Puppies

Not the yapping, furry, drooling, nibble-at-your-ankle kind, but the jiggling, give-you-two-black-eyes-if-you-run-for-a-bus kind.

As I am apprantly rather sensitive to the hormones flooding my body, various medical attempts have been made to balance them out a bit. Now the vast majority of the time, I am a "more than a handfull's a waste" 34C. However, the last experiment to get my hormones on the straight and narrow resulted in me temporarily going up to a 34D. I was quite proud of what I now regarded as a heaving bosom. (However, as their emergence had coincided with a fortnight's holiday in Spain, there were rumours at work that I had been away to have plastic surgery.) When the experiment was abandoned after I suffered a three day long migraine, they eventually deflated back to their original size.

The current experiment, combined with my diet holiday, has meant that my bras were making me appear to have four breasts, and once or twice I nearly had what I believe is now called a "wardrobe malfunction". The tape measure came out, and I worked out that I was somewhere between a 36B and a 36C. M&S kindly confirmed that for me this afternoon. Determined that I had to go home with at least some form of structural engineering, I have spent this afternoon trawling the high street for a bra that fits, which meant taking everything into the changing rooms in two sizes to see which fitted better. Nothing in M&S appealed, and Debenham's appeared to have virtually no stock on the racks at all. I found an attractive set of two bras in Next. I went into the changing rooms, took off my top and bra, then swore loudly, redressed and stormed out.

- "Were they OK for you?"
- "Not really seeing as they are tagged together."

I delivered a very withering look and flounced out. If I could have slammed the shop door I would have done. By the time I got to Contessa I was literally weeping tears of frustration. The sales assistant treated me, understandably, with kid gloves. We tried the 36B's and 36C's that the tape measure said I was but got no joy. We decided to just go with trying various sizes and styles until we found one that did what it was supposed to, that is, be comfortable, supportive and cradle everything they're supposed to with no chance of anything escaping. I eventually left with one bra, and will be purchasing another after they get their next delivery in on Thursday. I will also be adding sales assistant to my Christmas card list.

I am now the proud owner of a black bra, size 34DD. I feel like Hattie Jacques.

Tears at Star Time

Surly Girl and I have just returned from Star Time at Small Person’s school. It was all very precious.

Small Person won one award for “Excellent Poem Writing”. The style was unspecified, but we’re assuming Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her other award was for her science project, where she had to “investigate reflective materials”. This was in order to apply sparkly bits of paper to Cinderella’s dress so that, in the words of the headteacher, “Cinderella could get home safely”. Only Small Person could manipulate a science project to involve sparkly stuff.

Star Time commenced with one class explaining how they keep healthy and then doing a number of song and dance routines to demonstrate this. One was the “Wiggle Waggle” dance. The next featured a chorus along the lines of “Come and join our game, you’ll find it’s always the same”. One boy was a beat behind the rest of his class. This wouldn’t normally have made much of a difference amongst a bunch of six year olds, but he was the loudest singer/shouter in his class, which meant that each line of the chorus ended in a very loud and painfully dragged out “same” or “game” when the rest of the class were silent. Thankfully, naughty girls that we are, SG and I were sat at the back of the assembly hall so that headteacher couldn’t fix her steely gaze on us as we silently rocked and cried.

The exercise demonstration involved one child with a whistle shouting out commands which the rest of the class had to do, including some very uncoordinated star jumps. One of the exercises was to stand still and breathe. I’m planning on using that one in the gym tonight.

Another child with a very unusual and chavtastic name won an award for writing his name for the first time. One suspects that it was more of a case of “that’s what he’s written, so that’s what we’ll call him.”

Now, I want you all quiet and sitting up beautifully. Now return to what you were doing in an orderly fashion, backs straight, arms by your sides.

At least he’s still working…

If you’re stuck for ideas for Christmas presents, may I recommend trying here?

Who wouldn’t be touched to receive one of the most unimaginative gifts you can buy anybody, endorsed by a D-List celebrity?

You must read the testimonials.

Any signs of life...?

I spent yesterday on a first aid course. My fellow students were all men, and as they were all involved in manual trades, we had to learn what to do in the event of an amputated digit. Being an office worker, I hoping that the most serious thing I’ll have to cope with is a nasty paper cut or broken nail.

However, the best thing about the course was our instructor, Margaret. Margaret was in her late fifties, and was very matronly. She had the kind of shelf-like bosom that I hope to cultivate when I get to her age, which was coupled with a slight dowager’s hump and very skinny legs. The majority of my fellow students were chavs in their early twenties. They found it highly amusing when the air escaped from the Annie dolls and made a farting noise. Needless to say, Margaret did not. She was not going to suffer any giggling on her watch.

