Cold Calling An Author Can Sometimes Pay Off

I once acted out of character and it paid off.

Let me explain: I am quite shy.  No, really.

It is easy to be gregarious on (I was going to say ‘paper’ but I guess technically it’s) plastic; much harder in real life when the person you are talking to is not behind a monitor six thousand miles away going ‘Huh? Wazzsheonabout?’ but standing right in front of you, rictus grin plastered on face, thinking, ‘Huh? Wazzsheonabout?’

I’m rubbish at cold calling; at asking strangers for something.  I once had a job as a Carpet Cleaning Saleswoman (it was the early Eighties; I wasn’t a person then). I had to go door-to-door to tell people that they needed me because their carpets were dirty.  All for an alleged weekly wage of £75.

I was so bad at cold calling and made so few sales (ten-day total sales: zero), they put me on commission at the end of the first week (it was the early Eighties; I had no rights that I knew of, being eighteen and stupid).  In one month I earned a grand total of £9.

If they had only asked me to write to the customers, it might have been a different story.  As this one is turning out to be, because it’s about my writing group.  No, really.

I saw an article in our local paper about a local writer who had just published her third book –  actually, it was her second book, although she has written her third book; the reporter got it wrong – may his rugs remain forever filthy – despite the author sending him the details in cold hard ether.  Fortunately, I didn’t know that at the time, or this might have been a different story (not really, but repetition is a good comedy device and I’m feeling facetious today, even a little lightheaded, not having blogged at you for five days).

I read in the Stockport Express that author Allie Cresswell had not only published her third book [not], but she lived in Stockport and had a website.  I moseyed on over to her website by way of dinner, dessert, crisps and a bar of chocolate, and thought she looked friendly enough, so I girded up my now ample loins and popped off an email.

That’s the bit that was out of character – I cold called an author.  Yo!  I said, I belong to Stockport Writers.  We have no money; will you come and talk to us for free?

Yes, she replied; I’d love to.  I’m pretty sure my charm and erudition won her over.

Emails were exchanged; details were organised (please run the whole session, however you like, but don’t arrive before eleven because the Art Gallery won’t let us in until then because of insurance issues, I think); cake purchased in honour of our guest.  The great day arrived…

All joking aside, it was a great day.   Warm and friendly, Allie told us a bit about herself (passing off the sloppy journalist’s carelessness as just one of those things…so magnanimous*), her writing background and her career. Then she read from one of her books – we enjoyed it so much, we asked for more.  After a break for tea and cake (these loins won’t amplify themselves, you know), Allie set us a writing exercise, which had everyone interested and animated.  To keep things fresh, we do rotate the chair each month, as in, a different person chairs each month’s meeting; we don’t sit in swivel chairs and circulate stationarily (the gallery staff keep those chairs to themselves; we can’t complain because they let us use the space for free).  To have someone entirely new set the prompt made us all a little giddy, and produced some wonderful freewriting.

*If I appear to be losing it a little here, it’s because I am.  Remember my magnum opus (I Went To London To Be On Telly And Get Free Stuff)?  It might have turned out all right in the end, but that sloppy – and somewhat vindictive – journalism has made me over-sensitive.  Besides, that Stockport Express journalist didn’t publicise our guest speaker like I asked him to in my second – and last – out of character cold calling email.  May his rugs remain forever filthy.

Allie brought some of her books and I felt, having strong-armed her into coming along, that I ought to buy at least one of the novels, but I didn’t have enough money on me.   Fortunately, she sells them for Kindle, and I was able to buy two for less than the price of one hard copy.   Even more of a bargain, the Amazon account is hooked up to the Hub’s credit card and not mine so, technically, I got them for nothing.  And I had cake!  What a great day.  Our guest also got a booking, from one of our writers who attends another group, so it was a win-win situation.

Now I come to the reason why I haven’t blogged for five days: I started one of the books, Relative Strangers.  As a pretty woman might say, big mistake; huge. You should see the state of my house – I’ve done no housework because all I wanted to do was read; and the dogs aren’t talking to me.

The book explores the dynamics of family life by gathering together one extended family in a large house for one week.

