I don't like the traffic wardens who patrol the car park situated behind my workplace.
They are Very Bad People Indeed.
This is partly because they clearly have no morals and seem to enjoy making other people's lives miserable. We get a ticket at least once a month. This is because they know that we are stuck in the bingo hall all day, and from the minute we pull up, they are waiting for us to exceed the allocated five hours. If we go over by just five minutes, we'll have a ticket.
We have to move the car two or three times a day to avoid tickets or the ridiculous parking charges set by the city council. We can't get a bus because by the time we finish work, there are no direct routes to where we live and I, for one, am not willing to risk my life hanging around bus-stops late at night. Sorry about that, but I'm not. We simply can't afford to pay for parking, we don't get paid enough and to be honest, it's not like the government doesn't get enough out of us already with their weird and wonderful taxes.
The traffic wardens know my girlfriend's car. They seem to think of it as a piggy bank on wheels. I firmly believe that none of them would be struck down by lightening if they could be bothered to stick their heads in the back door of the building to ask her to move it if she's been parked in a space a minute too long. They, of course, disagree. This has resulted in numerous arguments, threats, tears and screaming matches- all of which still result in the inevitable ticket stuck on our windscreen.
The bit that makes me REALLY mad is that my girlfriend applied to be a traffic warden several years ago and in the application pack, it was described how these Nazis get a bonus for every car they put a ticket on! She didn't even bother sending it back, she was so disgusted. They are encouraged to hover around car parks like nasty little worker ants, waiting to pounce on YOUR car and make YOUR life miserable. AND they enjoy it AND get paid extra for creating as much collective misery as possible.
Next time you walk past somebody shouting at one of these parking bastards, do what I do.........
......Laugh your head off, they deserve to be made to feel bad about what they do....!
Monday 30 April 2007
Sunday 29 April 2007
Why The Smoking Ban Is A Bad Idea
Our Government is banning smoking in public places in just over two months time. Apparently this is because people in Britain have completely lost the ability to think for themselves, and need lots of help with staying healthy. Obviously the fundamental human right of having the freedom of choice to make our own decisions for better or for worse in our own lives is, apparently, no longer necessary.
I don't like non-smokers who give lectures on the dangers of smoking or cough loudly next to me while I'm puffing away in the pub. The worst kind of non-smoker is the ex-smoker. People who have managed to banish their filthy addiction seem to feel the need to let those of us who still enjoy the odd fag how much 'better' their life is now. Yawn.
Of course, smoking is bad for you. It can cause or contribute to all manner of nasty illnesses and in extreme cases, even death itself. The problem I have is that nowadays, everything is bad for you. Not just smoking, there is an enormous list that includes drinking alcohol, eating the 'wrong' food, watching television, surfing the Internet, non sleeping enough, not exercising enough, sleeping too much, exercising too much, salt and even drinking too much water can be fatal. Where does it stop? At what point are we going to say to ourselves that seeing as we're only on this planet for somewhere between fifty and a hundred years, which is a Very Short Time Indeed, perhaps we should stop worrying about what's going to kill us, and concentrate on enjoying the things that make us feel alive. And if that includes having a daily nicotine fix and the occasional beer and even (God Forbid!) the odd Friday night kebab, then so be it!
I am so fed up with being nannied constantly by the people who run this country. If I want to be unhealthy then that should be my choice.
I can hear non-smokers twitching. Yes, I know, smoking affects those around you too. So here is my message-
GO SOMEWHERE ELSE!
Use your own freedom of choice and BOG OFF!
I have no problems with abstaining from smoking around children, or in restaurants or cinemas or shops or art galleries or indeed any of the numerous places that already exist where you can't smoke. However, when I go to the pub, I want a fag. If I can't smoke when I'm out, I shall be staying in.
The biggest problem that this is going to create is the fact (certainly in my own opinion and experience) that smokers spend more money when they're out than non-smokers. They gamble harder, drink harder and generally try and enjoy themselves a bit more. I know that if I'm not out of work within six months of the ban being put in place, it will be a miracle.
So thank-you to all the people that lobbied for this. Well done! I'm going to end up unemployed so that you can stay in too- because it won't just be my little bingo hall that shuts down. Pubs, clubs and venues across the country will be closing their doors by this time next year.
And I still refuse to give up......
I'm no quitter!
