toxicsoup

closed

2007-10-08T17:36:00.001+01:00

Imp doesn't love me anymore.

I can't write this any longer.
Thanks for reading.

FT

surf dude

2007-09-09T10:45:00.000+01:00

I sprint to the water's edge, hiding my beer belly behind my Mermaid Body Board.

Actually, it is important to note that this is not, in fact, my Mermaid Body Board. It is LittleImpA's Body Board. My choice consisted of either that, or LittleImpB's Bambi Body Board.
I think this kind of decision is called being 'between a Disney Body Board and the deep blue sea'.

We both (Mermaid Body Board and I) crash into the sea.

It is freezing!

We both crash back again, whimpering, before realising complete immersion to the neck is necessary in order for me to conceal my portliness and thus pose as a Beach Babe.

Gasping, I wade deeper, Mermaid Body Board in tow.

"Bloody'ell,bloody'ell,bloody'ell", I wheeze, wetly. The goosebumps I am sporting are creating increased drag and therefore cause me to burn off an extra 5 or 6 calories. Silver lining duly noted.

I can see Imp a long way off, relaxing in a beach chair, reading a novel and not looking at all impressed by my Beach Babeness. That was not part of the deal! She is supposed to stand on the beach and watch me at all times, waving enthusiastically at me whenever I look in her direction and shouting encouragement. How selfish of her to think only of herself while guarding my clothes and belongings.

Speaking of waves, I turn around and look for one, ready to begin my Body Boarding Experience.

There aren't any waves!

The sea is almost completely still. How curious! I am surrounded by loads and loads of no waves. Bloody-mindedly, the sea (powerful, terrifying, untamed by Man or Canute alike) continues to lap gently upon the shoreline.

Bollox.

Every face on the beach seems to be turned my way, scrutinising me in fascination, wondering what I am planning to do with my Mermaid Body Board. I notice that not a single other person in the sea has a board. They are all watching me too. The entire half-mile of beach falls strangely silent.

Imp turns a page, noisily.

I clutch my Mermaid Body Board and try to look cool.

beer belly

2007-08-30T09:30:00.000+01:00

It is getting on for 15 years since I last swam.

This is for several very good reasons:

1. I am developing a somewhat ‘portly’ appearance.. otherwise known as a beer belly.
2. I am developing a complex about my beer belly.
3. I am not very good at swimming.
4. I might drown and, the pathologist (who would probably be Amanda Burton) would say something along the lines of:

AB: “Yes, it’s clear that she had consumed a pint of beer and a bag of Frazzles approximately 58 minutes before swimming, whereas Everybody Knows you should wait a full hour after food before getting into the water. Therefore I deduce that this (unidentified) person died from food-before-swimming-syndrome, has the beginnings of a beer belly and, given the evidence, in my opinion Deserved.To.Die”.

The detective on duty (probably Bergerac) would, horrified, scribble notes frantically and plan his next talk to Primary School kids.
(Don’t play on railway lines, don’t stick your fingers into toasters, don’t swim for an hour after eating).

AB: “Oh, and by the curious markings on the backs of her knees, I conclude that this (unidentified) lived in Wales, once ate 12 doughnuts in one day and, hated spaghetti hoops”

These reasons are enough to keep me strictly clear of water of any depth greater than would necessitate me to reveal more than my ankles, but, I accidentally bought a wetsuit, thinking it would make me thin and now I am on a beach…

cheese and tomato sandwich

2007-08-02T12:17:00.000+01:00

I am on an interview panel!

This is because I am so grown up and people obviously recognise my talents as a discerning, mature person to have around.
Also I’ve been practising my Wise Look in the mirror and I am wearing my best shirt.

It is going well. I am making notes and nodding with a kind of thoughtful erm.. thoughfulness.

I’m sure that the candidates are greatly relaxed by having me on the panel.

We break for lunch. This is always a highlight as food is provided, thus disproving the saying about there being no such thing as a free lunch.

I scan the sandwiches. Ham, Tuna, Beef, Chicken.
I am a vegetarian.

I buy myself a cheese and tomato sandwich and sit down, chatting to the candidates and being friendly.
I am not naturally a chatty person; in fact, I have been known sometimes to be a bit grumpy (although not in living memory, as I’m sure Imp will agree). However, today I am doing really well.
I switch my brain into SmallTalk mode.

“So, did you enjoy looking around?” I ask one of the blokes, who looks like a very worried rabbit (this is a metaphor, as he doesn’t have fur or long ears and he is taller than me (although I am actually very tall)) in headlights.

I bite into my sandwich while he formulates his answer and, spectacularly, a load of tomato spurts out and lands on my (posh) shirt.

This is a disaster! I have heard about the properties of tomato. It is capable of staining for life (and then on into infinity). It is a scientific fact that there are tomato stains on many fossils that have been found. This is because it is essential to soak the stain immediately in cold water, but Woolly Mammoths do not like cold water.

