Killer Tinsel

What are your top tips for alleviating post Christmas blues? Post festivities I usually spend the end of the holidays trawling charity shops and freecycle in the hope of cadging an unwanted Christmas gift. In the past I've picked up snug novelty slipper socks, aftershave sets and an assortment of kitchen implements and glass paperweights. Some I've used myself and others I've put aside for forthcoming birthdays. This year I'm stuck in work with no hope off tripping off round the charity shops. To make matters worse I was very nearly throttled by a folorn looking Christmas decoration clinging to the wall by it's last bit of Blu Tack gumption. In a rush to fix a photocopier jam I failed to notice the half strung decorations finding myself caught up in a web of red and silver bunting. So I pulled the whole lot down, tore the tinsel from the tree, ate the smashed chocolate baubles from the floor and bagged the fairy lights up until next year. Someone told me its bad luck but it made me feel a whole lot better!

Christmas with dad

Not much to report back on. Returned to work today after the festivities, reception is closed but they need one member of each team in the office to man the phone. I volunteered as I have little else to do and my internet is down at home. I always feel a bit deflated returning to work after Christmas, it's the same flat feeling I used to get when my dad used to remove his funny clown outfit at the end of my birthday parties as a boy. He made a good funny man did Dad, he still does. This Christmas Eve he bet me five quid that I couldn't balance a pint on the back of each hand, so there I was sat at the table in a packed pub balancing two full pints when he promptly walked out. I was sweating, trying not to spill any beer whilst slowly edging my hands from under each pint glass as he waved at me through the window and holding my wallet aloft in his other hand. Cheeky scoundrel then waltzed off to the next pub. I was stuck (and laughed at by a variety of people) for twenty minutes before one of the bar staff rescued me. In fact I was close to giving up and spilling the both pints of beer across the table, though the group of hard nuts sat across from me prevented that. I caught up with Dad further down the street where he bought me a drink, broadcasted the prank to anyone within earshot and gave me a friendly pat on the back. Little did I know that he was sticking a 'Kick me' sign on my back. Until the gang of hard nuts from earlier entered the bar and bgan treating my behind like a football. Dad's school boy pranks continued into Christmas day, I heard he loaded up his fiance's hair dryer with baby powder and being short sighted she didn't notice until she was enveloped in a cloud of dust and he presented me with a rogue chilli chocolate hidden amongst the Quality Street. He's a rum 'un, but I love him.

The works do

Holed up at home with a box of cut-price chocolate seashells and the radio for company. When I contacted work this morning my team leader was not best pleased, apparently everyone else made it to their desks despite the adverse weather. Well they would do wouldn't they? With their heavy sole boots and baggy hand knit sweaters. They dress for the arctic during a light wind or shower, so course they're going to stamp through the snow.
I am thankful for the snowfall though, I dreaded going to work today after Friday's works do. The food itself was relatively edible, as it was a veggie restaurant there was none of the reconstituted turkey nonsense. I had a nut roast with roast veg and traditional stuffing. Though I'm not sure where the 'traditional' bit comes from as it could have doubled as cavity wall insulation. The house white could have quite easily passed as vinegar, although many were on red wine and lager. After an hour of polite chat from the team and banter from the support workers the alcohol began to kick in and tongues loosened. As I was just a pint of light ale in I was able to enjoy the full spectacle of drunken colleagues without making a complete twit of myself. That was until two of the lads from head office came back to the table with shots of a pale green liquid which tasted not too dissimilar to cough medicine. Then it was 'Secret Santa' gifting. The edible underwear I gave to Helen, the new secretary from upstairs caused a real sensation. Everyone was in stitches, even the more 'right on' members of the team had a chuckle. Helen, who was already one bottle of wine in, kept giving me the eye for the rest of the night. It must have earned me some kudos as everyone was keen for me to carry on drinking with them post meal in a late night bar. That was when it happened, I'm not sure how but Helen was perched on a bar stool, I had just bought her a sweet white wine when she lurched forward. Thinking she was going to kiss me, I leaned in only for her to vomit all over my chin and chest, narrowly missing my mouth. The crowd around the bar parted and I am sure the music stopped. For thirty seconds everything fell silent, until she fell off the stool and wretched again. My colleagues ran forward to help her to the toilet. I was left stunned and stinking of sick. I never want to see that woman again.

Last Day with Lena

Tis a sad day. Not only has attendance at tonight's works do been enforced by unrelenting peer pressure from the team but I had to bid farewell to the lucious Lena from my language class today. She is returning to her native Greek town for the Christmas holidays and as we handed in our French assignments I could sense a feeling of warmth and longing in the way her fuzzy mohair cardigan brushed against my nylon sports jacket (dressing down today, for we must attend the works do straight after work). I longed to embrace her, brush her bushy hair aside, whisper sweet everythings into her large bejewelled lobes and whisk her off for half a light ale. But she merely took stride down the corridor, leaving the unmistakable scent of white musk in her wake.

Secret Santa

Sweated my way around the shops all weekend in search of a 'Secret Santa' gift. Last year I made a quick and easy purchase of a multi-pack of Polos (the receiver was - and still is - a little tainted in the breath department). An ideal gift, useful and easy on the pocket as they were on offer in the pound shop, two multipacks for a pound. I was pleased as punch but the recipient of the gift clearly wasn't. She caused a real scene after the staff meal, hurling brittle remarks and a spray of spittle in my direction. I wouldn't have minded but she could have done to have sucked a few mints beforehand. This year she has enforced a minimum Secret Santa spend of three pounds. I would have ducked out of this year's pointless proceedings but I have been allocated to buy a gift for the new agency secretary from upstairs. She is a little too ample and loud for my liking but I sense she has an attraction to me and I am strangely drawn to her. After five hours of pounding the high street I settled on a rather racy pair of chocolate knickers. If anything it should cause a stir when the festive mung bean bake and vegetarian vol-au-vents fail to deliver!

Stench

Arrived at work today with an offensive stench eminating from my rucksack. After emptying the entire contents of my bag across the desk I came across three pork and stuffing sausages I purchased at the market last week. No doubt they had been gently warmed on a daily basis by the floor level heating close to my desk. I had to dispose of the foul meat in the bins outside, such was the smell. And here's me checking my shoes for the past three days thinking I've stepped in dog dirt.

Xmas Do (n't)

Spent the entire day at work dodging the question 'Are you coming to the do?' Its that darn time of year again when I'm forced to smile through gritted teeth and endure the bilious chat of people who bore my socks off. Thankfully last year The Team located themselves at the opposite end of the table so I wasn't able to eavesdrop on their idle chatter about cute furry animals, civil partnerships and ecologically sound sanitary protection. In fact I was seated so far away from them I was practically sat alone, yes I do remember indulging in a second helping of nut loaf and braised greens without comment from anyone, I can safely say I spent a majority of the last works Christmas do in silence. I merely soaked up the lukewarm atmosphere which heightened only when Marcus, senior solicitor, dropped his wine glass on the floor. I went home relatively sober and thirty quid out of pocket. I am hoping that I can come up with a convincing excuse to get out of this year's proceedings. Shaun, the great oaf from my French class, informed me yesterday that you can tell when a person is lying because they add more detail to the lie. This was when I was explaining to him that I couldn't join him for a pint after class as I had a joint of chicken defrosting in the kitchen and I'd put a selection of root vegetables on a slow roast. I think it was the list of said vegetables which gave the game away. So I must come up with a less elaborate white lie to get out of this year's dreaded Christmas do.

Gullible

Popped round to Dad's this afternoon. For a man so well travelled he can be surprisingly small minded, referring to my brief interlude with Lena as nothing more than 'a chat'. He obviously cannot understand the obvious nuances in her body language, I tried to describe the way she giggled softly behind a veil of soft blonde hair. I tried to tell him about how she tripped over the French language with her broad Lancashire accent and flat vowels but it was to no avail.
Dad was far more interested in my impending court case with Duncan Blackhorn. Duncan has been formally charged with fraud after he impersonated Simone Loving and managed to shoe horn over five hundred pounds from my bank account. Yes I know I willingly paid it into his account but had I known I was paying the money to an overweight man mountain in a fancy shirt and not a scantily clad young lovely I would have ceased payment immediately. In fact I would not have paid him at all. Its all a mess and I'm rather nervous about giving evidence as I fear my somewhat lifeless love life may be aired for all in the court room to hear. My solicitor is eager to paint me as a desperate, gullible figure of loneliness with only his PC for company. And I fear that is what I am.

Lena

Threw myself into French greetings and introductions with as much gusto as I could muster this afternoon. The combination of pitiful weather, a lacklustre love life and sorry social calender has me gripped by the ghoulies in a pit of dispair. Nevertheless I trudged along to my language class with beefcake brain Shaun, a man who is yet to master the English language, let alone French. After a quick fire round of noun revision the tutor divided the class into pairs for conversation practise. Thankfully she paired me with a lovely lady by the name of Lena, who blushed every time she stumbled over her words. I presume Lena is a highly intelligent woman as she is studying for a Phd in Molecular Biology but for some reason she was very embarrassed by her clunky turns of French phrases. I took this to be a signal that she fancied me and at the end of the class gave her my landline, mobile number and email address and asked that she contact me if she fancied meeting up to practise in our spare time. She took the paper, thanked me and vanished into the night (well into a throng of Chinese students). I hope she calls.

