Read Me

When I got my wireless router pack from Talk Talk with the letter claiming "getting started is a breeze", I knew from my previous dealings with Talk Talk that it was very likely going to be a bit more than a breeze. Perhaps "getting started is anything from a strong gust of wind to a full blown hurricane" would have been more appropriate.

They also claim "1, 2, 3, 4. That's how easy it is". Again, a more honest expectation would be "x*x + 2x - 35 = 0. That's how easy it is."

At the top of the welcoming letter, big funky green letters spell out "Read me". I assume this instruction is aimed at the majority of people wanting to use this waste of paper to wipe their arse with.

So when it doesn't go to plan, and I call the helpline and get put on hold during which time I have managed to help Ky have a poo, spoken to a neighbour across the road, cut Ky's toenails, picked up the toenails using a fun counting song, replaced some batteries and broken a fridge magnet, I get to hear a distant voice announcing "I'm a retard."
"Sorry?"
"I'm a retard."
Pause.
Nervous cough. Mine.
"You are a retard?"
"No, I AM RICHARD" says the heavily Indian accented voice.

Ok, we got off to a bad start. I think you think you are a retard, and you are already lying to me because you are not Richard are you. You might be Vishnumurti, Sandeep or Prakash, but you are not Richard.

What followed, was an excruciating conversation which took an hour of my life which I will never get back that went round and round in about seventy circles and ended up with my apparently having to purchase something extra for £15 in order to make this "a breeze".

Anyway, to make reading this rant worthwhile for some of you, a good tip when dealing with Talk Talk is they respond rather well to sulking. "Forget it. Just cancel the whole thing. I don't want it anymore. " That kind of thing. Then all of a sudden you will get to speak to a voice that does not think it's a retard and will let you off being conned out of £15.

Vermin

I took Ky to see a show called "Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late" today. I've taken Ky to quite a lot of shows and some of them have been really enjoyable even for me, a grown up. Many times I have been transported back into childhood as the magical atmosphere captures my imagination. Unfortunately "Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late" wasn't one of those shows.

Two bits of advice if you are going to see this show;

1. Don't sit in the front row. The bloke who dresses up as the pigeon has trouble containing his saliva.

2. Don't go if you are a devout vegetarian, as I am. There is an unusually heavy emphasis on hot dogs. It doesn't even have any relevance to any kind of plot. They just sing about hot dogs, go on about having hot dog parties and how generally great hot dogs are.

Another good reason for not being a vegetarian sitting in the front row, is that you will be sitting there thinking to yourself "Are they just going to go on and on about hot dogs?" when all of a sudden the pigeon will single you out and start talking to you as part of the show, just when you least expect it.

Now, I have actually performed on that very same stage this pigeon was glorifying hot dogs, so I'm not particularly shy, but being asked "So what did you have for breakfast?" out of the blue, by a giant pigeon was uncomfortable for me. "Toast." I answered. But he couldn't just leave it at that could he. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough that the entire audience now had an insight into my private eating habits. He wanted more. I was being interrogated by a fucking pigeon and he meant business. "And what did you do after eating breakfast?" Fuck. Where was this going? What next, a strip search? A million thoughts went through my head. First, I had the awful Tourettes syndrome of wanting to say something completely inappropriate like "I had a shit." Or "I killed a pigeon". "I shagged the neighbour." No I can't say any of those things. Be appropriate. What would be the appropriate response to a giant blue pigeon wanting to know about your after breakfast activities? I went blank. Fuck off pigeon. Why am I feeling so intimidated? Please, someone just shoot him. Or just shoo him. Come on, say something. The audience want to know what you did after breakfast. It's not a difficult question. What do you think a pigeon would want you to say? I racked my brains for anything pigeon related. All I could remember was the time a pigeon shat on my new school shoes and I hated him even more. Thankfully (after what seemed like an eternity) other members of the audience began to call out things, I can't remember what, I was too busy feeling relieved.

This evening, when we were eating our dinner in the garden, the fattest pigeon I have ever seen came and sat on our fence and stared at me menacingly. Finally, he flew away, not before shitting on my fence (much to Ky's amusement). Coincidence? I think not. The pigeons have it in for me.

