Camping

The last time I ventured out of town for a holiday was seven years ago. My Ex and I took my daughter, then a raging bag of thirteen year old hormones, to a run down campsite in the middle of a sheep field somewhere in Sussex. It was the May bank holiday week and rained continuously. It was long before broadband or digital TV reached the nether regions of the UK, so we spent our days playing cards, watching a crackly portable TV and waiting for an hourly bus service to the nearest seaside resort, which comprised of a tiny pebble beach and the same chains of shops we had back home, only smaller. We considered leaving after three days, then my Ex pointed out we'd have to pay an extra £100 on the train as our tickets were advance purchase. So we stuck it out miserably. Since that dreary week I've rarely ventured out of town, other than to haul Dad back when he's got stranded on one of his million mile walks, so it came as quite a surprise to receive not one but two invites to go away this summer. One from Windy Posh Boy Piers, travelling the length of the States promoting his 'Tummy Cuddler' and the other joining my friend Ray on a camping excursion. Ray is adament that he wants to repay me for putting him up at my flat just prior to him going into rehab. I would prefer that he pays for some of the damage he caused to my flat rather than take me away on a luxury Motorhome trip but he has been begging me to go with him and promises everything will be taken care of - breakfast, lunch, dinner, alcohol free drinks and all snacks. He has even promised an evening out to the local observatory. I'd be daft to say no.

Austerity

Since Head Office announced cut backs last month a key challenge has been ensuring the team are made aware of any changes in stationary ordering. Last week I requested the team use the refillable biros which have been lurking in the bottom of the stationary cupboard for six months and seek out any discarded paper clips. Not an austerity measure as such but more of a test of how dedicated they are to making savings within the department. Head Office emailed all departmental administrators with the promise of restaurant vouchers for the department making the most savings. Today I flagged up to the team that I was ordering a lighter gram of copier paper. I sent three emails all outlining the move towards a cheaper paper and received no response. When I have those vouchers in hand I'm sure they'll come swarming around my desk, 'til then I shall soldier on making necessary tweaks to all stationary orders.

Tummy Cuddler

Just returned from my Stretch and Yoga class where I got talking to Windy Posh Boy Piers. Or rather the motor mouthed entrepeneur held me hostage with a barrage of words. Once he starts talking it's difficult to escape. Thankfully today he had a bus to catch so kept it, relatively, short. As I may have mentioned earlier Piers is a celebrated author in the field of digestive health, publishing a true life account of his quest to relieve himself of irritable bowl syndrome. He is regularly jetting off the the States to answer television phone in queries regarding spastic colons, excessive flatulence and loose motions. Over there they adore his English accent and no doubt they will love his latest invention, a revolutionary stomach massager to relax stressed bowels and provide relief. As he told me about it he pulled an ominous looking object from his bag. I thought it was some sort of torture device until I read the garish packaging, it said 'The Tummy Cuddler - give your gut a hug'. Piers is keen for me to join him on a tour of the States and the UK demonstrating 'The Tummy Cuddler' on live television. He told me to think about it and he'd get back to me in the week. Dad thinks its a great opportunity, I'm not so sure...

Love is in the air

I spent this afternoon at Dad's, sleeping off one of Mrs Maithwaite's fat laden roast dinners. The woman loves lard, her potatoes are rolled in buckets of the stuff, how they every crisp up is anyone's guess. No doubt Dad will be waving a glum farewell to his thirty inch waist combats and muttering an unwelcome greeting to stretch top jeans once they're wed. They've announced a late summer wedding, so late it's practically an Indian summer wedding. The 7th September. Unusual date as its not special to either of them in any way. I think Dad hauled me back to school after the summer break whilst I cried into my balaclava on the 7th September many moons ago but I cannot think of any other significance. Anyway it's the date they've chosen and they're happy with it. Tuesday 7th September 2010. yes it falls on a Tuesday, another frankly bizarre decision. I know she doesn't like fuss but still a Tuesday. Not even Tuesday evening so I can book the next day off work to soothe my post wedding hangover. No the wedding is Tuesday morning, followed by a light lunch and reception at a cafe-bar in town. Dad even told Louise she needn't cancel her yoga class that evening as 'we should be done by three.' Dad is also adament I bring a female guest. Take a woman to my father's Tuesday morning wedding and reception where she'll have to remain sober whilst being quizzed by Dad's odd bod walking friends. What a strange affair it will be.