I don't like non-smokers who give lectures on the dangers of smoking or cough loudly next to me while I'm puffing away in the pub. The worst kind of non-smoker is the ex-smoker. People who have managed to banish their filthy addiction seem to feel the need to let those of us who still enjoy the odd fag how much 'better' their life is now. Yawn.
Of course, smoking is bad for you. It can cause or contribute to all manner of nasty illnesses and in extreme cases, even death itself. The problem I have is that nowadays, everything is bad for you. Not just smoking, there is an enormous list that includes drinking alcohol, eating the 'wrong' food, watching television, surfing the Internet, non sleeping enough, not exercising enough, sleeping too much, exercising too much, salt and even drinking too much water can be fatal. Where does it stop? At what point are we going to say to ourselves that seeing as we're only on this planet for somewhere between fifty and a hundred years, which is a Very Short Time Indeed, perhaps we should stop worrying about what's going to kill us, and concentrate on enjoying the things that make us feel alive. And if that includes having a daily nicotine fix and the occasional beer and even (God Forbid!) the odd Friday night kebab, then so be it!
I am so fed up with being nannied constantly by the people who run this country. If I want to be unhealthy then that should be my choice.
I can hear non-smokers twitching. Yes, I know, smoking affects those around you too. So here is my message-
GO SOMEWHERE ELSE!
Use your own freedom of choice and BOG OFF!
I have no problems with abstaining from smoking around children, or in restaurants or cinemas or shops or art galleries or indeed any of the numerous places that already exist where you can't smoke. However, when I go to the pub, I want a fag. If I can't smoke when I'm out, I shall be staying in.
The biggest problem that this is going to create is the fact (certainly in my own opinion and experience) that smokers spend more money when they're out than non-smokers. They gamble harder, drink harder and generally try and enjoy themselves a bit more. I know that if I'm not out of work within six months of the ban being put in place, it will be a miracle.
So thank-you to all the people that lobbied for this. Well done! I'm going to end up unemployed so that you can stay in too- because it won't just be my little bingo hall that shuts down. Pubs, clubs and venues across the country will be closing their doors by this time next year.
And I still refuse to give up......
I'm no quitter!
Friday 27 April 2007
The Problem With Blogging
This is my sixth blog. I recently discovered blogging and have to confess that it's thoroughly enjoyable. I get to vent all the things that usually make me Very Bad Tempered Indeed and I've always enjoyed writing things down. A few years ago, a friend of mine had an ex-girlfriend who used to keep an online diary, which I have to confess to making fun of. This was chiefly because she used it to publicly denounce him and call him all sorts of names and he, the fool, used to read her vitriolic outbursts on a regular basis and then complain about it for days on end. I don't know if anyone but the two of them ever read it, but it was a bone of contention between them, long after their relationship should have been dead, buried and forgotten about.
Nobody but me is reading my blog. I know this because I spent about four hours yesterday trying to work out how to get a site-meter that worked on it. I am not computer literate. I can do the basics like switching it on and off and shopping online but that's about it. I spent a disgusting amount of money on my PC and have a super-fast Internet connection along with a memory the size of Bulgaria but despite all this, it is still a foreign land to me. I am learning though and after much fiddling and swearing yesterday, I found a site that does meters and actually explained how to put one on my blog. In really easy-to-understand terms.
This is part of the problem with the Internet. Most people know what they're doing with computers, and for those of us that only have a vague recollection of banging away on a keyboard the size of an average fridge-freezer whilst at school, they have changed somewhat. If you don't know what you're doing, you daren't ask anybody for fear of being ridiculed so if you need to do something new, the only way forward is Trial and Error.
The thing is, I only wanted a meter because I know that Other People Have Them. Not because I am expecting vast amounts of cyber-traffic to come hurtling through my little world, three days after it came into existence. But then, as the various sites that supply them explained to me, if I don't have one, I will never know how many people are viewing my little blog. Even if it's only two other people over the course of the next millenia.
I got sucked in to a bizarre Internet-exclusive marketing ploy. I admit it! In the real world, I am immune to these sort of sales pitches. I have even mastered the art of going to the supermarket with a list of What I Need, only purchasing What I Need and not buying anything that's on offer because they say it's What I Need. I am going to have to work on my will of steel whilst online I think......
