This Is My Affair

Because he's worth it ...

Monday, January 30, 2006

Sorry, that wasn't quite the last snippet

The news referred to in the post before last is not the only little bomblette to be lobbed our way. The other concerns the only daughter c.16 years old of friends, recently in a car accident and receiving psychiatric treatment (aka counselling, aka a good talking with).

But the daughter has just announced she's become a Goth - a blonde Goth (since she doesn't like hair dyes, too full of chemicals) and one without piercings (too painful).

And finally, regarding our friend in Philadelphia

The Fat Bastard has announced that he wants to spend a Saturday with his dear old mum, a particular Saturday in mid-February.

So far what I have is that he wants to go over early, so he's taking the day off work. Fine. But I'm willing to bet heaps that as we get closer to the day he'll announce that he's going over the night before ... and then that he'll stay over Sat. night and come back on Sunday - because it really doesn't make sense to be traipsing back and forth all weekend and this is the way to maximise his time with his dear old mum.

I'd also bet heaps that the Fool from Philly has a business trip to Europe/the UK scheduled for either the week before or the week after ... and that a leeeetle rendezvous is being contemplated.

oh, and another thing

A couple of nights ago he came out with a truly astounding piece of news about someone that we both know. This piece of news came completely out of left field and while the gist is not impossible, it still seems so staggeringly improbable that I can't put it down here... you see I do suspect that he might be watching this.

The news just isn't the sort of thing you could make up and is so rare as to make it extraordinarily unlikely that two people would receive this news on the same day.

So I can't say anything more at the moment, so this is something else for the to-do list.

Bits and pieces

On edge at the moment because of uncertainty surrounding our financial position. Sometimes lay all the figures our and swear I'll get there; other times I look at the figures and think I'm stuck here for eternity - that there will never be anything more than squalor and filth and lies and scraping from one month to the next.

His latest wheeze is to join one of the local sailing clubs. He doesn't know what the joining fee would be or the annual membership fee, but he thinks it would be a good ides.

He is an idiot.

But I did this morning discover something rather curious. At the risk of appearing to have a toilet (wc) obsession I was awake and alert enough to pay close auditory attention to his ablutions this morning. Long and loud, but no simultaneous farting to report. It was after the long steady stream had petered out that the interesting bit came. Distinctly I heard him unwind some loo roll and wipe something down with meticulous care. So he can't be arsed to lift and drop the seat, but when he's sober he will go to the trouble of cleaning it afterwards.

How sweet and thoughtful.

The money 'thing' is not good, although the only very immediate pressure seems to be coming fro the water company, from whom I have three red letters sitting by the front door. Only problem is that with Christmas and the birthday I have absolutely no money, or rather I have a magnificent £2 and some shrapnel, which isn't going to get me very far in this life though it might help getting me in with the right-on crowd in the next. He was paid last Thursday.

A little bit of it coming my way would be helpful.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

My to do list

I've just looked over the little list I put together for myself and concluded that it is in need of some refining. But I've spent all day on my feet, which are now sore and swollen, and I'm feeling quite drained so I'm going to give it a miss. I have Thursday morning, the day we're paid, at home and I'll try and catch up - assuming I'm still alive.

If tonight's meal is anything to go by this will be a long and nutrient free haul. He baked the think pieces of lamb to the point where they looked like and had the texture of over-cooked crispy bacon. As an accompaniment he served up 'twizzler' type potato confections for child while we had a sachet of cous cous each. I fear several of the major food groups were under-represented. Prolonged exposure to this died would lead directly to malnutrition.

And it is probably a partial explanation for my feeling of utter exhaustion.

Too, too tired for anything else.

Memo to self

Must reflect further on news that the Fat Bastard has been claiming a Nervous Breakdown (wonder if he's told her in Philadelphia).

Must reflect on my reaction, the feelings it has stirred up and the memories of suspicions I once had that he was a man in need of help.

Must recount the plant room incident.

Must record the reaction when I walked in the door and what happened when I suggested how we might have handled yesterday's situation.

Must put down here a few observations about my dear colleague.

Have to go, because I'm working again today, all day; hopefully the Fat Bastard will fuck off early enough for me to sit down before I'm too tired to get this recorded.

Monday, January 23, 2006

The Plot Thickens

Been at work this afternoon. Loads to record: some of it flattering, some of it aggravating, some of it downright hilarious (but probably only if you were there at the time).

Also some of it rather bathetic.

But anyway the thing I've found time to report (after a couple of glasses of Jacob's Creek Shiraz Cab. 2004)

We were in the office, chatting as colleagues will. El Supremo was there along with a couple of others and some how the Fat Bastard's conduct came up... and before he could help himself ES mentioned The Fat Bastard's Nervous Breakdown.

The Fat Bastard's Nervous Breakdown.

He spotted my amused disbelief and began back-pedalling at a tremendous rate of knots... the more I've thought about this since the more I suspect that there might be something in this, and that the Fat Bastard might just have legitimately claimed some kind of collapse - something at least akin to a Nervous Breakdown.

