Lovely kisses

I was in Boots the chemist today (thank you for the Boots tokens, Grandma), perusing the foot moisturising products section, when I thought 'foot moisturising products?! Gosh, I must really like him.'

She's got her daddy's shoes

Back home at my parents’ last weekend, I took off my new trainers as I went in the house through the kitchen. They're the third pair of Adidas Stan Smith's I've had. I keep buying them because I really like them and they won't make them forever and, anyway, this new pair is a bit different because the velcro bits are green.

By the time I went to leave, some hours later, my Dad’s Green Flash were sitting next to my Stan Smith's. With the new green velcro bits they really matched. My brother and I spent much of our childhood being in turn embarrassed and amused that my Dad has always worn Dunlop Green Flash trainers. He started wearing them when they were sort of in fashion, way back in my middle school days, he wore them right on through the eighties, then the nineties and still wears them now, after they've actually come back into vogue. I never understood why my dad wasn’t striving to get better and better trainers. It seemed so horribly basic and functional to say 'this will do, these trainers are good enough, I need never try the ones with the air bubbles or the velcro or...'

You could hardly spot the difference between the third pair of Stan Smith’s and the tenth pair of Green Flash.

My next pair of trainers will be totally different though, because I've just seen the new Stan Smith’s and there’s a lovely pair with pink velcro bits.

The tenth child

My mum saved this for me as she thought it would amuse me. Apparently she always reads the birth columns to giggle at daft names and funny adjectives ('a tiny son', for example). She doesn't read the deaths column because there aren't so many funny names to be found there. Just old ones.

Mum: You should always give a child one bog-standard name and one exotic one.
Me: So, is my exotic one Helen or Catherine?

Reasons to love grandma

For saying 'put some nice music on for us to talk over'.
For giving me my first mince pie of the festive season.
For using the sentence: 'so the man next door said "don't you pay them", then Sid on the other side came back from his holidays and said "I hope you didn't pay them", and the man two along on that side said "you shouldn't have to pay them you know", and the fella on the other side of Sid said the same... I didn't pay them.'
For being pleased that there's a picture of herself on the internet, even though I'm not sure she really knows what that means.

Conkers

Walking along Christon Road today, I saw two children shuffling forlornly around in the grass as their dad looked on. I thought they must have lost something, then I realised that they were standing under a horse chestnut tree. Evidently they were looking for conkers.

Let me take this chance to say sorry to all the children of Gosforth. There are no conkers on the ground because I pick them up every time I come home drunk. They're so shiny I just can't resist them. Tonight I might take my haul and scatter them about on the ground. Maybe under an oak tree, to confuse budding botanists.

Some notes on public transport

Firstly, an apology. To the conductress of the arriva trains service from Sunderland to Newcastle late on Sunday night, I am sorry for what I said. You see, it had been such a lovely evening. The kind of evening where it seems like everyone in the world is friendly and kind and nothing will be bad ever again. Those station men being so friendly and telling us we could get on that train and get home more quickly only added to the glorious sense of everyone being in it together. And then you ruined that and made the world seem like a horrible, petty, unfriendly place again. Still, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I went a bit too far when I said that you personify everything that is wrong with the world. You do, though.

Secondly, an explanation. To the man sitting on the very front seat of the 12.27 metro home last Thursday. In case you were wondering, when I sat down next to you and said ‘hello!’ it wasn’t because I found you sexually attractive. What I really should have said was ‘hello! I love sitting at the front too! Especially when it’s dark. Have you ever seen a rat or a mouse in the tunnel? Me neither, but I hope I do one day.’ You looked at me suspiciously and I wondered what you thought my intentions were. Still, if you got off the metro and thought ‘Ha! I’ve still got it going on!’ that’s nice for you too.

Is it ok to eat crabsticks for breakfast?
Not even on a Saturday?
Not even if I simultaneously watch Jamie Oliver making fresh pasta on Saturday Kitchen (thus raising the sophistication of the meal)?

I know it's not nearly Christmas. It's not nearly Christmas enough to think about presents or to buy cards or to find out whether I'm working or to make plans. It is near enough though to decide what the policy is going to be this year. In recent years I have been experimenting with not getting excited about Christmas. It has been a dismal failure. It has done little to reduce the misery of Christmas and has served only to eradicate the enjoyment of being excited for two months. This year I choose to be thrilled for two months and to cry with bitter disappointment for one day.


"It's funny, we always thought you'd be the one who did well." Cheers Grandma.

Today is the ninth consecutive day of being at work. Five is the average working week. On the sixth day I was saying "funny, isn't it? I've just had a week at work and now I'm starting another one straight away!". On the seventh day:"This almost feels like the end of the week but to people who'd just come back it would still be the first half of the week!" On the eighth day: "I don't know why I feel so sad and I've got a cold and I can't face the world". It takes its toll, in other words.

In the eighth-day-feeling-rather-low mood I noticed what tiny, tiny things make me happy or sad.

Riding up Hunters Road on my bike I was whistling, daydreaming about something nice. A car went past and beeped its horn for a really long time. Like BBBBBBBBBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP. I wasn't doing anything wrong it was just a rowdy group of boys being boyish and rowdy and reminding me that their car was louder and faster than my bike. I was absolutely infuriated. I memorised the number plate and repeated it in my head all the way to work while fighting back tears of pure rage. I forgot the number once I got to work and was distracted by old ladies with zimmer frames smoking in the bike sheds (the smoking shelters went down the day before for the new no smoking policy).

The day after the horn incident, feeling pretty bleak, I was standing in the queue at the post office and overheard this:

Post office lady: Ooh, do you mind if I ask what perfume you're wearing? I really like it.
Customer: Do you? I think I smell of oranges.

I've no idea why but hearing someone tell a complete stranger "I think I smell of oranges" made me quite, quite glad to be a human being.

I want a dog! I want a dog! I WANT A DOG!

I read a magazine article last week where the writer was going on about how much she loved her dog and I am now aware, every waking minute, that what my life is missing is a dog. But I can't have a dog til I have a house. I can't have a house til I've paid off my debts. So I bought Asda Smart Price squash last night (16p) and I'm never going out again and I'm working extra shifts. This is the dog I'm going to get (not the actual dog of course - so if it's your dog don't worry I won't steal him).