I rush to the toilets immediately (after finishing my sandwich) and douse my shirt with cold water.

The stain takes no notice!
I re-douse.

There is no apparent effect. I am defeated.

I have a Wet Breast. It is dark blue against the rest of my posh shirt, which is light blue. As if that were not bad enough, it highlights the tomato stain beautifully.

I take my place back on the interview panel, Wet Breast glorious.

bargain

2007-07-09T20:38:00.000+01:00

I have run out of unread books!

It is time for me to do the charity shop circuit. Charity shops are the best thing since sliced bread (and fitted sheets) (although to be honest, I am happy to slice my own bread) because it means that I can feed my habit for an average of about 75p, plus, I get to have a bet with myself about how many 'Peter Benchley - Jaws' versus 'Virginia Andrews - Flowers in the Attic' I will see.*

I am very lucky, because, within about 100 metres from my front door is the beginning of The Circuit. Imp and I do it when we are too fat/thin for our clothes, depending on how many pizzas we eat.**
At the moment I am wearing MediumPieMuncher clothes, which means that I can spend all my money on books.

I head on down to the PDSA, full of hope.
Not a sausage.

Next, Tenovus. No good books, but I am tempted by a boomerang. However, the last time I almost bought a boomerang, Imp gave me a Scowl. With a Capital S.
Checked by that particular chilling thought I hurry out the door.

British Heart Foundation. Chick lit. And not a single book under £2. Outrageous! I leave.

My feet are getting tired now. For some reason, Charity Shop Shopping is more tiring than mountain walking. I think it is the air, which I suspect that it is laced with some form of airborne-tranquiliser that is designed to hit you as you enter and, dull your senses to the extent that you are prepared to start buying brass dogs, old ashtrays and a dead old lady's dribble-stained thermal vest.

This is not a problem to me as I am a professional. I am like a highly trained killer - I dart in, head straight for the books, scan, and leave without inhaling more than twice.
I expect I could give Andy McNabb a run for his money, if ever we should meet in a Charity Shop Shopping Contest.

I make a mental note to write to him. He probably won't open the letter, though, unless I draw bullets on the envelope.

I make a mental note to draw bullets on the envelope. And a tank.

I trudge into Barnados. If I don't find a good book now, I will have to cross the road and the shops Across The Road take a higher level of shopping skill as, they have people who are too tall/thin/small (or have a milky eye) and who pounce and shake collecting tins at you.

Bingo! A book I have never read!
Just as I am about to pay, I spot (with my highly trained Charity Shop Shopper's eyes (read this and weep, Andy)) a Mr.Man mug and it is only 50p!

I pay, trying not to get grumpy at the old lady who wants me to wrap the mug in two carrier bags and who can't see the buttons on the cash till but, no problem. I am untouchable because, today I am the proud owner of a Mr.Lazy mug.

Imp will be so impressed.

*Jaws - 8; Flowers in the Attic - 13

**Me - 2; Imp - 2 slices

Queen Street

2007-06-30T23:00:00.000+01:00

I am going to the cinema with Ickle Bro!

We walk through town.

This is not as simple as it sounds.

Ickle bro, who is younger than me, should Rightfully-As-A-Result-Of-Logic-And-The-Laws-Of-Science, be shorter than me. I'm sure it says somewhere in the Bible that I should be the tallest.
Unfortunately something went horribly wrong and I was robbed! I think this might have been a result of the council building a road past our village when I was 10. I expect I inhaled some dangerous pollutants and stopped growing.

Thinking about it, Ickle Bro should really be called Freakily Tall Bro and, I should be called Half An Inch Below Average FT. But that would be a stupid name. And anyway, I don't like to dwell on it.

I make a mental note to write a letter of complaint to the council

So we walk through town.

I walk Very VERY quickly and my legs move quicker than the speed of light. In fact, my legs move so quickly that to other people it might look as if they are moving backwards, like that weirdy optical illusion that happens to car wheels when you watch a Ferrari bombing around Brands Hatch.

Even so, every fifth pace, I have to do a little skip.
This is not becoming for a woman of 34.

“OY! Slow down!” I gasp. My legs are now making that really-quick humming noise that bicycle tyres make when you are cycling downhill at more than 40 miles per hour.

“Sorry!” says Ickle Bro, glancing down from somewhere up in the sky, looking surprised. He moves into Matrix-style slow motion, loping along as if in zero gravity. But still quicker than me. Bastard.

I wipe away the sweat from my chin and skip along behind him, in a way that I hope emphasises the fact that I am older and, therefore, still The Boss.

day trip

2007-06-18T16:37:00.000+01:00

We have decided to go to the National Botanic Gardens of Wales, to cheer ourselves up. It is a scorcher of a day and it would be criminal to stay indoors.

