 
# Confessions of a Chocoholic

### A humorous insight by

### Lynda Renham

The right of Lynda Renham to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

eISBN 978-0-9927874-2-4

first edition

Cover Illustration by Amy Rogers

www.amyrogers.co.uk

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Raucous Publishing 2013

Smashwords edition

www.raucouspublishing.co.uk

## My name is Lynda and I'm a Chocoholic

My name is Lynda and I'm a chocoholic. My last chocolate was two minutes ago with a tiny indulgence by way of three Belgian chocolate biscuits and they were delicious. So let's have a group chocolate hug and I'll begin.

Now we are friends let me tell you a little more about me. I'm a romantic comedy novelist living in Oxfordshire with my husband Andrew. Andrew is aware of my penchant for chocolate but does not know the full extent of it. There are just some things you don't tell the husband, aren't there, especially when you're on a diet. We share our home with our cat Bendy. I know you're going to ask so I'll put you out of your misery; we didn't name him Bendy. He started life very literary, christened with the name Bendrix, a character from the Graham Greene novel The End of the Affair, but when my neighbour called him Bendy the name stuck.

So I write romantic comedy novels, all available on Amazon and good bookshops (that's the plug done) and you can read more about those at the end of this little ditty. If I can put a smile on someone's face I've done my bit for world peace I think. When not writing I live an ordinary life just like you but everything that follows in this book is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth your honour, although some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty. Life as a woman has its moments and I would like to share some of my moments with you.

So fellow chocoholics, get comfortable. Make sure you have a nice mug of hot chocolate. Curl up, enjoy and most of all, have a laugh at my expense.

Welcome to my world.

### Lynda Renham

## The Oxfordshire Mating Call

It's a Friday; Waitrose day. So I make the weekly pilgrimage from my village to the big town, and this week I choose to go early. There are many good reasons for this but no sooner than I have made the decision to start early I realise starting early is riddled with problems. A debate with Andrew ensues regarding dinner. Usually I buy a rotisserie chicken, and we have this with Moroccan couscous and then... could you stop yawning please... I assure you, this will get better. So where was I? Oh yes, and then we watch a DVD or maybe two if I'm lucky. Friday night is chill out night and the highlight of our week, and I don't need your pity thank you, you can put that back in your pocket right now.

Now, herein lies the problem. If I go to Waitrose early they may not have a chicken cooked and ready to take home. This is tricky, very tricky indeed. So, I need to check what else Hubby would like. We decide on a curry. But why not just go a bit later I hear you ask. A reasonable question, if I say so myself. It's because I need to be at the doctor's at 11.02. Yes, you heard correctly, precisely 11.02. And of course the doctor will call me in at precisely 11.02 won't he? Yeah right, dream on, this is the NHS we're talking about. I think it is 11.02 but we'll come back to that later. Plus, to complicate matters even more, the appointment is not at my usual village surgery but the main one which is in the next village. I hope you're keeping up with all this because it gets more complicated as time goes on. So, I decide to pop to Waitrose, that's if you can pop to somewhere that is about six miles away and then on the way back I can do a short detour to the doctor's, and then home.

'That will give me the whole of the afternoon to write,' I tell his lordship.

Famous last words. So off I pop. Trying to get to town from my village is a feat all of its own. The road leading to town is a driver's nightmare. I have been done twice for speeding along here and I don't even speed. But trying to keep to the speed limit on this road is a skill of its own as the speed limit changes every few metres. So I potter along, accelerating from thirty miles an hour to forty and then up to fifty, trying to go at the speed limit so as not to evoke road rage in the cars behind, and then dropping back to forty, then thirty and then back up again to fifty as the signs dictate. It's like doing a Jeremy Clarkson lap. The car behind me obviously doesn't give a fig about speed limits and spends much of his time in the thirty miles per hour speed limit either flashing me (with his lights obviously – my luck never stretches to anything further than that) or hooting me while driving as close to my bumper as he can possibly get. Let me tell you not many men get that close to my bumper. I'm under no illusions. This is intimidation, just in case you thought it was some kind of Oxfordshire mating call. We both relax when I am back in a fifty zone. This doesn't last long and I am back to forty and quickly down to thirty, and being flashed for all I'm worth. Finally I reach town and the car park for Waitrose. Guess what? The car park is full. How can this be? I'm early for goodness' sake. I drive round and round until my head is spinning. I finally spot a space and shoot into it only to discover it is a one hour space. I do a quick calculation and figure I can race around the store and be back within the hour. No problem.

Don't you just hate supermarkets? Even worse, don't you hate supermarkets on weekdays? I fight my way through the mums with their screaming children and hover for a full five minutes behind an elderly woman who is studying the teas, and make my way to the chicken counter where the chicken rotisserie resides. Excellent, our normal Friday evening routine will not change. The assistant smiles at me and continues checking the temperature of the cooked birds with such concentration you would think she was operating on them. I feel like telling her they look very dead to me and could she just pop one in a bag. I attempt to speak but she holds a hand up to stop me and continues with her manoeuvres with the thermometer. I'm getting close to telling her where to stick that thermometer and it isn't in the chicken. I want to scream,

'I'm on an hour here lady. Can we get a move on with this?'

'Can I help you?' she says eventually.

Oh, how fab. She has finally seen the customer. I mean, there is enough of me, so she couldn't really miss me. I choose my chicken and hastily leave the meat counter. I fly along the aisles throwing in everything I need, including a family size bag of Maltesers which I see are on offer. Maybe I'll get two. Finally I arrive at the checkout. It has taken me forty minutes; a record for me and I feel like they should give me a medal, not just a little green disk for the charity box. I saunter from the store and make my way to the car. It is then I realise I am still holding the green disk. I throw the carrier bags into the boot, drop the disk into the trolley and pop the trolley back to the trolley park. I'm making good time. Then I am back in my car and on my way home, I can't believe things are going so well. Checking the time on the dashboard clock I wonder if I have enough time to take the shopping home before driving to the doctor's for my blood pressure check.

I don't know about your GP surgery but mine is ultra-organised. They even send you a text message with the time and date of your appointment, not that it helps me of course. I have a vague memory that the appointment is 11.02 but it could well be 11.22 for how good my memory is. I decide to be really organised and check my phone at the next lay-by and make an informed decision. After all, I have one hot dead chicken in the boot, not to mention a Mini behind me who is so close I swear he will be in the boot with the chicken soon. Perhaps he would like to join us for the DVD later. Finally I see the lay-by. I indicate, pull in and reach for my handbag to check my Blackberry. My stomach lurches when I see my bag is not on the passenger seat. Time stands still and my mind does one of those backtrack things that you see in the films. Everything runs before my eyes in slow motion and I see my handbag in the shopping trolley.

Oh God. I left my handbag in the trolley and I left the trolley in the trolley park. Unwittingly all the objects in my handbag flash before my eyes. Glasses, Blackberry, purse, credit cards, money, perfume, spare knickers, tampon, half-eaten family size fruit and nut. I groan and check the clock. I've waited ten days for this appointment.

Then a terrible thought makes my hands tremble. Oh no, horror of horrors. I will have to tell Andrew. He is working from home today. I restart the car and zoom down the country lanes to our village, sod the speed limit. I skid to a halt outside our cottage, fly through the front door, bound up the stairs and declare to a wide-eyed Andrew that I have left my bag in the trolley, and the trolley in the trolley park.

'Again?' he says in an exasperated voice.

Yes, you heard him. It is not the first time. I won't repeat the other things he said. They were along the lines of, How could you be so stupid? and, Are you completely off your trolley? I beg him to look up the phone number of the store.

'Can't you do it?' he snaps.

'I can't see the computer screen,' I say, beginning to cry and popping Maltesers into my mouth like no tomorrow. 'My glasses are in the bag.'

I phone the store, my heart in my mouth. Please let them have it I plead. I was lucky enough the last time this happened, but just how many honest people are there out there? Well, it seems there are at least two. Someone has handed it in. I yell up the stairs to Andrew that I am going to the doctor's in the vain hope that my appointment was at 11.20 and not 11.02 and then I'll go back to Waitrose.

Off I go again at top speed. I assure you there is no driver up my backside on this journey. I swear I left such a large cloud of dust behind me they couldn't see my backside if they tried. I zoom into the doctor's car park and race in only to discover my appointment is for 11.30. What a relief. The day has barely begun and I am exhausted. I could easily go back to bed.

You'll be pleased to hear that my blood pressure reading was normal. My return to Waitrose was uneventful also. In fact, I even got parked directly outside the store and everything was inside my handbag, not even a snotty tissue was missing. I celebrated by buying another bag of Maltesers since they were on offer and right there, right then, I decided all this scatty behaviour has got to stop. I'm pleased to tell you that so far so good. Mind you, it has only been five days. Ask me after five weeks...

## Sex and the Village

I don't know about you but whenever I try to buy something that is even remotely connected with sex, everything seems to go wrong. Not that I'm sex mad you understand, I wouldn't want you to think that Andrew and I are always, well you know ... But that is what people think isn't it? If you buy items from Ann Summers or other 'sex' stores, you must be either oversexed, kinky, or at the very best, experimental. On the other hand they may conclude that you have a marriage that is stale and needs a bit of spice, in other words, your marriage is old and boring. Seeing as my marriage is not stale and doesn't need spicing up I guess I'll have to admit to belonging to the oversexed and kinky contingency. I'd rather that to old and boring any day.

Anyway, I digress. I often pass the Ann Summers store when out shopping with friends, and we always scoot past it with faces averted. Well, their faces averted, I'm usually dead keen to go inside and have a look around. So, one day, with faces averted I said,

'Could we pop into ...?'

And got such a look that I changed mid-stream to Body Shop.

'For a minute we thought you were going to say Ann Summers,' they chorused.

We all laughed nervously.

Of course, what happens? You sneak back on your own for a look around, and decide to buy a few things, you know, harmless things like sexy underwear and some lube, well maybe a vibrator was thrown in too. I'm not sure how it got thrown in, but it did. You walk out and bump straight into your husband's ex, which confirms the fact that you are everything she always said you were, right? In my case I walk into our friendly vicar. Not that we attend church much, well not much at all, in fact we never attend church, but if you live in a small village everyone knows everyone. Now everyone will know that I am old and boring, with a very stale marriage, or very kinky and oversexed with an experimental nature. It is bound to be the latter as we have only been together twelve years.

Shit.

So now I can't really go into Ann Summers for fear of who may see me. So I decide to let Ann Summers come to me. Good idea I think. I'll have a party. Thinking about it on the way home after being caught out by the reverend reminded me of my first innocent Ann Summers party, and the disastrous second one.

