That sinking feeling

We received a letter from the surveyor this morning, apparently if Father continues to burrow under the house then we'll have to move because the subsidence will prove too much. That has hugely worried me, Mother's started moving her things out already. I sat Father down in the dining room and gave him a stern talking to but apparently he can't stop his behaviour; I have therefore suggested that he seek professional help from the National Society for Human Earthworms (NSHE).

Wilf is busy this weekend selling the Audi to prepare for his 'austerity year'. He is planning to purchase a 1998 VW Golf, heavens why, I don't know, he always seems to have enough ready cash on him when we're out and about. He's also sold his double decker bus 'Mavis' to an enthusiast in Bolton, he'll miss her but he can scarcely afford the apolstory cleaner (so he says...)

Appraisal Angst

Now don't get me wrong, I don't hate this time of year but appraisals aren't particularly pleasant, are they? Now you'll be pleased to learn that my former line manager left the organisation when they had their last clear out (or redundancy package as it's better known) so for the last six months I've worked for Stanley. I wouldn't describe Stanley as odd exactly, but he's 52 and still lives with his parents. He does have a lovely line in V neck jumpers and slacks which are always an inch too short in the leg and very high waisted. Stanley's strange habits include whilstling the death march under his breath, eating all of the cheese during office buffets and setting key articles in The Economist to recorder music at lunchtime.

He said that I was doing very well (not in a Young Mr Grace way of course)and that I had great potential if only I'd 'seize the moment'. Maybe I'd be more willing to 'seize' something or other if my job was safe or there was a pay rise in the offing, but as there clearly isn't any light at the end of this metaphorical tunnel I think I'll stay put. Hrrrpppphhhh!

When I returned home tonight there was a strange package waiting for me in the hallway. When opened it consisted of an authentic fox fur wrap, a Twenties style 'flapper' dress, a pair of Mary Jane style shoes, silk stockings, a brown bobbed wig and a feather fascinator. There was also a large box of Fortnum and Mason chocolates and a mongrammed business card from 'he who shan't be named'. Perhaps things are looking up for me?

The aftermath of Ann Summers

What kind of woman would attend an Ann Summers Party? Well readers, I can confirm that, as of last night, I am indeed one of them. Cousin Eleanor hosted it in her now, slightly denuded house which is due to be refurbished and sold in the next few months if Mother's insider gossip is true. Eleanor herself was wearing a sleeveless, rather low cut top teamed with jeans one size too small, but heartbreak's clearly having a beneficial effect on her figure as her muffin top isn't quite as pronounced as it once was and her bingo wings now resemble discarded chamois leather - perhaps I should lend her my 'Pilates for Toning' DVD? Meow.

Jane Turner-Smith (JTS), Eleanor's neighbour co-hosted the event and brought along all of the saleable merchandise which consisted of a great deal of strange 'adult' toys of varying size and shapes plus some dress up outfits mostly constructed of polyester and nylon. JTS is a strange woman, half hard-nosed businesswoman and half cat-obsessed pervert, which I think you'll agree is a heady mix? After a few glasses of wine she confided to the group that her and her husband like to dress up as moggies in the evening to enable them to crawl around the floor whilst eating catnip and rubbing themselves against giant scratching poles. If that's not odd I don't know what is, but what could I say, my Father regularly dresses and takes on the characteristics of an earthworm? That would go down well in polite suburban circles and heaven knows, I'd never be able to look the Saturday boy in the Co-op in the eye again if that was ever revealed.

After a few glasses of wine (which were all poured by Eleanor by the way) I began to relax and enjoy myself. I purchased an 'Open All Hours' ("G-G-G-G Granville!") 'honeypot' for Wilf's use which I'll not describe in any detail, but rest assured if you're interested the Ann Summers website will provide a full and frank overview of the aforementioned product. I also purchased a neck massager, as suggested by Eleanor which will no doubt sooth my occasional sciatica. It's nice of her to point out that the company don't just sell 'adult products', they're there to improve the nation's physiological health, which is good to know.

The early bird catches the worm

Well, in my case if I did then I'd be manhandling Father, which is never a good thing. Mother relayed yesterday that the surveyor had given his professional opinion and warned that if Father continued with his excessive burrowing in the Spring then the house would be rendered unsafe in a matter of months. This is obviously worrying news and something we'd like to avoid, despite disliking our noisy neighbours intensely at times. I've lived in this homely semi-detached property since I was eight years old and I don't really want to be forced out by the stupidity of an old man who's clearly as mad as a box of frogs - or should that be an entity of earthworms?

I'm at home this weekend as Wilf's alloted the whole weekend to the unenviable task of writing staff reports, completing his Census return and sorting out his small change(?); I'm hoping the latter isn't a euphamism for something seedier than first imagined?

As for me, well I rose at 6am, carried out a series of pilates stretches, jogged around the block, tidied the dining room and showered so I'm raring to go. Laziness is abhorrent to me, my hands quite dance around from lack of occupation at times. I am due to visit cousin Eleanor tonight as she's cheered up a fair bit and is hosting an Ann Summers party to swell her coffers, so to speak. I don't know a great deal about this Ann Summers person, so I'll Google her. I think it's a make up/clothing company or something?