I spend a while choosing which hoodie I should wear, as the gardens will be full of old people and I wouldn't want to scare them. I wear hoodies all the time and must surely have a Day-Out-to-the-Country Hoodie. We are young, and vibrant, and full of life and I want my hoodie to reflect that, without looking like a drug-dealer.
I expect we will be the only young people there.

We boil a kettle so that we can make a flask of coffee. This is NOT a Granny thing to do, it is just that I need caffeine in order to stay awake for such a long journey, as it might take more than an hour. I take a moment to spike my hair, as I am Young and Funky.

“Aaaargh!” Imp yells from the kitchen.

I run.
She has burned her hand with boiling water! She is not having much luck at the moment.

***

We climb into the car. Imp has to be careful because of her whiplash injuries and, because she has been holding her hand under cold running water for the last 15 minutes.

“Oooowwwww!” she yelps. “The sun's burning my hand!”. The temperature inside the car is about 3,482,800,0000000000 million degrees. This is what it must be like to live in Torquay.

I run back into the house and soak a bundle of kitchen towel in cold water, so that she can wrap her hand in it. We strap her special neck-collar into place. She is very fragile at the moment.
We pull away.

“How's your hand?” I ask, anxious. I indicate, to drive around a leaf.

“Still burning”. She looks really depressed.

I open the sunroof. “Stick your hand out the sunroof, the wind will keep your hand cold!”
I am a genius. I am surprised that Alan Sugar hasn't rung me yet. I expect he is waiting for his current assistant to fail miserably so that he won't get sued for violating Equal Ops, or something.

“I can't!” Imp looks apologetic. “I can't lift my arms above my head because of my neck”.

I press the opening-window button. That idea doesn't work either, because Imp burned the wrong hand.
I close all the windows and the sunroof and put the air conditioning on.

Imp's phone bleeps. It's a text! I hope that it is her ex-husband so that we can complain about him a bit.

Imp is having trouble pressing the buttons on her phone, because her hand is swathed in soggy kitchen towel. I am getting impatient.

“Who is it?” I ask, casually-yet-nosily.

“Dunno”. She rummages around in her bag. “I can't see it, without my reading glasses”.

We continue, in this manner. Young, vibrant.

beaten

2007-06-14T11:26:00.000+01:00

Imp has been assaulted!

There is Good News and Bad News.

The Good News is that there were about 50 witnesses.

The Bad News is that she has got whiplash injuries, which means that we can no longer play squash, which means that I will get fat and become so big that I will have to be hoisted by crane from my first-floor window into a truck in order to be transported to hospital, where they will all mutter and stroke their chins while scraping the dying flesh from the folds in my ankles. Then I will die from obesity and will have to be buried in a specially-constructed coffin with cantilever supports.

But anyway, it's not about me.

Imp has got to wear a special collar! It is to hold her head up so that she can carry on working.

“I look like a nob”, she says, sadly.

“You look gorgeous!” I lie, hastily. If she had bigger teeth she would look like Smashie, of Smashie and Nicey fame. With purple hair.
I decide not to tell her this.

She stares gloomily out the window.

I think she can read my mind.

going to work

2007-06-04T17:05:00.000+01:00

I have designed a fool-proof system for holding the door open!

My flat has got a very determined fire-hingey-thing to ensure that the door stays closed in case of fire, effectively making it harder for me to get out and therefore making it necessary for me to leap from the bedroom window, thus breaking both my ankles.

All fire doors are installed with this in mind, which is why firemen get to climb up ladders and carry people and look heroic.

Normally I can get out of the door okay (when there isn't a fire) and as along as I remember to hurl myself through, it doesn't get me. I would estimate my Getting-Through-The-Door-Without-Personal-Injury (henceforth referred to as GTTDWPI) rate to be about 85%.

However when I am wheeling my push-bike, the GTTDWPI odds drop to approximately 40% for me and, 0%x3 for my bike.

Now I have a weapon. A bungee cord... which stretches from the back of the door, to the bathroom door handle. I simply stretch the cord, hook it over the door handle... and the fire-hingey-thing is foiled (Aha!), allowing me to wheel my bike out without even moderate-to-severe bruising/denting to the shins/forks.

***

I am in a rush!

I put my rucksack and helmet on (I do not look at all like an Anorak) and prepare my GTTDWPI device. Checking that the bungee cord is hooked safely over Doorhandle1, I stretch it, straining, towards Doorhandle2.

Now. The obvious danger here is that the bungee cord will slip from Doorhandle1 while I am stretching it towards Doorhandle2, twanging back at great speed and hitting me full force in the arm, bringing tears to my eyes and unsavoury words to my lips.
But it won't, because I have performed this many times before with crowd-cheering success.

I carry on straining, confidently.

It.Twangs.

Hard.

Owwwwwwww!

My eyes water and I swear. Expertly.
My GTTDWPI device has failed!

Bastard! I can feel my arm bruising and the blood pooling, as I yelp.

