I just don't know what to do with myself...

I just can't concentrate at work at the minute. Hell, who am I kidding? I can't concentrate anywhere, on anything much at the minute. I'm not blaming anyone (okay, maybe I am...I say as I point to my stomach), but I just feel heavy and full and icky. (Yes, yes - it's not rocket science - I do know that I am pregnant.) According to all the websites I now look at daily (ahem - on my lunch break, of course), the little wriggler will be undergoing a massive growth spurt over the next few weeks and will be incredibly active. This however does not explain why I have to keep telling people at work to email instead of talking to me, because I'm liable to forget everything they say as I'm full of baby. Sigh.

Ooh, and I noticed today that my job (well, the maternity cover for my job) is now being advertised on work's website. Which I'm a bit puzzled about because it's only August and I'm not going anywhere until probably mid-December. Hmmm. Talk about getting a head start. On a different work-related note, I find myself being extremely easily irritated of late. Especially by people who sit over the other side of the office and sneeze at a decibel level I didn't think was possible for a human to reach, WITHOUT COVERING THEIR NOSES. I mean, how difficult is it? Not only do they offend my ears but they don't bother to take the simplest hygiene precautions in the middle of an epidemic when half the office seems to be off with swine flu.

Smelly auld hippies.

Sweet dreams are made of this...

This morning I woke up in a cold sweat, and when coupled with a feeling of complete and utter blind panic - that's not such a good way to start the day. I was reading an article online not so long ago that said pregnancy can make your dreams incredibly vivid. 'Ooh,' I thought. 'I haven't been dreaming much recently that I can remember. Wonder if it'll happen to me?' Haha, yes it did. I felt sick when I woke up. And proceeded to shout at my poor, unsuspecting Other Half. Cue Wayne's World's Scooby Doo dream sequence, and I'll take you inside my dream...

I was about seven months pregnant, it was a weekend (I know this because the Grand Prix was on the TV) and I was getting ready to hop into the bath. The house was as it is now, i.e. no nursery set up, no pram on order, no pile of Allen keys from flat pack baby furniture. While in the bath and thinking that we really should get a move on and start to sort out what we'll need in time for the new arrival, I went into labour early. And it was a remarkably quick labour, even for dream standards. (Let's just hope the real one is as quick and easy.) No matter how many times I shouted for The Other Half to phone the midwife, or the hospital, or anyone - he kept saying he'd do it after he'd seen the Grand Prix. Anyway, I had the baby in the bath and woke up still screaming for The Other Half to phone the midwife.

Literally. I think I may have whacked him with a cushion in my panic and yelled 'WHEN I SAY PHONE THE MIDWIFE, YOU PHONE THE MIDWIFE - OKAY?!' To which he woke up startled and mumbled something I couldn't hear (but it was probably something about me being a crazy, hormonal raging pot of fury) and looked at me with fear as I ran for paper and a pen to make a list of essentials for the baby. 'In case I have the baby early in the bath,' I explained. 'And we don't even have anything - the only thing we do have is one solitary baby grow hanging in the wardrobe. We must have a list!!'

And a list we have. It seems to have alleviated my panic, for now.

The icks and yuks...

To top off my already skipping-through-a-meadow-filled-with-daisies-mood, this morning the Vampire Midwife turned out to be correct. The sickness has started. Bang on cue. Just when I thought I might be one of the lucky ones and escape this indignity - my body obviously laughed out loud and made other plans. Oh, I can't begin to describe how lovely it is. I haven't actually hurled as of yet, but spent most of the morning whilst getting ready running to the bathroom as I almost did hurl. And retching and feeling grotty is just as bad as actually being sick as you have the wonderful task of feeling like a big bag of cack without the silver lining of the sweet release of puke.

Busy looking up sickness remedies as I type. I can't eat anything. The smell, taste and very thought of food at the minute turns my stomach. And I had to go into work and spend the day pretending everything was fine and dandy in various meetings with a demonic grin on my face that while creepy, at least hid the nauseating urge to barf over my director's shoes. Which, to be fair - if you had seen her shoes you might want to do the same.

Hen dos and hen don'ts...

I normally avoid hen parties like the plague. I just don't get them. There's something unnecessarily chavvy and seedy about them. You might just think I'm being a cranky old crone - and you might be right. But I hate them with a passion - all that forced 'entertainment' and wearing ridiculous L-plates and flashing sashes. Tack and tat personified. Shudder. Even the very name of them strikes fear into my heart. 'Hen dos'. No, no - I'd really rather we hen don't, thank you. Saying that, I have been to a few decent hen parties in my time that happened to be lovely days out - a nice meal somewhere and a few cocktails. None of this awful veil-wearing, PVC fancy dress in town, throwing up in the street and dares to kiss as many random strangers you can gubbins. Eurgh.

Of course, some people can take hen parties too far. I know of one lady who was so obsessed with her wedding (Bridezilla complex - honestly, I like hearing about people's wedding plans in general conversation and what have you, but there comes a point when Brides are putting their bridesmaids on diets and telling them to dye their hair all the same colour that they really need to be told to calm down) and her ego grew so much that she had no less than FIVE different hen parties, all with different people, themes and in various parts of the country. And indeed the continent. No, no, no. And WHY? Don't these people mean enough to you to actually attend the wedding? No, she just wanted another excuse to be the centre of attention. Five times.

However, due to stupid work things I missed a friend's hen party yesterday, and I'm gutted as it looked like the sort of hen do I would have actually enjoyed myself at rather than making snide comments in the corner about Ann Summers merchandise. She just invited all her mates over to her house from all around Europe - male and female - to have a few drinks and a catch up as she's getting married in another country and the wedding isn't going to be a giant circus. See? That sounds nice. None of this 'last night of freedom' rubbish. If you think like that then you shouldn't be getting married. Marriage isn't about losing your freedom and spending a jail sentence with one other person forever. It's a partnership. And it certainly isn't about heading to Blackpool for a weekend of vomit and willy-shaped party favours. There. Rant over. For now.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow...

