Murder on the forecourt

I purchase my very expensive, luxury commodity, aka Diesel, for my beloved 'Galaxy the Wondercar' from the local Tesco petrol garage. And every time I make the journey, I am irritated by the 'numpties'. There's a good Scottish word for a Friday.

There is always at least one. I must admit that I am probably less patient, even than usual, when attempting to purchase fuel.. Usually because I've usually been driving around for a couple of days with the warning like shining like a pleading beacon on the dashboard, always thinking to myself that I must get fuel after this journey - and then never getting around to it. So the sheer relief of reaching the forecourt with a car running on nothing but residual fumes always leaves me a little bit short tempered.

There are 12 pumps at our local garage. Six of these have pumps which are situated to the left, and six to the right, arranged in 6 rows of two. There a few types of numpty, which I will cheerfully explain.

There is the 'I was here first' numpty. This is someone who blocks the double lane entrance to the forecourt, so that they can ensure that they get the very first pump to become available. This means that the whole queue behind them spills out onto the entrance road and causes traffic chaos.

Second, there is the 'I MUST get my fuel from the right side' numpty. My car seems to share with what I'd estimate at perhaps 75% of the cars on the road in this area at least, if not in the UK - the fuel cap is on the driver's side of the car. Now, I drive a car which is, in comparison to most, closer in proportions to a double decker bus. And if I can get the diesel hose to stretch over, then I'm sure all of you people who drive sugar-cube cars can do the same. I do appreciate that some people would prefer to wait patiently for the right side, which of course is their prerogative, and I graciously allow you to make that choice without the wrath of my sharp tongue, unless, of course, you are a hybrid cross with numpty type 1. Because nothing makes my blood boil quicker than sitting second in the queue behind this type of numpty, where there are 6 empty pumps and they won't bloody move forward because those available are on the wrong side for their precious vehicle.

The last noteworthy type of numpty is the 'unneccesary verbal abuse numpty'. These are the type who give rude hand gestures and wind their windows down to shout profanities when people such as myself become extremely impatient with numpty 1 and numpty 2 (and numpty 1/2 hybrids) and mount the kerb, pavement, or flatten bushes to get past and head straight into any available pump. Right side or wrong, I can manage to purchase diesel from either. If you lot are all going to sit there, I'm not. I'm a busy woman, and I can guarantee I have between 1 & 4 children whining in the back of the car, so please, if you want to gesticulate & give verbal abuse, you've picked the wrong person.

There are of course moments of embarrassment associated with such impatience. I'm big enough to admit them. I generally go to a wrong-side fuel pump as I can generally go right onto the forecourt and find one available, cheerfully skipping the queue of grumpy drivers. And when you do that with a car as big as mine, you really must get the positioning of the car spot on so that the hose reaches round. It's a bit of a walk of shame when you overshoot, and have to get back behind the wheel & reposition the car. These moments call for sunglasses and a hood, even if it's weather inappropriate. And in the opposite extreme, I have been known to park too close, so that either the hoses smack onto the side of my car, the alloys grind into the tiles of the pump base, or I can't physically lift the nozzle from the pump. The biggest embarrassment however is when you smugly drive straight into a pump and discover it actually cordoned off, covered in signs, and not available for use. Fine if you notice before you get out of the car, you can quickly make it appear as if you were actually just using that lane as an exit route to get your fuel later. More obvious mistake if you've already got out of your car with your debit card & clubcard between your teeth and donned those lovely designer plastic gloves. Oops.

However, on the whole, this entire situation means that one way or another, I generally approach the garage, and get straight into a pump by bypassing the whole of the queue, with a wave and a smile. So thanks for that.

The moral if this story (whinge?) therefore is, please, please, can you just pick a flaming queue and sit there, bear in mind that unless you're in a transit or bigger the hose will stretch, and if you sit back I will cheerfully overtake.

That is all.