Indoor Pyrotechnics

I spent last Guy Fawkes night with Ray at Portland Hospital Radio. We spent the evening on air and unable to leave the studio during Requests Hour we created our own display of indoor pyrotechnics. I brought indoor sparklers and Ray fetched a selection of indoor fireworks. Unfortunately half of them smouldered like foul smelling jos sticks and the other half failed to work. The 'Traffic Light Fountain' was the most impressive, a four inch cone which when lit turned from red, to amber and finally - you guessed it! - green, before it disolved into something that resembled cat pooh. It all turned truly awful when Ray pulled out a packet of fun snaps, little white wrappers which when thrown make a 'snap' sound. Ray tested one, no snap. He tested another and another, still no sound. Just as I was about to go back on air the reality hit me, they weren't fun snaps. Ray had been hurling stink bombs about the studio! It smelt like the bowels of hell, even a can of cheap deodrant sprayed liberally about the studio could offer no reprieve. I felt nauseous but Ray just ran out laughing. I am hoping this year will be different.

Ain't no sunshine

I have spent the past few days grieving the loss of my relationship with Miss Loving. I have spent my days in a fug of misery and my evenings nestled up by my three bar electric heater listening to James Blunt, Leonard Cohen and of course Bill Withers' 'Ain't No Sunshine'. If life could not get any worse I failed to notice the kettle flex had frayed and upon making my third cup of Camomile tea for the evening my left hand was showered with sparks, although I sustained little injury it was a wake up call to snap out of this gloom and get back to what I enjoy.

Deception

Sickened to the core. Picked up some copy statements this morning from my bank, a re-order of those which went AWOL in the post. Just opened them now to discover the payments I made online to Miss Simone Loving went into the account of 'D.Blackhorn'. It seems Miss Loving was a scantily clad front for fraud! I feel shocked, ashamed and a real fool.

Bad eggs

They say bad luck comes in the threes, well I wonder if this saying is true for people?

In the past month Ray has lurched back into my life. Although he is sober recent contact with him suggests he still has the ability to obliterate those that stand in his path. Oh yes he may not be smashing up my flat but he can capsize my good humour with a few choice words and his faux empathy. How else did he hold the position of Portland Radio Station Manager for so many years? Thank heavens for Kazzy and her whacky ways.
My ex was on the phone yesterday, seems Tony McNamara has done a runner leaving her with a pile of unpaid tabs at her local shop and pub. Rather than pursue him she chose to contact me numerous times with a tirade of phone abuse. The third time she called I placed the receiver under a cushion and went to make myself a cup of spice tea and a sandwich. After a leisurely lunch I came back to find her still shouting off on the sofa at which point I hung up and turned on my answer machine.
And finally I returned home from work today to find Duncan Blackhorn tying his shoe laces amongst the bushes outside my flat. When I greeted him in a jovial manner he went the colour of the red palm trees on his fancy shirt and muttered something about 'just passing'. I invited him in for a peppermint tea but he declined. A curious encounter which has left me wondering if something fishy is afoot?

Always the last to know

Sometimes it seems like I am the last one to find out...about everything! Arrived at work punctually this morning to find the office closed due to industrial action. Had I known I would have joined my colleagues on the picket line at HQ, however my bed beckoned after another late night shift at Portland Hospital Radio. Still it was no consolation for rising early when I could have nestled back down under the duvet. Not a sole cared to tell me Ray is returning to Portland Hospital Radio for a thrice weekly teatime slot. Arrived at the station yesterday to be greeted by Ray holding an on air discussion on effective stress relief strategies. I listened in the office without comment as Kazzy nodded in agreement to everything Ray said, little does she know that six months or so ago Ray was a huge ball of drunken anxiety rebounding about my flat. I quietly seethed as he spoke in hushed tones, seducing the listener with his cod-psychology. Suddenly he spotted me lurking by the filing cabinet and beckoned me into the studio, then preceded to tell me I looked tired and suggested I timetable some 'me' time into my hectic schedule. I was livid, so much so I included Alanis Morrisette on that evening's playlist and 'forgot' to thank Ray for his advice. That'll be the last time he comes round to mine for a cup of camomile.

An End to Mockery

Many have mocked my Michael Bolton locks but as of today they shall be no more.

For now my head is free of hair, yes that's right it's barely there.
Nothing to caress, nothing to hold.
Kazzy's clippers have shorn me bald.

Maniac Monday

Absolutely shocking day. Received a formal warning at work for leaving our ever eager volunteer Mandy on reception whilst I popped downstairs to the disabled toilet (the quietest place in the building!) to brush up on my French revision. Had she not been following me around all morning like a lap dog I may have considered otherwise but Mandy's sweet nature won me over and I offered her a half hour stint managing reception. No sooner had I sat on the toilet to revise my French greetings when I heard a blood curdling scream. I bolted up the stairs and back into the office to be greeted by a maniac wielding my poster display staple gun. How on earth he got his hands on it I'll never know, it's not something I lend out easily to colleagues never mind inebriated lunatics. Thankfully my team leader managed to talk some sense into him, he placed the staple gun down and left the office. It was a hairy moment which thankfully passed without physical injury, although Mandy was in tears for twenty minutes afterwards. I was apprehended by Marcus, senior solicitor, who gave me a formal written warning and a sour scowl.

And my day from Hull didn't end there. Arrived home a little earlier than usual to discover the postman side stepping my flat yet again. Its been over a month since I've had anything but leaflets for gold cashing enterprises and fast food emporiums through my door, with some fire in my belly from the day's horrible proceedings I took the issue up with my postie. He muttered something about a mail re-direction and soldiered on with his leaflet drop. This is a line of enquiry I urgently need to pursue as my bank statements and utility bills for August and September have not yet graced my doorstep and I need to look at my financial situation in good time for dad's wedding.
After all the stress of the day I was dying for a herbal tea and a banana sandwich before I set off for another late night shift at Portland Hospital Radio. So I brewed up and I logged online to discover another request for money from Simone Loving. I wouldn't mind but I sent her £25 just a few days ago and in return I received a distorted photo of a manly looking lady dressed in an overtight leotard. Despite this offending photo I forgave her and I guess deep down inside I dread losing contact. Her emails are usually the highlight of my day, so I sent her a tenner and requested a rendez vous in return. Hopefully she can accommodate a man in need of stress relief.

Listening exercise

My French course got off to a spluttering start today as the hulking great oaf that is Shaun introduced himself to the class as my 'partner'. A clinical term at the best of times and highly inappropriate today as all the lovely, young Uni students now think I am shacked up with Monsieur Hairy Hands. I was utterly dismayed at this false revelation and sought to set the record straight but my explanation was cut short by a terse tutor and a listening exercise. I shall endevour to make it clear to everyone next week that Shaun and I are not a couple but simply two men seeking beaucoup d'amour avec les femmes. Although that sentence alone may get me thrown off the course. Not that I care, Miss Loving is talking my language online most evenings. I shall say no more.

Ray part two

After a particular testing day at work Ray stopped by. It was his first visit to my flat since he trashed it in a drunken stupor a few months ago. I could have simply dropped by the hostel later this week to see him but he insisted on carting his increasingly toned physique over to my place, he said it was cathartic. I think it was a ploy to show off all his hard work at his local leisure centre as he insisted on trying on some new clothes in my living room over a cup of fennel tea. Difficult to believe just a short time ago he was leaving a trail of destruction and fortified wine bottles in his wake. Anyway he cut his visit short due to an urgent meeting with his sponser and left in a flurry of religious leaflets and aftershave, leaving me a vanilla candle by way of apology.

Safe Hands

I am sensing dad does not approve of my online love affair with Miss Simone Loving. Following the shock announcement of his enagement to Mrs Maithwaite at the weekend (yes its true the old codger is finally tying the knot, twenty three years since mum made off with a cardboard cut out of Sylvester Stallone - not strictly true it was actually a cardboard standee to promote the video release of Stallone's celluloid classic 'Cobra' - mum was never to be seen by us again, although she was spotted at a Video Trade Show with Arthur Parker from Videorama lugging a black bin sack full of deleted Betamax tapes, whilst Arthur schmoozed with some video bigwigs. Mum always did fancy the limelight. I expect she's out there now, working the car boots trying to flog the last of Arthur's crumby back catalogue of under the shelf material)....anyway following the announcement of dad's imminent wedding he has deemed my amorous online affair with Miss Loving null and void. He says I can't bring my laptop to the ceremony so has took it upon himself to sign me up for a French language course with his best pal's hulking great meathead of a son, Shaun. Shaun can barely speak English, never mind master the subtlties of the French language. Dad maintains I am in safe hands and I will be more likely to meet a lovely lady studying French than I will sat at home, munching on crackerbread whilst emailing Miss Loving. Somehow this strange concept of dad's may just work!

Take Care

Negotiating dog pooh on the streets after night fall is one thing, dodging dog matter in the dark with a double eye infection and a rucksack laden with CDs is another. Arrived at Portland Radio yesterday evening with my tractor tread walking boots caked in dirt of the dog, spent the entire broadcast sniffing from a menthol vapour stick to mask the stench. It took three lolly sticks and five sinkfuls of water to get my damn shoes clean. I hope the serial complainers from the Renal ward appreciated all the effort I put in to present the show. Only the dedicated could navigate a mixing desk with both eyes conjealed through a nasty bout of conjunctivitis and I think Kazzy realises this, she sent me packing an hour early with half a packet of fruit bonbons and strict instructions to stay off for the rest of the week. Taking the evening shifts at Portland Radio, although I am sure will prove fruitful, can at times be a struggle.

Frying fish

Kazzy continues to bulldoze her way through Portland Hospital Radio's schedule and has appointed me station manager from 8-11pm weekdays. Of course all work at the station is voluntary but I cannot help but think it is going to lead to bigger and better things. My paid job at the office is becoming increasingly unbearable. The team have seemingly formed a coven and I am left out. Of course Mandy, eager beaver volunteer is included in their whispers and japery. Earlier today I returned from the toilets to find them all discussing a mirthsome tale involving Mandy and a pair of ill fitting shoes. If only I found such banal topics interesting. Well I've decided to take the high road and leave them to it, yes such comedic moments may lighten the drudgery of their day but its of no interest to me. I've swapped desks to the one at the far side of the office, if they want to keep me out of their loop I'll stay out of their way. With that in mind I've given Mandy a list of important tasks, now I can relax and think of this evening's playlist. I've got bigger fish to fry.