If you are reading this, I now know about it and you can be self-assured you have cheered me up and made my four hour expedition to get a meter that works all worthwhile. Thank-you xx
Nobody but me is reading my blog. I know this because I spent about four hours yesterday trying to work out how to get a site-meter that worked on it. I am not computer literate. I can do the basics like switching it on and off and shopping online but that's about it. I spent a disgusting amount of money on my PC and have a super-fast Internet connection along with a memory the size of Bulgaria but despite all this, it is still a foreign land to me. I am learning though and after much fiddling and swearing yesterday, I found a site that does meters and actually explained how to put one on my blog. In really easy-to-understand terms.
This is part of the problem with the Internet. Most people know what they're doing with computers, and for those of us that only have a vague recollection of banging away on a keyboard the size of an average fridge-freezer whilst at school, they have changed somewhat. If you don't know what you're doing, you daren't ask anybody for fear of being ridiculed so if you need to do something new, the only way forward is Trial and Error.
The thing is, I only wanted a meter because I know that Other People Have Them. Not because I am expecting vast amounts of cyber-traffic to come hurtling through my little world, three days after it came into existence. But then, as the various sites that supply them explained to me, if I don't have one, I will never know how many people are viewing my little blog. Even if it's only two other people over the course of the next millenia.
I got sucked in to a bizarre Internet-exclusive marketing ploy. I admit it! In the real world, I am immune to these sort of sales pitches. I have even mastered the art of going to the supermarket with a list of What I Need, only purchasing What I Need and not buying anything that's on offer because they say it's What I Need. I am going to have to work on my will of steel whilst online I think......
If you are reading this, I now know about it and you can be self-assured you have cheered me up and made my four hour expedition to get a meter that works all worthwhile. Thank-you xx
Thursday 26 April 2007
The Problem With Having A Brilliant Little Brother
My brother is brilliant.
It's not that he's just cool or clever or successful. He's almost a genius but without any of the social awkwardness normally associated with people who are Very Clever Indeed.
He has a beautiful, brilliant girlfriend who is tall and blonde and almost as brilliant as he is. I am sure that one day in the future, they will be the proud parents to a small army of blonde, blue-eyed beautiful, brilliant children.
He has a degree now, which he managed to sail through without any stress or worry whatsoever. Naturally, he got a first in subjects that I didn't understand and frankly couldn't pronounce if I did know what they were. He's got a job fiddling about with computers for which he earns a lot more than me, even though I am Management and have worked (very hard) for the same company for over six years.
Since we were little, anything that I could do, he could do better, faster and in a generally more productive and/or creative way. Even the tantrums he threw as a toddler were more spectacular, people in China could hear him screaming when he didn't get his own way.
I attempted to learn guitar, and am still struggling with the same four chords over ten years on. During the same time-scale, he has mastered guitar, can riff like Jimi and hasn't bothered playing his for ages as he is now 'bored' with it as there isn't really much more for him to learn.
We used to go to karate. I gave up after a little while because I got fed up with getting beaten up by the bigger kids during 'sparring' sessions. He is now a super-duper black-belted teaching person who could probably kill you with his big toe whilst filling in the Times crossword and fixing your computer all at the same time.
The problem with having a brilliant little brother isn't really jealousy as such (any more). I always felt a huge amount of pressure to succeed when I was a child, especially as I was the eldest. I was meant to set an example for him to 'look up to'. Ha! He has surpassed me in nearly everything I have ever attempted to do. Although my extended family would never say as much, I know they all breathed a collective sigh of relief when he finished university. My parents only had one 'failure' who was obviously just a blip on the radar, leading up to the bright shining light that is my younger sibling.
The Real problem is that I am always forgetting that he really doesn't need me to attempt to look after him any more. I love him very much and am so proud of his many achievements. The last time we went out for a drink, I insisted on paying for him as I still think of him as a poor student, even though he hasn't been for a long time and has a bigger salary and less bills to pay than I do!
The Real problem is that at some point, I am going to have to allow him to look after me. In the future, no doubt, he will be the one buying the expensive presents whilst I try and scrabble the pennies together for a Cd and some socks for him. He will be the one that makes sure 'they' don't put me in a home before I'm ready. And, he will be the one going to the bar while I get smashed for free!!
Actually, that doesn't sound too bad.........!
It's not that he's just cool or clever or successful. He's almost a genius but without any of the social awkwardness normally associated with people who are Very Clever Indeed.
He has a beautiful, brilliant girlfriend who is tall and blonde and almost as brilliant as he is. I am sure that one day in the future, they will be the proud parents to a small army of blonde, blue-eyed beautiful, brilliant children.
