Christmas and and me getting all serious.

It's boxing day. I should have planned my xmas break better. I'm bored. Next year maybe I'll get a board game, perhaps a puzzle. Downstairs the men in my house are watching football. The anticipation of the Christmas holidays is far better than the reality. Today people will be waking up counting the cost. Melted credit cards. Debts that will go on and on and with a bit of luck - though probably not - be cleared just in time for next Christmas.

To be truthfull isn't Christmas as meaningless and empty as a cracker. Pretty and sparkly and filled with so much promise and yet delivering so little. Unless you have Fortum and Mason crackers - £100 for six crackers - containing such delights as a silver plated letter opener, bottle stopper and butter knife. Nah, even posh crackers are a disappointment.

Perhaps the fact that Christmas does not fill the basic need of a human being explains why it is so much of an anti-climax. I mean, it is supposed to be about Christ and the season of goodwill to all. But not much of that goodwill was demonstrated when an acquitance of mine was practically rugby tackled by an old-age-pensioner for the last available trolley in the Co-op two days before Christmas. Or the young mother who was loudly berated in Morrisons by an old woman because she had brought her baby with her to the supermarket and the pram was in her way.

And what is Christmas anyway? A pagan festival. The church hijacked December 25th to celebrate Christ's birth because they saw all the pagans having a jolly time and decided to take advantage of it. December is in fact when pagan festivals took place during the winter solstice when the days began to lengthen to celebrate the rebirth of the sun. The Romans had a festival about this time dedicated to Saturn, the god of agriculture. It was called Saturnalia. Eating too much and giving presents came from this festival. But Mithra the Roman god of light was perhaps the one that so-called Christians in the 4th century took December 25th from and made it Jesus Christ's birthday.

Saint Boniface takes the credit for inventing the Christmas tree, but he pretty much got it from the pagan German tribes in the Black Forest who used to dress up fir trees and run around them naked. (Glad that last bit hasn't transported itself to our modern-day celebrations) The Celts used to bring in a log to burn during the winter solstice to celebrate the return of the Sun God hence the yule log. Druids dedicated mistletoe to the Goddess of love. Santa Clause a.k.a Father Christmas draws parallels with the long, white-beared norse god, Odin, who used to fly through the sky with his horse, Sleipnir, rewarding children with gifts and candy for placing food near the chimneys for his flying horse. And by the way Coca-Cola didn't invent that jolly rotund figure in the red suit, it was Thomas Nast.

But for some people, despite the pagan connections, Christmas represents a time in the year when good-will should be expressed to all. A time to get away from work, relax and spend time with family and friends. And some people do genuinely see it as a time to honor Jesus Christ. But whatever the significance, the feelings gendered by the holiday are short-lived. As the Royal Bank of Canada said in an essay entitled 'The Spirit of Christmas' what is essentially wrong with the Christmas spirit is that people do not have it all year round. And perhaps that is why it leaves people with an empty feeling and an even emptier bank balance.Perhaps what would give people more satisfaction than all the trappings of Christmas is to do something good to someone else. To be kind. Thoughtful. To help someone. Not to give them a meaningless present because they gave you something last year. But to really do something positive. One Christmas holiday many years ago, I found myself in a position when I was all alone and had nowhere to go or be with over the holidays. So I volunteered to help at a childrens home because they had staff shortages. It was the best Christmas holiday I have ever had. XXX

The demise of our little shops and markets

It's been awhile since I've felt the need for a real moan but last Saturday I had every cause and so dear blog here it is.

All over Britain there are little shops and markets struggling to make a living. They are run by people who love what they do and want to offer a service to local people. But people just want to get in their cars and rush off to the big towns and cities and buy mass produced rubbish churned out by people working in sweat shops in third world countries. They don't give local traders a chance.

This was very evident in my lovely market last Saturday. We had some truly fabulous stalls selling truly fabulous stuff at unbelievable prices. We had beautiful hand made cards, less than half the price of those sold in shops. We had soaps and bath time toiletries and we had jewellery and home baking and pottery and clothes and on and on I could go. We advertised and advertised. But did anyone give us a chance? Nope. Hardly anyone popped in to see what we had. People are moaning and groaning about the state of the economy and how much Christmas is costing them but they could have come to our market and bought really unusual and individual gifts at a fraction of the cost of big stores. Gifts that would have meant something to their recipients because they were 'different' and 'unique'

It's so disheartening when no one will give you the opportunity to show what you can do and that causes traders to give up. How can you keep going when you don't sell anything? You can't.
But one day, when petrol is sooo expensive that no one can afford to drive their cars, people will have to think twice before they go rushing off to the cities to shop. And they will stop and look at their little towns and moan because there aren't any shops and markets and it will be their own fault. It is them I blame for killing our little shops and markets. And the sad thing is, they won't know what lovely shops and markets they had...until they are gone.