The story in short is that the Fat Bastard may or may not at some point in the past have claimed or hinted at a Nervous Breakdown. Some probing of Manager's Assistant Z suggests that this event supposedly occurred between the job he was claiming to have held immediately before joining the company we now work for and coming here, which she named and which happens to be the job he was allegedly doing some time before I left my Management Consulting job (ie, 2002 at the latest).

The problems with this story are several. For one thing in between working for the MOD (or not working for the MOD as the truth may be) and working for our current employer the Fat Bastard held down at least one other job; that of weed sprayer in ordinary for a local firm.

So the Fat Bastard falsified his employment record. But therein lies a problem for me: it suggests he put the MOD down on his application which, presumably, was checked as mine was.

Hmmm

But back to that Nervous Breakdown.

I know for a fact that the Fat Bastard didn't have a nervous breakdown anytime between 2001 and 200(now) because that is precisely the period during which he rekindled the affair with that poor deluded fool from Philadelphia, PA.

No change in behaviour, no change in habit. Same old lying, deceiving, indolent, squalid bastard.

But ....

In the period before that which currently I've recounted, in the distant past before I thought I was losing my mind and the realised I wasn't I went through a period of wondering whether he needed psychiatric help.

And possibly in the distant days when I cared, when I looked at him and wanted only to help I saw something clearly that in the intervening years has become obscured by pain and hurt. This is a very sick puppy, and I should not be so angry with him.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Bleach; it's a miracle

Went to work this morning, just as the rest of the house was venturing tentatively from beneath the duvets...

Showered, dressed and up the road; much entertainment on the work front: hungover late teenage males who spend the entire day in a doomed search for the one place in the entire complex where management won't eventually find them, fawning late adolescent males (yummy), idiot staff who think they're management material but can't even tie their own shoe laces, idiot management who think that the rest of the staff can't see what's under their very noses, idiot customers who pay for and walk out with The Wrong Tumble Dryer (only £20 and a brand name difference) and my dear colleague.

She's got a job to do on Sunday that takes the woman she's replacing about three hours to complete: she was still working on it when I left her at the end of the day, having been at it for at least 7 hours.

Got home and found the toilet upstairs smelling of : bleach. It is a miracle. The self-cleaning toilet is upon us. There's no way he'd let my eight year old work with undiluted bleach, is there? and he certainly wouldn't know what to do with the stuff even if he did notice it - I mean, history certainly tells us that.

Curled up on the bed for an hour imagining a pair of strong youthful arms around me, fondling something other than the drippy droopy earrings I was wearing today. A girl can dream, can't she?

Well yes, obviously.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

MAaARVELOUS, NOT!

The Maaarvelous X and his amazing dark chocolate voice are off. He's handed in his resignation because his place in the armed services has come up ... he's off to become a fly-boy. OMG! He's been warned that it won't be safe to turn up here in uniform (or at least it won't be safe for his uniform).

Mind you the Fabulous Y and the Elegant Z are still around and not likely to go in the very short term, so I shall not be entirely bereft of eye-candy.

Good news for lazy Bots

I've finished the edit which G requested, picked up the worst of the spelling and the occasional inadvertent US spelling. If the grammar and syntax are still poor that's down to my inability to do a better job. The disbenefits of a non-classical education, I suppose.

So that's it. No more republishing posts and luring bots in under false pretences.

On the other hand re-reading the posts in chronological order has been instructive. Lots of facts and very little reflection. I guess I am still very, very angry. But at least reading the posts again has made me realise how much work I need to do on myself.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Old People or England and Customer Service

Remember that song about Short People?

Someone should write something in a similar vein about Old People. After Saturday's Mrs Difficult we had her grandmother in, unhappy about her tin of corned beef (and if you don't know what corned beef is, just be grateful; if you want a hint, think the English and food culture: whatever your imagination cooks up, it's worse)

It wasn't this old bird's problem that wound me up. I already was aware of the problem with the shelf pricing of the very similar tins and would happily have refunded the difference, but the battleaxe was having none of that. We'd inadvertently overcharged her and she no longer wanted the product. She practically flung the thing at me, made no attempt to speak to me with something approximating civility and left gracelessly clutching her returned coins.

Foreigners are quick to complain about standards of customer service in this country, with good reason. All too often the person the other side of the counter is sullen and/or vindictive.

The explanation for this is said to be rooted in England's class structure (as if that was not in fact far more fluid that that of most European and even former colonies). The English instinctively fight the class war anywhere and everywhere it might exist. A deep-seated fear of being demeaned by being in a position of 'service' induces most English to do the bare minimum as a form of revolt.

I think that the problem is at least a little more complicated than that. The English don't know how to be good Customers. This is not in itself news: plenty of commentators have flogged their 1,500 on how the English are unable to complain, are unable to stand up for themselves in the fact of poor service etc, etc.

