Sing when you're winning...

Some people should never be allowed to sing in public. This includes the majority of the damned X-Factor gang, but also Yours Truly. I just can't hold a tune - never have been able to. My sister claimed my share of any musical genes I might have had. The witch can turn her hand to almost any instrument. Even at school I was so tone-deaf that playing an instrument was something that was always going to be beyond my reach. A few chords of 'Silent Night' on the keyboard and the baseline of 'Under Pressure' was about all I could manage, sadly. I was always that kid in school ensembles who was given the tambourine or third triangle just so they had something to play. And last night proved to me that I should definitely be gagged.

Thankfully, not a picture of me singing...but equally as cat-strangling I'm sure.

I've had a couple of just-what-I-needed get-togethers with friends recently (the last was a very nice affair at the weekend with my good buds C and J - we had slightly crispy lasagna and melt-in-the-middle chocolate puds and the works) and last night was no exception. But someone should really have stopped me. It started off innocently enough - a load of us piled into my friend V's lounge playing a really good interactive quiz thing on her games console with individual buzzers everything (the excitement at having individual buzzers became too much at one point and everyone was pressing everything) - then the wine was cracked open and the karaoke game was unleashed.

At least I wasn't alone though, my murderous renditions were always as part of a duet. I just don't know why I thought it was a good idea at all, never mind three times! First up was a cat-strangling version of 'Daydream Believer' with J. She can hold a note. I cannot. The came 'California Dreaming', also with J. You'd think both of us would have learnt our lessons. Apparently not. And lastly, a festive performance of Wizzard's 'I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday' with C. Turns out even with the words on screen, I still don't know them. I didn't take the crown for most embarrassing song of the evening though, oh no. that was left to our (straight) male pals J and C, whose convincing interpretation of Sonny and Cher's 'I Got You Babe', complete with adoring gazes at one another was the vocal highlight of the night. I think wine came out of my nose.

Karaoke. An evil word indeed. Wine. And even eviller one.

Oh, that looks like a nice book...

I recently reported about my abhorrent lack of sleep. Well, it's driven me to edge. Not by the way of Class A drugs or anything - but by the way of literature. I'm absolutely devouring books. For the most part it's working - frivolous tales and the odd re-read of a Stephen King or something are helping to take my mind off things and send me off into the Land of Nod gently. Or it was working, until I picked up Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. Christ on a bike. I wasn't expecting that. Talk about devastation.

I won't give the plot away (what I'm about to tell you is in the blurb anyway), but it's about a young girl who was murdered, and she is telling her story from heaven while watching the destructive effects this has on her family as the years go by. I don't think I've ever been so completely captivated by a book. My Other Half actually woke up and came to see what was wrong as I was so inconsolable halfway through reading. I put myself to sleep with a headache from crying, I was so bad. But after discussing this little novel at work, I was glad to discover that I wasn't the only emotional wet sponge to be completely floored by this book.

And apparently, the film is due out next year. Great. I think perhaps I'll wait for the DVD to come out so at least if my face dissolves into my popcorn, it'll be in the privacy of my own front room. My friends will agree with me that none of us want a repeat of what became known as The 'Titanic' Incident. (My 15 year-old self was taken under protest to the flicks to see this crime against cinema by mates who loved Leo. While I'd love to say I wept over the shocking state of the script, I'm ashamed to admit that I sobbed so uncontrollably as the Strauss couple prepared to drown that my mascara streaked onto my t-shirt so I resembled a zebra, and a woman I didn't know came over and asked if I was alright when I started to hyperventilate.)

I've never had any poise when it comes to tears.

I can't get no sleep...

What do you do if you can't sleep? It's the worst thing ever - you're tired and know you need to nod off soon otherwise your head will be hitting your desk leaving keyboard imprints on your cheeks come 10am the next morning - but you just CAN'T. Your body is betraying you out of spite and your mind won't wind down. I've had this problem for the last few nights now. My normal pumpkin hour is between 10 and 11pm. I know that if I'm not trying to get to sleep by 11 on a school night, I'm screwed. And yet there I am, bolt upright in bed at 1,2,3 in the morning onwards with my mind whirring. And I know exactly what's keeping me awake. Work.

