I’ve been a bit lax in communicating recently.  My apologies for this  but it is a hectic life I lead.  What with the social arrangements, the torture of The Husband and even  - how dare they? – work rearing its  head in demand  I’ve been a little pressed for time.  Then I notice that only 13% of blogs are updated weekly or more frequently so  you are  all VERY  lucky to have  my life spread out before in tribute.  I mean you COULD  be    reading  one of the …er…… 87%?*  who  are having so good a time that they can’t  be bothered to come and tell you about  it for weeks at a stretch. And if there’s something worse than living vicariously, than  being a peeping tom or an eavesdropper on  a life, it’s not having enough information to feed your habit….fficeffice" />

  However, now that I have packed my bags  and left the Big Blogger House – although ignobly ejected may be a better term – I shall no longer have to split my time  between the two. So I can  devote myself to YOU, dear reader, and you alone. Because you know I want to  entertain you….

But for your edification and delight, before my tales of derring-do, heroic bouts of shopping and  masterful grappling with  The  Great  Unerudite are set out for your edification, I shall give you the edited highlights of my time  mixing with a bunch of strangers.  Not as bad as a tube train,  slightly better than a cocktail party, on par with a country house weekend.

 In Which I Introduce Myself

In Which I Try My Hand At Poetry

In Which I Do My Bit For Charity

In Which I Prepare for Sporting Activity

Fancy Dress  And Again  More Fancy Dress

In Which I Reveal All

In Which I Tell A Story

In Which I Give a Party

 So there you are,  Miss Mish: The Big Blogger Years

* Maths is not particularly my strong point. Ask my bank manager.

 Well, a) WHY do you want to drive into the middle of town? You can’t park anywhere for more than twenty minutes without it costing a fortune (gone are the days of free parking in town although if you do know  of a space then you’re probably an alpha male) and if you’re coming out for a drink well you shouldn’t even THINK about driving anyway. b) The poor old pensioners will do what they normally do, get up at the ridiculous early hour of 6am to wait until 9.15 to use their free bus pass to go to Victoria centre to sit around in Druckers eating cakes. And finally c)  Well,  it means you get a more open city, free from  traffic fumes and dangerous crossings, much more bus priority,  more access for the people who REALLLY need it (i.e. the  blue badge holders)  more routes for cyclists and  generally creating a bigger, better  and more appealing and attractive city.fficeffice" />

  Well you did ask.

 But my original gist of this story was to  tell you about  the reorganisation of the roads. It’s all to do with the knocking down of one particularly hideous example of 70’s architecture which is in the middle of the square around which are  numerous bus stops.   Busses can no longer use that square as a staging post and the various stops are  dotted around the environs.  It was a bit difficult the first few weeks trying to remember where they dropped you off and the new route they took and where to catch them on the way home but now, it’s as if nothing had ever been any different.

Apart from one small thing.

 Just before the very last stop on the way in (and where I get off) the bus swings away from the old route and makes a quick, three-cornered detour around a back street or two. And it’s there, as the bus slowly lumbers on, that you notice a  general air of expectation. The ladies seem to blossom and  straighten up, they pat their hair, they cross their legs and they compose themselves, in some cases a faint flush comes to the brow and a smile is almost seen. It’s oh-so-very subtle but you do notice it if you’re an inveterate bus traveller.  The  bus seems to take a deep breath as we round the final corner and  most of the female travellers  (and most of The Pink) turn their heads to the left as we glide by…… The Fire Station.

 Where, most mornings, just before nine am, the doors are open, the men in uniform are  washing down the rigs and there is a lot of activity upon the forecourt. Then the bus lurches through the lights, round the corner and we get off, spending the next few minutes, thinking of nothing but helmets. hoses and choppers……

Of course I realise that there are people  who do not have the same kind of social life as myself. I realise that there are some people to whom a Saturday night consists of running around town  between various  ‘vertical drinking establishments’ – as I believe they’re called – hunting in packs and possibly with the  accoutrements of  angel wings, tattoos and football shirts. That life is not for me. But I never realised that there were…. oh dear… the    sheltered out there.   Witness my latest tale.fficeffice" />

 It is Saturday night.  The Husband is out with the  partner-in-law  to see some trashy violent brain dead movie for a spot of  relaxation after their hard week making knob and fart jokes. I am out with darling Mr A and we  plan to share a quick drink before heading over to pay our respects to Ms Rocky on the occasion of her birthday. We gossip on the terrace of one of our favourite bars and dodge the riffraff and the braying hordes as we cross the square.  Once inside the wine bar, we notice that Ms Rocky is not with her brand of ‘Usual Suspects’ There are two  strangers there who have obviously ‘dined well’ – although it appears later that they have lunched well  and not yet made it home – and are at that slow-blinking air of puzzlement stage of inebriation. We settle down and chat and share a bottle with the birthday girl. Toasts are made and we attempt to make conversation. There’s some confusion as  it appears that the elder of the two ladies believe us to be a married couple and we laugh  the mistake away and explain that I am in fact married to someone else and Mr A is a card carrying member of the Pink.

