31 The Sausage Incident

It's Christmas Eve and I've finally found my Christmas spirit. I really hadn't been bothered this year until now. In fact, I've been very 'Bah! Humbug!'

Perhaps it could be down to the fact I'm remembering what happened last year. Last year was the year of the afore-mentioned Sausage Incident.

Christmas had started innocently enough. All the family were together. Presents had been opened. Everyone was happy. We all sat down for a full English breakfast.

I'd just taken a bite of sausage and then....

I was suddenly lying on the floor. How had that happened? I felt like I was in a weird dream. A weird dream that involved having fingers in my mouth. Not the chocolate variety, but real human ones. I wasn't even sure whose.

I asked 'What on earth are you doing?' Or at least I tried to. It's hard when your mouth is full. As well as it being bad manners.

Everyone seemed to be ignoring me anyway and talking/panicking amongst themselves. I heard my uncle on the phone calling me an ambulance.

Good lord, no!!

I had no idea what on earth had happened or what was wrong with me but I knew I did not want an ambulance. All I could think about was the fact I had an enormous spot in the middle of my forehead and I was wearing unmatched pyjamas.

Why hadn't I taken note of the old adage that you should make sure you wear clean underwear incase you get run over by a bus?

I know it's not quite the same. Particularly as I was inside where you presume you are safe. It appears not. You should always make sure you are looking your best. I'd received nice pyjamas for Christmas so I didn't even have an excuse.

The ambulance arrived. So I was told anyway. I couldn't see much from my position on the kitchen floor.

I asked if the paramedics were good looking. I must have been feeling a bit better.

They came in and asked the various family members, stood around me, what had happened.

Turns out after I'd taken a bite of sausage, I exclaimed 'Oh!' and then slumped on the table.

A bit like a balloon with the air escaping, they said.

I then seemingly started having a fit and they thought I was going to swallow my tongue (which would explain the fingers in my mouth...)

The paramedics couldn't work out exactly what was wrong with me, so decided to take me in to A&E.

Brother was bored by this point and sat back down to finish his breakfast.

Mum went with me in the ambulance while my dad followed up in the car. I couldn't decide whether they just wanted to get out of peeling spuds or whether there was something seriously wrong with me and it was their duty to be there.

I asked the paramedic if it was anything to do with the big spot on my head. He said it definitely could be and that the weight of it might have made me light-headed.

I decide that the fact he was joking with me probably meant I wasn't dying.

Arrived at the hospital. All the doctors were busy having their photo taken with the mayor who had popped in for a visit.

I was taken to a room and told someone would be in to see me soon to do some tests and ask me some questions.

I started panicking again. What kind of tests? What kind of questions?

Bear in mind my mum and dad were sitting with me.

What if the questions were going to be about sex? Or worse...about periods.

There are some things you don't want to talk about in front of your parents.

On the other hand, if I said I wanted to be examined and questioned in private, I was worried that would make my mum and dad think I had a rare disease that I just hadn't told them about.

I really didn't know what to do.

While I was contemplating, the doctor came in and launched into the tests. Things like walking in a straight line. Nice, parent-friendly tests. Phew!

I get the results there and then.

Turns out they thought the sausage had just gone down the wrong way.

And the pain had made me faint.

Yes, you read that right.

That is flipping all.

Yes, I'd wasted a couple of hours of Christmas Day in hospital, just for that.

And OK, it got me out of helping with the dinner preparations but I really don't recommend it as a good skiving option.

Not unless you can put up with your family joking for ever more about how you have to be supervised around sausages.

Merry Christmas everyone!!

22 Nice Package

I really must stop opening my post in front of my concierges.

It's just that getting things in the mail really is one of my most favourite things ever. I get so excited and can't wait till I get all the way 40+ floors upstairs to see what I've got.

I feel sad that we don't send post as much now. Nothing beats getting a nice letter.

