New Year's Eve 2015

I am currently tapping out this blog post via my Samsung Galaxy S6 - yes readers, I've finally upgraded the S3 and I'm beyond excited. I downloaded the Blogger App via the Play Store and it's a really handy way of recording one's thoughts.

My exact location is Father's living room. I'm perched on the end of the sofa and Auntie Barb's three cats are occupying the rest of the space. They're moulting too - I think the unseasonally warm weather has caused this. Heaven help them if there's a sharp frost in January!  Mind you, Auntie Barb has knitted them all onesies to retain  their body heat.

Must go - Father's burning the sausage rolls in the kitchen. Happy New Year!

Merry Catmus

May I just take this opportunity to wish all of my readers a wonderful Christmastime, a bit like Paul McCartney and Wings did back in the 1970s, but I have my doubts doubt whether he actually paid for a round of drinks in the public house filmed the accompanying video in.  Bah.  Well, I've currently popped back home to the flat, ostensibly to 'stretch my legs', but mainly because I want to get away from Father and Auntie Barb, not forgetting Jon Jon, Captain Beefcake and Priscilla Duckweed.  Yes, they're cats, they're frigging cats - spoiled furry bastards the lot of them.

After a Christmas dinner consisting of three pork chops, some ‘pigs in blankets’ and an array of tired vegetables, I went to investigate the third bedroom which is to become my ‘pad’ after January.  It was depressing to say the least – it was inch high in cat fur and smelt of flea powder.  Barb followed me upstairs and moaned that her ‘babies’ had got very used to lying on the single bed and would most probably retain their position on the top of the Holly Hobbie duvet cover whether I was resident or not.  Nice.  

The Central File Repository's Annual Christmas Drinks

Today I returned to work after a week's sick leave following a bad cold.  Unfortunately it coincided with the festive drinks do.  We were all told to bring in a certain item of food which were all detailed on Simeon from Finance's Excel Spreadsheet.  My French Stick was criticised because the end of it got lopped off as, due to its length, it got broken as I travelled through the ticket barriers this morning.  Simeon was most displeased and told me that would mean that I was permitted 15% less food than everyone else.  Huh.

Smelly Danny brought in some already opened dips and considering the rumours that I'd heard about his strange behaviour, I wasn't prepared to place a breadstick in any of the four trays - actually, few people did.  The event began at noon with a game of 'pass the parcel' - the prize being a set of those rubber correspondence thimbles which are barely any use in these days of the so-called 'paperless office'.  Internal Comms had run a competition for the best festive blog entry and this, written by Sarah Carstairs was the winning entry:

"I have worked in the Central File Repository since I left school aged 16 in 1993; my mum worked there and said that it was great fun and that you could eat your body weight in Digestive biscuits on Thursday afternoon.  I gained employment as a paperkeeper and my so my sterling career began!!!

In December 2015 I was honoured to be awarded 'The Best Paperkeeper In The World: Ever' in respect of the longevity of my employment and the simple fact that I'd never been promoted in my twenty-two years of working here.  I don't mind - Christmas means filing for me, it always has and always will.  Sometimes I even wrap tinsel around my trolley!!!  I once wore a flashing hat and won the award for 'best Christmas jumper' in my local pub two years ago!!!!

I sometimes think I love work so much because I'm a very lonely person at heart.  Mum died in 2001 and Dad turned to drink soon after.  I cannot afford to buy property in London, so still live in my parents' loft.  I race pigeons on Sundays."

I spent the rest of the 'do' hiding out in the stationery cupboard, returned to my desk at 2pm and then left the office by 3pm.  That's it for another year!

Alastair Crowley's One Day Travelcard

Yesterday morning at approximately 9:45am I received a call on my mobile phone - it was from Alastair Crowley (you know, he from the South London Board Games League and subsequent strange email conversation ...)  Anyway, the upshot was that he'd had to vacate his flat for the day because his housemate had invoked Satan's rage last Thursday and as a result, an emergency exorcism had to take place today.  To escape the confines of his zone 4 south London flat (ex-council) he'd bought a zones 1-6 travelcard and thought that I'd like to join him on his epic journey on the Sabbath.  Believing there to be nothing better to do and with the notion that I'd soon lose the flat, I agreed.

We met at Lewisham Station.  Why you may ask?  Well, it's because the majority of the London Termini were closed this weekend because of the extensive engineering work which has been taking place for ages now.  I recognised him immediately as I spotted his hat peeping out of the crowd milling around the entrance to the DLR station.  He looked slightly thinner, somewhat sinister, but was sporting a huge grin, which was pleasant.

We boarded a train bound for Stratford as he was keen to see the DLR's relatively new extension up there.  He took a great number of photographs along the way and was somewhat disconcerted that the front seats of the driverless trains were packed full of children, causing him to exclaim "what is the world coming to?"  When we arrived at Stratford I was keen to divert into the Westfield Shopping Centre, but he didn't agree, stating that "Christmas shopping's a bally nightmare." and duly sat on a nearby bench and pulled a battered pack of homemade sandwiches out of his tatty bag.  Until now I'd never believed that boiled egg and pickled onion complemented one another in a sandwich and quite frankly, I was right - they stank!

When Alastair had finished his lunch he took out his tube map and suggested that we should journey onto Epping because "there was a particularly interesting species of woodlouse living under the platform."  Exciting as that sounded, I declined and pretended to receive a text on my phone from Auntie Barb stating that one her cats had escaped.  With that, I made my excuses and left.

More Bad News - Eviction Blues

I was settling down on the sofa to watch Bargain Hunt when there was a knock at the door.  Shuffling across the floor in my slippers I spied a bulky figure outside which transpired to be my landlord, the downstairs cafe owner, Mr Osmond.  The conversation went as thus:

Mr Osmond (MO): "Good afternoon Miss Weaver, I have been instructed by my solicitor to hand you this

[Osmond hands me an official looking document]

MO: It's an eviction notice Miss Weaver.  As you may be aware, The Ravey Gravy Cafe isn't doing as well as it could be in the current climate and I'm planning a new business venture which will encompass the current cafe premises in addition to both of the upstairs flats.

Me: Right - so what are you planning to do?

MO: I've often thought that what this immediate area needs is a day spa - I see thousands of weary commuters emerge from the station each day and wonder whether I could tap into their business needs by offering relaxing massages, steam treatments and pedicures?