Never say never

In my last blog I ranted and raved (a little) about a job I was offered cleaning a particularly horrible house. Oh I was so never doing THAT kind of work again. Well, sometimes you just have to eat your words because life doesn't always turn out as you hope it will.

I did the job, well, I have started it anyway. It's huge. It's vile. It's just the last thing on earth I want to do right now. I have neither the will nor the energy but nevertheless I must battle on because I need the money. And I need the money because my better half is not working right now due to an eye operation. So bills need paying, car needs taxing and food needs to be on the table.

It began on Monday. It was so overwhelming I didn't sleep the night before wondering if I could actually do the job on my own. But I got stuck in and gave it a go, starting on the kitchen. To give you an idea how hard it was, it took an hour just to shift the grease off the cooker hood. Walls were covered in thick mold. Cupboard tops inches deep in dust. Everything liberally caked in thick black gunk. Years of dirt and neglect.

After hours of work, during which I battled through filth that made me gag and encountered several massive spiders - of which I am truly terrified - I finished the kitchen. Today I worked on the lounge. Shelves pulled out revealed yet more thick black mold and cobwebs as thick as blankets. Sofa and chairs moved for the first time in decades unearthing mountains of dirt and detritus. And so now two rooms are clean.

The occupants have problems - health and otherwise - so cleaning has been put on hold till next week when I will deal with the daddy of them all - the worst bathroom I have EVER encountered in twenty years of running my own cleaning business. I fear I will need breathing apparatus to even enter the room such is the stench coming from it.

I feel demoralised and degraded yet strangely satisfied. The doctor visited the householder today and remarked on the cleanliness of the kitchen and lounge and that was a reward in itself. To think that I have helped someone who through no fault of their own has become overwhelmed with the daily chores of life and found themselves unable to cope. One day that may be me - who knows?

Why me?

'Hello. It's (name with held to protect friend but why I should I don't know)Do you still clean houses?'
'Oh. Hi. No not really. Giving it up. Going to be a mega-star author.' (didn't say the last bit - was thinking it)
'I clean a house for someone once a week, but it's really filthy and it needs a good clean. Can you do it?'
'Me? Why don't you do it?'
'It's too much for me?'
'But it's not too much for me, then?'
'Well, it needs a really good clean.'
'What do you do when you go there?'
'Just wash up and wipe the kitchen sink.'
'How long are you there?'
'An hour a day.'
'It takes you an hour to wash up and wipe the sink? How many people live in the house?'
'Two.'
'Do a lot of cooking, do they?'
'No. Anyway. I can't do it. It's hard work. Can you do it?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Because if it's too much for you then it's going to be too much for me, too.'
'That's disappointing.'
'Sorry.'
'Are you sure you can't do it?'
'No.'
'Well gotta go.'
'Oh, so you're not staying to chat?'
'Something on the stove.'
'How convenient.'
'Bye.'

Point is: I know the house in question. I've seen cleaner cow sheds. It's abominable. The only thing that would clean the toilet would have to be something nuclear. It absolutely annoys me when people think I'm a) prepared to clean up anything. b) have the strength of an ox. They just see a filthy hole of a house and think what idiot can we get to clean it? And then get on the phone to me. Well. Take Note. Those days are over.

New York and Ironing Boards

I have been a bit lazy recently when it comes to writing my blog. Perhaps it's because not a lot has irritated me of late -- I haven't needed to vent my feelings with a good old rant into cyberspace. But since it appears I have a follower (yaaaa!!!) I will endeavour to pull my proverbial socks up.

Actually, in my defense, I'm not so much lazy as been occupied elsewhere. I've had a rare thing -- a holiday. I visited my favourite city, New York, with my son and husband, where we stayed in a beautiful, old hotel in the trendy Upper West Side. But was it the chic interior that thrilled me? Was it the fact that Mark Twain and other famed people stayed there that made my heart flutter? Perhaps it was the stylish gym that tickled my fancy?

No. It was the fact that our room had...drum roll...an iron and ironing board.

