Still breathing (Dec 6, 2010)
In and out. 5 months since my last post...hmmm 'last post' possibly not the best choice of words...one certainly hopes it isn't.
All good in Boots land. College going surprisingly well...tough but holding my head above water as I learn how to 'work to live' in the day job...still there, surprisingly, but I think I am probably unemployable anywhere else and it does allow me to catch the 9.54 which is positively civilised on a commuter run.
Baby Boots and Ravager pup are meeting up tomorrow in Thailand and I fly out to join them on the 18th...Christmas in the sun sounds like heaven.
Took Ravager pup to airport at stupid hour, one piece of hand luggage and not even clean knickers...big smile of anticipation probably more useful.

Have a lodger, which is great fun but bad news for my waistline. He cooks, he cooks for both of us EVERY day. He also cleans and irons and is more than a tad in touch with his feminine side. Every girl should have one...waistline aside.
He also works for the press and there are huge pluses to that. We fly to Cornwall for a spa weekend on Friday. Car waiting and two nights in two different 5 star spa hotels all for the handsome price of....an article.

At a dinner with day job last week and the Gods were, for some reason, interested in my college course.

"What do you want to write when you've finished" enquires a Knight of the realm.
'I thought I'd like to be a travel writer for Condenast' quoth I.

"Oh I'm sure you can do far better than that!"

Excuse me there is no better than that! Thought I'd best not mention that being a script writer for 'Enders was also high on my aspiration list...even my tutors frown on that goal.

Hope all is well with friends in Hootoo land and will try and post more often. Perhaps even put a college piece up for the post, but it all plays and film scripts and as I am challenged in any kind of html department it might look a bit odd on the page.
Take care all
Boots
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A new life (Jul 6, 2010)
Won't even go there now but have missed you all loads. new beginnings, lots of stuff bforenthe new beginnings will post again soon
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Another day in the same life (Sep 18, 2008)
No pressure to catch the 7.24.
Catch the 9.06

Office looks pristine. Coffee machine might be working but so delighted with office looking pristine didn’t feel the necessity to avail myself of any noxious liquids and early morning nicotine break.

Office is currently being refurbished by HR so not looking great as HR has little artistic talent and is seriously challenged in the project management department. We have had three fire alarms in a week; normally we have one a year.

God is in the shires, assistant has crisis with something to do with 'run on the banks' ...he doesn't need to work and the pittance he is afforded means I can't shriek and demand his presence.

Hmmm strange space.

Luxury space. Feel like I am at a spa hotel in the country - without a man...what happened to pressure?

Check voice mail. God in the country thanks me for something I have suggested as an 'innovative idea'. Fine, no idea what the innovative idea was but praise is always welcome.

Check emails... all porn is relegated to 'look at later' bin, nothing else really demanding.

Rummage through yesterday's ideas and send emails off to people that could make them happen...not sure that a reception for 'Pricilla Queen of the Desert’ will wing it past the higher Gods but know the members would appreciate...send it to 'pending' and half heartedly look up contacts for Cameron; it's not till March after all.

Re-organise files on computer, well shuffle them around so they could possibly be understood by my replacement should I fall under a train and make tomorrows headlines in the not too distant future: 'mother of two throws herself under the 6.06 from Waterloo, class a drugs not ruled out'; at least they look neat.

Check invitations.

Mansion House, White tie dinner next Wednesday. OK haven't been there before, Angela might have a frock I could borrow, fine let's tick the box.

Lords Cricket ground October. Black tie dinner with Graham Gooch as guest speaker? Isn't he a rugby payer? Best Google. Oh no he played cricket, that'll be why it's at Lords. Why have I been invited? It's a charity fund raiser, can't be for my money, perhaps they think I have connections?

Stop it that's mean, they are truly altruistic souls.

Several Art gallery preview invitations...all impossible to get to on the district and circle line and next week I have highly promiscuous gay lawyer friend arriving on Saturday and his idea of a good night out is closer to Soho than surreal...actually possibly not but in an entirely different understanding of the context.

Read. Oh how glorious, the luxury of actually reading, as opposed to skimming, perhaps finally, after four years of fire fighting, I can begin to do what I have a tiny talent for. No questions please, I'm sure I'm good at what I should be doing.

PM: assistant arrives, intent on filing. No chance there is a trade show at Billingsgate, I am bored with filing and assistants should have some fun

'Exhibition in Billingsgate lets go'.

He is intent on filing.

'Free booze and food and we can file on Monday!' (Friday is my 'work from home day')

The food wins

Next to shopping, exhibitions are my most hated excursions.

It is packed. Young people, keen enthusiastic and intent on 'making a sale'.

Bored to death.

Assistant is suffused with admiration.

'How do you do it? They are trying to sell you something and you get them to buy?'

'Blonde and tits honey, oh and I'm quite good at my day job.'

Evening: Cook dinner for two of my best girlfriends. Bearing in mind I don't do cooking was appalled at the price of food in the supermarket, how come dinner for 3 costs £50?

Delightful evening

Having asked about my love life...null points (how sad that I have become the focus of vicarious sexual activity, and even sadder that I have nothing to report), we meander down holiday memory lane and they decide I have to document the skinny dipping episode, the mad sister who is 'so not having an affair' week, and the 'I'm never going to Morocco with her again unless you come too' holiday.

Tomorrow is 'work from home day' and Saturday gay lawyer arrives.

Snot factory is receding, I visit the Duchess in the morning, Kathy Lette has agreed to an interview and all is reasonably well with the offsprung...well actually there is a bit of drama there but that will have to wait until the Chardonnay has left the system.