This is not the real problem with the Englishman (or woman) as Customer. Fear of being seen to consider oneself actually no better than the equal of the person on the other side of the counter leads far too many English people who might otherwise be mild and well-mannered to deliberate, considered and calculated rudeness when confronted by contact with an individual in a 'service' role.

The idea of being in equal but different roles in a fleeting relationship is something to which the majority of English people cannot relate, and until they can Good Service will be a distant prospect: the poor sap on the other side of the counter from you is expecting you to belittle, to the extent that you acknowledge him or her at all.

The Customer

She came to the window clutching an half filled trolley with one hand and a can of deodorant in the other. The trolley she'd parked in the narrow lane-way inconvenienced person after person. Her opening gambit was "I bought this before Christmas; I can't remember if I bought it here or at X (rival store). Anyway it's defective, since you stock it can I take a replacement." First instinct is, without proof of purchase, answer must be no.

She pulled out great handfuls of receipts from her purse; most of which it must be said are ours. She hasn't brought her reading glasses so I start pouring over the receipts. Not a sign of a can of deodorant. I'm praying I'll find one so that I can get rid of a woman who has 'difficult' stamped all over her. No such luck. Consult more experienced colleague who concurs: no receipt, no replacement.

Mrs Difficult goes off insisting that she'll never shop here again.

Some time later....

I'm attending a call at one of the check-outs and am cornered by Mrs Difficult who wants to know where the Manager is so she can discuss the matter with her. Happily Manager1 is in my line of sight, so I point her out and get on with my job. After the conversation ends Manager1 takes me to one side to explain that she has overruled me and given the woman her replacement can of deodorant.

And later again ....

I get called out to one of the checkouts. Seems one of our customers would like a replacement of a tin of cheap curry sauce that has a rather large dent in it. I find the shelf space and lo there is one last can of the stuff. It too has a dent but nowhere near as large. Back at the till I point out that the item is on BOGOF (Buy One Get One Free for the uninitiated), and since she already has her satisfactory tin, and this (the one with the lesser dent) is the last one we have it is the best I can do. Since she's already getting it free I am, I'm afraid, unable to offer a discount.

I leave her with her slightly dented tin of cheap curry sauce and hear, later, that she continues to mutter "she could have taken something off" all the way out of the store. In essence she expected me to pay her to take the second can of sauce!

No prizes for guessing who this last customer was!

A heart warming tale

Over the weekend I met the sort of person who can really restore a girl's jaundiced view of humanity. I had intended to recount the tale of our meeting here this morning but was diverted by the StatTrawl results (see immediate previous post) and have run out of time.

Still this latest diversion does make a refreshing change from obsessing about each and every visitor from Pennsylvania.

Has he hired a .... ?

I am under no illusions.

This is not great literature or even great blogging. I have no expectations that people will become fixated with my postings or be drawn to revisit, to link to or recommend what I write.

This is therapy.

That this hasn't been anti-blogged yet is probably down to the fact that the anti-bloggers out there have better things to do with their lives. So I'm really intrigued that someone should come back to this blog and then, today, give 3 hours, 9 minutes and 16 seconds of their life to this blog ... has he hired a divorce lawyer?

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Ooh err...

Another odd day ... absolutely nothing to report on the Fat Bastard front, which is largely because I haven't seen much of him. Was up early to go to work while he and the offspring toddled up to see his family.

Am down at least one member of staff is the first piece of news. Learn about this while buzzing about tidying things up for opening. Am informed by one of the dopey young men who seems to think that I might be almost as interested in offering some home nursing for the invalid as the invalid would be in receiving some home nursing from me.

Get my revenge by send him off to run and errand for me.

El Supremo is allegedly in, but see no sign until he is brought down to unlock the doors, something he should have done on arrival. Disappears up to his cubby-hole. Morning is busy, but interest free.

Get to lunch time and with place still busy have to get permission for some overtime for someone, to hang on for half an hour. Speak with Manager 1 who is taking over from El Supremo (or at least that's the theory). Am granted said permission. Recover from shock and sweet talk one of the young lads to stay on.

The resident drama queen returns from lunch just as alarms go off and discovers that the temperature in two of the freezer chests is rising. Spends half an hour with probe, checking, when goods must be transferred to safe freezers within 20 minutes. What a twat.

Banish him to kiosk, but succumb to his badgerings about need for cover for last half hour because he has more faffing around to do with the freezers at the end of the day.

Still no signs of management so left to my own devices. Am on my own with the short staffing and the floods of customers and enjoying myself.

Then they turn up (both of them; what a surprise to discover that he hasn't gone home) and we get dragged into a conversation about quadratic equations, which are dismissed as useless crap by Manager 1. Well, as we used to say in the playground in another context, the fox smells his own smell.