At first, I was confused by the sheer number of characters but I soon worked out who was married to whom and had which children and which in-laws and which rooms and cars and grievances and grudges.  The book is packed with incident and was a really interesting and fun read, but not fun in the way – I hope – this post is fun.  It was a fascinating exploration of relationships: the characters, for the most part, were neither good nor bad, but human, with foibles and faults like we all have.

The ending surprised me.  And that’s all I’ll say, because I don’t want to give anything away.  If you like surprises, don’t read the blurb on the website because it tells you in which direction the ending heads.

There were more typos than I usually approve of but I let them pass because I enjoyed the book so much.  I only mention them because I want this to be a balanced critique.  Definitely recommended.  You can trust me; it’s not like I’m a journalist (sorry, Kateshreswdaytheexception).

You can find Allie’s website here; and her books on Amazon here; and here. They are available on Amazon.com as well as the UK site.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this post because you may not get another for at least the next five days: I have her other book to read.

 

I Was Accidentally On Telly

Why is it that the vast majority of sycamores cannot grasp even the most basic economic principles? (Photo credit: one percent for the planet)

Many years ago, that was; I’m not referring to my most recent appearance, in the audience of the first leaders’ debate during the 2010 General Election campaign: blink and you missed me.

I was reminded of my week on telly by yesterday’s prompt about a surreal experience.  It’s quite a long story so go and have your wee first.

I’m a big fan of saving the planet.  I’m in favour of breathable air, water for all and not buying a new thing until the old thing dies, is dismantled and the parts used for shelves, dusters and magazine holders.  My tea caddies are old coffee jars, so I practise what I preach.

In 2001 Stockport council sent out questionnaires asking what residents did in the way of being green.  I told them.  In detail.

Reserved: Hybrid vehicles only (Photo credit: kevin dooley)

A couple of months later they contacted me and asked if our family would be willing to take part in their upcoming Cleaner, Greener campaign.  ‘Sure,’ I said.  We were interviewed and photographed for a brochure and invited to the campaign’s launch at the art gallery in January 2002.  I wore a dressy frock purchased in a charity shop for £3; the boys wore hand-me-downs and the Hub a favourite old jacket. We looked very smart when we were presented as Stockport’s Greenest Family.

I was interviewed for Radio Manchester or something like that.  I’ll be honest, I was flattered but incoherent.  When the producer asked what kind of thing I do to save the planet, I babbled on about washing on cold and folding wet washing and only ironing one side, but not necessarily in that order and interspersed with more than the necessary number of ums, ahs and ers.  I can still see her resigned smile and hear the click of the delete button as I turned away.

Material Wealth. Fear of Loss (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

There was a small article in the Stockport Express and that, I thought, was that.  We’d had the fun of a cultural night out at the art gallery.  So cultural, I thought the refreshments were a modern art display until the guests attacked them. We ate our fill, drank expensive swill (Cleaner, Greener but not Cheaper, Cheaper) went home and thought nothing more of it.  

Until the day the phone rang and I had a moment of entelechy.

You know what?  This is such a long story, I think I’ll leave it there for now. More tomorrow!

*

Yesterday’s word was, of course dacnomania:  an obsession with killing, often by biting.  That explains my Twilight fixation.

Sandra Bullock Has A Sex-Change And Retires To Norfolk

The Rolling Stones discography (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Time For Bed, Grandad

The Rolling Stones breached their curfew this week.  Playing at the O2 Arena, according to The Telegraph:

...the quartet, all aged in their 60s and 70s, were half an hour late starting, which meant the concert did not finish until just after 11pm [and] their set ran 40 minutes over a strict curfew.

Quite how strict the curfew was is debatable, given they ran a not insubstantial forty minutes over.

Fans, already annoyed by touts selling tickets at £3000 each – and who showed their displeasure by not purchasing them, leaving empty seats in the arena – were furious that the Stones’ final set omitted I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Imagine their dissatisfaction, then, when many were left stranded because the tube line they needed to use to get home closed at 11:45pm.

You see, Mr Jagger – there’s a reason for the curfew.

But not to worry: in true British fashion,

It was left to a busker outside the local tube station to reprise I Can’t Get No Satisfaction as concert-goers made their way home.

*

Bus, Earlham Rd. Norwich (Photo credit: mira66) Not my story, but what a great picture!

