My Belated Birthday

Oops, I got sidetracked and forgot to publish this post ...

I decided to stay at the tin hut for my birthday this year, rather than coming home and going back to close down for the winter. We won't be doing it again.

I have mentioned in previous ramblings that I love fireworks and fancied seeing them at a different venue. This was not to happen - apart from me venturing out on to the veranda or looking through a window, as I totally forgot how traumatized our cat would be. I hold myself entirely to blame for this oversight ... poor pussy.

At home during the few weeks of lunacy, she sits at the top of the stairs, this is in the centre of the house and she obviously feels safe there. At the caravan she didn't know what to do with herself, it was like being in a war zone with the three houses behind us all having bonfires and fireworks over the weekend. As well as the constant bangs, spent rockets were clattering on the caravan roof. She eventually cowered, trembling under a nest of tables, all we could do was turn the telly up and try to placate her with soothing words ... and tuna fish.

Anyway, why do we have to have bangers going off week after week? What's wrong with doing it all on bonfire night? Pet owners can prepare for a one night event - yeah, yeah, when they don't forget what they're doing and take their cat away - but these days it's endless torture for both pets and wildlife. We never once saw our badgers during the run up to bonfire night, nor since ... although they did eat the nuts, probably in the quieter small hours.

Ranty bit over, on to my birthday:

As I said, I decided before we went to the tin hut - mid October, after Center Parcs - that we'd stay until early/mid November and close up the caravan - I absolutely hate doing that job but have no choice ... unless I want to freeze me bits off - and so, we would be away for my birthday. It didn't matter, it wasn't an important one and I told everyone - or thought I had - that I'd celebrate a week late.

We arrived home on the Wednesday after my birthday ... eventually, as the car decided to throw a few wobblies and has subsequently had surgery with more to follow soon ... getting expensive now, I have had to give it a verbal warning about its days being numbered if it doesn't pull its fan belt up.

Thursday morning:
Blah, the house is a tip, the contents of a caravan to store away, whinge, moan, gripe. Other things to do that were left half done as we never seem to be at home ... mutter, grumble. three inches of dust to rearrange, you'd think my neighbour would have dealt with that ... and she's not been around to water my house-plants since I've been back - I forget that this is now my job.

Obviously no-one will visit in the next two days, I've told all MY family and friends that I'm having my birthday a week late, on the 13th, so the clutter can stay ... well, cluttered for a bit while I decide where it'll go.

Wrong! Two phone calls later, it transpires that the GOM's family will be arriving after school - there's only me to blame. I mean, why should I have expected the same info to have filtered to his side of the family - when I'd told him to tell them - who were keen to give me cards and pressies ASAP.

Oh well, I've got a few hours to make the house look a little less like a charity shop reject skip. Important things - like work - can wait.

Just after a late lunch - we're fairly tidy, in a temporary fashion, but woe betide anyone who attempts to open any cupboard doors in the bedroom or bathroom - I was busy working and could hear grumpy rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. Hmm, I wonder?

'I'm just nipping over to Asda, I fancy a cold drink and we've got no lemonade or J2o's ... um, shall I get some cake while I'm there?' ...
'Yes please, fruit cake.' ... Now this is me being evil, I know full well that he's only going because his family are visiting for my birthday but as I've mentioned before, I like to watch him squirm.
'Er, no ... I thought, um ... chocolate cake??' ...
'No, too sickly, I want fruit cake.'...
'I'll get both' ... Hehehe.

He arrived back a little later, I can hear things being put away in the kitchen, then in he struts, handing me a box of 'Celebrations' ... 'I've bought you these for your birthday.' He lied. He must think I'm thick ...
'Ohh, ta, I'll just hide them before your lot come because I don't want to share 'em' ... hahaha. He squirmed and blustered - victory.

Yes, I am horrible, but I can read him like a book - hard back with few pages and lots of pictures [yeah, Beano annual] - bless him. He only had to tell me what he was really doing instead of trying subterfuge, he's not mentally adept enough for that because - well, he's only a man. Although, now I think about it ... he didn't get me any fruit cake ...

How Very Dare They!

My signed copy of Sir Terry Pratchett's Snuff

I was all excited this morning waiting for the post as I'd received an email last night telling me that my signed copy of 'Snuff' was on its way.

I'd just finished munching on my cereals and was drinking my cuppa while catching up with local news on my shiny newest toy [an android jobby], when I heard a knock then a voice asking ... 'are they in next door?'

I dashed off up the entry shouting ... 'yes they're in next door!' I signed for my 'Snuff' - it's my birthday present to me - while the post woman sorted out the rest of our mail.

There it was, for all the world and her neighbour to see - well me and the post woman actually. But if I was at all sensitive instead of armour-plated by my grumpyness, I'd have been mortified.

A bill? you may think, hmm, well there was one letter asking me for money ... fat chance.

No, it was a big letter from that effin shop I keep moaning about, wanting me to take out OVER 50's life cover. Bog off Asda, it's never going to happen!

Now, if it had been a nice, pretty envelope - keep the green, it's my favourite colour - with the suggested 'special birthday offer inside'. I'd have just thought ... 'Who the hell told 'em it's nearly my birthday?'

But no, there's an ignorant statement right at the top of the envelope, suggesting that I am over 50 - in writing big enough for me to see without my glasses, even with my presbyopic eyesight - and therefore am desperate for life cover because I'm so old that no insurance company will touch me with a bargepole.

And so what if I am hovering around the 50 mark, I've been told by someone tactful - yes, they are well trained - that I don't look it, but now the whole of Royal Mail knows I'm chuffin old as well as grumpy!!

Here's news for you Asda - I don't want life insurance, I'm officially a grumpy old woman lady, who enjoys scaring the pants off her family by telling each of them - individually - that I'm going to their sole responsibility and that I like OAK! ...