Spam - a new twist.

And no, not with lemon.

The exciting story has now finished, to be replaced with this little gem, under the heading of 'woodlot suggestible', from my old mate Rodolfo Thong (shortly to be appearing in an upcoming episode of Kats PI).

The scythe ran into a stone. Till the cows come home. The stronger the breeze the stronger the trees. Up a tree. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Strong as an ox. Rough as a cob. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Sweet as apple pie. Tastes like chicken. We'll hand you out to dry. Sour as a green apple. She's a nut. Till the cows come home. Up one side and down the other. Weed out. There is always next year. A tree does not move unless there is wind. So hungry I could eat a horse.
Wait and see. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Sick as a dog. Timber! Rough as a cob. Raking in the dough. Rough as a cob. Survival of the fittest. Sow much, reap much; sow little, reap little. Some like carrots others like cabbage. That's water under the bridge. The silly season. Wait and see. To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.Up one side and down the other. She's a nut. Welcome to my garden. Stop and smell the roses. You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. She's a mother hen. Thick as a brick. Sour as a green apple. That's a real stem winder. Schools out for summer. Stand your ground. Watered down. A weed is no more than a flower in disguise. Tools of the trade. Wrinkled as a prune.

Nice. I particularly like the bit about sticking it in my pipe and smoking it, though I'm slightly confused as to why anyone would ever want to gild gold. Surely it's gold enough already? But of course, I may just be a hopeless innocent when it comes to these things.

Nice of him to welcome me to his garden though. The sly dog.

Spamarama

The story of bizarrospam continues apace. I'm hoping that at some point all the disparate elements of this magnificent opus merge into one fantastic ending.

The neighbors were regaled with music, but it did not harmonize with theprimitive background.
Desire ate four curlews, and, I enough crab fatto make six civilized men violently ill.
She is wise enough to take charge of the menage when I am reverting to type. When Bones held out his hand it meant only one of two things: food or woman.
Every pig and fowl on the island dashed for the bush! Is my little bird well, or is my little bird ill?
Your big manowar hawk is well,he is not ill.
Desire and I, back in the shadows, snickered sardonically.
Luckily only I among the whites could appreciate the exquisite humor of the neighbors.
In the pools were scores of blue parrot fish.
Now that the Reverend Horatio has gone it wont be wicked, I told her.
Thats the way we are on the outposts of progress.
I have eaten it for so many years that I can assimilate little else. Oh well, the startling occurrence that I intended to narrate will have to wait till tomorrow. Your big manowar hawk is well, he is not ill.
Ah, a coconut contains everything necessary tosupport a man from the cradle to the grave. But there the sharks kept at a healthy distance, asthey generally do when one is in deep water. And the little realist, throwing herself back on the sleeping mat, screamed with laughter. Youll be worshiping in a golden church before ten years are up. Then we left the point to walk along the dry brick-red reef toward the far islet. Who makes the taro grow; I ask you, who makes it grow?
She and her sister Tangi were sitting on the back balcony. But I was tight enough to laugh off his sour looks.
At the last labor pain she, Samson-like, pulled down the two posts and pushed over the third one.
She said later that she had been afraid I would fall over backward like the man inthe comic paper.
Half the deaths are due to it; I have never known of an arrested case.
Only a few of them had been broken by gnawing thighbones and cracking coconut shells. His teeth were a full inch long from gums to tips, yellow-brown, as big as aboars tusk. Then Lingutaimoa knew that Yina had killed her fish. Never had such a spectacle been dreamed of. Down the road of Central Village marched a military band! A finecavalla waited on the table to be fried, but Tangi was still in the arms ofher gift-boy.
Thusmy feet were on either side of the bole while the belt held them firmly against it.
When Bones held out his hand it meant only one of two things: food or woman. I cried, as though I had not asked her to meet me for sheunderstands such whimsies.
You are lovely, Desire, I said; but next Sunday I want you to be Miss Memory. Dont forget to ask them for some banana extract!
It looks like a puffball but is more oily and palpable.

Spam, the saga continues...

I was right. Another exciting episode in my inbox today.