French Perfume

It is Simone Loving's birthday today. As we are still to meet in person I was unable to rustle up a slice of extra goo-ey treacle tart and instead deposited £50 into her Paypal account as she requested. In return she emailed me a headless torso shot of her (at least I think its her) in a yellow bikini and promised to send me an item of clothing through the post sprayed with the new French perfume she is off to buy this afternoon. Gosh she's lovely!

Ray

Ray (friend and ex-hospital radio station manager) has just left rehab and has moved into shared supported housing. After a somewhat taxing day at work I popped over to see him. He greeted me at the door with a steaming mug of fennel tea and a beaming smile. It's a marked improvement since I last saw him, swinging between bouts of premium strength wrath and melodramatic weeping. He looks good too, he's shed a few pounds and though the smell of incense hung about his room I could quite easily say he smells a lot less ripe than before. In fact I could go as far to say he's changing his socks on a daily basis. He apologised profusely for the destruction he left in his wake at my flat and the station, promising to repay me any money for damages caused as soon as he has work. And spoke at length about his disease. I really wanted to confide in him, to tell him about Simone Loving but it wasn't the place, he needed to talk. And talk. And talk. I was there for two hours, he only came up for air once and that was to relight another josstick. Finally he excused himself to check in with his sponser, a chap he phones regularly for encouragement. Fearing another sixty minute lowdown on his daily routine I said my good-bye and left. Exhausted.

Only the Lonely

Arrived home an hour ago soaked to the skin, currently wrapped up in my favourite velour jumper and indulging in a hefty slice of lemon sponge pudding with hot fudge sauce. Its comfort all the way this evening. My Ex would be verbally castrating me right now should we still be living together, harping on about my fleshy thighs and stomach. Whipping my pudding away and replacing it with three rice cakes lightly smothered with nut butter. The woman was darn crazy! I imagine Tony McNamara is over at hers this evening ransacking the cupboards for a morsal of sugar whilst she takes a cold shower before donning her floor length nightie and slippers. It makes me feel glad to be alone.

Curly toe slippers

Kazzy wants to raise Portland Hospital Radio's listening profile, with who I'm not sure. Recent correspondance has been limited to a request written on the back of a Dr Whites looped sanitary towel (unused I might add) and a complaint from the renal ward, which quite frankly took the parsnips. Even so Kazzy is eager to bring the radio station to the hospital and local community she's keen to get interviews with local celebs. Hence our new show, 'You're Fantastic, I'm Sycophantic' - a most biazarre concept but still she had me singing the show's promo today 'You're Fantastic, I'm Sychophantic. You're So Great, Can I have a date?' I am sure there must be a hefty dollop of irony in there but I she seems very taken with the idea. But then she was obviously very taken with the royal blue harem pants and curly toe slippers she sported today but it doesn't make them right though does it?

Love Missile F1-11

Thankfully my Team Leader called in sick today, so I was able to side step a grilling over my week long absence. Reception was unusually quiet for a Monday, with our ever cheery volunteer Mandy snapping at my heels for extra work I handed all my tasks over and I slunk off ten minutes early to pre-record a show for Portland Hospital Radio.
Since she started at the station Kazzy has been hounding me to overhaul my image. A comment about my hair here, a tug of my lapel there, I mean she is hardly Gok Wan or good old Jeff Banks for that matter. No this is style advice coming from a woman who arrived at the studio this afternoon sporting high waisted hotpants, stockings and a Sigue Sigue Sputnik frightwig, only it is her real hair. So with that searing image burnt onto my mind I have declined all offers from this lovely but crazy woman. However I fear I may require some style tips from someone soon as my online love Simone Loving has requested an 'eyeball' as they used to say in CB radio!

Mattress Dancing

I feel rather fatigued. I dragged my weary body and dad's heavy bags back from the Isle of Wight this afternoon, without dad sat by the window seat. The silly fool has been up to his old tricks again, engaging in carnal gymnastics with energetic widows who have nothing better to do. After a heated conversation with my Team Leader I begged off work and arrived at Mrs Maithwaite's seaside residence in Shanklin to discover dad propped up by three plump feather pillows on her leather armchair, eating a homemade steak and ale pie and listening to Radio Four. Turns out he has slipped a disc and Mrs Maithwaite was only too happy to wait on my poor, suffering father, whilst muggins here took buses about the island for his strange, healing lotions and potions (Emu Oil anyone?!). As I type the lucky fella is still recuperating down south whilst I must face the unpleasant consequences of taking unplanned leave at work tomorrow.

Jam Sandwich and other things

Went to delete Tony off my friends' list when I came across an invitation from Tony's sister inviting me for a drink tonight. Remembering her killer shoe wielding tactics I politely declined and turned my attentions to the lovely Ms Loving who has been rather quiet for the past 24 hours, so I threw a jam sandwich at her - surely that will get her attention. On a different note I hear Duncan Blackhorn has ditched Dunc's mobile disco in favour of pot washing. Seems scratched copies of Agadoo aren't cutting it on the dancefloor these days. Dad has just telephoned from the Isle of Wight. He is doubled over in agony, somehow he managed to pull a muscle whilst putting up a mirror for a windowed lady he met last month on a bus journey to Bude. He wants me to lug his bags on the bus back up. How can I decline my old father? Don't know what I'll say to the team.

She of the acid tongue

Awful week. Had Simone Loving not posted a rather revealing profile pic online I would have taken to my bed indefinitely. Yesterday I went to see my daughter Louise and her boyfriend Pierre off at the station before they embarked on their inter-rail adventure. Negotiating the time off work was a logistical nightmare, my team leader was reluctant to grant me the hour required as she currently maintains that I am 'shirking responsibility' and loading too much work onto Mandy, our insanely happy and keen volunteer. Nevertheless I cried sick, which meant I left the office late and arrived at the station in a fluster. Thankfully my daughter was waiting patiently with my bitter Ex who met me with a barbed greeting. I told her that a 'sharp tongue is no indication of a keen mind' (one I had prepared earlier) but she pointed her beaky nose in the air and turned to look for her new partner. Louise had prepped me the night before, telling me on the phone that I needed to be aware my Ex would be bringing her new beau. I kept my cool for Louise's sake until my he emerged from the train station toilets with a wild man's swagger. It was none other than my now old mucker Tony flamin' McNamara. He who romanced the evil sister in stitch, Mrs Nesbitt. I was totally aghast and felt like decanting a full bottle of mouthwash over both of them. I had mouthwash, toothpaste and birth control to hand as part of Louise's going away gift from me, a handy bathroom pack. Then I took three deep breaths, thought of Simone Loving in her string bikini, gave Louise her gift, Pierre a handshake and calmly walked away.

Crackers

Spent most of the weekend conversing with Ms Loving online. She is quite the temptress, leading me astray from my weekend duties of underpant washing and sock sorting. I can hardly tear myself away from the computer. Dad swung by this afternoon with half a battenburg and yet more travelling tales from the crinklies bus pass brigade but I was barely able to utter two words before I ran to check my inbox. Dad says he is a bit worried about this swine flu business but then preceded to tell me a joke involving crackling on the swine flu hotline. Before he fell about laughing and coughing. After dad departed on another expedition across the UK I went to email Simone only to find my internet connection down. After half an hour of faffing I found the modem unplugged and a note from dad reading 'Her last name must be Jacobs because she is a real cracker. Dad'.

Umbrage

Arrived home from work late yesterday, drenched in sweat with little time to freshen up before departing for my shift at Portland hospital radio. Kazzy has kindly added me to the broadcast rota thrice weekly - absolutely wonderful but it means I must depend on the erratic train service which yesterday was four minutes and three seconds late. It was sure fire practice of patience standing on the train platform with a bunch of lairy women on their way to Blackpool for a hen weekend. But my calm amidst a storm of oestrogen will come in handy when I see my Ex next week. Got to the radio station with just five minutes to spare before my special show dedicated to Louise and Pierre's travels.

The playlist included Paul Young's 'Where ever I lay my hat (that's my home)', Crowded House 'Always Take the Weather With You' and Supergrass 'Moving'.
Kazzy thought it was a great show. She kept barging in the studio mid broadcast to plaster me with stickers that said things like 'FAB!' and 'GREAT STUFF' and 'WOW'. I think she has even started a sticker chart in the office for each presenter, which some have taken umbrage with but I rather like (I am winning, actually!).
Got home on a high to find an online message from Simone Loving. It read 'Roses are Red, Violets Are Blue, I can't stop thinking, about little old you.' I felt rather elated, judging by her profile picture she is a very attractive young woman. After studying her photo for some time I then re-read the poem and wondered what she meant by 'old'. Then it occured to me that I'm not entirely sure how she knows me or indeed why she requested me as a 'friend'!

Facedate

In preparation for her travels afar my daughter Louise has insisted I sign up to an online social networking site. She claims its the best way to keep in contact whilst she and Pierre are tucked away in their chilly European hostel dorm with just each other and an internet connection for company. So I signed up last night and already I have been 'winked' at by Tony's sister and introduced to three new 'friends' by Kazzy, the new crazy station manager at Portland Hospital Radio. On a more disturbing note Duncan Blackhorn 'poked' me, I was just about to terminate my account when at that moment I had a friends request from a lady by the name of Simone Loving. Now things are becoming interesting!

Run in but would rather run out!