My best mate Taggart is good. She knows I love getting mail so sends me random things. Like after I had the bad hairdressing experience as detailed in The Headmaster, she sent me pictures she had cut out of magazines of other people with fringes. To make me feel better. She even sent a photo of herself with a fringe. OK, she was aged 9 in it, but it's the thought that counts.

So imagine how excited I was when I got a little padded envelope last week. The return address showed it was from my lovely Danish friend. Oooh she'd sent me a present! The concierges sensed my excitement and were urging me to open it so they could see what I'd got too.

I opened the card first. It was the photo above and had the inscription 'Some gifts are more interesting than others!'

Now I probably should have thought about the fact that despite being from Denmark, my friend lives in Holland - home of rude gifts. I also should have considered that there could be a 'theme'. I didn't though. I just carried on opening willy nilly.

Opened the first thing. A pen. A pen with a picture of a man on it and a note from my friend saying it was to inspire me when I write my blog.

Tried it out on the envelope. The man's pants disappeared as I scribbled. Ah yes, I could see how that would inspire me. Might even help me stop that bad habit I have of putting pens in my mouth...

Opened the other thing. Concierges still looking on. Still interested. As if it was their present.

It was a packet of popping candy. That stuff you used to get as a kid that would 'explode' in your mouth. Our version was called Fizz Wizz. Unfortunately this version wasn't called that.

This version was called Winkle Sprinkle...

Cut to a week later and I'm having my daily chat with the concierges. Rude present incident all forgotten I'd hoped. Opened one of my letters. It was from Santa. Awwwwww! A personalised letter to me. One of those that mums arrange to be sent to their kids...or their big kids.

I read it out to the concierges. Santa was telling me all about how busy he is over in Lapland and how Mrs Claus is wrapping up all the presents. He said how he'll make sure Mrs Claus puts my presents on the sleigh and he'll deliver them to my home in Manchester on Christmas Eve. On the condition that I've been a good girl this year that is...

The concierges burst out laughing. 'That's you buggered then!'

Ho, ho, ho.

34 Mr Not-So-Hot-To-Trot

I haven't updated my blog in a while, because I've been far too busy in a bubble of love with Mr Hot-to-Trot.

Come on! You don't seriously believe that do you?

Don't you know me at all? For a start if there was anything to report, I would have told you first.

It didn't actually go very well at all. In fact 'go' is probably over-stating things a bit...

You agreed in your masses (at least two of you anyway) that I could ignore my own pre-date rule, so I accepted Mr Hot-to-Trot's invitation to go for a bratwurst and a gluhwein at the Christmas markets.

He said he couldn't do the next few days but that we should arrange something for the following week and sent me his number to contact him to arrange it.

I don't think so Mr Hot-to-Trot.

I'm not that keen on having the ball in my court. Not in that situation anyway. I emailed him right back with my number. Ha! That showed him!

He then texted me. Keen. Good.

I texted back. Ball back over to him...

Next day...another text. Asking me how my day was. I said it was great or something. Think in actual fact it was pretty shit but you can't say that to someone you don't know. Best they don't find out you are a real person that has bad days until at least date two.

A few more texts.

Fair enough but this wasn't going as planned. What had happened to our date? Why had we become text buddies instead? I wasn't even enjoying it that much. Call me weird but I prefer to text people I've met.

Then it got worse. He texted me on a Saturday. At night. Asked if I was out.

What on earth was I supposed to say to that?

Of course I wasn't out. I was watching X-Factor. And more to the point, I was enjoying it. I couldn't tell him that though could I? What impression does that send out? Should I lie and say I was out? What if he then said he was also out and that we should meet up?

What a dilemma.

In then end I sent one saying something about having gone out most school nights that week and I was having a quiet one, but if he was out to have a drink for me.

Good answer. I thought.

He obviously didn't think so. No reply for ages. Damn. Why didn't I lie?

Then...Have just made a cup of tea and am settling down to watch Match of the Day.

Hurrah! He's as sad as me! (Actually I'd say sadder, but I suppose that's debatable.)