A large tear splashed on the solitaire board, and with the small handkerchief she wiped it off. Upstairs in the drawing-room there was grave silence. Aunt Juley was at once charmed and horrified. It will spoil the carpets, said Aunt Ann, and bark at night; weshall have no peace.
Between his Dundreary whiskers James was telling a story.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach. It doesnt belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permitit.
I had such a pleasant walk in the Gardens, she said painfully,after church. He would not go home, but walked to the Inn. Well, said Aunt Juley, you do it on your own responsibility,Smither.
Jolyon will give me the money; he will never let you bully me.
Hell send you away with a flea in your ear.
If one cant take care of ones things, one is not fit to have them. No one said thirty; and the picture was knocked down to James,whose mouth had opened slightly.
The dog looked as if it would let her love it, and sensation increased beneath her corsets.
On no account did she mean to be the first to speak; and she said, suddenly: There you sit, Ann!
It doesnt belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permitit. A curtain had been pulled aside; in the lighted window-space stood the figure of a half-dressed man.
Aunt Ann said: Give dear Swithin his chair, Hester; we want your advice, Swithin.
They might talk as they liked: Finding was keeping; and if Timothy didntlike it, he could lump it!
A Hondekoeter; picked it up, a bargain, at Smelters sale.
The traffic was really getting beyond bounds.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach. Aunt Juley repeated, suddenly: He followed me, Ann.
They only get in the way and spoil your trousers.
Cook spoke:Ive brought it up, miss; its had its dinner, and its beenwashed.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach.
He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock andthe carted hay deep in his nostrils. Better the day, better the deed, muttered Timothy; and Aunt Juley trembled.
He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock andthe carted hay deep in his nostrils. Lightning flashed all round, he wanted it to strike. Ive been walking from the Temple; got a touch of liver now.
Im sick of peace, said Aunt Juley, rattling the board. Youought to know that, at your age, Juley; now that were alone, I can talk to you plainly. Five pounds for this genuine work by a master of domestic poultry! His friend answered: You look bobbish enough. The traffic was really getting beyond bounds.
Cook spoke: Ive brought it up, miss; its had its dinner, and its been washed.

My word! Sensations beneath corsets? That Juley's a bit of a one isn't she? As for Swithin, he's not better than he ought to be. I did notice that the little dog seems to be doing a lot of slithering, perhaps they ought to take it to the vet. All this and a master of domestic poultry. Otherwise known as a cock.

Bizarrospam strikes again!

Marvellous. No, really.

They were to come in the afternoon and have dinner at night . To sit here and munch apples with Pat while Judy thumped and kneaded her bread was all he asked.
Sure and didnt I bring all of yes up on witches and are ye inny the worse av it? They were to come in the afternoon and have dinner at night . Im not wanting inny sawed-off girls at Silver Bush.
I used to be after knowing the McClenahans rale well years ago. I'd jump out of my skin if she looked cross-wise at me. Oh, oh, its the quare one she was and the foolish things she wud be saying. Its the quanes own cloth Im waving and sour enough her Majesty'll look if its not finished on time.
And if itwas left without any one to live in it it would break its heart. Dear God, please bring McGinty back to Jingle. Judy was of opinion that the dog had been stolen. Oh, oh, she isn't called a witch for nothing, that one, said Judy, when she had heard the whole tale.
And how lonesome the Long Lonely House looks. Sure now I'd an idea she'd know where McGinty was.
She didn't like it as well as her red one but itwas its turn and it mustnt be neglected. They would talk of politics and pigs and finally drift into family histories and community tales.
THAT was her and Sid's secret just as Happiness was hers and Jingles. You've always said there was a bit of a witch in you. I wish she didn't have to live so far away, said Jingle chokingly. They were large and grey and steady with a twinkle somewhere behind their steadiness.
Thewhite-washed walls of the old kitchen re-echoed to their laughter. The man turned and opened a mean little door at his right.
Judy was of opinion that the dog had been stolen. But hewent on and said the thing that spoiled it all.
Jingle put up a notice in the stores offering a reward of twenty-five cents.
Every car or buggy that drove up or down the road made Pat squirm with fear that it was Aunt Helen. Judy concocted and baked, and Cuddles tasted everything that came her way, including a frosty latch.
Dear God, please bring McGinty back to Jingle. It was lovely to sit there, so cosy and warm, with that eerie wind moaning without. And a shears-and-basin cut av hair niver improved inny one.
No, Judy might give her castor oil, as she had done the last time Pat had a cold.
Sid likes her, said Pat, a bit forlornly. And you havent got a Poets room or a round window, went on Pat still more tauntingly.
Her untidy hair was black too, coal-black, although she must be as old as Judy.
I dont think shes half as pretty, she said. How she hoped Aunt Helen wouldnt choose her! YOU look awful nice in that blue scarf, Pat, said Jingle admiringly. Jingle arrived speedily and so got his Christmas invitation by the skin of his teeth.