Hopefully by then wit will have returned.











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A day in the life (Sep 17, 2008)
Reading about Hypatia's day made me realise that my horoscope, the evening one in the free paper on the way home,(what is the point of a horoscope for less than half a day,I ask) for once offered a modicum of sense.

'In comparing our problems to other people's we sometimes come to realise that our lot in life isn't as bad as we first thought...think on it next time you perceive the going has got tough'

I have a stinking cold of the snot factory producing variety. A visit to the dentist has left me feeling that a round or two with Mike Tyson might be more preferable...(half my nose is now so anesthetised I am oblivious to the mucus pouring unchecked onto my chin) and have been training my new, if somewhat ageing assistant, who has incessantly interrupted my concentration thus causing me to send out several emails with entirely the wrong information in them, which will undoubtedly validate the receivers already firm opinion that I am nothing if not suited to my hair colour.

The journey home promises to be miserable. The 6.06 is the worst train in the commuter run, overcrowded, surly and packed with persona one would hope would never appear on your Christmas card list.

To add to the misery I am travelling with my newly appointed ageing and overly enthusiastic assistant who has yet to understand that the bubble we live in, far from being wonderfully exciting and cutting edge, is actually mundane, tedious and no different to working in the tax office.

We discuss office politics (trust me no different in the charity sector), forthcoming events, interviews that have been pencilled in, and how to engage money, influence and the right 'A' list for future advantage to the cause...our day job.

The sweetest, if somewhat more elderly than I (if that is possible) lady is sitting next to us with an overnight bag that threatens to make the journey unbearable. We move the offending bag to the luggage rack and promise to help her get it down at her destination.

The dribble from my nose is unabated.

Continuing to chatter inanely, he rather than I, (Remembering I am four years in to this bubble} we drift from one titled being to another and one impressive venue after another. He delighted with the opportunity, me thinking 'it will never become a lifestyle I would willingly embrace, give me Africa and a cause!'

The delightful lady disembarks at the station before ours with the passing shot.
'You really do lead the most exciting life my dear'

Horses for courses I say - but it's not a bad lot in the scheme of things.


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Creativity (Sep 13, 2008)
Boots has started a 'friends of Hootoo' group on facebook. She is not optimistic about membership but welcomes any hootoo friends who would like to say hello in the real world.
She also hasn't got a clue how you would find it, but for those who relish a challenge
it's called: Friends of Hootoo (H2G2)
Its group type is: Common Interest hobbies and craft

Daft I know, the next closest was 'languages' derr! Not even a 'literature' option.
It would be great to meet a few of you.
Take care
Boots (the gardening is still pending)
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Comparrisons (Sep 7, 2008)
Are odious.

But sometimes compulsive.

What does Facebook offer?

Sign in
Oh goodness friend 27 is taking child to soccer....in Sweden.
Friend number 22 had a wonderful honeymoon in the Cook Islands and there is the obligatory photo album to prove it...white sand...smiling faces...Ah yes and the underwater shot with the thumbs up.
I couldn't be more bored.

Nothing in the 'messages' box (the only application that could possibly be slightly salacious and therefore merit an optimistic flutter) Oh, but friend number 13 has taken the 'Inner Criminal' test. 'What fun', I yawn.

Whatever happened to the outer criminal?

How depressing that cyber life is even less exciting than the humdrum of existing.

At least the offsprungs offspring have enjoyed the real 'how to be a criminal' experience.

Perhaps my epitaph will read:

'She inspired naughtyness'

That wouldn't be bad.

The young man has learned that it is totally innapropriate to sit on a train at 15 when any lady, old, pregnant or merely possessing breasts is standing. he has also learned ... should that be learnt? No I don't think so, that whilst he may borrow a pen on the way into work to try and beat his elder and better in the sudoko race, (he can't, I cheat), he cannot expect same pen on return journey. Stealing pens from the office is rule number one. Actually any kind of stationary will do.

The young lady (14) has little hope, her mother has dictated that she has no need to use her brain or to bother with honing any talents she may possess. I fear marriage is her miserable future but perchance I will be allowed a week with her. She has a modicom of self expression in her attire but is overly preoccupied with it and totally disapproved of my stealing a blackberry from a punnett in the 'totally organic fair trade what a load of bollocks' farm shop.
Thank goodness my favourite larcenist was not with us else the whole punnett would have been bagged.
She did concede that lying on the green looking at clouds scudding across a, for once, blue sky was enjoyable and that tearing chunks off a french loaf and cutting cheese cut with a credit card was amusing, but balked when I said we should break into the local church to see the mouse carved on the lectern by a hugely respected sculptor.

I Even despair of my younger girlfriends. When I suggested 'doing a runner' in the local Italian, I was told, 'But they know where you live!' Do I care?

Comparrisons are odious but give me H2G2 any day. Fantasy is so much more satfifying than

'I wish this dreadful rain would stop' or 'Gillian is looking forward to a family Sunday lunch'

I think I may return.




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Popping in to say hello (May 6, 2006)
ANZAC Day (It's actually spread over a whole week) week means a succession of balls, lunches, breakfasts, receptions and never ending renditions of the Last Post at far too many church services to be good for one!