They've realised they haven't actually dragooned any of the staff at their disposal into actually doing any work, and set out to rectify this. I have my opportunity to discuss Drama Queen's antics and in timely manner he happens to call through looking for the change over. Backed up by management I get to put him back in his box, which is sadly pleasurable experience. Management then sod off.

Next take call from Manager 1's father. Put call out for her over tannoy and get Drama Queen in response advising me that she is busy - and in the background I can hear a bloke yelling "just get out, just get out of the shop" over and over again. Trouble in paradise.

Turns out a banned customer has turned up leglessly drunk; she's underage and has a reputation for being violent when drunk. Later I learn that during the altercation I over hear she's thrown something heavy at El Supremo and kicked him before being brought under control by an off-duty police officer.

Drama Queen had spent the previous twenty minutes cursing me for subjecting him to finishing the day in the kiosk; little had he suspected it would end up giving him something he'll try to dine out on for weeks, if not months.

God help us.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

14 January 2006. Odd day

He left the house at 6:50 or thereabouts this morning, almost an hour after he was due to be on site. By that time I was up and at 'em. I'm beginning to get the hang of going to sleep sober. I dropped in on a friend in the morning after I'd persuaded the offspring to get out of bed, breakfasted and dressed.

We went off and met their father who then took them off for an outing: except he'd forgotten to take a change of clothes with him.

Frankly I was doubtful they'd get away and fully expected to find the house full of squalor when I got back from work.

We had 'em today; the grumpy middle aged women who think they can bring in something they may or may not have bought from us but which has turned out to be defective and exchange it, the managers who don't back up their staff when they say 'sorry, no receipt no replacement', the whinging staff who take umbrage at the slightest hint of something that might (or actually might not) be intended to be offensive, the sliders, skivers, habitual shop-lifters, howling infants, smelly geriatrics and graceless teenagers; the worst of the last mentioned being those employed to operate the tills.

Escaped at slightly after 6pm, managed to change and eat before they got home from the museum, fuelled up on burgers and fries. Now the house is silent: it's 9:40pm and I am the only person not in bed actually asleep.

In effect, apart from leaving the loo seat down first thing this morning, and leaving it un-flushed before he left the house for The Day Out, leaving the lunch dishes unwashed he hasn't really committed any outrages. There's always tomorrow.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Slovenly tit-bits

He left at 6:27 this morning and then had to creep back in because he'd still managed to forget something: his pass.

Water all over the bathroom floor, the soap and shampoo left in the shower well. I suppose I should be more appreciative of this evidence that he's using them.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

I hate mornings

He left the house at 6:34 this morning. By many people's standards an early start. But far from everyone ordinarily is still tucked up at that time. When I worked in London I was up not long after 5:00 to shower and dress and make the 5:40 train: that was in the days when I was the breadwinner and he was the sloth camped on my lounge room floor.

The real problem with the 6:34 departure is not that it isn't in its own right early enough - it is that he's supposed to be clocked in by 6:00 and ready at that time to start work.

Loo seat up date is no change. He obviously still hasn't recovered from the stress of doing the right thing those few times at the beginning of the year. No doubt he thinks I'm insane, scurrying about behind him with gloves and disinfectant - or perhaps he just thinks that if he behaves like a shit for long enough I will crack up.

Fat chance; I've got his measure now.

So I'm going to have a shower and get dressed... being up this early myself gives me a chance to get myself sorted before the offspring start to emerge from beneath the bedding.

No doubt there'll be more crap along sooner or later

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

What goes through my mind in the middle of the night

Not surprisingly I didn't sleep last night. This was partly because of how dumb I was yesterday and partly because I went to bed stone cold sober; nothing like getting this back in proportion.

Something hit me in the depths of the night when I was tossing and turning and wondering if I would ever get to sleep, but I've been able to check that however big my mistake yesterday it was not as big as I'd begun to fear.

Of course the irony is that having eventually drifted off I woke feeling ... well ... hung-over. Memo to self: drink less Coca-Cola in the hours before turning in. Bonus is I don't see the Fat Bastard before he left for work at around 6:40 (bear in mind he's supposed to be present and ready to start work at 6:00). This is more grist to the mill when it comes to giving the bastard the sack.

Am off to work this p.m. having been less than discrete when last in ... trouble is the office staff are all middle aged women who, with a couple of exceptions share my jaundiced views. Why should I care when I know that he made no secret his holiday breaks without his family were visits to Philadelphia to spend time with his love-struck (dim, dumb, foolish, stupid, bonkers, crazy, loony, crackers, moronic) girlfriend.

Memo to self: must tote up how much he's cost her over the years in terms of flights, hotel accommodation, internal travel, clothes, food, drink and entertainment. Even in the USA it must come to something.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

I must have been insane...

I've been chatting with someone who claims to be male and about ten years younger than me and an "Investor" whatever the fuck that might be and in a particular location and so on and so on. The world of cyber-chatting is fraught with pitfalls and I suspect that few people are totally honest, or at least they're dishonest in that environment in ways other than those they adopt in 'real' life.