When your luggage arrives on the airport carousel looking as if it's been chucked out the airplane at 35,000 feet -- trust me -- you need an iron. Especially when we were due to be in the audience of the Good Morning America show the next morning. Sod's law, if we looked like three scrunched up packets of cheese and onion crisps, the camera would seek us out.

So, while the rest of my family hung out of the bedroom window ooohing and aaahing over the Big Apple, I was happily bashing away on the ironing board. I guess it's true. You can take the girl out of the cleaning cupboard but you can't take the cleaning cupboard out of the girl.

Emporium

Emporium - such a delicious word. It's a medieval latin word that comes from the Greek word 'emporos' meaning a merchant selling a wide variety of goods. But it has the ability to conjure up a mental image of shelves, stalls and nooks and crannies crammed with rich colour and shiny, sparkly things. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, lavender and sandalwood permeating the air. A feast for the senses.

It perfectly sums up the Saturday market I attend each month. Today, an ambrosial smell of cinnamon and lavender wafted over from the next stall. Across the way the sweet smell of wood. Stalls crammed with colourful jewellery, cards, paintings, toys, books, delightful knicknacks and vintage clothes.

This is why I want to hang up my Marigolds. This market, these people, fill me with enthusiasm and zeal. And oh, how I do wish for that day when I can cheerfully tell my customers that this Mrs Mop is no more and oh, how I will have to refrain from telling my most trying of customers that I know a perfect place where they can place their mops!

Suddenly today, with new friends and new ideas - anything seems possible.

Cinderella

I now know how Cinderella felt when she was scrubbing those floors and her fat, ugly sisters were preening themselves - thinking they were sooo important. Okay. It's a folk story. And yes, I'm a bit older than she was -- all right, a fair bit older, but I do have nicer shoes! The point is, she might not be real, but her story - being down-trodden and disregarded - mirrors life for a lot of people. And last Monday, it was me.

I had to clean a holiday home. I usually do this for the owners every month and they are never there. But on Monday they were, because they were having their yearly visit to their des res in the country. So I appeared, all jolly and nice - because, to be fair, they are usually quite nice to me. Although we generally only communicate via email.

'What would you like me to do?' I asked (will I ever learn NOT to say that???)

'The floor.'

'What floor?'

'This floor.'

You mean. This crappy, old quarry tiled floor with the patches of concrete where the tiles are missing - floor. The floor you insist on keeping, even though you've modernised this entire 15th century cottage, because for some reason you think it's "authentic" and, by the way, I'll eat my apron if it dates back to the 15th century. (All right. I didn't say any of that!)

'I always wash it,' I said defensively. 'It just never looks any better.'

'Ah! But do you SCRUB it?'

And with that last sweeping question I was presented with a scrubbing brush. Nothing to kneel on. Just me, my bucket, brush and a vast, crappy, old quarry-tiled floor. And while I scrubbed, the lady of the house sat in her laminated-floored lounge while her husband did something everso important on his laptop. I even had to scrub around his feet - would you believe???

With my heart and dignity on the floor I scrubbed for two hours. Realising that as nice as I thought they were, they were putting me in my place. (Don't you forget, you cleaner woman, we are terribly posh, clever people who talk like the Queen and you are here to do our bidding.)

'I've done,' I said. 'I told you it wouldn't look any different.'

'Well. At least I know it's clean,' the lady said. 'Have you time to clean all the windows?'

She must have read my mind because she took one look at the scrubbing brush in my hand and rather nervously said. 'Oh. Perhaps next time, then.'

Cup Cakes & Candy

So happy to see I have a personal mention on the latest flea/craft market poster. Patti's cup cakes - there's no turning back now. Who knows perhaps this is the start of something big and my dream to hang up my Marigolds once and for all will really come true. One thing is for sure I've become totally obsessed with baking cakes. I cannot pass the baking aisle of any supermarket without pouring over all the little jars of amazing toppings for cakes. And colours! So many colours I can make my icing. There's a whole world of edible art out there and I'm ready to embrace it.

Another day, another flea market

After my disasterous attempt at selling at this particular flea market a few weeks ago, I decided to give it another chance and, armed with all the advice from other traders, turned up like a woman on a mission! I laid out the best table I possibly could. It was colourful, varied and, hopefully, appealing. They told me to do something to attract people to my stall and boy, did I do that. With the help of my artistic son, I produced some spectacular cupcakes plus a basket of Welsh cakes. They sold like...well...hotcakes. And as they sold, people bought other stuff, too. So it worked! It was such a good day. I made friends, I made money and I really enjoyed myself. This is sooo much better than cleaning. I spoke to the organizer afterwards and explained that although cup cakes are not strictly 'flea market' was it all right to do it again? She said: 'whatever draws people to your table is fine by me.'

