The Nurse

It's been a bit of a rum old week, not helped that for the most part, the only person I've really spoken to has been my office-mate. The love between us is not growing with time. Today, I woke, knowing work loomed large for the bulk of the day, but looking forward to a night in with RS.

Our plan was simple. We would watch The Eurovision, get takeaway delivered, drink wine, and generally bitch and giggle.

Generally, I'm not much for making an effort with my appearance to sit in the house. Especially with RS, who's seen me at my absolute worst, and in times of crisis - hers and mine - has come to the Cat House to find me in pyjamas. But, tonight, I decided that I needed to feel pretty. Or as pretty as I can feel. So, I put on some makeup and straightened my hair. I dressed in navy skinny jeans, a cute blouse - one of my recent purchases - and some white leather flip-flops.

Over the course of the evening, I noticed RS's gaze kept dropping to my feet. Eventually she asked, were my shoes new? They were new-ish, I confirmed. And, she asked, were they comfy? Not so much.

I thought that was the end of it. But still she kept staring. Eventually, she told me. The flip-flops reminded her of orthopaedic shoes. Or at best, the footwear sported by nursing staff.

Brilliant.

I am happy my friends feel comfortable enough to tell me my shoes are ugly. I smiled more this evening than I've done in a fortnight. Sometimes one needs a night of dreadful music to gain a bit of perspective.

But I tell you what. Those flip-flops will definitely be resigned to home-wear from now on.

The Nurse - Whitestripes

Up Against the Wall

When I started my current job at the beginning of the year, I went through an intensive induction programme. And during that time, I was enrolled on a number of mandatory training courses. As soon as I realised how busy my timetable was going to be, I decided that I needed to choose my battles, and those weren't one of them.

I contacted the people concerned, explained that I would prefer to defer the courses, and then promptly forgot about them. I heard no more about them.

Until today. When I received an email telling me that the final submission date was on Tuesday. Before then, I am to fight with lions, jump from tall buildings, and write reports about my endeavours. That's on top of the piles of other stuff that needs to be done by Monday.

Two chances. Slim and none.

I emailed the person concerned and explained that I was unable to meet the deadline. News travels fast. Almost immediately, I was called to my line manager's office. She sympathised with my situation, and said she understood that I was in a completely different position to other members of staff, but basically, too bad.

Now. I should explain. I'm not sitting on my arse doing nothing all week, meaning I'm playing catchup in my own time. Nor am I shit at my job. In fact, feedback sheets I received yesterday from the people I spend most of my week with almost made me weep with their kind words and encouragement. I arrived in a department which had been largely without staff for several months, and was thrown into a completely different situation to other new starts. And a tough one even for established personnel.

Had I arrived six weeks later, my room-mate would have been in my place, and the roles would have been reversed. I know it's not fair, or kind, but I can't help but feel hard done by when she talks about being awake sweating booze after the weekend, while I've been awake in a cold sweat, worrying.

But I digress. I've risen to the challenge, but have had to sacrifice my personal life in the process. I simply can't take on more. And definitely not by Tuesday. An unhappy impasse was reached, with my line manager saying she'd have to discuss it with the powers that be, and commenting that by not doing the training, I'd be putting myself in the line of fire.

Bring the fire on. It's clear to anyone reading this blog that while I might not be in The Depressions with both feet, I'm definitely teetering on the edge. Work may not be causing it, but it's certainly not helping.

In short, I'm ticked off. And may yet get a ticking off to boot. I'd love to say it's tough at the top, but I suspect I am never going to get there.

Up Against the Wall - Peter, Bjorn and John

Pay For It

I keep my credit card in the freezer.

This is partly because I don't trust myself to carry it in my purse. Storing it in the freezer means there is, literally, a cooling off period if I have the urge to splurge. And it's partly because I've been burgled before, which was beyond horrible. I figure it would be a brave thief to tackle the frozen wastes and ice-encrusted lasagnes to hunt down my plastic.

Over the years, I've had several credit cards. I've moved balances to zero percent interest deals, paid them off, and closed the account. As well as the card in the freezer I have another active account which I use for purchases on Play.com, although the actual card was cut up long ago. I clear the balance each month, and can't use the account for anything else.