So he wants a photo and I bugger around a bit and pick out the one in which I'm looking least bad. Of course the normal chat is just a cover for this guy's desire for a shot of me that would startle my gynaecologist out of context.

Fine. No great loss. FO Matt or what ever your real name is. Get a life, get a girlfriend. Get a look and a feel and a taste for real... IF you can.

No, what really did come as a total shock was not that there are total shits out there on the internet (as well as under my roof) so much as the fact that I look SO haggard. I mean really dreadful. Like a need a month of pampering at a beauty spa.

As a result I am going off the sauce and onto the 3 litres of water, loads of fruit and vegetables. I must have been insane to think I could drink and stay up all night and not have it show. It is time to sort myself out. Can I get off it and stay off it?

Got any spare happy pills?

It is months and months since he's been over to the US - in fact I can't remember if I've got his passport at the moment (and if I have I couldn't readily locate it).

I've confiscated it in the past when he's been particularly inconsiderate or otherwise to have the opportunity to make a point.

Regularly he would piss me off totally by announcing with only 24 to 48 hours notice that he was flying off to Pennsylvania (this was after I'd forced him out into the open about what was going on, after I'd found the first tranche of evidence). Usually the flight had become available at short notice, or she'd developed some calamitous medical condition. In respect of the latter the best one was the need to be treated for some life-threatening uterine condition.

At the time I was a senior consultant working for a global management consultancy; I was earning good money and comfortably keeping the roof over our heads. I had money to spare for the first time since we'd married. What I needed was a house husband. What did I have. A fat hairy indolent lying thieving bastard. He'd tell me he was working when friends in town would report to me that they would see him at all hours of the day, sloping around town, in the pub, in the library.

I'd come home and find him sprawled on the floor of the lounge with a plate of food in front of him, surrounded by crumbs and with a hand in his pants watching either some video/dvd or crap tv. He'd leap up and babble some story about work having been cancelled or a half-day training day or ... as if I hadn't long ago learned to spot a lie a mile off and told him this too.

Then I found the second tranche of evidence. This evidence comprised emails, ticket stubs, memorabilia from restaurants, museums, sports events and so forth. A couple of things became crystal clear: the "life-threatening uterine condition" had in fact been IVF treatment (while they waited for him to get a permanent or long-term visa so they could try a more traditional approach) and the trips were always being scheduled weeks in advance.

My career, the thing that kept the roof over his head, the food on his plate, the clothes on his back, that allowed him the luxury of spending the day lounging about with his hands in his pants was being jeopardised every time I had to shift cancel client work at short notice, skip a course or a meeting because I'd been left high and dry by his antics.

I took his passport when he returned, read the riot act when he asked me if I had it a month or so later and extracted a promise that he'd be more reasonable in future. If you've read this you'll have some idea what that promise was worth.

Anyway, time has passed and his visits with her are less frequent. In fact I'm not even sure if it is still going on. If it isn't, and he's missing out, that might explain his desperate need for some happy meals. He lugs his great weight about and scowls. His latest stunt is to threaten violence towards a colleague.

Anyone with a brain, unhappy in his job as he undoubtedly is, would get another job before putting the current one at risk. Right now he seems to be asking to be sacked. He's sexually frustrated and he's taking it out on just about the most vulnerable of his co-workers. Another hallmark of the bully, I suppose.

God help us if he loses his job, though. Has anyone got any happy pills to spare?

More about which to complain

I'm tempted to take a photo of his bedroom and post it here. It is the sort of squalid hovel into which even the most aggressively anti-social former public school first year undergraduate would be deeply reluctant to crawl.

Right now there are perhaps a couple of square feet of carpet visible near the doorway, but beyond that its a miscellany of crap: dirty clothes, clean clothes, food, food wrappers, newspapers, books, CD cases, CDs, bedding, shoes, glasses, cups, correspondence, a couple of travel bags and a couple of large suitcases, coinage, fag packets, matches, computer hardware scrap, a coffee grinder, assorted small pieces of fitness equipment, dead mobile telephones, a small collection of defunct telephone chargers, a replacement tap set for the bath. And that's just what I can see from the doorway.

The room contains a king-size bed, a bedside table a large chest of drawers (three whole width drawers, and a pair at the top), a wardrobe and a side board. The bed is not made - in the sense that it has nothing on it except an uncovered duvet and a couple of uncovered pillows, no sheets or covers. Three of the five drawers are way open, the doors of the wardrobe are open and clothes have been hung over those doors and there is laundry hanging from the curtain pole and draped over the radiator.

This is the bedroom of a grown man, an adult of 45 years of age.

It absolutely stinks of stale cider and nicotine which seep from his pores as he sleeps. At its worst it spills from the door and down the staircase.

Another catalogue of niggles, part one

These past few days of non-posting days have been days of niggles rather than outrages; or perhaps I am as ground down by this experience as I once felt.