Saturday saw the TNT magazine ANZAC Day London Ball complete with extremely painful bugler who not only crucified the Last Post but who made Chelsea Pensioners look toddleresque.
Sunday down to Wiltshire for lunch in the 'Orficer's Mess' followed by a service at Sutton Veny to commemorate the 146 Australians who died there during the 1914-18 war. About 146 of us endured yet another painful crucifiction of the Last Post and then had to stand in freezing drizzle while the church sounded out 146 tolls at five second intervals. As at least 130 of the fallen heros had died of influemza, it did accur to me that perhaps they might not appreciate their descendants dying from the same affliction.
Tea in the church hall followed in typical Wiltshire style...thank god I don't live in the country! (though the primroses were exquiste and everwhere).
Tuesday was even more memorable. A 2 am start to collect one of the Gods and get to London for the dawn service at the Australian War Memorial (Hyde Park Corner) was made slightly more bearable by almost getting arrested.
We parked the car in the office car park and started walking up to Hyde Park when it became clear that God's new hip was not up to the journey, well certainly not if carried by his legs. As we were passing the local Palias (Buckingham variety) a police car drew up alongside.
'Thank you Lord for our boys in blue' I thought and tapped on the window
"Can you give us a lift up to the war memorial, please?" I asked, explaining our predicament i.e that we were running late for the service due to the obviously 'faulty' hip.
They acquiesced suspiciously, transferring the armoury that was the back seat to the boot.
Once inside the car Mr 'practising to be Rambo' Plod remarked
"We were just about to arrest you. We thought you had nicked the poppy wreath from the Cenotaph."
Joy!
As we neared the War Memorial and Hyde Park Corner was lost beneath a sea of antipodeans they drove right through the cordon and conceded
"OK perhaps you were telling the truth"

As if I would lie!

A slightly better rendition of the Last Post, lots of air kissing and 'gosh isn't early' a quick swig of rum laced tea and we were off for breakfast at some Servicemen's club near Marble Arch. Breakfast was so splendid that we decided to skip the next service (St Paul's) and allow reasonable digestion to occur, washed down with copious cups of coffee.
10.30 saw us at the Cenotaph. Lots of salutes and silences and marching and real Chelsea Pensioners (not looking quite so toddleresque) and bands and wreath laying and oh yes, another rendition of the Last Post.
A swift walk to the Abbey (Westminster variety), queuing in the best British tradition, oceans of pomp and circumstance and...finally... a rousing rendition of the Last Post. They really do it rather well at the local church!
Lunch followed and then having managed to duck out of that night's reception in the High Commission and feeling as fat as Hattie Jacques, drove home to the sanctuary of what is fast becoming the student slum!

Final day of Last Posting on Sunday in Suffolk and then a few days freedom before 'the season' starts.
And they call it a day job?


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Second desert email (Jan 14, 2005)
Dear All

17 days in and I feel I really know India, I mean really know India. I
am dirty, dusty and dehydrated, (the latter caused by yet another 'D')
and I could knit ten bl***y Pashminas with my leg hair!
You were right, Michael it is impossible to spend any time in this
delightful country and not succumb to the other'D'.
I fondly imagined it would result in my becoming sylph like.
The reality regrettably is not quite so attractive.
Having consumed everything from porridge to Paneer Masala in my quest
for a botty bung, and vainly believing that I should be able to eat
anything I like in the process without putting on an ounce, I am
horrified to discover that the other D' does not work that way.

You merely lose fluids. Three days in and I am gulping down the
imodium and the dialarite with the enthusiasm I usually reserve for a
good chardonnay. My skin is a paler shade of Saffron, my bent form
(crippled with stomach cramps) delights Gavin who keeps referring to
me as 'The old Dear', and I swear I've put on half a stone.
To make matters worse, (family...what is it with us and foreign
climes? Why do we have to travel with half a Kilo of cortisone?) I
have developed foot fungus, camel arse rot and a patch of dry skin
under the left boob that makes the wearing of upper torso scaffolding
impossible.

Yes I feel I am getting to know India. The fifteen of us have grown
together know each other and the country well. We have shared the
delights of the desert, the near death by Tuk Tuk experiences, the
Palaces, the forts, the Temples...dear God how many Temples....

I even had a ceremony by a Holy Lake (also known as the local
launderette and ablution block) carried out by a Hindu priest so I
could scatter some ashes and find new Karma.
This required rather a lot of the Lake to be poured over me, along with milk and yogurt and rice and sugar and red paint and yellow paint and flower petals and even more of the lake (In fact I blame the lake for the dreaded 'D').
A ubiquitous cow watched the proceedings ...No,Mother, I don't mean you...India has rather a lot of cows. Gavin and I refer to them as 'Roadsweepers'. They eat anything and everything and flower petals and yogurt were almost a temptation too far.

The ceremony was very moving though and the appearance of a fish...a
rather large fish just as the ashes were tipped into the water, was
quite spooky...Himself being a Pisces and all.

17 days in and we have shared smog that gives a whole new meaning to
the phrase 'passive smoking'. We have smelt smells that should never
be bottled and have had our eyes and skin sandblasted by a nature that
puts a building site to shame.
We have travelled together... on buses for days, on trains overnight,
playing cricket with sox in the corridor and fighting for the top bunk
or hanging out of the open door watching the ground pass by at a speed
that,should one fall out, would result in instant death, while
savouring a cigarette.
We have shared food on camels and stories on elephants and we have
seen such beauty too.

The sunset over Pushkar and the magic of the night time ceremony for
the scattering of the ashes of a saint, (an event that rarely happens
in a lifetime and it happened that day) 50,000 candles lit around the
lake accompanied by music and chanting that Cecile B de Mille would
have a hard time reproducing.
Dawn over the mountain fort whose walls are nearly as wide as the
great wall of China and whose name eludes me without the aid of an
itinerary.
The Golden city of Jaisalmer on New Year's eve, the party
in the Chai bar where you could have anything you wanted...in India
everything is possible!
The faces, some serene, others worn out before their time, ravaged by
the hardships this land imposes.
We have sipped cocktails in the 5 star Polo bar in Jaipur and cried
silently over the minus 5 star homes not one kilometre away.