Me: Don't you need a special licence for that kind of business?

MO: Yes indeed, but Councillor Parker is a very amenable man, especially after I hosted last year's Mayor's Charity Pie Eating Competition.

Me: What else can I say?  When do I have to leave the flat?

MO: Thirty days from the date of receipt of the letter, which was yesterday - so Saturday, 16th January 2016.  Have you anywhere to move to?

Me: Not that you care, but yes, my father and aunt live nearby, if I could persuade my aunt to move her cat cave out of the small bedroom then I could go there for a while?

MO: That's great news Miss Weaver.  To compensate you for your troubles I can offer you a voucher for a free pie and chips for two patrons during the month of December.  My seasonal turkey, pea and sprout pie is going down very well with the local building community.

Me: I bet it is.  Thank you - there's nothing much else I can say or do is there?

MO: Not really, I'm sorry to lose your custom Miss Weaver because you've always been a good, quiet and clean tenant, unlike your downstairs neighbour, Mr Saunderson, whose filthy abode is a disgrace to the block.

Me: Indeed, but Mr Saunderson's life has been a sad one since he was sacked from the Co-op for hitting one of his colleagues over the head with a frozen lamb chop.

MO: That is as may be Miss Weaver, but we're all put on this Earth for a reason; and hitting one's fellow man over the head with a frozen piece of meat isn't part of Our Lord's Greater Plan.  Good day to you."

[MO exits, not followed by a bear]

A Seasonal Cold and Possible Redundancy

I have been stricken by a bad cold for the past few days and am therefore extremely grateful for family members' support.  I am, not at work, but I'm concerned as I just received this email pinged to my personal account.

PERSONAL - ADDRESSEE ONLY

15th December 2015

Dear Miss Weaver

RE: Redundancies

I am writing to you to inform you of the result of the Senior Management Meeting which took place on Thursday, 10th December and the result of which was duly cascaded down to staff on the following day.  As you were not present I thought it best to write to you directly to keep you in the loop.

As you may be aware, the fiscal situation of the UK has been an issue for a while, thence we are making cuts of up to 43%.  To achieve this we have decided to make a number of redundancies within the Department.  Instead of the usual voluntary option we have decided to host a day's Assessment Centre for all employees - it will be sectioned by grade and the victors will retain their positions, the unsuccessful will not.  The date of the Assessment Centre has not been formally agreed, although it will take place at the end of January/early February - the venue will be a secret central London location.

I would like to thank you for your years of service to date.

Yours sincerely

Celia Broom
HR

I Exist In A Parallel Universe

Well, it feels as though I do.  I haven't left the flat in weeks.  Eleanor has been posting groceries through my letter box.  I'll never make omelettes again.  

(Yet Another) Strange Email From Alistair Crowley

Dear Margaret

Thank you for your perfunctory reply to my last email, I really thought that you may have expanded on a few of your points, but no matter.  As previously mentioned, I'm penning a comedic book and have cut and pasted some of the content below.  I hope that you like it as I'm planning to publish it via Amazon Kindle once I've written 9,567 more words.

Please write again soon!!!!!!!!!!!

Lots of love

Alistair

If we're talking character comedians here then look no further than retro act Garry Morris and His Elderly Auntie Doris - Garry's actually my great uncle, but prefers to live in his son's (my uncle Dante's) shed these days. Not much is known about their act now, because they were very exclusive, but Garry used to perform a monologue whilst suspended by his underpants over a tank of terrapins. Doris, for her part, ambled onstage and poked Garry with her walking stick at regular intervals.

Disaster struck in 1985 when Garry's perished underpant elastic broke and he hurtled towards the tiny turtles' tank. Luckily, no soul was injured, but Garry's reputation was ruined and he ended up working in the Catford branch of Woolworths. 

My Email Correspondence With Alistair Crowley

You recall me writing about Alistair whom I met at the South London Board Games South London Board Game League (SLBGL) – yes, him.  Anyway, we’ve been exchanging email correspondence for a while and here’s a cut and pasted example of one:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Margaret,

RE: The SLBGL – Or ‘The Sad Lonely Bustards' Gaming Losers!!'

Oh I do love an acronym, I really do.  Call me sad, but that really chivvies on my floatilla.  I must admit, since we've been exchanging emails it has really cheered up my sad and somewhat lonely existence in the bedsit.  My upstairs neighbour has started line dancing again, well that's what I think anyway and by that I mean 'NAKED LINE DANCING' - lol, lol etc etc.  Ha ha.  ROFL.  

About me - you asked about me?  Right?  Er, I was born Anthony Douglas McNaughton, but decided to change my name when I hit the ripe old age of eighteen.  I grew up in St John's, which is near Deptford and certainly not to be confused by its almost (but more expensive) namesake St John's Wood.  Ha ha.  My Father worked on the railways as a sleeper polisher or something like that - he used to come home at 9pm each night and shout at my mother for buying economy ham.  Happy days.

I went to technical college and studied hard for my BTEC First in animal husbandry.  I once won an award for my guinea pig's agility at The Lewisham Show.  She was called Buttercup and eventually, growing tired of the confines of the shed, decided to seek her fortune in sunny Dartford where she appeared as the stunt rodent in a production of An Audience With Karl Howman.  

I'm rambling.  Please write soon!!!

Yours (well I can be - at a price (not too expensive - lol!!!!!!!!!!)

Al
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Oh no, not again.  Why do I always attract this type of gentleman?  

Auntie Barb's Birthday

As I was on the 6am-2pm shift today at the Central File Repository I have just returned home.  I thought I'd update you on the highlights from the weekend.  It was Auntie Barb's Seventieth Birthday and a party had been arranged for her in the local scout hut by her fellow members of the 'We're Well Past Thirty' club - a community group which meets every other Wednesday in, you've guessed it, the scout hut.  Most of the members are over eighty, so Barb's a 'mere slip of a thing' according to Dirty Stinky Stan (a gentleman who resides in the local recycling centre.)

A party wouldn't be a celebration without Barb's honoured guests, namely her three cats, Jon Jon, Captain Beefcake and Priscilla Duckweed.  She tends to take them out and about in a triple cat stroller and has been doing so since they were ejected from the De La Warr Pavilion after being smuggled in the confines of a large knapsack to view a performance of Duncan Norvelle: The Musical.  Anyway, they were all dressed up suitably for the occasion in spangly outfits.  