Had a run-in with my team leader today, she presented me with a tray full of unfranked mail at midday knowing full well that my train leaves at seventeen minutes past the hour. I began to run each letter through the franking machine when it ran out of credit. With just ten minutes to spare I handed the task over to Mandy, our new very keen volunteer, who took the hefty tray of post with a smile. As I hotfooted it to the door my team leader halted me in my tracks with a tray of steaming drinks for the team and strict orders for me to frank the post. My protests fell on un-listening (and un-ladylike) ears. Old spaniel lobes kept me at the office til 35 minutes past the hour, slowly presenting me with letter after letter. I have made a note of this extra five minutes work in my new notepad I have titled 'Extra Work, No Thanks'. Why I had to miss my train when Mandy hovers by my table with her sweet perfume waiting for her next task beggars belief!

Can Wait

Louise stopped by this evening with a tupperware box filled to the brim with baked bananas in a wine sauce. Its a send off surprise she rustled up for Pierre. He finally embarks on his inter rail adventure tomorrow (he has already delayed it by a week to spend more time with my lovely daughter). She has decided to join Pierre on his exploration of European hostels and will be leaving next week. She wants me to go to Preston train station to see her off, I can't refuse despite the inevitable presence of my acid tongued Ex. I am practising patience and undertstanding in preparation. I am utterly dreading it.

Dessert Island Risk

It was Portland Hospital Radio's summer extravaganza over the weekend. Kazzy suggested we have a retro dessert raffle, which sounded totally outlandish but proved very popular. My daughter Louise baked jam roly poly, spotted dick (which she drenched in mint custard reminiscent of puddings from her school days) and a delicious lemon merengue pie. Kazzy attempted Baked Alaska aided by the hospital canteen's industrial microwave, it was a complete flop and I brought banana fritters, which unfortunately went mushy in my bag. Everyone got into the spirit and offered free samples of their desserts. I had mouthwatering summer pudding, sickly crepes suzette and I was teased by a lady who mastered a delicious hot vanilla souffle. It was a wonderful, wonderful day until Ray turned up three sheets to the wind demanding his job back as hospital radio station manager. He staggered into the creme brulee stand, toppled over a stack of profiteroles and stumbled into a tray of Manchester tarts. As he lurched forward to grab Kazzy he knocked me flying into a stall laden with fake Faberge eggs and ornamental glass, thankfully the stall stayed erect but I was left in a heap on the ground nursing a twisted ankle and my pride. An irate lady from oncology sent him on his way with a bag of broken biscuits and a face full of strawberry flan. Silly fool.

Happy Monday

Indeed yesterday was a glorious day.

Firstly I managed to wangle dad's hat back as the winner of my Fedora Hat Raffle passed away and the family were only to pleased to give me dad's smelly head wear. They told me the elderly chap died whilst wearing it, daren't tell dad as he'll take it as a bad omen. He was pleased as punch when I presented it to him over tea and tales from Ansty Cowfold.

Secondly rumour has it Tony's sister and Duncan Blackhorn are no longer a (drunken) item. A not so little bird told me she discovered him texting a pub landlady in the Costa Blanca after her karaoke rendition of 'I Speaka Da Lingo' at a pub in Withenshaw. I am pleased I did not take it any further with her as I hear she chased him out of the karaoke bar brandishing a six inch stiletto court shoe.

Thirdly a new volunteer has started at work. She is called Mandy and is eager to help, so much so I was able to take some time out in the filing room whilst she manned a reception full of irate clients this morning.

Talking of clients as predicted Ray showed up at the office today. I usually open reception to a queue of people waiting for housing advice and today was no exception, a large queue snaked down the street with Ray at the front. As soon as he saw me he burst into tears and threw his arms around me. I am in no way a demonstrative person so felt most embarrassed by his open display of affection in front of twenty or so other men. Thankfully Mandy took over and I was able to sit Ray down in an interview room with a hot sweet tea. He was soon seen by a member of the team. Although confidentiality must be adhered to the team later assured me Ray will be okay. Although I'm sure I saw one team member wink as she was saying it. I'm not sure what she meant by that! Or what she was implying! Still I'm pleased to know he is safe.

William Shatner

Kazzy is the new, rather enthusiastic station manager at Portland Hospital Radio. She is like a cross between a boistrous labrador puppy and Sue Pollard. Where Ray once filed his Crosby Stills and Nash long players in alphabetical order, she now has a new fangled MP3 player installed. The whole place has been spring cleaned and an array of ceramic cats are dotted about the place. She came in this evening wearing a baseball hat back to front and a skin tight lurex dress that barely covered her behind. Thankfully she was wearing lurid green leggings underneath.
I'm not sure what my daughter Louise thought, she came into the studio to help me out this evening. I introduced her to Pierre last week over a light supper of crumpets and hot tea and I think she is smitten. It was Pierre's last broadcast at Portland Hospital Radio this evening, he is spending the summer inter-railing and hopes to break into the heady world of broadcast in France. To keep the mood light I played Captain Sensible's 'Happy Talk', Stevie Wonder 'I Just Called to Say I Love You' and managed t dig out a William Shatner (yes James T Kirk!) covering Pulp's 'Common People'. Must have jingled Pierre's strings as he and Louise left the studio together and haven't been seen since! If only music could work such wonders with my love life!

Update

Little to report back on this week. Tony's sister is incommunicado, held captive by Duncan Blackhorn no doubt. So in a slow news week I present you with an update on the others in my orbit.

Ray - still drunk. Evicted from the bed and breakfast I paid for after just one night's stay. He slipped in the shower and brought the whole cubicle down with him. I was sorry to hear it but glad to hear he has started to maintain his personal hygiene. Will be in our office next week no doubt seeking hostel accommodation.

Mrs N - still sinister. The twisted sister of stitch is still seeing Tony and feeding my Ex a garden of lies. I hope she pricks her finger on one of her tall thorny tales.

My Ex - still bitter. Has taken to spreading scurrilous rumours concerning the finer details of our marriage. What she fails to add is her callous behaviour. She didn't speak to me for a week when I forgot to put the milk back in the fridge, just as I got comfy in bed she would turf me out onto the floor and she publicly shamed me three times in the supermarket with her loud wittering about my failure to convert pounds and ounces into their metric equivalent. All that and she would occasionally plant chilli seeds in my tuna sarnies for work. Cruel is not the word!

Louise (my daughter) - still lovely. Has taken a year out of her studies to work at a garden centre tea room. Her mother has been telling everyone it is because I am not paying enough maintenance and Louise cannot afford to study. Louise maintains she needs a break from college. She brought me some homemade tarts last week, delicious.

Pierre - still faking a French accent, I think. I am sure that he originally hails from Camber Sands but I cannot be sure. Where ever he is from he is heading back there next week. Despite for my initial dislike for the man I have grown to like him.

The team - still miserable. I presented them with a packet of Garibaldis last week to cheer them up, went down like a packet of pork scratchings at a vegan restaurant. Maybe I'll bring pork scratchings in next time. Or a cows tongue pie.

Dad - still travelling the UK. He's currently in Ansty Cowfold and heading back north next week. He's atill asking for his fedora hat, daren't tell him it's been raffled off.

White gathered skirt

Well as the temperature rises outside my lovelife has turned somewhat tepid. After scoring an away goal last week so to speak this evening has been a total washout in the love department. With the kids packed off to her mum's Tony's sister had invited me over for a takeaway Chinese meal and a DVD. Keen to impress I asked Pierre, fellow hospital radio jock for some advice. He suggested I swap my bright white holiday trainers for a more subtle loafer and gave me some French aftershave to splash on after bathing. Keen to tan my torso to match the colour of my hands I spent the afternoon led in the communal gardens around my flat slathered in factor 2 tanning oil. I fell asleep and awoke to next doors cat ferretting around in my tuna sarnies. After shooing the scrawny moggy away I felt a little woozy and went inside to lie down.

Two hours later and I woke to the sound of the doorbell. It was Tony with a six pack of lager rallying the troupes for a barbeque at Mrs N's (he is unaware of my liasons with his sister). His face dropped as I answered the door only half clothed, I am badly burnt with what can only be described as very unfortunate tan lines that depict my arms and hands resting on my ample stomach. Once he'd gone on his merry way I set about preparing myself for the evening ahead, the shower felt like razor blades raining down on my crisped flesh and Pierre's fancy scent stang like hell on my now highly sensitive skin. Though it must be said at seven o'clock this evening, sporting my new crisp white short sleeve shirt, loose linen trousers and new faux suede loafers I did resemble the slightly more rotund brother of Don Johnson. Had dad have been here I would have asked him to take a photo, so I took one myself on his old instamatic. (Incidentally dad is still in the land of the living, just currently holidaying in Piddinghoe.)

Then the phone rang, it was Tony's sister. It sounded like she was in an understair cupboard but she maintained she was in bed and came up with an incredulous story concerning her and her white gathered skirt. Apparently she was wearing said garment in the supermarket today and a lady stopped her in the dairy aisle to quietly inform her that there was a large patch of blood on the back of her skirt. Without a jumper to tie around her waste she left the supermarket pronto and has since been laid up in bed with crippling stomach pains and a box of Dairy Milk. (Although I lived with a woman for twenty odd years, have a daughter and work with a team of women I am still perplexed by periods). As she rang off my heart sank, I am sure I heard Duncan Blackhorn in the background offering to stoke up the barbeque. I can't believe she swapped a night of passion for burnt sausages and cheap bread rolls.

I made it through the wilderness

Well the wind has been nipping round my nether regions the past couple of days. So battened downed the hatches and curled up with a cup of hot milk and the computer. Never mind, still feeling light of heart after my evening with Tony, his sister and our old mucker Dunc. He rolled up about ten at night, sozzled on whiskey and resembling a red squid swathed in Hawaiin fabric. We spent the night chatting about Tony and Dunc's days on the mobile disco circuit and danced into the early hours to Hot Chocolate, Dr Hook, Rod Stewart and George Benson with a bit of Black Lace thrown in for good measure. Dunc left at 4am with Tony's sister. The following day she came round to pick up her electric blue court shoes (she'd kicked them off under the sofa, thankfully I managed to retrieve them from the festering mess of empty takeaway cartons and crisp packets before she came round to collect them). I made her a peppermint tea as she looked very hungover. I left her with her warm brew and just as I was buttering my supper of toasted teacakes I felt two excitable hands around my middle. I cannot contain myself, I want to shout it from the rooftops but for reasons of decency I cannot print what happened that night. Lets just say I have made it through the wilderness!