But it appears there's another, phantom card somewhere in the system. Back before Easter I bought a couple of things on eBay - some Tweezerman tweezers and my Ugg boots, which may or may not be genuine, but have very good fake branding if they're not - and used PayPal for them. When my credit card bill arrived, there was no mention of them. Or the next month. Or the next. Which means that my PayPal account must be linked to a card which no longer exits.

And so I wonder. How long before this catches up with me? If it's an account I've paid off, but not actually closed, is my credit rating being blackened with each passing day? The balance must be something like £60, so it's not that I can't pay it. I just don't know how. On the other hand, was it an account that I have actually closed? Surely the transaction would have been declined in that case?

So. If anyone knows how to track it down, I'd be grateful. Equally, if anyone knows whether I've just scored myself some free stuff, I'd be extremely happy to hear that too.

Pay For It - Lloyd Cole

Pace is the Trick

By some happy accident, payroll at my work showed us the money a week early this month. Happy at the time, that is. Less happy now, with almost a fortnight to go, and almost no cash in the bank.

Times are hard, here in the Cat House.

Now, you'd think that in the absence of a social life at the moment, I'd be quids in. Not so. Because my life has been swallowed up by work (it's 10pm on a Saturday night, I've been working since 12 o'clock, and am going to be at it again tomorrow) I'm not feeling very happy. And when I'm not feeling very happy, I shop.

This month, I have been mostly shopping, a lot.

I've bought some cute summer clothes. I've bought some perfume - necessary to replace flagging stocks. I've bought the uncomfortable but sweet black ballet pumps, and a much kinder pair of white leather flip-flops. And I've bought a number of cosmetic-y items.

In short, I've bought far too much. I am far too old to be living like a queen for five minutes, then eating toast for the rest of the month.

The problem with not currently having a social life is that there's nowhere to wear my nice new clothes. And I'm loathed to wear them to work, at least until they've had one outing for pleasure purposes. So, hanging in my wardrobe are three tops and one dress which have yet to see the light of day. That, my friends, is something of a waste.

I need to learn to budget. I need to learn to say no, to myself and to other people. I need to learn that working on a Saturday night is for losers, and that there must be more to life than this.

Pace is the Trick - Interpol

Help

Once upon a flood, I happen upon a product which suits my skin down to the ground. I may be a bit of a tart when it comes to brand, but when I find something I like, I am oh so loyal. And about seven years back, Benefit's Pineapple Facial Polish was recommended to me. I was instantly converted. My skin liked it, the packaging was cute, and it smelled fab.

What's not to love?

I'll tell you what's not to love. The fact it was discontinued at the beginning of the year. So when I went to re-stock at lunchtime today, there were no more to be had. Of course, had I known it was being discontinued, I would have bulk bought. But I didn't. Know, or buy. And so, by the weekend, I will go from being scrubber, to scrubless.

I've tried their website. None. I've tried other websites. None. And so, in a repeat of the Great Blue Jumper Hunt, I call on you. Please. If you're passing a big Boots, have a quick look at the Benefit counter. If you spot it, snap it up, and send it my way. I can pay - Paypal or cheque, whatever suits.

My skin will thank you for it. And God knows, it needs all the help it can get.

Help - The Beatles

Hold On

It's said that stress manifests itself in different ways in different people. For me, the signs have always been clear. My IBS flares up, and my skin follows suit. If you see me sporting a stack of spots, it's a fair bet that I'm feeling under pressure, as well as ugly and self-conscious. I know, when these things happen, that I need to try and take better care of myself. To slow down, and worry less.

Sometimes, though, it's not possible to do that. Sometimes, the only option is to keep on keeping on, and hope for the best. Sometimes, hoping for the best is not enough.

My hair's falling out.

I feel ashamed just typing that. And I don't know what to do. It's coming away in clumps. Every time I shower, I am having to clear the plug-hole. Being a complete domestic slattern, usually once a fortnight, or even once a month, is plenty for that task. It's clogging my brush, and coating my shoulders. It's everywhere.

It's a worry.

I'm for the hairdresser on Thursday, so we'll see what she says. It might be that a top crop's the order of the day, before I end up having to resort to a comb-over. Meanwhile, I hope summer hats make a comeback.

Only six weeks 'til the holidays. I am counting down the days.