Except to say to any of my friends reading this, if you are one of these numpties, I mean it in the most affectionate way possible :-)

We have mobile!

I have had a few requests to rescuscitate my sadly neglected blog. So in a last ditch attempt to find the time to empty various trains of thought into this cyber bucket, I've discovered and installed an android blogger app.

I do fear however that we may end up descending into text speak, as smart phone keypads are not particularly convenient for.anything.longer than a facebook status or text. So you may well find that vowels start to disappear, syllables are replaced with numbers, an invasion of 'smileys', terrible grammar, lack of punctuation, and worst of all, faux pas worthy of www.damnyouautocorrect.com, due in part to my phone's autocorrect and also due to an error not spotted until 3 paragraphs later - and it's such a pain in the arse to get the cursor to land in the right word that i'll probably give up and publish as is.

If u fink dat snds like a gr8 idea, watch dis space......... =-O

Oh.... KNICKERS!!!!

I got out of the shower this morning, still half asleep. I have an ensuite, so it is literally 3 steps between the shower and my underwear drawer. Right away, I was thrown into a dilemma, and believe me, I can't cope with any sort of dilemma, however minor, at pre-caffeine time in the morning.

When I opened my knicker drawer, I found to my horror that there were none of my usual comfy pairs ready to wear. Bugger. So, what to do?

Firstly, I decided to check and see if any were hanging on an airer somewhere in the house. Yawning, I gathered up my large towel and trudged through to the kitchen. With the run of nice weather, I have actually been hanging the washing outside to dry, and the latest basket was sitting, still slightly damp, waiting to be hung up indoors or tumble-dried. Hmph. The drier was empty in anticipation, so no-go there either. And the latest wash was still soaking wet in the machine.

Back to the drawing board, I dragged my sopping wet self back to my knicker drawer to ponder some more.

So, it's down to deciding which of the 'not-so-comfy' pants I'm wearing today. I guess some people might opt for putting yesterday's back on, but I'm not one of those types thank you very much!

Everyone has a type of knickers they like to wear. I've tried various types and they are all still in my drawer in case of emergencies such as these. I am a hi-legs girl, usually. Not sure if I should be admitting that to the general virtual public, but there you have it.

When I was in my early 20s, thongs were in. I furnished my knicker drawer with 10 pairs and tried to agree with everyone how comfy they were, and how having no VPL was indeed the future. I was so relieved when I discovered that in actual fact, no-one found them comfortable, but didn't want to admit it. I defy anyone to find thongs comfy. You spent the day feeling like your arse is trying to eat them, and wanting to pull them clear of your crack. Sorry, but that's how it is. I won't say too much more, but I do have one thong left; it matches a particular 'set' and suffice to say it isn't suitable wear for a normal school day.

I considered very carefully the 'shorts' that were looking up at me, begging to be worn. These are I believe on trend at the moment, not that I'm particularly up on any kind trend at the moment. A couple of years ago I lost a lot of weight (having been a chunky being all my adult life, if was the first time I'd been within the range of a 'normal' BMI) and I bought lots of these. In Debenhams no less. That's how much I liked them. But stuck in this post-natal fatsuit, the shorts type knickers just ride down my backside and I spend the day surreptitiously trying to post my hand down the back of my jeans to retrieve them from somewhere around my knees.

Last but by no means least, I have 4 or 5 pairs of 'full briefs'. So full, in fact, that I'd pretty sure that if I put a couple of eye holes in them, I could pull them up and over my head, and use them as an all in one underwear-and-balaclava combo. These were purchased for my hospital bag. I hate disposable knickers with a passion, and these Primark specials were in any case cheaper than the paper ones anyway. Except shamefully, I didn't dispose of them. They lurk hopefully around my knicker drawer, waiting for a nice big bum to cuddle. On balance, I felt sorry for these sad and unwanted little articles. The pair I chose looked almost excited to be released from it's dark little prison. I pulled them on, trying to convince myself that I would throw these out after this emergency use. But they are actually pretty comfortable. Oh for pity's sake - I'm turning into my granny!!! I could tuck my bosoms into them, I swear.