He has a degree now, which he managed to sail through without any stress or worry whatsoever. Naturally, he got a first in subjects that I didn't understand and frankly couldn't pronounce if I did know what they were. He's got a job fiddling about with computers for which he earns a lot more than me, even though I am Management and have worked (very hard) for the same company for over six years.
Since we were little, anything that I could do, he could do better, faster and in a generally more productive and/or creative way. Even the tantrums he threw as a toddler were more spectacular, people in China could hear him screaming when he didn't get his own way.
I attempted to learn guitar, and am still struggling with the same four chords over ten years on. During the same time-scale, he has mastered guitar, can riff like Jimi and hasn't bothered playing his for ages as he is now 'bored' with it as there isn't really much more for him to learn.
We used to go to karate. I gave up after a little while because I got fed up with getting beaten up by the bigger kids during 'sparring' sessions. He is now a super-duper black-belted teaching person who could probably kill you with his big toe whilst filling in the Times crossword and fixing your computer all at the same time.
The problem with having a brilliant little brother isn't really jealousy as such (any more). I always felt a huge amount of pressure to succeed when I was a child, especially as I was the eldest. I was meant to set an example for him to 'look up to'. Ha! He has surpassed me in nearly everything I have ever attempted to do. Although my extended family would never say as much, I know they all breathed a collective sigh of relief when he finished university. My parents only had one 'failure' who was obviously just a blip on the radar, leading up to the bright shining light that is my younger sibling.
The Real problem is that I am always forgetting that he really doesn't need me to attempt to look after him any more. I love him very much and am so proud of his many achievements. The last time we went out for a drink, I insisted on paying for him as I still think of him as a poor student, even though he hasn't been for a long time and has a bigger salary and less bills to pay than I do!
The Real problem is that at some point, I am going to have to allow him to look after me. In the future, no doubt, he will be the one buying the expensive presents whilst I try and scrabble the pennies together for a Cd and some socks for him. He will be the one that makes sure 'they' don't put me in a home before I'm ready. And, he will be the one going to the bar while I get smashed for free!!
Actually, that doesn't sound too bad.........!
Wednesday 25 April 2007
Why Today Was (Nearly) A Complete Disaster
Today was awful.
For the first time in the history of my life, I got up at 6am without any problems or tantrums. However, the initial good start rapidly went downhill...
The taxi was on time but the driver didn't really speak any English and apparently, we were only the third customers that he had ever had as it was his first day. We spent the ride to the station frantically shrieking at him to ignore his sat-nav as it directed him to completely the wrong place. When we got to the station, I bought a coffee, only to discover a short time later that my cup had a hole in the bottom and was leaking violently over my best jeans.
The boring train journey proceeded without any further major incident until on arrival at Waterloo, we decided to go to Burger King to get a egg-muffin processed breakfast. I attempted to walk up the stairs and somehow managed to fall over them in spectacular style in front of about twenty people who then proceeded to point and laugh at me. I must confess to having a little cry as I really hurt my knee (not that this invoked any sympathy whatsoever from my audience).
We made it to my audition which, it transpired, involved that favourite British pastime, The Queue.
After indulging ourselves in Three hours of non-stop crazy queueing, I realised that as I had not made the effort to show-off to the cameras (that the film crew appeared to be attempting to insert into every orifice of every contestant), I didn't have a hope in hell of being selected to sing in front of the lovely Simon Cowell. Not that he was there today, but we all had to pretend enthusiastically that he was. Or rather other people did, whilst I sat on the floor nursing my injured knee. Eventually, I got to sing for about four seconds to the grumpiest man I have ever met in my entire life. He said no, I stupidly thanked him for his time (I wish my manners would stop making me be polite to people when I want to punch them!), and then it was time for me to leave. Weirdly enough, I wasn't really cross about anything other than my very sore knee. I actually (despite grumpy man's opinion) sang really well, didn't miss a note, or feel wracked with nerves. Hurrah!
We mooched around Camden and Leicester Square for a bit, and then decided to head home as my rail ticket wasn't working when I got on and off the tubes so every time I wanted to get in and out of a station, I had to ask an attendant for help. Apparently today was 'I Think I'm A Stand Up Comic' day for all staff working the London Underground and after an entire day of people joking that I would have to live on the tubes forever (I'm claustrophobic) I was pretty much ready not to have to endure any more of their humour.