As I didn’t know anyone else there, I had no shame in showing off and eagerly (and smugly) answering any questions asked. This lead to Margaret having to say, “Come on now, this lady’s answering all of the questions, we need some answers from this side of the room”. In my defence, one of the first things Margaret had taught us was that in any situation, we were the most important people.

I am now very confident in resuscitation and CPR, but struggle with a sling. My bandaging is exceptionally neat though, and I have proved that, should somebody knock their varicose vein, I can also bandage very quickly. As Duck had done first aid twenty years ago in the Boy’s Brigade, we had an argument last night on the correct way to put somebody into the recovery position. Having every confidence in Margaret’s teaching, I managed to win that argument in the time honoured fashion of talking louder than he did.

Things I shouldn’t be doing in work (Part 2)

1. Contemplating the horror that is going to be this Saturday night, when Duck’s parents meet my parents for the first time. That is, quiet, retired, bungalow-dwelling country folk meet loud, tact-deficient cockneys. I was hoping to put this event off until a possible future wedding day, but my shamelessly nosy mother has caught Duck and I unawares by inviting us all out for a meal, before we had a chance to come up with a suitable excuse (like Mr and Mrs Duck have bird-flu or they’re Amish…)

2. Contemplating why I never came up with a suitable excuse (again) for not being able to attend a kitchenware party that my boss is hosting tonight. I think I overheard the demonstrator being referred to as Pam.

3. Contemplating how to flesh out the script for my new action/horror film, “The Demonstrator”. So far, the plot involves innocent smalltown-dwellers attending a kitchenware party, where they are held hostage by “The Demonstrator”, a middle-aged women with big blonde hair and a Laura Ashley dress, hell bent on revenge for the folk who mocked her revolutionary new potato peeler. (Casting tbc, but I’m currently favouring Sandra Dickinson for the lead role, with Nerys Hughes as the hostess.)

4. Er... writing my blog I suppose.

5. Contemplating “How are some staff re-enacting a famous walk?” (as appears on our company intranet). May be a wild guess, but I’m going to go with “by walking”.

6. Contemplating who else could play me in the story of my life should Reece Witherspoon be unavailable.

Things I shouldn't be doing in work (Part 1)

Listing my favourite Excel functions:

CHIINV – Returns the inverse of the one-tailed probability of the chi-squared distribution. (i.e. calculates exactly how many acupuncture needles need to be stuck into delicate parts of you, depending on what Chinese zodiac sign you were born under)

CHITEST – Returns the test for independence : the value of the chi-squared distribution for the statistic and the appropriate degrees of freedom (i.e. calculates how much your ex’s maintenance payments should be)

CLEAN – Removes all nonprintable characters from text (i.e. calculates your relation to the IT department divided by your ability to get rude words through your company’s email filter)

CONFIDENCE – Returns the confidence interval for a population mean (i.e. calculates how many people within a particular region would consider speed-dating)

COUNTBLANK – Counts empty cells in a specified range of cells (used in fertility testing)

DGET – Extracts from a database a single record that matches the conditions you specify (used in the building of internet dating websites)

DSTDEV – Estimates the standard deviation based on a sample from selected database entries (i.e. calculates the likelihood of your husband wearing your underwear when you’re not at home)

FIND – Finds one text string within another text string and returns the number of the starting position of the found string (which is never where you thought you’d left it)

FISHER – Returns the Fisher transformation (which charts the rise from Home and Away starlet to Hollywood D-list bit-parter)

FTEST – Returns the result of an F-test: the one-tailed probability that the variances in Array1 and Array2 are not significantly different (i.e. calculates the number of swear words used in an argument where Array1 is “Barley White” and Array2 is “Natural Hessian”)

SKEW – Returns the skewness of a distribution: a characterization of the degree of asymmetry of a distribution around its mean (i.e. the amount your figures are out because of management giving cheap deals to people their brother met in a bar once.)

As you were...

The weekend starts here...

I’m so looking forward to this weekend. “Why Kellycat?” I hear you ask (all three of you). “Is it because you’re still in your twenties, and are therefore going to be lurching from bar to club to kebab shop to taxi rank in a pair of ill advised stilettos, no coat, and something glittery on your face? Will you be, as the kids say, larging it?”