Anti Weather

There are some things in life that we hate. Some people hate blue cheese. Some people hate origami. Some people hate moustaches. I hate weather.


I hate feeling too cold; I spend much of the Winter months wondering why no-one else looks as cold as I feel. I hate feeling too hot; it makes me panic. I hate rain; it makes my hair go frizzy. If it's sunny I really absolutely most definitely need sunglasses. In fact if it's a cloudless day I need sunglasses, I hate squinting, even only slightly. I detest wearing unsuitable footwear. If I'm wearing canvas pumps in the rain so my toes get wet, or flip flops when it's too cold or wellies when it's too warm....I'm breaking out in a sweat just thinking about it. And I hate sweating.

There are lots of reasons to hate rain. One of them, is that if I return home in the evening after dark, my front path is littered with a collection of about thirty snails and slugs. My house is in between lamp posts, so in order to see in the dark I hold up my mobile in one hand, trying to steer the pram with the other hand along the slime infested pathway. Of all the things in the world to squash, a slug is probably one of the worst. And only the crunch of a snail shell under your feet can top it. What can make this whole saga even more daunting, is when your toddler points to every snail and slug asking you to name them. So there I am tiptoeing, carefully steering and tipping the pram, hoping the battery on my phone isn't about to run out, all the while muttering "erm..Brian, that one's Lucinda. Gonzalez...errr...errr...shit...sorry Ky I thought we squashed one there - um, Rambo."

One of my worst and best weather experiences was when I went on a survival camping weekend in Wales. Which basically meant camping without any equipment. This experience was one of many that I used to sell as part of my job at the time. It was really stormy that October weekend. It was one of those weekends when they say it was the windiest weekend since 1940 or whatever. We had a hard enough job driving to the meeting point as we were being constantly diverted due to collapsing trees or shaky bridges. Surely a bad sign. One of the attendees was a journalist writing for 'One Wales' magazine. She explains it better:

"As we lay in profound darkness the whistle turned into a roar as the storm crashed through the trees. With gusts of wind up to 100mph it was one of the worst storms to hit the country in years - and I was under a holed tarpaulin on the top of a Welsh mountain. From the shadowy lumps of bodies in sleeping bags beside me came the occasional groan as rain blasted it's way through the roof. The laugh was that we had paid to be there."

I even get a mention as well as numerous picture shots of me looking dazed and windswept:

"As we sit waiting for everyone to arrive so that we can start our adventure, the gaggle of would-be survivors arrive from London. Sharada is wearing a leopardskin skirt and high heeled boots. An inane grin spreads across my face."

I was there with a few colleagues, and we were city dwellers, clueless, and we couldn't stop giving ourselves away. Just the odd comments, or the confused looks we gave when being told things like "Make your own tent with this old bit of tarpaulin and rope" or "I'm afraid you are not allowed to bring any of those toilet rolls with you." When we set off, in the pitch black, the guide told us we had to rely on our night vision. One of my colleagues, the receptionist, was seriously under the impression that he was going to hand out night vision goggles, to help us see in the dark. There is a great photo of me in the article holding a bit of rope and looking at it as if to say "What the fuck?"

It was a brilliant adventure. But after the first night of sleeping in our pitiful excuse of a tent, which got flooded several times throughout the night and collapsed on us, I realised the only way to get through the second night was by getting drunk enough to pass out.

We did come back feeling like fucking heroes. We changed that weekend; we were survivors now and that stony look in our eyes told you so.

It didn't last long. In fact on the way in to work the following Monday, it was raining and I accidentally stepped in a puddle. And I hate puddles.

Bad Hair Days

I believe in karma. I believe in reincarnation.

Which leads me to wonder, every now and again, what terrible crime I must have committed against hairdressers in my past life to be consistently punished by them in this life? Yes, you've guessed it, I've had a fringe trim. That's all, I hear you say? Well, if you have a fringe, you'll know, fellow fringers, that really, it's the most important part of your hair. The fringe can make the rest of the hairstyle, it frames the most important feature you have; your face. It can say "I have a nice face" or it can say "I've just had the worst fucking fringe cut ever. Stop looking at my face you wanker." It's the kind of fringe that you should only ever be wearing in dodgy school photos.