Hold On - Hot Chip

Nostalgia

Like many people, I have been closely following The Apprentice. I am, of course, addicted to reality telly, and there's something very appealing about seeing arrogant twits being made to squirm. The best in industry? Give me a break.

But there's something else. One of the contestants is the spitting image of an ex boyfriend of mine. The first time I saw the show, I did a double take. The resemblance is uncanny.

Naturally, this has prompted a nostalgia-fest. We were together for three years, latterly doing a long-distance thing. Which, of course, I was too neurotic to cope with. It's been 11 years since we saw one another. Part of me still thinks of him as The One Who Got Away. And so, I wonder. Where is he now? Is he married? Is he a father? Is he happy?

Mostly, these things are best left well alone. But of course, I've Googled him in the manner of a stalker. Which threw up no useful information at all. (He does have a very common surname though.)

Perhaps he left the country?

I wonder if he ever thinks of me. Maybe he'll read this and a far off bell of recognition will chime in the recesses of his memory. It can't just be me who's commented on the likeness, that's for sure. Unless, of course, he's changed his name, and is busy making an arse of himself on national TV.

Nostalgia - The Long Blondes

Pump Up the Volume

I have two settings when it comes to footwear. Boots and flip-flop type sandal things. I do have some funky heels, which I generally wear with skinny jeans and spangly socks, but for the day, I'm a flatties kind of girl.

Maybe that's not very sexy, but nor is being unable to walk.

Summer's on its way. In fact, judging by some of the sunburn I spied today, it's here already. And rumour has it that my employer does not permit open toed shoes on the premises for health and safety reasons. Presumably that manual handling course I did wasn't protection enough.

So. Last week, I went on the hunt. And I got me some very cute ballet pumps in soft black leather. Okay for work, and okay with jeans. A bargain at £35. The sales assistant commented how comfortable they looked. My room-mate commented how they would wear like slippers.

Wrong.

I wore them today, and if comfortable means rubbing a big hole in one's foot, and slippers are also known as the instruments of Satan, then these are bang on the money. It's a good job they're black, otherwise I'd be in the running for an Amy Winehouse-alike competition.

Tomorrow, it's open toes and hang the consequences. I figure I've three warnings to get before I'm sacked, and the way things are, they're not in any position to let people go for sartorial error.

I'm a rebel, me. Albeit one who walks with a limp.

Pump Up the Volume - MARS

Tell It Like It Is

One of the reasons my room-mate at work left her rather glamorous former career to join me in our new rather less than glamorous one is that she and her husband want to start a family. In her new role, she'll receive a decent maternity package, and will be able to return to work part-time with little inconvenience for anyone.

She's playing, if you will, the long game.

They don't have immediate plans. But, she commented, at 31, she wasn't sure when the right time was. After all, she told me, fertility drops by 50% at 30, and then by another 25% at 35.

I laughed. I said I was past it. She looked at me sympathetically and asked if I'd consider having a family on my own. I was, in all honesty, a bit taken aback. Because surely the sisterly response is to say, no, of course you're not. You'll meet someone. Even if you think there's as much chance of that person riding across town on a unicorn as ever being kissed again, it's just the rules. Like you say, no, you look gorgeous, not fat at all. It's what women do.

So. There we have it. I am officially washed up.

Of course, I've come across these figures before. After all, I read every women's magazine I can lay hands on. And (former) Colleague K was a dedicated Daily Mail fan. But I've never heard them actually spoken so matter of factly (and entirely without malice) in conversation. They've stuck in my head, where they mill round and round and round. Like an earworm, only far less pleasant.

It's said there are lies, damn lies, and statistics. But sometimes statistics are hard facts. Fact.

How can it be that I am only 25% as fertile as I was six years ago? I didn't wake up on my 35th birthday earlier in the year looking or feeling older. Did another quarter of my eggs suddenly become sub-standard during that night? And while my fertility may only be sitting at 25%, in real terms it's actually zero. Given that I'm not having the sex, the chances of my falling pregnant are, clearly, nil.

This morning I woke at 5am on blood-soaked sheets. Gut-wrenching stomach pains told me my body is, at least, still able to get pregnant, even if my eggs may be past their sell by date.

Today I have been mostly clutching a hot water bottle and gobbling Nurofen Plus.

