Do you Elvis, take Priscilla...

Chez Kellycat, we try to show some restraint with the Christmas decorations. Duck is naturally drawn to anything bright and twinkly, so our kitchen and dining room windows have LED mesh lights in, which are pretty and twinkly but not too over the top.

That was until yesterday, when Duck decided we needed something a little extra. Various rope lights were produced from storage - those plastic tubes with the chasing lights inside them. I vetoed the purple one as soon as it came out of the box, and extracted a promise that it would not be put up anywhere within the vicinity of the house. I was therefore under the impression that only the blue one would be going up, which was fine, because against my expectations, it had actually looked quite pretty last year.

An hour or so later, Duck dragged me outside in he cold to admire his handiwork. From somewhere I obviously don't know about, a multicoloured rope light has emerged and has been put up to outline the arch of our porch.

In retaliation for not letting him have tinsel on the Christmas tree, Duck has turned our house into a Vegas chapel. My mum helpfully enquired this evening as to where we could purchase a neon motel sign with a large arrow to finish the look.

He may have won the battle but the war's not over yet....

Update 20/12/05: A compromise has now been reached. It has been agreed that the Vegas lights will remain on the static setting, as opposed to the flashing, blinking and chasing setting, which I feared could induce epileptic seizures to anybody entering our street after dark. However, I still maintain that our house is currently visible from space.

Mendacity and mobiles...

I should be looking fabulous by now.

Being desperately in need of a trim and having at least four inches of my natural hair colour showing, I finally got around to booking myself in to get my hair done. I promptly turned up at the salon this morning to get my head covered in tin foil and listen to inane conversation.

I was greeted at the reception desk by a 16 year old Broom Monkey who politely stared at me.

Kellycat: "I have an appointment at 9.30 with Amanda"

Broom monkey: "Oh. Amanda went home sick yesterday. I tried to call you."

Kellycat: "On my mobile?"

Broom monkey: "Yeah. This number here."

Kellycat: "Yes, that's the correct number. You tried to call me yesterday?"

Broom monkey: "Er, yeah. But nobody answered. Can I make you another appointment? We're open all day next Saturday."

I then interrogated Broom Monkey very sternly on the fact that I had no missed calls, my voicemail kicks in after ten rings, and that no messages had been left for me either. Even if she had mis-dialled the number, why didn't she keep trying until she got hold of me? Broom monkey wept, apologised profusely and promised me a free hair cut.*

*Actually, I very uncharacteristally did none of that, and meekly made a new appointment. Am now furious at Broom Monkey for so blatantly lying to me, and furious at myself for not challenging her about it. Once Amanda has finished doing my hair next week I shall take it up with her and haggle for a discount (I'm not stupid enough to argue with my hairdresser before she does my hair).

I also had the indignity of then having to go into the town centre to do my shopping with pre-salon hair, and am now left with crap hair for a further week. I just thank god that I don't have a social life.

If I had to do the same again…

As has become the pattern over the last few days, BBC Breakfast News has spent most of the morning at Hemel Hempstead, giving continuing coverage to another no-news event. The reporter there today is Ben Ando.

Subsequently, I have had the following in a continuous loop in my head all morning:

There was something in the air that night,
The stars were bright,
Ben Ando…

Sorry.

Hmmph

I am having a sulk. Girl Best Friend , Halfpint, emailed Boy Best Friend, JM this morning to find out what he was up to over Christmas, as the three of us all now live in different parts of the country and don’t get to see each other as much. Halfpint forwarded me JM’s reply, which is how I found out that JM has got married.

I have known JM for 13 years, and he has been a Best Friend of Halfpint and I for 11 years. JM is notoriously bad at keeping in touch. This can be very frustrating as he is in the army, and Halfpint and I are always having kittens as to which part of the world he is currently risking his life in. Therefore it’s a few months since JM has been in touch with me, but when we last spoke, he told me he was getting married in Somerset at the end of April. Duck and I pencilled that in for a long weekend, and I naturally started to think about what I was going to wear.