It's like having my own personal serialisation. I can't wait for the next episode. I'm hoping that Jingle and Pat finally get together in the barn, that McGinty arrives in one piece and that Judy wins a special prize for her baking at the WI Winter Fair.

cue end title music...

Bizarrospam

I just received this most amazing piece of spam in my work email inbox, not five minutes ago.

"Right now I need the sugar.
A dead cat with a cute name.
It seemed deliciously funny.
It was the gotta, wasnt it?
For the last time, he hoped.
Now Paul could see his eyes.
Ralph Dugan from Anne Dugan.
Ralph Dugan from Anne Dugan.
""Just three times, I swear.
"She shrugged, then laughed.
He would have some of those.
She put it in his numb hand.
Youve been working so hard.
He would have some of those.
Just one week and one bitch.
The pattern was inescapable.
"I dont know what you mean.
She put it in his numb hand.
It was the gotta, wasnt it?
"But would you want to stay?
Blood pattered on the floor.
"Right now I need the sugar.
At least strongly suspected.
For the last time, he hoped.
"I gotta know will she live.
He thought he would be okay.
She looks at the old people.

There was an attachment, but I'm certainly not daft enough to try opening it. Of course, the fact that I use a mac at work means that it was probably formatted for viewing on a pc. What a shame.

But even so, it's remarkable. I have absolutely no idea what it's trying to sell me. There's no mention of herbal viagra or penis enlargements or even an offer to put me in touch with single women in my area (for the last time, I really don't need any more of them cramping my style, OK?)

Sent by a 'Raymond Scott', which was a bit of a let down. Such a normal name, for such a weird email. Of course, if it had come from Rodolfo Thong (one of my all time favourite spam-names) I wouldn't even have raised an eyebrow.

Birthday fever!

Birthdays, love 'em or hate 'em, they're with us to stay. So, it's with great pleasure that I proclaim that my most recent birthday (last week) is without a doubt one of the best and most fun birthdays I have ever had.

Naturally, there would be no appreciation of the good bits without a bit of rubbish. This came in the form of work, i.e. I was at work and they appeared to be doing their best to annoy the crap out of me. Not only that, but it also appeared that not one person actually remembered that it was my birthday. Despite it being on the list. I've signed the cards and contributed to the collections for each and every one in the department. The only person who remembered was my boss. Who very kindly left me a bunch of flowers on my desk, so they were there when I arrived. And they are gorgeous - lovely white lilies with the most gorgeous fragrance. But still, it was a little bit upsetting and I did feel a little hurt.

However, that was just a minor blip. Everyone else more than made up for it. I think it's fair to say that the phrase 'embarrassment of riches' wouldn't go amiss here. Thursday (the day itself), I woke up to several cards and a present to open, the present being a Sanctuary Hand Care set. Gorgeous smellies so well chuffed there. I got to work and there was another card or two, plus two presents - firstly, the most gorgeous silver and amethyst earrings and a fab beaded bookmark, and of course, the flowers mentioned earlier. Then, mid-morning, I got another card (from my mum this time) and a bunch of flowers. These ones were lovely too - all purple and green. After lunch, yet more flowers. This time, a potted arrangement of white and corally-pink coloured flowers. I have no idea what they are, but they're lovely.

I ended up cabbing it home that night. No way was I leaving anything at work, damn them all to hell. And look, more cards on the mat when I arrived chez me.