My first Ann Summers party was many years ago when the whole Ann Summers thing was something you whispered and giggled about with your girlfriends. I went with some trepidation. I had never even seen a vibrator and was quite nervous at the thought of even doing so, but amazingly enough not even a glimmer of a vibrator was to be seen. The party was all about sexy lingerie. I came home feeling quite proud of myself for attending an Ann Summers party and coming home unscathed. Now when anyone mentions Ann Summers in hushed tones I would proudly say, Oh I've been to an Ann Summers' party and quite enjoyed it. So, when a few years later I was invited to another one, and my friend's innocent 18-year-old daughter, Katie, asked if she could come too, I said yes. After all, there would only be sexy lingerie there, and what's wrong with that? What could possibly go wrong? Never assume anything in life, trust me on this one. We entered the lounge and the first things to greet us were little wound-up penises running around the floor. Instinct told me this was not going to be anything like my first experience. I looked at Katie, who was cleverly pretending not to notice the little penises, while I made concerted efforts not to step on them. The thought of a mangled penis, even if made of plastic, made me squirm. Glasses of wine were offered and boy did I need one having just spotted the assortment of sex toys on the table. My mission now was to shield my companion from embarrassment and the need for counselling for any trauma inflicted. This party was going to be hard core, with very little interest in innocent lingerie, unless you include pink fluffy handcuffs in that category. After being advised by Katie that perhaps I shouldn't be drinking considering I will be driving us home later, I shelved the wine and was drawn to the bowl of chocolate penises that sat on the table. I waited with bated breath when the hostess asked us for quiet. After a brief introduction the hostess informed us that we will play Pass the Parcel as an ice breaker and introduction to the range of Ann Summers' goods. My heart sank. I smiled at Katie as she shifted in her seat.

'Are we ready girls?'

I wanted to scream no, and frantically tried to think of excuses to leave. I could make a sharp exit to the loo but the music started before I could make my move, and so began the passing of the parcel. Oh, horror of horrors. The first unwrapping produced the largest vibrator I had ever seen, I am sure my eyes watered at the sight. In case we needed a closer look it was passed around as the game continued. The music stopped and the parcel landed in my companion's lap. I held my breath. In an instant she had thrown it to me. Everyone began clapping in unison for me to open the wrapping. Ah, at last some nice lingerie; a lovely black frilly bra. I read the forfeit. Oh great, I had to stand up, clutch my breasts (such as they were) and sing 'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts'.

I have to admit that singing is not my forte but I managed to belt it out reasonably well. In fact, I thought I was quite good. At least Katie and I managed to dodge the parcel for the rest of the game. Finally, the game was over and we had more fun with the walking penises. Vibrators of all shapes and sizes were passed around until I became punch drunk on the things. Of course, by this time a fair bit of wine had been consumed and some of the women began sharing their sex secrets. I cringed and discreetly moved Katie to a safe area. Against the hubbub of buzzing vibrators women were crying into their wine glasses expounding how their husbands didn't fulfil their needs. Finally, we had the fashion show where the lingerie came into its own. At last, I was on home territory now and could relax my concern for Katie. We were all encouraged to try on something and share. Sharing is bonding we were informed. I sensed Katie was not keen to bond. I squeezed myself into a naughty maid's outfit, much to her disgust. I was beginning to enjoy myself now even without the wine, but from her face I could see it was time to go. I flicked through the catalogue away from Katie's view and after handing in my order I made a lame excuse that we had to leave. I grabbed a few more chocolate penises and headed for the door. We were silent in the car for the duration of the journey home the only sound was of me sucking on a penis. I stopped outside her house and hesitantly asked,

'Did you enjoy yourself?'

'I just think it best if Mum does not know,' was her reply.

When I got home my husband greeted me with,

'Did you have a good time?'

'Yes, I trod on a penis, it was great fun.'

And so on to Ann Summers party number three. I decided to host my own party. Obviously the vicar's wife wasn't invited. It all went very well too. Lots of fun and a few games, and this time I could knock back the wine. And you can't have a party and not buy something can you? But the good thing about Ann Summers is no one knows what you're buying, barring cock-ups of course. So when the Ann Summers rep got the packages muddled up and I ended up with someone else's order, I had to phone each guest to see who had mine, and who was the rightful owner of the Rampant Rabbit that sat proudly on my dining room table.

But of course, Ann Summers is not the only supplier of sex toys and the like. There are hundreds of online shops, not that I have looked of course. Well, maybe once. It was all very easy, and they deliver in a plain brown box. I bet you're wondering what I've been buying aren't you?

The parcel came in a plain brown box as stated on the website. Okay yes, I ordered that much stuff it needed a box. The problem is that it never came to me because I was out when the postman knocked. He left said box with my elderly neighbour four doors away. I wasn't worried because it comes in a plain brown box right? Oh no, not mine. It came in a plain brown box which was all banged up, so you could clearly see the catalogue that they had popped inside. Red faces all around.

Not long after receiving my brown box I was concerned by a loud banging noise that was coming from upstairs. I was convinced the immersion heater was about to explode any minute. I searched everywhere for the source of the noise and was about to phone an electrician, or plumber, or both, until realising the noise was coming from my bedside cabinet, and where I discovered my vibrator vibrating for all it's worth in the drawer. At least the batteries were working. Fortunately I hadn't called the electrician or plumber, how embarrassing would that have been? Hopefully the neighbours didn't hear anything but they probably assumed it was the sex maniac having experimental fun again. But I don't have that much fun and have taken to using the vibrator cleaning wipes (you have to buy a few things at the parties don't you, and they are the cheapest items in the catalogue) to clean my glasses. It makes me feel quite decadent cleaning my glasses with vibrator wipes.

There was also the time when I tried to apply lipstick with my lipstick vibrator (don't ask), only to end up with vibrated lips, but that's another story.

## Forceps Anyone?

Today I was sorting through the bathroom cabinet and I found my Mooncup. Suffice to say it was not in any fit condition to enter my vagina. Memories of why I bought it flooded into my head like a haemorrhage, forgive the pun. I thought I would share the memory with you, so hang onto your hats and enjoy the ride. By the way, if you are like me, which of course you may not be, you may have no idea what a Mooncup is. I would never have known had a good friend not introduced me to it. Throw away your tampons and sanitary towels and join the revolution! Save money and never worry about Toxic Shock Syndrome again she said, and when you came as close to toxic shock as I did Ms Mooncup will become your new best friend. Okay, I exaggerate but hey, I was the one who had a tampon surgically removed. It was December last year and a good friend invited me to her work's Christmas party. A great opportunity to don my glad rags, generally dress up and have a good time. Now, if you're a woman you'll know all about tampons. Easy to insert (apparently), not in the least bit messy (apparently), gives you amazing freedom to do just about everything (apparently) and they are safe (apparently.) The latter I would question. I won't crack the old joke about how you can even swim wearing them, which is great news for me as a non-swimmer (Oops just did – It's so hard to resist that old chestnut). So picture it if you can, here I am all dolled up, posh frock, fake diamonds and all, ready for dancing, should anyone be asking. Just a change of tampon and I will be as ready as ready can be and on my way to my friend's. The next eight hours free of worry and full of fun fun fun. Oh why does life have a habit of backfiring on me? I had ten minutes, plenty of time to change a tampon. Oh no, not in this case. My first fumble for that little piece of string didn't cause me too much anxiety. With as much elegance as I could muster under the circumstances, I cocked one leg up onto the toilet seat and tried again. I began to feel mild anxiety. Why can't I feel the string? More fumbling, good God where was the damn thing? I fumbled and probed and felt myself perspire. I stopped to check the time and then flew back for another go. Five minutes later after practically losing my hand up there, I sat down panting onto the toilet seat. I am seriously beginning to doubt I had even inserted one. I mean, just how high can the things go? And more importantly how the hell did it get that high? One more try and this time I feel the string. God it is so high I almost lose my arm in the process. Okay, another exaggeration. I scream as I pinch myself and finally give up. I am now fighting the clock in more ways than one. My friend expected me ten minutes ago and my tampon (bless its little cotton socks) expires in less than an hour. Expires is the wrong word I know, but you get my drift. There is a limit to how long they can live in your vagina. This one has more than overstayed its welcome. Frantic now I rush to the kitchen and grab a Twix from the cupboard, then the tampon box and yank the Toxic Shock Syndrome advice sheet from it and slump onto the bathroom floor to read it.

* Remember to wash your hands before and after inserting and removing the tampon. –Obviously I knew that.

* You should change your tampon every four to eight hours.  
Oh sod. It is now over seven hours.

* Be sure to use the lowest absorbency tampon for your flow.  
A quick check of the tampon box confirms my fear. Yes, it is super strength.

* Always remove your used tampon before inserting a new one.  
I'm bloody trying aren't I?

* Be sure to remove your last tampon at the end of your period.  
I'm having trouble removing one in the middle of my period let alone at the end of it.  
And finally...

* If you wish to use this product overnight, you may do so, provided that you insert a fresh tampon before retiring and remove it immediately upon waking. You should never wear a tampon for more than 8 hours to reduce the risk of TSS during your menstruation.

HELP!

I pull myself up from the floor, grab my car keys and drive like a maniac to my friend's flat. She rushes out on hearing my car screech to a halt. She is all smiles. I've never hated her more than I did in that moment. Dressed to the nines and tampon free, I mean, I just couldn't help myself. I was so sore in the nether regions from so much poking – not literally obviously. Who's going to poke me with that thing stuck up there? Anyone without a period was a target for my hate.

'We have to go to A&E,' I announce.

It suffices to say I was not popular. All credit to her, she did agree to come with me. Of course, the only thing that propelled me to A&E was fear, and that escalated to terror on seeing the notice at the entrance.

Patient waiting time is an estimated eight hours. Please report to the triage nurse.  
Eight hours! I don't have eight hours to spare. I'll be dead before they even get near my vagina. This is turning into a nightmare. My friend pushes me into the queue and finds herself a seat. Constantly checking my watch I edge closer and closer to the desk, acutely aware of the man with the bleeding arm behind me. Not because of his bleeding arm, you understand, but because he would overhear everything I was about to relay to the triage nurse. Finally the nurse gestures to me. It is just my luck that she has one of those voices that resembles a foghorn. I want to die. In fact, I am thinking dying is the only way out of my embarrassment.

'What's the problem?' she asks.

'I have a tampon stuck. I have tried everything...' I whisper.

'How long has the tampon been in there,' she interrupts, and I feel sure the whole of A&E goes silent. It's a bit like one of those John Wayne moments when the stranger walks into the saloon bar.

'Almost eight hours,' I quiver.

'You're certain you have one in there?' she says dismissively, looking behind me. Ooh, excuse me is there a better class of patient waiting?

'Well yes,' I say feebly. 'I can feel the string.'  
Did the man behind me tut?

'Is it a regular one?'

'Super,' I say blushing. She raises her eyebrows.

'Have you had intercourse?'  
Good God, does she and the rest of A&E need to know that?

'Well, when do you mean exactly?' I ask.  
She shakes her head.

'Today, have you had intercourse today with the tampon in?'  
Does she think I am totally stupid? The look on her face tells me she obviously does.

'Of course not,' I reply defensively.

'Take a seat.'