I feel cheated. Cheated, I tell you! I've been robbed of a day off, all because the weather men told lies. There we were on Sunday night, watching the weather reports which told us to brace ourselves for heavy snow fall (and thinking, yeah right - it never snows heavy here. Whilst secretly wishing for a snow day to get us out of work), and lo! Monday morning arrives. The whole country was apparently in the midst of a blizzard - everywhere except my region, that is. We had a slight 'dusting'. Lies, goddammit, lies! How dare it not snow here. I really wanted to go sledging.

Instead, I've had to read all about other people sledging on the BBC News website while I pretended to be working. Reading all about how London was at a standstill because all the transport networks were out of action. Smug friends in the capital were giving me updates as their offices called it a day one by one and sent everyone out to have snowball fights. Watching with scorn and jealousy as thousands of photos poured in online of happy people building snowmen and having good, clean winter fun. Well, I've got news for you - you self-righteous, would-be-at-work-if-it-wasn't-for-this-white-dust, Frosty-building idiots. Your snowmen were rubbish! Rubbish, I say!

Bored and bitter, now. Unless it snows here, that is. Then I'd show those snowmen builders how it's done. Grrr.

How to be a rubbish domestic goddess...

Rant alert.

On Saturday, I am supposed to be having the girls over for dinner. This has now turned into some of the girls plus some other halves for a Chinese New Year supper. OK, I can cope with that. Ordinarily. Except this hasn't been an ordinary week. No. It's been a week of complete and utter culinary disasters. My domestic goddess halo has fallen. In fact, I've Frisbee-d it out of the bloody window.

Earlier in the week I made a big pot of ramen. It always goes down well in my house, does ramen. I just don't think I engaged my brain when making it, this time. Instead of shredding pak choi, in went red cabbage instead. I don't believe I've ever had luminous purple soup before. Radioactive soup. I bet Nigella never has such mishaps. A day later I tried my hand at melty-in-the-middle mini chocolate puds. They were lurrrverly. Rich, but delish. The recipe made four little puds, so I saved two for dessert the next evening. Only muggins here forgot that they were melty-in-the middle puddings, and whacked them in the microwave at full pelt to heat them through. They were no longer melty-in-the-middle puds when I fished them out. More like steaming rubber bouncy balls. Sigh.

Anyway, undeterred, that same evening I set about making a stew to use up all the leftover veg in the fridge. Now, I didn't do anything differently to what I usually do here, so I'd like to know why it all went hideously wrong. Casserole pot on hob, oil in pot, brown off meat and onions, throw in the veg, add stock and simmer for a bit, then bung in the oven. All was fine until I added the stock. Then I heard a sort of popping, crackly noise. Then a gush. The casserole pot had cracked clean IN HALF and a litre of hot stock proceeded to flood the hob, run into the oven and all over the floor...it was a flamin' stock tidal wave. £80 Le Creuset casserole pots should not shatter on your hob. No. They. Should. Not. I have a good mind to take the two halves back to the shop. Which I could have done if only I hadn't shattered them into several more pieces on the patio in a rage.

Last night I decided to practice some homemade spring rolls ahead of Saturday. I've had my three cooking calamities this week, I couldn't possibly be due any more, I said to myself. Ho ho, how wrong I was. I had the recipe in order (a usually trustworthy source - Saturday Kitchen), a very nice gal at work gave me some tips, all the ingredients were lined up and I was ready to go. The filling went well. The pastry - not so well. More bundles than rolls. Now, even though they weren't wrapped very well they still should have been ok. So I'd really like to know how in the name of all that is holy do spring rolls EXPLODE in the oven? What did I ever do to them?

I think I'll have the takeaway menu on standby on Saturday.

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.

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.

Dear Diary...

How do.

I'm new to this whole blogging malarkey and not entirely sure why I set one up or who it's for, to be perfectly honest. I used to keep a diary when I was a teenager - and recently rediscovered what a huge mess of angst and calamity they were - but gave up on it all when I hit my twenties and became too lazy (and started my working life properly, which sometimes equates to the same thing). I suppose this will be the new-improved version of those diaries. But of course, down the line I may decide that this is all a bit too egotistical for me and never write another post again.

So, why am I feeling the need to document my so-called life now, then? Well, my reasons are three-fold:

1. I'm growing more forgetful as I approach the dreaded late-twenties.
2. My life becomes more like a car-crash or bad BBC sitcom every day and if I don't laugh about it, I'll cry.
3. By writing things down I can hopefully get stuff straight in my head because, as you may come to see, I'm one of the most indecisive people I know and change my mind constantly about everything.

That's something you should know about me straight off. My indecisiveness. Don't be surprised if the next time you visit this blog it looks completely different (if I haven't bored you enough already, that is). Hmm, what else do you need to know about me? The main bits are up in my profile box. Ooh, another thing though - I ramble on a lot. Turn back now while you still have the chance if you're adverse to witterers. And I rant. Often about nothing.

As well as wittering on about my daily mundanities I think I'll be including some posts about the flicks I've been watching. Which can be a lot. I'm a film graduate and have been in love with film since the age of 3 when I first saw Ghostbusters and decided I wanted to catch ghosts for a living. Consequently, there's a library of film twaddle and trivia in my head so I may infer some of that on here too. Oh, and lists. I like lists. We'll see how it goes.

Anyway, as a first post this is pretty rubbish so I'll leave it at that and get back to my pjs. What a rock n roll Saturday night.