Au Pair Margaret

Yeah ... I know, don't go on and on about it ...

So, what's been happening in the wonderful whacky world of Margaret Estella Weaver, eh?  Actually, loads. I now work as an au pair in a suburban family home because, as we all know, I'm very keen on children.  And dogs.  Plus cats.  Andrew, the head of the household, works as a member of a very important profession and I am not allowed to elaborate further online, lest I be in breach of contract.  There are two children: Talbot and Sierra, who are aged nine and six respectively; it's not really obvious from their names, but Talbot's a boy and Sierra, is a girl.  There is a dog, a retired racing greyhound called Wilberforce and a kitten named Handkerchief. 

My duties are live in and I reside up in their recently extended loft conversion, along with a tiny en suite which includes a shower that I can't even bend to shave my legs in.  No shoes are permitted within the house - visitors have to remove their footwear and glide across the slate tiles in mop slippers (pictured below, just in case you're not aware of the retail phenomenon.)

Probably the most bizarre thing about the whole house is that the front door is very narrow and painted black.  Unfortunately this means that the wood expands on a sunny day and therefore traps the inhabitants in the property.  The only way this can be rectified is by watering the door jamb from the outside.  Well, that or repainting the door, say, white.  Surely that's the answer?

(Yet Another) Hung Parliament

Yes, that's right. Another one.

Dom Perignon The Retired Racing Greyhound

Now Father's never really been the same since he eschewed all of his previous earthworm interests following the subsidence and subsequent demolition of our old house.  Some hobbies have held his attention for a short time span, but he's a man with an inquiring mind.  For years Father has shown an inordinate interest in greyhound racing - even purchasing the 1990s classic album Parklife by Blur, merely for the artwork on the cover.

He's now decided to formally adopt at retired racing greyhound and a visit to the rehoming kennels a fortnight ago led him to choose a seven-year-old brindle hound with the Kennel Club name of Dom Perignon.  Dom, as I'll refer to him is a truly beautiful animal - strong, tall, sleek and with the loveliest snout you'll ever see, but he is rather large and our house, despite boasting three bedrooms (two doubles: one single) isn't.  He's already colonised the three-seater sofa because, in Father's words 'greyhounds are far too delicate to sleep on the floor' in the sitting room and as for his excrement, let me say that it's truly vile and clearing it up is the worst element of taking him for a walk.

Miss Sylvester's Quest To Rid The World of All Known Diseases

For the benefit of new readers, I was formerly a member of Miss Sylvester's School of Music and Dance - a peripatetic organisation which brought me joy and dismay in equal measures thoughout the years.  I have, however, been getting very fed up with it over the past year or so, well, especially as the choir have become a subsidiary of Kitty Sylvester's Quest To Rid The World of All Known Diseases charity.  I mean, don't get me wrong - it's very laudable indeed to try to help ones less fortunate, but surely, Miss S doesn't have to (ahem) make such as song and dance about it ...?

A woman called Susie Bragworthy-James joined about fourteen months ago and also helps out with the charity by forcefeeding biscuits to the elderly on Thursday mornings.  She volunteered to raise money for the charity by suspending herself in a tank of baked beans, located in the middle of the shopping centre, for a total of twelve hours and twenty-six minutes.  Susie was keen as mustard and even brought along her own clipboards with sponsorship forms into choir to complete, lest anyone not have access to the interweb. I ignored them, preferring to raise money for the charity I actually volunteer for. Anyway, all went a bit pearshaped back in March when Bragworthy-Jones, after spending four hours and nine minutes in a tank of baked beans, passed out as a result of her snorkel becoming clogged with mushed up haricot beans.  The money the NHS spent on reviving her and rushing her to the nearest A&E department canceled out the £387 she actually raised for the charity, but who cares, eh?  It's all for a good cause.