I am therefore very upset that he has gone and got married without even telling Halfpint or I. I understand that, with the nature of his job, there may be a very good reason why the wedding was suddenly brought forward (and I’m now also worried he is about to be posted somewhere nasty again). However, I can’t help feeling that he could have at least contacted Halfpint and I to let us know that there was a change of plan, even if he wasn’t in a position to invite us.

I appreciate that it’s probably different for Halfpint and I because we’ve know each other longer and we’re girls, so we already have that agreement that we will be each other’s bridesmaids, but it still hurts. I realise I’m probably being very selfish, but although I wish him well, I’m actually quite upset because it feels like our friendship doesn’t count for anything and I know that Halfpint feels the same. Goddammit, we once spent 24 hours on a Polish bus (without a working toilet) from London to Wroclaw to go and visit him. The least he could do is spare us a thought.

Once more with feeling: Hmmph.

The Emancipation of Mickey

I get a lift to work each day with my boss. We normally listen to Radio 1, but occasionally I am subjected to something from her CD collection. Kelly Clarkson I can cope with, because she’s just bland, rather than outright offensive. Today, however, it was Mickey Carey (those are NOT lady’s hands).

I thought I’d be able to get through it by devising a distraction technique, such as counting the number of overly dramatic key changes.

I was wrong.

I started giving lorry drivers pleading looks in the hope that they’d read my mind and swerve into us.

I arrived at work with a pounding headache, due to my cold, having to listen to excessive warbling, and from grinding my teeth so hard.

Am now in a foul mood. Considering walking the seven miles home tonight.

Ten “Musical Artistes/Acts” that make my teeth itch:

Mickey Carey.
Black Eyed Peas
Sean Paul
Gwen Stefani
G4
Pussycat Dolls
Katie Melua
Jamie Cullum
Celine Dion
Rachel Stevens


There are many, many, many others, but I’m trying to be concise. I am now going to be annoying* and tag Surly, Whinger and Great She Elephant for theirs.

*Don’t argue as I’m off my tits on Day Nurse and no longer feel pain or fear.

The Bus of Enforced Jollity

Surly and I often seem to find ourselves in situations where we think "Why is nobody else laughing?" I shall be doing a series over the next week of the Adventures of Surly and Kellycat. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

The offices where Surly and I work are on the outskirts of town, on an industrial estate. One of the “benefits” of our employment is that our company lays on a free bus to ferry us into the town centre two lunchtimes a week, or three times a week in December.

The driver of this bus is Les. Les is not familiar with smiling. Neither is Les familiar with the courtesies of driving, or the concept of right of way. Consequently, Les is now known as Road Rage Les, but only behind his back, for obvious reasons.

I was the first to board the bus this lunchtime. I was greeted with a bus bedecked in tinsel, broken Christmas decorations and more bizarrely, feathers and “Happy 1st Birthday” balloons.

Les is a man who is very fond of his colour printer and his clipart. We usually have two signs on the bus. One informing us that our driver is called Les, which is the only reason we know his name, as he is not the sort of man for introductions. The other sign politely requests that we not eat food or drink, enforced by “This means you!” Today, we had a third sign, wishing all at our company a Merry Christmas. I have no way of proving the sincerity of this sign.

The bus had the air of having been decorated for a “special” outing. If Brian Potter had organised a day out, this would have been the bus, and Les would have been the driver. As the bus had been stuck in traffic, we bravely nominated the most senior manager on the bus to go and ask Les if we could have an extra five minutes. A grunt was given in response. We didn’t press to see if this was in the affirmative or not.

On the return journey, Les suddenly remembered that he had a Christmas tape. I swear I detected a smirk as we were made to travel back to work listening to "Mistletoe and Wine" and "We're Walking in the Air."

Bastard.

Electronic Tagging

I’ve been tagged by Great She Elephant to list my ten favourite foods. To focus my mind, I’m listing my ten worst as well.

