really did want to go to this party, honest. I just couldn't be bothered to move, wash, put makeup on, do my hair, leave the house and talk to people. And I knew if I went I'd spend at least £5 on cigarettes and Lambrini, and I definitely cannot afford to lose £5 at the moment.

I watched the final and then went to bed with a cup of tea and read Mrs Dalloway. I was asleep by midnight.

I am dreading seeing all my friends next week, because they'll all tell me off for being lame. But I guess I could use the now tried and tested method of staying in and hiding and hoping everyone goes away and leaves me alone. Poverty has made me so antisocial.

My blog gets all grown up!

Well I've finally gotten around to creating a proper grown-up blog, to replace my rubbish myspace one. I'll be posting all my usual rubbish rants on here from now on, but my archive of old blogs remains at http://blog.myspace.com/gembles and you can go there and rake through my traumatic tales of singledom, shags, knob scents and financial ruin.

A quick word on the title; I love dinosaurs, obviously, and therefore my title represents that particular demographic of society that is female and finds giant reptiles fascinating.

I'm off to get ready for a Big Brother party now, which should be pretty amazing.

Bye

gem xx