Some of the other traders want the name changed to flea and craft market because there are a lot of craftsmen and artists there and one girl told me my cupcakes are 'edible art' - couldn't have put it better myself! My son has now opened up a flickr account for pictures of my creations and I've booked another table for two weeks time. The funny thing is, the fellow at the next table, who sold slate clocks, asked the organiser if he could do cakes next time and apparently he wasn't the only one. Guess they saw people at my table and decided to copy me. Only one thing for it - I'm going to have to up my game for next time!!!

Customers and cakes

It doesn't happen very often, trust me, it really doesn't. But once in awhile you meet a rare being. A nice customer. Yesterday I met that customer - two in fact. An elderly couple who asked me to spring clean their enormous seaside front property.

As I hauled my things up the stairs, the lady of the house asked if I wanted a cup of coffee before I started. I suggested it would be nice to have one about 10.30 a.m and at precisely that time she arrived with not just coffee but a china plate on which sat two slices of bara brith plastered with real butter, two Welsh cakes and several chocolate biscuits.

'Sit down dear', she said. 'Take a break.'

Now I'm used to getting steely glares from customers if I so much as stop to breathe. Time is their money. In fact, I half expect some of them to have a whip secreted in their cupboard just in I stop working. I have even been given a mug of coffee and expected to drink it while scrubbing a toilet at the same time. So this was a bit of a shock.

Of course the other thing is: I'm on a diet and have high cholesterol. I welcomed the break but shouldn't I refuse the mouth-watering delights she was waving under my nose? And then I thought how offended she might feel and couldn't I just hoover like a maniac and burn off the extra calories? And as for the trans-fat about to clog up my arteries, well, I just prayed they wouldn't. Not today.

'I can also make you lunch,' the lady suggested.

'Thanks, but I've brought my own,' I replied, thinking of the dry, ceiling-tile, rice cakes sitting in my plastic sandwich box. Yes, you're right Homer Simpson - where is the taste???

An hour later as I polished a sideboard within an inch of its life the lady reappeared. 'Just brought you a few things to put with your lunch,' she smiled, placing a carrier bag in front of me.

I delved inside. Fruit. Good. Apricot yogurt. Good. Two huge chocolate chip cookies. Bad.
Chocolate and cream dessert. Very bad.

'Eat them up,' she said. 'You need the calories.'

Like I need a hole in the head, I thought. But any will power I had left, and believe me there's never much to start with, shot out of the window and headed for the Irish sea. I succumbed.

After the feast. I worked my socks off and cleaned their property to perfection. Not just because it's what I do but because I hoped cleaning like I was on hyper-drive might justify why I'd eaten the contents of my customer's pantry.

But not often do I received such hospitality. Most people treat me with contempt. After all if you clean you must be thick and therefore not worthy of recognition. But just once in awhile you meet some one genuinely nice. And for that, I am grateful.

Boot Sales

Following my aborted attempt at the Flea Market in which (see previous blogs) I didn't sell very much much but came away with a useful piece of knowledge: How to fight off a would-be attacker. This was courtesy of the ex-bouncer running the next stall who wasn't selling much either and in his boredom decided to teach me some moves. I then decided to try my hand at boot sales.

And I found a whole new genre of customers: The rabid bargain hunters and the I'll-buy-any-piece-of-tat people. The latter was well-evidenced by the lady at the stall next to me, who had an tatty, old piece of rope for sale. 'Found it on the beach,' she giggled when she saw me staring at it with disbelief. But lo and behold, not two minutes later, I saw a woman walking away with the rope swung over her shoulder and my fellow stall holder with a grin on her face.

The rabid bargain hunters won't take any item at face value. If it's £1 they want it for 50p. If it's only 20p they want it for 5p. I've learnt to deal with them. Just price everything a lot higher. As long as they think they are beating you down they are happy.

And then we have 'boot divers' - horrible, professional booters who attack your car and try and buy things off you for peanuts so that they can put it back on their stall for a fat profit. The man on the stall next to me at one boot sale said he once drove into a field and couldn't understand what was wrong with his car, it was jumping all over the place. He looked over his shoulder to see the doors of his estate had been flung open and boot divers were into his stuff before he'd even had the chance to stop!