Tomorrow is the Taj then we lose half our friends. Only six of us go
on to Varanassi (another two days on sleeper trains) the others go
back to Delhi then back to their other worlds.
All we have left to share is a 6 hour journey and then the Taj. I know
it will be as special as everything else. I think we will always be
part of each others lives in some small way, be it just an email, or a
postcard or (for some of us) a visit and time spent together again.

India is a place you have to share. It is not a choice it is a fact.
I shall never forget India and I would like to return and explore more
one day but for now I confess all I really desire is a hot bath, a
sunbed and a decent razor, and if I never see a camel again it will be
too soon!

Take care
Boots

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Email from the desert. (Jan 1, 2005)
My thoughts are with all of those who have suffered so much this week. We have been blessed and are poorly informed.

For those of you who receive this email and who barely know me I apologise. There was scarcely time to pack for this trip let alone organise a 'must remember to contact' list. I merely scooped up my address book and sent it to mysef. So I apologise to Bill the mechanic who came to fix my car three years ago, jandpYostoff@yahoo.co.uk (I think we may have met in Corfu) and Andy the plumber (though if you're not too busy, Andy I have a dodgy washer on the hot tap in the kitchen that is crying out for your attention) and to anyone else who hasn't got a clue who I am.
For those I know and love, feel free to delete or enjoy.

It's winter in Rajastahn (forgive me for various diverse spellings that will occur but frankly after three days on a camel...I truly don't care). As I said it's winter in Rajasthan, the dry season. The driest decade they have had in centuries.
What do we not expect?
Rain.
What do we get?
Rain!
A veritable winter monsoon. It's cold, my best, pretty, once white, Thai floaty hippy chick number affords me no protection from the bitter cold of the desert and now it seems my hair is to be wrecked as well. I have been sleeping in the same clothes for two days, washing in tepid water from a shared bucket, my only concession to a life fondly remembered being an electric toothbrush whose battery is fast fading.
It's 5am and the tent is leaking. Actually 'leaking' is a bit of an understatement. ' Bucketing' is closer to the reality.
The cabin crew are running around calling for our tour leader, who it seems has gone awol with a young American girl, as John, the only sensible one amongst us, complete with white gloves and an umbrella (he truly believes the Raj still exists) becomes everyone's new best friend. For those who know me well...yes John is gay. it's that fly paper syndrome again but we are having the best fun together and we can laugh despite the freezing rain. He reminds me that I told him an umbrella was an accessory too far yesterday and smugly says "Who is laughing now, My dear?" He does however afford me a corner of the brolly, the leaky bit!
I suggest that our leader is possiby not dead but rather tucked up in a warm hotel in Jaisalmer and that organising chai and breakfast for the rest of us might be a good course of action for them to embark upon.
Two rain drenched hours later our guide and the American (who we now appear to hate with much the same intensity as the Indians had for the Raj) return. Dry and scarcely dust covered. The rest of the team does an excellent cobra pit impression, spitting venemously. I am not sure who is most hated the American or the tour guide.

It takes but one discomfort for the Lord of the Flies to swarm.

We are offered the choice of going to town by jeep or finishing the Camel Trek. Oh how I long to go in the jeep every aching muscle and bone in my body screams 'Take the money! Take the money!'
No I have to open the Bl**dy box.

For those who have yet to experience the delight of a camel trek, a little information.
Camels are not the most gregarious of animals, they spit, they vomit over you and they are incredibly smelly. They have honed these noxious habits and turned them into an art form.
Also camels do not like the rain. It makes them want to itch.
A little difficult when carrying the camping section from Millets and two passengers...
A little difficult but not impossible.
The desert has very little vegetation and none of it is hospitable.
I find myself in the middle of a thorn bush. I vow never to ride a camel again. I didn't realise how much I could bleed. Naturally the plasters are not in the day bag, thankfully and Andrex is. Looking more like an Egyptian Mummy than El Lawrence I rejoin the camel train.
The drivers decide that the black cloud behind us does in fact contain water, and quite a lot of it. If we are not to all end up in the thorn bushes we have but one option, we must outrun the storm cloud.
Yesterday we walked trotted and galloped.
Not pleasant but variable. Walking invovles painful rubbing and grinding of one's posterior. The trot initially brings gentle relief until the bouncing causes muscle bruising in places you didn't even know you had muscles. Galloping is a bit like taking a long piece of dough and smashing it round a lead lined room. false teeth do not remain in the mouth, sports bras fail, and any attempt at control is entirely futile.
Three hours later and I have a new pain standard.
No more shall I say,
"I feel I have done two rounds with mike Tyson" or "I feel as if I have been run over by a truck"
No from here on in there is only one true pain standard.
"I feel as if I have been on a three day camel trek."

Why do I have a sinking feeling that the water in the hotel shower will not be hot?
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Ball Games...for Pin who reckons I'm getting lazy (Jul 3, 2004)
What is it with the English, summer and balls?
Cricket balls, footballs, tennis balls, and graduation balls.
The gee-gees have finishing breaking their necks over the fences. The great washed and unwashed have realised, yet again, that watching them run round on a flat surface is about exciting as a grand prix without a crash. The cleavage and cream brigade have shown us that you can change the proportions of a woman by sticking something ludicrous on her head and we're now all bored.
Thank god for balls.
Take football, which we only get in the summer every other year. Year one world cup, year two no footie, year three European cup, year four no footie.
This must be one of the odd years even though numerically it is even. This summer we have footie. This summer we don't have a sea of geranium hanging baskets adorning our streets, This summer we are drowning in a jingoistic ocean of red and white flags.
Suddenly everyone is an armchair expert on the glorious game.

