Virtuous (and slightly smug)

That's how I feel after having done my good deed for the day.

Not only did I buy a poppy from an octogenerian in Asda's this evening, but as he was shakily trying to pin it to my cardigan, I also let him get a good look down my top.

It's probably the first time he's seen bosoms since the end of the war (and probably gave him more of a fright than all of the trick or treaters in their hoodies who will knock at his door tonight demanding his pension.)

E-Karma

I purchased an item from eBay recently, which I paid for as soon as the auction ended. I was then a bit miffed when the item failed to arrive. I emailed the seller a couple of times, but got no response, and no feedback had been left for me saying that I was an A+ eBayer for paying so promptly. As they weren't answering their emails, I got their mobile number from eBay. I called the number, to receive a message saying that it was out of service. I then contacted PayPal to get my money back. The seller has not responded to PayPal and it looks like I'm probably going to get my refund.

As I do before I purchase anything on eBay, I'd checked out their feedback first, and it was overwhelmingly positive. When it looked as if things had definitely gone tits-up with my purchase, I checked the feedback again, and have been ever since. It is now full of negative feedback from angry people who have not received their item and have been unable to make contact with the seller. I've checked, but he no longer has any items for sale either. Some of the negative feedback that has been left has been from people who have sold items to him, because he was obviously the highest bidder on their auction, but who haven't received any payment.

All of which leaves me to suspect and worry that either:

a.) He's been in a terrible accident and is in a coma
or
b.) He's dead.

Obviously it could just be that he's a crook and has either done a runner or is now serving time at Her Majesty's pleasure. But if either a) or b) are true, would it be terrible karma if I leave negative feedback? Would it be better if I just leave neutral feedback, along with a message to his family offering my sympathies? Surly Girl has pointed out that if either a) or b) are true, his family are unlikely to be checking his feedback rating on eBay, but I still feel superstitious about bad-mouthing the dead, especially when it can't be retracted and is on a very public website.

Other news this week is that a doctor has told me that he suspects I have a "sensitive womb" which has left me feeling like a character from a Victoria Wood sketch. Although I'm still reassured that I'm "structurally sound". Why do so many men specialise in gynaecology? And how do they break the news of their specialty to their mothers?

Carry on regardless...

I know that people other than me are reading this blog because I have a site meter. As nobody seems moved enough (other than SG) to leave a comment I'm now coming to accept the fact that the people who are reading this blog have stumbled upon it by accident when searching for something more interesting.

I've been reading other blogs, and have been slightly overcome by feelings of blog envy and inferiority, but have decided that I shall carry on regardless because the alternative is to bottle all of this up and to someday be the subject of a true crime drama on Channel Five.

My thoughts of the day are thus:

1. What genetic quirk enabled the Bedingfield family to have such a strange metallic tone to their singing voices, and is this being seriously studied by geneticists in an attempt to prevent it in future generations?
2. Is KT Tunstall paying royalties to "Rainbow" for ripping off their theme tune when writing "Suddenly I See"?
3. Why do I still feel an overwhelming urge to pinch Paul Mercurio's bum at the end of "Strictly Ballroom"? (when he's wearing those tight fitting trousers for the Paso Doble)
4. What is the problem that Chenia (or whatever her name is) on X-Factor has with pronouncing her consonants?
5. Are gold shoes, American tan tights, coral lipstick and a lack of spacial awareness when manouevring a shopping trolley related to reaching a specific age or reaching a certain lack of hormones? (I've been to Asda today by the way)
6. Is it wrong to go to a specific supermarket on the other side of town just because they sell your cider of choice in 2 pint bottles?
7. Why do I currently need/covet 101 different things, but cannot remember a single one when asked to draw up a Christmas list?

The freaks on the bus go round and round...

Following on from yesterday's rant regarding the young man who will henceforth be known by his Sioux name of Eats With Mouth Open (EWMO), I felt that I should get a few of my other fellow bus travellers out of my system.

1. Michaela Jackson.

On the usual buses that we have, there is a seat behind the driver that is sideways on, so that the person sitting there is facing into the bus and towards the door. This seat is slightly higher than the others, so that if anybody is sitting there that is a bit stumpy of leg, their feet tend to dangle. If they can only just touch the floor, it looks as if they are on tiptoes. The usual occupant of this seat is a lady who tends to wear white ankle socks with black slip-on shoes, and trousers that are slightly too short. Hence Michaela Jackson.