So what did I do? Maybe I were a bald king, who out of spite, banished all hairdressers into exile? How many more bad haircuts do I need to have to make up for this sin?

I remember my first hair disaster. As a youngster, I would make a habit of chewing gum, doing a handstand, and then getting gum stuck in my hair. It's the kind of thing that you should really learn not to do after the 1st, 2nd or even 3rd time. But my mum was forever chopping bits of chewing gum out of my hair and one day she decided enough was enough. She bribed me to have my hair cut short. The bribe was £10. Yes. £10. Imagine how much money that was in the early 1980's. When I walked into the Chatham shopping precint with that tenner, I was buzzing. I was RICH. I remember buying a Bucks Fizz record, a poster, about eight comics and what seemed like a lifetimes supply of sweets. And still I had change! And the little boy appearing in all the old family photos? Yep, that's me, with my ultra short, one step away from being shaved, chewing gum free haircut.

After this, I eventually grew my hair to an impressive waist length. However, this didn't last for long as my mum, whilst blow drying my hair, got the brush tangled into my hair and had to cut it out. She then went about cutting the rest of it to try and even it out, giving me the most unique hairstyle I've ever seen. She cunningly did this all the while complimenting me on this wonderful hairstyle which was apparently the height of fashion. Unfortunately, my sister, who had sat watching, was so taken in by my mums compliments that she insisted on having the same haircut, which my mother was obliged to fulfil so as not to alarm me to the hair disastrous truth of the matter.

Another childhood haircut disaster occurred when my mother finally gave in and let me have a perm, when I was about eight years old. Now, what I wanted, what I expected, what I dreamed of, was beautiful sleek ringlets. So when the end result looked as though a couple of unkempt poodles had died on my head, I was mortified.

My mum had left me at the hairdressers so I sat waiting for her to pick me up, managing to hold back my tears, sitting there completely stiff and rigid on the edge of my chair. When my mother came to pick me up, and failed to recognise me, walking straight past, asking the hairdresser where I was, who had to point in my direction, my mum squinted at me and exclaimed "Is that you?!" and I really wanted to die. All I could think about was how I was going to face school on Monday.

I got in the car and sobbed loudly and dramatically, holding my head down to hide from the cruel stares of the public. My mum stopped off at a shop and bought several packs of hairclips, then we went to my aunties house where I would now have to face my two cousins. Now, we all know how cruel children can be. I was all psyched up for the ordeal but when I walked into the room, my two cousins, instead of laughing, pointing, teasing, etc. simply froze in their tracks, and gasped. I remember that gasp, as clear as daylight, even now, and the look of horror on their faces. This hair was so bad, it was even beyond teasing. But somehow, with a bit of skill and about twenty hair clips, my mum managed to make it look just bad enough so that my cousins were brought out of their shock and were able to bring themselves to take the piss out of me. As for school, I remember insisting that I did not have a perm, my hair was always naturally curly.

And that's not the only time my mum has offered me a hair bribe. When I was about 17, I decided to stop washing my hair. Then every day at college, I would sit in the canteen with my friends twisting and backcombing my hair into dreadlocks. After a year or so, my mum could stand no more and offered me £100 to get my hair back to normal; this time I refused the bribe. Bribing a child is one thing, and normally successful, but an anarchist teenage who was having a major strop with the world? What an insult.

However, a few months later, having proved my point, I decided myself that I would go back to having normal hair. My mum took me to her friends hairdressing salon where it took the hairdresser, my mum and my aunt plus a whole bottle of olive oil and an excruciating couple of hours of them all picking at my hair, to untangle my mixed up teenage head.

Well, it seems that some of us are destined for bad hair days. As they say, it's only hair, it grows back. Ready for the next hair disaster...

Thou Shalt Not Steal

I realised today that it wasn't normal to feel okay about stealing in any way.