I am a Failure. Even more so than Clive Sinclair! At least his crap inventions don't hurt him.

I struggle through the door, repeatedly being bashed in the shins/shoulder/arm/forks/back wheel and limp down the stairs - bashing my shins on the pedals for good measure - with my best Bad Mood face on.

under the duvet

2007-05-23T19:15:00.000+01:00

TinyDog® has got a huge mass of poo on her bum!

This is as a result of having a hairy bottom. The dog, not me.

Normally when this happens we bung her in the bath and Imp deals with the pooey end while I wrap a tea-towel around my head and hang on to her collar while retching quietly to myself.

Over time we have discovered that Imp is much better at dealing with the realities of poo, while I am much better at talking about it.
This is because she is a mother. It is a scientific fact that all mothers actually enjoy wiping up poo, sick and bodily excretions.

We decide to ignore the poo - we are in bed and it is the middle of the night.

Unfortunately, TinyDog® has followed us to the bedroom and she has brought the poo with her. It’s dangling off her doggy-arse…. and she is sitting pongily at the bottom of the bed.

I give her a dirty look. I have spent years perfecting this look. It is even more terrifying than being lost in Ikea without a handheld Sat Nav.

She ignores me.

Imp and I wrinkle our noses and stick our heads under the duvet.

“Kick her off the bed” gasps Imp, peering at me under the duvet.

I flail my legs wildly and TinyDog® is catapulted from the bed. I hope the poo hasn’t dislodged and gone flying across the bedroom.

I risk a peep. No sign of the dog.

I join Imp back under the duvet and we lie, breathing through our mouths, waiting for the stench to go away.

It doesn’t.

I could swear it’s getting worse! Lying in bed accompanied by the gentle aroma of dog shit is not my idea of fun. I poke my head out.

“Noooooooooooooo!” I wail.

TinyDog® is perched, innocent look pasted over her hairy face, on top of my clothes. Somewhere under all that fur, on top of my favourite t-shirt, is a massive turd.

The smell is overpowering.

I dive back under the duvet and sniff my armpits for relief.

not properly gay

2007-05-13T22:50:00.001+01:00

I am accosted by a woman who wants me to play Lesbian Badminton!

I back off, hurriedly.

We are attending a meeting, Imp and I, to plan things for the Cardiff Mardi Gras. I have never been to a Mardi Gras meeting before and have no idea what to expect but, I am feeling Very Important.

I expect I have been asked to go because I am not only (i) gay and, (ii) have extraordinary administration abilities, but I also am (iii) very good at nodding in an agreeable way.

Imp worries aloud if she will be the only Lipstick Lesbian there.

“Ha!” (I say, with my plethora of no past Mardi Gras meetings to fall back on).

“Or course you won't, Imp”, I add, knowledgeably. “I'm sure there'll be loads of 'em”.

She looks relieved and slaps a bit more lippy on.

***

Things are looking interesting.

We have arrived but there are no Lipstick Lesbians to be seen! This is very worrying as they are very nice to look at, even if they are not as intelligent as normal dykes*.

I edge through the door and stare, worried, through the people milling around drinking coffee and chatting. They all look like they have turned up for a recording of Gardeners' Question Time.

The women nearest me have beards and, groundwards, stripy socks peeping out from under their half-mast burgundy cords. Even the blokes have less body hair than the women! I gulp.

Now, I would never abandon Imp as she is The Boss and I might get told off later but, I seriously consider leaving her momentarily to face them alone, while I sprint across the road for a quicker-than-the-blink-of-an-eye pint. I turn around.

Too late! I am whisked up by a woman who must surely have cats and definitely has verbal diarrhoea and, I'm deposited in front of two more must-have-cats women. I whimper. Imp, somehow has escaped and is near the refreshments table**. Damn her.

“Have you been here before?” Cat-Lady asks.

“N...”

“Do you go to the group at all, the one upstairs?” she bulldozes merrily along.

“Wh...?” The other women join in, nodding enquiringly.

“Above Ikon, the meeting upstairs, for Lesbians”. Unaware, she nails the coffin lid on that one.

“N..” I protest.

“Would you like to play Lesbian Badminton?” She continues. The nodding women again resume their nodding.

“No!” I manage a whole word!

“Or Lesbian Cycling?”

“No!”

“We do walking, as well”, Cat-Lady informs me. There is more agreement in the form of nods.

“I don't want to join a Lesbian Group” I manage to say. "Or play Lesbian Sports".

The three women step back in unison, puzzled and astonished.

“Do you belong to any other Lesbian Groups?” one of the nodding women asks.

“No, I don't know any groups”.

They are stunned.

“I play Normal Badminton and anyway, I don't like the word Lesbian” I say quickly, desperately trying to catch Imp's eye so that she will come and rescue me.

We all stand in silence, nothing whatsoever in common at all.

I study my Gay Trainers and scratch my beard.

