Help Me. I'm Scared...

Today is a day that could easily spell the end of my summer - even before it's begun.

Big Brother kicks off this evening, and about this time every year I mumble something about how I'm not going to get sucked in. I'm not going to watch it. I'm not going to waste weeks and weeks of my summer watching the very cesspool of human existence playing up to cameras and being embarassing.

At least, that's what I say every year. For about three days. And then I watch out of curiousness. And that's it. Is it the autumn already?

I feel like I have a fighting chance of not getting sucked into the launch show tonight, by virtue of the fact that it clashes with that wondrous piece of reality television, The Apprentice, and I'm fairly confident, even at this stage, that I'll be watching Sir Alan rather than Davina. But that won't help me tomorrow.

I don't even really enjoy watching Big Brother. The housemates are usually pretty repulsive, and I can't say I even look forward to it being on. But once I'm sucked in - I can't help it. I'm like a druggie dying for his next hit. When he gets it, he doesn't really enjoy it, but all he feels is relief that he's no longer craving.

Help me. Please.

My New Life

Windy. Rainy. Cold. Must be Bank Holiday Monday.

Indeed it is, my friend. And this has been my only chance to check with you in any detail all week. Literally.

I have a horrible feeling that this is how it's going to be from now on. My new job started this week, and I knew it would be busy. But I don't think I realise quite how head-explodingly busy it was going to be.

The problem is not the new show (weekdays, 1500-1800, www.premier.org.uk), but rather the fact that I am also second-in-command. The reality of this means that I spend all my mornings in one of the following ways...

a) Endless, back-to-back soul destroying meetings.
b) One long, soul destroying meeting.
c) Running around, tearing my hair out, attempting to sort out a problem that has arisen.

That lasts about 3 hours, after which I have no real time for lunch, and have to dive head-long into preparing for the show. Then we do the show. Then we record a trail for the next show. Then I go home. Sleep. And do it again.

So, I apologise my friends, for not being your ever-present companion. But I will do what I can to keep you posted, so please keep popping back.

And if you have a moment to send me lunch, I'd be very grateful

Hideously Busy

Too Busy to talk....

What the...?

Today I discovered something rather interesting. Interesting, but pointless.

Whilst looking for something else, I came upon something that I had been given a long time ago. It had been buried amongst a myriad of stuff on my desk and forgotten about. I recall being mildly diverted by it at the time, but dismissing it pretty quickly.

I am referring to a bizarre substance known as Rescue Remedy. In fact, now I think of it, I believe that I may have heard some radio commercials for it. Something about someone getting stressed in a supermarket, if memory serves. The idea of it is that it calms you down when things are getting on top of you. All it does is produce a taste in your mouth that is roughly akin to what I imagine it would be like to like the inside of a tramps mouth.

Here's what it says on the box:

Bach Rescue Remedy Spray provides support at times of emotional demand such as before a driving test or interview, exam or flight, or when you simply need a little help.

Essentially, you spray it on your tongue in times of stress and it helps you feel better. It tastes very vaguely alcoholic, not terribly nice, and really just encourages you to throw the box angrily to the ground, whilst shouting "I paid how much for this useful piece of junk!". Not very relaxing really.

I've not idea why I have it, and I can't remember who gave it to me. It's been years since I had a driving test or interview. I haven't done any exams since my A Levels, and I've not even been on a plane for a couple of years. That means someone obviously thought I "needed a little help". Fine. If you think I need help, do my washing, don't give me watered down alcohol in a small spray.

So, my advice to you would be to steer fairly clear of it all. If you're stressed, kick something (note - not someone). Preferably the spray, out of the window.

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays...

...I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oooo-oooo-ooooooot the whole day down.

You know, Bob Geldof was right. Well, apart from the shooting. And the obvious lack of personal hygiene.

Yes, as faithful readers will be aware, today is my first Monday at work in about four and a half years. Right now, I should be snoring on my sofa, as my daughter plays with small toys around my feet. But no. I'm here. I'm back to a normal life.