The most off-pissing has been the relapse on the toilet seat front: apparently the strain of lifting (with return to base optional) has proved too much and we're back to me scurrying around, disinfecting after every visit by him. I feel like one of those sad demented females stuck at home armed against life with a pair rubber cleaning gloves and a bottle of bleach.

I got some money out of him, after asking gently if he would be able to provide me with any this month. I think I'll be ok... I have a telephone bill to pay and a credit card repayment to make as well as the usual. Fingers crossed.

Today I have offspring upstairs with a sore throat so am tied to the house, but after another blitz on the garden and with the washing and ironing under control I have time to potter round with the computer and chronicle a few more of those little niggles.

Friday, January 06, 2006

PS

Couldn't help but do a quick bit of searching and the recreation of the fight between the two gladiators at the inaugural games was based on the account of Martial so fact based - nothing yet on the rest ... I'm willing to accept that I'm a Grade A cynic who can be out of line (though not about bored undergraduates swilling around the midlands former polytechnics). And now that ghastly fascistic woman who is Education Secretary is on the radio, so I'm out of here.

Little victories

We recently sat en famille and watched a 'documentary' laden with reconstruction of a gladiator - not just any old gladiator, but one of the few about whom a great deal is known.

This gladiator had been captured by the romans in his home land in part of what is modern Romania and brought towards modern Italy to work as a slave in the quarries near Rome when, at the time, stone for the construction of the Flavian Amphitheatre (the Colosseum) was being extracted.

In the reconstruction he picked a fight with a fellow (Celtic) slave during a visit by a gladiator school owner having failed during the initial sweep to get himself purchased. He and the Celt went off to gladiator school and in due course graduated.

According to this to this documentary as this gladiator became better established in his 'chosen' career his life became gradually gradually and remotely entwined with that of the son (future Emperor Titus) of the Emperor Vespasian at the behest of whom this new arena was being constructed.

The documentary climaxed at the arena's opening games at which, under the auspices of the son (the father having died, probably of old age) numbers of convicted criminals, exotic animals and some gladiators perished. The best documented fight staged during these games was that between our 'hero' and the Celt he had first fought at the quarry, with whom he had graduated from gladiator school and who had subsequently been sold to a rival school.

The two of them slugged it out with shields and swords, then swords, then fists and finally knuckle dusters, with first one and then the other seemingly down and out. Finally the 'referee' stepped in and turned them to the notoriously blood-thirsty new emperor for a decision as to their fate; and after a moment of suspense both were awarded the wooden sword and wreath that signified their release.

Ahhhhh... still this was being narrated by Ross Kemp so it can't have been serious history and I'll probably find the whole lot was made up, by a bored classics undergraduate at a midlands former polytechnic.

Anyway all of this was merely leading up to recounting a small victory we've had here, chez nous. The layout of the house is such that I can hear the Fat Bastard come out of his room, pad past mine and, if he doesn't close the door I can earwig as he performs his early morning ablutions.

To be honest I've got over the revelation that a bloke can simultaneously piss and fart, and the novelty of scraping his face scrapings off the basin, the bath, the walls, the mirror and the floor (and anywhere else he manages to spray them) has worn off. This morning though was something of a red letter day because as I lay there trying to block out this charmless early morning symphony (oh, for spring and a rival din), I heard distinctly the unmistakable sound of him Lifting The Toilet Seat.

I nearly fell out of bed with the shock of this extraordinary small gesture toward the young female members of the household who are rather prone to stumbling out of bed and making their way to the bathroom still rubbing sleep from their eyes and sitting down without actually getting as far as to open those eyes.

I try my best to get there before them (and after their father) and wipe the seat down with a bio wipe from the packet I keep handy, but I don't always succeed. More to the point it does confirm that I was right, that he doesn't ordinarily lift the seat and was lying (as usual) through his teeth when he looked me in the eye and insisted that he always does. I think this is some sort of double victory; as usual even in those occasional moments when he plays at being the good guy he manages to expose himself.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Life is a waxed lemon;...

...they keep better but they taste like crap.

One of Jo's obsessions (not the one with the pert rear end, the other one, the one she wanted to smother ALL over in calamime when he recently had chicken pox) has handed in his notice and the rest of the pretty young things are about to be hauled over the coals about their less then scintillating performance at the checkouts and on the shop floor.

Frankly they all suck [at least in the sense that the standard of their work at the supermarket isn't all it could be), but some of them are luscious to look at and some are fun to be with (but sadly none of the eye candy are fun to be with and none of the clowns are the least bit physically attractive). C'est la guerre as my grandfather used to say, though god knows why because classical latin and classical greek were his line of country.

The Big Banana spent time in the company of some of Her Maj's finest, the boys in blue, today because of a mistake made by a member of staff some months ago.

The legal age for drinking here is 18. Across the political spectrum there is voluble if not particularly deep concern about binge and underage drinking and successive crackdowns and legislative steps have been taken to deal with this perceived problem. If I seem cynical it is because concern seems predominantly to focus on that underage and binge drinking which occurs on sink estates and in regional city centres.