*Imp, of course, is much more intelligent than me. She is the exception to the rule.
**See? Superior in every way.

smelly

2007-05-04T17:20:00.000+01:00

I am shovelling shit!

It is pig shit, which is a particularly pungent variety of shit, but not as bad a dog poo. Anyway, I secretly like anything to do with poo, as long as it doesn't involve my face.

It is a stunning day for doing a bit of farm work and I hop over the fence and battle my way through the pigs. They are not being very helpful with the shovelling and, seem to be more interested in eating the shovel handle than standing politely aside while I bustle. (They are boy-pigs, which I think you will agree, makes all the difference).

The young people I am working with stay firmly on the pig-free side of the fence. I am surprised that they don't want to join in! I always jump at any excuse to get muddy – it is a scientific fact that muddy people are healthy people (or something).

This is what is wrong with society today, I think. People don't want to get covered in pig shit. Crazy! I must remember to pass on my thoughts to the Welsh Assembly.

I wrestle what's left of the broom from a hungry pig and sweep frantically, avoiding snouts and teeth. It is a bit like playing Pac Man, but smellier and with straw.

I am good at Bustling. It can be achieved much better with a broom or spade in your hand but, all the same, it takes a special kind of person to Bustle successfully. I am now at an advanced level as, I can Bustle in a pig pen.

I stop for a moment to consider this. (The pigs take this as an invitation to begin chomping on the fronts of my trainers.)

The pigs move on to the bottoms of my jeans. This is not in my contract.

***

“It bloody stinks in here!”

A scary-looking five-year-old wrinkles up his nose and glares at me. I ignore him.

“So what toxic substances can you see in the picture?” I ask. Two rows of tiny faces look up at me. They have climbed into the back of the Drugs Bus and want to be Entertained, with a capital 'E'.

“Heck, it's minging!”

I avoid eye contact and continue to instruct. “You can all have a special free pen and I want you to find six dangerous things”. I pass out activity sheets and pens.

The five-year-old is looking daggers at me, furiously. “You smell of SHIT!”

“Oooooh, Pooey-pong!” another tiny kid joins in, pinching his nostrils.

It is impossible to ignore the accusations any more.

“I know, I know! I smell of pig poo, BIG DEAL!” I counter, cleverly. I have been fully trained in Motivational Interviewing and my communication skills are the envy of many.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeewww!” erupts a wall of squeaky voices. “Get out! You SMELL!”

“It's not that bad”, I point out.

“Oh.My.God. It's SOOOOOOO stinky in here!”. A very cross-looking girl is giving me Evils. She is scarier than my Mum.

I have been evicted! From my own van! By a load of five-year-olds!

Defeated, I exit to exaggerated gasps and mimes of excruciating suffocation and stand, pongy, on my own out the back.

rash

2007-04-24T09:00:00.000+01:00

Owwwwwwwwwwwwww!

“If you give me your details, I'll pass them on to him when he gets back”, I say in a fake-jaunty phone-voice.

I was unlucky enough to be closest to the phone when it rang. My colleagues, I notice, all seemed to be very VERY Busy, suddenly.

I write the message into the Message Book, eyes watering somewhat.

“AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh!”, I think to myself, sneaking a quick scratch with the clicky-end of my pen.

“No problem. Is there anything else I can do to help?”, I chirp, threateningly.

I learned this particular Telephone-Voice from the Customer Services Desk at Asda, where they manage to say all the right things but, with a professionally-developed scornful top lip glaring challengingly at you. I think it is the law that you have to be able do this lip-thing before you can be placed in any position of responsibility. They do it at hotel receptions, too.

“Bugger off!”, I think, frantically. “Go.Away.Go.Away.Go.Away.Bugger.Off”

Not that I'm accepting any responsibility, but I was involved in a terrible hair-removal accident a couple of days ago, in a sensitive area*.

*Note. The hair-removal was in a sensitive area on my body, not in a sensitive area like in the Central Command Post of MI5 or in say, a WI meeting in Afghanistan.

“Bye then”.

I slam the phone down and sprint quicker than the eye can see, to the kitchen where I pretend to wipe surfaces, scratching furiously as I go.

patchy

2007-04-22T23:50:00.000+01:00

Important notice: It is imperative when using hair removal cream that one covers up the areas from which one does not want hair removed.
This is especially important when using hair removal cream on or around one’s pubes... if you don’t want to look like a complete ning-nong.

No reason.

chippy

2007-04-07T22:49:00.000+01:00

I have finished the wardrobe! It has only taken me four days, which is quite good when you consider that I have been making the design up, as I go along.

I step back and admire. There are a couple of bits of wood at the front that should join but don't and, this means that I have had to suspend the vertical divide by a clever system of screws. This, however, does not count as 'bodging' but rather, 'improvisation'.
I have given strict instructions to anyone who might place anything in the wardrobe, to make sure that the items in question are not heavy.