2. The Wicked Witch of the East

There is rather a lanky lady who has greying hair which she always wears in a bun at the nape of her neck. She also has an alarmingly large hooked nose and a cracked voice, as is she was in her 90's, rather than in her 50's or 60's as I suspect she really is. She is very very very much like the Wicked Witch of the East/West/Miss Mulch from the Wizard of Oz. I have yet to ascertain if her toes curl, as I don't know how to do so politely.

3. Hello? Hello? Hello?

The next bus stop on from mine is outside the local mental hospital, so there are a few Care in the Community patients that share my journey. My particular favourite is a young man who is always trying to engage people in conversation, but as most people on the bus are now familiar with him, we all do our best to avoid eye contact. My favourite conversation so far was one he had with a guy who got on the bus wearing a pair of camouflage combat trousers.
- "Are you a soldier?"
-"Actually I was once."
- "Are you in the IRA then?"
-"Er, no."
-"Why not?"
Not the normal route a conversation tends to take in darkest East Anglia.

Let the ranting commence...

When I rule the world, the first thing I'm going to make illegal is unnecessary noise when eating. This one law will cover a number of different crimes, which I shall hereby attempt to list:

1) Smacking of lips caused by eating with your mouth open.

There is absolutely no excuse for eating with your mouth open. If you have a cold and you are having difficulty breathing through your nose, then just don't eat in public. It is quite possibly the nastiest habit that anybody could ever have. I know people who have no shame at all in claiming that they have brought their children up to have good manners, while sitting there in a restaurant looking like a cow chewing the cud. It is disgusting, and you should stop it right now.

2. Talking when you have a mouth full of food.

This should really be listed as a sub-crime of the above. Sometimes it is difficult when people are making smalltalk and ask you a question while you are eating. If you really have to talk when eating, then at least put your hand over your mouth so we don't have to see exactly what your prawn cocktail has turned into.

3. Rustling of food packets.

I appreciate that this one may be peculiar to me, but if I'm ruling the world in a totalatarian fashion, then I can outlaw it if I want to. (So there.) I'm not sure at what point in my life the rustling of crisp packets started to make my teeth itch. Out of politeness, I normally won't say anything. However, it has been known for me to suddenly explode after a certain period of time sat rocking with my hands over my ears, and to grab the offending crisp packet out of somebody's hand and split it down the side. Therefore, access to crisps is easier and crisps can be extracted without one's hands having to touch the crisp packet at all. I suspect that this particular neurosis has something to do with the greasiness inside a crisp packet, which then transfers itself to the eater's hands, where it remains until they touch something of mine and get that greasy etc etc. Or something like that anyway.

4. Doing all of the above on a bus.

There is a young man who gets on my bus to travel to work. I suspect that his employers get something out of the government for keeping him in gainful employment, as he seems to be on an intellectual par with Mickey-love from the League of Gentlemen. At approximately 8.15 in the morning he starts to eat his breakfast on the bus. (I'm not sure why he can't eat breakfast at home, as he obviously doesn't spend his time in the morning having a shower.) Breakfast usually consists of at least two of the following items 1) a Kingsize bar of chocolate 2) a sausage roll/pasty 3) a packet of strong flavoured crisps e.g. beef or chilli. Not only does he then proceed to eat these items at an agonisingly slow rate, but while committing all of the above crimes. And needing a good wash. The only reason he is still alive is because my PMS takes the weeping buckets at X Factor route, rather than the throwing plates without being at a Greek wedding route.

I am considering offering him as a candidate for an ASBO though, as surely these are the kind of anti-social crimes they were originally intended for....

Love is...

Duck went to our local Co-op earlier today to get some fresh bread for lunch. As is his way, this usually means that he will return with at least five other items we don't need. Today he returned and told me that he'd brought me back a present. As I was up to my elbows in Cillitt Bang and bathroom grime, I excitedly squealed "A Filipino maid?". "Er, no" said Duck, "but I have got you a Halloween gingerbread pumpkin."

You will get an idea of the kind of week I've had that my joy at receiving some chewy (i.e. perfect, as opposed to crack-your-teeth hard) gingerbread is the most blogworthy thing that has happened to me this week. Although as my hormones seem to have left me with the short term memory of a goldfish with Alzheimers lately, something far more exciting could have happened to me, but I just can't remember it. (I shall be watching Crimewatch avidly though).

I have also been in Dover this week, to referee a slanging match between five senior citizens with too much time on their hands and to deal with a coach driver with no teeth and a back injury that he somehow got the impression I would be interested in. He was still calling after me with the details as I was running away from him.