Father's Menswear Woes

Father was once a huge fan of the high street behemoth, Fosters Menswear.  He absolutely worshipped the place, but as we all know, it's now long gone and according to my internet-based research, disappeared in 1999 when it was subsumed into the Sears group:



It seems as though all of Father's favourite places to shop have fallen by the wayside, for example Wikipedia has this to say about the former men's fashion chain, Dunn and Co:

In its final year of trading as an independent company, 1996, Dunn & Co. had 130 shops and 429 staff, with a head office in Swansea employing a further 75 workers. It was losing £1m a year on sales of £25m a year, and when its debts reached £6.4m (with £4m owed to unsecured creditors), CinVen, who by then owned 86% of the company, called in the receivers KPMG, on 19 December 1996^[1]The brand name was purchased by Ciro Citterio. However, they also went into administration in 2003. 

Ciro Citterio was far too flash for Father.  He didn't and still doesn't approve of people wearing denim jeans.  With this in mind, we decided to visit the Marks and Spencer website to 'click and collect' some new threads, such as these rather lovely beige trousers:

Emma The Martyr

Emma came over yesterday for her monthly visit, clutching a bottle of Asti Spumante and a box containing the mint variety of the frozen 1980s retro dessert, Viennetta.  Now, don't get me wrong, whilst I fully admire the way that Emma is able to drag herself out of her 2ft 6in single bed every morning at 05:30am, I don't really appreicate the way that she feels the need to lecture me about my current employment status.  I have recently signed up to be the communications officer for a local charity and it's a voluntary position.

My cousin Eleanor (who doesn't seem to blog any longer ...) used to regale me of stories of colleagues who were very snitty about her taking time off to attend her son Sebastian's various school assemblies, and having to leave on time to go and pick him up from nursery or after school club.  Yes, as she stated, she'd decided to have a child, but the snooty disregard she experienced from certain (but, by no means all!) colleagues used to really get her down.  As for working from home - if it doesn't suit the 'business need' then so be it, but if you're able to do certain aspects of your job whilst sitting in your dining room tapping away at at laptop, why do you have to be based in central London anyway?

Rant over!

Father's New Dog

Since Mother died poor old Father has been somewhat lonely and doubly so since Auntie Barb shackled up her caravan and vamooshed.  Anyway, last week he collected his new housemate, an adopted retired racing greyhound called Sir Jeremy Bentham and he's now obsessed with the sleek sighthound. Unfortunately he can no longer sit on his favourite two seater sofa as the beast has taken almost permanent residence on there and now there's little or no room for Father's posterior next to the spindly hound.  Oh dear.

I took Jeremy for a walk yesterday and I must admit that I didn't particularly enjoy cleaning up his stinky 'jobbies', although, as a responsible owner, it's a must.  They are far too runny and rather disgusting.

Being 'Ghosted'

Being born back in 1970 I find learning about 'modern' culture and contemporary society very odd at times and often have to Google strange online dating (OLD) terms such a 'swipe left/right'; 'ghosting' and 'no longer flipping unterested (NLFI). I think that many readers will agree that it's a difficult world to navigate at times?

To cut a long story short, like in the words of the popular beat combo, Spandau Ballet, after a couple of months of not a great deal of contact, James has written me the email detailed below:
-------------------------------------------------------
Dear Margaret,

I am writing to respectfully request that you no longer contact me. The methods of communication I refer to are as follows: text message, WhatsApp, Facebook Wall Posts, Facebook Messenger, email and carrier pigeon. Whilst I find your 'unique' sense of humour charming and somewhat endearing, you really should spend more time attempting to find suitable employment.

I enjoyed our time together immensely, but know that it is time for us to part. I truly believed that you would find alternative friendship via the various Meetup Groups you subscribe to.

All the best,

James

Marketing Seminar - Big Pants For Big Women

This afternoon I attended a marketing seminar in my local Holiday Inn Express which was run by Dragons' Den failed entrepreneur, Barney Grahame.  Despite his inability to secure funding for his plan to produce a range of self-propelling suitcases, he has found a niche in selling 'big pants to big women' with the strapline (or should that be 'gusset line'?)  "Life's too short for small pants."