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Meanwhile, Over In Norfolk

Ms Bullock, real name Alfred Throop, has been up to her old tricks again, driving speeding buses.  The Telegraph reports:

Alfred Throop, 67, was on the number 58 bus in Northfields, Leicester, on Thursday when the driver fell unconsious [sic] and the bus began to swerve.

Realising what had happened, Throop grabbed the wheel and steered the bus to the side of the road where it collided with metal railings at a pedestrian crossing.

With true British understatement, hero Mr Throop remarked:

“I noticed the bus going from side to side on the road and thought ‘there’s something wrong here’.”

*

Up against a brick wall (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*

One For Alien Hippy‘s Mr Locoman

Mel Thorley of Stockport is having some trouble selling his house.  The Stockport Express reports that Mel’s perfect house [has] a spiral staircase, triple-glazing, two garages and six off-road parking spaces…It’s a great garden for sunbathing, the neighbours are great and it’s a good price.

There’s just one small problem: potential buyers tend to be put off by one little thing.  The paper describes it as:

…four railway engines parked on the back lawn…which each weigh five tons.

British house buyers – picky, picky, picky.

It’s Time To Give Up Food

Two news items this week.

From The Telegraph:

A human finger found inside a fish in Idaho was traced to a man who lost four fingers in an accident months before.

A fisherman cleaning a trout found a severed finger inside and gave it to the police, who traced it, via the fingerprint, to Hans Galassi, 31, who lost it (along with the other three) while wakeboarding.

“The sheriff called me and told me he had a strange story to tell me,” Mr Galassi said […] “I was like: Let me guess, they found my fingers in a fish.”

I wonder if he sulked when only one finger was found?  It would give new meaning to the term trout pout.

Apparently, he declined the finger’s return.  

Sheriff’s Detective Sgt. Gary Johnston said the agency will keep the digit for a few weeks in case he changes his mind.

From our very own Stockport Express:

A horrified mum bit into a supermarket sandwich – and discovered she had eaten a chunk of a ‘hairy creature’ inside.

Katie Crabtree, 31, was shocked to discover what she believes was a small, dead rodent in her pre-packaged sandwich bought from Tesco at Portwood.

Euggh!  

Here’s a photograph:

Be honest: would you eat that?  Me neither; that bacon looks congealed.

I always avoid pre-packed sandwiches; I’m not keen on mayonnaise cardboard with a side serving of plastic (mouse optional).

On the subject of disgusting things in food, my family have a meal time saying:

I’ve got the hair.

My hair is so long now that, despite tying it back and covering it with a cap when I cook, some always escapes and makes its way onto a plate (oddly, never mine; it is not homing hair).  The family have got so used to it, no food is ever wasted.

If I find anything besides malt or chocolate in a Malteser, I’m going on a diet.  I’ll only eat one box a day.  Just to be safe.

UPDATE:

Accident or design?

Today’s quote when this post published:

Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

Isaac Asimov

Dangerous Thief On The Loose In Stockport

A danger to himself, that is: some idiot thought it would be a good idea to steal an alligator from a pet shop.  The insane burglar also took snakes and lizards, including pythons and a seven-foot yellow anaconda.   

Image via Wikipedia

 The shop owner, Paul Williamson, advised that the alligator was not

the biggest animal in the world, but they can do a lot of damage.  They’re very powerful, very strong and they’ve obviously got huge teeth, so if they bite, the next place for you go to is hospital.        Read it here.

Thanks for the warning: if a stray alligator crunched through me on the way to the post office I might not have had the sense to call an ambulance; you know how distracted I get.

Mr Williamson said that two tortoises were also stolen, but they ‘were relatively harmless.’

You couldn’t make it up.

Related articles

• Crocodile among 100 exotic animals stolen from Stockport pet store (menmedia.co.uk)
• Of This, That ‘n’ T’other (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)

Christmas Is All Around Us

 

As the louche, has-been rock star Billy Mack in Love Actually reminds us, Christmas is all around us.  And nowhere is it more around us than in the news.  I read three sweet stories this morning, which I’m going to share.  As they say (many times) in the film, If you can’t …(fill in the sickly sentimental thing you need to justify doing)… at Christmas, when can you?  So, in that vein, if you can’t share sickly sentimental stories at Christmas, when can you?

