I'm dreaming of a grey Christmas

I was born in the great snow storm of 1964, frozen in the carry cot, carried across the deep snowy wastes of the town park from the warmth of the maternity ward. Red with a nasty rubber allergy and blue as the ice, snuggled up in white fleece a veritable flag of Britishness. Cold, hungry and far too small to do anything about it. I guess that was the first of many moments of frustration. Today, Christmas Day is grey, cold and wet, what would I swap for a glorious white snow storm? nothing! absolutely nothing. I am at one with the wetness. Those first snows have made me eternally grateful for the lack of the virgin drifts and the blinding purity of its dazzling shades. I hear the Americans are nose deep in the seasonal stuff, well they can keep it, along with their foreign policies.

the value of sleep

Last night I couldn't get to sleep, my head was buzzing like a chainsaw. Was it the ongoing dilemma of Supermarket encounters?, the rising price of life? or the fact I was far too tired to sleep?. The day had been a roll call of meetings and questions, my mind had had to be on full alert all day. To cap it off I had dropped into the dreaded big shop on the way home, some essentials were required, you can't make a good omlette without herbs and to follow something sweet was necessary having left my blood sugar levels at work I was running on empty. It is all becoming clear, I can now begin to understand why I couldn't fall easily into slumber, I was beached, totalled, wiped-out, bombed, I was beyond the ability to relax. [note to self-you are beginning to push your luck]. What I needed was a deep, bubbly bath, the cliched candled bathroom scenario, pampering, I made the fatal mistake of not seeing the train that was approaching me at high speed, and the plainly clear, in retrospect, fact that it was about to bit me at ten to the witching hour, full on no mercy, damn!. A new term for tired and without sleep has to be 'flattened', I was completely and utterly flattened. The psychodelic effect of my flattened state was an east european animation studio extravaganza, wild music, scratchboard images bright on the darkest of black backgrounds, swirling violently, a fantasmagoria of my sketches. I knew that eventually I would fall asleep but the process of fretting over my half-waking dreams was sufficient to fuel me well into the early hours. I woke this morning at dawn, as bright as the shiniest button on a child best Sunday coat, sparkling, breezy and fully in tune with the new day.

seats on the train

Here she goes again, off on one, and todays grrrrrowl is about those people who use bags to mark their expanse on the train. What is it that drives them to such levels of selfishness?, fear of infection? conversation?. I make a very special, overly friendly move in their direction, like a cat who knows who hates them, I purposefully invaid their space. Asking kindly would they please relocate their bags as I am landing, I then plumet from the sky and land happily achieveing my goal to miff them off. Sufficiently miffed they shuffle around huffing and puffing, some even attempt to stare hard to intimidate me, I then use the killer line 'have you got enough space?', the answer has always been up to now 'FINE!!', 'good' is my reply. This is all part of lifes ultra fine tapestry, be nice to achieve your goals, but don't ever tollerate seat hogging, bag totting, face pulling meanies.

the cost of croissants!

Have Tescos confused the rise in petrol prices to the cost of a croissant? Am I wrong or has the cost of a plain croissant suddenly gone from 29p to 35p, and the chocolate ones from 49p to 55p? Percentage wise thats quite significant and not inline with RPI. This morning I was made quite grumpy when about to pick up a plain one a rather rude chap barged in, swiped the tonges and stuffed a bag full of a mixed croissants. Given the opportunity to wait I noticed the price which made me even more grumpy, and also how small they were aswell. My natural reaction was to moan, an art in which I am experienced, I heaved a big sigh as it is a pointless art, slammed the plastic bag down, huffed and stomped off. I saw the rude chap at the checkout, me with a box of crunchy nut cornflakes [infinately better value] and him with his undersized, over-priced flakey pastries, he eyed me suspiciously, I glared, another happy event in the supermarket I thought, do not mess with me in the morning!

damn those speedy checkout workers

I could understand if checkout workers were paid per item that they should rush us through clocking up their pro-rata earnings but it is not, as far as I know the case. They do not mound up cash per product, neither do they get bonus' for filing us through as a rate of knots enough to sink the Titantic. I find the experience of having my shopping hurled at me sufficient to snap, or to dawdle to the point of standing still. Why do they choose to pile high the goods and then, without concern, mumble something incoherently and stare in annoying displeasure when you dare to attempt to make sense of their utterences. I am really looking forward to Christmas and the opportunity to bring cheerful workers seasonal joy and pleasure but I can guarentee that this grumpy bird will let rip should any festive nibbles be hurled in my direction.

why cracks in the plaster?

My life is littered with questions, some are easy to answer and others linger, they blister my mind. Like ghosts they haunt me. Is this a female state?, or is it, as I suspect, my spontaneous daymares?, my fears, faults and foibles colliding like planets in a B movie.