Don't get me wrong; I don't make a habit of it. But I do love a freebie. Freebies, goody bags and prizes are what keeps me going in life. So, if I do happen to help myself to a packet of Malteezers whilst doing my shopping in Sainsburys, I don't think it's a bad thing, in fact I think we are all winners here; I get some light relief from what is almost always a tiresome chore - especially if Ky is running up and down the aisles, knocking old people over, picking up random inappropriate items along each aisle and begging me to buy them. And Sainsburys, gets to thank me for my regular and valued custom - and they don't have to get all bogged down with paperwork - I've saved them the trouble; they've rewarded me with no trouble on their part. So I've never really thought of this as stealing.

Surprising really. Guilt is one of my favourite emotions. I believe in karma. I hate lying. With just these three characteristics you would never have thought I could have so much fun stealing. Oh lets stop using that word. Stealing! It's so harsh and judgemental. I prefer 'rewarding'.

Sometimes it's necessary to take matters into your own hands. Sainsburys don't have the time or willingness to make me feel like a valued customer. Only yesterday I had to be my own Sainsburys customer service agent. I bought a packet of Tofu, only to come home and discover the sealed packaging had a hole in it and the rest of my shopping was covered in Tofu juice. So, I brought it back to get it exchanged.

I should point out here, the immense gulf of difference between Waitrose and Sainsburys. When you are in Waitrose and you need some help, you only have to raise an eyebrow and someone will immediately rush to your rescue. If say, you can't find an item, a telepathically trained member of staff will appear as if by magic, and will always go the extra mile, to the point where you think they might even offer to pay for it. In Sainsburys, if you are lucky enough to find anyone around to help, you will wonder, by the confused or blank look on their faces when you speak to them, if you have actually made a mistake and you are talking to someone who just likes to wear a Sainsburys uniform and not to someone who has even heard of Sainsburys.

So, when I made my way to the Customer Services desk and found it empty, I waited in line to speak to one of the cashiers about my tofu problem. She said she was unable to perform exchanges and redirected me to the Customers desk. "But there's no-one there" I told her. "Maybe there is now" she offered. "But what if there's still no-one there?" Her head looked as though it was about to explode from this riddle. "Um..then come back to me." I couldn't even bothered to ask her how she would suddenly be bestowed with the ability to exchange a packet of tofu. I went back to the Customer Services desk which now had tumbleweed floating past. So, I thought, I'll just do it myself. Another favour to Sainsburys. Let me save them the trouble, let's cut out the middle man, I'll just put this soggy pack of tofu back on the shelf and pick up this lovely new packet of tofu and walk out. As I was walking out, the cashier I had spoken to was stocking shelves near the exit and eyed me with the tofu in my hand. She glared at me. Her face was saying "I know what you've just done. You're walking out with that packet of tofu without permission." I glared back. My face was saying "I dare you to actually go and find someone who can give a shit enough to come and sort it out then."

So, stealing is not black and white. Personally, I don't think the above experience should be filed anywhere near my other stealing stories, but I did think again when I went on to a parents forum the same night and realised how morally anal some people are. A mother had posted her dilemma. Out shopping with three kids, one of them picks up a dvd, she doesn't realise until she's got them all strapped up in the car. She's asking if it was wrong of her to not have to get all three kids back out of the car and go back in the supermarket to pay for it. There was some mums like me who were like, who cares, keep it, and even yippee, but also some replies like this:

"There really is no excuse. You saw your error, you had the opportunity to correct it. You chose to keep it. That is stealing".

"You could have called the store when you got home and asked them to debit your card, but no you would rather come on here and seek dubious approval for your thieving".

Heavy! It did make me think about how laid back I am about this rewarding yourself business. I don't consider myself a thief because I would never steal a penny off any person, or even small shop/business. But something about supermarkets...but before I start feeling too guilty, let me think of all the rich fat bastards that run Sainsburys and almost certainly write off holidays, designer suits and Jacuzzis as work expenses. Yep, I feel better about the malteezers already.

Theme Of The Week

That is it! That is fucking it.

You know how when you buy a car/pram/get pregnant/cut your hair, then you suddenly notice that everyone around you has the same car/pram/is up the duff/has longer hair than you, well it's all about building themes in your head. Ky, for example, has the theme of traffic in his head, thanks to The Traffic Club, so that even less than obvious traffic related sights (my red tracksuit bottoms = red = Rhonda red = Rhonda Red says Stop! when you see a car), will lead him to conclude "It's all about traffic."