A few more texts over the next few days.

Eventually he sends one about meeting up. Finally! Didn't he realise I had people wanting to hear about a real life date, not about texts between two strangers.

He suggests a night. I can't do it. I suggest a night. He can't do it.

Oh for god sake.

Then next day he texts to say he can actually do the night I suggested...

Great! Except I had no battery and didn't get the text till hours later...

I reply eventually and tell him I can still do it. Ask if he can.

No reply...

No reply for a bit longer...

No reply for a couple of days...

What the hell?!

Why would you ask someone out and then change your mind a few hours later?

It isn't even as if this is a one-off situation. Oh no. It's happened loads.

A girl can get a complex. I mean I'm not quite at the 'nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I'll go and eat worms' stage...but close to it.

Send him a text..A simple 'no', would have sufficed. Where are your manners?

And that is how our 'relationship' ended.

With him probably thinking 'she's a stroppy madam, thank god I didn't go on a date with her.'

And me thinking 'what possessed me to agree to go an date with a man whose profile picture showed him wearing a cardigan on a night out anyway?' (Oh it wasn't the cardigan I objected to. It's the fact it was pink. And he wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Poser.)

So if you have any advice for a girl failing miserably at online dating, let me know, and in the meantime I'll consult my copy of 'If I'm So Wonderful, Why Am I Still Single'* and see what that suggests.

Or I might just eat worms...


*Every good home should have a copy of this. Next to the Ikea catalogue.

18 Too Many Bloggers...

I'm not having much luck with this online dating malarkey.

A fellow blogger called Bamberio seemed to think so too. She suggested I go on a date with a guy whose blog she'd been reading.

Plentymorefishoutofwater was also writing about his dating experiences (the difference being that he was actually having some) and Bamberio thought it would be just 'brilliant' if me and him went on a date and blogged about it afterwards.

Now Bamberio's own blog is about rugby players so I presumed she must know stuff about men. She seemed convinced her idea, was a great idea. She even mentioned buying a hat...

I contacted Mr Fish to ask if he was aware he was being pimped out? He didn't seem to care and also seemed to think us going on a date might be a good idea.

I wasn't convinced though...

How can a blogger dating a blogger ever be a good idea?

No matter what happened on the date we'd have to blog about it. We wouldn't be able to help ourselves.

If one liked the other more than the other liked them, it would be blogged about.
If neither of us liked each other, it would be blogged about.
Even if it went really well, it would be blogged about.

Every flipping thing would be blogged about.

We'd constantly be trying to out-blog each other.

Wouldn't it be a case of too many bloggers spoiling the...er...spoiling things...?

I just didn't know what to do. So I dithered...and I dithered...and I dithered some more...

I dithered for so long that it appears that Mr Fish got fed up and started pursuing a hairdresser with a green thong.

Of course that's when going out with him suddenly seemed like the best idea I'd ever heard.

Why is it that we become interested in someone when they're no longer interested in us? It's nature's cruel trick.

It had happened to me before. I'd been on a night out in Amsterdam and my friends and I were trying to teach ourselves to pole dance in the middle of a busy bar (there was a pole there obviously.) A Dutch guy seemed to like my moves and wanted to talk to me in guttural and tell me I was lekker ding. I was far too busy trying to become Fantasia Sparkletush or something to pay him any attention though.

So what did he do? He went and sucked face with the toilet attendant, that's what.

Weirdly that's when I decided I wanted him. To hell with the pole! (I wasn't doing very well at mastering it anyway.)

It was too late though. He wasn't interested in me anymore. I had nothing to offer him. I couldn't get him into the toilets for free - you need to pay to visit many toilets in Holland, even in bars. You spend far more than a penny. It can make for an expensive night. He was actually being sensible in his choice of snog.

I couldn't compete.

Same now. I can't cut hair and I don't wear green thongs.

What do you get when you cross a blogger with a blogger?
I've no idea, I was too busy dithering to find out.



http://studsonthe22.blogspot.com/
http://plentymorefishoutofwater.blogspot.com/

3 Night Terrors

I was very well-behaved this weekend.