I drank and socialised for about an hour until it became too rowdy for my tastes.  Mr Frobisher, Mr Hayes-Rembrant and Mr Berkeley decided to recreate the famous 'Balloon Dance' routine by stripping to just their socks, shoes and neckties.  I made my excuses and left.  

Timothy The Terrapin

Working in the Central File Repository is a strange experience that's for sure. This morning I attended a 'Meet, Greet and Eat' session in the main boardroom. It was nice of them to provide food as it's a fairly unusual occurrence these days, but it was, well as bit odd to say the least.

The 'meet' section comprised of senior management performing a choreographed dance whilst miming along to the Departmental song 'Come On Feel It Arrive', which was an experience if nothing else. I enjoyed it though, it was nice to see dishy Percival Bicks break into a sweat.

The 'greet' element was somewhat odd. It consisted of us all gathering around in a circle shaking hands with those located either side. We had to write down an interesting fact about ourselves on a post-it note, place it on the person opposite's shoulders, memorise it and then eat it. It worked well though.

Finally, the 'eat' aspect was a sandwich lunch decorated with cocktail sticks. The File Store has its own well, so we drank that as it wasn't a direct cost to the taxpayer.

Timothy the Terrapin's tank was wheeled in at 13:45. We duly bowed to him and returned to our work at 14:00.

Harvest Festival

This morning I attended Harvest Festival at St Cuthbert's Church with Father and Auntie Barb. Father found God after being released from the Earthworm Community and likes to share the Good News every Thursday morning during the Senior Citizen Speakeasy Session which is usually held in Mr Tomkinson's unheated conservatory.  We brought along the following items to give to the local foodbank: one tin of Marrowfat peas, a Fray Bentos Steak and Ale pie plus a packet of Batchelor's Quik Rice - I can imagine that such fare will invoke quite a stampede.

Mrs Taylor-Burroughs was present.  Mrs T-B was a great friend of my late Mother's and truly believes that she can commune with her via her 'spiritual guide' The Divine Davide.  Apparently Mother's not a fan of Auntie Barb's cats and has invoked the spirit of our dearly departed moggie, Sir Humphrey, to attack the living felines.  The Vicar, The Right Revd Keith MacDonald, PhD (Cantab) wasn't a fan of such heresy and has threatened to remove Mrs T-B's ecclesiastical privileges (she has her own calf-skin bound edition of the King James Bible) if she continues to speak ill of the dead.

Sigh - it's work tomorrow.  My word, how much I hate working in the File Store.  The extra commute doesn't help matters either.

Mid Year Review

Unfortunately, due to a management re-engineering scheme I now report directly to Gareth Snodgrass, the Grade 6 I have spoken of before.  I don’t really like him, few do, but he’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure.  Gareth started his own departmental choir six months ago and christened it “The Snodgrass Singers” – I made the mistake of attending one of the rehearsals once with my friend Amanda and almost instantly regretted it.  There seemed to be a whole load of Ubertrackers there and for those not in the know, these are the crème de la crème of the civil service and usually consist of Oxbridge graduates in their early twenties with first class degrees and Grade Eight Oboe under their respective belts.  One slightly older male Ubertracker began singing a loud, albeit melodic, tenor into my left ear and as a result, I couldn’t concentrate, so I asked to be grouped with the other altos.  Unfortunately, all of the songs were in Latin, German or Spanish, so it was almost impossible to follow the music.  Oh dear!

Anyway, as ever, I digress.  My mid-year review - right.  Well, let’s just say that apparently my unique skills as an experienced Executive Officer (his words) would be fully realised by sending me out to work in the filing depot for the next six months.  There’s a huge back record conversion project taking place out there and it’s Snodgrass’s opinion that my talent and knowhow of Departmental record keeping could really prove to be a positive asset to the existing team dynamic.  I mentioned that I knew of another EO who had left the filing depot one evening at 5pm never to return.  Apparently he was sighted a fortnight later on a cross channel ferry dressed as a goat.  Nobody knew quite why that was.  They still don't.  

Reginald and The Board Game League

I met Reginald last Thursday after work to attend a South London Board Game League (SLBGL) meeting which was held in a pub called The Anchor, which is located about twelve minutes walk away from London Bridge Station (a place which is getting incredibly difficult to get to these days, what with all of the improvement works going on.)  Although I'm not really a fan of public houses, finding most of them to be far too crowded and noisy for my particular tastes, I find this one rather lovely though as it has reclaimed wooden chairs and a cheeky nautical air, plus it has eschewed Sky Sports in favour of Bar Billiards.  

The session commenced at 20:01 precisely with a warm welcome from the Chair of the SLBGL, Alistair Crowley (yes, really - he changed his name by Deed Poll in 2011, but didn't like to use the original spelling of the forename, lest it confuse pretty much everyone.)  I liked Alistair immediately - he was about 6ft 2inches tall, slim with dark hair and blue eyes, a combination I'm hugely fond of.  Actually, if pressed, I'd say that my preferred height range for a boyfriend/partner/lover/ is between 5ft 11.5in to 6ft 3.5in - I'm very exact like that.  If I'm honest, I noticed a certain amount of NerdTension between Reginald and Alistair - I'm extremely good at detecting that kind of thing.

As there were twelve of us present we decided to play Trivial Pursuit Genus Edition in teams.  Well it was the Trivial Pursuit Master Game - Genus II Edition (1984, Subsidiary Card Set) if you really want to know oh Trivial Pursuit fact fans!  I was paired with Alistair (as the newbie) and he was terrific and I really thought that he was far cleverer than Reginald.  

To cut to the chase - we won!  Reginald curtly stated that "he'd call me" and stomped out of the pub. Alistair and I stayed for another drink and he promised that he'd walk me back to the station.  He did exactly that and gave me a peck on the cheek as well as his email address.  

Open House London

Yesterday I went to the first day of the Open House London weekend with my cousin Eleanor.  You'd think that a relatively intelligent and creative woman such as her would be interested in visiting various institutions and learning more about their history wouldn't you?  Well, you're wrong, she wasn't.  For example, we ventured into the Arrowsmith's Hall which was a very ancient building full to the brim with arrows of different ages, sizes and strength and I must say that the William Tell room was particularly illuminating, but Eleanor, oh no - she just breezed past all of the glass cases and began to text her boyfriend James.