Well my theme is not all about traffic. My theme is, how comes, everyone else has men falling for them except for me? Now, don't get me wrong. I most certainly want to be single. But it would be nice to have the choice. You know, turn a few men down. A few recent examples follow...

My sister; buggering off to spend 6 months abroad to be with her bloke after being single for about five minutes
My cousin; she hasn't EVEN managed to get the ex to move out yet and already found the next victim
My friend; recently single with three kids and I can't even manage a short conversation with her without her mobile going off every minute with dirty texts from various blokes
My friend's friend; has four kids, having an affair with her lodger, so that's two on the go
My aunt; In her sixties, with bloke, in his forties

And the last straw was when I bumped into Miss "Blokes keep asking me out but I'm just not interested at the moment", who has a daughter from her relationship to her ex, my cousin. I did hear through the grapevine that she had started seeing her best mate's son who is considerably younger than her, but this afternoon, there she was strolling down the road with him pushing the pram, and he is BLOODY GORGEOUS!!! Why not me? Why didn't he want to push my pram? Why didn't he ask me out so that I could turn him down?

Ok, I'm over it now. Let's change the theme. How comes everyone else has started dyeing their hair red since I did? And achieved a better result? For fucks sake...

The Rudeness Of Wankers

Had an encounter with a wanker this morning.

I saw the train pull in at the tube station so as I ran past the ticket window I called out "Can you open the gates please!" as getting the pram through the normal ticket gates can be a bit tricky especially if you are as spatially challenged as I am. Why do you think I don't drive a car.

I will add, that this request was delivered cheerfully and did not warrant the wanker behind the counter shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes! It's OPEN! The gate is OPEN!" So I went to the gate where prams are normally let through and returned to the counter to tell him, very politely, the gates were not open. More shouting. In fact, in case I don't mention it again, can I say that every time this wanker spoke to me, he was shouting. "THE GATE AT THE BACK! IT'S OPEN! OPEN I TELL YOU!" I told him, very calmly, there was no need to shout at me. Then he seemed a bit confused as he shouted "YOU STOP SHOUTING!" So I tells him "I'm not shouting sir, you are shouting. Please calm down."

Now I will add, at this point, never do I normally address anyone as sir, but in my head I already knew I would be making a complaint about this so I thought I'd throw 'sir' in to illustrate how polite and humble I am.

So, continuing to get confused he goes "YOU CALM DOWN! I'M NOT SHOUTING." Then realising he really was shouting he added "I'M SHOUTING SO THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME." Now that's a bit pathetic. Because he was not sitting a mile away behind a concrete wall, he was behind a glass pane with a microphone and I have managed several conversations in this way with no shouting at all. "You have an unpleasant tone" I told him to which he shouted a bit more then stormed off.

I waited a few minutes for the train, got steamed up and went back to the counter and called for him. He eventually came back after trying to ignore me and I asked him for his name. More shouting and confusion. "YES! YES! YOU CAN HAVE MY NAME! WHY YOU WANT MY NAME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY NAME!" He then shut the blind despite the fact there was a customer waiting to be served behind me, looking flabbergasted. I turned round to tell her the full story, at which point a couple of builders knocked on the wankers door, and upon overhearing my story one of them raised his eyebrow in sympathy, and as the wanker let the workers in I muttered "Someone round here isn't getting enough sex". I didn't say it loud enough for the wanker to hear, I hope, as I wouldn't want it to come up during the investigation. I only said it to make the builders laugh. They did snigger a bit.

After years of letting the wankers get away with, I recently decided that no more Mr nice guy, I am going to complain. So I just have. I managed to email my complaint in precise detail, because I actually went to the trouble of jotting notes immediately after the experience. I was going to record my encounter on my mobile, dictaphone style but even I thought I was now getting a bit carried away.

Which reminds me. How comes I have had no reply to my complaint letter which I submitted about two months ago to the Thomas and Friends merchandisers for the crappy light gadget I bought at the show which fell apart after a slight knock and the helium balloon which only lasted three days as opposed to several weeks? Time to complain again.

Empowering stuff this is. Don't let the wankers get away with it. We deserve more. COMPLAIN.