I'm sure Bridget Jones would be very proud of me!!

Midget gems (or mechanics)

It's been a while since I last blogged; life in general does tend to get in the way sometimes, however I have a great need to get something of great importance off my chest. Followed soon by another few kid-isms very soon. But for now, here goes:

My beloved car (54 plate Ford Galaxy) went into the local Ford garage to have a repair made to the power steering recently. All of the work that needs doing on my car is done in the same place. The guy on the reception desk is, to be quite frank, a bit of an arse, but in general I never feel ripped off, or as if I'm being patronised due to being a member of the female gender. But what the bloody hell do they do in there???

First off, the seat has always moved. Now, I'm not a particularly long-legged being, about 32" inside leg (annoyingly - too long for standard leg jeans, and to short for long legs. Irritates the shit out of me). Funnily enough, my darling hubby has the exact same leg length, which is very handy when driving each other's cars. I'm sure when I was viewing him as a prospective marriage partner, I was thinking how handy this would be, without realising it. (Keep it clean please people, I'm talking driving here!!). Anyway, after work has been done at the garage, the seat in my car is always so far forward and so raised my nose is almost touching the windscreen. Do they employ child labourers in there? It always takes a good few weeks of moving the seat one notch forward, two notches back, and adjusting the seat back & lumbar support before it feels comfy again. Once, they moved the steering wheel, and I almost self combusted on the spot. Can they not get the person with the best height match to test drive the car??? Sheesh.

I'm sure they also have their lunch in there. Being a 7 seater, maybe they can have a little short-person's tea party in there. The steering wheel and gearstick are still bloody sticky, I'm sure the snack of the day must have been sugared donuts.

Yuk.

Life's little luxuries

As a mummy of four little darlings, life's luxuries are limited to the odd glass of wine or a chinese takeaway now and then. Brand name clothes are rarely purchased and when they are it's in the Debenhams 70% off blue cross sale (which I like because unlike Next they do not add little red dots to the label making it obvious you did in fact get the items in the sale). But there is one thing that I do have always, and that's Clinique skincare products.

I have, pretty much my entire life, looked much younger than I actually am. Being asked for identification at Asda when buying alcohol might seem flattering to some, but standing there with a huge bump, 3 other children and my husband of 10 years, it didn't seem quite so amusing. Maybe it was the hormones? Anyway, I always reckoned that my age is going to suddenly catch up with me, then overtake laughing and giving rude hand gestures. All of a sudden, people are going to pitch their stab in the dark at 20 years in advance of my real age. But not if I can help it.

In order to try and beat the premature ageing process back with a proverbial stick, I used a chunk of my christmas bonus in 2002 at the Clinique counter in House of Fraser in Edinburgh. At the time, I was 5 months pregnant with my first child and I worked in a building on Lothian Road. I'm sure the woman saw me coming and knew that it was bonus time, and I'm not talking Clinique bonus time. It was quite a trendy brand to be into at the time, and I thought I'd grab myself a slice of this trendiness. "Oh yes, I used Clinique 3 step on my face. None of your Clarins rubbish. And as for Olay....?!?' (Aside: when and why did they change it from Oil of Ulay??? It's the whole snickers and marathon, starburst and opal fruits thing in a face cream. Pointless, confusing, and highly irritating).

The thing is, I'd always been complemented on my clear, even skin tone. I rarely ever have spots or blemishes, and I don't know what posessed me to alter my skincare regime of doing sweet FA every day - but nevertheless, I was swept along on the Clinique train. And it's one of those things - once you start, you're afraid to stop. Like Infacol - you start using it, and suspect it's doing nothing whatsoever to help, but you're terrified to stop in case your baby is suddenly gripped by unbearable pain - with Clinique I'm terrified to stop in case I become geriatric overnight.

