Weakly Bulletin

What a busy week I have had. Monday was a public holiday and the Hub and I went to a boot sale and bought other people’s junk. Then we had two visitors bearing gifts, my blonde friend and my kind friend. My blonde friend had wrapped a large box in silver paper and filled it with all the silver items she could find, from tin foil to Silver Spoon sugar, and including a lovely picture frame and a gunk catcher for the sink. It was a thoughtful gift and very much appreciated. I am repaying her by confiscating her goldfish. Every time I visit I nag her to buy him some plants for his bowl and she never gets around to it so I told her I’m finding him a new home, which I have: he’s going to be with her mother’s fish, who lives with my nephew who has several. His name is Bob (the fish, not the nephew) and he has been alive for ever. I’m sure he’ll welcome the new fish with open gills.

My kind friend brought a massive bunch of flowers and an envelope containing £50 in Frankie & Benny’s gift vouchers. As the boys were not here, our plan for our anniversary was to get a Nando’s and a dvd, but all plans are subject to change when there’s free food going.

On Tuesday I started my work placement. I was given basic stuff to do but we all have to start somewhere and the morning flew by. After work (still gives me a rush to say things like that) I went to buy my interview outfit. Discretionary grants are available for people to buy suitable clothes; not working for twenty years comes under the general heading of Scruffbag In Desperate Need Of A Wardrobe, so I had no problems qualifying. I got a lovely herringbone suit, white blouse, shoes, and even a box of knee highs. By the way, I am shopping at BHS from now on: I have never before been into a clothes shop and found clothes that actually fit short, dumpy me without needing major alterations or a lot of safety pins. And it was reasonably priced.

Once I found what I wanted I had to have it written up, then I marched up the hill to the appropriate office to have it approved and then I marched back down again to retrieve my job-winning garments. It wasn’t worth going home because I had to be on Underbank at five-thirty to have my photograph taken with the other £100 Shop Local winners and a random councillor who squeezed to the front of the picture before asking us what the photo shoot was in aid of.

I had an hour or so to kill between engagements so I grabbed a cup of tea and a couple of crumpets from a coffee shop, to the rage of the cook, who yelled at the poor waitress for daring to serve me after four when he only had half an hour to clean up. Getting out of there before he started on me for taking too long to eat, I sat on a bench on Underbank and watched the drunks go by. I didn’t know I was going to do that because I had never before noticed the pub I was sitting opposite. A friendly guy about my age sat on the other end of the bench and interrupted my sudoku to tell me I was nice and it was nice to be nice so his dad always said and what was my name? really? he had a sister called Tilly and I was nice and I was nice looking and I had nice teeth* and it was nice that I was so nice. A much-tattooed man asked him for a light and then sat between us and the friendly guy turned to to him and said he had a nice earring and nice tattoos and what was his name? really? he had a brother called Pete and it was nice to be nice, wasn’t it? He really was a very nice man.

*That was when I knew he was drunk.

I was home for about an hour and then the Hub and I went out for our anniversary meal. We had a pizza starter then a rack of ribs for me and chicken & ribs with a steak side order for the Hub. I had apple & rhubarb crumble for afters. We held hands between courses and reminisced about our wedding and early days and then got into an argument about exactly what percentage of my ribs I had eaten. I still say it was eighty percent but the Hub says 66.6%, or two thirds, to give it its correct title. The meal came to £49.15 with our one drink each so we told the waiter he could keep the change.

Yesterday after work (heeheehee) I met the Hub in Edgeley and we spent some of our £100 on earrings (for me), dustpan and brush (for me; the Hub lives in hope), notebooks (for me), make up (for me), biscuits (for me and Toby), and tank plants (for Bob’s new friend). The Hub got to follow me round.

We met another Bob: the jeweller had two dogs. He told us one was called Ben and the other was Bob, his father. I said I thought Bob’s your uncle. The jeweller changed his mind about giving us discount.

Today I had my pre-interview (panic a lot and choose between eating dry bread for lunch or throwing up), interview (when I came out I thought it had gone well; now I realise I waffled the whole time and made a terrible impression) and post-interview (lie on the couch watching Britain’s Got Talent and decide that if I don’t get the job it’s not my suit’s fault).

And that has been my week so far. I can’t remember the last time I had as many engagements in one day as the Queen and I realise now she must lie on her couch in exhaustion and get Philip to bring her cups of Earl Grey and tell her she’s a brave little soldier, then give her lots of kisses and hugs and things. The British cure-all: tea and crumpet.

I Am Still The Pigeon

I got two pieces of good news yesterday: I passed my interview and I start my work placement on Monday; and I won £100 worth of shopping.   I am a little relieved about the interview because it could all have gone horribly wrong: I went to freshen up beforehand and there was an incident in the public toilet.  I can’t give you details because I have embarrassed my sons enough and Tory Boy is still hoping for a career in public service; it all worked out for the best in the end, is all I can say.

The competition was run by my landlord, Stockport Homes.  A woman phoned to say I had won for this area in their ‘shop local’ competition.  I had to say in 100 words why I use my local shopping centre in Castle Street; it was part of the ‘use them or lose them’ campaign, as independents are being squeezed out by big business.   Think about it: you can buy your groceries, your furniture, your clothes, your pet needs, your insurance, your lunch, and pretty soon your bank services from Tesco; and you can get it cheaper than any single shop can offer you.  Sounds good, but will you think that when the next general election is sponsored by Asda?  The candidates will have to start the day with a group hug and a yoghurt.  Makes me queasy just thinking about hugs that early in the morning.

I have to spend the money in the local shops and claim it back.  I’m not sure how it will work because the lady promised to send me an email with the details and I’m still waiting.  Could it be cat-and-mouse, Stockport Homes style?  We promise you something great – money, a kitchen – and then you never hear from us again.

It is ages since I last won anything.  At least I do occasionally win stuff: the poor Hub has only ever won one competition, and that because the odds were stacked in his favour.  He put petrol in the car one day and went to pay for it, when he noticed a sign above a box inviting him to put his name in for the chance of winning an England shirt; the date showed it was the last day of the competition.  As he dropped his entry form in the attendant said, ‘You’ll probably win that.’  ‘Really?’ the Hub replied.  ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘You’re the only person who’s entered.’

*

I still miss napowrimo so I am going to take part in some weekly poetry prompt exercises.  This first one is from http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/ We have to write a poem inspired by Feet Beneath The Table  by Charles Blackman, 1956.

Here’s mine:

Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956

Alice – louche, right-eyed and pushy.
Nailed by the artist.
There are no shivarees at this party.

Carroll quivers in his grave, unveiled
to 21st Century eyes as
Charles Dodgson, paedophile.

Truth huddles, sad, like long-held pain.

*

*

‘Shivaree’ was yesterday’s Word of the Day from Dictionary.com and I just had to use it: 

1. A mock serenade with kettles, pans, horns, and other noisemakers given for a newly married couple.

2. An elaborate, noisy celebration.

*

This prompt is from http://writersisland.wordpress.com/  We have to write about an imaginary friend.  My poem is based on something that happened with my boys when they were younger; I have to find a better title:

A Tale Of Friends And Brothers

Two brothers, eleven and six.
Six – being six – had John
and Michael living in his head.
John and Michael and Six
were inseparable until the day
Eleven – being eleven – ate John.
Six wailed; Mother bellowed,
‘Eleven, sick him up at once!’
Eleven feigned retching.
John was returned
to his rightful mind.