Black Lace

Very excited about this evening as Tony is coming over later with his sister and an old friend of ours Duncan Blackhorn. Dunc used to do the sound with Black Lace some twenty odd years ago. He's a Yorkshire man through and through, very funny, sharp and a lot of fun to be around. Tony's bought in a crate of lager and I'm doing some nibbly bits (tho I'm not sure how far a loaf of bread and four tins of tuna will stretch). Mrs N said she might come over and give me a hand as I am still incapacitated sure she'll be able to whip something up. I've been trying to get some sun on my deathly white skin all morning and tho its baking outside I'm still looking rather lardy. I might wash off the factor 50. Wonder if Dunc still has his mullet?

Skirt of Skin

There must be a bad moon ascending as the mood in the office has been particularly gloomy the past two days. Not sure if it's the post bank holiday lull or something more sinister in the air (like synchronised menstrual cycles). Adding to the generally dark ambience I caught my finger in the paper shredder and had to be rushed to A&E. The flesh of my index finger flayed creating a skirt of skin around my knuckle and a large pool of blood in the photocopy room. Marcus, senior solicitor, stemmed the blood flow with his cashmere cardigan and got me up to the hospital. Five hours later and I was allowed home. Tony gave me a lift back and as I type (with one hand) he is off to fetch Mrs N to make my bed and fluff up my pillows. Tony has a gnarled arm from a motorbike accident and although its fully functional he tends to play on it. Just hoping Marcus doesn't expect payment for his heavily soiled designer cardigan, Tony asked me for three pound fifty for the lift back and with Ray leeching off me I'm very nearly in the red.

Get Ready!!!!

Spent the afternoon with Tony, his sister and Mrs N on Preston's Whit fair. The last time I came to the fair was five years ago in my days as a local councillor, I was canvassing for the imminent elections but folk were more interested in hot dogs and hook a duck than my political spiel.
Today's glorious sunshine left me with a slight wardrobe crisis. Unable to fasten the button on my white holiday shorts I secured them with a safety pin. I couldn't find a t-shirt ample enough to stretch over my stomach so I opted for an open loose cotton shirt worn with vest. Ray has made off with my trainers so I had to wear slip on shoes, which chaffed against my bare feet somewhat.
Tony was eager to impress Mrs N and kept suggesting bigger and more daring rides. After a rather challenging mid afternoon snack of candyfloss and half a beefburger he suggested we go on the Mexican Wave. At this point I was limping wth blistered feet and the waistband of my shorts was cutting into my sides like bread knife. I said I'd sit it out (I'd already accompanied him on five gut wrenching rides, costing the best part of fifteen pounds). He was insistent, reluctantly I queued only for Tony to decide last minute that he wanted to get off leaving me sat alone. The safety belt had gone down and there was no way out. As the ride started up my stomach churned and gurgled, I was like a human Mount Vesuvius on a spin cycle. As the pounding techno music got louder the gripping cramps of revolt twisted tighter in my stomach. Three minutes later I was back on terra firma, I staggered towards the nearest alley eager to get out of sight of everyone but it was too late. No sooner had Tony asked if anyone fancied a hot dog with extra onions I vomited into Mrs N's Bag for Life.

Misunderstandings

Following a light lunch of tuna sandwiches on the hoof I met with Tony Mc. We'd arranged a rendez vous at the Bishop's Stink, an aptly named pub within spitting distance of his sister's house. (Spit being the operative word here, roadside phlegm and graffiti are abundant at her end of town). To divert any possible mugging I dressed down for the occasion, threadbare cords, ill fitting knitted cardigan and a stained thermal vest. I was just about to set off when I received a call from Tony, he was outside my flat. Apparently the pub had been closed down on instruction of the police and Tony thought it best to bring his sister and Mrs N (yes he's back with the sinister sister of crochet) over to my place. I answered the door to be met by Tony and the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world (rest assured I am not talking about the evil seamstress Mrs N). Tony's sister is wonderful! If ever angels existed she would be one, maybe Dianne was right after all.

Embarrassment all round as I explained my attire, then realising I made a complete faux pas referring to her neighbourhood as a crime ridden hell hole. She deflected my comments with a smiling 'ooh its not that bad' and a request for tea. As the ladies made themselves comfortable in the lounge Tony came into the kitchen to give me my post (my ex-wife now gives any un-redirected post to Mrs N who then passes it to Tony to give to me). As I flicked through the junk mail I came across a magazine wrapped in clear sellophane, inside in large letters was the magazine's title 'Simply Cynthia, for Gentlemen Who Prefer Ladies Shoes'. A joke, surely. I followed Tony into the lounge.
Barely able to contain his mirth he said 'We picked these up for you on our way over.' and handed me a pair of American Tan tights in XXL as the room erupted in laughter. Surely they don't think I subscribe to such a publication?

Fumigation

Spent most of the weekend fumigating the flat. Ray has left! I withdrew the last of my savings and booked him into a bed and breakfast in town for a week. I've taken last minute leave at work and I'm going over there later. The trains campaign is on the back burner, he always saw me right at the radio station and now he needs me. And besides the train guards keep threatening to get me arrested as I parade the station wearing my 'Late Trains - We Should All Complain' sandwich board.

As I've been cleaning I came across the dream catcher and essential oils Dianne gave me, absent mindedly I put them in the bag to go to the charity shop but now I'm not so sure - it could be bad luck? As I type the dream catcher looks like a fancy spiders web laid out on my pillow. I've popped a few drops of the Neroli essential oil in my living room oil burner and its taking away the stench. At least something she gave me is coming in handy.
Tony McNamara is calling later, his sister is a nurse and I feel that as he was messing around with Ray's wife he owes him one. Even if its advice where to get help.

Sad Cafe

I am updating my blog from an internet cafe in town. Its a 'cafe' in the loosest sense of the word, the only warm beverages they serve are dispensed from a large noisy machine behind the 'cashier' and the choice ranges from lukewarm powdered tea to murky brown, scalding hot chocolate. All for the princely sum of £1.50! I requested a little hot water for my camomile teabag to be met by a quizzical stare from the 'cashier', he almost put his mobile telephone down when I asked him but then decided to continue his loud conversation. Then another one of his three mobiles rang so I decided against persisting with my request. How I wish I was bi-lingual so I could understand his loud, animated conversations which seem to involve people on two mobiles and someone on web chat. Whatever he is talking about must be important as he stops mid sentence and bangs the table really hard. Not that its putting the Spanish lady to my left off, she is chatting away merrily (and loudly) to a friend online via a headset microphone. I am rather hungry but the cafe only offers chocolate bars and bags of crisps. I might pop out for food but I may lose my computer space, this place is packed so shall hang on til the next wave of hunger pangs (not sure how the 'cashier' does any business he has the customer service skills of a wet flannel).
Ray has eaten me out of house and home, I always thought heavy drinkers forgo food for alcohol but not Ray. Whatever he puts away in alcohol he matches with food. This evening I found yesterday's food shopping gone except for a four pack of pears and some cheap mint imperials I bought for the team (all those spicy chickpea burgers and mung bean bakes are making the office a little whiffy, especially in warmer weather). Not only had he worked his way through a week's shop, or swapped it for alcohol, I caught him rifling through my sock drawer. When I pulled him up on it he said he had lost the TV remote. I hate confrontation but he has to leave.

Toilet trouble

Returned home from work today to find a pair of soiled underpants in the hallway and Ray asleep on the toilet. I wanted to turn on my heel and walk back out but my conscience couldn't cope with it. What if he choked on his own vomit? Not only would there be a dead friend in my flat but I doubt if the agents would renew my contract (last year they were grumbling about a small crack on the washing powder dispenser drawer so lord only knows how they would feel about a messy death in the lavatory). With that in mind I woke Ray up. Cleaned him up, I'll spare you the details, and sat him down in the kitchen with a hot sweet tea and a fresh change of clothes. He kept muttering about how thankful he was but all I could think about was how much I enjoy my own company these days. I wish he would leave.

Bank Holiday Blues

Ray is now residing in my living room and every morning I wake up to total disarray. That's if I can face going in there. The stench is far from favourable and usually keeps me from entering - its a particularly noxious combination of dirty pants, socks, vomit, stale alcohol and cheap aftershave. Most evenings after he has conked out infront of the TV I close the door and roll an old towel into a snake-like draught excluder to stop the smell drifting into other parts of the flat. I have designated the kitchen out of bounds as he is a pure hazard with flames and hot liquids. Last week I came home to find him trying to ignite the electric grill with a lighter. I had to grapple the lighter off him and shove a can of super strength lager in his hand to prevent an inferno in my kitchen. The flat is begininning to look like a troupe of destructive two year olds has torn through it, leaving empty cans, bottles and puddles of pee in their wake. I caught him urinating in my house plants the other day.

So I have spent most of the weekend out and about. I hung around the station most of Saturday researching ideas for my show, its going to have a pants theme. I shall be playing 'Donald Where's Your Troosers?', 'Baggy Trousers' and 'Don't Put Your Trousers on Your Head'. Thankfully Pierre has gone on a study break back to France and with Ray out of action I had free reign in the studio. I bought a packet of Nice biscuits to lighten the team's return to work but ate them in one sitting with a steaming mug of milk. Small pleasures go a long way when one feels an outsider in his own home.

Greed

Again a delay in writing, please accept my apologises. I wouldn't standfor this sort of tardiness from the train service so rest assured I shall endevour to keep my blog as upto date as possible. As you can see rom my typing errors I am struggling with my spacebar, the critter keeps sticking so the tips of my fingers are bruised from thrashing away at the troublesome piece of plastic.