The next day (the day of my planned celebration with friends and colleagues) I got to work and faffed about for most of the morning, interrupted only by a delivery of a birthday balloon. Balloon! I was absurdly cheery at this point, because I adhere to the Pooh philosophy on this subject: No-one can be uncheered with a ballooon. It's so true.

The afternoon wasn't nearly so busy as the morning, mainly due to not being able to log in to my computer. Quelle dommage, as they say in the posher suburbs of Rotherham. As you can tell, I was beside myself with frustration, I very nearly tutted.

Then came the celebrations. And oh my, what celebrations they were. The nicest folks were there (though a few notables were missing, they had already sent apologies etc..) and I was laden down with goodies. 4 BAGS FULL, to be precise. A signed book, a squishy cushion, scented candles, butter tablet (oh the sugary goodness), a handbag, gorgeous smellies from Molton Brown, an amethyst geode (sparkly!) and many more items besides. I'd already planned on cabbing it home that night, but it was a case of necessity rather than just being a lazy cow. Which makes a nice change, I must say.

I'm still in a bit of a state of shock, astonished at people's sheer generosity - not only did I get tons of giftage, I didn't have to buy a drink all night. And it does rather give the lie to my rather too well worn opinion of myself. Frankly, if all these people think I'm nice enough to shower with pressies and stuff, then I've got to be doing something right. Wow.

And now, the final word on this one. And one of the most talked about items on the groaning table of gifts. I'm now the proud owner of the Deluxe Librarian Action Figure. Truly a thing of wondrousness. And SO me. Look...and envy.

Yahoo! Mariah's at it again

I've just been to check my email, and blow me, if it isn't Mariah Carey in her skimpiest underwear (lingerie, if you prefer that kind of thing) in an advert on the side of the page. Apparently advertising her new perfume. (As an aside, I recently saw a tv advert for this and was convinced that the perfume was called Ham. Turns out it's just called 'M'. Pfft.)

Now I know that it's not possible to tailor these things to suit everyone's delicate sensibilities, but heavens above! All I wanted to do was read my emails, not stare in thinly disguised astonishment at a half-nekkid laydee.

Where will it all end, I ask myself? Pictures of a topless Tony Blair, exhorting us to vote Labour? Peter Stringfellow clad only in a Noddy posing pouch, advertising the dubious charms of his clubs? (Though, to be fair, I've seen worse than that in heat magazine)

It just doesn't bear thinking about, does it?

How It's Made
I've spent most of the morning watching this. It's like Stop, Look and Listen for grown-ups. It's really quite fascinating to discover the processes behind the manufacture of everyday objects, some of which are intriguingly complicated. Mind you, there are a couple of them that make for quite unsettling viewing. The segment on automated milking wasn't too bad, but the one covering battery chickens was just awful. Poor wee chickens.

MythBusters
I've not seen this yet today, but I try to see it whenever I can. It's an incredible show. One of the most entertaining science shows I've seen in a long time. (With the possible exception of Brainiac: Science Abuse - though that's more to do with Richard Hammond than anything else - to my eternal shame.) Mythbusters is one of those programmes that makes you think 'I'd really love to work on that.' If you get a chance, see it.

Other than that I've been indulging in watching the brilliant James Stewart. It's a double bill on ITV1 - Harvey followed by Destry Rides Again. I've seen them both several times before but hell, I could watch him reciting the phone directory and it would still be wonderful. In fact, all I need to make it an absolutely perfect Sunday is a showing of either The Philadelphia Story or It's A Wonderful Life.

Time for another post

Well, it's been a while hasn't it?

Mainly due to the fact that I can't really think of a huge amount to say these days. I'm hoping that it'll pass soon though.

And of course, I've had a week away at my mother's. Which was lovely. And no, that's not sarcasm you can detect. I really did enjoy myself. A whole week (and a bit) to sit back, relax and isolate myself from everything. Well, apart from crap telly and lots of books (okay, 4 of them).