The underage drinking that happens on the hallowed lawns of Eton and Rugby and the slopes below Harrow as well as the notorious binge drinking at Oxbridge barely rates a lifted eyebrow, which is ironic on so many levels I barely know where to begin.

Let's see, this is a labour governement which, until the ascension of Cameron had a better educated mob of front benchers than that mustered by HM Loyal Opposition which had gone distinctly down market under successively the Major, the Milkman and that bloke with the name no-one can remember. Hmm... This is a socialist government with overtly redistributive tendencies that are matched by a covert tendency to social engineering.

Are they likely to offer succour to the overly affluent by rescuing their offspring from Columbian Marching Powder and good Malt. Not on your Nellie. Do they, any more than the overt Toffs, think that the peasants can be saved from themselves by empowering the rozzers to make life harder for the adventurous and precocious offspring of aspiring middle-classes?

Let's face a few facts here. The only kids who are getting caught buying a couple of bottles of Becks with which to get smashed are the ones belonging to that accountant who lives in the house on the corner with the newish bottom of the range BMW in the driveway. They've not got the parents with the wit to buy them the alcohol or the street smarts to persuade someone else to do it for them.

The Government has put the onus squarely on Supermarkets; more and more according to the spin doctors the social problems that beset this country arising from underage and binge drinking are the direct and incontrovertable consequence of irresponsible behaviour by retailers, and in particular the supermarkets.

But if we examine this we see a hugely competitive market that survives by employing the thick (who can't know better), the old (who couldn't care less) and the young. The young are high school and college students. These are the good guys. These are the ones who don't have rich parents who are spoon feeding them, the ones who care enough to go out and get a job to pay for what it is they want rather than obtain that money through what ever channels it is their mates obtain what they want without either having rich parents or a job.

We're being required now to play scape goat for the parents of this country who have no idea of the whereabouts or habits of their teenage offspring.

The Big Banana was with the Police because a few months ago one of our staff sold alcohol to an underage customer. This particular underage customer had been sent into the shop by Trading Standards to test our procedures. This underage customer was very underage but selected for the task specifically because she looked 'border line'. In other words she might or might not be underage but importantly she didn't look her age.

Our store has an Over 21 policy, the upshot of which is that although the law of the land decrees that you must be 18 to purchase and consume alcohol we won't sell it to you unless you look at least 21 or can prove that you are 18.

If a member of staff challenges someone then that challenge whether met or not must be documented.

We have a button installed on the tills. When an age-restricted product is scanned the operator is prompted to challenge the customer to confirm their age. The customer is required to press the button to confirm his or her age.

Needless to say innumerable geriatrics have protested this is not what either they or their nearest and dearest fought in the war for. Frankly I think the whole thing is open to challenge but for the time being it remains store policy.

Fine.

So there you are unable to buy alcohol if you're 20 but look 17 which is a bummer if you're being responsible about drink-driving, haven't got the car with you and as a result don't have your driving licence.

You can buy fags if you're 16 and can prove it, but can't buy the matches to go with it, or the fuel to top up your Zippo if you aren't 18 (and no judgements about smoking, please).

You can't buy a copy of the Sunday Times if it is carrying an 18 rated DVD as a promo. and you can't prove you're old enough, but you can walk away with a copy of the News of The Screws or the Sunday Spurt without any difficulty.

And our thick, geriatric and earnest staff have to police all this.

God help us.

Update (mostly) from the other side of my life

Not easy to be brief (and yes I know that's a hallmark of poor writing). Stuff it I'm not Hemmingway and never have pretended anything of the sort. This is nothing more or less than a safety valve that earns its corn when I might otherwise be tempted to slide the bread knife between the ribs or drop a hairdryer in the bath. Accidentally, of course. The rest of the month I can happily ignore him which, as it happens, I much prefer.

After the screw up of Monday afternoon, I worked yesterday afternoon in complete chaos. Bloody customers everywhere and Torex were buggering away with the software which meant we had to hand process card transactions; and that means some unlucky so and so will have to re-process those transactions today and that really is a miserable job.

Ally wasn't around, in fact there wasn't much talent at all. I'm still not sure if I've even seen the one with the backside Jo's obsessed with or the one who had chicken pox recently and who she wanted to visit and cover (all over) with calamine lotion. Ghastly stuff. I'm not even sure I'd offer to smother Scotty in extremis. Well, maybe I would.

And of course, according to some sandal-wearing bearding from one or other midlands polytechnic, I'm not supposed to think such things or write about them... which disgusts me totally. I sat here and ranted at the radio at him this morning which was pointless except that it hopefully startled the neighbours.

I've just had one of those really annoying thoughts pop into my head; some stupidly obvious truth that's escaped me for years. It comes of realising that there isn't a single bloke in this dump I would have an affair with ... I was so worried about him shagging his way through the female population, and I've been so frustrated by the time and expense he's incurred conducting this trans-Atlantic affair I failed to take proper account of the complete absence of talent of either sex... he was never going to, and he had no choice.