I question whether I really ought to be seen urgently but it's met by a sneer. And so we wait, and we wait, and my friend gets more and more anxious, and I get more and more convinced that the symptoms of Toxic Shock Syndrome are taking a hold and spend a fortune on chocolate at the vending machine. For medicinal purposes you understand. At 10.30pm I am called in. I have been there four hours and the tampon has now been in for twelve hours. My days are numbered. My friend assures me it is fine and that the symptoms of Toxic Shock Syndrome are not that bad. She obviously has not read the same horror stories I have. I leave her to her ignorance and spend what seems like agonising hours being poked by a handsome doctor and trust me that was not as pleasurable as it sounds.

'Are you certain you have a tampon in here,' he calls from somewhere within my nether regions. 'I can't see it. How did you get it so high?'

'Well, if I knew that...'

'Shall I have a go?' offers a nurse.

Why not? Anyone else want to join the queue? Trust me if you want to hang onto your dignity don't lose a tampon up your... well anyway. So the nurse has a go and the doctor tries again. Forceps are requested and general surgery is discussed. Then the words I had been dreading.

'We have to get it out. If it stays in there much longer we'll be facing a serious threat of toxic shock. Prepare for surgery.'

Surgery! My heart sinks and I think it is time to call my husband. Forceps are inserted and the nurse screams.

'I see it.'

I almost cry. I have been vindicated.

'Can you grab it?' asks the doctor urgently.

More probing, more pinching, more biting of my lip and finally she calls out triumphantly that she has the string.

'Push,' orders the doctor.

This is probably the closest I will come to giving birth so I make the most of it. I push, she pulls for all of a few seconds and then she is holding it up for all to see. Suffice to say they did not wrap it in a blanket and hand it to me while tears were shed all round.

Walking like John Wayne out of the saloon bar I approached my friend and with great difficulty drove home. Never wanting to go through that experience again the very next day I purchased my new best friend, the Mooncup.

## You Have Seventy-Two Hours to Shoot the Computer

A few weeks ago our Internet connection died. If I had known the hassles that were ahead of us I seriously think I would have emigrated to Australia. It surely wasn't that bad, I hear you say. Oh trust me, it was worse. But as usual, I digress. So let me go back to the beginning. It all began on Sunday night. Andrew was trying to move his server onto something called The Cloud. Now, don't ask me for any more information. As far as I am concerned his server and the cloud are his business. Suffice it to say that he runs a business from his office at home and had some concerns about his personal server going down, so that particular evening he was trying to move everything onto the cloud. Not a cloud in the sky you understand, although for as much as I know it could well be. Again I digress. Trust me, the server and the cloud are not really important in this story. The next day we both toddled off to work. In my case I toddled downstairs to the couch which is where I was working on my latest bestseller. You've read all those of course haven't you? I stop work about lunchtime and set off to Sainsbury's, as you do, and fight my way around the aisles. I know exactly what I want but nothing ever goes to plan does it? Something in the Sainsbury's supermarket had blown up that morning and so their freezer department wasn't working properly, and for some reason it affected their spit-roast chickens. I did query the connection but no one seemed to know what it was. I quickly re-planned dinner and headed for the fish counter. Finally, I get to the checkout where the queues are a mile long and patiently waited my turn. I reach the front and am faced with an assistant and his twenty questions.

'Hello, how are you? Would you like bags for your goods?'

Actually no, I thought I would carry the whole trolley load in my skirt, or better still, in a basket on my head.

Of course I want bags. But before I can answer...

'Do you have your own bags? Do you need help packing?'

No, I don't have my own bags and no, I don't need help packing. I mean, do I look helpless? And before you ask, yes, I have sex three times a week or more if I am lucky. Of course, he didn't ask about my sex life but you know how it is? And yes, I have a Nectar Card but no, I forgot it, and no, I don't need to complete a form for a replacement. What an ungrateful woman you think I am. Well yes, but I just want to get home and I know they are only doing their job. But really, if you have more than three things in your trolley, then you need bags, right?

Next, that thing that makes me cringe. Along the conveyer with a thump come my apples followed by my pears. The bag of flour splits slightly as it is thrown along and the lady behind me gasps. Oh no, I will have to say something and then he will ring the bell and then I will wait forever for someone to get another bag. I sigh and push it into my carrier. I really don't have the time. I pay and smile when he tells me to enjoy my nice things, like I have just bought an iPad rather than mackerel and salad. Ah well... I drive home, lumber inside with my shopping bags and put the kettle on. Now, you can already tell that I am not in the mood for anything more dramatic than the teabag splitting. No luck for me. I see the answerphone is bleeping like crazy and the Skype phone is flashing like mad and there is a loud screeching coming from Andrew's office. I feel an overwhelming temptation to flee while there is still time. I enter the office warily, and prepare myself for the horrors that await there. The computers are consistently rebooting themselves in an effort to re-establish connection, and the answer machine is flashing menacingly. Poor Bendy quakes behind me and attempts a purr but it comes out a bit shaky. I feel like Bendy and I have just stepped into a horror movie. I listen to the messages with a sinking heart. Andrew's customers can't access the server. I phone Andrew and pop two painkillers in case. Pre-empting a headache is always a good idea.

'We have no Internet connection,' I say.

'Not to worry,' says my calm husband. 'It's probably the router. I'll sort it out when I get home.'

Bendy is given a handful of cat treats to calm him down while I overdose on the box of Ferrero Rocher we had bought to take to friends at the weekend. I can always buy another box on the way, right?

Andrew arrives home at six and by ten-thirty we still have no Internet connection. We have fitted a new router, which doesn't work, and have irate customers who cannot access their files. We phone BT. Well we actually phone India, but that's the same thing isn't it? We think the woman tells us it is the router. Now, I am not being racist here when I say we cannot understand her. It is just a fact that we simply can't understand her accent, or the man who follows her, or the woman who follows him, and we apologise profusely for asking them to speak a little slower. Andrew repeatedly tells her that it isn't the router to which she responds,

'Good, we agree it is router.'

Hello, are you talking to us? We finally give up and phone our Internet provider. There is a thirty-minute wait. Forty-five minutes later someone answers and thirty minutes later after we have turned the router on and off several times we are told the problem will be logged.

'Someone will contact you in seventy-two hours. In the meantime should your connection resume please contact us.'

'Seventy-two hours,' I repeat in a strangled voice. For God's sake, you can't leave us for seventy-two hours cut off from the world. What are we going to do? How will I get onto Facebook? How can I send a tweet, or update my blog? Andrew slaps me round the face and I calm down. (Obviously he didn't slap me round the face but it sounds dramatic, doesn't it?) So, we wait seventy-two hours. During that time I visit PC World and buy a dongle to get connection through the phone network but it costs me five pounds just to surf Amazon for ten minutes and five of those minutes are spent waiting to get into Amazon in the first place. How did I ever cope years ago? Can you remember what you did before the Internet existed? Anyway, as usual I digress. So, finally, one afternoon seventy-two years later, whoops I mean hours later, our provider texts to ask if I would like to phone to get the connection back on. Even with a thumping headache this sounds good to me. The guy was called Mark and this is how our conversation went:

'Hello, how are you?' asks Mark.

'Fine,' I reply.

'I need to go through the router settings with you.'

'But we have done that already?'

'I have nothing on the system that says it has been done.'

'Well, I assure you we did.'

Lesson number one, do not argue with them because... The phone goes dead. Now I am not saying they do this on purpose, I mean why would they? With a thumping head I redial and wait fifteen minutes. While we wait, let me tell you something about Andrew's office. In two words it is A Mess. Now, believe it or not, he knows exactly where everything is in here. And believe it or not, I don't! I fumble around all the papers trying to find the old router. I then fall over objects as I try to plug things in while the whole time Bendy, who has picked up the atmosphere, is meowing around me and trying to get the airing cupboard door open with his paw.

'Mark speaking, how can I help?'

'We got cut off.'

Silence. Oh no!

'Are you there, are you there?' I say, mildly hysterically.

He politely gives me a web address to type in. I start typing.

'Are you in?' he asks

'Not yet.'

Was that a tut I heard?

'The web page is in Italian,' I exclaim.

'Why is it in Italian?' he asks.

Well if I knew that...

'I don't know,' I reply honestly.

'The best thing to do now is turn your router off, wait a few hours and then turn it on again.'

A few hours? Why does everything take hours with these people, whatever happened to minutes?

'But, we have done that already and...'

'The best thing is to wait until your husband gets home. He can phone us this evening.'

Wait till your husband gets home. Oh do I see red or do I see red? I stand up angrily, fall over the cat and curse. The phone goes dead. I am so livid I want to sue them. It has been four days now and so far all we have done is buy new routers and turn them on and off. Where is the engineer that everyone talks about? I decide it may be best to leave it to the husband. In fact, neither of us do anything and the next day it is back on. Of course it goes off again a week later but I really don't want to put you through all that again. You will be pleased to know that after another seventy-two hours, copious amounts of chunky Kit Kats, a study clear out and a tranquilised cat, we finally got a BT engineer out, and he discovered our 80-year-old wiring had gone rotten. But of course, we all know it really is the router don't we?

## Tits R Us

Every day between April and October I work in our summerhouse. Can I just clarify that our summerhouse is a small log cabin in the back garden and not a whole other house that we live in during the summer... we're not that rich. I am not always writing great stuff, mind you, but at least I am writing. However, at exactly three o'clock every afternoon I am distracted by the screams of children and chattering of mums from the village school next door. I feel my eyes being pulled to the window where the glamorous mums stand next to my garden wall. Trust me, one does not need HELLO! magazine when living here. All that glamour, sophistication and great fashion sense, not to mention the designer babies and dogs, is right outside my summerhouse window. Not satisfied with my spectating, I find I often have to venture nearer. I sneak outside in my baggy sweatpants – sorry for the Americanism – and tatty jumper... Okay, I'm a writer not a model, and head to the dustbin where I can get a better look at the school gates. I empty the Tesco carrier bag that doubles up as a bin liner and stare mesmerised at the sight before me. The fragrant smells of Chanel and Marc Jacob assault my nostrils while swinging designer handbags dazzle me. The scathing looks I receive have me scurrying back with head bowed. I feel I should walk back down my garden path to the summerhouse with a brown paper bag over my head. I spend the next hour wondering why I can never look like these women. Is there something wrong with me? Even the Betterware lady looks a little like Joan Rivers. If I look like anyone famous then it is Dot Cotton from Eastenders. I have tried. I buy all the face creams but nothing works. I used the scientifically proven Boots Protect and Perfect, or is it Perfect and Protect? Anyway, I used that for a year and I swear I look older as a result. I even had a phase when I would go for a wash and blow-dry at my local hairdressers. I have to admit it felt like the ultimate in laziness. One goes to the hairdresser to have a haircut, or a colour, but just to have it washed? Why pay someone to do something you can do yourself? It is rather like paying someone else to wipe your arse isn't it? Mind you come to think of it that is probably worth every penny. I just don't do hairdressers that well. You know, all that chatting about holidays and stuff and gossiping about your sex life and whether you do oral or not. I mean, does anyone really care if you do or if you don't? Worst of all, why is it so important to get the answer right? I get so flustered that when my hairdresser asks,

'Do you have cap or foil?' I am afraid to answer in case I have misunderstood and they are still asking about my sex life. I mean, one doesn't want to get these things wrong does one? People gossip after all. Then there is all that lying. Well, my hairdresser certainly lies to me.