Aside from computer difficulties I've had some scathing correspondance from my ex-wife who was highly offended by an Easter card I sent as a (belated) peace offering. It read 'Easter is a time for chocolate, I hope you receive lots, why just enjoy a mouthful when you could scoff the whole box.' Funny, timely and referencing her favourite food. 'Perfect', I thought. Even better was the discount I received at the till as I was purchasing it the day after Easter Monday. So imagine how horrified I felt when I received the card back this morning torn to shreds. Apparently she's struggling at slimming club. She always was greedy.

Less greedy are my colleagues. The team shunned the packet of bourbons I brought in last week, opting for organic ginger snaps instead. Not that they'll be able to afford such fancy biscuits for much longer. Redundancy looms large even in the voluntary sector, they found out this week that paid maternity leave has been cut and pay frozen. Not that it affects me, being male and at the top of my pay scale. Still the fear stops me from purchasing a new PC.

Last Easter I went to the shops

Oh how my life has shifted seismically since this very same bank holiday last year. Granted Easter was a bit earlier but so much has happened in thirteen months. Last Easter Sunday I was pounding the streets in search of insecticide to tackle a woodlice infestation in the kitchen. After six hours spent sweating it out on the streets of Lytham, happening across many a closed hardware shop, I returned home with an organic crustacean killer only to find my wife chortling into her cup a soup. She had managed to sweep the 'woodlice' up with a dust pan and brush.
They weren't woodlice after all, they were merely my daughter Louise's pumpkin seeds that had spilled onto the floor, probably when she was in a rush leaving for one of her bendy Wendy yoga sessions. Quite why my wife hadn't inspected the infestation earlier was beyond me. Instead she had woken me with a blood curdling scream and demands that I go out and get something to 'kill the vermin in the kitchen'. At a glance they looked like woodlice and so I hot footed it out to the shops. Crossing His Master's Voice would have resulted in a miserable day for all.
So finding my wife smirking in the kitchen after a hard slog seeking out lice killer was really the beginning of the end of us. We'd been in the wilderness for a while and now I felt cast out in the cold. Three months later and I was out of there. I often wonder if she had set me up that day. One day I will find out,I'm sure.

Bad Good Friday

Despite my protests Ray insisted I manned the studio this evening. I raised the issue of a bank holiday and lack of public transport home but he couldn't see my point (it was more than likely obscured by a large cider bottle).

I considered giving the evening's broadcast an egg theme but try as I might no song became apparent. I had egg-sausted all options so in the end I plumped for the Birdy Song (egg related-ish) and threw on a Monsters of Rock compilation CD. I had hoped for a heated debate on the diminishing size of chocolate Easter eggs but Ray lay slumped in the corner of the studio babbling nonsense.
I should have asked him to leave when he came crashing down onto the mixing desk but he offered to pay my cab home on the proviso I help him find somewhere to stay for the night. He is conked out on my sofa as I type clutching a stale hot cross bun and his urine soaked trousers.

Shambles

Spent most of this morning hidden away in the basement filing room nursing a hangover. I simply could not take the wrath of irate clients or the teams' barbed comments. Sweated most of it out by lunchtime when it was nearly time for home. I should have been heading straight to Portland Hospital Radio but decided to lie low for a bit after yesterday evening's encounter.

I had stopped by the studio after a light tea of sardine toasties to see how Ray was doing. He is now officially sofa surfing after his wife changed the locks to their home. I also wanted to get his opinion on the whole Dianne situation. Pierre was on air when I arrived and I noticed he had my Johnny Hates Jazz CD in the studio. I went in to claim it back when in walked Ray and started asking how Saturday had gone. I laughed and gave him an edited version when suddenly Pierre was back on air and I had divulged my angel workshop encounter with the whole of Portland Hospital, every poorly person, their consultant and everyone in between now knows I picked the pieces out of a ham quiche and took it to a vegetarian lunch. They know I had my aura cleansed by a chap in hemp breeches who needed a good wash himself. And most alarmingly they know, that I know that Dianne and Mathieu - the lead facilitator in the merry dance - are together. But I still asked her out (after a rather heady hour long chakra dance to the sound of Mathieu's tin pan percussion) and she declined. But not before she extracted another £20 from me, somehow.
So my chakras maybe realigned but I am humiliated, penniless and could face a serious caution from the law after catching Pierre's eyebrow ring with a ruler. Ray suggested a pint of Cocksmith's Bottom to ease my nerves, how could I say no?

Strange Day

Dianne texted me late Friday evening, it read 'Be prepared to be uplifted, inspired and filled with joy at tomorrow's Angel Workshop. Bring comfy clothes, £5 for costs and a lunch to share. Love and Light, Dianne.'
I wasn't feeling particularly joyous as I stumbled into the stale smelling community centre Saturday morning, I had woken late and trodden in a large pile of dog mess on my way in. I was cloaked in the smell of pooh and no stick could get it out of my tractor tread shoes. Thankfully I had remembered to defrost a quiche to bring.

I was beckoned in by a wiry man who was introducing himself to the small group of participants. He introduced himself as Matthew, spelt Mathieu, an Angel Therapy Practitioner from Brighton. After removing my foul smelling shoes I inched by way into the group but was slightly put off by the abundance of underarm hair gaping out of Mathieu's flimsy vest. Before introductions he said that we needed to get the 'energy flowing' in the room and invited us to 'connect with our inner spirit to guide us through the day' by facing the person next to us and imitating a lion's roar in their face.

As I was without a partner Mathieu chose to demonstrate on me and emited a silent but deadly Lion Breath in my face. He smelt oddly of chickpeas and I am sure I saw Dianne smirking behind the draped sleeve of her white cotton dress.

Dianne

Received an email from Dianne to my email account at work. I am a firm believer that business and pleasure don't mix and never give out my work's email address but Dianne asked so sweetly and highlighted the benefits of email contact throughout the week. She travels with her work and often cannot be contacted by telephone. The email somewhat cryptically stated that this Saturday there will be 'ethereal cord cutting' enabling me to 'remove any excess baggage that are preventing me from flying and attaining my true goals'.
I forsee sparks flying on Saturday. She also requested an extra fiver to cover materials and costs.

Jealousy

Spoke to Ray about the workshop, he told me to be careful. I think he is just a little sensitive after his recent encounter.

My ex called demanding that I re-instate the children's maintenance payments. I stated that as both children are working they no longer require the maintenance. She said Louise was going back to college and would be living at home and so therefore I should be funding some of her studies. I said I would speak to Louise directly. She said Louise didn't want to talk to me. I said I would catch up with Louise at work and she rung off.

I was pleased that I stood up to her demands.

Asked the newsagent to remove the card in his window. I can safely say its been a waste of £10.68 and I need the money for the workshop on Saturday.

Angel Workshop

I have a date! I spoke to Dianne last night, she sounds lovely and she was exceedingly complimentary. She said I had the softest hands she had ever felt. She sensed I had a lot of love to give and said she relished my company (her words not mine!) She said that she sensed a very special bond between us and that we may have been close in a past life. She said I must harness my inner strength and being to empower myself.

She apologised for not being contactable over the past week or so, she had been attending a series of workshops on Regression Therapy and Past Life Analysis.

She has invited me to an Angel Workshop on Saturday. She is running it at a local community centre, it costs just £25. She said I must bring a vegetarian lunch to share and be prepared for a wonderful day of self love and worth.

She didn't say it was an official date but I am sensing a real bond between us.

No answer

Back to work and no answer on Dianne's line. Ray confirmed that I was not involved in any romantic clinches, although myself and Dianne were chatting most of the evening.

I asked what she looked like and Ray likened her to Iris Eyes (a psychic lady from Bridlington used to sit in a glitzy shack on Blackpool seafront and read palms/minds/lusty novels during quiet periods. Anyone I know who has had their cards 'done' by her confirms she is spookily accurate. Sadly she had a run in with the council last year when she was discovered flouting the smoking ban behind a highly flammable silver curtain. A crafty Regal Filter cost her a thousand pound fine and she decided to shut up shop and operate from home). Apparently Dianne did read my palm and I think that's where the similarity with Iris ends. However I am intrigued!

Ray had a disasterous evening, taking a lovely lady back to his alfresco lodgings (car) only to discover 'she' was a 'he' and charging for the priviledge.

Sick Leave

I am rarely off sick. In fact my sick leave calender states that in the past thirteen years of continuous employment I have allotted just five days leave due to illness. Two days when my wisdom teeth were extracted and my gums were subsequently infected...aside from the pain there was a foul odour eminating from my mouth so it would have been too offensive to work. My (now ex) wife alledged that my breath always had a nasty taint. Two dentists trips later it was revealed the flesh of my lower left gum was rotting, literally.

One day sick when I contracted a nasty virus following a peace march through the centre of Wigan. It rained all day and I had forgotton adequate water proof wear.

I can't quite remember why I have taken the other two days but it stands to reason I was more than likely bed bound...

Oh and today I took as sick, my first sick day due to total inebriation the night before. Ray took me out for a drink post show, I was on a high as my theme for the evening - 'Boots, Shoes and Walking Aids' - invited two requests (two more than Pierre's show on Sunday), Ray took me for half a Cocksmith's Bottom then preceded to pour his heart out to me. Turns out the wiley so and so, Tony McNamara, is not only having his wicked way with the evil seamstress Mrs Nesbitt but is also romancing Ray's wife. Ray has been sleeping in his car (and drinking heavily judging the state of his attire and the acrid odour following him).

One half led to three and before I knew it we were sharing a cab to Lacey's, an over 30's singles night in Chorley. I can't remember much of the night except I woke this morning on my sofa, fully clothed with a half eaten pizza and the telephone receiver at my side. I also have a telephone number scribbled on the back of a Lambert and Butler packet, next to the name Dianne. I will call her when I have a little clarity on the evening's events, who knows - we could have kissed!