The lady blinks in confusion:  “A gay man and a married woman out on the town on a Saturday night!”

 “How unusual!”

 Mr A and I exchange a look

“How provincial” I murmur sweetly.

 Picture the scene: Wednesday afternoon.  Around 4pm. I am  sipping a cup of tea and idly flicking through the Times. The telephone is quiet and all is calm.fficeffice" />

 Something breaks into my studied lack of concentration.  A noise.  I hear a noise. A little, tiny snorting almost-a-snore kind of noise.   I pause and listen again.

Yes, it’s definitely a noise.

 In fact it’s definitely an I-want-to-be-a-snore kind of noise.

 And as I strain my ears, it finally becomes a snore. Small, quiet, discrete and an  oh-please-don’t-notice-me sort of snore but very definitely a snore.

 A snore that in a mere twenty minutes will grow up to be a big, bumbling, trembling, room-shaking, cat-scaring sort of a snore.

 I put the paper down and turn round.

“PETER” I shout firmly “You’re snoring again!”

 And my boss suddenly wakes up,  grins sheepishly and  puts his glasses  back on.

  I mean I know the expression ‘Office Wife’  - I just didn’t expect the language would be the same….

 The chore of taking Big Ron to the vets is now becoming a bit of a farce. I had hoped that having to go on a monthly basis for a simple jab would make him realise that it is no big thing. That once a month he gets bundled into his basket, is quickly and fairly painlessly (for him that is, not for the rest of us) dealt with and – THE most important thing surely? – he gets to come home again.fficeffice" />

 But no. To Ron, it has all the hallmarks of Colditz prisoners fooling the guards, of a Mickey Bricks pulling a fast manoeuvre or  even of a Houdini like escape from captivity.

  Our last visit started off particularly well. He was asleep on the sofa with not an inkling of what was to come. It was a normal Saturday morning. I went into the cellar to  collect the basket, and while down there, found the old traditional wicker carrier used and loved by my previous little furry darlings. It was larger than the plastic box we  use for Ron and had a bigger viewing area for him and  so, wishing to give him some semblance of comfort, I   decided to use it. So I dusted off the cobwebs, cleaned it out and  made it ready for him. I was a little concerned to find what looked like  woodworm holes around the rim but told myself not to be so silly – after all they don’t go for wicker. (Do they?)

  Espying Ron still asleep on the sofa, I swept down with the oven gloves and swiftly bundled him inside before he knew what was happening.   The Husband was impressed and I admit to a smug feeling as I put my coat on and collected my handbag. After all, I wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t even breathing heavily so things  were A-OK. Right?

Wrong.

 Very, VERY wrong

The  gods of chance heard me and it all went downhill fairly quickly.

 Flashing a (still) smug  smile to The Husband, I picked up the basket.

 It was woodworm.

 The handle fell off,  depositing Ron upside down on the carpet and turning a quietly brooding cat into an enraged , spitting hellion.

So. We NOW had to transfer this  spawn of hell into a small box, with the added  obstacle that He Knew What Was Going On.

  So we got the  other basket prepared,  got the oven gloves on and opened the door…….

 With one bound, Big Ron was free, I managed to get a hold of him and started to juggle with a razor tipped killing machine,  while The Husband hovered with a basket and attempted to put it round him. Ron was determined NOT to get caught out again and he metamorphosed into an eel-like razor tipped killing machine (now referred to as  RTKM). At one point, he was upside down, biting and scratching my elbows as  I held him by his back legs. The husband held the basket underneath and I let go. Three of his legs went inside but at LEAST   seven of his other legs found purchase on the outside and the RTKM  made a leap for the floor.  

Stupidly, both The Husband and I made a grab for him and in a particularly fine Three Stooges homage, bashed our heads together with an audible ‘BONK’ and fell on the floor with the basket landing on top of us.

Big Ron made a dash for the flap, but finding it locked and barred went for the next best option. Underneath the bed.  The Husband recovers first and legs it after him (remember that scene from ‘Aliens’? The one where Ripley goes after Newt? That was him) but I am  crying with pain and laughter and can’t BELIEVE what’s happening.

  Our other weapon consists of The Feather Duster that we use with good effect to poke him out from under the bed and chase him around the house for a few minutes. With a cry of ‘Tally-ho!’ we sight him in the office, on the stairs and under the table but it is my ‘View Halloo!’ which tracks him down to the  dressing table and nobly losing a fingernail and getting a very nasty bite on the   little finger, we drag him out and box him. Then exhausted, and panting, we sit down in the wreckage of our house and  prepare for the trip To The Vet.

We’ll gloss over the trip. Imagine  you’ve got a tornado in a box.  Now imagine you’re taking it on the bus  Add in a  raucous wail of tiger-like intensity and you get the picture. At least no one wanted to sit next to me.