'No darling, I don't believe we are covering the grey, not yet. Why, you don't look a day over thirty.'

Not bloody much! Some mornings I look in the mirror and swear I have seen better heads on beer, but I transgress. Where was I? Ah, yes, having my hair washed and blow-dried and even I have to admit it looks great, until the next morning. After a fitful restless night it sits like a limp pancake on my head and my effort at blow-drying it ends up with me fighting to get my tangled hair out of the sodding hairbrush. As for fashion and sophistication, let's not even go there. This is the woman who spends more time with her skirt tucked in her knickers than out. I have been known to walk across a crowded and very chic restaurant with my Marks and Sparks panties on full show. No, fashion just doesn't work with me. This is the woman who ran for a bus wearing a boob tube and asked the driver for a single to Romford with her tits on show. I am the only woman alive who can wear Chanel No 5 and have it smell like cats piss on her. Eye make-up has my eyes streaming and lipstick is chewed off in minutes. So you can understand why I stare enviously at these women who look like models when they deliver their kids at nine in the morning. I don't even look alive at that time. Breakfast and a quick coffee is all I can muster that early in the morning.

So on this day I decide to check out the Gwyneth Paltrow site where there is loads of info on how to balance life as a working woman and as a housewife. I mean, if you can get some celeb advice why not? After all, they are just normal women like us, right? And somehow Gwyneth manages to look very serene, so she must be well-balanced and organised. Her hair always looks great and she never looks harassed. Unlike yours truly who looks likes she has been dragged through a bush. So, after much searching I found an article on how G.P. and her friends get through the day so smoothly. Obviously I ignore their diet advice, because that isn't going to mention chocolate is it? Or is it? Ooh it does. It seems one of her celebrity friend's allows herself chocolate. Well, that's not so bad then is it? One square of Green and Blacks per day, my God, that's not a chocolate fix, is it? Who only ever eats one square? I don't believe it. I'm not following that kind of false advice that's for sure. Let's be realistic. Do you blame me?

So let's hear from one of her busy friends, Juliet, and see where I am going wrong.

I'm an early bird, so I try to seize 'Juliet time' first thing in the morning. I get up between 5.30 am – 6 am and quickly scan my emails. Then my priority is exercise. If I can work out each day I'm a really happy person. And let's face it, if you are getting up on a cold morning in the dark it had better be fun. I've found that having a trainer come to my house on a Monday really motivates me; she's knocking at the front door so going back to sleep is NOT an option. Life is a blur from the minute that I arrive in the office, but that's how I like it. I have the benefit of an amazing assistant, without whom I could not make it happen (Thank you, thank you, Diane). My day is packed back-to-back from the moment that I arrive until the moment that I leave.

Juliet has some great pointers too...

Condense your appointments: find a great salon that understands time pressure and can accommodate your schedule. I have a great salon near me that I can go to at the end of the day to have a facial, manicure and pedicure at the same time. I'm in and out in seventy minutes. Not relaxing but efficient. Same for other appointments. I have acupuncture at 9.30 pm. It's a wonderful end to the day.

Of course, silly me, it's now as clear as crystal where I am going wrong. I'll just phone Tracy at the hairdressers. I am sure she will accommodate my schedule and stay open longer to fit me in at five in the evening, and most likely charge me over a hundred quid for the privilege. Now acupuncture ... If I remember that hurts, not quite what I would consider a wonderful end to the day. Is the woman mad, or maybe too rich to care? As for the amazing assistant, well who wouldn't like a Diane in their life? I think my Diane would die from overwork. I'd give her a good funeral though.

Ah ha, there was me thinking they were normal like us. So every morning I need to seize 'Lynda time' now would that be between cleaning up the cat sick and trying to flatten my hair down? Oh no, I see it all now – I am not getting up early enough. Must change the alarm from 7.30 to 5.30 and if you believe her you'll believe anything. Now I have to agree exercise is my priority too, but sadly after checking out the cost of a personal trainer I find my measly salary as a writer does not quite cover one. It looks like I'll have to continue with the old routine of dragging myself from the bed and moaning until I grab my first cup of caffeine. I have been debating whether to dispose of the cat. I was thinking maybe a new home for him and if that does not seem possible maybe a convenient accident. 'Poor Bendy', I hear you cat lovers cry.

Let's look at a day in Lynda's life and you may find yourself agreeing with me. Be warned, it is sordid and sad and does not start like Juliet's.

Get up at 7.30, moaning. Drag myself downstairs and sit staring into space like a zombie on the couch while Andrew prepares breakfast. Nothing too healthy about this I am afraid; a bowl of granola with some berries and yogurt, followed by my caffeine shot. A quick shower if there is time. If Andrew gets there first then it has to wait. This is when I crawl back to bed and mumble to Andrew for a little rest until you've finished. This little rest turns into a long nap and I wake again at about 8.30. Then a quick shower, a drag up of the hair, earrings plonked in and a dash to the shops. I arrive home to find I can't park as the mums have come for some meeting at the school. I park with a great deal of road rage and totally block another car in. I check it is successfully blocked in and walk into the house with a sense of satisfaction. I come face to face with carnage. It looks like The Chainsaw Massacre took place in my home while I was out. Dead birds litter the floor and feathers are sticking to the furniture. Dirty paw prints are all over the floor and the kitchen units. I scream at Bendy who flees outside. I look at the clock and realise that I am already running late. I curse Bendy and shout out of the window that he is dead meat if he returns. I search the shed for the spade to clear up the dead birds and remember my darling husband still has the spade in his car from when we had snowdrifts last winter. I curse again and spend a good thirty minutes getting up the courage to pick up the dead birds with kitchen towel. Finally, I vacuum and wash the floor and kitchen counters and curse again for not buying a new mop when at the shops. Washing floors on my hands and knees is not a pretty sight. I decide to skip lunch and have a yogurt. My mobile rings. It is Vodafone with some special offer. I waste thirty more minutes with them and I then spend another fifteen minutes trying to get through to my doctor's surgery to book a blood test. At last, two hours later I sit down, take two painkillers for a headache and finish my article. Soon it will be time to cook dinner. The cat sleeps contently on the couch, his massacre a distant memory, and I sit with the song 'I don't like Mondays' going over and over in my head while pointing a shotgun at him.

##  Paying the Bills

Haven't we all done jobs we hated just so we can pay the bills? We've all been there. Have you had times when the bank balance was so low that debating whether to sell your body was not the question? The question was is it up to it? My body would not earn me much on the streets, but I digress. When times were difficult and there were no jobs to be found I became a cleaner. Oh yes, a cleaner and proud. This job had great perks; I was my own boss and the clients would say help yourself to biscuits, and being as the 'clients' had money the biscuits were normally chocolate ones. A chocoholic's dream job this is, chocolate on tap without even paying for it. As time went on I built up regular clients, each with their kinky little cleaning obsessions. One didn't care if the whole house was filthy just as long as the shower door shone. Another was obsessive about cobwebs but her loos were far from whiter than white. I won't even go into what colour they were but my time spent on the shower door meant there was little time for much else. I don't mean just cleaning the shower door. I had to wash, clean and then polish said shower door and with a special shower door polish.

My week would begin with Mrs Johnson, an elderly lady who in fact was a 'Lady', that is until she divorced the Sir. I cleaned for her every day, not that much cleaning got done as my time was spent putting her to bed with a calming cup of camomile tea after a heated row with her second husband, and trying to prevent her having a heart attack, to which she said she was prone. On better days I would help her choose an outfit for a dinner party, or some other domestic duty. It was a bit like being a ladies' maid in a modern day Downton Abbey.

My next stop was with the dreaded yuppie couple. This job started well. I would let myself in, clean for two hours, eat the chocolate biscuits and leave. One day the husband was home and my two hours were spent trying to squeeze by him or fight him off in the bedroom using his children's soft toys as weapons and pray his wife would not walk in and blame it all on me. I had to either give that one up, or sleep with the boss (very unappealing).

On Tuesdays I would clean a weekend home which was barely lived in and full of spiders, spiders' webs, and lots of other horrid creepy things. I was always paid weeks in advance and usually removed the cobwebs and spiders as that took most of my time. I hated that job as I hate spiders but 'take the money and run' was my motto, and run faster than the spiders if you can.

Feeling a little enterprising I expanded my cleaning service to include ironing at home. I built up my regulars; one would bring all his washing, including underpants and socks, and he was very particular about how his underpants were ironed. This I thought was strange as they were faded and had holes in them where holes shouldn't be. He would collect his items a few days later and stand on my doorstep with a bowl of coins. I would stand waiting while he slowly counted out the money. Sometimes the procedure took twenty minutes for him to count from his collection of coins I could barely climb the stairs back to the flat as I was so weighted down with cash. He normally brought his clothes so damp they stank to high heaven.

Back to cleaning, there was my favourite. He paid me an hourly rate that was well above the norm. The first time I went I was a little nervous. He had already told me that he was a naturist but I figured that meant he walked around naked when he was on his own, or with like-minded people of which, I hasten to add, I was not. My husband thought it would be fine as his idea of a naturist was someone who was into nature, Greenpeace, plants and so on. My first visit was great. He wore a dressing gown and we chatted as I cleaned. I can do this, I thought. The next visit the dressing gown had disappeared. Now, I cannot tell you how hard it is not to look at something when you are determined not to. As much as I tried to focus on Henry the Hoover my eyes did wander to my client's John Thomas. I did try, I really did, but I had to look. Oh dear, I remember thinking, he has a lot of tattoos. But by the fourth week I was happily cleaning around a naked man like it was the most normal thing in the world. I even sat with him to sort out his eBay account, and yes he was naked and no nothing ever happened.

I progressed in my cleaning career to working for an agency. This was a real eye opener. We worked in pairs to clean houses. These are not homes they are shit holes with toilets that stank. The cleaning rules here were simple: hold your nose, stand back and spray bleach at the toilet. For the lounge: throw out the bottles, step over the drunks, straighten the furniture and spray with fresh air fragrance, and get out as fast as possible. A bit like robbing a bank really: get in, do the job and get out. The money was good so it was hard to say no.

After a while I had so many jobs I was racing from one to the other and I had so many keys I looked like a jailer. I played music I liked, worked for myself and had no one bossing me about. But all good things must come to an end and as my situation changed I had to move on to other things. I have been left with the highest respect for cleaners. It's not an easy job and some of the people you have to work for treat you worse than a piece of shit on their shoe. But always remember how quickly fortunes can change and if you are lucky enough to have someone clean for you don't forget that we all can fall on hard times and one day that cleaner could be you.

## Bend It Like Bendy

As Andrew and I bit the heads off our little chocolate rabbits, to celebrate Easter as you do, I was reminded of the little headless bunnies that Bendy brought in for us last year. The thought of all that again this summer makes me shudder. The pleasure of owning a cat is certainly overshadowed by that cruel thing called nature. Don't you just hate those calm cat lovers who, as the cat belts into the house with a live mouse say,

'It's nature.'

