Buy One Panic Attack, Get One Free...

I don't know what I've done to piss them off, but ASDA cashiers hate me with a passion. And what's more, they do it with great chuffing smiles on their faces.

Yes, I was in there again today. A normal weekly food shop - trolley overflowing with bread to be toasted and smeared with peanut butter at midnight, crisps to be snaffled and thrown on the floor and apples to decay in the fruit bowl before being lobbed in the bin next week. Dog food, loo rolls, ham, cheese, seventeen packets of pasta, twelve boxes of cereal and chocolate digestives to be hidden under my bed. When do teenage boys stop eating everything in sight?

Eldest son is seventeen tomorrow so I was also lugging a huge birthday cake, candles, banners and enough beer to floor a small army.

As I started to pile my goodies onto the conveyor belt, the smiley cashier said, in a sing-song voice, "Can I help with your packing?"

"Lovely, thanks. I'll take over when I've emptied my trolley."

Very slowly, she began to pack my shopping. Everything stacked neatly, bags not too heavy, nothing squashed. Three perfectly organised bags.

And then I took over. Within seconds, she'd whizzed half the trolley load through the scanner. The dog food was perched on top of the salad and my beautiful chocolate-drizzled cake was somewhere beneath the bleach and washing powder. Sparks were flying off her fingers and I just wanted to cry.

Why do they shove everything through at full pelt while you're still grappling to open the friggin' bag? Call me anally attentive, it's fine; I've been called worse, but I always load the groceries onto the belt in sections - tins together, cleaning stuff in one pile and fruit and veg in another. Why, oh, why do they dip in the sections and grasp the bananas and then the shampoo and finally, a lump of cheese? And do it all faster than the speed of light?

It drives me demented. By the time I need to pay, I've developed great sweaty patches under my arms, my breathing's all shallow and I'm having palpitations. There's a queue of seventeen behind me and I've run out of bags.

Grocery shopping's more stressful than being married. And just about as sexual.

Starstruck and Dumbstruck...

It's official: I'm a gushing, giggly girly who's starstruck. Yep, I know, I'm old enough to control my urges and pretend to play it cool, but I just couldn't do it today.

Y'see, it's Industry Analysis Fortnight and basically, we have to, well, analyse the industry in a fortnight...

I chose to research the novel publishing market - more specifically, the romantic comedy, 'cos that's what I'm trying to write...

Anyway, spent the day chatting to some of my very favourite authors asking about the market in this area. I tried to be professional, but I didn't succeed, "This is soo cool; I've got your novels on my shelves and I just lurve your books!" Giggle, gush, squeak, squirm and blush.

Oh, God, why do I have to be me all of the time?

It's me, oh Sara, I've come home. I'm so cold...

The hunky engineer - let's call him Heathcliff - arrived this afternoon lugging his Bob-the-Builder toolbox, rooted around under the floorboards, and plugged my leak.


Oh, joy! How I've missed warmth!

That hunky, brooding hairy man is a bloody genius.

Unfortunately, he's also a vegetarian. Story of my sodding life.

Old Boiler Needs a Good Servicing...

Yesterday, I discovered water dripping through my living room ceiling. Again. In exactly the same place as before. It's easy to spot; the artex is bulging beautifully and the decorative brown water mark is acting as a fuck-off great red arrow.

So I rang for a heating engineer. Again. He turned up, shook his head and said, "Sorry love, it's too late to lift the floorboards tonight. I'll drain the system and be back first thing in the morning." Well, I wasn't expecting that response. Much.

So here I sit, at eleven am, snuggled in my yellow fluffy blanket, waiting. Again. No heat, no hot water, a-bloody-gain.

At least this time, there's a positive note floating on the edge of my Carry-On world; he was bloody gorgeous - dark, brooding, tortured eyes, and a mane of silky black hair tied up in a ponytail, with only a few loose wisps that I just wanted to smooth back into place...

Y'see, that's the trouble with being single at my advanced age - all the equivalent men went bald years ago. Not that I have anything against the more follicular-challenged members of the species; bald is beautiful and intimate, but I just harbour this long, flowing locks fantasy. It's just one of my things, okay?

Maybe if I offer him a bacon sarnie, he'll let me play with his hair for a bit.

A Box of Black Magic...

Ooh, am all excited; I've found a new button! Click on the Black Box, decide from the choices and find yourself whizzing around the blogoshere onto a perfectly random person's blog.

It's a little bit like delving into a box of Quality Street, having a good old rummage and coming out with an orange creme. Well, I expect there's an odd one or two nutty ones in there as well, but what's life without taking chances?

Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling...

Oh my God! I've lost three readers in twenty-four hours. Am I just not entertaining enough for you anymore? Come back!! I'll try harder, I promise...