Once in the surgery,  a vet attempts to entice him out.   But then the scent of fresh meat (i.e. a finger)  waving outside the basket must have seemed a good idea at the time. After almost losing a fingertip she resorts to holding the basket a foot above the table - opening down  - and shaking him out. But she’d forgotten about the twelve-limbed RTKM (or face-hugger as we assume he is)  on the inside, which meant he was clinging on for all he was worth. So the only way is to  get the leather gauntlets out, (much better than oven gloves. I must see from where I can get them),   call for reinforcements and pin him down while a third vet jabs him.

 Which we do.

I got a cab home. I didn’t think Nottingham City Transport could cope a second time

 So  in a month’s time we’ve got to do it all again. Does anyone know if you  can rent a SWAT team by the hour?.

Will the person who is impersonating me on various discussion boards and forums please cease and desist?

 I think I know who you are and I don’t know why you’re doing it. But then  when you’ve got  someone’s email  and website address it’s very easy  to  register as them and start posting stuff.fficeffice" />

 For those of you who wander over here  from those very same forums can I please point  out a few things?

·         I am registered to exactly ONE site.* And that belongs to The Archers Anarchists - a completely different kettle of fish  you’ll find.   I never post on forums, I never  sign up to ‘chat’ with people on fan lists and don’t like all those fan sites anyway. Not a criticism of them -  I just don’t like them and find them soulless. I prefer to chat with people I know, not faceless cyberpals 

·          Anyone who knows me and reads me, will know that is NOT my writing style. And it’s  far too short. I am nothing if not loquacious  in print (where I can’t be interrupted) and given a head of steam, will   rapidly give my opinion on anything from post-war reparation, punk rock,  mediaeval  lineage and the best way to clean silk damask. Not just some inane one line or two without even a punch line.  And I believe it is incorrectly spelt and punctuated. One of my pet hates…..

·        And jeez, can't a girl have a little fantasy? It's not like I'm hanging round back stage or banging on his hotel door or similar....

          ( And if you are over here from those fan sites then I think it's only polite that you say hello or leave a message - otherwise it seems as if you're just rudely barging in and peering through the curtains at me.)

   And of course, what people  actually forget is that the rules of libel and slander still apply on the Internet.  It’s not some strange  twilight world where laws don’t count.

 Thanks to Mr B’s sterling work  (who does read – or I believe ‘lurk‘ - on such sites and tells me what tickets are on sale) I  have   found this out.  And  Mr B tells me,  sounding rather embarrassed I might add, that they believe me to be a transvestite.…

 Now look guys, I know I dress a tad over the top  sometimes but  I’m surely not  that bad,  am I? Really? Honestly?

 So ‘Richard’, you may want to stop it. NOW.  Before it goes any further.

* I don't count the Harrods  mail order site at all.  And not just because The Husband doesn't know about it.

 I was going to ignore this story from a few weeks ago  as  it’s not something I would normally even think about.  But then it’s turned into a  kind of earworm  that I keep going back to  and I hope that  if I tell it,  it will be released  from my hindbrain. It’s not the kind of  arcane knowledge one wants  hanging around in one’s mind.  I’ve got enough of those geeky little triggers  in there* and manage to keep them fairly well hidden  (I can mange to act as a high-functioning member of society  thank you very much) and I don’t want to let loose those inner demons.  fficeffice" />

Anyway. Evidently, there was a four day conference at Aston university called ‘Tolkein 2005’. Lots of people dressed as characters and  fol-de-rolling around  as elves and dwarves. Now I’m all for (over) dressing up at the drop of a hat, but I prefer to dress as myself (see my previous post on  fancy dress) but let’s not go there. Each to their own. 

No, my mind-bogglement (incidentally did Tolkein ever think about introducing Mind Boggles into Middle Earth? No?)  comes from  a picture of a man dressed in a blue cape,  felt hat with a blue feather in it and carrying a bunch of lavender. This gentleman flew from Switzerland  to Birmingham for the  conference and identifies himself as, and with, Tom Bombadil. But the thing that tickles me, which made me giggle uncontrollably, was his real name: Firiel Tindomerel.

 I’d stick to Tom if I were you mate.

*Lego,  Skiffy novels,  quantum physics and  conspiracy theories  if you must know.

After an emergency trip to the  surgery yesterday suffering with a nasty problem, I was given a whole new lot of drugs to take.  Evidently this new prescription will, for a brief time before my operation in October,   stop all the problems associated with my endometriosis. Really? I thought. Even the urge to take an axe to the Hard Of Understanding or the inability to choose between latte and mocha at the coffee machine? I had my doubts. However the doctor handed over  the  drugs with an assurance that  these drugs will make life ‘much more fun’

 I pondered on his words when I left. More fun?  Had I inadvertently found the only doctor who would routinely prescribe a dose of LSD or a couple of E’s for all of life’s ills?fficeffice" />

 Not quite. Upon reading the contraindications for the new supply, I  found out that not only did the possible side-effects include  facial swelling, pins and needles, nausea and unexplained bruising, but also ‘confusion and hallucinations’

 Now that will be fun won’t it?  I’ll keep you posted.