Not everyone was such a goody two-shoes though....

I should start by explaining that the Tower I live in is part hotel, part apartments. It's the Hilton at the bottom and then from floor 25 up to 47, it is us. The residents. Understandably, our floors and corridors also have the look of a hotel. Each one has white walls, black carpet and black doors. They all look the same.

Because of that, I can imagine, it could be an easy mistake to make, to get out on the wrong floor. You know if you were too busy thinking what you were going to have for your tea or something? Or you were drunk? Or you were sleep-walking?

Or all of the above.

Turns out that one girl had made this very mistake in the wee small hours of Sunday morning.

I can only assume that she must have been planning her dinners for the whole week. And probably lunches and breakfasts too. Because it sounds like her head really was elsewhere...

Not only did she get out on the wrong floor...but she went into the wrong apartment too...giving the occupier the fright of his life.

He rushed down to the concierges...

"A girl has got into bed with me and I don't know what to do!"

And as someone who dances on the other side of the ballroom, he wasn't kidding about this being a new experience for him.

I feel there are various lessons we could learn from this. There is the obvious, the one about always locking your door. But, I think the one I will take away from it, the main one, is that if you are going to make a little mistake like that, get your gaydar out first and plan ahead what apartment would be a good one to go into it.

Mind you, knowing my luck, I'd end up playing 'two in the bed, and the little one said...' with Mr Chilled Red!

13 Tell Tale Tits

One of the concierges greeted me with, "Talk of the Devil", as I arrived home yesterday.

I was quite excited because I love being talked about. If it's something good obviously. It's not so smashing if it is just someone moaning about you.

This was neither. Was actually a bit boring. Turns out it was just that they'd ran out of sugar and discussed that their favourite resident* should be home soon and would probably be able to lend them some. (*That's a title I've given myself by the way. I haven't actually won an award or anything. Yet.)

I suppose it is slightly odd that my concierges know so much about me. They would certainly kick my friend's asses in a quiz about me if the questions were things like...What hours does she work?...What mood was she in on Thursday?...What are in those little brown boxes she has delivered?

I love having concierges though. It makes me feel that someone cares. Even if it's only someone that is paid to. Every good home should have at least one. They sign for your parcels. They call you taxis. They ask how your day has been. They even tell you if it is time for you to dye your hair again cause it is looking a bit shit. Those essential things.

I must admit, there was one occasion though when I wasn't so keen on the whole service...

I'd come in to the Tower late one afternoon to find that the fire alarms had been going off and the lifts were grounded. The concierge told me they probably wouldn't be in use for another 20 minutes so suggested I either walk up the stairs or wait.

Walk??? Did I hear him right??? Walk up 40+ flights of stairs??? I don't think so. I decided to go to the pub instead...just for one mind, while I waited for the lifts...

It can feel a bit weird going to the pub on your own but I'd been in no time at all when a guy started chatting to me. He bought me a drink. We chatted a bit more. He then suggested having another drink. I suppose one more wouldn't do any harm? I mean I wouldn't want to go back until it was almost definite that the lifts were working again...

A few hours later there was a worried woman in Scotland. My mum. I'd said I was calling her that night because I needed some information from a letter I'd been sent up there. Not only had I not called but I also wasn't answering any texts or calls to my phone. This wasn't like her normally reliable, daughter.

More time passed and she was starting to really panic. Particularly as a few months earlier she'd witnessed me collapsing at the dinner table and ending up in hospital (yes, I promise to reveal every detail of that embarrassing story in a future post. It will be called The Sausage Incident..). She decided that that must have happened again. Or I was dead. Or worse.

She instructed my dad to call the concierges. (Ah yes, much better if someone else hears I'm dead first?) Asks them to go up to my apartment and check on me. I'm unsure whether she gave them permission to give me the kiss of life.