The first was sent to me by PM at Every day I See A Cow (thank you): 

Image via Wikipedia

Merry Christmas Comes To One Family A Few Days Early

A child of seven lost her cat, called Merry Christmas, at Halloween.  She was found on Sunday.  Christmas at home was just what that family needed. 

I got that last line from the joke department of the Christmas Cracker factory.  It needs some work.  Where’s Pseu? 

*

Our own Stockport Express helped save the day for one little girl, by running an internet appeal:

Best present ever: Two-year-old Stockport girl reunited with her missing Teddy bear after internet appeal

If you’ve ever had a two-year-old lose a teddy, you’ll understand how wonderful this is.  If you haven’t, let me tell you about two-year-old Spud and his Ted-Ted-Teddy (that’s what he called it; I can’t believe he ever grew smart enough to get into a grammar school): Ted-Ted-Teddy went everywhere with Spud.  The trouble is, toddlers are easily distracted.  I can’t recall how many times we had to scour the house before bedtime, because Spud couldn’t – wouldn’t – sleep without his beloved teddy (about as big as my hand, which made him even more difficult to find), and had dropped him somewhere when playing; how many times I had to re-trace my steps when we had been out because Spud had seen a squirrel or a dog or a leaf and dropped Ted-Ted-Teddy in his enthusiasm to explore the exciting new world of vicious, smelly animals and mulch.

I hated that thing.

My sister-in-law had a moment of genius – she bought him another Ted-Ted-Teddy.  She had bestowed the first one upon him, so she thought it was the least she could do.  Problem solved. 

Much loved. (Much hated)

Problem doubled.  Spud now dropped two Ted-Ted-Teddies that had to be found.  I am ashamed to admit that it is entirely possible that for a while during my youngest son’s childhood, I hated my lovely sister-in-law.

The good news is, we always found him/them.  Usually, it was Tory Boy who found him/them.  Go Tory Boy!

A thought has just occurred to me: Tory Boy was always rewarded with love, praise and attention…could it have been Tory Boy, the foul fiend, who ‘lost’ him…?

Surely not.

Hmm.  Good job it’s Christmas, or it would be, Go, Tory Boy.

*

The third story is a tale of greed and post office inefficiency:

Dear Santa Letter sent 100 years ago found up chimney

Two Irish children wrote their Christmas letter in 1911 and sent it up the chimney to Father Christmas; it never arrived.  It was found this year.  Good thing, I say; you should see how much the greedy little beggars wanted:

“I want a baby doll and a waterproof with a hood and a pair of gloves and a toffee apple and a gold penny and a silver sixpence and a long toffee.”

*

The news here is that we are in for a mild Christmas.  No snow.  I’m not sorry.  It looks pretty until you’re lying on your back in it, having slipped on an icy patch and been concussed when your head hit a large, frozen dog turd.

Besides, I look like I’m having my own little snow party closer to home: I noticed this morning that the skin around my nose has cracked and flaked from the worst cold I’ve ever had, leaving me looking like a cocaine addict who can only get enough by burying my face in a bowl of the stuff. 

No pictures.  It’s not Christmas.

 

A Little Perspective

We are all sick with bad colds.  Did I say that all ready?  We are miserable and snotty and tired and grumpy.  Did I mention that, too? 

Stop feeling sorry for us and read this instead:

Now that’s magic: Stockport boy, 14, who lost fingers to meningitis amazes friends with card tricks.

Dean is the grandson of one my neighbours.  He lost most of his fingers and a leg to meningitis as a toddler.  He is forever in the Stockport Express, having raised funds for various charities. 

I bet he doesn’t let a common cold bug him.  He is a hero.

Of This, That ‘n’ T’other

In my inbox this morning:

From the Arts Council: Do It Yourself Taxidermy, LIVE.

I literally have nothing to say.  Except…I pity the poor pet who drew that straw.

It gets better.  We are told:

The audience is encouraged to participate and generally be involved.

Stuff that!  I thought.