Sometimes being a girl is proper bobbins. And being old plain stinks. On days like this, I wish I had a big garden in the middle of the countryside. I'd go out and howl and wail and shout until I was hoarse. I'm certain that would make me feel better.

Here, everyone can hear me scream. So I don't. Sometimes it's hard to keep silent though.

Tell It Like It Is - Cast

Clean Up Your Eyes

A conversation in the shoe department of John Lewis, this lunchtime.

Lady: Excuse me, can you tell me where to find the shoe polish, please?

Me: Er, I'm not sure. Sorry.

Lady: (Sarcastically) Well, if you don't know, can you point me in the direction of someone who actually does?

Me: You could try asking at the till point...

Lady: (Exasperated) For goodness sake!

Me: (Realisation suddenly dawning) Oh, I don't work here!

(Lady walks off, looking embarrassed, but without apologising.)

This happens to me remarkably frequently. I must have the look of one who works in a shop, as opposed to one who shops.

I did not buy the shoes.

Clean Up Your Eyes - The Dykeenies

Special

I've been having a bit of a mini-crisis of late, about, well, everything. First, there's work, where I feel a bit like a hamster on a treadmill. Then there's everything else.

Essentially, I've been pondering. Am I important to anyone? Do I count for anything? If I wasn't here, would it make any difference beyond being a minor inconvenience?

All very self-indulgent. But do indulge me.

Today, I went to my local independent record shop at lunchtime. Until the beginning of this year, (former) Colleague A and I used to go out for lunch together every Monday, and then head there to collect new releases. It was a little ritual, which my new job has hampered somewhat.

Today, we lunched, and then we went hunting for music. And as I stood at the till, the record shop man exclaimed, "You're back! It feels like equilibrium's been restored!" I looked blank. He went on to explain that seeing (former) Colleague A alone on a Monday had been like ying with no yang, and that he was glad to see me.

It may sound fairly random, but it made my day. Because even if no-one else cares, and even if he's just after my cash, someone would miss me/has missed me.

I bought The Long Blondes, Foals, Vampire Weekend and The Mystery Jets. And he gave me a welcome back discount.

I may not have much else going at the moment, but at least I have tunes.

Special - The Violent Femmes

Our Life is Not a Movie, Or Maybe

Work continues to be a headache.

I love doing what I'm actually meant to be doing, and if feedback's to be believed, I'm good at it. But I'm so busy doing what I'm actually meant to be doing that I don't have any time to prepare for it. And so, I am spending all my evenings and weekends doing just that.

Which is not brilliant.

In an ideal world, the basis for me to do what I'm actually meant to be doing would be there, ready for me to pick it up and run with it, or at the very least adapt it to suit. In reality, there's pretty much nothing. Which means I'm researching, writing and planning in order to be able to do what I'm actually meant to be doing.

Like I say, it's a headache.

I'd thought things would be easier when our new member of staff started. They're not. Then I thought they'd be easier after summer. But I've now seen a draft of the amount of time I'll be doing what I'm actually meant to be doing then, and it's just the same. The fact some of it will be a repeat of what I've already done will definitely help, but the bulk of it will be brand new, meaning researching, writing and planning all of it all over again.

I really enjoy doing what I'm actually meant to be doing. But I can't keep this up. I need to have stuff outside work. I need a bit of balance.

And there's my room-mate. It would be impossible to pick two people who have less in common and stick them in one office. Probably it's just my lack of self-confidence, and her abundance of self-confidence, but she makes me feel inferior all the bloody time. Which is bad for the soul. And because she's got about half the time doing what we're actually meant to be doing compared to me, she's there all the time. Not only that, but she's got loads of time to find stuff out, stuff that I've been cutting massive corners with. (I've had to choose my battles, and sadly, paperwork is not a battle I've chosen, along with some of the top notch technology and in-house training courses on offer. What's wrong with big old marker pens anyway?) She also seems to know everyone, whereas I just run from thing to thing, saying hello as I pass, but not properly meeting people.

Like I say, it's bad for the soul.

I know. It's me, not her. I know not everyone can get along. It's just unfortunate that the office is so small. And that every time I'm in there, she's there too.

Humph.

Not to worry. Summer's a coming. And it's Friday. I'm off to a friend's for dinner, and there's going to be nice food, decent wine, and good chat. I suppose it could be a lot worse. Even if there's a massive bag of books and files propped in my hall, waiting for my attention tomorrow.