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoy booting and, save for the fact I've run out of things to sell, would happily do it every week. My home-made Welsh cakes sell like -- hot cakes. People actually come back for more. So I am thinking of branching into baking. I fancy seeing myself on a stall surrounded by cup cakes and bara briths. It may be a while before I hang up my Marigolds but at least I now see light at the end of the tunnel - albeit a very distance glimmer.

Seagulls and old men in fleeces

While I endeavour to hang up my Marigolds and take up a more meaningful profession I must stil earn a living. So, for now, I must remain a cleaner. Cleaning is a hazardous business at times. In fact, just lately, I have been thinking that I should have a bodyguard the size of a mountain with me - y'know, like Beyonce.

I have come to this conclusion due to recent events.

Last week, we were cleaning carpets in a lady's house. Our van was parked - legally. Our equipment not in anyone's way. But oh dear. Along came an old man in his 'fleece' (see previous posts for my hatred of them) waving his walking stick in the air. Ranting. Raving. His face turning purple with rage. He did not like where our van was. He did not like the noise. And despite my calm assurances that we were working as fast as possible he continued yelling at me.

'Please do not shout at me,' I said calmly.

'Shout at you,' he replied. 'I'm not going to shout at you. I'm going to hit you.'

And with that, he raised his stick and was about to strike me.

Well. Can you imagine? I was livid.

I gave him a molten lava look and said 'if you lay one finger on me, I will call the police.'

To which, he spun on his heels and scurried away as fast as his walking stick would take him.

And, if that wasn't enough.

Just this week we had to clean carpets at a house where seagulls were nesting on the roof - it was a bungalow and three, adorable, fluffy chicks were in a nest by the chimney.

'Aaaah,' we said until mum and dad seagulls and aunties, uncles and grandparents seagulls decided to attack us. Everytime we went out to the van they dive bombed us like World War II aircraft.

So, you see. Cleaning is a harzardous profession. Now if you'll excuse me I have to be fitted with an Interceptor body armour system!

The Flea Market

I arrived home after my first foray into the world of retail trade ie my stall at a local flea market (see previous blog when I decided to hang up my Marigolds) to a sea of expectant faces.

'Hiya, mum,' my son said. 'How did it go?'

'Well. I didn't sell anything, but I do know how to break a man's foot.'

Which I think, on reflection, is quite a useful piece of knowledge.

It all started when I arrived at the local flea market to sell my wares. My wares being carefully sourced Fairtrade recycled jewellery and other Fair trade items. All this in a bid to escape the horrors of cleaning for a living and help my fellow man while I'm doing it.

I set up my stall and I must say for a first attempt it was pretty good. My prices were okay, too. The fella at the next stall said so.

There were quite a few stalls. Wooden carvings, herbal concoctions, handmade jewellery and cards and so on. It was really quite colourful. The lady opposite was from Austria. The woman on the right a university lecturer who bottled home made olive oil and herbs in her spare time and the fella on my left who was also selling Fair Trade, only lotions and body creams etc. I thought we rather complmented each other.

Three of us were jokingly called 'flea market virgins' and generally everyone was nice to each other. But it was a hot day and the pros soon concluded everyone had gone to the beach. Who wanted to trail around a stuffy hall looking at paintings, tomato plants and home made vegetarian rissoles when they could be on the beach???

In our boredom the fella next to me shared his Maltesers, which I thought was very nice of him. Then he shared his smokey bacon crisps. And then we got talking. Turned out he used to be a 'bouncer' and knew a few moves. So he taught me how to duck a punch (should the event ever occur) and how to get out of a strangle hold if my attacker came from behind hence and that's how I learnt the 'foot break' move.

So whilst my first step into market trading was a bit of a damp squib. Any would-be-mugger had better watch out. Not a complete disaster after all, then.

Marigolds And Me

I knelt before the white porcelain - well, I say white but that isn't exactly true - my Marigold covered hands each held a Brillo pad and two thoughts flashed through my mind:

1. I should call David Cameron and insist that toilet cleaning is part of the national curriculum because I've faced enough feces-encrusted bogs to know that the great British public haven't a clue how to clean one or perhaps are too bone idle to try.

2. I am so much better than this.

This particular toilet was a lost cause. There was only one thing that would shift the decades old dung stuck to it -- a grenade.