*

And talking of animals…

You should know by now that I live in Stockport.  Stockport is a town.  An ordinary, English town.  No bush, no savannah, not even a zoo.  Imagine my surprise, then, on reading this headline in The Stockport Express:

Snake alert in Stockport: Police search after reports Cobra is on the loose

Unless, of course, they are referring to the group of people the government cobbles together in an emergency.  I can just see our esteemed cabinet ministers slithering through Alexandra Park on the way to attack an unsuspecting Labour voter. 

We are so unused to snakes here in Stockport that one woman assumed they come with legs:

Mum-of-three Sharon Gregory, 39, said […] “Now it’s quite nerve-wracking wondering if a snake is going to jump out.”

The Police are on the case, of course; determined to find – you’ve gotta love British legalese – ‘the alleged cobra.’ 

With our great British talent for understatement, the report concludes:

Officers are currently carrying out licence checks to see who – if anyone – might have mislaid a large venomous snake. 

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You may remember that a month or so ago I wrote that the producers of Come Dine With Me were looking to film in Stockport in August.  Either they are not yet done with the Julian Calendar or they are running a little behind, because I received an email asking me to ask again: if you fancy cooking for the telly, read my original post for details.

*

And finally…

After he left for school yesterday morning, Spud sent me a text:

Got a lift of Barry.

Who’s Barry?

He came home safe and sound but I was furious with him and I said so:

How many times do I have to tell you?  It’s not ‘of’ it’s ‘off’!?

*

Related articles

• Snake alert in Stockport: Police search after reports Cobra is on the loose (menmedia.co.uk)
• Come Dine With Me In Stockport (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)

Whoops!

Image via Wikipedia

It was a day of mistakes yesterday:

I was not Freshly Pressed

Sorry if I gave the impression that I was.  Thanks for all your positive comments.  If wishing made it so….

I made a roast dinner on the hottest day of August so far

The Hub bought a huge gammon at a small gammon price and, rather than freeze it, I decided to make my first roast, with all the trimmings, in months.  Unfortunately, so did the weather.  I’m not ungrateful for the heat – it warms our webbed feet, after all – but why did it choose to be hot yesterday?  I almost passed out when I opened the oven door.

I baked some fairy cakes

Always a mistake.  Especially when I forget to add one of the main ingredients.

The weird thing is, they tasted fine.

*

I was not the only person to make a mistake yesterday.  From – where else? – The Stockport Express:

An opportunist thief stole a van off a driveway as a senior police officer moved house.

Superintendent Vanessa Jardine was moving items from her home on Lower Fold, Marple Bridge, Stockport, when the rented vehicle was suddenly driven away.

*

Proving that it really can happen to anyone. 

I know: I’ll make her a cake.

Related articles

• Top police officer’s van stolen as she moves house (menmedia.co.uk)

101/1001 (21) Another Late Update

I’m sure you’ll forgive me for not keeping to my self-imposed updating timetable when I remind you that I have young visitors; and that there’s really nothing to report.   It’s difficult to work on challenges when I have a full house.  I suppose that’s part of the challenge.

We do have two welcome new members of our beginning not to be so exclusive club:

Silly Wrong But Vivid Right and Vicrace Designs

You can check out the other members on the right; and while you’re doing that, think about joining us.

*

As I have nothing to report, I’ll flesh this post out with a general catch-up.

*

Of some worry to the management was the number of people (28.57%) who willingly admitted to being freaks in the recent Friends poll.  At least you’re honest.

More concern was felt at the number of huge fibbers who claimed to have a life (35.71%). If that were the case, you wouldn’t be filling in fatuous polls now, would you?

*

The number of compliments paid has fallen sharply after my begging letter.  Thank you. Especially to those who took it to the other extreme and offered gratuitous insults.  It’s nice to know you care.

*

Finally, something I read this week amused me:

Space is important; vital, really, if you’re a newspaper: this week on the Stockport Express website, there was a headline that ran

Man who looted charity box in Manchester riots in the dock. 

But they ran the story in a narrow left-hand column and it read

Man who looted charity box in Manchester
riots in the dock

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Don’t you just love it?