"That won't be necessary" they said to my dad. "She went out. She came back in hours later. She chatted to us. She told us all her problems. She's now gone upstairs. She's safe. She's going to have a very sore head tomorrow though..."

Tell tale tits.

The next day wasn't very good. Hangover from hell, in the bad books with my mum and dad and very embarrassed about seeing my concierges. Half expected them to tell me they'd had a good chat with my parents and had all decided it would be best if I was grounded for the foreseeable future...

21 Flibbertygibbet

I need a favour...

I've been asked out on another date.

My initial reaction was...Woo Hoo! - How good is online dating when you can get asked out on a date while you are sitting in your pj's cosied up at home? No effort required.

My next reaction was...also Woo Hoo! - That's when I saw the profile photos of the guy that was doing the inviting. Hot!

My next, next reaction was...Woo Hoo again! - Mr Hot-to-Trot was suggesting we go to the German markets for a gluhwein and a bratwurst. I love the markets! What a good date it would be!

Then my reaction after that was...Damn!

I had suddenly remembered my own rule. The rule that I made only on Monday. The rule that went something like... 1/ Always, always, always go on a pre-date first. That stupid rule.

And that's where you come in....

I know it's only Wednesday. I know it will make it hard for you to trust me again. I know you'll wonder if I'm going to go back on everything I say.

I just hoped though, that you might be able to ignore that little comment. Pretend I never made it. If anyone asks, just be like..'Pre-date? What's a pre-date? Never heard of it. Sounds like a stupid idea to me...'

That would be great.

And in actual fact, if I promise to neck the gluhwein and eat the sausage really quickly, it could be like a pre-date anyway...

12 Dr McDreamy

Hot doctor alert!

Only just the other week, I questioned the existence of real-life Dr McDreamys. Turns out there is at least one.

My best mate has seen him.

Unfortunately for me, he is in Scotland so absolutely no-where near my hospital.

And unfortunately for my best mate, she was hand-cuffed to a junkie when she met him.

I should add that this wasn't down to some weird hobby that she has. No, she's a cop. She was at work.

Actually I don't think she was hand-cuffed to the junkie but as I'm telling the story and it makes it seem more dramatic, that's what I'm saying.

Anyway, as I said, best mate (who we will now refer to as Taggart) was with her cop sidekick and afore-mentioned junkie waiting for the doc to come and fix the junkie's hand which was gushing with blood.

Junkie was complaining about Taggart and Sidekick arresting him and how he was probably going to get three years. Just general chit-chat.

Until, in walked....according to Taggart...the most beautiful man alive.

A real-life Dr McDreamy.

McDreamy started seeing to the junkie (so to speak) while Taggart fantasised about his bedside manner and wished she wasn't at work. Or sitting with a junkie and a sidekick? How was she meant to flirt with them in the way? And while wearing very unsexy shoes for that matter?

There wasn't actually anything about the situation that was similar to how she'd imagined meeting the future Mr Taggart.

McDreamy finally left the room and she turned to her...er...comrades. 'Ohmigod, howwwwww hot is he?!'

Except he hadn't actually left the room.

Turns out he still had a bit more doctor stuff to do.

He continued 'doctoring' while Junkie and Sidekick sniggered and Taggart wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

After forever, McDreamy finished his thing and properly left the room and Junkie and Sidekick erupted into laughter.

Taggart felt embarrassed.

Junkie, perhaps thinking Taggart would let him go if he was nice to her, started questioning Sidekick's ability as a sidekick. He reckoned that a proper, supportive sidekick would have helped Taggart get McDreamys phone number.

He asked Taggart if he should get it for her when he gets out of prison. Though in his Glasgow accent, it was a bit more like...

'Hen, di yae waaant mi tae fun oot his numburrrr fur yae whin ahm oot tha jail?'

Taggart was not impressed.

No, not because a junkie was offering to be her Cilla.

It was more to do with the time-frame..

'You'll get me his number when you get out of jail?! In three years?! I'd better be blimming married to him by then!!'