What are they talking about? Nature is flowers and colourful butterflies. Nature is watching those little cress seeds slowly grow into something edible. I love my cat but the pleasures of having a pet are wearing a little thin in this household. Our cat while cuddly and loveable inside the house turns into a genocidal maniac outside. The problem is not his hunting ability but his inability to hang onto his prey, and his insistence on bringing it inside the house.

Last summer I walked into the kitchen to many a headless rabbit, a leftover mouse's kidney, and on the odd occasion a bat. But there were many more bodies that he had dropped and lost inside the house, some dead and others alive and not to mention the half dead which Andrew has to finish off. Then there are the sparrows and finches which no amount of screaming will force him to drop. Last weekend mother-in-law came to stay and, as a gift to her, Bendy brought in a large live mouse. Mother-in-law thanked him with a horrendous scream and a fast leap to the bathroom which, after her hip operation is some mean feat I assure you. In shock at this reaction Bendy dropped said mouse. Andrew had conveniently gone for a run so I was left screaming at the cat.

'Find it. Find it.' As if he understood English.

I also swear he waits for Andrew to go out before committing his evil acts. When Andrew is away on business Bendy assumes the position of head of the house and showers me with more than my fair share of gifts. One time he brought three bunnies in the space of two hours, and another time he left a big juicy rat. I shudder at the memory. The problem with Bendy is that he loses more mice than he kills. Last week Andrew went to get a saucepan from the cupboard only to find mouse droppings.

'That's it, I've had it with that cat,' he snarled, as saucepan after saucepan came out of the cupboard and the whole place was scrubbed and disinfected and a mouse trap strategically placed.

'That's one mouse dead then,' I hear you say.

Oh, if only it were that simple. This mouse was not just any mouse. It is Super-Houdini-Mouse. So far it has chewed through a jar of peanut butter which was used as mouse bait, teased Andrew when he tried to catch it and tormented Bendy. Three times he has been caught in the trap and managed to escape. It has peed all over my J cloths and left a tidy mess eating through my dusters. But worst of all, it has bitten through and consumed my box of Maltesers. Now that is just plain off, right? To say Bendy, who was the cause of this mayhem, is not popular is an understatement. This weekend I traipsed around the hardware shops searching for superhuman industrial strength mega mouse traps. I came home with two traps and a sonic deterrent which scared me and the cat but has had no effect on the mouse. We now have five mouse traps in the cupboard but amazingly Houdini Mouse is still at large. We are reaching the stage where blowing up the kitchen doesn't seem like a bad idea. But hey, its nature.

## The Five-Day Radioactive Leper

Don't you just hate hospitals? I do with a vengeance, so when my doctor said I needed my thyroid checked I reluctantly agreed to go for check-ups and six months later here I am making my way to the hospital for a scan before seeing my endocrinologist to see if the treatment has been working.

First stop, an X-ray at the Churchill hospital. I stick a pound in the pay and display and off I go, so far so good. I am out within the hour jump in the car and off to the next, the Nuffield hospital, ten minutes up the road for an ultrasound. Don't ask why I couldn't have the ultrasound and X-ray at the same hospital, only the NHS in her wisdom can explain that one. I arrive at the Nuffield car park, take the ticket from the barrier and park car. No problem. Off I toddle to the radiology department. I sit and wait until, my goodness, a Greek god comes to get me. I kid you not. He has open-necked black sexy shirt and I get a glimpse of his hairy chest. I say, radiology never used to be this sexy; it's just as well he is not taking my blood pressure. He wears tight black jeans and gives me the sexiest smile ever so much so that I think my legs may give way. It's just as well they have wheelchairs here. He talks to me in broken English and leads me to the ultrasound room. He then caresses my arm in such an erotic fashion that I think I'm in a scene from Fifty Shades of Grey.

'We photograph thyroid yes?' he says.

Ooh we can take whatever kind of photo you like. I blame the Greek god for what happened next. I look for the machine to pay my parking fee and then remember I have already paid. I can remember feeding the pay and display machine with a pound coin, so I climb into my car but the bugger won't start. I phone Andrew, thinking he will have to come and get me or arrange a tow, but as I talk to him the engine starts. Oh the Greek god has nothing on my husband the miracle worker. I love him for just that reason.

'Right,' I say. 'I won't stop until I get home in case it conks out.'

Off I go to the barrier and insert my ticket. Have you spotted the mistake yet? The stupid machine spits my ticket right back at me, so I push it back in again. This happens five or six times until a lady coming into the car park tells me her barrier won't work. I tell her mine isn't working either. She suggests I push the button on the machine for assistance and a man snaps at me through the intercom.

'Yeah,' grunts a gruff male voice.

I tell him there is a huge queue behind me and that the barriers aren't working. He is quiet for a moment and then tells me the system has crashed. We wait. I try my ticket again and again. The queue gets longer. People get out of their cars and ask me what the problem is and I explain the system has crashed. An impatient man presses the assistance button and complains and then someone comes and lifts the barriers. Relieved, I drive through, my engine still running and as I am halfway home I realise my mistake. I paid for pay and display at the first car park, and at the second car park I didn't pay at all, and was trying to exit with my entrance ticket. With a gasp I realise it had been me that had crashed the NHS computer system. I squirm with embarrassment and think of all the poor people in the queue behind me, and if you were in that queue then I do apologise.

The following week I go back for the results of the scan. I leave home for my 11 am appointment promising Andrew I won't be long as I had a deadline to reach for my publisher. Ten minutes later I arrive at the hospital, and I am twenty minutes early. I can't believe my luck, there is a parking space right outside the endocrine clinic. With much reluctance, I push another pound coin into the ticket machine. Don't you just hate paying for the privilege of being told your thyroid is crap? I try to convince myself that a pound is not that bad for forty-five minutes but I still could have spent it on a family size Galaxy bar. Hey ho. I stroll to the desk and smile at the receptionist. She responds with a snarl.

'I have an appointment at eleven o'clock,' I say, my smile dwindling.

'Name?' she barks.

She holds out her hand for my appointment card which I have forgotten to bring with me. Determined not to be intimidated I pull my Blackberry from my bag and point it at her like a gun.

'I have a text with the appointment time,' I say in an attempt at being assertive.

That throws her and she backs down.

'Your doctor's name?' she barks.

'Frankenstein,' I mutter, but she doesn't hear me.

'Has your situation changed since your last visit?'

Which situation would that be I wonder? What an awful question. Don't you just feel so embarrassed that nothing in your life has changed in the last six months? I shake my head.

'Take a seat. Someone will call you.'

I debate whether to read a magazine but after scrutinising a patient who had just finished browsing a HELLO! magazine, and had tossed it on the table, I change my mind. I consider it's probably safer not to touch too much around here. Anyway, with luck I will be called in soon, and as if on cue, I am summoned. I am taken into a small room to have my blood pressure checked.

'This is your first visit?' asks the nurse.

I am on the weighing scales and rolling up my sleeve. I mean, do I look like a virgin?

'Far from it,' I say, trying not to be too facetious.

'Oh, the receptionist said this is your first visit.'

Jesus, I forget my appointment letter and everything goes tits up. My blood pressure is high and I swallow two beta-blockers and am sent back outside to wait for the consultant to call me. I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Everyone who was there when I arrived has gone. In need of comfort I visit the hospital vending machine but to my horror I see it is empty. Who has a vending machine without chocolate in it? That's as useless as a condom machine in the Vatican. I have been here an hour and my parking ticket is about to expire so I approach the desk to ask if my appointment is soon.

'Name?' she barks.

My God, has she forgotten it already. I tell her and she studies her computer screen.

'What time was your appointment?'

I feel myself shudder at the word was.

'Eleven,' I stammer.

Two minutes later she tells me that she has found me on the system and I will be next. I wander outside and push a two pound coin into the car park machine. Walking back I feel like I have just been mugged. I wait, and I wait. I have now been here two hours. I fumble in my bag to see if there is any chocolate lodged somewhere in there but all I find is a tampon. I feel a headache brewing. Are hospitals there to make you sick? Is this how they drum up business? Finally, at one o'clock I am called in.

Now I know my thyroid is hyperactive and that radioiodine treatment was something we were going to discuss, and that even the possibility of booking an appointment to do the dirty deed was on the cards, but as this is the NHS I felt confident the appointment will be months away. In fact, let us be honest, it is more likely to be years away. In fact, let's be even more honest, the chance of me still being alive when they finally offer me the treatment is very unlikely.

'So, ve vink ve coming to the radioiodine treatment. The drugs not working for you. For your better health, you understand me? This is your only chance. It be danger for you othervise.' My German/Polish/Slovakian/Eastern European, well she isn't English, that much I can tell you, consultant tells me. I nod, not fully understanding whether the treatment is not good for my health, or not having it is not good for my health. She pushes a form towards me.

'You fill zis in please.' She is sounding more like the Gestapo with each passing minute.

I fill in the form and feel my heart beat a little faster. My God, surely they are not going to do it now. I mean, I have come alone. Doesn't someone need to drive me home? Surely there is a waiting list a thousand miles long and my name would be on the bottom of it.

'So, ve now get you to see Joan and book you in for next Monday, zis is good?'

Next Monday! The next Monday of this month! The next Monday of this year! The next Monday of my life in fact? She surely isn't serious.

'But, I can't possibly,' I splutter, 'I've got work, deadlines and things.'

She looks unperturbed.

'Zees appointments very hard to get. Verk vill understand.'

Oh, she has much to learn about deadlines. Oh my God. I am sent back to the waiting room where I quake, waiting to see Joan and ask the receptionist in a shaky voice if there is anywhere I can buy a bar of chocolate.

'There's a vending machine,' she says.

Been there, got the tee shirt, and seen the movie. In fact, I am the movie.

Joan, who is very nice, explains everything in full, albeit very quickly.

'You swallow a capsule and then you are radioactive. All the radioiodine will go to your thyroid to destroy it, but there will be elements lingering in the body which will come out in your urine and sweat. Do not sleep with your husband for five days, take five days off work and do not get closer than one metre to others. After the fifth day you can be a bit more relaxed but still avoid pregnant woman and babies. We will see you in a week.'

I leave in a state of shock. For the next seven days I spend my time googling radioiodine treatment and talking about it with my husband. By the time I go the following week we have the whole thing sussed. He will sleep in another room. I have separated our towels and what not. I buy a new toothbrush on the way and wonder how it will feel being apart from my husband at night. When the time comes I arrive at the hospital feeling nervous. All I am going to do is swallow a pill, I mean, let's face it I am the worst hypochondriac in the world, second to Woody Allen of course, and popping pills is a way of life for me. Okay, I don't spend my life popping radioactive ones admittedly, but trust me, Ozzy Osbourne has nothing on me. I am taken into a small room and everything is read out to me and I am asked to sign a form to say I understand that I must legally carry a yellow card around with me stating I am radioactive, and also wear a yellow wrist bracelet should I have an accident. This means the paramedics will be aware. I get more nervous as she clips the bracelet on. I feel like an alien. Will the paramedics walk away from my dying body when they see the bracelet? Will the bracelet hinder the saving of my life? What am I letting myself in for?

