So, you're on Facebook or Twitter or an internet forum and one of your friend posts something that they believe is funny and they're quite obviously expecting a reaction but you're unsure as to whether it's quite as funny as they make out... what do you do?
DILEMMA!!*insert quandry type da-da-duuuuhhh music here*
Solved... you type a cheery "LOL" underneath their post and carry on with your social networking and the rest of your life. Now you're safe! You've acknowledged their post, you've made them believe that you share a sense of humour and you're not about to be dumped from their friends list for not "speaking" to them for a while. Everyone's a winner.
*disclaimer* The above post does NOT count when I type "LOL" on someone's post. I only post if I think it's funny. Or something like that... *whistles nonchalantly*
Once it was fun to pretend you were a check-out girl (BEEP!) and scan your own items (BEEP!). The kids enjoyed joining in (BEEP!) and hunting for the bar code, packing the bags whilst you scanned (BEEP!) the next item, then they'd feed the money into the little slot...
Now, it's just another chore.
There's LOADS of people in the "10 items or less" queue (some stores allow you 15 or even 20 items) trying to save time. And you can guarantee that many of these have sneaked an extra item or two into their basket. I've seen them. I've counted the items in their basket. You know who you are!!!!
So I scan my items, as quickly as possible, for that is what this facility is for... speed... in and out... but some items WILL NOT SCAN, for love nor money... so you have to stand around and wait for the one assistant who works on this section to come and swipe his Card Of Power across your machine whilst all the time you are getting glares from the other customers behind you in the queue.
And god forbid if you should try and buy alcohol!!! Again, you have to wait for an assistant (who, by now, has gone to help some other gormless idiot who can't scan an item successfully) to come and check you over and then type in a code to say that they believe you are over 18. I thought I'd enjoy being ID'd at the grand old age of 37 but, instead, it makes me shuffle around shiftily!!
You then have to try and manoeuvre it all into carrier bags on a shelf no bigger than baby changing mat. If you don't use this system: SCAN, BAG, SCAN, BAG, SCAN, BAG the system flashes up a warning sign and will not allow you to continue scanning until you make the very important decision of whether you want to place this item in your bag or not. You obviously have to make this choice whilst the item is on it's way from the scanner to the bag... you may have paused for a couple of seconds to ensure that your child is still somewhere nearby or to juggle your purse because you didn't bring your handbag with you or to breathe or something.
And when you try to pay you only have a manky old ten pound note that has seen better days.... torn at the edges, bent at the corners, tatty looking. And no matter how many times you try to line this note up in the machine, it spits it back out at you, inviting you to try again!!!!
In the meantime, approximately 8 people have swanned through the self-service till next to you with no problems at all. It's supposed to be easier and quicker, isn't it? So why am I always so bloody stressed afterwards?
My life, my love... where would I be without it? Lost and confused most probably!!
I possess the dogs bollocks of all filofax's (in my opinion). It's an A5 Metropol Zip in black and stores everything I need to organise my life. It's big and bulky (it's a bit like me, really) but that suits me down to the ground because I have everything I need in one place - and a big zip to stop it all falling out. It also fits perfectly in my "work bag".
the order of my filofax is as follows:
IN THE FRONT BIT: Business cards of friends and work 3D digital image postcards for random competitions and writing to people My Parker biro
IN THE MIDDLE BIT: A clear plastic pocket for stuffing receipts, stamps and stuff in Filofax post-it notes (I cannot be without these)
SECTION 1: diary (week to 2-pages) with my unique colour codes (see below) SECTION 2: personal information, ideas for blogs and writing, personal finances, library wish list, crafting notes, personal photos, etc. SECTION 3: work notes, HR guidelines, etc. SECTION 4: Uni notes, timetable, course results, list of courses SECTION 5: fund raising ideas, committee tasks, list of contacts (people to annoy to give me things for prizes) SECTION 6: blank paper, lined paper, to-do blanks, general notes, jottings, reminders that have to go in my diary at some point, unimportant things...
then my address/phone number section
IN THE BACK POCKET: a filofax hole punch (NO filofax should be without an appropriate hole punch!!!) a mechanical pencil
I have a special colour-coded system (a) because I'm a bit anal about organising myself and bright colours drive me into doing something and (b) because it looks quite pretty *innocent look*.
Orange = Personal
Green/Yellow = Work related
Blue = Work related (Training)
Pink = Uni (usually deadlines or module start dates)
I often think that it's slightly too big to be carting around all over the place but if I tried to downsize I'd run out of writing space or would be a "section" short!!!. I love it, love it, love it!!!
It's been widely reported recently that Coleen Rooney will use an NHS hospital when she eventually goes into labour (she's due this week - 24th October). Now, NHS resources are stretched at the best of times and we've all heard the horror stories about shortages of midwives/beds/equipment being available, so should people who are worth in the region of £8,000,000 (yes, that's 8 million!) be considering using already scarce sources? If they can afford a bed in a private hospital, shouldn't they be paying for it?
I know the majority of us baulk at the amount of money the privileged throw at private health care but this is one instance that I, personally, don't mind. Once Ms Rooney goes into labour, the hospital in question (The Liverpool Women's NHS Foundation Trust) is going to be besieged by the World Press. How do you think that is going to help the day-to-day activity (including all manner of emergencies) in the hospital because we all know that the paparazzi have no concerns about the general public just as long as they get their money shot!!!
Ms Rooney... your child is not going to remember where they were born but you are, love. You should have grasped this last opportunity for some "Me Time" with both hands and booked yourself in for a bit of pampering, no matter how down-to-earth you want to appear.