I think about this very hard.
I shall carry out surprise inspections at roughly four-weekly intervals to make sure that no one has left (for example) a packet of chewing gum or a twenty-pence piece in a pocket.

It's a good job that I am so good at DIY. I think Imp is impressed.
My next job is to dig up the hall floor as it is slowly slipping into the basement.

progress

2007-03-29T22:03:00.000+01:00

It is not quite going to plan.

I have been building this wardrobe for 1 whole day and two whole evenings and unbelieveably, it is not yet a wardrobe.
Imp smiles, knowingly.

I just can't understand it.

carpentry

2007-03-28T15:05:00.000+01:00

I am going to build a wardrobe!

It will be very easy because I have an alcove, a basement full of salvaged wood and two rescued drawers. Also, I am also a trained expert in Space Lego and I never, ever bodge.

I expect I can get it done in less than a day...

30 bikes

2007-03-14T11:30:00.000Z

“And anyway, I drove up to Ludlow to buy a aluminium 5-bear split-shift fork”.

We are trapped in a pub with an Anorak!

“You can't get them anymore because they stopped making them in 1946, but I know a bloke, you see”, the Anorak confides.

Hamish, Sioned and I have just climbed the Sugarloaf mountain and are in desperate need of refreshment.

We settle in a convenient pub and sigh lovingly at our pints. The Wales-Ireland match is playing in the background and this is indeed, heaven. Pub. Pint. Rugby.

We have stomped our way uphill through snow and this was the carrot. I smile inside and reach for my pint.

At that moment, I notice the bloke at the next table is watching us. He is listening to our conversation.
I quickly look away. Sioned keeps talking. She mentions her mountain bike.

Too late! He moves in for the kill.

“Are you cyclists?” He asks.

Hamish makes polite noises of agreement. I nod.

"I'm a professional cyclist", he tells us. He is fat and pushing 70.

Sioned blinks at this. She quickly points out that although we all own push-bikes, none of us are professionals. I detect a hint of sarcasm.

This, however, is of no consequence to the Anorak. He has performed the classic textbook Anorak's Entrapment Technique, as set out in chapter 4 of 'The Official Guide to being a Boring Bastard (edition 2), 1939'......... and we have fallen for it!

We glance at each other, nervously.

First rule of avoiding anoraks: Never EVER, under any circumstance, make eye-contact.
Second rule of avoiding anoraks: Never EVER, respond to anything an anorak says.
Third rule of avoiding anoraks: Move house if possible, or if trapped behind a pub table, hack off any limbs that are preventing you from getting out and crawl, bleeding and twitching towards the door.

“Yes, I own 30 bikes”, he says, not listening to anything we say.

Sioned stares into her pint. “That's nice”.

“I've probably spent £50,000 on them, over the years”, he adds, warming up. “I keep them all in my loft”.

“Aye, that's great”, observes Hamish, with spectacular fake enthusiasm.

"I don't believe in carbon-fibre, that's for nancies", he says. "I bought a frame last week that is weighed down with 12 tons of lead and a sherman tank, for stability. Bargain, only two grand. I'll add a four-berth 8-jointed bungalow with a 6-iron and I'll probably use it to go to the supermarket a couple of times, before I stick it in the loft with all the others", he informs us.

I try using emergency telepathy but both Sioned and Hamish have lost the will to live. They are clearly contemplating Rule 3.

“I cycled from Galway to Dublin, a couple of years back”, I offer.

The Anorak isn't interested.

“I used to cycle 12 times around the Isle of Man, and then cycle across the sea and cycle up every mountain IN THE WORLD, before breakfast”, he informs us.

“That's nice”, says Sioned.

“And I once cycled to the MOON, without an oxygen tank, on a bike without any gears”.

We are defeated. Life is no longer worth living.

“And that's when I had to buy a hand-made load-bearing 3lb cotter pin from ebay, and I had to cycle to Saudi Arabia to get it because I didn't want to pay the postage”. The Anorak is in full flow.

"Back then, I only had one leg, but I sprayed the stump with WD40 and it grew back within a week".

Agreeing heartily, we down our beers and, tall stories flying dangerously past our heads, we make a break for the door.

hotel

2007-03-02T20:25:00.000Z

It is our last night in Dublin and, have moved to a hotel near to the airport.

Luckily, it is the swankiest hotel in the world and we only paid a couple of monopoly notes for it because we cleverly booked it on the internet. (This is because only about a hundred people in the aforementioned world know about the internet, so we got a bargain)

Weirdly, there is a door through to the adjoining hotel room, but, I'm sure it must be thoroughly locked and bolted.

I play with the telly and inspect the broadband facility while Imp wraps herself in a giant fluffy hotel robe, rifles through the complimentary smellies and shoves them into her washbag.

This must be what it would be like to be a footballers wife!

***

We climb into the biggest bed in the world, switch the light off and snuggle up.