I just wish he'd fuck off to Philly and leave me in peace. Lazy bastard.

No doubt the weird beard thinks that its a dreadful shame that the struggle for equal pay for equal work has been reduced to a struggle for Equal Rights to Ogle and Seduce.

Anyway I much prefer the kind of red-blooded opinionatedness which I can still respect even when I don't agree. Shamefully the Australians for a Constitutional Monarchy web site is the beneficiary of careful management (and still makes me want to puke) while the John Howard pm satirical blog lies fallow after showing early promise ...

Hey ho, someone's sick and so I'll have go in to work again today, later this afternoon. Adam and Scotty will certainly be on the menu... so there's the upside.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Dicing with death and stirring the pot

Haven't posted for a few days because I've been doing some other but related tweaking but also because I wanted to take a step back and seriously consider whether I should be doing this or not.

He doesn't do anger management, he does anger suppression. He's always maintained that he won't row with me because he's afraid of what he'll do if he loses his temper. Oh, that was before he changed his story slightly and started claiming that his reluctance to properly engage arose from childhood scarring caused by his parents' rows.

Hmmm...

Anyway I know that if this should ever get back to him and the proverbial hits the fan I could really find a lot of the ground crumbling beneath my feet.

I'm waiting for any money from him to cover this month's bills, yep not a penny since his pay packet went in a couple of days before Christmas. I don't think he's spent it, but if he borrowed the money that was spent just before payday from someone other than his mother and has had to pay it back then I'll not be seeing anything this month and that's not good news with a phone bill waiting to be paid and a credit card bill due to land on the carpet any day now.

This is making me rather nervous, but there's not a lot I can do about it until I see him where I can ask. He went to work at 6:00 this morning and he's off to his mother this afternoon with my daughter.

I worked yesterday afternoon which is a bit of a bonus, as it turns out. The office supervisor had put me down for a day off without telling me. Probably bit of a fiddle - being a public holiday we're paid at double rate for those hours we work. But I am also working this afternoon so in effect I've gained a few hours, and I work Saturday too, so that's a bit more in the kitty.

Never mind the Fat Bastard and his paramour, I do hop my bank manager is reading this.

All of this is leading up to the little ray of sunshine that has popped into my life in the guise of Ally who was working yesterday and seems to have decided he can safely latch on to me while at the same time getting camper by the second. Are the two related?

I hope that he knows what he's doing. With the best will we don't live in a perfect world and youth is not in itself an immunity against prejudice; he works along side a lot of young men not all of whom will be relaxed about this even if this never emerges as anything other than low level sniping. On the other hand now I've met the Big Banana's delightful son I can be quite confident that he'll suffer no prejudice from that quarter.

None of which is having the slightest impact on the Fat Bastard who, if I didn't know better, I would swear is seething with jealousy. He can't seriously think that young Ally is any kind of threat but that's not stopped him declaring, as he did last night "I Can't Stand That Boy!".

Sunday, January 01, 2006

I'm drunk and it is 2006 (and 33 mintues)

[this is what I wrote in the first hour of 2006 under the influence of a bottle of Moet]

Yipee.

I'm sitting at the keyboard wishing I could remember what I just wrote out in my head but I've had too much champagne...

I'm thinking about that silly cow in downtown Philadelphia, PA, (the city of brotherly love, don't you know)...

And what's she doing right now, four and a half hours away from 2006, I don't wonder?

I don't even know if my dearly expensive husband is still shagging her (from time to time, when she's accumulated enough airmiles to fly him over or found an job-related excuse to fly over here).

I do wonder, sweetheart, how you sold him to your friends. Did you pitch this thing between you as a bit of rough, a bit of euro-total-trash, you'd picked up during your student days and decided to use as a filler between husbands? How did you explain, then, the public school education and the plummy accent?

Did you pitch him as your friends as some heroic victim of a domestic nightmare?

Yes, I think that's what you did (remember I have copies of the emails you exchanged). But how did you, in your mind, square this with the fact that he never, ever, had any money. What was I doing with what he was earning? What was I doing while he was out earning?

By the way, I DO have copies of the emails you exchanged. Perhaps not all of them, but enough to have some idea, so be honest now.

You see, what really pisses me off is that I spent all those years hoping and praying that he'd find a better bet to latch onto and he'd bugger of and be her parasite and leave me in peace. But what is real life? Real life is me breaking myself to build a stellar career while he indulges in a part-time, long-distance affair with some dumb blonde from Philly who thinks he cares. He cares?

Did he ever, I mean ever put himself out from you except to provide sperm for the IVF treatment you underwent? Wow, that must have been something. Is that what a green card is worth these days

[he came in at this point and I didn't look at the post again until this morning, unedited except for the inevitable typos (S)]