We later went on to The Lady Mary of Hammersmith's Memorial Gardens where I was particularly enamored with the specific species of lichen which grows in West London, but I couldn't expect Eleanor to show as much as a cursory interest in the subject.  She said that she would have rather visited The Tower of London, but that wasn't in the booklet.  Shame.

Captain Beefcake Does A Whoopsie!

Poor old Auntie Barb.  As you know, she dotes on her three cats and guess what happened?  No?  Give up?  Well, Captain Beefcake defecated in her bed; not when she was actually laying in it of course, oh no - she was busy downstairs preparing her morning cup of tea at the time.  By the way, Captain Beefcake is the name of one of her cats, I'm not in any way referring to the 1970s musician Captain Beefheart.  I'm obliged to write that as my legal team are double checking everything I write via a high powered telescope situated approximately 2 kilometres (as the crow flies) away.  On a boat moored on The River Thames if you really must know the precise location.

Apart from that, another internal post I applied for turned me down *again*.  With not even a sniff at an interview *once more*.  It's really difficult to keep motivated, it really is.  Raahhhhh.

Auntie Barb and Father

As it's Sunday today I visited Father and Auntie Barb for a roast lunch.  Since Mother's demise, Auntie Barb has taken over the cooking and seems to favour meat bought from The British Meat Market (BMM) - a shop in the quieter (i.e. rougher) end of the High Street.  Although cheap, the joints purchased from the BMM tend to be either fatty, gristly or full of bone - often though, it's a combination of all of them.  To counteract this, Auntie Barb tends to get up at 6am and put the oven on ready for lunch to be served at 1pm, as you can imagine, this tends to dry the meat out somewhat. She also has a penchant for putting bicarbonate of soda in the green vegetables - a practice I truly believe had died out in 1959.

I visited the Co-op and purchased two bottles of wine - one white, one rose.  Coping with Father and Auntie Barb when one is stone cold sober is indeed a frightening thought.  At precisely 1pm dinner was served - a lump of indeterminate flesh surrounded by potatoes roasted for so long that they'd make good ammo at a shooting range.  Aunt Bessie's frozen roast puddings were also a feature, unfortunately Aunie Barb (no relation to Bessie as far as I'm aware, although they are both, by their very nature, Aunts.) has a rather disturbing habit of picking up each individual pudding to eat instead of cutting it on her plate like any other normal person.  Dessert was a Bird's Strawberry Trifle, which is always a treat.

After dinner we spent some time watching Father's slide show of bees which lasted for, approximately, sixty-two minutes.  I managed to leave by 4:30pm.

Penge

Yesterday I went over to Penge to visit Reginald, informing Father and Emma of my whereabouts just in case Reginald had plans to abduct me and use me as a sex slave.  I don't know whether you've ever been to Penge, but it's located in south-east London and it's one of those areas which has risen and fallen, depending on the economy.  Penge boasts a mixture of housing stock from Victorian Villas to 1960s housing through to modern apartments.  Reginald had previously informed me that he lived in a garden flat.

I met Reginald at Penge East Station (as opposed to Penge West Station which is on a completely different train company's line..)  He was wearing a t-shirt with The Grateful Dead pictured on the front, faun jumbo cords which showed at least two inches of white sock and finally, large white Hi Tec trainers.  He looked relaxed, but comfortable.  We walked toward his flat, but after about five minutes of strolling along the pavement, we turned into a very scruffy looking road indeed with wheelie bins strewn all over the place and rubbish piled up in front gardens.  We stopped about halfway along the road and descended into a basement flat with skeletal frames of two wheel-less bicycles affixed to the railings, as we descended, I could see that the stone steps were uneven and uncared for.  Reginald took out a bunch of  keys and unlocked the door.

The smell inside was the intoxicating scent of vegetables, decay and cat food.  The furry inhabitants who caused such a rich, meaty smell, made themselves known to me and were introduced as Mr Ginger and Mr Tabby respectively.  They rubbed themselves delightedly against Reginald's trousers until he fed them with some suitably stinky food.  The flat itself was surprisingly roomy, but Victorian properties such as this usually were.  Being a basement flat, it was pretty dark and a solitary pendant light provided a small glow in the gloom of the high ceilinged hallway.  There were a series of doors leading to: a front parlour, a back room, a galley kitchen and two bedrooms - the bathroom was located right at the back of the property where the outside toilet would have been when the property was first built.  To be honest, it really reminded me of the set for the film 10 Rillington Place, but I didn't say so to Reginald's face.

We enjoyed a cup of tea and biscuits in the front parlour which was slightly marred by a deep moaning sound coming from elsewhere in the building.  Reginald stated that his upstairs neighbour was 'a harlot' so such utterances were commonplace.  After about an hour we went out to a local pub, The Jolly Pengeman to share a meal.  Reginald walked me back to Penge East Station at about 4pm after we'd had a turn around a nearby park.

The Prince Charles Cinema

Reginald wanted to take me out in London last night, so he insisted on meeting me from work to make an early trip to the pictures as he's a member of The Prince Charles Cinema.  I was a little concerned that he wanted us to see the 15:40 showing of Amy the documentary about the late Ms Winehouse.  It was a well-shot piece of cinema, but ultimately depressing as perhaps you'd expect.  Thankfully Reginald didn't try any 'funny business' because I'm not a fan of such things in a theatre setting - I once accompanied a man to a showing of The Shawshank Redemption in 1995 and he tried to kiss me throughout.  Now, by now you know that I'm no prude, but I don't pay good money for tickets to be molested in the dark. 

I took Reginald to The Civil Service Club afterwards for a drink and something to eat.  I think that he was impressed at the cost savings in such as establishment - for example, a pint of Director's Bitter is £3.90 in 'Da Club' (tee hee - a nice 'hip hop' joke for those in the know), but can be anything up to £5.03 anywhere else in Central London.  We dined on mince and slices of quince - not really - but on chicken fajitas and salad. It was lovely and Reginald footed the bill, covering my hand when I reached for my purse. 

Reginald was very cagey when I enquired about his family and career.  He alluded to the fact that he'd once served in the SAS, but couldn't elaborate because of and I quote, 'what they'd done to Andy McNab's pet donkey, Bryan.'  He did say, however, that he had a garden flat in Penge, which is apparently an up and coming area. 