I keep promising myself that it's a pointless waste of money, and that when the current batch runs out, I will get myself some face cream in Tesco, and own brand, or Ponds or something, and I bet for 99p a go, it'll do just as much good and I won't be quite so sparing with the stuff. But my wonderful husband braved the very snotty woman at the Clinique counter in Debenhams, Dunfermline (who I later found out had completely ignored he and Rachel, who waited patiently while she served many people before them who had arrived after but who's faced obviously fitted the Clinique Bill better - I would have told her to stick it up her arse personally) and bought me my three step and eye cream as part of my christmas present. (He also bought me the perfume I like at the moment - Marc Jacobs 'Daisy' - which he accidentally left the price on and I'm afraid to spray the bloody stuff).

I am determined that I will not open any of the new bottles until the old are finished. The soap still has a few weeks' worth in the dispenser, and the toner is about halfway done. But the moisturiser.... well, I'll show you:

As you can see, it's about 1/6 full maybe? But, the pump action straw thing doesn't see to reach. When I press the pump you get a vague spattering of cream. I've tried cleaning it and it makes no different. Shaking it, holding it at an angle - nada. And given the price of the stuff, I reckon there is still, what, a fiver's worth in there? I could get 5 pots of Ponds for that, so there's no chuffing way I'm giving up on it! I've tried everything but beat it with a big stick. Is this a ploy by Clinique to get us to replace sooner than is strictly necessary? They've picked on the wrong person, I can tell you. If I have to get a straw and suck the bloody stuff out of that bottle myself I'll do it.

I'm so tempted to open the shiny new bottle though....

Postnatal hair loss

I think my body lulled me into a false sense of security this time.

During each pregnancy, I might have looked over all like Waynetta Slob, but it's the only times in my life during which I've had thick(er) manageable hair. I am cursed with fine, flyaway, wavyish hair. I say wavy-ish, as it was once upon a time a fine head of curls. Very cute as a toddler, not so much as a teenager. In my teens, the spiral perm was very trendy, but unfortunately my curls would have looked much better in an episode of Coronation Street, circa 1970. So I spent years having my hair permed, then of course the straight hair thing came along and I discovered straightening irons and salon-quality hairdryers. The result is that all of those years of abuse has given me a strange demi-wave shape in my hair when left to go into it's natural state. And believe me, in it's natural state, you can do nothing with it bar shove a brown bag over it.

The slight curl in my hair needs to be treated with the contempt it deserves and is straightened every day (or at least every second day) with 230 degree straighteners, and I don't care I do see puffs of smoke when I draw the irons over the length of my hair. However, I suspect that the slight curl is natures way of disguising my very fine hair, so when it's straight, it has to be cut or styled very well. And at the moment, it's not, but hey, I'm straightening it anyway. I still have a surplus hanging on from my last pregnancy, and now that we're approaching 4 months on, I really thought I had a chance of hanging onto it. But I've started shedding like a cat in the summertime.

My 3 year old has a habit of winding his hands around my hair while he sits and watches telly, and I was horrified to see a few days ago that he had a handful of hair in his hand that had detached itself all too easily from my head. And, disgusting though it is, I'm going to mention the clogging of the plughole after a shower. Ruby seems to be permanently covered in rogue strands of my hair, and my clothes also. I dread washing my hair. The strands also seem thinner and more easily broken, so I've started to get the mad fluffy fringe around my head. My hair responds to the slightest bit of moisture in the air by springing into random half curl/half waves, but these odd strands at the front just go completely crazy. I generally don't have time before the morning school run to tame my hair so I generally stuff it all into a ponytail and scrape the random strands back, patting my head hopefully that they will all stay put, but as soon as I arrive home I can see I look like my 6 year old daughter at the end of her school day. It's not a good look for adult.