I have a brain. I really do. And I'm on a mission. I'm going to hang up my marigolds. It may not happen overnight. But it's going to happen.

I shall start a stall. I said stall not stool. And I will sell things. Things I like. Things like Fair Trade recycled jewellery made by teenage mothers in Kenya. I will try and help myself while I help others. This is the beginning. Yes, I will fall on my face but in the end I will succeed and then the world will think we should have appreciated that domestic goddess while we had the chance.
Now who's going to clean up our ejectamenta!

IF

'IF' is a conditional clause. It implies something will happen if something else happens first. 'When' implies certainty. Doctors who were worried about the bird flu coming to Britain said it wasn't a matter of 'if' but 'when.'

This week the word IF has been uttered to me -- twice.

The first time was after I'd cleaned a huge house with five bathrooms and I mean CLEANED. Cobwebs as thick as candy floss were removed from behind furniture that hadn't been moved in months -- years, even. Bathrooms were scrubbed until they glistened. I even polished the blinking doorbells! I didn't take a break once and worked myself into exhaustion doing it in 4 hours for which I charged £10 per hour (well below going rate for S/E cleaners!) Yes. Spring cleaned to perfection a massive house for just £40. Am I crazy???

I was supposed to clean this house every month until I gave them the bill and then, after their jaw had hit the Axminster, they prised the money out of their purse and said: 'Um. Well. Er. We'll call you IF we need you again.'

Translation: You are a stupid cleaner and I'm not paying £10 an hour even though I'm mega rich, want my house cleaned and can easily afford it. Because only people with the IQ of a kettle clean for a living and I really expected you to do it for about £4 or £5 an hour, if that.

Yes, of course. Us stupid, brain dead cleaners that keep this world from being buried under a ton of detritus don't need money. Bread and water will do. And no, we won't be needing a house. Give us an old tarpaulin. Car. Clothes. Holiday. Nah, we don't need it. We just want to go to your fabulously big house and work for you for nothing because we are your slaves.

Well, here's another IF.

IF the sun explodes. IF the stars fall out of the sky. IF the U.K. ever wins Eurovision again ( and based on this years performance the sun is more likely to explode) then you can have my superior cleaning skills.

Because Mr and Mrs five bathroom house, all those things are going to have to happen before I ever clean for you again!

The Hairdresser

Where do you go when life gets too much? When work gets you down. When bills fall through the letter box in biblical proportions. When people irritate you. When everything goes wrong and life sucks.

A place of worship -- maybe. A walk in the forest -- possibly. A visit to a therapist -- perhaps.

A trip to the hairdresser -- definitely.

A new hairdo has the ability to lift spirits faster than the elevator in the Burj , the world's tallest tower (10 metres a second. 124 floors in 56 seconds -- get the point?)

Because no matter what you're wearing (even a baggy fleece!) if your hair is nice you feel good with a capital G. And if you, like me, are blessed with a hairdresser who has more to say than 'are you going anywhere tonight?' a couple of hours in the hairdressers (even if it has a banal name like 'Hair Daze' 'Split Enz' 'or my own personal favourite 'Get the Hell out of Hair' - which btw mine doesn't) can do you more good than a bucketful of Prozac.

Of course I'm doubly blessed cos my hairdresser also happens to have a wicked sense of humour.

I spend most of the time with tears of laughter trickling down my face. Which goes someway to make up for the fact that when I look in the hairdressers mirror my mother is definitely now staring back at me. Still. With a nice young hair style in a nice young colour I look years younger -- especially if I walk with my back to everyone.

So, thank you, hairdresser -- you know who you are -- you have restored my sanity this week.

Grrrrr....

Today I was conned and I'm mad. Hopping, seething, punch-the-wall kind of mad.

A man telephoned me and said in a scruffy, regional accent 'I want me carpets cleaned, luv. Can ya give us a quote and please bear in mind I'm just a skint pensioner.'

'How big are your rooms?' I asked.

'Oh, just average size. There's two of 'em and can you just clean me hall on the way out. It ain't big. Just, y'know. Average size. And the missus says could you run over the mat in the utility room on ya way out. Now be kind. Remember I'm a skint pensioner. I'll leave ya the key. You can do em when I'm gone. It's a holiday home ya see.'

Okay. That last bit should have rang warning bells. Only it didn't cos lots of people have holiday homes here and they are all shapes and sizes.