Linkedin

Guess what?  Until this afternoon I didn't have an account on the corporate networking behemoth which is LinkedIn - I do now though.  You may be thinking - "Margaret, you work in a very safe environment, why on earth would you want to leave?"  Well, it isn't as secure as you may think, believe me - huge cuts are looming and I've got bills to pay.

So, onwards and upwards I go.  I seemingly cannot get a lateral move at work, so it's to the outside I must look.  Selling one's self (in a business sense!) is always a difficult task for a veritable mouse such as I.

My Second Date With Reginald

Last night we went for an invigorating stroll around The Green Chain Walk.  Well, some of it anyway.  Reginald brought along a picnic which he carried in a specially-designed rucksack.  It consisted of: two bottles of Lambrini bianco, two scotch eggs (replete with a 'reduced' sticker), two jumbo sausage rolls, maize onion rings, Cadbury's Mini Rolls and some cherry tomatoes.  It was delicious and we ate it in a woodland clearing.  Reginald is very knowledgeable about all things horticultural and was soon regaling me of all things flora and fauna.

Reginald took my arm to steady me whilst I was traversing across difficult terrain.  He placed his right hand on my bottom at one point.  It didn't feel odd at all, the opposite in fact.

At 9pm he walked me back to the bus stop, waited to the vehicle arrived and then disappeared back into the woodland.  I don't believe that there's anything sinister in that - he did mention that he had to gather some samples to create some new slides for his powerful microscope.

My Evening With Reginald

Last night I had a date with a gentleman by the name of Reginald, Reginald Derby Wright to give him his full name.

We met via an internet dating site I've been subscribed to for the past month; it's called Intellectual Pursuits and of course, shouldn't be confused with its near-namesake the excellent Horn Abbott International outdated trivia-based board game Trivial Pursuit.  It was £5.99 for the first three months and then £22.99 thereafter - it's run from the spare room of self-proclaimed 'internet zillionnaire' Chuck Peters who moved to Bracknell after a successful career in Silicon Valley.

Anyway, I digress, as ever.  I have had a few 'matches', but nobody has really interested me enough after the first flourish of email exchanges has petered out, however all of that changed last week when I first encountered a man called Reginald.  He has his own business as a peripatetic key and shoe repair agent and moved out of his parents' house into his own studio flat last February.  His picture showed a balding, bespectacled slightly overweight man wearing fawn cords, a ZZ Top t-shirt and a battered velvet jacket.  He had twinkly blue eyes and a cheeky grin though and he was able to use the correct punctuation and grammar in his emails, which made me warm to him immediately.

We went to a licenced cafe for dinner which offered free corkage, so Reginald brought along a bottle of Hardy's Chardonnay.  Unfortunately it had already been opened, but I trusted that he hadn't necked the wine out of the bottle and accepted a glass.  We both ordered the 'neverending dinner' which was a choice of potato chips; potato waffles; beefburgers; lamb chops; sausages; pork steaks; chicken nuggets, tinned carrots, tinned peas and tinned sweetcorn.  I'll admit that my palate is slightly damaged after a childhood spent eating convenience foods in the 1970s and 1980s, but it was a splendid repast and you'll never guess what was on the dessert trolley?  Yes, Bird's Trifle, Fruits of The Forest Mousse and Butterscotch Angel Delight.

He paid the bill in full.  We had a splendid time and I've agreed to go out with him again on Saturday night.  I am so happy!

A Quiet Saturday

This very morning, whilst carrying out my daily 'physical jerks' I sustained an injury to my second toe and it's now bruised and swollen.  Therefore, I have been mostly confined to the sofa, either watching DVDs, listening to audio books or leafing through my pad.  I agree that this isn't a great state of affairs, but what can I do.

Father telephoned at 14:30 excitedly telling me about his forthcoming presentation at the 'Senior Life Session' which is currently scheduled for next Tuesday morning at 10:30.  I believe that he has his eye on Marian Waterstone, an attractive widow of some sixty-seven summers who has a beach hut in Bexhill-on-Sea as well as a maisonette in West Wickham and a tool shed in Purley.  Rather excitedly, she once appeared as an extra in an episode of the classic BBC comedy Terry and June and has provided many a tale about what really went on in the White City Canteen.  Most are incredibly boring, but it's her fifteen minutes of fame and she's right to hang onto it.

Cousin Eleanor's Birthday

It's Cousin Eleanor's fortieth birthday today and she's none too happy about it.  I can't think why - after all, she's a widow with a mortgage-free life, what else could she ever want in life?  We're, well Father and me are planning to visit later, after work and apparently there will be cake and bubbles there, but here's hoping that it's the beverage variety rather than the bath cleanser?  Her son, the ever lively Sebastian will be present, but hopefully he won't be quite as crazy as usual - his prowess on the Connect Four game board is somewhat legendary in the family.

The Show Must Go On

I wandered out to my balcony earlier, book in hand, to catch some of the sun's rays, but unfortunately one of my neighbours was playing extremely loud 'house music' or something with a horrific beat, so I retreated back indoors.  I can't say that I really enjoy living in this flat - the cooking smells are getting much worse, or seem to be in the summer heat.  At least it's near the station and indeed the Co-op. 

Wanted: One Front Door!

A bizarre thing happened to Father yesterday.  He's currently having the house re-decorated and a local man offered to do the job at a discounted rate.  After the previous house subsided, Father was able to retain the original 1930s front door and is justifiably very proud of it.  Anyway, the workman took it away and placed an inferior door in its stead, but try as we might, we cannot locate the trader in question and the door's disappeared.  It's such a travesty and Father's distraught and probably more upset than he was when Mother passed away.

I am planning to go to the Co-op later on.  I've heard that they've got a special offer on Quiches until the end of the month.

Wilf On Wheels

Wilf sent me a letter, written in a blue inked Bic biro, via the post, which said the following:

"Dearest Margaret,

Our time together has been special and you are undoubtedly the love of my life.  However, things change and I have noticed that your love has cooled since late last September and has never re-ignited the flames of passion which once roared between us.  I have to admit that, as much as I adore you, I do find you rather tedious company at times and your single-minded obsession with the Co-op isn't particularly healthy.  I also believe that, in your heart, you still love Giles Henry Arbuthnot, the man you call 'Mr A'.  You are aware that he's no longer stalking the Earth aren't you?