I also managed a trip to the hairdresser, which is always entertaining. I don't know if it's a northern thing, but every person who was in there came out with 'big hair'. The hole in the ozone layer wasn't caused by pollution, I'm certain it's solely due to northern hairdressers and vast amounts of hairspray. Mine was solid when I left. I also had 'big hair' even though I have it cropped short. Of course, I then spent the next few hours desperately trying to tame the bouffant. Still it wasn't quite as amazing as the frankly spectacular mullet. Which was being streaked. The lady in question was probably in her late fifties (either that or she'd had a rough paper round) and was heading off later in the week to Ibiza. Scary.

That brings me on to the next thing. The conversations you're expected to have when you're sat there in the chair. I'm not that good with chatting to people I barely know. Small talk I can do, but this ends up being miniscule talk. Strangely though, the other ladies in the salon didn't seem to have any problem with it. Of course, once I got home I imagined the way that a conversation might go (had I not been more worried about what the hell they were doing to my hair):

'Are you going out anywhere special tonight?' 'Errr... no. It's a Wednesday. I'm in a small village and I have no car. I'm going to be spending a thrilling evening huddled over a TV dinner.'

'Going anywhere nice on your holidays?' 'This IS my holiday. Yes, I know, it's a real jet-set life I lead.'

'Been watching the football?' 'No. In fact I'd rather eat my own liver, and I'm a vegetarian.'

After all that, I think it was probably a good thing I didn't really say much.

Absolutely spot on.

I found this whilst searching for something similar but not (if you see what I mean)

words-of-sympathy.com

Support From Others
Author Unknown

Don’t tell me that you understand.
Don’t tell me that you know.
Don’t tell me that I will survive,
How I will surely grow.
Don’t come at me with answers
That can only come from me.
Don’t tell me how my grief will pass,
That I will soon be free.
Accept me in my ups and downs.
I need someone to share.
Just hold my hand and let me cry
And say, “My friend, I care.”

Oh how I wish I'd seen this when I needed it. It's one of those things that just makes you want to stand up and shout, 'YES! That's exactly how I feel.'

And at least now I know where to find it if I ever do need it again.

David Blaine, boo hoo.

Stuntman Blaine fails to break record

He didn't manage to hold his breath for 9 minutes. Shame. Mind you I LOVED this quote from the man himself.

"I am humbled so much by the support of everybody from New York City and from all over the world. This was a very difficult week, but you made it fly by with your strong spirit and your energy. I thank you all and I love you all."

A difficult week? Honestly, the mind boggles. The man's a bloody mentalist. Though, frankly, not quite enough of a mentalist to do this in London - not after the last time.

Muppet.

Hmmm, interesssting...

BBC NEWS | England | Wiltshire | Proposals to recreate Stonehenge

I'm wavering over whether or not I think this is a good thing. On the face of it, it sounds like a jolly good idea. But the cynic in me can't help thinking that it's just a way of creating a new 'amusement' park with a vague nod to history. And no doubt raking in vast amounts of cash.

You just couldn't make it up

Were-Rabbit found to be real(ish)

I love local news. Especially stories like these.

Marvellous. One of the 'marksmen' is only 17 - bless him.

Panic stations! Panic stations!

All hands to panic stations!

Yes, that's what my brain keeps screaming at me this week. It's certainly been eventful and ever so slightly stressful.

Work is ultra-busy, which is always fun. Especially when people come up with hilariously short deadlines. Well, I say hilarious, it's more 'tearing your hair out'-eous. But, so far, I'm managing to get through everything that's been thrown at me. Thankfully, this does not include bricks.

Then I arrived home last night to find a piece of paper (which looked like it had been torn from some kind of form or other) lying on the floor of the hallway. It bore the logo of British Gas and was in a lovely shade of salmon pink. And indicated that the gas supply was to be disconnected. In fact that they had called to do that very thing earlier (whilst I was out - naughty Kathryn, going to work, what the hell was I thinking). As you can imagine, it was a bit of a shock. Even more so when I tell you that I switched to npower for gas and electricity nearly 6 years ago. The paper didn't indicate which gas supply was to be disconnected, but it preyed on my mind all last night, which meant that I ended up having to get up and locate all the details of my contract with npower so I could ring and ensure that they didn't mean me - and all this at quarter to two in the morning.