No. I’m looking forward to this weekend because I have NOTHING planned. Therefore I have the luxury of doing NOTHING. Mostly in my comfiest pyjamas. While Duck is at the pub tonight, I will be sat on the sofa, with a fleece blanket, Sky+ and a microwave Chinese from M&S, which will be followed by a steamed chocolate pudding and custard, and washed down with a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

I know when I have kids I will look back at such weekends as a wasted opportunity, but until the smoking ban comes into effect, and they introduce a law which says that every pub and club must provide seating and a toilet cubicle for every customer, I really need to be motivated to brave a town centre on a Friday or Saturday night.

That said, I might be going out with Surly Girl next Friday night, which will probably make up for a month or so on the sofa….

Come the revolution...

One of the reasons why I hate people is because of their general stupidity.

I am currently running a prize draw, with the prize being the chance to attend an event to celebrate a new ship entering service for a cruise line. I have had a number of entries (not just one) from people who have consciously put a note on their application to say that they will be on holiday on the date of the event, and therefore in another part of the world. As you blatantly won’t be able to attend, why have you still completed the application form, put it in an envelope, written the address on the envelope, bought a stamp, affixed the stamp to the envelope and put the whole thing in a post box? Why? Even if you won, you couldn’t attend, so why have you bothered? What were you hoping to achieve?

I have also received a letter of complaint from a man living in the East Midlands, stating that because the event is in Dover, we are discriminating against those who don’t live in the South East. I have spent the best part of a day trying to word a letter of response that is not dripping in sarcasm. As the event is on a cruise ship, where on earth was he expecting it to be held? Melton Mowbray? Mansfield? Derby?

On a different note, blue toes are obviously de rigueur for this season’s Christmas parties, as all of the shops are full of sparkly stiletto sandals. Is the fashion world assuming that we will all be driven to our party destinations in a climate controlled limo? I’m not after fur-lined boots, just something with a closed-in toe. I’ve a church wedding to go to on 30th December, god dammit, and I can’t be sitting there in sandals.

(Is it obvious that I’m hormonal, or do you think I’ve got away with it?)

How to out friends and influence people....

After yesterday's post, I was reminded of another cringemaking conversation I once had while working in an Irish pub, which my friend has never let me forget.

I was chatting with one of the hardened regulars about his home in Northen Ireland, when the conversation turned to one of the other bar staff, Matt, who was from Armagh.

"So, what foot does Matt kick the ball with then?"

As Matt is camper than Millet's, and not giving a thought to politics, I thought the answer was fairly obvious, so I laughed and said, "Yes, it's true, Matt is gay."

(Punter's jaw drops into Guinness)

"Matt's gay!!!!! I just wanted to know if he was Catholic or Protestant!"

Well, how was I to know?

Memoirs of a sinner....

Reading Meegan’s recent post about her flu jab has reminded me of something that happened to me the last time I had tonsillitis. I was living in Balaclava, a suburb of Melbourne with a large Jewish community (the local takeaway was called “Kosher Express”). Many in this community were Orthodox, and therefore quite conservative.

I had to go and visit a local doctor to get a penicillin injection. I’d already had one the day before at a different surgery in the city, which had left me with a large bruise on my arse cheek. As I wasn’t registered at the surgery in Balaclava, I had to go through a short lifestyle questionnaire with the female doctor, where I shamefacedly lied about how much exercise I did and the number of units of alcohol I drunk.

When it came to giving my occupation, I couldn’t bring myself to use the word “barmaid”, and “bartender” has a bit of a “tree surgeon” ring about it (I once worked in a pub in Brisbane where all of the staff were referred to as “drinking consultants”) so I simply said that I worked in a bar.

Maybe I’m a little naïve, but I would have thought that if somebody told you they worked in a bar, you would assume they simply worked behind the bar serving drinks, especially if you lived in such a conservative area. Therefore I was a little surprised when after giving me my injection and leaving a symmetrical bruise on my other arse cheek, the doctor said:

“It’s a good job you’re signed off with tonsillitis, because those bruises wouldn’t look very good when you go to work.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, those bruises would be quite obvious when you’re wearing a g-string.”

It would seem that the nice lady doctor assumed that, as I worked in such a sinful establishment as a bar, I must be an exotic dancer. The fact that, having dragged myself out of bed with tonsillitis, the glamour rating of my outfit was only half a grade above fluffy pyjamas (i.e. I had shoes on), that I was at the time on the sturdy side of “Rubenesque”, and that she had just personally witnessed my cellulite in all its glory had not seemed to have had any effect on the conclusion she had reached regarding my occupation.

(The irony that one of my flatmates was an exotic dancer and could get her leg behind her head while wearing 6 inch heeled perspex mules was not lost on me.)