'Okay, you can take the capsule,' announces Joan.

I am led silently to a table where a large vial sits waiting for me. I feel like I have stepped into the Frankenstein novel. I am like someone being taken to their execution.

'Only you can do it,' she prods.

Oh, I see. Only I take responsibility for radio-activating myself. I expect to see lots of bubbly froth to accompany my capsule, but there is none. I lift the vial from its container and everyone jumps back. I hesitate and then lift it to my lips and in one movement the capsule is sliding down my throat. I expectantly wait to hear the crack of thunder from overhead.

'Okay,' they say, ushering me out and standing ten miles away from me. 'You are radioactive now.'

I walk out of the building expecting everyone to look differently at me. Surely it shows on my face that I am radioactive, or maybe something shines about my head, you know like a halo. Well, I imagine it does that all the time anyway, with all the good works I do, but hey, I don't want to brag.

I wait to feel different. I climb into my car and wait. It doesn't start itself, so I turn the key in the ignition and wait for an electric shock or something. It doesn't happen. I drive home, checking myself every few minutes for symptoms, nothing happens. Well, this is a piece of cake, I tell myself. Now, let this be a warning to you. Never tell yourself something is a piece of cake. The next five days are awful. I cannot make Bendy understand that I do still love him but I just can't have him near me. The more I try to avoid him the more he pushes himself onto me. I spend my time going shoo shoo until he shoos away to the neighbour's house. Andrew sits on another couch and avoids touching me and I feel like a leper. Nothing happens to me and I feel almost disappointed. I had expected all kinds of amazing things to take place during those five days. The only difference was the staggering amount of washing I did. I phone Andrew on the intercom to say goodnight and I love you and begin to understand what it feels like to be in a long-distance relationship.

Then the five days are up. I didn't conjure up strange green men from a distant galaxy but I did get a few odd looks when people saw my wrist band. Andrew joked it was like a new baby's wrist band and I was a born-again nutcase. So, I got through it. What they didn't tell me was that it would be a bad idea to get a cold. What do I do? Yes, catch a cold. Two weeks on and I feel like I am being strangled on a daily basis. I phone the hospital and they pass the buck to my doctor, he listens and passes the buck back to the hospital. Meanwhile, I am in agony. Okay, hypochondriac agony which is probably half that of real agony. A piece of cake? I couldn't eat one if I tried. It seems a cold inflames the glands. So, they tell me to take plenty of painkillers, drink plenty of fluids and wait. At least my days as a radioactive leper are over.

## A Builder, a Builder, My Kingdom for a Builder

When my husband agreed the time had come to build an extension onto our cottage I could not contain my excitement. This was going to be great I told everyone, but my more experienced and worldly-wise friends responded with pitiful looks. You know the kind of look, a kind of is this woman crazy? look, or a poor thing look. These are women who have had builders of course. My only experience of builders at that time was having them shout All right darling? from the top of their ladders. Okay, maybe I am going back a few years, but you know what I mean, but I really couldn't help being excited.

I'm not a difficult person. I don't ask for very much. I don't want diamonds or extravagant holidays. Well I do, but I know there is little point in asking. I try to see the positive in everything. However, if anyone had told me what was in store I think I would have been a touch nervous. We moved into our little cottage over twelve years ago and we were very aware that the kitchen and downstairs bathroom would need to be replaced at some point and that the whole cottage needed renovating. At the time I had vision and imagined that three years on we would have a beautiful cottage, but as usually happens life takes over, the money ran out and everything seemed to cost more than we imagined. After decorating the whole house we felt that other things would have to wait as we could live perfectly adequately in our quaint cottage just as it was. This was not always a happy state of affairs. Our first winter was like something out of the Ice Age movie without the meltdown. In our bathroom, my hands, tits and bum were cold as ice, I kid you not. I swear if you did not pee quickly it would freeze in mid-stream. My shower gel iced up in the bottle on one occasion. Honestly it's true. The only heating in the bathroom was a tiny fan heater on the wall, and that had to go on at least forty minutes before taking a shower. After a few weeks I devised the perfect routine; (1) Bath towel in tumble dryer, (2) Fan heater on, (3) Wait twenty minutes, (4) Quickly dive in bathroom and under the hot water. My skin would tingle from extreme temperature shock. (5) Jump from the shower, wrap the hot towel around me and retreat to the living room. What a palaver but we survived.

At night our saving grace was the electric blanket. This stayed on all night and to stave off hyperthermia Andrew and I had more cuddles than any couple I know. A friend warned me this could be dangerous, not the cuddling of course, but the blanket. There is a risk of electrocution she had advised, and she was not talking about Andrew being electrifying in bed. I assured her the risk of frostbite was higher. Having once braved the loo in the middle of night and returned to bed like an ice cube, I decided drastic action was needed. Let's say I devised a little loo for us upstairs but I won't go into detail. Then, of course there was the kitchen. I didn't have a kitchen in the winter; I had one big freezer. The olive oil in my cupboard was always frozen as was the peanut butter and honey. Oh, it was not a joke, although I have to say frozen Minstrels last much longer. And when it rained the water would flood under the back door, and I could tell you about the plague of woodlice... Are you pitying me yet? I can feel it.

In an attempt to keep warm I would light lots of candles. Perhaps this was not the most sensible thing to do, being as the cottage has a history of fires. One such incident happened 90 years ago as one of the oldest residents of the village told us.

'I was only five years old at the time. Smoke was billowing from the windows and we kicked the door down. As we rushed in, Miss Marshall's charred body fell through the ceiling and landed on the living room floor.'

Does send a shiver down your spine? I won't lie to you, we have often heard strange noises from upstairs but that's another story. Then there is the case of the house deeds which were strangely lost in a fire at the solicitors. Our predecessors had two fires in the freezing kitchen. Then there was the day that yours truly nearly went up in flames. Andrew was working upstairs. I had just showered and quickly grabbed my flowery flowing skirt that tied at the waist. It was a bit chilly so I decided to light some candles to warm the place up. I had candles on the hearth and was lighting one on the coffee table when I had a strange hot sensation in my leg. I ignored it, as you do, until I saw my skirt was on fire. Of course I can write calmly about this now but then I frantically tried to untie the knot of the tie-up that held my skirt together while shouting to Andrew. The damn thing was knotted. I began to frantically tug at it to get it over my hips, while the flames were licking further and further up my skirt.

'Andrew!' I screamed.

No response.

'Andrew, help me!'

No response.

Oh my God, I was going to burn alive like Miss Marshall. I ran dramatically at the wall, as you do, almost knocking myself out. Smoke filled the room along with floating pieces of my skirt. Andrew opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.

'I thought you were screaming because you saw a spider,' he said.

Trust me, I do not scream like that when I see a spider. When burning to death, as you do, one has a tendency to scream. Two Cadbury Whispers later and I began to feel better. But I digress. Let's get back to the topic of this chapter and the building work.

We have finally saved enough money and could go ahead with the kitchen and bathroom rebuilding. We phoned the builder who had been recommended by a neighbour, and he seemed very keen.

'I'll pop over to see you,' he said.

Three weeks later we phoned again.

'I'll pop round on Friday.'

And he did.

'I'll pop a quote in the post for you this week.'

And we waited, and waited but no quote popped. We phoned, no answer, we left a message, no response.

'Perhaps he is sick or something,' I said sympathetically.

I am so innocent. Andrew was not so innocent and phoned two others.

Lovely Julian came. He was very impressive and spent a long time with us.

'I'll put a quote in the post. You should have it by Christmas.'

Christmas came, Christmas went. We flew to Cambodia and flew home to no quote. I was in tears.

'Things take time,' Andrew advised.

'I'll take a week off work and do it myself,' he said with a grin.

Not funny! Another builder visits. He doesn't even ask to see where the extension will go but from the plans assures us it will not be a problem.

'I'll pop the quote in the post,' he says.

Haven't we heard that before? Another visits and says he will need to ask his mates. At the word mates, we look at each other suspiciously. He also says that if he can't do it he has a Polish mate who throws these things up really fast and cheap. Yes right...

Three months on and we get the quote from the first builder. I pick Andrew up off the floor after he saw the price tag. Then nice Julian pops a letter through the letterbox telling us that he can't do the work because he's been offered a bigger job. Charming.

And then comes Kevin. He visits, he quotes, and he visits again. Bendy is all over him and at one point puts his paw onto his knee. It's a sign. Bendy has spoken and given his seal of approval. At last, we have a builder.

## Communication Conundrums

Is it you not understanding me, or is it me that's talking rubbish? I'm seriously thinking after today that I have lost the ability to communicate. Maybe it's just when I am premenstrual that I talk through my arse. Either that or everyone I came across today was incredibly dumb and stupid.

Before I tell you about my day I need to fill you in on the ongoing problems of my husband's car. I am a mature woman. I understand cars have issues and need to be dealt with, but I can't deal with a husband who seems to be going deaf, or rather has selective hearing where I am concerned. But at this time of the month I couldn't give a shit which one it is.

For the past three years Andrew has had a mobile phone which he is quite attached to. It is a PDA phone. Don't even ask me to explain what that is, google it, after all I had to. All I know is that it connects to his computer and he uses it for his software work. My problem with this phone is that the battery dies on a regular basis, and has been doing so for the past six months. It just dies and then seems to give itself the kiss of life and resumes for a short time before dying again. This has not been a serious issue as Andrew emails me from work and I get that on my Blackberry. But God forbid I need to phone him and say,

'Hey honey, could you stop off at the supermarket on the way home and get some toilet rolls.'

Not that I would ever use those words, but you get my drift. The words could you stop off at the supermarket would kill his phone in an instant. I have coped with this problem without complaint for six months now being the virtuous wife that I am, and have only made the occasional suggestion...

'Could you not get a new mobile darling, you know, in case of emergencies and all that?'

So today I made a quick trip to the shops to check out a cheap Nokia for him. I am not a lover of multi-storey parking and it took me all of twenty minutes to find a space. I end up on the fourth floor and decide to take the lift down.

I step in to the lift and almost step out again. The onslaught of body odour that hits me and the leering eyes of what has to be a pervert survey me. I attempt a retreat but the doors close behind me. I am somewhat relieved to see another woman with a baby and proceed to hold my breath. After just a few seconds the lift lurches and stops. We are silent and try to look calm, cool and not phased in the least. Then, the woman with the baby flips and starts banging all the buttons.

'Oh my God, are we stuck. Do you have any water? Oh my God, what do we do?'

Not panic maybe! I hand her my half bottle of water which she snatches, pops two pills which she washes down with my water. Now my head is throbbing. I look at the empty bottle and sigh. The smell from the pervert is becoming intense now. I open the little flap where the phone should be, only to find there isn't one.

'Oh my God, oh my God, my baby,' shrieks the woman.

I fight the impulse to slap her. The stinky man stands like a statue and the baby picks up mum's anxiety and screams for bloody England. I rack my brains to try to remember what I needed so badly at the damn shops in the first place.

'We could jump up and down,' the pervert suggests.