Was it Margaret Thatcher who said she only needed 4 hours sleep per night? Nuts to that, missus. I can't function on anything less than seven - and that's just it, I haven't been functioning. It's felt like I'm just sort of, well, existing. Gone are the reckless days of uni when I could easily manage an all-nighter writing an essay or crawl home in the small hours only to face a full day of lectures (except for the time when I'd had one too many nocturnal sessions and fell asleep with my head in my hands during a lecture - only to fall off the bench with a thud when my elbow slipped off the desk). I've tried hot drinks, caffeine-free drinks, exercising at least three hours before bedtime, music, reading, writing...but I just can't shut my eyes because I'm worrying over work.

I don't like talking about work in too much detail here (you never know who is reading and all that), but it's visibly stressing me out. So I'll try to fill you in without the particulars. You see, there's a vacancy coming up in my department which my superiors have made clear they want me to go for. Which is great. But the more I think about it, the more I know that it's not the right job for me. It's at a higher level, but the money isn't much more than what I'm on now. The money's not the main issue though. It's the role itself. I'd be taking on things I'm not ready to take on, and giving up things I fought hard to get and I'm not ready to give up. I don't want my managers to think I'm not ambitious or have desires to move on elsewhere instead, though, because I don't. I do like my job. I'm still learning things everyday. But my head is saying that opportunities in my field don't come along very often, and my heart is saying I have to think about all the peripheral politics, too, (there are several issues I'm not going to go into now) and to trust my instincts. Sigh. You can see my dilemma, I hope.

And the more I think about it, the more I don't know what to do. I hope I know soon, though. Otherwise I can feel an overdose of Ovaltine or something equally vile coming along.

Working 9 to 5...

...What a way to make a living. Dolly Parton got it so right. All taking and no giving. There are always stressful days and weeks at work and general workplace frustrations that are sent to try us. This week, my office gripes bubbled over when they collided with almighty PMS. It has not been pretty. I've been exasperated all week by things I would normally shrug off and laugh about. Things like:

• The photocopier (there was not a jam! It lied! Although I fared better than my poor colleague, who had 90-odd booklets to copy and bind and couldn't get the stupid thermal binding machine to work - 'INPUT JAM' was all it said to her - so we had a chat about what kind of jam the damned thing would like. My money was on blackcurrant.)
• My computer (it was making a funny high-pitched squealing noise - I don't profess to be a technological wizard but I do know that when a machine screams at you, it's not good. I was, however, helpfully told to look out for smoke)
• The new scary franking machine (ate my letters)
• My waste paper bin (how can a bin go missing?? And why?!)
• The man who made me a hot chocolate in the cafe. Not only did he not use enough powder, which made it taste like dishwater, but he didn't stir it properly to get rid of the lumps. Shoddy.
  
• A colleague who is so incompetent I was annoyed simply by thinking about their past acts of sheer uselessness and had to get up and run away as soon as I had an inkling they were going to come and annoy me to my face. Harsh, but true.
  
• Myself, for forgetting to charge my faithful companion - my little blue iPod. All week long I've consequently had to suffer the vocal incompetency of The Most Annoyingly Voiced Coworker Ever Bar None. Her voice makes me want to rip off my arm and ram it down her throat. And I'm not a violent person.
  

And as if that wasn't enough, someone then committed the cardinal office sin. They stole my coffee cup. Stole it! How very dare they. Ooh, I was so incensed by this thievery and desktop robbery that I made a poster and stuck it up in the office kitchen (I say kitchen, it's really a cupboard with a kettle), complete with a Googled picture of my poor cup and a reward. OK - not much of a reward (a leftover Chomp bar I found in my drawer from Halloween), but still. I reckon it's being held to ransom.

I know I sound like a bitter and twisted old crone, but hey. I'm allowed to be narked. Now shut up before I bite you.

I wish you hadn't told me that...

Today would have been a lazy Sunday - time to recover from the previous evening's escapades - had we not impulsively decided to redecorate the living room. More on that later. Anyway, I'm not recovering from last night in the alcohol sense (although there was alcohol involved, but mercifully my tongue was not loosened sufficiently by it to make a spectacle of myself), more recoiling in horror at what was disclosed to me. Things I will not repeat. Ever. Things people had no business telling me and I may well spend a lifetime trying to shake the imagery out of my head. You see, I attended a family party. Now, family parties can be civilised affairs. Admittedly, something will usually happen as most family get-togethers are celebratory situations. The drunken uncle at the wedding who insists you dance to Come on Eileen with him; the old Gran whose teeth fall out after too many sherries at the Christening; or whatever.