***

It is only two minutes since I switched the light off. There is some talking.

“Is that next door?” I whisper.

“No, it must be the corridor”. Imp murmurs.

***

It is two minutes and 30 seconds since the light went out.

“No, you're right, it is next door!” Imp is horrified.

We hold our breath and listen.

***

Through the joining door we can hear Mr and Mrs Irish and Baby Irish! But the thing is, we can hear everything!

There may as well be no door!

“Will I go and wash my hands?” says Mrs Irish*.

“Aye, and be sure to splash around while you're there, to be sure”, says Mr Irish, irishly**.

“Aaaaaaaaaah iggg ig aaah”, gurgles the baby*.

“Shit!” gasps Imp.

We lie still, too terrified to move, in case Mr and Mrs Irish and Baby Irish hear us and realise that we are here.

Mrs Irish splashes, during which time I remember, appalled, all the things I have said to Imp in the last half an hour. Some of them were referring to her bottom! I gulp. (quietly)

A mobile rings.

“Will that be the phone?” says Mrs Irish*.

“Aye, so it is, to be sure”, says Mr Irish**.

“Ahh ahh ahh!” says Baby Irish*.

“Will I answer it?”*

“Aye, to be sure, so it is”**

We listen, fascinated.

They have got it on speaker phone! It is Mrs Irish's mother!

“Did you have a good journey, to be sure?” enquires Mrs Irish's Mum. “Is the baby well, to be sure?”*

I turn to Imp, quietly, careful not to rustle the duvet. “We'll have to move rooms!”

She looks at me, solemnly. “Ring the desk and ask them”.

I stare at the phone.

“I can't! They'll hear me!”

I climb out of bed and silently (so as not to disturb the neighbours) get dressed.
Hair awry and a pillow mark on my face, I creep out the room, down the corridor and into the lift, while Mr Irish tells his mother-in-law about the traffic.

* Insert Irish accent liberally

** Insert Irish accent, plus random 'fecks'

holding it in

2007-02-27T11:30:00.000Z

We are in a twee café in Dublin!

We have been up since 4 o'clock and so it is roughly tea-time to my body, although it says it is only 10am on the clock on the wall. This is what happens when you fly budget airlines; the flight only takes 40 minutes but you have jet-lag for a fortnight.

We both wearily squint at the menus and then thrust monopoly-money at the woman on the till, hoping that she has been especially trained to deal with Non-Sterling.

Dublin is a strange place. I saw some respectable-looking women walking from the toilets with black cross-shaped marks on their foreheads! You would think they would have checked for dirty marks in the mirrors while topping up their pink lippy and straightening their American Tans.

Maybe it is some kind of Irish ritual, a bit like tattooing a tear on your face in prison, if you have murdered someone. But for ladies. To say that you've been to the toilet.

I hope that they don't force me to have a black cross on my forehead when I need to go.

I tuck in to my Irish breakfast / tea.

Imp points out some more black crosses. It's strange that everyone doesn't have one, as you would imagine that at some point in the day everyone would need to empty their bladder - even the men.

I think about this for a long time. There are a lot of respectable-looking women without crosses.

Perhaps not having a cross is a sign of being a scary hard-knock in Ireland. Like being a skin-head, but in a pleated skirt.

***

We are on a bus tour!

Imp is brilliant at spotting Black-Cross People!
I am rubbish at it because my short-term memory is not even long enough for any imagery to fully travel along my optical nerves, due to the jet-lag.

I whisper to Imp that I am relieved that I wasn't accosted by a large lady in a twin-set with a black marker pen, when I went for a wee.

“Actually, I think it's because it's Ash Wednesday”, she points out, graciously.

“Oh!” I remark.

“And there's quite a lot of Catholics in Ireland”, she adds, mildly.

“Oh!” I repeat.

(I hope I said "Oh!" in a way that suggests that I was only joking about the paramilitary wing of the Black-Cross WI lurking in the ladies toilet, downstairs in the twee café)

The bus lurches on.

world record

2007-02-24T11:45:00.000Z

I have a degree, several A levels and more GCSEs than you can shake a stick at.

(Admittedly, I have never seen a GCSE and, if I did, I would be sure to sternly shake a stick at it simply to disprove my own statement. However, until then, my stick remains unshaken)

Oh, I've also got a fork lift truck licence, if anyone needs any fork lift trucks driving.
Clearly this marks me out as a (scientifically-proven) very talented and able individual.

I digress.

This morning I achieved a new, world record! Without the help of my incredible intellect or even my stick-shaking abilities!
I must remember to ring the Guinness Book of Records to let them know. I'm sure they will be most excited.

Between the hours of 6:00am and 10:00am, I did a poo in Ireland, England and Wales. Therefore I pood successfully in 3 different countries in the space of 4 hours, averaging at 2 hours between each poo.
Genius.