The train journey home was Awful. There were no seats so we had to sit on the floor by the toilets listening to some office worker (whose electronic equipment was taking up about six seats in the carriage) blah on his mobile to Klause, Clive and Ivan whilst trying not to openly keel over in fits of laughter at him. There were no taxis in the rank when we finally got off so we cleverly decided to kill our feet a bit more by walking to the pub.
When we got to the pub, we discovered it was 'closed for refurbishment'. I could have cried, especially when I realised we had left both our mobiles indoors and there was no payphone within a ten-mile radius so we'd be walking the rest of the way home.
I have spent the rest of the evening in (another) pub. We made it back and then my girlfriend's sister came to pick us up. I have now drank about ten shots of vodka so am feeling pretty good. Have to work tomorrow with a hangover but am feeling pretty positive as it can't be worse than today (I hope!).
And that is why today was (nearly) a complete disaster.......
For the first time in the history of my life, I got up at 6am without any problems or tantrums. However, the initial good start rapidly went downhill...
The taxi was on time but the driver didn't really speak any English and apparently, we were only the third customers that he had ever had as it was his first day. We spent the ride to the station frantically shrieking at him to ignore his sat-nav as it directed him to completely the wrong place. When we got to the station, I bought a coffee, only to discover a short time later that my cup had a hole in the bottom and was leaking violently over my best jeans.
The boring train journey proceeded without any further major incident until on arrival at Waterloo, we decided to go to Burger King to get a egg-muffin processed breakfast. I attempted to walk up the stairs and somehow managed to fall over them in spectacular style in front of about twenty people who then proceeded to point and laugh at me. I must confess to having a little cry as I really hurt my knee (not that this invoked any sympathy whatsoever from my audience).
We made it to my audition which, it transpired, involved that favourite British pastime, The Queue.
After indulging ourselves in Three hours of non-stop crazy queueing, I realised that as I had not made the effort to show-off to the cameras (that the film crew appeared to be attempting to insert into every orifice of every contestant), I didn't have a hope in hell of being selected to sing in front of the lovely Simon Cowell. Not that he was there today, but we all had to pretend enthusiastically that he was. Or rather other people did, whilst I sat on the floor nursing my injured knee. Eventually, I got to sing for about four seconds to the grumpiest man I have ever met in my entire life. He said no, I stupidly thanked him for his time (I wish my manners would stop making me be polite to people when I want to punch them!), and then it was time for me to leave. Weirdly enough, I wasn't really cross about anything other than my very sore knee. I actually (despite grumpy man's opinion) sang really well, didn't miss a note, or feel wracked with nerves. Hurrah!
We mooched around Camden and Leicester Square for a bit, and then decided to head home as my rail ticket wasn't working when I got on and off the tubes so every time I wanted to get in and out of a station, I had to ask an attendant for help. Apparently today was 'I Think I'm A Stand Up Comic' day for all staff working the London Underground and after an entire day of people joking that I would have to live on the tubes forever (I'm claustrophobic) I was pretty much ready not to have to endure any more of their humour.
The train journey home was Awful. There were no seats so we had to sit on the floor by the toilets listening to some office worker (whose electronic equipment was taking up about six seats in the carriage) blah on his mobile to Klause, Clive and Ivan whilst trying not to openly keel over in fits of laughter at him. There were no taxis in the rank when we finally got off so we cleverly decided to kill our feet a bit more by walking to the pub.
When we got to the pub, we discovered it was 'closed for refurbishment'. I could have cried, especially when I realised we had left both our mobiles indoors and there was no payphone within a ten-mile radius so we'd be walking the rest of the way home.
I have spent the rest of the evening in (another) pub. We made it back and then my girlfriend's sister came to pick us up. I have now drank about ten shots of vodka so am feeling pretty good. Have to work tomorrow with a hangover but am feeling pretty positive as it can't be worse than today (I hope!).
And that is why today was (nearly) a complete disaster.......
Tuesday 24 April 2007
The Story of Why I Hate Tuesdays
I hate Tuesdays because they are my least favourite day at work.
For some reason, on Tuesday the vast majority of customers that come to play bingo are Evil. Some of them are nice, but most of them are not.
Every Tuesday, by about lunch-time, I will be in a Very Bad Mood. This is usually because numerous people will have been rude to me, talked to me like I am four years old, or just been incredably awkward. Add to that the fact that we are always short-staffed on Tuesday, (this is because the person who does the rota does not work on Tuesday, so they don't care) and you have a volatile recipe for Bad Tempers.