I must say that I'm not terribly keen on this working-on-Mondays lark. I definitely had the Monday blues this morning, and last night I experienced something that I'd forgotten about. Something that I think everyone who works weekdays goes through. It's that feeling you get on a late Sunday afternoon; the realisation that the weekend is all but gone, and all that awaits you is five long days of hard toil. I used to call it the "Antiques Roadshow" feeling.

Despite the fact that the first day of my new weekend-free life was spent up to my armpits in 33rpm records and about thirty-seven sets of dining chairs (who put sets of dining chairs in their loft?!?), it was actually a really good day. We got a lot done, the whole family was together, and then I enjoyed the screamingly-embarrassing Eurovision Song Contest. Serbia won, but you'd be forgiven for thinking it was the Former Yugoslav Republic of Dullsville based on the winning tune. Mind you, at least it had a tune. The Ukrainians were gay spacemen, and the French had a dead cat on their shoulder, so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

Oh, and on Saturday I also discovered that I had a freezer, an oven, a washing machine and a tumble dryer in my shed. It tells you something about the previous state of my shed that I could have four large kitchen appliances in there and not know about it. Now we're going to have to get a skip. That'll please the neighbours.

So, that was my first Saturday off, and today has been my first Monday working. It wasn't a bad day at work. It was just a day at work.

Speaking of which, I'd better do some. Although really, in my heart, I know it's time for Ready, Steady, Cook...

Dump Day

You may or may not be aware of the fact that I have worked Saturdays for about four and a half years. This has meant that I have had to take leave anytime I wanted to do any of the following.

(a) Go to a wedding.
(b) Have a day with my wife
(c) More recently, have a day with my wife and child.
(d) Watch Saturday Kitchen

Annoying, I'm sure you'll agree.

The good news is that my last Saturday working was last week, which means that today, Friday, is genuinely a last day of the week. I'm actually getting the Friday feeling I haven't had since people last said "What war in Iraq?" Lately, my Friday feeling has been on Saturday. And that's just silly.

Of course, the plus point has been not having the Monday feeling most people get. I get a Tuesday feeling instead. See how complicated my life has been? Finally, I shall be able to join the ranks of normal people who work normal days.

It also means that, with Saturdays free I can have days out with my family, enjoy their company, and get some quality time with my wife and daughter. When facing the prospect of such a free day, and all the possibilities before us, obviously we thought long and hard - what shall we do with our first Saturday together? All this has lead to our decision to spend tomorrow.....taking things to the dump.

I should point out that the decision is my fault as much as anyone elses. In fact, it's entirely my fault because Gillian asked me to make the final decision. The fact it we desperately need to take forty-eight tons of assorted nonsense to the dump. When we moved in our house a year ago, the previous occupants left what can only be described as an EU rubbish mountain in our garden, shed, and loft.

Our parents are helping us, it needs to be done, and we're going to get it over with, so we can enjoy the hundreds of future Saturdays spread out before us. So I really have no right to complain.

Have a good weekend. However you're spending it...

Apologies...

I'm sorry.

I feel like I've let you down. In fact, worse than that - I've let myself down.

I know I haven't been blogging much lately, and I don't want you to think it's because I don't love you. Because I do. I really and truly do.

Please know that there's no-one else. I haven't been seeing another blog. It's not you. It's me.

The truth is, I've been horrendously busy over the last few days.

To demonstrate, here's how my diary looked yesterday.

9.30 Meeting
10.30 Meeting
11.30 Meeting
12.00 Meeting
2.00 Meeting
2.45 Meeting
4.00 Toilet Break
4.05 Meeting

That's no exaggeration. And, without being too graphic about it, I really was holding on until 4pm.

I realise that I need to spend more time with you, and I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please accept these chocolates and flowers as a token of my love.

Thank you, sweeties.

Can You Keep the Noise Down...