After giving birth to my son, I almost went bald. Ok, a slight exaggeration, but my hairdresser wouldn't cut it for fear of making me look like I had alopecia. She wouldn't colour it either, so for about 6 months I had to go around wishing it was cold enough (or hot enough) to wear a hat. As he was born in April, I didn't have that opportunity for a long time.

Thank goodness it's winter, and hat wearing opportunities are in abundance!

Three bogs and a little bog roll

Warning: If you have sat down to read this with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, I'd finish the biscuit before continuing.

Every few weeks in our house, we end up in this harrowing situation. Three toilets; half a toilet roll remaining. Note to self: must purchase toilet roll. When I do buy toilet roll, I buy a 12 pack, and each bathroom has a holder which stores 4 rolls. Inevitably, the rate of the use of these rolls varies, so there is a long drawn out juggling that goes on as required.

Some people dream extra of WC facilities in their house, should they only have one. On occasions it is very useful. But in general, having three (or more) sounds luxurious, but in actual fact, it is a complete pain in the rear. Apart from the toilet roll situation, you also have the extra cleaning requirements. I defy anyone to claim they actually enjoy cleaning toilets; it's always the last job to be ticked off my 'to-do' list. And in fact, Friday is Toilet Cleaning Day, so I have that joy ahead of me today. Groan. Having spent the much of the last 8 years cleaning up excrement that is not my own, it doesn't seem quite so grotesque when contained within a nappy. So, I'd probably quite cheerfully go back to having the one bathroom. But I'd keep the en-suite and make the kids ask for permission to use it.

So, half a toilet roll remains, and there is a distinct atmosphere. Everyone is on high alert, and the slightest need to tinkle sends you running to avoid the battle for the room with the roll. Heaven forbid you should run for a number 2 and end up in one of the loos with an empty paper holder, as it leaves you at the mercy of another person. It's no fun having to shouting for one of your children, or your husband, to fetch the toilet roll from the another bathroom. If there is no one around, or if no-one hears you, you're faced with a waddle of shame to get it yourself. Simple enough if the elusive toilet roll is to be found in one of the facilities on the same level, but somewhat more complicated if stairs must be negotiated. I always imagine in this situation that the doorbell will go as it always does at the most inconvenient times, and you then have split second to decide whether to just pull up your undercrackers and run, or stand stock still and pretend you're not even there. Very difficult if you're awaiting a courier delivery. Absolute worst case scenario is that a friend drops by with whom you are very familiar, and she rings the doorbell and lets herself in shouting 'Only me!', finding you halfway down the stairs waddling like Dick van Dyke in the penguin scene of 'Mary Poppins' with your knickers at your knees. As long as it's not a mummy friend (who would be greeted by her own children in such a state on a regular basis) who goes into automatic bum-wiping mode at the sight of you.

And then there is always the chance that when you reach the next bathroom, the loo-roll is not to be found, and then on to the last and the roll is empty. Bugger! The waddle continues on the hunt for tissues or baby wipes, hoping that you don't clog the u-bend and have to poke around with an outstretched wire coat hanger. I must admit I never do this, I generally shut the door and leave it to my husband. Men have their uses.

Being on the road to permanent frugality, I usually stand in the bog roll aisle of Tesco with my calculator working out which loo rolls are the cheapest, per unit. In a family of 6, there is a lot of bum wiping to be done. It happens to be so that the cheapest in the last few weeks has been the Andrex luxury varieties; both the quilted and aloe vera varieties have been in special offer. I really love having posh loo roll, because the smart price stuff is really scratchy, like the stuff you find in motorway service stations. But the toilets don't like it so much. It might be thick and plush, but it bloody good at choking the pipes. Especially in the quantities used by the kids. Children are also not very good at flushing toilets, and if one of them does by some miracle, after they've all been twice. it's never nice to walk in to the loo to find the water up to the seat with.... well.... I don't need to elaborate really. One of those occasions where I walk out, shut the door, and lock it from the outside. And let the husband deal with it.

See, I knew there was a good reason to have extra toilets in the house....