I will be touring the UK in my reconditioned VW Camper Van from now on and taking peripatetic work on, as necessary.  I will always feel for you Margaret, but time marches on.

Yours sincerely,

Wilfred

The Wilf's Not For Turning

Wilf's recent behaviour has shocked me, let me tell you.  Last night he was rescued from his Mother's place in Epping Forest, but what was most worrying is what he was dressed in - a Margaret Thatcher outfit if you please?  I cannot understand it, I always knew that Wilf was a bit of a Maggie fan, but this is too much to bear.  Apparently the fire was caused by his lacquered hair setting off one of the candles.

Another one bites the dust.

Boring V

Yesterday Wilf took me to the Boring V Conference in Conway Hall, which was a 'celebration of the mundane', so I haven't a clue why he thought that I'd enjoy it! Anyway, it was an amazing day and QI's Andrew Murray-Hunter's talk about a particular model of Casio Digital Watch was brilliant.  It was, however, a shame about the last presentation though - a Creative Writing University Lecturer's dystopian story was *literally* boring and clearly missed the point.

The UK General Election 2015

Well, the Conservatives won by a landslide majority and there was me thinking that there would be a Lab/Lib coalition?  How wrong I was.  Three main party leaders have already resigned, namely Clegg, Miliband and Farage.  What does a Tory victory mean for me, a civil servant of many years standing - the beginning of zero hour contracts?  Anyhow, I'm sure that it's not good.  I wish that there was an alternative career path that I could pursue.

Wilf's taking me to the 'Boring V' Conference tomorrow because he went last year and I quote: "it's right up your street Margaret!"  Does that mean that I'm boring myself, or I have a 'unique' sense of humour?  It's often difficult to tell.

Here's my blog entry from five years ago: http://publicsectormargaret.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/hung-parliament.html  How times change.

Auntie Barb

I have to report that Father's sister, my Auntie Barb, has moved into the former's house.  Yes, finally after years of living in a static caravan in Bexhill, she's decided to make the move to the suburbs.  She's a truly scary woman, both in presence and personality - standing some six feet and one inch in her pop-socked feet.  She sports an ancient jumper with a red deer design on it, which the fraying cuffs really show its age.  Apart from that she tends to wear clothes one wouldn't deck a scarecrow in, plus she's got a really hairy face.

Apart from that, she's really pleasant.

She brings along her collection of cats, namely: Jon Jon (a mangy old tabby with half a tail and a serious dribble problem; Captain Beefcake (a dirty splodgy black and white moggy with an attitude problem and last, but by no means least Priscilla Duckweed (a matted tortoiseshell with a piercing wail and an 'issue' with catnip addiction.)  She's never had children, nor been married, so these felines form her family.  I haven't seen her since summer 2008 when she tried to have my cousin Eleanor arrested for stealing her collection of greasy antimacassars.

We're going over for tea tonight, well by 'me' I mean Wilf and myself.  I have purchased all of my own food just in case Barb feels like cooking up her signature dish which is basically grey mince and mash garnished with frozen vegetables.  Yum.

Wilf's Mother has gone to live in the nudist colony near St Alban's.  She's happy apparently.

You Don't Drink, You Don't Smoke. What Do You Do?

Another Wednesday, another let down.  Yes, I've failed once more to secure an interview for promotion.  I'm getting rather tired of it all now and have signed up for a 'Ensuring You're Match Fit For Promotion' course which is taking place in June.  Here's hoping that the course leader will be sporting a rather fetching tracksuit and blowing a whistle?  Oh, they won't?  Well, maybe it's this ennui and sarcastic attitude which has got me where I am today.  Nowhere.

I am cheering myself up by watching the fantastic Vintage TV on Virgin Media cable.  Yes, I subscribe and no, I don't watch too much television.  Or maybe I do?  Don't judge me harshly for such a thing.  I have also purchased two spaghetti and meatball meals from the mighty Co-op for the princely sum of £4.  Ooh, the sound of a boat being firmly pushed out.

I'm seeing my friend Emma at the weekend as she's having a 'slumber party' to mark the fact that she purchased a new bed after she turfed her cheating ex-boyfriend out of their flat.  He apparently infested the previous mattress with a plague of pubic lice which apparently he caught off of Stacey Simpson from The Dog and Duck (if the rumours on Facebook are true?)  Nice.

Wilf In Wanstead

Wilf took me out to Wanstead yesterday to 'show me his manor' (his words.)  Since he was asked to leave by the Gants Hill Gang Show he's felt rather reticent about 'going east', but he forced himself anyway.  He allowed me to peruse a selection of amber jewellery in a shop window then we went for a meal in a rather smart brasserie and it was lovely.  If Wilf's conversation was 56% more interesting then he'd be a great catch for any discerning lady.  After eating we went for a long walk over Wanstead Flats - he'd looked up a selection of facts in The Illustrated History of Redbridge and proceeded to regale me with them in a monotone voice.  Hmm.

Unfortunately (for him, not for me) he had to travel east to visit his mother; for my part, I headed west and changed at Stratford.  The top deck of the bus home after the DLR stank of body odour, but that's modern living for you.  I was very pleased to have the flat to myself for the evening and watched another of BBC4's excellent music documentaries.  I seem to recall that the late Mr A used to enjoy those too.  Sigh.  Mind you, the culinary perfection of a Vesta Chow Mein meal and half a frozen Black Forest Gateau made me feel happier.  I'll aim to walk off the excess calories tomorrow.  

Sundays Are Sacred

Are they really?  Well, in my case, not at all.  Well, at least Wilf has been granted at least one day away from the horrors of dealing with his Mother.  I think that I introduced you all to the delights of Wilf's parents, Simone and David, back in 2010, but if you need reminding, here's the blog entry -  http://publicsectormargaret.blogspot.co.uk/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00:00:00Z&updated-max=2011-01-01T00:00:00Z&max-results=50

Yes, they were once both nudists, but alas no more.  David left Simone back in 2012 after meeting Patrizia, a half-Italian, half-German new member of the Buckhurst Bucknaked Church and decamped abroad with her and together they created the Euronudistcolony just outside of Dusseldorf - you may have heard of it?  It was once featured on The One Show if you're interested and yes, Gyles Brandreth does were boxer shorts with examples of the ursine genus emblazoned on them.  Years after the demise of his Teddy Bear Museum.