When I am old, every Tuesday I will go to bingo, (that is if old people are not forced to stay in their homes, which is where the government seems to think they should stay, by the time I am old) and every Tuesday I will be horrible to everyone. I will order food that I know the kitchen doesn't serve, I will only purchase my bingo books with a large purse full of pennies that I will count out very slowly whilst standing at the front of a huge queue and I will refuse to say please or thank-you. Looking forward to behaving in this way is the only thing that is currently keeping me going through my Tuesday shifts.
Today I also have the joy of knowing that my x-factor 'audition' is tomorrow and I am Very Scared about having to spend an afternoon with a large crowd of screaming people. I am not sure if it's going to be fun or complete and utter torture. I haven't told anybody I'm going, apart from my girlfriend but as she's told nearly everybody we know, they have spent the day wishing me luck and being very nice. Am hoping that as all these people are supposed to care about me, they wouldn't let me do it if they thought I was going to look a total plonker...... at least I hope not!! Fingers crossed anyway........
For some reason, on Tuesday the vast majority of customers that come to play bingo are Evil. Some of them are nice, but most of them are not.
Every Tuesday, by about lunch-time, I will be in a Very Bad Mood. This is usually because numerous people will have been rude to me, talked to me like I am four years old, or just been incredably awkward. Add to that the fact that we are always short-staffed on Tuesday, (this is because the person who does the rota does not work on Tuesday, so they don't care) and you have a volatile recipe for Bad Tempers.
When I am old, every Tuesday I will go to bingo, (that is if old people are not forced to stay in their homes, which is where the government seems to think they should stay, by the time I am old) and every Tuesday I will be horrible to everyone. I will order food that I know the kitchen doesn't serve, I will only purchase my bingo books with a large purse full of pennies that I will count out very slowly whilst standing at the front of a huge queue and I will refuse to say please or thank-you. Looking forward to behaving in this way is the only thing that is currently keeping me going through my Tuesday shifts.
Today I also have the joy of knowing that my x-factor 'audition' is tomorrow and I am Very Scared about having to spend an afternoon with a large crowd of screaming people. I am not sure if it's going to be fun or complete and utter torture. I haven't told anybody I'm going, apart from my girlfriend but as she's told nearly everybody we know, they have spent the day wishing me luck and being very nice. Am hoping that as all these people are supposed to care about me, they wouldn't let me do it if they thought I was going to look a total plonker...... at least I hope not!! Fingers crossed anyway........
Monday 23 April 2007
The Diet of a Self Confessed Failure
It occurred to me as I was making my dinner this evening that perhaps sausage and chips (albeit of the grilled variety) was perhaps not the healthiest option that I could have chosen.
I have tried numerous diets and have found that none of them work unless you're stressed and miserable and therefore not really eating anything at all.
In fact, the only time I have ever really been 'slim' was when I was totally unhappy. I have recently come to the conclusion that I will always be a little bit fat and am hoping that this is something I can come to terms with.
Easier said than done I think.
Which brings me to the slimming club at work.
It's not technically a club as such but it's my own personal name for a group of what can only be described politely as 'larger' ladies. They're all in their forties/fifties and every single one of them has been on a diet for the entire time I've known them. Not one of them has, to my knowledge, actually lost weight despite the daily protestations of living on lettuce and exercising rigorously fifteen times a day, which must be when they're asleep I think as I'm not sure when else they could fit it in. Perhaps they rope themselves into StairMasters at night..... maybe that's where I've gone wrong!
The slimming club is not, collectively, doing anybody but themselves any harm and personally I don't believe in criticising anybody else for their lifestyle choices BUT.....
Every time I have to eat my dinner at work at least one, if not the whole group will descend on me 'en masse' and inform me of the entire calorie/fat/sugar content of every single spoonful that goes in my mouth! It drives me nuts and for quite a long time I confined myself to my tiny office at meal times.
My girlfriend (whom I work with) has managed to get me to emerge from my self-imposed isolation and eat like a normal person in front of other people. She, of course, is a trim size 8 despite the fact she eats about fifty chocolate bars a day and, quite rightly, doesn't give a stuff if the slimming club start analysing her food choices. She, in fact, takes great joy in eating even more rubbish despite their noisy health alerts. I wish I could be that confident, however I know that just looking at a mars bar will result in my gaining five pounds. Or twenty if I'm having a really crap day...........