'Beckham is God!'

'Bloody Scholes he's playing like a big girl's blouse!'

'Run you tosser!'

'Oh no! Not Vassal! '

What the hell is Owen playing at?'

All this from the pragmatic female in accounts who barely musters a drop of perspiration when the footsie surges forward. Take out an 's' and she has a personality transplant.

Red, not a good fashion colour, is a disaster as a uniform. Hop filled bellies take on EU Mountain proportions, striped kaftanesque shoulders become the new erogenous zones, and pulling is confined to pints.

And then the ball goes out.

Beckham is relegated to tosser division. Shoulders appear in their full glory again. Women go back to white wine and weight-watchers, and every Greek and Portuguese restaurant in the Home Counties is boycotted.

Which neatly brings us to another ball game, cricket. Enjoyed by men and tolerated by women. Lost in fantasy the boys sit comfortably in their own space and revel in the inarticulate intellectual. Wind in the Willows for grown-ups. The women have their presence or at least a well-dressed semblance of it and are moderately comfortable cutting the cucumbers, checking out who is possibly having an affair with whose husband and covertly grooming the young lad playing second stump or something, (they really couldn't care less) for future adventures. And then rain stops play, which coincidentally moves us forward to the yellow balls of Wimbledon.

This has to be the greatest of all the summer balls. The grey green canopy covering centre court has to the BBC's most triumphant televisual achievement. Day after day we are enthralled by the summer break. Cameramen put in for the Wimbledon gig years in advance, knowing they can happily book their annual holiday and not be missed. Nothing happens, the rain comes down and the nation is enthralled. True, Henman will go out at some point, quite possibly Cliff Richard will be in the crowd and it's always good for minor royalty spotting. Thankfully we have the re-runs of years gone by when boys knew how to play, hair was the order of the day and shorts were moulded to the bits that matter.

And so we move on to the graduation ball. Tuxedos covering the future EU Mountain, Frocks that cling to pre weight-watchers curves, adrenaline spent, the high of achievement; the pulling of your three year fantasy.

Let's face it ball games are not about the balls, they are about the people playing with them.

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still 'resting' (May 29, 2004)
Monday

No car. Consider slitting throat, then realise it would not even be a tiny bit attractive on the pale sage carpet and doubt if the offsprung could afford the carpet-cleaning bill.

Walk to village...Perhaps I should train for next year's Marathon? Walking isn't really that difficult.

What happens if I go a bit faster?

Dear god, everything wobbles. That is quite unnatural! I could break an ankle in these boots, both ankles even.

Meet Chloe for lunch.

'They're going to make me redundant!' She wails.
Quite good at wailing is Chloe.
It's probably because she's tall.
Wailing somehow looks more elegant when you're tall.

Tears coursing down impeccable cheekbones and slowly but gracefully, forming pools of woe on the restaurant's marble tiled floor.
Unlike what happens to the vertically challenged who end up drowning in a lake of wet salt with a face that screams 'contagious! Unclean!'

Still if they're going to make her redundant I'll have some company on the Job centre run.

'Oh excellent! We could do the job centre game together, perhaps you can give me a lift.'

Wrong response. Try again.

'Oh no, that's dreadful! How dare they! They'll never cope without you!'

(I think they might actually but I won't go there).

'What am I going to do? I'll never get another job.'

'With legs like yours of course you will! Stick with me, kiddo. I'm an experienced hand in the unemployment game. In fact I think I should be fully qualified by now, do they give you a degree or something? That would be nice a BA in unemployable.'

She is too depressed to respond.

Walk home. Wonder how long it will be before the boots need re heeling?

Tuesday
Car still not better.
Toy with idea of buying bicycle.
Realise that a) cannot afford it, b) not very good at riding them even when young and c) suspect everything will wobble more than it does when attempting to trot.
Walk to village. I am sure there is a hole developing on the sole of my left boot. Perhaps I should pad it with a bit of the Guardian? Isn't that what you do? Didn't Charlie Chaplin do that in one of his movies? At least the classified section would serve a useful purpose. Not one reply to my media job applications. OK perhaps I'm just a tiny bit under qualified for controller of channel four, but only a tiny bit surely?
Have lunch with Malcolm and Amanda
Apologies accepted.
Walk home.
Have dinner with Patrick
Slightly more histrionic apology also accepted.


Wednesday

Watch 'Trisha'.
Oh my god I have to get a day job! Daytime television is a fast track to suicide.
Mow lawn, weed garden. Lunch with Dimitri. Phone garage. Hurrah! Car will be ready tomorrow! Seriously pleased with that; public transport was almost becoming appealing.
Download employment agency addresses from Internet. Revise CV. Call friend in town. Arrange lunch.

Thursday
Collect car. Hit town. Do agencies. OK why is life never simple?
Have printed off a million copies of my CV and do they want that? No, they want me to email it. Oh, and can they take me on their books now? No. Why? Because they have to assess me, not sure I like the sound of that.

'Why don't you apply for a teaching job oversees?'
My lunch date and erstwhile comrade in Tesol arms enquires?

'I can't afford to. It doesn't pay enough to keep the house and allow me to live in Delhi or Dubai! Besides you're a fine one to talk! How many jobs have you applied for exactly, Miss 'I'm definitely giving up my job and starting a new life'?'