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• 101/1001 (11) (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
• 101/1001 (13) (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
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Something Nice

I read a happy story today in the Stockport Express: a seventy-year old waiter was given a car by a customer.  The paper ran the headline, What a tip*; but it wasn’t given as a tip:

Carlos Alarcon, who works at Piccolino in Bramhall, had his Nissan Sunny stolen from outside his house in Didsbury.  The 70-year-old was struggling to get to work – having to catch two buses each way. But when regular customer Tony Howard heard about his plight, he decided he had to help.  So he gave Mr Alarcon a second-hand Mitsubishi car for free – because he thought the waiter was ‘a nice guy’.

 

Tony Howard was being a really nice guy himself.  You can read the whole story here.

I admire a man still working past retirement age; but hope it isn’t because he has to.  Mr Alarcon’s age isn’t relevant to the story, but the papers almost always include a subject’s age; and if they don’t, readers always wonder what it is.  I suppose it gives us context.

I was reminded of an episode of Bread, a British comedy series from the Eighties, about a loveable bunch of benefit scroungers.  They wouldn’t be loveable now, of course, because Britain’s hard-pressed tax payers are fed up with benefit scroungers.

Adrian Boswell, redundant and humiliated to find himself having to sign on, doesn’t want to tell his age and rambles about why newspapers always include ages: Mr So-and-So, seventy-three, was run down by a horse, concluding…and they never tell you the age of the horse.  He makes a fair point – why don’t they tell you the age of the horse?

The most telling part of the exchange, however, comes towards the end:

Adrian: Why does it matter how old I am?

Martina: Because how old you are, is how long you live.  And how long you live, is how long we pay you.  And how long we pay you, Mr Boswell…matters.

I suspect that if Bread was made now, almost thirty years on, all sympathy would lie with the Benefits Agency, not the Boswell family.

*

*Fancy that – a newspaper which stretches the truth; whoever heard of such a thing?

Hole-Hearted Approval

Image via Wikipedia

We take our dogs to Alexandra Park a couple of times a week.  It’s a twelve-minute walk from our house but all uphill, so the Hub can’t manage it.  To get to the park we have to drive down Dale Street.  A sewer collapsed and there has been a hole in the road, protected by a plastic barrier, since January (this is not a photo of the same hole; but it does prove to me that utility companies are the same the world over: uninterested).  It’s an access road, gets quite busy, and traffic status is ‘horrendous’ because of the hole, instead of the normal ‘horrible.’

We are quite fed up with it, but not nearly as much as one of the Dale Street residents: when we were there last week, there was a home-made sign up over the hole:

For Sale: 7 Week Old Pothole.  Contact United Utilities.  Open To Offers.

Next thing we know, there’s a picture of resident, hole and sign in the Stockport Express, and an apology from United Utilities, who promised to have their contractors begin repairs within the week.

A free press is a wonderful thing, especially when coupled with a man with a sense of humour.

What A Load Of Rubbish

Image via Wikipedia

I’m as big a fan of recycling as the next man; bigger, if anything: I’ve been doing it since before it was either fashionable or compulsory; but I’m ready to give it all up and dump the contents of my three un-emptied wheelie bins on Stockport town hall’s doorstep.  I’m sure it would be four un-emptied wheelie bins if I had put the last one out with the others.

I have a green bin for garden and food waste; a blue bin for paper; a brown bin for glass, tins, certain plastics; and a smaller black bin for non-recyclables – the black bin is woefully inadequate for anyone’s needs and likely to stay that way until manufacturers are pressured into reducing packaging but that doesn’t excuse the town hall for getting it so badly wrong: they should either have given us all larger black bins, or emptied them weekly instead of whenever the mood take them.

I don’t often get enraged – war?  Seen it all before.  Starving children?  Pass me my gourmet meal and tell them to eat their sticks and stop whining.  But dare to ignore my bins on collection day and I swell to three times my not inconsiderable size and blister the skin of any local government official within a twenty-mile radius.