Our Life is Not a Movie, Or Maybe - Okkervil River

Seagull

Have I ever mentioned that I'm not overly keen on anything which flies? Well. I'm not. I don't much like birds, and I hate moths and butterflies. In fact, it borders on a phobia. Which is unfortunate, as living in the City centre, there are birds a-plenty.

I don't like their faces. I don't like their beaks. I don't like their flappy wings. And I really, really don't like it when I step out at lunchtime and get shat on. Anyone who's ever said that having a bird pooh on you is lucky has obviously never been hit by a dirty great seagull. Because let me tell you, there is nothing lucky (or pleasant) about that. Not a thing.

My blue coat will never be the same. I'm not sure the cleaner will even touch it.

At least it didn't get my hair. One must be thankful for small mercies.

Seagull - Ride

Oscillate Wildly

I am still all over the shop.

Previously, when I've been dumped - which, let's face it, is exactly what's happened here - I've followed a set formula, familiar to many. I have wept and wailed. I have eaten a load of chocolate. I have called lots of people, and gone over (and over and over) what's happened. I have gone out with my girlfriends, and gone home extremely drunk, possibly snogging an unsuitable man in the process.

This time, I have done none of these things. My eyes welled up when I received the email, but since I was at work, and with the 27 people who did not tell me I had tomato in my teeth, I remained composed. Fortunately, they were engaged in other activities, and pay me little heed anyway. Otherwise they may have found it somewhat alarming. Since then, I have shed no tears. I've barely eaten a thing. I have called no-one. In fact, I have told no "real" people. I have ignored the telephone.

Today, I woke at 11am, watched T4 for a bit, and then worked from 1pm until 11pm. I did not leave the house, and after having a bath at teatime, simply put on new pyjamas.

My stomach's been in a perpetual knot. I have felt, but thankfully not been, sick constantly. I have spent a lot of time in the bathroom. I have had a horrible headache. My throat aches. My chest feels tight.

My heart actually hurts.

I swing between the urge to rush to RH's house and tell him I can commit, that we can make it work, and thinking this is the right thing.

If it is the right thing, right now it feels anything but. In fact, it hurts like hell.

Oscillate Wildly - The Smiths

Darling

Today I am mostly feeling sad.

Yesterday, RH finally gave me my marching orders, or, as he put it, called time on the whole charade. He said he didn't see any point in continuing in a relationship where I constantly had one foot outside the door.

It's a fair comment.

RH and I have been, on and off, together-ish, for almost four years. As soon as it gets too involved, I back off. Which is a pattern I've repeated for most of my adult life.

He told me he loved me, and that he felt confident I loved him, but wasn't willing to admit it, even to myself. These insights were delivered via email, which, I suspect, is perhaps how I am destined to receive all my important news from now on.

He's a wise man.

I do love him. I can (could) see us having a very happy long-term future together. He's the first man I've ever truly seen myself having children with. He makes me feel safe. And that, I think, is the problem. Yes, there are all my neuroses to factor into the mix, but part of me thinks safe is not as exciting as it should be. That I'm missing out on some big bang and grand passion.

And, of course, I realise that's childish and stupid. And I realise that the men I've had the most amazing physical relationships with have, overall, turned out to be men I had nothing much else in common with, and that sex hasn't been enough to sustain things in the long-term.

But is the whole package out there? And if it is, am I going to stumble upon it before it's too late?

I feel all over the shop. Part of me thinks that after four years, there's certainly something there, and that I should just get over myself, and give it a fair crack of the whip. And part of me thinks the fact that I haven't thus far suggests there's something fundamentally missing, and finally knocking it on the head for good is the right thing.

Interesingly, I don't see giving it a fair crack of the whip and perhaps it won't work out, but we'll see how it goes, as an option. For some reason, I feel that if I commit properly, this is definitely it. Hello, husband. Which, I thought, was what I really wanted.

All over the shop indeed.

What to do? Probably nothing. Probably I'll do a bit of mooching around, crying in the bath, and obsessively re-reading the emails, then try to put it behind me and move on.

Alternatively, I might spend the next six months worrying I've let the best thing that ever happened to me get away.

We'll see.

Darling - Sons and Daughters