Barney was an arresting sight - he's short, balding and was wearing the shiniest polyester suit I'd ever seen - in fact, I'd imagine that he avoided all naked flames as a result.  That said, he was a charismatic speaker and soon had the audience of would-be knicker salespeople enthralled with his every word.  The package, as he explained, was the ability for the representative to purchase 100 units of pure cotton merchandise for the bargain price of £4 per brief - "or £2 per leg hole" he quipped.  As that added up to an affordable £400 and I decided not to proceed.

As we tucked into our complementary buffet lunch Barney began to become angered that nobody was signing up to his scheme and soon shouted "you greedy xxxxs!" at us and stormed out.  Unfortunately he'd left his laptop behind and had to sneak back into the room two minutes later.

Clothes Upcycling

I just don't write enough blog entries, do I?  Oh well, stick this in your (non hashish) pipe and smoke it ...

Following redundancy I have been scratching around doing various little jobs and attending a selection of adult education courses. This morning's, run by my local council's recycling service concerned 'Upcycling' one's wardrobe to combat the increase in landfill waste. It was only a fiver, so along I went.

Let me just say that I was totally useless. The other women were nice enough, but the sewing teacher was a bit of a snob to say the least. As well as freelance further education teaching she also knits vegetables for the underprivileged and runs an organic soup kitchen from the back of her VW Camper. I made the schoolgirl error of breaking the sewing machine's needle and her face went very sour. Also, stating that a student's sewing project was 'brave' wasn't really a compliment.

Probably the most amusing part of the course was when somebody's grandmother had apparently made bunting from her deceased husband's varied collection of Y-Fronts. Inspired.

Snowy Friday

It's a Friday and it's snowy outside.  That's about the long and short of it.  James is coming over later once he's finished his week's work at 'TechCityRock' the start-up company he's employed at.  Actually, the place sounds a rather fun place to work - they produce language tuition based around 1980s and 1990s pop videos and export them to every country with the exception of Germany, from which they are banned after an unnamed incident occurred during Ostertechfiest 2011.  James admits to being a bit of a maths nerd and in his youth won the 'Texas Instruments Little Professor Mathematics Award 1987'.

The Aftermath of The Blean Woods Cabin

Oh my word, what an experience I had over the New Year period.  If you recall from my previous posts, James' family own a cabin which is located in Blean Woods (near Canterbury, Kent) and we went to stay with them for a few days between Christmas and New Year?  We travelled there in James' ancient Fiat Panda and had to park about two miles away from the cabin, as there were no roads transversing the forest.  When we finally arrived after tramping through acres of muddy undergrowth, the 'cabin' wasn't as plush as I'd imagined - in fact, it was practically medieval.  I was given the guided tour and the most worrying fact is that there were no separate bedrooms - everyone bunked down in the main living room "as they used to back in 1509!" sparkled Mrs McCoy.  Hmm.

There was no toilet either - merely a wooden seat suspended over a sawdust covered tank of filth, which stank.  The 'shower' facility comprised of another family member pouring various watering cans over the 'lucky' washee whilst he/she was clad in a lycra swimsuit.  The food wasn't much better - Mr McCoy (Roy McCoy if you please!) liked to bake the creatures which fell out of the local trees after he'd carried out his daily shaking ceremony.  I don't know whether you'll agree with me, but roasted squirrel isn't really my idea of a slap up feast?

The most worrying aspect of the whole stay was that Mr and Mrs McCoy used to like observing their only son making love to his girlfriend and then offering advice on how to improve his performance.  Me, being me, decided against this and was glad that I'd purchased a robust pair of longjohns prior to our trip, which were nigh on impossible to get out of.

I think that I'm going off of James.