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.