I wouldn't mind, but this is my bestest writing. It's official: I'm doomed...

Welcome To My World...

Let me give you a quick precis of the last six months of my life. In September, I lost a stone and a half in weight stressing about starting this course. Doc diagnosed Stress-related Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and prescribed these lovely Valium-type tablets to relax my tummy muscles.

Next, I developed migraines - averaging one a week. One morning I woke up with no sight in my right eye. After being checked out at Treliske, it turned out to be a pain-free migraine. Go figure.

Two weeks later and I developed shingles. A week after that, the nasty shingle virus went into my eye. Yep, you guessed it - back to bloody Treliske where I saw the same doctor. And yes, that was the mistaken identity day when I almost got zapped with the laser gun to treat somebody else's cataracts.

And the most recent health catastrophe? Well, I won't go into too many grisly details, but let's just say that thirteen periods in the last six months is roughly seven too many... So now I need an ultrasound scan and blood tests, just to be on the safe side, but it very much looks like I'm heading for the old menopause. Yep, not to put too fine a point on it, me old ovaries are shrivelling up and me 'ormones 'ave gone 'aywire.

Take my advice: don't even contemplate thinking about returning to Higher Education; it's bad for your 'ealth.

Happy Birthday To Me Next Month...

I was conceived on or around Wednesday 13th July 1966. (Actually, I know this bit is inaccurate; I was conceived on 30th July 1966. If England hadn't won the World Cup, I wouldn't be here. May God bless Bobby Chartlon for his contribution to humanity.)

I share my birthday with Bette Davis, Spencer Tracey and Gregory Peck.

I'll be 42 on my next birthday. I'll be able to boil 4.80 ounces of water from the heat generated from all those candles...I am 503 months old. I've been alive for 2,188 weeks. I've spent 15,313 days on this God-forsaken planet.

My fortune cookie reads, love always and deeply. Ha!!

My birth tree is the rowan. This means I am 'full of charm, cheerful, gifted, without egoism, keen to draw attention to myself, a lover of life, and I do not forgive. Ever.' It's hard to argue with the facts...

And how do I know all these amazing details? Check out http://www.paulsadowski.org/BirthDay.asp Plug in your birthday, and away you go...

A Self Fulfilling Prophesy...

Did I or did I not predict that this novel option was going to finish me off? Was I right or was I right?? Yes, yes and yes again. I am officially demented. Manic. Lost the plot. On the 'at risk' register.

All week I have slaved, sweated and cried into the damned thing. And what do I have to show for my efforts? Ten miserable, measly, minging pages. Two months' work, no less. I have just over a week to produce another fifty f&*%ing pages!!

How do people do this every day? Where's the fun? The joy? The sleep? This course has already taught me a valuable lesson: I have learnt that, when I finish, I don't ever want to write another word again. Ever. Seriously, when I need a shopping list in future, I'm gonna take a pink wax crayon and draw a picture of every bloody thing I need.

You Learn Something New Every Day...

We've got Eastenders, Coronation Street, Emmerdale and Hollyoaks. Who remembers Brookside? God, I used to love that show. For years I had a secret crush on Barry Grant (he was the eldest son, by the way, not the slobby Father who went on to play Dad in the Royle Family. I may be slightly warped in the male fantasy area, but even I was never that desperate).

Then there was Grange Hill with hunky ol' Tucker Jenkins. And Eldorado - a short-lived yet memorable soap set in Costa del Spain. I can't remember much about it except for a smouldering young senorita calling out for her beloved Marcooose! (Marcus to you and I, of course...)

And the point of this post? Well, I've just found out why soap-operas are called soap-operas. It all dates back to American radio-plays in the 1930s. 'Operas' because of the drama, and 'soap' because the plays were sponsored by soap detergent companies such as Proctor and Gamble and Lever Brothers. Et voila! It all makes perfect sense now, doesn't it?

Christ, That's Big...

Wow! Look at the size of that illustration; it's massively impressive! See, size does matter...

I Surrender...

It's official; I surrender. I give up. I've just spent the last three days sitting at the laptop typing. A feature, a film and character outline and my Industry Analysis proposal. I've worn an inch off the end of my fingers and my body has seized into sitting position. I've got a yellow, fluffy blanket wrapped round my legs because the my blood ceased circulating thirty-seven hours ago.

My comfort blanket is scorched in several places from the sparks that have back-fired from my (now stubby) fingers flying over the keyboard. Seven old teacups, in various state of mouldy decay surround my space. I've fed the kids pasta for the last three nights because it's so quick. God alone knows how they're still growing and scurvy-free...

I wouldn't mind (so much), but even after all that, I'm still behind bloody shedule!! And now, I've got to start on the piggin' novel. Oh, dear God, give me a break. I'm all worded-out...