Well, Simone had an accident back in 2014 whilst she was cleaning the Vicar's Ford Focus - apparently she slipped on some errant suds and damaged various vertebrae in her back and therefore she's pretty much housebound these days.  Luckily they were already living in a one-storey prefab in the middle of Epping Forest, so there weren't any stairs to contend with, but Wilf is expected to drop everything and drive over to sort out various crises which arise.  She has a carer who comes in twice a day and another son, William who lives in nearby Harlow, but he's flip all use.  Will-I-Not as I call him, is a lazy scrote, lives on state benefits and spends most of his time hanging around bookies with his mate 'Lucky Lee'.  Lee obtained this nickname by winning first prize in the Dog and Duck meat raffle back in 2002 and the moniker has kind of stuck with him ever since.

Will departed for Essex about an hour ago now - Simone's toilet has apparently backed up again.  Nice.

Eat A Bowl Of Cream

Wilf's not here this weekend - he's currently in Dorset learning how to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to Badgers, Stoats and Weasels.  Don't ask me why.  Wilf is the newly-elected president of a society called The Wonder of Wildlife and he's even designed his own sweatshirts; the current membership stands at three people and a dog called 'Sausages'.  He keeps asking me to up sticks and buy a 'smallholding' in the West Country, but I'm not too keen - how would I get to work?  If you ask me, Wilf's already in possession of a 'smallholding' fnarr, fnarr.

Bored I am.  Well, no - distracted mostly.  I have just consumed some raspberries and strawberries literally swimming in double cream.  Why?  Well, I'm single and I'm allowed to do such dotty things and anyway, the large carton of cream worked out at 31.9p per 100ml as opposed to 39.4p per 100ml for the smaller size.  I'm all for economy.

I really should be completing my application for a new job because mine disappeared ages ago and I'm currently 'supernumerary'.  I'll need to state why I'm suitable for an exciting future and explaining exactly how I demonstrate the actions concerned with impressing the panel with my knowledge of such topics as 'the big picture', 'managing effective change' and 'ballpoint pen husbandry' - actually, the latter was invented by moi.  Sigh.

It's Different For Girls

Wilf's coming over tonight - he's here more and more these days, almost as if he has nowhere else to live.  I don't mind him though - he doesn't eat much and brings his own duvet along with him.  It's strange how one often finds one's self back in an old relationship, which I pretty much equate to popping on an old, worn pair of slippers.  That sexy huh?  Actually, I cannot really see the point of too much sex: it's OK I suppose if only indulged in during birthday, anniversary or festive occasions, otherwise it's a bit of a waste of good reading time.

I'm singing in a choir concert tomorrow which is being held in a local church; Father and Wilf will be in the audience.  Father's strangeness seems to have multiplied since Mother's demise - he's now dressing as a Jester every other Friday and handing out sweets to the youngsters outside Lidl.  The management of the budget supermarket have requested that he cease this activity, lest they call in the 'authorities', but he refuses to.  Sometimes I wish that he'd continued to be an earthworm - at least they hang around together underground and don't make too much of a fuss about everything.

Gareth Snodgrass Makes For a Difficult Day

I don't think I've ever told you about my G6, Gareth Snodgrass have I?  Well, he's the team leader of the 'Getting Government Digital' scheme and as a result, works all of the hour God sends.  He was so busy that, if rumour serves me right, his wife and children left him and he didn't realise for ten days because he was plugged into his laptop/smartphone/BlackBerry and only logged off to sleep his usual three hours per night.  Don't get me wrong, I've no doubt that there are loads of 'Gareth Snodgrasses' out there ensuring that the wheels of industry keep turning when the rest of us clock off, but woe betide if you're say, in mourning or something?

Snodgrass always starts the day off with a ten minute brainstorming session entitled 'Snodgrass Says' where he'll boil the day's headlines into a rap and expect the team to provide backing vocals.  Usually I try and hide at the back, but he was in vociferous form today and said "Margaret, I do understand that things are tough at the moment, but not knowing that Poundland took over the 99p Stores recently is pretty unforgivable in my eyes."  Fine, if you like that kind of thing, but sometimes devotion to duty goes too far.

In the afternoon, to get some peace, I wandered into the Tranquility Room, but unfortunately encountered a slumbering security guard there.  After asking him to leave I sat in the corner and grieved quietly, only to be pestered by somebody else trying to work in there.  I shall write to the Building Manager tomorrow.  

Life Goes On

So the song by the seminal 'Noah and The Whale' states anyway.  Actually, I have a bone to pick - why is the US-based indie rock band lumping the biblical Noah in with the Whale?  Surely it was 'Jonah and The Whale' although my many years of sitting through indeterminate Sunday School lessons, such was my life.

I'm back at work....this provides stability, if little else at the moment.

Post-Funeral Friday

Wilf is staying with me once again; he's taking pride of place on the sofa.  We may watch BBC4 later, that's pretty much as exciting as life gets these days.  He is a comfort though.  Especially to a grieving woman.

Post Funeral Musings

We buried Mother on Monday.  That's a very strange sentence to write and it always seems so literal and somewhat formal to me as it sounds as though we actually donned tools and dug down deep.  It was a very small, but tasteful affair, although the arrival of Mother's former fancy man Mr Pritchard (you remember: she left Father for him and they escaped abroad until their mountainside home got flattened by a rock slide) caused a bit of stir with the neighbours, let me tell you.   He turned up at the house ten minutes before we were all due to pile into the two limousines which would be following the hearse, wearing an off-white suit, the trousers of which were pulled up far too high and rendered the bottoms far too short for his long legs.  This was also topped off with a somewhat battered Panama hat.  He was out of breath, sweating and his too-small shirt was riding up his torso - in short, he looked a complete state.  Father gave him a look of disgust, turned on his heel and took his place in the first car.

Luckily my cousin Eleanor was there and able to whisk Mr Pritchard off into the second car and the cortege set off for the cemetery.  We had a short service headed by our local vicar, The Reverend Alan Tompkins and I gave the eulogy, which I've recreated here:

"My Mother was an amazing woman and I feel truly honoured to be her only child.  She was born in November 1938, the eldest daughter of Frederick and Margaret Boggis.  Through sheer hard work and determination she managed to secure a place at the prestigious local girls' grammar school where she learnt to recite the works of Geoffrey Chaucer in the original middle English.  After leaving school at eighteen she worked as a freelance poet and gave readings in such diverse locations such as prisons, factories and abattoirs.  She met her husband, my Father, in 1965 on a London bus, the number eleven to be exact, which of course many of you will know runs from Liverpool Street through to Fulham Broadway.  They married a year and a day later and the birth of their daughter Margaret completed their family in February 1970.