'Tell you what, luv.,' he continued. 'Tell us the price and I'll leave ya the cash.'

Ah. Nice man, I thought. No probs with payment. Yeah this should be all right.

I gave the geezer a quote based on the information he gave me, thinking I was getting a fair deal and so was he. Besides which I google earthed the house and it didn't look that big. (By the way do not trust google earth! It lies)

So off me and my husband went. Uh-oh. Wrought iron gates. Long drive. House the size of the Albert Hall. And the two 'average' size rooms were the size of frigging tennis courts. Skint pensioner my **** This was his second home. What was the size of the other one? And not one but two boats outside the house. SKINT PENSIONER!!! I don't think so.

Gut reaction was to walk away. Stuff the money. But then how ever small it was, we needed it. So should we just do some of it? That's the trouble you see. We just can't help but do a proper job however much we've been conned. So we did it. But I did leave a note just to let him know I knew he conned me.

When I join OAP land. Let me say here and now that, apart from never wearing green or beige (see previous blogs) I will never, ever, EVER play the old age pensioner card to get something on the cheap.

And now I'm going -- I have a wall to punch.

The Journey

I'm sitting on the train at the station waiting for it to move off. A little girl, about ten-years-old, is standing in the aisle, crying. People crane their necks and stare at her. No one asks. I see a woman on the platform peering at the girl through the glass window, smiling. My mind works overtime. Has she put the child on the train? Is the poor kid being sent to live with an austere aunt because her mother is dying of some incurable disease? Is she being sent to boarding school? The child is now almost hysterical. People still look. No one moves. I am about to get up when I clock what's going on. The mother has stepped off the train and can't get back on cos the door's jammed. I sigh. It's okay. This is a small, country station of two platforms. The train won't go off without her. The station manager soon sorts it out and the child flings herself at her mother.

I'm on my way for what I like to call my 'city fix' which means I've spent too long in the countryside and my brain now resembles a tin of Harry Ramsden's chip shop mushy peas. I need stimulation - fast. I like taking the train. It offers opportunities to observe people and wonder who they are and where they are going. Already my brain is percolating.

This particular 'city fix' is a trip to Birmingham to see New Zealand music/comedy duo 'The Flight of the Conchords' I feel a tingle of excitement. I've been too long amongst the sheep and fields.

The woman sitting in front of me is in her 60s and she's tap, tapping on her laptop. Across the aisle another woman carries a large red and cream holdall. She looks very smart. I wonder where she's going.

The refreshment man pushes his trolley into view. The mother with the sobbing child buys crisps and coke to placate her daughter, who is still sniffling. The lady with the red and cream holdall buys a tuna sandwich - she insists on brown bread - and a bottle of water. The refreshment man smells of expensive cologne, his scent fills the carriage. I'm impressed (it doesn't take much!)

The woman puts in her ear plugs and gazes out of the window. I feel no such urge to gaze. I know out there will be fields and sheep and perhaps cows. I'm desperate for civilization. Cluttered rows of houses and gardens. Some neat and well cared for, others a jumble of weeds and bramble with perhaps an old, wavey plastic washing line running through them. Behind those doors and gardens are people. People with different lives, different stories to tell. I hunger for that.

CAERSWS. NEWTOWN. WELSHPOOL. Fields. Fields. Fields. Some green. Others covered in white trips of polythene to protect what grows beneath. Some full of yellow rapeseed.

The train hits SHREWSBURY and the fields begin to disappear. Lots of people get on, grabbing what few seats remain (it's only a two carriage train). People and suitcases are pushed past me. A teenage boy drags his backpack. The music coming from his Ipod is so loud. I think he'll be sorry when he's in his 60s and needs a hearing aid. I don't supposed he gives a fig about being 60. He probably think he'll be young forever - didn't I? Although the area around the station looks post apocalyptic with rust and rumble, the brick walls now have painted panels. It looks like Banksy has paid a visit. I wonder what the men that toiled over that brickwork would make of it all.

WELLINGTON. People on. the platforms are beginning to look different. Citified as opposed to countrified. TELFORD. I see housing estates and gardens and shops like Asda and Tesco. People. Lots of people.

The young bloke behind me is talking into his phone. He's bragging about the five grand extra he got at work. I wonder why people feel the need to broadcast their personal stuff to everyone.
I want to lean over my seat and say, 'look, mate. It's only five grand. If it was five million or even fifty grand it would be worth letting the entire Arriva train know about it.'