She has the good grace to look suitably chastened.

'It's complicated.'

'It's a man.'

'Well...'

'It's a man.'

'It might be.'

'You've just lost the whole plot you do know that? A quick glimpse into your future. One marriage, 2.4 children, an A-Z of stretch marks and in thirty years you'll be wondering 'Would I have made a good teacher?' and 'What would life in China have been like?'

'Don't you dare start lecturing me! Why on earth did you go on the course if you're not even going to attempt to use it?'

Now there's an interesting question. Why did I do a course that turned out to be the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, cost me a fortune and deprived me of sleep or sanity for 28 days? A course that I may never even use because teaching is not even a passion.
Good grief even mid menopause, I am forever obedient.

'Because my daughter told me to! Now can we please change the subject and organise our next reunion!'

Friday
A day's work at last.
Well this is nice. Lovely day, good view, a flowering tamarisk across the road if I'm not mistaken, and lots of beautiful cars. Yes I think I can do the answering the phone game here for the afternoon.
What sort of cars? Well how on earth should I know? Shiny cars that start first time and have four wheels and all their hubcaps on. Oh and there's a yummy one with no lid. I suppose it must have a lid somewhere but it's not wearing it at the moment. The seats are all white, my sort of living room but what do you do when it rains I wonder? Not a bad price either £7395, oh dear I missed a 9, £73995! Good God! You could buy a third world country for that. OK maybe only a small one but at least it might be hot.
Smart showroom, dark green deep buttoned leather chairs and Chesterfields, interior houseplants in shiny aluminium planters. To my left a flower arrangement of the 'if it's dried it's died' variety. Not bad, just dead looking. Oh and a glass cabinet with stuffed animals and toys. Why on earth would anyone want stuffed animals when they buy a car?
Still nice background music and a telly.

Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrr

Good heavens! I suppose I have to answer that. I wonder what all the buttons do.

'Hello, can I help you? You want to speak to Mr Brown? Splendid, do you have any idea which department he's in?
Of course you do. Well that's jolly handy perhaps you could tell me, I'm sure that will be quicker than my trying to find his name on the list. No I'm not the usual receptionist, I'm the temp, you'd never have guessed? Well that's nice but between you and me I am absolutely stuffing useless. Look I'll try and put you through but there's every chance you'll end up in a call centre in Delhi. Oh gosh I forgot to ask for your name. Mario, that's nice. Do you have a second name, Mario? Oh he'll know whom you are will he? The Chairman… Right, gosh, can I apologise in advance for your re-routing via Delhi.'

Somehow I think this might be my first and last day.

Monday

Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrr


'Hello. Oh hi, Sam, you've got some work for me? The garage wants me back? They can't want me back. I sent every call round the world three times. I was rude to everybody including the Chairman. I told the old boy who was looking at the car with a lid off that he was far too old to have a car like that as it was strictly a pulling machine…He bought it? He didn't? The dirty b*****d! The Chairman thinks I'm entertainment value? '

Dear God I really do need a proper day job.

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Is there any arena I am not challenged in? (Apr 29, 2004)
If I can't even make the grammar work in word, what hope do I have of mastering guide ml?
Previewing is always a good idea, boots.
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Wednesday 8.02 AM (Apr 21, 2004)
Dreams can be so beautiful.
A timeless place where all is well
Where two can laugh and share their journey once again
A place where souls entwined can dance together on the shore
And fleetingly adore
I wish that waking could be so.



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A day in the life of the unemployable (Apr 20, 2004)

Day One: A social call of the DSS variety

'It's just like the cheese counter in Waitrose,' my brother in law informs me. He lies.

It so isn't. The only similarity is the taking of the ticket from the ticket-dispensing machine.
Where is the Roquefort? I asked myself.
Where's the coffee shop?
Why aren't the chairs delightfully cosy?
Not even a sniff of cappuccino.

I am grateful for his company; my brother in law's that is. Despite being northern, he makes an excellent chauffeur and his dress code is at least appropriate for the venue long hair, black T-shirt, tattoos and slightly whiffy jeans.

'You shouldn't be here, Sis,' he is obviously concerned…in a northern way.

'Trust me, Bro, I'm tougher than you think, honey.'

'But they're all druggies. Waste of spaces every one.'

No, they're not, I think, but cannot vocalise. He wouldn't understand, he preconditioning has made him northern man and I have involuntary slipped into a wonderland that isn't, but know judgement without understanding would be at best inappropriate. I remain passively silent; this worries him even more. He likes it when I chatter inanely. That's what I'm supposed to do; I'm a girl.

True, at least fifty percent of my new colleagues should be sectioned, I should be sectioned for heaven's sake, but on whose authority and why? Who is responsible for this unhappy fallout? Thank god for the bullet proofed glass safety net. It saves the angry unfulfilled from court and spares the bureaucrats from a fate they never realised came with their job description.

"Number 110 to counter five"

I clutch the Waitrose ticket that tells me I am number 119 and pray that some will have given up hope, slit their throats with the boredom of the wait or will have been clever enough to have multi ticketed, now why didn't I think of that?

Day Two contemplation at the job centre

I wonder how unemployed people actually have time to find work. It takes at least a week to fill in the forms even for one who form multi tasks.

'I need to see your last bank statement.'

I hand the pieces over. No one told me you had to keep bank statements. The man on the telly is always saying shred everything.

'And I need your P45.'

'I take it that has nothing to do with a sun tan cream factor?'

She has obviously had a sense of humour bypass.