I have tried numerous diets and have found that none of them work unless you're stressed and miserable and therefore not really eating anything at all.
In fact, the only time I have ever really been 'slim' was when I was totally unhappy. I have recently come to the conclusion that I will always be a little bit fat and am hoping that this is something I can come to terms with.
Easier said than done I think.
Which brings me to the slimming club at work.
It's not technically a club as such but it's my own personal name for a group of what can only be described politely as 'larger' ladies. They're all in their forties/fifties and every single one of them has been on a diet for the entire time I've known them. Not one of them has, to my knowledge, actually lost weight despite the daily protestations of living on lettuce and exercising rigorously fifteen times a day, which must be when they're asleep I think as I'm not sure when else they could fit it in. Perhaps they rope themselves into StairMasters at night..... maybe that's where I've gone wrong!
The slimming club is not, collectively, doing anybody but themselves any harm and personally I don't believe in criticising anybody else for their lifestyle choices BUT.....
Every time I have to eat my dinner at work at least one, if not the whole group will descend on me 'en masse' and inform me of the entire calorie/fat/sugar content of every single spoonful that goes in my mouth! It drives me nuts and for quite a long time I confined myself to my tiny office at meal times.
My girlfriend (whom I work with) has managed to get me to emerge from my self-imposed isolation and eat like a normal person in front of other people. She, of course, is a trim size 8 despite the fact she eats about fifty chocolate bars a day and, quite rightly, doesn't give a stuff if the slimming club start analysing her food choices. She, in fact, takes great joy in eating even more rubbish despite their noisy health alerts. I wish I could be that confident, however I know that just looking at a mars bar will result in my gaining five pounds. Or twenty if I'm having a really crap day...........
The First Entry of a Self Confessed Failure
I wonder how many of these online blogs are the direct result of people either reading or watching Bridget Jones?
Not that I think that's a bad thing, it's just that most of us don't have a happy ending, or at least have no hope of one.
I've decided to make a record of my various rants, personally I prefer physically writing in a diary but as I haven't even managed to learn how to hold a pen properly in my twenty-six years of life, it's easier (and less painful) to type.
Of course, I had a whole gigantic number of things to be angry about this morning, but now I'm sitting here I can't remember what any of them were..... Apart from maybe how bad my memory's getting! And how despite the fact that I swore that I never would, I'm turning slowly but surely into my mother. Not that that's really a bad thing either, but she's REALLY forgetful.
I hate being twenty-six. It's rubbish.
When I was at school, I thought that by the time you get to your mid-to-late twenties, you would at least have some sort of idea of where your life is going and perhaps be somewhere on the ladder to an interesting and fulfilling career. Instead I find myself in a dead-end job in a bingo hall (which thanks to Tony Blaire's glorious no-smoking campaign will no doubt be closing within the year) with no future prospects and nothing to show for my life so far apart from an ever increasing list of dissappointments, disasters and missed opportunities. Ho hum.
I wouldn't mind as, to be honest, I've brought most of the crap on myself but I really did try to do things the right way. I did alright in my GCSEs, attempted A-Levels (failed there though!), did a BTEC instead for which I got fantastic results, went back to college for an HND (didn't finish due to a slight total meltdown), stuck with a job after being promised that it was going somewhere and then woke up six years later to discover that now I feel trapped in my 'career' and nobody else wants to employ me because I don't have the relavent experience to do anything else.(God forbid that anybody wants to actually TRAIN new employees. There must be factories somewhere churning out a bunch of people who fit job advertisements to the letter because NOBODY offers training any more)
I didn't get a degree because, quite frankly, I didn't feel the urge to get thousands of pounds into debt for something that, with my track record, I was doomed to fail at anyway. I didn't get pregnant young, join the french foreign legion OR learn to drive. The latter I am now regretting as bus fares amount to about the same as the cost of buying a small island in the outer hebrides. And DON'T get me started on the trains. In two days I am auditioning for x-factor. This was not my idea but my girlfriend seems to think that it would be 'brilliant' and that I should give it a go. I suspect it has more to do with her wierd crush on Simon Cowell than it does to do with her confidence in my ability but, to be honest, I'm sidestepping the point.
Because we have to leave at 8 in the morning we have to pay £60 EACH! I nearly leapt over the counter and strangled the smug sales assistant when she told me. The only reason I did pay the disgusting fee was that she was looking down her nose at me like there was no way in hell that I could afford such a ridiculous fare. Which of course made me want to prove that I could. The irony is that I can't really, but there was no way I was going to let HER know that.
