Thursday, September 28

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.

Wednesday, September 27

*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.

Tuesday, September 26

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:


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...

Thursday, September 21

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...

Sunday, September 17


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:,,1874008,00.html

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

Wednesday, September 13

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.

Tuesday, September 12

Has anyone got a spare tenner?

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

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.

Monday, September 11

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'.

Sunday, September 10

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.

"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."

Thursday, September 7


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?

Monday, September 4


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?"


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.

Friday, September 1

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...

Do Google searches and that...