I try not to look unimpressed as I pull out my Blackberry and get the phone number for Marks and Spencer on the ground floor. I shout above the baby's screaming.

'Hello, can you get someone to fix the lift in the multi-storey car park please. We seem to be stuck and can't get it to move.'

I mean, was that well-constructed or what? Were there some extra words I should have added, or were there too many do you think?

'What car park would that be madam?'

You what? There is only one in the whole town.

'The one here, the one right outside your store.'

'Can you hold on madam?'

I'm not exactly going anywhere am I? But why do I have to hold on? Five minutes pass and then another woman comes on the phone. By now my head is fit to burst.

'I understand you are stuck in a lift, can you give us clear directions just where you are?'

Oh please!

'We are on the top floor of Bloomingdales in Downtown Manhattan of course. For goodness' sake, we have a crying baby here. We are in the lift outside your store, right here in the town.'

Am I beginning to sound premenstrual?

'There is no need to be rude madam we are trying to help you,' she replies condescendingly.

I want to tell her I am about to pass out from an overdose of unsavoury body odour and could she have a medic waiting. Meanwhile, I try to ignore the fact that the pervert has his hand in an unsavoury place. I apologise and try to give clear concise instructions. She asks do I have enough battery to stay on the phone so they can get someone to sort out the problem. For goodness' sake!

'Can you confirm that you are in the lift that connects to the multi-storey car park?'

'I already have.'

'There is a lift in Debenhams, are you in that?'

'I know where I bloody am. I am right outside your store on the 4th floor, which word do you not understand, store, floor, 4th?'

'We are trying to help you madam.'

Why does it not feel like that? Suddenly the lift jerks and we are moving again. The doors slide open and I am out like a shot. Any plans of shopping in Marks and Spencer are abandoned and I head to New Look instead. I forget the phone for Andrew and take the stairs back to my car and head home apart from a quick stop at the Co-op where I see they have a special on After Eights. Buy one box and get another free. I can't let that offer pass me by can I? After Eights are always useful to have in the cupboard for when you visit friends aren't they?

Home at last I decide to do a quick dinner of bean burgers and vegetables. Andrew pinged an email to say he was leaving and I stick the burgers in the oven. I had just sat down when I see I have voicemail on my mobile. It was Andrew saying the car had broken down again. I phone him back.

'I have been trying for fifteen minutes to get it to restart. I will have to call the breakdown people so I'd better go. I have some battery so will phone you when they get here.'

I wait and wait and wait. Finally my phone bleeps with a text.

'Change of plan, they are towing me to the Peugeot garage can you collect me from there?'

'Where is that?' I text as I head for my car.

Ten minutes pass and no response. I deliberate, should I or shouldn't I call him? I don't want use what little battery he may have, but in the end I do phone.

'We are at the garage can you get me?' he says.

Then I hear the man from the breakdown company say something about dropping him off somewhere nearer home.

'Okay, can you collect me at Fri ...?'

And the phone cuts out. I sit in the car ready to leave. A woman geared up with nowhere to go. I try his phone three times and just get his voicemail. I rush back inside the house and google Fri, Oxfordshire and Peugeot, and with the efficiency of Jack Bauer at CTU work out where 'Fri...' is. Getting there is another issue as Andrew has the sat nav. Grabbing the freebie box of After Eights (Andrew need never know there were two boxes, right?) I phone the breakdown company. They can patch me through to the breakdown driver I decide.

'Hi, sorry to bother you but I am going to collect my husband who has been dropped off by your breakdown people. His phone battery has died so I am not sure where I am collecting him from. Can you put me through to the driver he was with?'

Clear concise sentence do you agree?

'Can I have his registration?'

That is like asking me for his inside leg measurement. How the hell do I know? I don't even know my own registration let alone his.

'I don't know it,' I say.

'Can I have your house number and postcode?'

Fortunately I know that one.

'Okay madam, I can see he was picked up. They are relaying him home.'

'No, they were but then there was a change of plan, can you just put me through to the driver?'

This is obviously very difficult.

'Just putting you on hold madam.'

I get nice music. Then a woman answers.

'Can I help you?' she says sweetly.

I explain again.

'Can you phone your husband?' she advises.

Erm, did I not cover that one already?

'His battery died, I have tried.'

'Do you think he will phone you?'

Of course, how silly, why did I not think of that?

'His battery has died; I don't think he can. I think your man has dropped him off, can you phone him and ask him where he has done that so I know where I am going?'

'Putting you on hold.'

Oh, come on, do I not make sense?

'Do you know where the garage was?'

This is getting stupid. I tell her it is in Oxfordshire and I think it is Frithwell but I do not know for sure, and I don't know how to get there or where the garage is. I mean there could be fifty garages in Frithwell for all I know, which is why I need the driver to tell me.

'Oh, hold on. Fred,' she shouts, 'do you know where Frithwell is?'

I have to be in a nightmare. Surely this can't be happening. How hard can it be to put me through to a driver, he has a bloody phone hasn't he? I've polished off half the box of After Eights by now.

'I will try to get hold of the driver and call you back,' she says.

I go to give her my number but she tells me she has it on her system. I later find she didn't have it at all as the number on the system is Andrew's phone. She phones Andrew and manages to drain the last few seconds of his battery. Meanwhile I have no idea where I am going. I am cursing the woman, cursing Andrew, cursing his car and am in tears. I try Andrew again, nothing. I am half way to the place when my phone rings.

'I am in Cumnor by the pub...' he cuts out.

Cumnor is the opposite way to where I am going. Shit. I turn around and head back. I pull up beside him with a screech at the pub. We drive home in silence at 90 miles an hour until Andrew says,

'I will need clean underpants when we get home if you continue like this.'

'If you do not get a phone by this time tomorrow, I am leaving,' I say dramatically.

I know and he knows I have nowhere to go and it's the hormones talking, but it did sound good.

'Okay,' he responds.

And he did.

##  **Snickers and Valium**

I thought to myself, let's write about the building work on my cottage, it might be cathartic but before writing three words there were tears falling onto the paper making the ink run. Okay, so I type on the keyboard but you get my drift. But the words may well have been blurred by the scarlet red of my blood, so suicidal have I felt. But... there is always something good, always a silver lining. It's good to be positive right? To start, I don't have to worry about dieting. What a relief that is, it's been impossible to cook anything. The slow cooker is buried in brick-dust, the kitchen has been demolished and even the process of heating two TV dinners in the microwave has become a skill, balancing one dish on top of the other while making sure the dish covering is just large enough for the top to take another dinner, while ensuring both dishes can rotate nicely. If that sounds like the assembly instructions for an Ikea flat pack then you are not far wrong. Wednesday night has become fish and chip night while Sunday has become roast dinner down the pub. I buy the builders doughnuts and myself hot cross buns. I'm drinking copious amounts of wine because the doctor won't give me Valium and wine is the next best thing. I don't have to clean as there is no point. Worktops will be an inch deep in dust and the floors thick with mud by the next day, so there really is no point. I use someone else's bathroom as I don't have my own and I always have a man about the place. Admittedly some of the men are as good as useless but I have men nevertheless. I don't have heating but I do have a small electric fan heater which we sit huddled over and I have found washing in a bucket isn't so bad. I'm beginning to forget what a sink is used for. So, between popping painkillers and laughing till I cry I am managing to stay sane amidst the chaos.

The day begins at seven-thirty. Come rain or shine I drag myself from bed and sit in my tatty towelling robe as the builders arrive. I am no Brigitte Bardot so why pretend? The builders arrive in their big red van. There are good builders and bad builders and there is Trevor. Trevor aka 'Dipstick Trevor' swaggers around all day swigging from his never-ending cans of Red Bull. He is incapable of doing anything without a resulting disaster. He plumbed in pipes and then forgot to turn the water on, but when we turn on the water later in the evening water spouts from everywhere. Dipstick Trevor returns to repair said damage and fits a tap in the bathroom so we have water upstairs. The tap leaks and floods the bathroom and ruins the new kitchen ceiling.

Then there's the lovely Dan, who I would adopt as my own son if I could. I'm not sure life will be the same once Dan goes and I won't be able to shout Dan whenever needed. Dan flies out to bring in the washing if it rains and takes in any deliveries from the door. It's like having my own manservant but without the 'Ma'am' bit.

There is Kevin, the boss. He doesn't say much but does plenty. There is Kevin's son, Steve, Sparky and Dave the plumber. Not being experienced in the building world I spent several days waiting for Sparky to arrive and finally said to Dan,

'I must keep missing Sparky. I haven't met him yet.'

Dan patiently informed me that Sparky is the trade name for electrician. Well, I'm not to know that am I?

I've had four periods during the time they have invaded my home and let me tell you trying to insert a tampon while sitting in a Portaloo, with three builders outside having a tea break is no fun at all.

I've read builder nightmare stories of course, but you never think it will happen to you. Oh, be afraid be very afraid. These builders are all the same. I'm actually lucky to still be alive after a rain of scaffolding came hurtling towards me. I've had my fill of seeing builders bum cracks and I have slipped on more mud on the inside of the house than outside. Lovely Dan places the dust sheets neatly on the stairs every day but showers the living room in a cloud of grey making the room look like smoky Joes. There was the day they forgot to tell me that although I could see a cat-flap hole on the outside, they had actually plastered it up on the inside. That night poor Bendy couldn't get out to pee and the house reeked of cat pee for some time. But the worst thing they have done is fill my fridge with their Snicker bars. The temptation is overwhelming and a disaster for my diet, and I have to admit to stealing a couple of them.

'You're roughing it very well,' said Kevin.

Is that a gloat I see on his face? He assures me it will be all over by Christmas. Isn't that what they said about the First World War?

'You won't be here for Christmas dinner,' I say hopefully.

'No, we will be well gone.'

God, I hope so.

## I Just Can't Say No

We all have difficulty saying no at times don't we. We don't want to hurt the feelings of someone we love, or we don't want to let a friend down, but when you find you can't say no to an obscene phone caller you're in serious trouble. Oh no, you didn't I hear you cry. Well I came close, but I will let you wait a bit longer before telling you about that particular incident, the sadist that I am. Go and grab a chocolate bar if you like, prepare yourself. I've always had difficulty saying no. I own the most expensive duster in town because I couldn't say no to a man selling them at the door. I may have said no if he hadn't held up a sign saying he had mental and physical disabilities. In fact, if the phone hadn't rung I probably would now own a feather duster and several tea towels too. I go to the video shop with the intention of hiring one DVD and end up with three because they have a special offer and the woman behind the counter gets me to say yes. Of course, this is because I can't say no. I walk out with two bags of popcorn because it is better value that way, not to mention a huge family bag of Revels. So, our relaxing DVD night becomes a stress as we try to watch all these DVDs so we can get them back on time, not to mention eating the massive amounts of popcorn and chocolate. No wonder I can't lose weight.

Then there was the time with the milkman. Before I was writing full time and by the time I got home from my day job the milk on the doorstep would have gone off. Andrew had said,

'Can you tell him we don't need him any more? It's easier to get the milk when we do our weekly shop.'