Goose

Sorry for my delay in posting, have had little to say in the past few days.

Returned dad's fedora hat, ignored a message from Tony McNamara and arrived into Preston early every day this week (giving my trains campaign little weight). Popped into the studio on Sunday and felt a little lift downstairs when Pierre broadcast fourty five seconds of 'dead air'. Flagged it up to Ray on the telephone that evening who said he was aware there were a few hitches with the sound desk but refused to take the technically inept twit off the air waves. Ray suggested we meet for a drink this evening, I duly pointed out that I am covering a show this evening and he said he would pay for a a couple of drinks post show.

I am sensing some disquiet in his marriage as he alluded to sleeping in his car. We'll see.

The office has been like the school of silly walks. One drunk client was goose stepping around reception before Marcus, senior solicitor, asked him to leave. Later in the morning a chap stumbled in, I could have sworn he was drunk and duly asked him to leave, which caused some ructions as he revealed in a rather flamboyant manner that he was stone cold sober and simply wearing ill fitting shoes. He preceded to read the paper upside down and then fell asleep. Not that I had any further dealings, come midday it was time for me to frank the post and leave him in the capable hands of the team. At the end of the day its all fun and games.

Training Day (Part two)

For some reason the team cajoled me into attending workers' training on Stress Awareness and Supporting Strategies. I pointed out that I had some necessary filing and an urgent stationary order to place but it was to no avail. I found the Crinkle Crunch biscuits and expensive herb teas worth the change in routine and I was keen to point out three recent stressful situations to the trainer.

I nearly choked on my expensive biscuit when a colleague rudely interrupted and began telling me how my interruptions caused her a tremendous amount of stress. The team were agreeing and taking it in turns to personally assassinate me when I abley pointed out that we were running close to lunchtime and the end of my working day and duly left. What an odd bunch they are.

I missed my train but somehow it didn't matter as I had managed to pocket a few crinkle crunch and a chocolate croissant from the training room.

Touching Base with Tony McNamara

It’s Saturday and I have just returned from a rather unpleasant social drink with Tony McNamara. I can only liken it to having your socks darned with wire wool whilst you are still wearing the socks and the socks are being stitched by that evil seamstress Mrs Nesbitt (who is increasingly getting on my nerves).

As you have probably gathered by my bubbling resentment Mrs N was sat in the background throughout our drink, sipping her sweet sherry and eaves dropping on every word I said to Tony. When Tony excused himself to pick up a packet of pork scratchings, she let it be known she is privy to all my activities and movements.

I have decided from this day forth I shall divulge nothing more to Tony until he shakes that bitter limpet from his arm.

Stationary Abuse

Took an early lunch yesterday and one hour time off in lieu (all those five minutes I arrive early into work add up!). I had double checked with the team that they had given me the stationary order for the week, rang it through and duly left. Spent the afternoon leisurely strolling around the shops, thinking about my playlist for Sunday evening’s show (which incidentally I am now calling Layby Lullabies).

Imagine how I felt the this morning when I found a handwritten note from my team leader requesting a five pack of post its and ten black biros. I checked the stationary cupboard to discover that someone had been rifling through and it could only be likened to a war zone. It was like something had detonated and sent notebooks, paperclips, elastic bands and correction fluid flying. Marcus, senior solicitor, told me to stop being so over dramatic. That was until he had an irate client, a leaky biro and was asking me for a replacement pen.

I sent an email out to the team, explaining that it was tantamount to stationary abuse!

Post Valentines Day Blues

Yesterday evening I boarded the train home with trepidation, would there be any messages on my answermachine? Surely someone else, somewhere in Lancashire must be feeling lonely on a Friday.

My train home was delayed, they blamed leaves on the line but to my way of thinking the station manager didn’t want to dampen the spirit of the lovers (who incidentally were out in droves, making their way to Lytham for romantic meals and such-like) by mentioning some poor chap thought it a fitting night to end it all. Either that or there was leaves on the line.

I had read my copy of the LEP cover to cover three times over when my train finally arrived (I saw fit to complain just twice) - didn’t have the energy to protest further. The train was packed. The smell of perfume and aftershave clung to the air like a thick fog, couples laughing, kissing, caressing - it drove me insane. Just thinking about the wilderness I have left only to find myself alone in a barren land without love made my heart ache and anxiety grow like a black flower unable to blossom.

The slug-like pace of the train added to my frustration. I thought of the team, despite their hardened exteriors every one of them has a partner to go home to (some are in same sex relationships but that is neither here nor there, I may be driven to ’turn’ to men if I don’t meet a woman soon!).

I wound myself up so much on the journey home I stormed into the newsagents and tore my ad from the window. I highlighted each and every word with my luminous yellow highlighting pen and placed the ad back in the window in a prominent position (above the ad for caring lady funeral director). Paid the newsagent's son an extra £1 for his trouble and left.

Even the newsagent had taken mrs newsagent out for a meal. Good job really as he can be rather heavy handed when it comes to people fiddling with his shop displays.

Monday Monday

So sorry didn’t have time to update you on the show, felt shattered after doing the graveyard shift and then missed the last train back home. Ended up sleeping in Ray’s car (his wife is very wary about strangers sleeping in their home ever since Ray brought back two ne’er do wells from the hospital and they stole her Faberge egg).

The radio show went well, unfortunately had to drop the hat theme as the Paul Young CD was scratched and the Status Quo CD box was empty (so much for the hospital radio CD library!). Like a pro I winged it with a tribute to Michael Bolton and managed to slip Mr Mister’s ’Broken Wings’ and some Foreigner in there.

Announced the Fedora Hat raffle and sold one ticket (that’s not including the one I bought and the one dad bought - he would ideally like his hat back - he’s had it twenty years!)

Also discovered Pierre is really called Paul and hails from Gravesend, well thats what Ray claimed in the early hours, three sheets to the wind after a large bottle of brandy. Don’t ask! Think Ray’s spirited behaviour could have contributed to me sleeping in the car.
Received one belated valentine card today but figure this could be a trick card from the team as they were all smirking behind their hummous and spinach falafels and mung bean bakes (no wonder there is always a foul odour coming from the ladies toilet in this building).

Happy Valentine’s Day

Have just finished selecting this evening’s playlist, leaving half an hour for dedications from the Renal ward (need to play my cards right tonight with Ray) and some time for light banter. Not that I am feeling particularly light, my lack of love weighs heavy especially at the weekend when I should be sharing time with that special someone and instead I am left ruminating with only a large receptacle of watery hot chocolate and a packet of Morrisons ginger nuts. Feeling particularly maudlin I dunked and ate the whole packet, only stopping when a scolding chunk of ginger nut landed in my lap. Leaving a heart shaped burn on my thigh. Typical!
So I have taken the radical measure and will be ignoring Valentine's this evening and to dedicate tonight’s show to the theme of Hats. Will be playing Paul Young ’Where ever I lay my Hat’, Status Quo ’All Around my Hat’ and Men without Hats ’Safety Dance’. I will be wearing a hat throughout broadcasting and just off to dad’s house now to pick up a fedora hat that I shall be auctioning for charity, to raise money for the hospital’s neo natal unit (heard Pierre managed to raise £32 on his Sunday night show

Friday 13th

Peculiar as it may seem my alarm didn’t go off this morning, in fact both alarms failed to sound. Both sets of batteries were flat! And my very odd day didn’t stop there.

I was ten minutes late into work and someone from the team had made me a blackcurrant and ginseng tea (slightly tepid, though it has to be said I do prefer to drink herb teas as a cordial). I explained the reasons behind my late arrival and my team leader smiled and said ’don’t worry’. Very bizarre, I could even detect a gentle smile. Just.
As I had left in a hurry this morning forgot to take a wrap of sandwiches from the freezer (I make a batch of tuna paste sandwiches up on a Sunday for the week and freeze them, I was using tinned tuna in brine until three months ago when I discovered discounted tuna paste didn't spoil as easily), however I wasn't to go hungry as senior solicitor, Marcus, had a lunch-time appointment and left remains of his brie and cranberry foccacia in the tea room. A tasty and filling result.
Mid afternoon we received an extra batch of post it notes and red pens with the stationary order, as a thankyou for our loyal custom (they must have overlooked the overdue bills, unpaid by finance yet again!). A welcome surprise considering our meagre stationary budget.

I returned home half hoping that my luck would continue in the guise of love. In hope I checked the answermachine only to discover a begging message from Ray asking me to cover tomorrow's late night Valentine's radio slot. The ball is in my court I thought, I was going to ’let him sweat’ but called straight back. You can’t pass up opportunities like that eh?

excuse the delay

Spent the evening at Portland Hospital Radio gently persuading Ray into letting me back on the air. When I arrived he wouldn't even engage me in face to face conversation, choosing to tutor Pierre in interview editing instead. Finally coerced him into the office with a sweet tea and packet of Snickers flapjacks (one day out of date, bit sticky, but tasted okay). Even with a mouthful of sugary goo it was still ’Say No Go’ as Hall and Oates would say. I dutifully pocketed the remaining flapjack, dramatically left the office and began catagorising the CDs in the hope he would see the error of his silly ways.

It beggar's belief, it really does. That twit from France has already muscled his way onto the air waves, even though fact he didn’t complete the twelve week induction programme Ray insists on. I pointed out to Pierre that the hospital radio antennae doesn’t broadcast as far as gay Paris but he ignored me. Then Ray asked me to leave when I detailed my horrific experiences with French cuisine.

Went home and drowned my sorrows in a Vesta Chow Mein and the remaining flapjack.

No answer machine messages and little hope for the train service.

Mid week blues

I cannot begin to tell you how low I feel.