I thank you.

bandage

2007-02-09T21:30:00.000Z

Imp has hurt her wrist!

She did it last Wednesday while playing squash.
One minute she was doing athletic Lara Croft-dives and the next, she was making pathetic two-handed shots that barely made it to the back wall.
This is where her similarity to Lara Croft ends, as Lara would never become injured, or at least, nothing that involved a lack of performance.

I refrain from mentioning my thoughts on Lara, in case I get a telling off.

Luckily I am a qualified First-Aider and even have an out-of-date defibrillator certificate. I always knew it would come in handy some day.

Doing my best Mark-Green-From-ER impression, I noisily wriggle her wrist around a bit for her and, having successfully brought about a few creaks and responding yelps, diagnose a sprain.
I then instruct her to ignore the pain, before beating her hands-down at the next game.

***

We are back on court.

Imp has had a week to recover and now she has masses of white strapping, grandly binding every moving part of her arm, from her elbow down! I marvel that she is even able to hold the racket and generously carry her water bottle to the court for her.
After all, I love her very much.

However, I am not one to allow someone to win, simply because they are injured. This would be a waste of my £5.20.
(I will, on the other hand, allow her to win a couple of points in each game, to save face.)

The ball is warm and we are ready to go.
I crouch down, keeping Imp in my peripheral vision and waiting for her serve with her ridiculous, huge duveted limb.

She serves, her arm poking out awkwardly like a big bandaged monstrosity and, grinning, I send the ball whizzing back past her head. Winner! Judging by the way she is moving, I think her strapping must be causing a certain amount of extra drag.
Now I'm no scientist, but I know that keeping a roof-rack on your car produces extra aerodynamic resistance and as a result, uses up approximately 5% more petrol. I would imagine that Imp's arm must be having the same effect - slowing her down by about the same amount, to say nothing of the extra weight.

Fantastic! It's a dead cert, I think to myself and, return to the small matter of being a complete bastard.

***

Imp wins. 2-0.

I do my best false smile and on the way back to the changing room I tell her that I wasn't really trying.

bedtime

2007-02-06T23:11:00.000Z

The walls of my flat have become thinner!

I lie in bed, trying to ignore the conversation next door. It's like Chinese Water Torture, but much later.
I can't hear every detail but I know that The Girl is going to the kitchen to get everyone another drink and Bloke 1 keeps laughing at whatever witty thing Bloke 2 is mumbling about.

This is a puzzle to me. I've been here for more than 2 years* and I've never heard anything through the walls before. How can this be? I muse over this for a while, hoping that it will make me so tired that I will become unconscious through the effort of thinking.
This happens to me quite a lot in places, like at traffic lights, or while watching Casualty at Imp's house, but it never seems to work in bed.

*In this flat, not in bed trying to get to sleep.

There was a time that I would have considered this a reasonable time to be up talking. And that was even before they invented Red Bull. But now I am a person of stature in society (ie, I have a red triangle in the boot of my car for emergencies and a Mini ISA**) and need my sleep. I harumph indignantly and carry on Not Listening To Next Door.

**In the Building Society, not the boot of my car.

The Girl's back from the kitchen. I know this because she's just sneezed.

I hate her.
How dare she sneeze! And the blokes, how dare they talk, in their own home. Bastards.

I bury my head under my duvet but, for some reason the laws of science gang up on me and it seems to amplify everything even more. I must be the unluckiest person in the world! I groan as Bloke 2 slurps his can and The Girl sips her Lambrini. I can practically hear the bubbles pinging on the glass.

I check my clock. Squintily. 2:00am.

I've decided. The only possible course of action is to drink whiskey. This is scientifically proven to deaden your hearing and aid sleep.

I drink whiskey. Medicinally.

It doesn't work.

I drink more whiskey. Not-so-medicinally.

I check my clock. 2:45am.
I've got to be up for work in 4 1/4 hours time! Aaaarrrgh! Bastard bloody students, talking and having a nice time and being next door to me and my inexplicably thin walls.

I'm not a grumpy person as a matter of course, or at least, I'm not grumpy when I'm in a good mood. But now I'm in a bad mood. Because it's the middle of the night and I'm not even tired anymore and Bloke 1 is still chuckling, which is beginning to get right on my ***s.

Moodily I shuffle with my duvet and a pillow and make myself as comfortable as possible on the living room floor and, miserably I lie in the dark and devise ways to murder the next-door neighbours...

windy

2007-01-19T17:13:00.000Z

Apparently people have been very badly affected by extremely strong winds all over the country, in the last few days.

I know how they feel.

fuff

2007-01-16T17:58:00.001Z

Imp farts on my leg.

I am appalled.

"Did you just fart on my leg?" I interrogate, skillfully.

She buries her head under the duvet and sniggers.

She farts again, this time with added gusto

Now I am very worried as she is a headteacher and has no business behaving this way. I think I should write to someone important, to complain.