*Stop Press* Oh my goodness? Really? How can I possibly sit around with a group of women and discuss sexual contraptions all night? This is too much to bear!

Day out and the news about the house

Today I decided to take a day off and explore the delights of Little Venice. I'm not sure if you know the area but it's situated around the Paddington district of London and takes in the Regent's Canal. Emma accompanied me and we had a wonderful time being guided around the streets and saw many lovely sights such as a house Madonna made an unsuccessful bid on, the block of flats where Dame Shirley Porter housed her supporters in the 'Homes for Votes' furore of the 1980s and where Edward Fox recycles his bottles.

Afterwards we happened upon a splendid public house called the Prince Alfred which has a rather strange construction - i.e. it contains small booths and to enter them you have to duck down in a rather Liliputian fashion. Whilst supping a drink or two we conversed with a charming gentleman from France named Jean-Claude who seemed rather too interested in the nature of our friendship; after a further drink of Asti Spumante we made our excuses and headed for the relative safety of the Bakerloo Line.

I received a message from the surveyor, he's visiting on Friday to assess the house. Here's hoping Father isn't lurking in the vicinity.

A strange lunchtime encounter

I was minding my own business whilst wandering out for lunch in the local market today when I received a short, sharp tap on the shoulder; when I turned around I spied a familiar face. This person urged me to follow them along one of the quieter side streets which are a feature of this particular London postcode. I think regular readers can guess who this person is but I can't write any more detail because this blog is seemingly morphing into a quasi-Spook-like entity. Although my readership is currently extremely limited (boo, hiss!), Big Brother may we watching me as I type and I'm not referring to that gawd awful Channel 4 programme either.

Despite being pronounced dead for the best part of a year, Mr X looked amazingly vibrant and dressed in [redacted] he looked sexy and mysterious. When I asked him how he'd know I was going to be in the vicinity at a particular time he answered: "Margaret, you always take lunch at 12:08 precisely to avoid the crowds, buy your cheese, ham and tomato seedy bap, browse the bookshop and still have enough time to return to your desk and search the internet. I can set my watch by you, you're a public servant and as such, change perplexes you."

He pressed a cream and gold embossed card into my palm which contained details of his current residence and contact details. To avoid detection should I need to meet/visit him in the short to medium term, he promised me that he'd send a suitable disguise via Registered Post. I'm glad he's so well-organised, it wouldn't be to be anything else in this day and age, would it?

Wilf's beloved Audi

This morning we went for a walk in nearby Epping Forest which Wilf likes to visit as it's apparently the place his parents conceived him way back in 1959. His Mother apparently used to joke about his 'love of bushes' which was akin to his late Father apparently [Mr Norman snr passed away many years ago after he was attacked by a swan whilst canoeing along a river and subsequently drowned.]

We enjoyed a delicious lunch of homemade pasta with a cheeky glass of white wine; whilst we were relaxing on the sofa Wilf 'tried it on' again and I didn't really fight him off as I thought I may as well concede sooner rather than later. After covering the sofa with a handy throw to guard against any unfortunate stains Wilf heard a disturbance outside the window followed by the sound of his car alarm shrieking. He grabbed his jeans and ran downstairs only to find that the 'youths' had stolen his hub caps once again but had run off as soon as he shouted at them. "That's another £100 down the drain." he lamented when he returned. Luckily the loss from his vehicle had dampened his ardour for another day at least!

We're planning to watch BBC2's coverage of World Book Night tonight, I'm excited already! I received a strange telephone call from Mother earlier, she truly believes that the house is sinking, she noticed that when deadheading the camellia bush outside the kitchen window. I said that I'd contact a surveyor on Monday.

Gansters' Mall

I'm staying with Wilf again this weekend as Mother's booked the house for a Mazola party, I haven't a clue what this entails exactly but all I know is that she required several bags of washing soda to clear up after the last one. We went out after work to a shopping centre near his flat called, rather stupidly 'Gangsters' Mall' - to make light of the area's reputation no doubt! Wilf's keen for me to change my image somewhat so steered me in the direction of trendy shops such as River Island and H&M but I wasn't comfortable in either as everything was too short, tight, wispy or just plain awful so it was with a glad heart that I managed to drag him into good old M&S. Although he's aware that I'm a huge fan of their knitwear and was admiring a selection of pastel coloured turtle necks, he insisted that I try on a canary yellow double breasted short jacket in Per Una. Now I'm all for change but Per Una is too racy for my personality. I did allow him upstairs to the lingerie section and made a concession to him with my choice of spotty bra and brief set.

After two long hours shopping plus a huge queue trying to leave the car park we grabbed a Chinese takeway and returned to the flat. He tried to get me to try on the new bra and knicker set but I wasn't having it and stated that I'd wear it but not without the additional layer of a towelling bathrobe to cover my modesty. I also sat on the opposite end of the sofa from him and am eyeing him up carefully as I type, lest he make a sudden lunge.

Sometimes it's difficult to maintain this frosty demeanour.