I’m not one for giving names to inanimate objects but I love my laptop that much that I’m considering a virtual baptism.
My laptop has the beginnings of wear on the keyboard from the hours I spend tip-tapping on it, a lot of wear on the edge where my wrists rest, a burned and melted spot where a sparkler from a joint dropped on it and a smear of nail varnish where I was using it as a firm surface to rest my hand. It has to stay plugged into the mains when in use because the battery is so crap but she’s mine... all mine. I even have a special password on it so that no-one else can use it without my permission.
I had a bit of a scare one evening. The kids were in bed, I had my glass of wine on my little side table and my beloved laptop on my knee. I was casually reading a gossip website when flashing colours shot across the screen. Green, blue, yellow... it was like the loading screen for a ZX Spectrum game. I stayed very still and waited. I daren’t move an inch. The flashing stopped. I rubbed my eyes hoping that it was tiredness that was making me see things.
I’m no Carrie Bradshaw. I have shit shoes and all my computer documents are backed up, my music is stored on my mp3 player and I have all my University assignments on my flash drive. So why was I panicking so much? It was because I would feel completely cut off from the rest of my (virtual) world if I didn’t have my lovely little laptop to keep me company of an evening. I would have to spend time with the children *shock horror*. I would have to hold a conversation with my husband (maybe, maybe not!). I would have to find something to occupy myself with to steer me away from insanity.
My whole world is online. The majority of my friends reside at the end of my wireless network, I access the world news via the BBC website and from a variety of online versions of newspapers, I listen to the radio by clicking “listen now” links, I ask for advice from parenting websites and I swap random mundane events in my life via a variety of social networking websites (see previous blog post for proof of this).
Is this the modern world as we know it? How should I change it? Do I want to change it? The majority of television is crap and what I do watch I "discuss" online. I feel more sociable now than I did five years ago when I was younger and lived in a town where I knew considerably more people than I do where I live now. Maybe I like the impersonality of it all? Maybe my online persona is a lot more fun to be with that the real me!!
I'm a bit lost for words, to be honest. If that had have been an attempt by one of the contestants, Simon would have ripped them to bits... Simon, it wasn't "INCREDIBLE"!!! It was crap!! I hope you watch it back later and change your opinion.
It's very clear to see now why she wanted to mime. She sounded out of breath and weak. Her hat was covering her eyes for some strange reason and I wanted to pull her trousers up!! Cheryl, love, you're not P!nk and you never will be!! As part of Girls Aloud, she's a valuable member but at least she's not going to split the group up by swanning off and starting a solo career.
I'll bet all of Whitney Houston's nerves disappeared whilst listening backstage... at least she's going to sound and look good after that!!
EDITED TO ADD:
Bloody Hell!!! Whitney was almost as bad AND she looks smashed off her face... actually, she IS smashed off her face, can hardly open her eyes, is having trouble stringing two words together, can't really comprehend any questions that are put to her about the contestants from the night before (probably because she was smacked off her tits in her hotel and not watching the show) and her dress is falling off too :-o
Maybe Whitney wants to listen to her own words... "practise, practise, practise" not *snort*snort*snort*
For part-time bloggers like myself, it really grates when an established journalist, such as Jan Moir, allows personal opinion (almost ALL of it unresearched and totally untrue) and homophobia to get in the way of reporting interesting, unbiased articles.
Here is the article in question - copied and pasted for your perusal - lets not drive the hit counter up any more on the Daily Mail website...
CLICK HERE FOR THE ARTICLE IN FULL (via Google Docs)
So, from this "article" we are to believe that gay couples should not have friends over to stay over after a night out? That 33-year old men cannot die from natural causes? That every death (suspicious or natural) of gay men should now be questioned because it's most likely to be suspicious? That Stephen Gatley was chosen to appear in Andrew Lloyd Webber's West End version of Joseph because he was famous, not because he could sing in tune?
My message to Jan Moir is plain and simple. Donate whatever fee you were paid for this shoddy journalism to charity, conduct adequate research in future and reassess your privilaged position in the world of media because I think you've just abused it to the highest level.
EDITED TO ADD:
The Daily Mail has tried to soften the blow by adjusting the headline of the article but has failed to change the scrolling bar at the side. What can't speak, can't lie!!
(click image for full size pic)
But also, I think that the editorial team behind this
furore have some explaining to do too. Whilst Jan Moir wrote the words, someone has to own up to the
I got to the till with 16 cans of lager, one bottle of blackcurrant and 3 bottles of wine - about £22/23 so I thought...
the till racks up 29 fucking quid.....
I said to the girl, "Sorry love, it shouldn't be that much - those cans were 8 for £6!!" So she buzzes the manager... the manager looks and muses, wanders over to the shelf, comes back, agrees, changes the till, charges me the right price and fucks off.... all this time I'm apologising to the queue behind me because it's usually ME who gets caught behind some numpty who'd picked the only non-bar-coded item in the whole of the shop!!! Anyway, the girl behind the till scans the blackcurrant and then presses "TOTAL".... then we hear, "oh no, she's not authorised and over-rided it!!!!", so she has to call the manager again who has to do the whole till thing again and what-not!!!....
I turned to the queue that had formed down the aisle and past the toilet rolls and said, "I'm so sorry....." but I got 'da evils' from some Vikki Pollard look-a-like and her mother so I paid and scuttled back to my car, all the time looking over my shoulder!!
The moral of this story? Don't go to Asda on a Friday evening unless ABSOLUTELY necessary!!!