Here’s what happened:

Tuesday 30/11/10 – Midnight*

* You have to do it the night before because you can bet if it’s a minute past seven in the morning of collection day their little radar detects it and uses it as an excuse to ignore you for a month; but you can’t do it early evening because they’ll fine you for cluttering the pavement    

• Put out full green, brown, blue bins – ensuring they are placed at the edge of the property, lids fully closed, not blocking public access but visible to blind refuse truck driver, before seven a.m.
• Snow

Wednesday 01/12/10

• Binmen ignore blue and brown bins on 300 Stockport streets because of ‘bad weather’ yet, somehow, the green bin truck gets through

Thursday  02/12/10 – Lunchtime

• Bring in empty green bin, full blue, brown bins
• Stamp feet in frustration
• Chat to neighbour, discover neighbour’s daughter-in-law’s contact at town hall has told daughter-in-law who told neighbour who tells you that blue bin will only be emptied on 29 DECEMBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Once breath returns to body, get on phone to council
• Told by very nice Ros who lets you shout at her until you calm down that you will be collected next Wednesday.  Even though it’s a full week late, accept it as a gift because you won’t have to face a Christmas garden piled high to the top of your six foot fence with detritus

Tuesday 07/12/10 – Midnight

• Put out full black, brown, blue bins – ensuring they are placed at the edge of the property, lids fully closed, not blocking public access but visible to blind refuse truck driver, before seven a.m.

Wednesday 08/12/10

• Watch truck sail past with the contents of every black bin on your street – except, of course, yours
• Yodel on phone to very nice Bev until reassurances are given that full black bin will definitely be collected next Wednesday and blue and brown bins should still be collected that day because you are on the roster and they work until seven at night
• Bring in full black bin

Thursday  09/12/10 – Lunchtime

• Bring in full brown, blue bins
• Get on phone to make an official complaint – politely; you’re too exhausted by the whole process to care any more.  You’d top yourself but as the same people who run the refuse collection, run the cemeteries, you’re not sure how long your smelly body would be standing there bothering your poor grieving family.  Although, as you are the only person who can be bothered to put out the rubbish and even when you do it ends up piled six feet deep in your garden due to non-collection, they might not find you until you begin to stink like your own cooking anyway.
• Get caught short
• Hear answer phone message as you are on the loo, telling you brightly that your blue bin will be collected on Saturday (as announced in this week’s Stockport Express – remember those 300 streets?); your brown bin will be collected on next brown bin collection date; and what’s a black bin?
• Give up

The only good thing to come out of this sorry mess – although ‘good’ is a relative term – is that I got a short poem out of it.  The Poetic Asides prompt was to write about a group of anything:

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A Garbage Of Refuse* Collectors

The binmen of Stockport?
They’re rubbish.

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*Feel free to pronounce ‘ref-use’ as ‘re-fuse’; I won’t be offended.

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There is a poem about rubbish people of a different kind on my sapoem blog.

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I saw this on ribshackred‘s blog and I thought you might like it:

Indiana Arrogant And The Wedding Of Doom

This is an awful story but one line in the paper made me laugh, which is why I’m sharing it.  From the Stockport Express:      

A bride was smashed over the head with a pint glass by her own sister the night before her wedding.  Joanne Mather was attacked by sister  Shirley Roach at a family party on the eve of her big day.  Roach had turned up at the celebration to try to ‘smooth over’ a long-running family feud regarding their father.  But she became aggressive and was asked to leave […]  [s]he refused and, as her six-year-old daughter  looked on, Roach attacked her sister before smashing a pint glass on her head and screaming, ‘I’ll kill you’.

 Mrs Mather, 40, of Ludlow Towers, Brinnington, married husband Jason at Stockport Register Office the following day.  But she had to walk down the aisle bearing the marks of the attack and missing a clump of hair which had been ripped out.

 Roach, 27, of Brecon Towers, Brinnington, did not attend the wedding.

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For a masterclass in How To Be An A-Lister, you should watch Harrison Ford on the Jon Stewart Daily Show.  He was there to promote his new movie, Morning Glory.  He promised that it is not a chick flick even though ‘the girl’ is the star; ‘the girl’ is brilliant in it.  He talked Rachel McAdams up but negated his praise by being unable to recall her name.  Unless, of course, his memory is going: he is ancient, after all. 

There’s No Such Thing As Bad Publicity

I had to laugh at this local news story from the Stockport Express:

The council will probably have to withdraw the leaflet and apologise, but it’s garnered publicity already and I won’t be surprised if it’s picked up by the national papers so, even if it is crass, it’s a job well done.