10 Best:

Duck’s chilli con carne
Cream of cheddar and potato soup
Soda bread
Penne carbonara
Onion bhajis
Dungeon crab and bay bug curry (from The River restaurant in Melbourne)
Singapore noodles
Paté (most varieties)
Marmite
Chocolate (couldn’t be more specific, but if forced, I would go for something with over 70% cocoa solids)

10 Worst:

Sweetcorn
Boiled green vegetables
Tomatoes / tomato sauce (unless the tomato-ness of it is disguised, as in chilli or bolognaise – I just can’t abide them unadulterated)
Pretzels (bad experience)
All butter croissants (another bad experience)
Fishcakes
Dripping
Dried fruit
Avocado (although I’m alright with guacamole – strange)
Offal

I will now spend the rest of the day going “Oh shit – I forgot about ….”

I shall now tag Lee, Wyndham and L.C. I would tag Surly, but I don’t want to distract her from writing the post she’s supposed to be writing after making me promise I wouldn’t write about it…

Puppies: An update

I still can’t get used to my newly increased bosoms. I haven’t quite yet learnt how to steer them.

I’m aware that they are not monstrously huge, but I’ve just caught my reflection in a pane of glass while I was walking across the office, and for the first time, I am conscious that my jugs are not just bouncing, but also wobbling.

The dilemma I am now faced with is whether I become one of those people I despise by walking everywhere very slowly in order to minimise potential movement of said funbags, or do I continue to stride confidently ahead and let them go where they will?

Can I also mention how pleased I am about this, which is thoroughly well deserved in my opinion.

Random musings

Duck has a subscription to Men’s Health. Or rather I should say, Duck forgot to cancel his subscription to Men’s Health after the free trial, which means that we still get to laugh at the rubbish sex tips every month.

The January issue arrived yesterday, with the front cover already out of date, proclaiming as it does “Learn from my mistakes with George Best”. One of the questions in the interview was “What do you think you’ll be remembered for?” George claimed that it would be for his footballing genius and hopefully, “not for all the other shit”. George, were you really so deluded as to expect that the media coverage following your death would not mention the complete hash you made of your life?

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It has occurred to me that my strapline could be open to misinterpretation. May I categorically state that it is too many hormones and not enough handbags, and that I am not the one who failed to get into the Pussycat Dolls.

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Can I request that you go here and vote for Surly (for a blog award, not for president – we haven’t got to that part of the “plan” yet).

Scratch and sniff

I’m in a listing kind of mood, and out of deference to Urban Chick, I will try to keep this to a neat and tidy ten. Today (and in no particular order): My favourite smells.

1. Freshly grated ginger
2. Dark chocolate (must be over 70% cocoa solids)
3. Freesias
4. Scrumpy
5. Melting cheese
6. Newly cut pine
7. Really meaty gravy
8. Chinese five spice
9. Toast done on an open fire
10. Party poppers

It’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to…

I’ve got a bloody great griz on.

I don’t know why specifically. Maybe it’s because I’m hormonal. Maybe it’s because I’m overweight and none of my clothes fit. Maybe it’s because, of the clothes that do still fit, I don’t have a bra that fits to go under them. May be it’s because I know that despite the fact that I actually want vouchers for Christmas and have therefore asked for them, nobody will get me vouchers because they’ll want to get me a “proper” present. Which I will hate. Maybe it’s because I’m cold. Maybe it’s because I have to go Christmas shopping on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner. Maybe it’s because my right contact lens is irritating me. Maybe it’s because my boss spent the morning eating with her mouth open. Maybe it’s because bloody customers keep bloody phoning me and interrupting my slacking off. Maybe it’s because the box of tissues on my desk insists on dispensing two tissues at a time, even if I only want one. Maybe it’s because I’ve run out of food and I’m still hungry. Maybe it’s because I have to go to a “Christmas themed” hen night tomorrow night at a dodgy bar/restaurant where I will probably be forced to witness an ex-plumber called Wayne take his clothes off, cover himself in baby oil and unrhythmically gyrate to “I’m Too Sexy” in the deluded belief that he’s titillating us. Maybe it’s because I’m just a miserable bitch.

And I know that things could be worse, and other people have it worse than me, but frankly I don’t care. The point of having a blog was to be able to vent my spleen and stop me going postal, so if I want to have a self-centred woe-is-me rant I will do.

So there.

The horror! The horror!

This fills me with a sense of horror*. I actually feel unwell, and may have to abandon my pretence at work to go and have a lie-down.

*Mainly because I know that I will end up putting it on "series link" on Sky+