So, a while ago I told you that I was going to have my ears syringed owing to the fact that the level of waxy build-up had reached the point where, in a birthday party situation, I wouldn't need to go and buy any candles.

That day was yesterday. I hadn't been to the doctors for about fifteen years, and when I walked in they seemed to give me a very funny look ("Oh, I thought you were dead!"), and I wondered in when summoned to see the nurse.

She had a cursory glance in my ears with that thing they use before exclaiming that she was surprised I could hear anything at all out of either of them. "Pardon", I said, hoping for a cheap laugh, but I think she'd heard it before.

I didn't realise that they syringe ears with a little machine now, which looks like something that might launch a vicious attack on your plaque in a dentists surgery, not something that will restore the ability to hear. Last time I went, they actually used a whacking-great-big syringe. Admittedly, the world was in black and white, and I took a carriage. But I didn't realise that technology had progressed so.

She got cracking on my right ear - the one that wasn't quite so bad. It all came out quite nicely, I was told. All of a sudden there was a "pop", and I could hear a mouse cough six miles away. I felt like Brave Starr (remember him? Ears of a puma, anyone..?). It was incredible. I had to stand up and turn around so she could do my other ear, and the room moved around a little (I was warned it could make you a little dizzy) but I got away without embarassing myself and sat down facing the other way. She now attempted my left ear. I haven't been able to hear properly out of this one since Wham were still together.

She gave it a good go, bless her. But it soon became fairly obvious that there was too much wax in this one for even the hardiest of ear-syringing equipment. At one point, she started brandishing a pick-axe, but I think she decided that that might be a bad idea. Essentially, the drops that you have to use for a few days beforehand, to soften the wax, hadn't quite penetrated the furthest echelons of the wax to the left of my head. She sent me away again, under orders to carry on using the drops to soften what was left in that ear, with instructions to come back to have it done again if necessary.

The resulting effect is rather startling. I can hear like a superhero out of my right ear, but barely at all out of my left. I could hear a whisper at a distance of several miles, but only if it happened to my right. If a small nuclear explosion occured two inches to my left, I might be vaguely aware that someone might have sneezed.

The oddest thing about it is that it totally removes your ability to know where sounds come from. If something happens to my right, I turn to my right. But if something happens to my left, I also turn to my right because I can hear it better through my right ear than my left. I'm moving to the right more often that Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s.

But it's undoubtedly better than it was. In fact, on one side of my head, it's even better than that.

The problem? I daren't use my iPod in case one side of my head explodes.

Angry from Sainsburys

Yesterday, I got cross. So I'm using this blog as therapy. There are people all over the world who pay anonymous people an awful lot of money to listen to their woes. I have you. And you're free.

So, it was my day off and I went, as usual, to do the weekly shop. And, as usual, I had my one-year-old with me. I managed to get the final parent and child space near to the store. Those things are great, in a way you can only understand if you've dragged a small child from the back of a car park twelve miles away. If you have to park far away with a child, you then have to struggle with them to get a trolley, and put them in the trolley, and then have them scream the car park into oblivion before you even get into the supermarket. The kid's had enough before you've even got to the satsumas. And they're right near the beginning.

I arrived, and was just getting Lucy out of the car and into the trolley, when a woman returned to her car, parked next to mine (also a parent and child space) and drove off. Unless her child is invisible (extremely unlikely, I'd have thought), she had no child. I don't want to sound rude, but she was also fat, and therefore probably lazy. As she drove off she scoffed a sandwich. So, not only is she rude and lazy, she's also dangerous.

A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have given a monkeys about this, but now I am a father, it winds me right up. As do those people (and they do exist) who are forty years old and go shopping with their mother and park in the spaces. No, that doesn't count. You might be parent and child, absolutely technically, but it doesn't count. I don't stub my toe and park in a disabled space, do I? Well, not very often.

I am calmer now that I've shared it with you. Thank you for listening. You're lovely.

Unless you're a fat, lazy, sandwich-munching, parent-and-child-space stealer. Then you smell.

So there.