I now want to go to the loo but I hate train toilets. They are old and smelly and I'm always worried the door hasn't locked properly and some one will come along and punch the button and I'll be there in mid-wee for everyone to see. And if I do feel it's locked I worry it won't open again. I think I'll wait.

The trains chugs purposefully into WOLVERHAMPTON. I see streets of terraced houses and canals with people fishing. And then all too soon we approach BIRMINGHAM. Crumbling buildings. Abandoned warehouses. Graffiti. Clumps of purple Buddliea beside the tracks. Weeds growing through concrete. Dirty brickwork and dusty walls. Diesel fumes.

I step off the train and breathe in the toxic air and think 'Aah. Wonderful!'

The Post Office Queue

So I was in the post office - queuing. All I wanted was stamps - six 1st class. No big deal. Just wanted to get them and get out. Fast. Huh. Fat chance. There was only one window open and the elderly man being served wanted foreign currency. The girl behind the counter dealt colourful notes to him as if she was a croupier in a Las Vegas casino. I looked at the man with his mop of white hair and thought he must have some sort of superannuation pension or something cos no ordinary pensioner on the state is gonna afford a holiday abroad - or so they say, anyway.

A woman came up beside me, pushing a buggy. The toddler strapped into it had arms like octopus tentacles. He kept snatching Kinder Eggs off a display near the queue and the woman kept prising open his clenched hands and shouting at him. And I thought blooming daft place to put Kinder Eggs right by the queue and then I thought actually it was a blooming brilliant place cos how many mums had given in to their fractious offspring and bought one. Anyway, I slipped a sly glance towards the woman. She was 50ish, had short, dyed hair, sort of Crimson colour and a ring through her pierced lip and no make-up. Her eyes were small, blue and tired. I decided, at her age, the kid couldn't be hers and then a young woman rolled up with another buggy and they started talking and I worked out they were mum and daughter. But I didn't get to see the younger woman cos that would have meant turning right round and staring and that would have been rude and they might haven given me a dirty look or something.

I was bored then and getting fed up cos I'd been in the queue for fifteen minutes and all I wanted was stamps. The old man shuffled away with his currency and the old lady in front of me moved up to the counter. She had a short, grey severe haircut and a green fleece and beige trousers and I thought if there's two colours synonymous with oaps it's green and beige. Not a nice green, either. Not like spring green or jade. No it's either sage or bottle green. It's like the day they get their bus pass they say 'Right. That's me off to the green and beige shop.' I swear, when I get to that age I'm gonna kit myself out in bubblegum pink from head to toe and I don't give a flying fig if the green and beige police come round and tell me off for letting the side down. And while I'm at it. What's all this with fleeces? They're like an oap uniform. Yeah. I know they are comfy and wash well but please - look at yourselves. They're baggy and shapeless.

I was in the dentist last week and this elderly lady and her husband were paying at the counter. They wore his and her sage green fleeces and she had on brown trousers, white socks and flat lace-ups. And her trousers looked they'd had the mother of all rows with her ankles cos they were like four inches too short. At first I thought poor love, perhaps she can't afford trousers that fit. But they were 'paying' for their treatment not like the rest of us who were getting it free cos we're poor. So I thought, well then, there's no excuse is there? I mean. Don't these people look at themselves when they go out? Or do they just get to an age when they think no one's gonna care what they look like so why bother.

I looked at the clock. I'd been queueing for twenty minutes and all I wanted was six stamps. The girl behind the counter handed the elderly woman a pile of bank notes and she was saying to the girl: 'put ten pounds on me electric and ten pounds on me gas' and now I was getting seriously fed-up cos I was gonna be late for work. And I thought, are pensioners really as bad off as they make out cos I'm always finding myself behind them in the Spar shop and I'm gobsmacked when they ask for twenty quid on the Lotto. I get the urge to poke them on the shoulder and say: 'I thought you lot were meant to be poor and what's the use spending all your money on lottery tickets, anyway. It's not like you're gonna be around long enough to enjoy it if you win.' But I don't cos that would be rude - and mean.

And then, at last, the old woman shifts off, but not before she has carefully folded up her bank notes, one by one, and put them in her purse. And then put her purse in her handbag and then done up her coat, button by button. And I want to scream: 'take your time, why don't you? It's not like there's a queue here.'

And then, finally, after twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds (yeah. I was really counting) I get to ask for my blinking stamps!