In 1973 they moved to a south-east London suburb and lived happily in a three bedroomed semi-detached house for many years.  Unfortunately this happiness was compromised when my Father caused the house to subside a few years ago due to his excessive tunneling under the structure.   My Mother, tiring of her husband's strange behaviour, had already struck up a friendship with Mr Pritchard from her 'Local Heroes' club and departed abroad with him.  After two years, which she herself described as 'passionate, tumultuous and above all, fun' she returned to the UK and her estranged husband.  It is with great regret that I say goodbye to my late Mother - God rest her soul."

After the burial, which took place in the rain, we were conveyed back to the house where Eleanor and my friend Emma had organised the running buffet.  After nibbling a few dry sandwiches I retired to my old room where I lay on the bed for ages until the wake had ended.  I feel numb.

Pre-Funeral Jitters

Due to the fact that it's January and is therefore a pinch point for deaths, Mother's funeral has been duly delayed until next Monday.  In the meantime I've been shuttling between my flat and my parents' home, which is fairly tiring, especially as I'm also connecting remotely to work to enable me to keep on top of my email workload.  Sometimes I wish that I had a sibling to share the burden, but I haven't and that's that really.  I realise that people often dislike their brothers and sisters, so perhaps I'm lucky to be spared such a thing?

Monday's event is due to be a very low-key event - a short service in the Cemetery Chapel followed by an internment.  Father was rather concerned that his side of the gravestone had been left blank so that he, in turn, can be buried next to her.  Such things always reminds me of Wuthering Heights (the novel, not the Kate Bush song!) where Heathcliff runs up to the moors and exhumes Cathy's body. I'm very much hoping that Father doesn't do that as it's a direct contravention of the council's health and safety procedures and the corpse would begin to smell after a while if kept in the house.

Mother

Firstly, my sincere apologies for not writing before, but you see, my Mother died at the weekend - she was seventy-six, which isn't a huge age in this day and age.  It happened something like this: on Saturday she wanted to purchase a 'stew pack' of vegetables to enable her to prepare a hot dinner for us all to serve prior to the new series of Stars In Their Eyes, Mother wasn't generally a fan of ITV's output, but she'd once shared a strawberry sundae with former host, Leslie Crowther and had become a fan of the show ever since.  She was a tad disappointed back in 1991 when she failed to secure a place on the programme as Tammy Wynette, but she bounced back after the women who took her place was stung to death by an angry swarm of hornets six months after the broadcast.

As ever, I digress; tonight I can blame it on my grief.  Anyway, Mother was leaving the Sainsbury's Local where she spotted that a new tattoo parlour had opened over the road; without looking she stepped into the path of a reversing Vauxall Frontera and was knocked to the ground.  She was conveyed to the nearest hospital by ambulance, but suffered a major heart attack en route and although she was revived in the ICU, died four hours later - at 16:34 to be precise.

I've been filling out paperwork ever since.  Her body is in the care of the local Co-op Funeral Parlour and we haven't been informed of the burial date as yet, so there's no real need for me to start buttering sandwiches as yet.  I just feel numb - Wilf's here with me, which is nice.  He also has nowhere to live as, unbeknownst to me, he was living in his half-brother's garage in West Malden as he'd not earned enough money to cover his living costs and the landlord took action against him in the High Court. Life can be very depressing at times.

Every Day Is Like A (January) Sunday

Wilf's still staying with me; it's nice - we watched Tim Rice: A Life In Song last night and both of us seemed to enjoy it.  Today we went on a Co-Op crawl around the area (well, three stores' worth) which was pretty much a result of thrift and the need for physical exercise.  The air is damp and cold, but it is January I suppose - what else can one expect?  Anyway, I now have enough large potatoes to bake and some defrosted chili con carne to make a suitable meal for tonight. Saying that, I really hate eating baked potatoes after about two minutes of starting them - their sheer stodgy carbohydrate construction makes me want to hurl them out of the window after a while.  I find that I have to serve dinner early enough on Sundays to fully interact and enjoy the fantastic Absolute 80s Forgotten 80s Show; don't ask why I like it so much - I just do.  Quite frankly, the internet and associated social media platforms have really improved my life and stop me feeling so isolated because of the extreme hobbies I seem to exhibit.  I often wonder if I may have Asperger Syndrome, but it's really difficult to diagnose in females.  It would explain an awful lot about my behaviour to be honest.

I'll trawl through the internet and get back to you.  There are loads of good books out there.

New Year's Day 2015

Today I invited Wilf over for lunch as we haven't seen one another for ages now and I miss his Levi's 501 stonewashed jeans, checked shirts and white t-shirts.  It goes without saying that we had sex - I truly believe that I'd 'dry up' (in the words of Mrs Blenkinsop) if I didn't indulge in penetrative intercourse at least every seven months or so.  Wilf's very accomplished 'in the sack' so to speak - he's very digitally dexterous if that's not too profane, plus he has a tongue like a hummingbird.  I've often found that geeky men are somewhat surprisingly good in bed - I think it's all of those years of reading dusty biology textbooks in the corners of libraries whilst their more popular friends fraternised with girls at the bus stop. 

Prior to our afternoon in bed, we ate lunch which consisted of a Co-op steak and potato pie, mashed potatoes, cauliflower and green beans covered in Bisto Onion Gravy; we finished with a Butterscotch Angel Delight, which I wagered wouldn't lie too heavy in Wilf's digestive system.  As we sat up in bed drinking a cup of Mellow Birds each, we talked about Wilf's burgeoning literary career - his book 'My Life With Mavis: The Life and Loves of Owning a Vintage Three Ton Bus' is selling well in the 'Vintage Bus and Tram Memorabilia' section of Amazon and he hopes to net £887 worth of profit this quarter alone.  He stated that he's planning to tour the UK in the aforementioned vehicle and asked whether I'd be interested in accompanying him.  "It'd be romantic Margaret - just think, we could watch the sun come up over the Watford Gap whilst speeding up the M1."  Hmm - I told him that I'd think about it.