So, I get into work and I ring British Gas. And speak to the most disinterested woman ever. She really couldn't have cared less. Which wound me up even more. She kept saying that it did appear to be my gas supply and that it had been with them for some time. I eventually managed to pin down that 'some time' actually meant since 2004. FOUR YEARS after I'd switched to npower. Coincidentally, this is about the time that the numpty upstairs moved in.. oh no, is that a rat I smell? Anyway, to cut a long story short, she advised me to ring Transco and find out who supplies the gas to my meter - as I have the number - which doesn't match any of the details she had. She even gave me the number, in a rare moment of helpfulness. Only it turned out to be the wrong one and was unobtainable. At this point, I was succumbing to hysteria and extremely close to tears.

Dum-dum-daaaah! Internet search engines to the rescue! Thank you google and Ask Jeeves (well up to a point anyway). I eventually tracked down a place called Energywatch which is the website of the independent energy watchdog, where I eventually found the right number for Transco.

So, I rang them, and oh lordy, what a performance. They use 'voice recognition' software which appears to be entirely faulty. 10 minutes into the call and I was still trying to get the disembodied voice to SHUT UP long enough so I can give her my address. Shortly after that, I was told 'I am still having problems understanding your request, so I will transfer you to an operator.' Halle-bloody-lujah. By this point I was wound up tighter than a really tight spring (yes, it's a crap metaphor, but hey, just go with it) and ready to scream, and then came the most irritating individual on the face of the planet. I gave her my address and postcode whereupon she asked if there was anyone living in the flat. Errr.. yes. Turned out that she couldn't give me the details, due to data protection. But... but... it's ME who lives there. ME. ONLY ME! I was almost hyperventilating I was so wound up. But eventually I managed to get hold of the details. And there's another name to add to the mix, Calortex. She gave me the number for them (I suspect she just wanted to get me off the phone) so I could ring them and ask who the devil they were and how come they were supplying me with gas.

Which I duly did. And they turned out to be npower. I mean honestly, what's wrong with using the name npower. It's no wonder people get frustrated with this kind of thing. Anyway, I spoke to a lovely woman called Maureen, who was very kind and helpful. And more importantly, she actually listened. I almost gave her my life story. And yes, at this point I was in tears. Because someone had been nice to me.

Which is what happened yesterday too. I see a pattern emerging. I may need tissues.

Reasons to be red-faced

Only two, but there's still plenty of Monday left.

1. Winking at yourself in the mirror really isn't cool. Especially when you're not doing it in an 'ironic' way. Yes, I really did this. I went to the loo at lunchtime (well, I thought I'd treat myself), went to wash my hands and noticed that my hair was looking fairly good. Which might explain the staringness of one or two of the males across the office - though that might also have to do with cleavage on show. Errrm... but anyway, I noticed how nice the hair looked and I winked at myself. Really winked. shakes head sadly in anticipation of further descent into cheesemeistery

2. I've just noticed that I have been spending the afternoon pouting. Not in an Angelina Jolie-esque sexy way, oh no. I caught a glance of myself in the reflection of my monitor and realised that I bore an uncanny resemblance to Lewis Collins (just like in the picture below), in ultra mean and moody mode. It's not funny. Really it's not.

Poorlysick

That's my paltry excuse for not coming up with anything of note recently. Struck down by that terrible cold that's going around. And in my prime and all. Shocking.

Anyhoo, it gave me occasion to watch daytime telly. And, oh lordy, is it rubbish. Talk shows wall to wall in the mornings, dodgy soaps in the afternoons. Still, there were compensations (thank god for cable tv) such as double Diagnosis Murder on the Hallmark Channel and re-runs of Murder She Hopes (sorry, Wrote) on UKTV Gold. Which also features as part of the Murder Mystery Sunday on the same channel - something of which I'm becoming inordinately fond. Two (or three if you're extra lucky) episodes of Murder, She Wrote interspersed with a Miss Marple (the Joan Hickson ones) and a Columbo (generally featuring Robert Culp, Robert Vaughn or Patrick McGoohan as the villain). It's a fantastic way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon, snuggled up on the sofa with a cuppa and some biscuits.