The trains have been late for the past three mornings, a client threatened to ’have’ me and meeting up with Marion was an utter disaster.

Met her in the Elf and Strangers, a quaint little pub serving real ale by St Annes station. I was fifteen minutes early, so as not to miss her.

Thirty minutes and a pint of Cocksmith’s Bottom later (keeping in mind I had only budgeted for two drinks) she finally rolled up. Roll being the operative word as she obviously was a fan of creamy puddings and had her fingers firmly in the biscuit tin, if you know what I mean. More alarming was her taste in clothes. She was wearing a tight purple sweater over a floral tea dress with garish coloured tights and sludge brown boots.

We lightly bantered for about twenty minutes when suddenly she made an excuse to go to the toilet. Fourty five minutes later and she still hadn’t returned. I checked the ladie's loos and it became apparent she had done a slow shuffle out. I had just bought her a sweet sherry too and they refused to refund me at the bar. The cheek!

£5.77 out of pocket I ambled home only to be accosted by the irate chap from earlier in the day. Thankfully he was three sheets to the wind and weaving like a bobbin on a loom.

Tomorrow beckons...

I have a date!

It’s February - the month of love and I have a date!

I telephoned Marion, the very kind sounding lady who left a message for me last week and I have spoken to her TWICE since I last blogged! She is a widower and had initially contacted me looking for a seance. Apparently she saw my ad in the newsagents window and assumed I was a psychic. I jokingly said she had made the right decision to call me and her future looked brighter than ever! Anyway I must have charmed the socks off her as we have arranged to meet tomorrow night.

I went for a drink with Tony McNamara this evening. I really wanted to tell him my news but Mrs N was in earshot. I could be wrong but I am sure she is cross-stitching my every word into the craft project she brings along every time we meet. She made a vague reference to my ex-wife taking up line dancing. Thankfully Tony returned from the toilet and the venomous aside was cut short.

TFI Friday

Well Monday was officially the most depressing day of the year I hear and recession is looming. Thank Fred It's Friday! It was a good day on the trains, we arrived into Preston a good three minutes and forty five seconds before the scheduled time.

The team were sullen as ever and as usual I beared the brunt. As a secret payback I jammed the photocopier with a large batch of double sided copies, swapped some red pen lids with black pen lids and sent five ’round robin’ emails marked urgent (although I would say priority was moderate).

Four messages awaited me upon my return home. One was a message from a lovely sounding lady called Marion. She said little on the message but left her number. I have checked through the phone directory and worked out she can’t be too far from here by the first three digits of her number.

The other three messages were for the Chinese takeaway. I feel I would earn a better wage serving Dim Sum than the needs of charity.

Train-ing Day

Dedicated this evening’s broadcast on my hospital radio show to the state of our railway system. Played Gladys Knight’s ’Midnight Train to Georgia’, Glenn Miller’s jazz classic ’Chattanooga Choo-Choo’ and the Thomas the Tank Engine theme tune. I also played S Club Seven’s ’Don’t Stop Movin’ as this morning’s journey was particularly slow and painful, we eventually crawled into Preston three minutes and fourty five seconds late.

Throughout the evening I rallied the troups and put out calls (between records) for support in my campaign...until station manager Raymond pulled the plug on the show. He said I was getting too political, it was a light hearted slot and I should really be taking requests - especially from the Renal Ward (where a large percentage of complaints have come from). I asked him if they were ’taking the urine’ or having urine taken. Ray didn’t see the funny side and asked me to leave ten minutes early.

I put it down to Ray wanting to try out a rookie DJ - Pierre, a French student with a penchant for friendliness and smiling. I was about to make a light hearted quip at his expense but was shot a scolding look by Ray before I could even utter a word.

Glad to get home early anyway as I'd been anticipating a good response to the ad I placed in the newsagents. I returned to find three messages on the answermachine. Two people hung up and someone looking for a Chinese take away. It’s a start.

The Green Man

My train campaign is gathering steam (excuse the pun, however I rather think we'd be faster travelling by steam).

Took just over five minutes to reach Lytham from St Annes today, however arrived into Preston six minutes early. Strangely enough not many of my fellow commuters wished to join me in taking a stand against Lanky railways. Despite collecting five signatures to support my campaign yesterday nobody wished to stand with me by the entrance of Preston station. One of the Lanky staff asked me to remove my painted A board (made it last night from plywood, it read ''Coast-line, Leave On Time' in red letters).

Then over lunch I jested with Marcus, senior solicitor, about his Christmas party attire. (Heard from the team he turned up to the office fancy dress party dressed as a Green Man - like the ones you see on pedestrian crossings). I made reference to the Green Goddess from TV AM fame to which he cattily remarked that I could do with dropping a stone or two. A low remark for a man of his intelligence. As an act of retribution I failed to inform him that a particularly angry client was in reception to see him for his later appointment. The angry fellow practically floored Marcus when he eventually came down to reception to see another (also irate) client. I made myself scarce in the copier room whilst the fur flew.

Tony McNamara

Went for a half of Cocksmith’s Bottom with Tony McNamara after work today.
Tony was keen to discuss the Obama inauguration. A truly memorable event. He says it will go down in history as a 'where were you when?' occasion, this got me a tad worried as I spent Obama's speech attempting to clip an infected toe nail which has been causing me no end of grief. I glossed over this somewhat painful fact and told Tony that I was sipping a sweet tea during the speech, not that he's concerned with my trivia these days.
Tony was very supportive of me in my old counsellor days. Since I stepped down from my political responsibility we have been seeing a lot less of each other. More so since he has recently moved in with Mrs Nesbitt, who lives across the road from my ex-wife. Since he has begun co-habiting I have found his company rather stifling as he often brings Mrs N along to our meet ups and I honestly feel any word I utter will be fed straight back to the poisonous woman I lived with for over twenty three years.

My ad

Following on from today’s team meeting I thought I would gain some feedback on the ad I posted at the newsagents yesterday.

I found the miserable old beggar who runs the shop somewhat bemused when I asked to place the ad for a month. In a discouraging tone he said he would ’have no choice to but to remove the ad if he later found out it contained something offensive’. Have no idea what he is talking about, perhaps he thinks I have written in code. However he was only to happy to relieve me of £1.60 to place the ad and double charged me for a packet of Chewits.

That aside I read the ad out to the team, here's how it goes

’I wish for a full moon after every sunset, it comforts me when I am alone and wishing that you my sweet were by my side. Come dine on the stars tonight for we shall feast for England. Uranus is beholden to me. Call Dr Moonlove T: XXXXXXXXX’

The team felt it was a bit cryptic. I am happy with it. I sense an air of jealousy around the office.

ASBO

One of Lanky Train’s staff alluded to me being slapped with an Anti Social Beahaviour Order should I continue complaining and protesting about their apparent lack of regard for us, their passengers. Today there was not three but seven empty fizzy drink cans in our carriage alone. Yes the train has been on time the past few mornings but the journey has been somewhat marred by general unkemptness of the carriages. Raised the issue with the Staff Cleaner who told me to ’Be Off'.

Not only did I have this to contend with but at work the team have been disregarding all of my emails. Raised the issue of the missing green post bag again today without a single reply. They’ll be sorry when something has to go second class and without the missing green post bag I have no other choice but to frank it first class.

Decided to place an ad in the newsagents window looking for Miss Right. Not sure of the wording yet but its only 40p for the week to place a postcard in the window and its on the main throroughfare from St Annes train station to the high street. So I should expect quite a response.

The Moon, tide and biscuit tin

Still sixteen bourbons left in the tin at work and not one thank-you. To my calculation only one Bourbon has been eaten by a team member as you get twenty in a packet and I have eaten three.

Think the team must be synchronised menstrually, they have all been particularly grumpy and tetchy of late. Yesterday Caron (on maternity leave), came in with her seven month old baby. The team were coo-ing and going goo-ey over the sleeping child and then they all went ballistic when I began parcel taping broken lever arch files and crushing old copier boxes for the recycling. Caron started gesticulating like a banshee implying I'd wake the baby up.

They’d be the first to complain if they were falling over old copier boxes in copier room and commonways. I think even in their heavy duty, thick sole boots they’d have trouble navigating the amount of cardboard I recycle on a weekly basis. It would be like ’Its a Knockout’ but without the fat suits (and Stuart Hall).

To lighten my day I played Billy Ocean’s ’Caribbean Queen’ and ’Get out of My Dreams...and into my Car’ back to back at Portland Hospital FM this eve. Smoothly seagued into Rockwell ’Someone Watching Me’ and ending with Patrick Swayze’s ’She’s Like The Wind’.

Seventeen minutes to nine

Utter madness! Seems ridiculous now but it took a good seven minutes for the train to leave St Annes and eventually crawl into Lytham (should have taken minutes!) When we finally reached Preston everyone was a little tetchy and those commuting to Lancaster and London were non-to-plussed at missing their connections. I flagged up to my fellow commuters that I had been keeping a tally in the weeks running up to Xmas. Will aim to get everyone's name on tomorrow's journey and hopefully pen a letter to Lanky Trains on their somewhat tardy service.

Left my sandwich box on train. Returned to Preston train station at lunch to discover it at Lost property (with my tuna sandwiches intact!). Left a first class stamp and handwritten note to thank the kind soul who retrieved the box.

Despite late arrival of train arrived into work with seventeen minutes to spare. Not noticed by team who were busy discussing Christmas drunkeness and the office do. Made sure I left on time, despite there being a reception full of people and no-one to take over from me.

Seven pounds and sixty two pence

Have been calculating my weekly spend and have £7.62 to last me the rest of the week. Thankfully tuna was on a three for two in Lidl and I have already got two cartons of Orangesaft Tropical Juice Drinkleft from last week's shop. Just four days to go til I can allocate my weekly budget of £19.75 to leisure pursuits and treats. If I have any left over from this week's treat money might buy some Bourbons for the team.