Now this was easier said than done. The year before, the wife of Gary the milkman had been diagnosed with cancer. This is the problem with living in a village; everyone knows everything about everyone. The village had rallied round and given him a nice Christmas box and now here I was six months later about to tell him we don't want his milk any more. I did try but instead of no what came out was,

'I have a lactose intolerance Gary. I just can't cope with milk any more...'

But what happens? Andrew comes home to a fridge full of lactose-free milk. A lovely man knocks on the front door once a month selling fresh fish. I do try, I really do, but I somehow still end up with a tray of fresh salmon and a large bag of prawns, and this is after I have done the weekly shop. I've pulled out stray hairs on my mother-in-law's chin with tweezers and believe me I so wanted to say no. I once spent two hours in the home of a Jehovah's Witness being preached at because I couldn't say no to her offer of tea. But the worst, and yes this is the only reason you've been reading all the boring stuff above isn't it, is when I had a call from an obscene phone caller. I answered the phone in my usual friendly voice.

'Hello.'

'Hello, how are you today?' says the voice.

I thought I must know this person even though I couldn't place the voice. You know what I mean don't you?

'I'm fine, how are you?' I say.

'Better for hearing your lovely voice,' he responds.

That was when the first stirrings of doubt began to set in.

'Oh,' I say.

'What are you wearing?'

Oh dear.

'How can I help you?' I ask.

'I like your voice,' he says. 'Will you talk to me while I wank myself off?'

Now, your response would be what? 'Piss off' or, 'You dirty git' or perhaps, 'Get lost pervert.' You would say something with a clear NO message in it right? What does yours truly say...?

'The thing is I'm really busy right now doing the ironing.'

Busy doing the ironing! Who the hell says that to an obscene phone caller? So what happens after I hang up? The phone rings and rings and rings. I'm onto a good one here, he must have thought.

Why do I have such trouble saying no? If you have the answer do let me know, and pop a Yorkie bar in with that answer would you.

## Mine's an Eggnog

So that wonderful thing called Christmas is looming towards us. You can't escape it. Radio presenters are already playing those throw up into your handbag Christmas songs, although thankfully most of them banned Cliff Richard. Not that I have anything against Cliff Richard you understand, but one has to draw a line somewhere.

I'm scared to turn the radio on. Not that I hate Christmas or anything, it's just all the stuff that goes with it. If you're organised like me then you'll be turning the house upside down trying to find those sodding Christmas cards you bought half-price last year, along with that cheap roll of Christmas wrapping paper, not to mention the sellotape and scissors. Where do they hide at Christmas? Mind you, they're not needed much these days are they? When I was a kid I got presents. What happened to that? When did presents get replaced by money and vouchers? My sister insists on giving us a cheque each for twenty-five quid and when asking what they would like, that's the wrong thing to do by the way. Never ask someone what they would like for Christmas because you'll always get Oh don't get me anything, and should you take this literally... Yes, you've been there right? How many friends have you lost? Anyway I digress, my sister responds with,

'The kids prefer money and we're sending you a cheque.'

So we end up giving them a cheque for twenty-five quid each, plus another two for the kids of course. I'm not good at maths but even I know that doesn't work out fair. I can't help thinking it would be much easier if we just said,

'Go and treat yourself to something for twenty-five quid and we'll do likewise, saves on the postage sending the cheques.'

But of course we don't do that do we because we wouldn't go and treat ourselves to something for twenty-five quid because it's more sensible to put it towards the heating bill or the chocolate stash. So cheque exchange we continue to do, and the fifty quid we'll receive we'll put towards the heating bill. Get my point?

It's the time of year when we sit in endless traffic queues to get into town and find ourselves in the same car park we always use only now it's free, the barriers are up but you can't get bloody parked can you, not unless you get there at three in the morning. Then for some odd reason it is presumed we forget how to use the car park at Christmas as there are bossy men telling us where and how to park. Over there mate, they say, pointing to an obvious space. It seems the powers that be deem us to be brain dead at this time of year. We must be brain dead if we eat Brussels sprouts and drink hot wine. Brussels sprouts? What's that all about? Just imagine if there was a rumour out that Brussels sprouts were in short supply? There would be queues a mile long with people panic buying the things. When, apart from Christmas, would that ever happen? And do you drink hot wine at any other time of the year? Absolutely not, but at Christmas we consume pints of it don't we? And let's not mention that eggnog stuff. When do you see that at any other time of the year? When have you ever been in a pub and heard someone say 'mine's an eggnog'? I rest my case.

And why do we have to eat so much? It seems Christmas isn't Christmas if you don't eat enough to make yourself sick. The rest of the year is spent killing ourselves dieting to lose the weight we put on at Christmas. Do you know how much we spend at Christmas? No, I won't tell you otherwise you may end up another Christmas statistic. It is that time of year when suicides rise. 'Tis the season to be jolly, my arse! It seems more people are prone to putting their head in the oven rather than the turkey. I'd do the same but it's an induction cooker and I don't think I'd achieve much. Think of the poor turkeys, it's mass murder for them. Seriously, it's poultry genocide whichever way you look at it. Still, don't let me put you off yours.

But Christmas is special isn't it and it's us women that make it that way. There is just so much to do. There's no point sending the men out for the sprouts and stuffing is there? By the time they reach the supermarket they've forgotten why they're there. No, the only way to get a job done properly is to do it yourself. This means you end up in bed with a Christmas migraine on Boxing Day, but at least everyone is having a good time right? And someone is bound to bring you up a turkey sandwich. Then there is the tree. That's a mission on its own isn't it? I mean, when else would you have a tree sticking out of the back of your car and no one bats an eyelid? And when else would you move your whole house around so you can put a tree in it? Then there is the debate about where to put the sodding thing so the cat won't jump up to play with the baubles. But it has to be in prime position. By the time you've done all this and managed to hide the wiring of the tree lights you've got pine needles every bloody where, on the floor, on your jumper, under your jumper and I don't know about you but I certainly had a few stuck in my tits. Also have you noticed how at Christmas you suddenly discover more friends? Where did they come from? Christmas cards drop through the door from people I barely know, and they're all signed lots of love. Every week I have to buy more cards to keep up with these people. Christmas cards are a bit like Facebook friends. Let's see how many we can get so our real friends will see how popular we are. It's almost worth sticking those charity ones that you get free on the mantelpiece just to improve your cred. That's mature right?

Seriously though, when else would you wear a silly paper hat while you're eating dinner and feel it is perfectly normal, while reading out cheesy jokes from your crackers? That's another thing, have you seen the price of bloody crackers? If you want your guests to get a decent little something from the cracker these days you have to take out a bank loan. I bet the banks love Christmas. You can almost see them rubbing their hands in November can't you, totting up their Christmas bonus no doubt. The thing I find most worrying is how we are all so afraid to be alone at Christmas. You have to be with someone or have someone come to you. I'm just as guilty of this that I spend most of November trying to sort out where we will go or who will come to us. In the end I have too many invites and everything gets complicated as I untangle myself from it. What a stress.

But best of all, we break all the rules don't we? We drink to excess, eat to excess and talk about the after-Christmas diet, which I don't think anyone ever starts do they? And of course there is chocolate. Boxes of chocolates, chocolate money in the stockings and chocolates decorating the tree. 'Tis the season to eat chocolate, a chocoholic's heaven.

And it is only at Christmas where the real rules are broken with the children. Ask little Johnny what he did in town today.

'I saw Santa, sat on his lap and told him where I lived and what presents I wanted.'

Bloody marvellous. No one has a clue who the guy in the Santa outfit is do they? He could be your local paedophile on a protection list. Even the employer at the store wouldn't know that. All year we tell our kids not to talk to strangers but at Christmas what do we do... we actually take them to see a stranger and encourage them to talk to him and even allow them to sit on his lap. So remember kids, as long as the stranger is wearing a costume of sorts, calls himself Santa and says he will go up your chimney, it's perfectly okay to chat to him and sit on his lap. I mean why not... it's Christmas.

## Romantic Comedy Novels by Lynda Renham:

##

When 29-year-old Binki Grayson is offered a Christmas bonus by her boss at the office party she didn't imagine he meant a quickie over his desk. Things for Binki just go from bad to worse and by Christmas Day she is not only jobless but boyfriend-less, so when she discovers her late Aunt Vera has left her something in her will she thinks things can only get better. What she doesn't realise is that her inheritance comes with a complication by the name of William Ellis.

A mishmash of misunderstandings, sex-shop escapades, high finance and a blooming romance make It Had to Be You another hilarious romantic comedy by the uproarious Lynda Renham.

On arriving home after a friend's posh wedding, launderette worker Harriet finds her life irrevocably changed when she discovers her flat ransacked and her boyfriend missing. In a matter of hours she is harassed by East End gangsters and upper crust aristocrats. Accepting an offer she can't refuse, Harriet, against her better judgement becomes the fiancée of the wealthy Hamilton Lancaster, with dire consequences. What she had not bargained on was meeting Doctor Brice Edmunds.

The Dog's Bollocks is Lynda Renham's funniest novel so far. A cocktail of misunderstandings, three unlikely gangsters, a monkey and a demented cat make this novel a hysterical read. Follow Harriet's adventure where every attempt to get out of trouble puts her deeper in it.

When 29-year-old Flora Robson reversed her car into Tom's Audi she had no idea who he was. Only after she has started to fall in love with him does she discover the gorgeous blue-eyed Tom is the man who is trying to close down her hairdressing business. It seems that Tom will stop at nothing to get what he wants, but Flora is not giving in to anyone. Can she win the battle against her multimillionaire enemy or will her feelings for him get in the way? Follow Flora's hilarious journey of love, hot chocolate and marshmallows, and the man who changes everything.

Alice Lane has everything; a wonderful fiancé, a responsible job and a lovely flat in Chelsea, but after she has a bra fitting her life goes tits up. Homeless, and with just a sparkling engagement ring as a memory of her previous life Alice accepts a live-in farm manager's job and discovers that things actually can get worse. Come with Alice as she makes her hilarious career change and struggles to cope with her moody employer, Edward. But can Alice turn her back on romance and resist the dashing Dominic or will the past come back to surprise her?

Literary agent Libby Holmes is desperate for her boyfriend, Toby, to propose to her and will do anything for him and if that means dieting for England then she'll have a go. However, when Libby's boss introduces her to her new client, Alex Bryant, her life is turned upside down. Alex Bryant, ex-SAS officer and British hero, insists Libby accompany him to Cambodia for a book fair. What she hadn't bargained for was a country in revolt. Libby finds herself in the middle of an uprising with only Alex Bryant to protect her, that is, until Toby flies out to win back her affections. Come with Libby on her romantic comedy adventure to see if love blossoms in the warm Cambodian sunshine or if, in the heat of the day, emotions get just too hot to handle.

Annabel Lewis (Bels) has two days to get to her wedding in Rome but her journey is beset with one disaster after another as fate takes its turn. Will the stranger she meets on the way get her to her wedding on time or will he change her life forever? Come with Bels on her humorous romantic journey to see if she marries Mr Right or if destiny takes her in different direction.