The next two days are spent commuting from one bureaucratic building to another, retrieving documents from the shredder and cooking for brother.

Day five

Brother in law retreats to country north of the Watford border. Being a bloke he's run out of clean knickers and being a shy bloke is too embarrassed to ask if I will put them in the washing machine, the dirty knickers that is. He assures me no passport is necessary for his trip, how odd. It must be something to do with the EU.

Still no sign of car, not even a phone call from the garage. It's terminal, I know it is.
Need more forms but cannot get them because need to go to bank to get them and can't get to bank because…no car.
There isn't a bus to the village where the bank is, which is quite right and proper I'm sure, one doesn't want riff raff in the nobby part of the borough after all. A tad tiresome when one needs to get there though.

Dimitri offers to do a little chauffeuring.

'Darling we could go in the Rolls.'

'No we couldn't go in the bl***y Rolls! They'll never give me anything if we pitch up in a s***ing roller!'

Walk into village.
Meet Amy for coffee. Catch up on gos.
Walk back from village in rain, buy umbrella on the way, mine is in car which is…in garage.

Day six

Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrr

'Hello is that the garage? Is the car fixed?'

' It's Vicky, you said we could come and stay, can we?'

I did, didn't I? In a moment of Portuguese alcohol induced well being, I offered my friend's daughter, her boyfriend and the child from hell a bed for the night.
No car, no job, not a kind bone left in my body and now I'm expected to do children!

'Of course you can, stay as long as you like. When will you get here? Oh you've lost your air tickets have you? That's OK we can sort it out tomorrow, Dimitri can probably help. Two days? Yes of course. Oh the nightmare child will be staying with your brother on the second day will she?'

(Thank you, lord!)

Brrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr

'Hello, I don't suppose for one moment you're the garage?'

'What are you talking about, Div?'

'Hello Patrick. I've just had Vicky on the phone, she's coming to stay with her boyfriend and the nightmare child.'

'Oh good! I haven't seen Vicky for ages! Oh and the dear child, she is so gorgeous, how can you call her a nightmare? What are you cooking, I'll come to dinner. On second thoughts, I'll cook; you'll just kill us all. I thought the young Irish was coming to see you today? That's why I called, he is just so gorgeous, you can't have him all to yourself.'

Dear god, I'd forgotten, half the students from my brief flirtation with further education are coming round. It's going to be a dreadful night. Patrick will woo the young Irish, my fellow students will realise I really do live in an extension of the Priory, oh no, they know that already, and I will no doubt be unfit to talk to anyone by Sunday.



Sunday

Vicky and boyfriend despatched to find greasy spoon breakfast or at the least fish and chips; to be followed by Sunday pub crawl.
Nightmare from hell despatched to uncle's house. Home almost liveable again. Time to die on sofa.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrrrr

I'm not going to answer, garages don't call on a Sunday.

Brrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrr

I'm going to have to answer the noise is killing me.

Brrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr

'Hello? Oh, hello Malcolm, you're back from the sun then? Where was it this time? The Caribbean…How nice. No I don't want to come out for a drink. I'm dead. I know I haven't seen you for ages but I really am dead. Some friends of mine are heading towards the pub, play with them. Yes, we'll catch up tomorrow.'

Brrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr

I don't believe it! Dear god it's half seven. Where is everyone?

Brrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr

'Hello.'

I'm not even going to think about garages.

'Oh hi, it's David, I thought you might like to come out for a drink.'

Delectable David, Why does my head hurt so much and my stomach feel as if it is in its death throes. I can't believe my voice is saying what it is. I have been invited out for a drink with delectable David and the boys and my stupid mouth says

'No thanks, I'm dead.'

'Your voice sounds a bit husky.'

If I wasn't so dead I could take that as a compliment but deep down I know it is merely pity.

Monday

Employment agency calls. They have a week's work for me. A week's work in a nearby village only accessible by car, useful.
Walk to village, again, buy the Guardian, walk back from village in the rain.
Buy second umbrella as my two are in the car, which is in the garage, and on the kitchen table.
Send CV off to a dozen or so media/newspaper/press officer jobs that I am far to old and underqualified for but who cares.
Walk back to village, have coffee with Chloe and catch up on any gos that Amy has forgotten.
Walk home again in the rain. Buy third umbrella. Consider opening an umbrella shop.

Fill in on line application forms for jobs that I am too old and underqualified for again who cares? Add 'I like dogs ' to CV. Thought about adding 'and world peace', but realised even for me that was stupid.
No word from garage.

Brrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr

'What?'

I know it's not going to be garage at six thirty.

'What you doin?'

It's Patrick.

'Contemplating throat slitting for my evening's entertainment.'

'Oh good, I'll bring some wine round and we can play double suicide!'

'You don't need to play suicide, you've got a head start! Besides my neighbour's coming round for a girlie night in.'

'Even better we can play triple suicide, she's as miserable as you are, you old witch!'

Knew we were past any kind of hope when scrabble was considered entertaining.

Tuesday

Car still not mended.

Thought about posting raft of CV's done at some point yesterday and then thought, why?

Watched daytime TV. Walked into village to have coffee with Amanda, Malcolm and Chloe and caught up on the same gossip I heard the day before.

Walked home in rain again. Got wet, umbrellas in village all sold out.

Garage rang.

'Do you know what's wrong with the car exactly?'

What is the point?

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Boots' law (Apr 13, 2004)
You guessed, I didn't get to drink the Chardonnay, well not the one I was suppossed to drink at any rate.
Machines and I are not meant to be friends, I suspect even acquaintances is pushing it.