I hate being poor.
It's rubbish.
We both work 40 hours a week and once we've paid our many bills, we can afford to go out maybe twice a month. If we're lucky. I had more spare cash when I was at college!
And I haven't had a weekend off for ever. Or a bank-holiday. AND I have to work evenings a lot of the time and I'm always tired. I would just like to know at what point do you wake up to discover that all your hard work is actually paying off. Or am I doomed to always fail at things that I would desperately like to at least have some level of competance at? I gave up on being brilliant at anything years ago so my expectations aren't even that high! One day I would like to actually own my own little two-bed semi with a garden and off-road parking. And work a job where I get evenings and weekends off. That's it. Apparently even this is setting my sights too high though, so it's back to the drawing board to 're-invent' myself once again....
Ho-hum.
Not that I think that's a bad thing, it's just that most of us don't have a happy ending, or at least have no hope of one.
I've decided to make a record of my various rants, personally I prefer physically writing in a diary but as I haven't even managed to learn how to hold a pen properly in my twenty-six years of life, it's easier (and less painful) to type.
Of course, I had a whole gigantic number of things to be angry about this morning, but now I'm sitting here I can't remember what any of them were..... Apart from maybe how bad my memory's getting! And how despite the fact that I swore that I never would, I'm turning slowly but surely into my mother. Not that that's really a bad thing either, but she's REALLY forgetful.
I hate being twenty-six. It's rubbish.
When I was at school, I thought that by the time you get to your mid-to-late twenties, you would at least have some sort of idea of where your life is going and perhaps be somewhere on the ladder to an interesting and fulfilling career. Instead I find myself in a dead-end job in a bingo hall (which thanks to Tony Blaire's glorious no-smoking campaign will no doubt be closing within the year) with no future prospects and nothing to show for my life so far apart from an ever increasing list of dissappointments, disasters and missed opportunities. Ho hum.
I wouldn't mind as, to be honest, I've brought most of the crap on myself but I really did try to do things the right way. I did alright in my GCSEs, attempted A-Levels (failed there though!), did a BTEC instead for which I got fantastic results, went back to college for an HND (didn't finish due to a slight total meltdown), stuck with a job after being promised that it was going somewhere and then woke up six years later to discover that now I feel trapped in my 'career' and nobody else wants to employ me because I don't have the relavent experience to do anything else.(God forbid that anybody wants to actually TRAIN new employees. There must be factories somewhere churning out a bunch of people who fit job advertisements to the letter because NOBODY offers training any more)
I didn't get a degree because, quite frankly, I didn't feel the urge to get thousands of pounds into debt for something that, with my track record, I was doomed to fail at anyway. I didn't get pregnant young, join the french foreign legion OR learn to drive. The latter I am now regretting as bus fares amount to about the same as the cost of buying a small island in the outer hebrides. And DON'T get me started on the trains. In two days I am auditioning for x-factor. This was not my idea but my girlfriend seems to think that it would be 'brilliant' and that I should give it a go. I suspect it has more to do with her wierd crush on Simon Cowell than it does to do with her confidence in my ability but, to be honest, I'm sidestepping the point.
Because we have to leave at 8 in the morning we have to pay £60 EACH! I nearly leapt over the counter and strangled the smug sales assistant when she told me. The only reason I did pay the disgusting fee was that she was looking down her nose at me like there was no way in hell that I could afford such a ridiculous fare. Which of course made me want to prove that I could. The irony is that I can't really, but there was no way I was going to let HER know that.
I hate being poor.
It's rubbish.
We both work 40 hours a week and once we've paid our many bills, we can afford to go out maybe twice a month. If we're lucky. I had more spare cash when I was at college!
And I haven't had a weekend off for ever. Or a bank-holiday. AND I have to work evenings a lot of the time and I'm always tired. I would just like to know at what point do you wake up to discover that all your hard work is actually paying off. Or am I doomed to always fail at things that I would desperately like to at least have some level of competance at? I gave up on being brilliant at anything years ago so my expectations aren't even that high! One day I would like to actually own my own little two-bed semi with a garden and off-road parking. And work a job where I get evenings and weekends off. That's it. Apparently even this is setting my sights too high though, so it's back to the drawing board to 're-invent' myself once again....
Ho-hum.
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