Last night's soiree started out civilised. Then the drinks flowed and I had nowhere to hide. It was a housewarming/birthday joint party and the first time many family members had all been in the same room for quite some time. Lots to catch up on. I just didn't expect to catch up in so much detail. I'm quite saddened that I've reached that certain age where the elders are comfortable to tell x-rated tales in front of me. I'd have preferred to remain an innocent. I don't mind hearing about a second cousin once removed who has left his wife, or the misdemeanours of another distant relative. However, the full graphic glory of said cousin's, er, marital relations and the carnal penchants of the another is something I need not know, thank you. And hearing my mother dearest and my aunt using profanities was something I was not at all prepared for. Good grief. They'd have washed my mouth out with soap had I used such language.

So, yes. Somewhat spontaneously, we've decided to decorate. And miracle of miracles, so far have agreed on everything straight up. Job one is re-hauling the lounge - painting the walls, new lamps, sofas - bells and whistles. This room was relatively untouched when we moved in, and it's high time we put our own stamp on things. We've been staring at white walls for over a year. The down side is DIY shops - soul sucking places. You may as well move into one when you're redecorating - you go to all the trouble of using paint charts and swatches and everything, get home and realise you've forgotten the brushes. I'm consequently going to be broke until about July now thanks to this home make-over, but at least my thoughts are occupied with paint colours instead of the disturbing images planted there by my kith and kin.

Gunpowder, treason and plot...

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot...

I've always found this rhyme a bit odd. Nothing happened! It was a non-event! Why do we need to remember an event that didn't happen? Guy Fawkes didn't blow up the Houses of Parliament, the King did not die, and for all we know Guy Fawkes himself might have been an innocent bystander who thought he was doing someone a favour by changing barrels of ale in a pub rather than rolling gunpowder into Parliament's cellars - and he was hung, drawn and quartered for his good will. After all, it was over 400 years ago. How do we REALLY know, eh? So, I find it strange that we celebrate by having bonfires and fireworks and burning effigies of poor Guy when nothing actually happened.

This, however, does not mean that I don't enjoy Bonfire Night, oh no. I do. I like the firework displays. And the bonfire. And sparklers. And I love the food. What I do not like, however, is really rubbish planning. Tonight, The Other Half and I set off to our local (I say local, it was 6 miles away) display in good time, all wrapped up against the cold. We drove around for 25 minutes searching for a parking space only to give up and defeated, we watched the display from an industrial estate a mile down the hill from the bonfire. Then we had the bright idea that by driving home over the hills, we'd be able to have a panoramic view of displays across the city. This would have been true if the fog on the hills wasn't so thick that we couldn't even see the road properly, never mind the horizon.

Anyway, what made it all better when we returned home, deflated, freezing and hungry, was the food. Jacket potatoes stuffed with cheese and leeks, herby sausages, and spicy onion soup. Topped off with a toffee apple and mug of hot chocolate. It doesn't get any better than that.

Trick or treat (or not)...

I'm too grumpy to write today. Not only did I fall asleep on the sofa mid-way into film three of my five-stops odyssey (Carrie. I dozed off just as Chris, Billy and gang broke into the pig pen for phase one of their stunt, and dreamt of that hideous glow-in-the-dark plastic Jesus in Carrie's closet), but not one single little person dressed in scary garb came a-calling, and this morning the awful truth dawned on me as I picked bits of popcorn and wrappers out of my hair that I'd eaten waaaaay too much Halloween chocolate and polished off a tad too much Tia Maria. Meh. I'm going to have to take the remaining sweets into work just so anyone but me can finish them.

And I'm depressed that every retailer in the world has now seemingly upped the advertising ante. Almost every commercial I've seen so far today has in some way or another related to Christmas. Whether its 'perfect gift ideas' (I wouldn't, however, call X-Factor rejects peddling more cover versions and seasonal tunes a perfect gift idea); Christmas scented air fresheners (more like pine trees and mulled wine smells, not the aroma of turkey carcass as I first thought); sofas with guaranteed before-Yule deliveries; every damned advert has had either jingly bells Christmas music or snowflake graphics and grinning idiots in Santa hats. And you just know that ALL the shops are going to be sickeningly bedecked with all their festive tat. The supermarkets have had Halloween and Christmas aisles running parallel for weeks.

It's the first day of November. NOVEMBER! We haven't even had bonfire night yet. I don't want to be made to feel guilty for not having started any Christmas shopping yet. Ooh I'm going to make something with my pumpkin remains before I throw something at the TV. Which may just happen if I hear those unmistakable strains of The Snowman or see that singing muppet, Aled flamin' Jones, presenting something inane. Hopefully whipping up a kitchen storm may remove my loathing.

It also may not.