Mind you, occasionally the continuity announcers get a bit carried away. I heard one say 'And now, Miss Marple, a capeless crusader dispensing brutal vigilante justice.' I mean, for heaven's sake, it's Miss Marple, not a geriatric version of the X-Men. Sheesh.

Anyhoo, back to daytime telly and the other thing I noticed - the sheer volume of adverts for Cillit Bang (and its associated products). There's hundreds of 'em. And it's not even as if they're any good (the adverts I mean), given that they star (if that's quite the right word) the amazingly un-natural Barry Scott. Oh yes, he of 'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT!' fame. It made me wonder if he talked like that all the time.

*Warning: potential gross-out ahead*

Like if he ever gets 'in the mood'... it's not exactly sweet nothings is it? Could you imagine him in a singles bar?
'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT! DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?'
'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT! ARE YOU TIRED, COS YOU'VE BEEN RUNNING THROUGH MY MIND ALL NIGHT...'
'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT! HERE'S 10P TO RING YOUR MUM AND TELL HER YOU WON'T BE HOME.'
'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT! GET YOUR COAT, YOU'VE PULLED!'

Okay, I need to stop now, I've even grossed myself out - and I think you've got the idea anyway. Still, he'd make a fantastic international hitman. 'HI, I'M BARRY SCOTT! BANG! AND MY VICTIM IS DEAD!'

Not gushing, just strangely content

Despite one of the more frustrating mornings at work I've had for quite some time, I'm still in my unseasonable good mood. I'm not entirely sure why, but hell, I like it. It just makes the days fair zip along. Whoo.

It feels as though the blinkers have come off and a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It's a great feeling I must say.

There are, of course, a myriad of minor irritations - hell, I'm not perfect (although I'm nearly there, modesty forbids me from saying more) - but they're deal-able-with. Usually with the liberal application of biting sarcasm. Which is always good.

And I'm just about to begin a 4 day weekend. Life is good.

A Thursday Revelation

I've recently decided that I needed to start thinking positively a bit more and, as part of it, I resolved to find at least one positive thing in each day.

Today has proved an embarrassment of riches. Not only have I come to work, to a job that I mostly enjoy, but one that has provided me with enough money that I can splash out occasionally on my one real addiction: books. Not only that but I can get books for free, as a perk. But anyway, back to today. I wandered off in my lunch hour to Waterstones (the one on the corner of the Strand) and after spending my money, I walked out into brilliant sunshine. The sky was the most glorious shade of blue, fluffy clouds scudding along in the wind. And I looked up and noticed the view. Right across Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery, with the fountains sprinkling away merrily. It was at this moment that I realised just how much I have to be thankful for.

I have a job. I have my health. I have a flat that I bought. I have a family I love and cherish above everything else. And I have the most amazing and wonderful collection of friends. Friends who have supported me through some very difficult times, who have laughed with me, who have cried with me, who have bucked me up when I've needed it and for whom I would do all that and more. Wow.

Now that's a positive and a half. Gush mode: off.

Oooh, music!

Yes, the MP3 revolution has arrived chez Kats, in the utterly gorgeous form of the new Sony MP3 Walkman. Mine is a gorgeous blue colour and is just completely ruddy brilliant.

And I am terrifyingly giddy about it. I spent the entire weekend ripping cds to upload to it, then an entire night trying (mostly successfully) to get it to transfer the tracks over. And today I have spent ages fannying about with it, as one does with shiny new toys.

What's made me more excited is the fact that I might actually listen to all those good albums I'd forgotten I had, and the fact that I can have a huge variety of music without having to lug about a hundredweight of cds. *whoops for joy*

Never again will I have to run around to try and find something to suit my mood when the noisy bint upstairs decides to go crazy with one of her 'gentlemen callers.' (Actually that's generally fairly easy, it needs to be loud, but not something that will incite me to a homicidal rage at the prospect of yet another sleepless night of hearing the Yorkshire terrier on speed routine - so no Pantera - and definitely no Celine Dion).

So a very very big thank you to my family for this, it's everything I wanted and more. Yay for Christmas pressies!