The most worrying thing this week has been the realisation that I have to find an outfit to wear to a wedding and the subsequent reception. Not normally too much of a problem, but the ceremony is going to be in a church on 30th December. Therefore I need to find an outfit that I am not going to freeze in during the ceremony, but won't make me sweat like a menopausal woman in a sauna should I choose to get drunk and feel the need to dance. Being so soon after Christmas, I also need to find something that's going to have a bit of "give" as I resolutely refuse to diet at this time of year. Dieting is something you do with increasing panic in January, when you realise that you're going to the Caribbean in March and not only does none of your summer wardrobe fit you, but there is nothing available in the shops to replace it with. You then have the choice between living on soup, slimfast and air for three weeks, (while eating undercooked chicken in the hope of getting a slimming bout of food poisoning) or buying two dozen lurid but roomy kaftans when you get to Bridgetown.

Apparently the hen night has a dress code of "Christmas", so I think I'm going to have to buy some reindeer antlers as well.

Outfit ideas for either event on a postcard please....

Te presento a....

Not that I always feel the need to justify everything I do but....

A few reasons why:

1. Kellycat

I've never really been one to pick up nicknames. My Dad called me Darlene in my teens after the character from "Roseanne", probably because I was such a charming and communicative individual at the time. I've picked up three nicknames in later life, which are all worringly connected to "Friends". I am known to some as "Chick", but only because my boyfriend's nickname is "Duck". A few people have labelled me "Monica"although as I am not in the least bit competetive I'm not sure why. "Kellycat" comes from a twist on Phoebe's song "Smellycat", which went (originally) "Kellycat, Kellycat, what are they feeding you?". This was not, I must add, because I had body odour, but because when I lived in Cairns I started putting on weight at an alarming rate.

2. A Blog?

It's not really something I'd thought of doing before, until Surly Girl started doing hers. As I don't actually understand half of the technical questions I have been asked in order to set this blog up, it might never happen anyway. I would probably describe myself as somebody with a lot of pent up rage, and rather than ramming old lady's ankles with my trolley in Asda, this is probably the best way for me to vent it. I was very good at creative writing at school (not that I'm the least bit competetive), and other then writing the odd bit of cringe-making copy at work, I've rarely had the opportunity to make much use of my talents. I did write an article once for my student union newspaper. They had invited articles on people's hometowns. I wrote what I considered to be a dry, tongue-in-cheek article about my own provincial backwater and its charms. Whoever edited that page was obviously from the other side of the Atlantic, because sarcasm was lost on them. Exclamation marks were added to the end of every sentence and my dry humour was turned into a piece which sounded as if it had been written by an over-excited labrador puppy. On ecstacy. I was so scarred by this experience that I never wrote another article for them. I'm still slightly paranoid that somebody from Webloggers is going to hack into my blog and do the same thing!! Although I'm sure there are privacy laws and things to prevent them doing so!!!!

3. Hormones

I'm premenstrual, and I've spent the day shopping for curtains. I also have the start of a cold coming on. While Duck is downstairs in the new dining room (which until several weeks ago was our garage) trying to put up the new curtains that it took us three hours to buy, and getting short-tempered and sweary with it, upstairs on the PC is probably the best place to be.
Due to hormones and germs, everything between my knees and hairline currently hurts, so my writing may get more aggressive as time goes on. As I suffer from crippling pain on a monthly basis, I am having a "procedure" next week, which will probably leave me cross-eyed for a couple of days and able to pick up digital radio stations and a strong signal from Vodafone, but should hopefully sort out the hormones. My consultant has assured me that my ultrasound scan shows that I am "structurally" sound (no dry-rot or subsidence then) but I just don't get on very well with my hormones. He has also referred to me in a letter to my GP as a "problem" due to the fact that I suffer from migraines as well, which cancels out a lot of treatments. I am doing OK so far today, in that I have only cried once, and that was watching last night's X-Factor this morning.

4. Handbags

Those of you who have read D-Flat Chime Bar will know that Surly Girl has a fondness for shoes. My weakness is handbags. If Surly Girl was a size 4 we'd compliment each other perfectly. Despite the fact that I have a crate of handbags, I never seem to have exactly what I need for a particular occasion or outfit. The bag is either too formal or not formal enough. Not quite the right shade. Not the right kind of strap. Not big enough to fit my wallet, phone, comb, tissues, mirror, lip gloss, keys, compact and chewing gum in. Not small enough so that I look like a mum of three. Basically, no matter how many hadbags I have, they're always not quite right.

This dilemma I feel, is somewhat of a metaphor for my life. The question is, will my life fall into place when I have the perfect handbag, or does my life need to reach a certain "place" before I either find the perfect handbag, or be happy enough to accept that I never will.

As my hormones are obviously making me come over a bit Zen, I shall say goodnight....