The man with the van and things called 'tools' arrives.

'Keys?'

I assume he means car keys, after all, we've only just met.

'Coffee?'

'Yer battries flat.'

I do hope that 'battries' have something to do with cars, I don't think I can take personal criticsm today.

'Is that good or bad?'

'Mmmmm, well that depends' says man with van and proceeds to bring out things called toools.

I make coffee anyway. In the background I hear the glorious purr of a motor. Slopping coffee over newly washed floor, I run to embrace glorious man with van.

'It's better then?'

'No, it's not good I'm afraid.'

What does he mean? 'It's not good I'm afraid.' The b****y thing's going isn't it?

'Well it's working,' say I.

'So's all yer lights, Madam.'

Don't you just hate that 'Madam'?

'Well turn them off!'

'They are turned off, Madam.'

He's doing it to annoy me, I know he is.

'So what do we have to do?' As if I could do anything.

'I think it's yer 'lectrics, something to do with the alarm.'

'Can't you disable the b****y alarm...Sir?'

If he could he's not going to after that.
No, it now has to go to hospital and it can't go to hospital until tomorrow because it's ban collie day and it can't go to the local, and cheap, NHS hospital because it has something to do with 'lectrics, so it has to go to private hospital and they can't do anything for at least a week because they're 'up to our eyes in it'.

I wonder if the bus will break down on the way to the job centre tomorrow?







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Give us a break God! (Apr 12, 2004)
OK I've had a good holiday. Fair enough I've even enjoyed two evenings of good company since my return. The washing is done, the case unpacked and repacked, the garden still beckons. The house is lightly blown over and the dust has yet to resettle, hair washed and dried, clean underwear discovered; so why should I complain?

Why don't cars start?

It isn't even making that little 'chunk' noise to let me know that there is a life force, albeit alien, buried beneath its bonnet.

That's another thing. I thought bonnets were hats.

I now have to wait for a man with a van and some odd objects apparantly called 'tools'to come and breathe life into this four wheeled creature from another planet.

No doubt if I don't sit in the wretched thing, he will drive past and say it was a hoax call, I believe men with vans and strange objects called tools do that when their ban collie maun days are interrupted.

So I cannot even mow the meadow, and am only afforded this pleasure as I can spy any odd movement outside if I contort by body and tap with one finger.

Keep the chardonnay on hold! I will be there.

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I did (Apr 11, 2004)
Run barefoot in the tide that is. With the most gorgeous girl I have ever met. Huge brown eyes, golden hair, long rangy legs and the coldest nose you've ever felt. Sadie and I ran in the Atlantic surf most mornings. Then we had coffee in the beach cafe and she was much admired, she is such a flirt.
Alas our holiday romance is over but I shall return so she can break my heart all over again.
Comments on journal entries are not solicited, I have just decided to use it more.
I have decided a lot of things over the past two weeks.
On tuesday I find a job, any job will do it is only temporary.
I am going to write, properly, and one day I may even get paid for it, who knows? Stranger things happen in life.
For now I have to empty a suitcase, play the dhobi man and mow a meadow.
*waves* to Teuchter...it does get better.
*waves* to Ben...think I may not make it down this weekend. Have to catch up with family I have neglected. We will have another soon.
*waves* to Caerwynn...it may have been grim but it made us tenacious
take care all
boots

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Running barefoot in the tide (Mar 27, 2004)
Probably not but shall be away for a couple of weeks.
Take care all
boots
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Happy Birthday to boots. (Jan 7, 2004)
Ohmigosh! It's my birthday.
Surrounded by Mingle's wrappers, non functional lighters and cold cups of coffee, the mini brick kicks into the William Tell overture and I notice it is the seventh of January. A year has passed since I applied for permanent residency in this strange but magic land.

And what a birthday present. Dr Deckchair Funderlik has posted
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/alabaster/F109532?thread=365793&latest=1

One of my all time writing heroes and friends on hootoo... alongside the definitely non malevolent phocoid otherwise known as the redoubtable Mr Pinniped, The master bates of 'copy and paste', Dr Montague Trout, and the true lady of Shallot - A girl called Ben.

If you have not yet read Funderliks personal space, treat yourself. Open the tipple of your choics, gorge on chocolates and savour his unreality.

My thanks to all the rest of you who have helped me through this year. You all appear on my friends list but special thanks to, Waz, Jodan, Hypatia, Shazz, Speckly and fatty lizzard, you don't know how much you've helped.

Now I raise a birthday toast to hootoo!
take care
boots


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I am born...old but born (Apr 9, 2003)
My arrival in this galaxy was the result of some over enthusiastic foreplay on the part of a rather stupid and egotistical Great Dane (my father) with an equally intellectually challenged but overly trusting golden Labrador. This unlikely and from my mother's perspective, innocent, coupling was noticed by a 'happened to be passing' creative and somewhat sadistic alien, who thought it might be fun to expand the event to a threesome. The genetic consequence, myself, is nothing short of disaster. My passport photo is a bad likeness and my nursery school reports do not bode well for my future.

The remnants of my paternal ego genes are littered about the bit of the universe surrounding my home…'the kennel'… which is where, more often than not, I can be found, licking my paws whilst chewing the most comforting corner of the security blanket towel which was my mother's last legacy.

Were I not handicapped in terms of both size and acoustics... my bark and bulk being far more suited to another, I could possibly lay low for a few million years until this galaxy has moved on.
Alas inquisitiveness, stupidity, and a canines natural need to be loved and petted will be my undoing...once the ball has been thrown, I have to run.



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