Rosamundi's ramblings

I’m stuck on Internet Exploder 6 at work (no, I don’t know why). Which means that, unlike at home where I have adblock plus installed on FireFox, and thus avoid seeing Facebook’s adverts, I can’t avoid them at work.

Still, it does have some comedy potential, like today, when I logged in to be confronted by one advert saying “32 and still single? Join our dating club, ‘whatthehell’swrongwithyouyoufreak.com’” just above another advert offering tips about getting pregnant.

As for the first advert, I know exactly what’s wrong with me. Too independent for the religious blokes, too religious for the blokes who don’t mind if you know your way round a tool box.

The least said about the second advert, the better, I think.

[Edit: And now I'm being offered plastic surgery adverts. I'm clearly doomed to die alone and be eaten by cats].

The bloke’s a genius.

Dear cyclists

You’re all bloody mad.

Love meeeeee.

I was trundling my merry way to Liverpool Street, as is my wont, because passengers on the Tube also fit in the “bloody mad” category. I stopped at a pedestrian crossing, because the little red man was red and the little green man was not green, and I was brought up proper and so know the Green Cross Code.*

The traffic lights changed to red.

First cyclist whizzed through them.

The green man turned green.

Second cyclist whizzed through aforesaid red traffic lights.

I stepped out into the road. Please bear in mind that the green man had been green, and thus I had right of way, for a not inconsiderable period of time (as such things go – certainly more than a quarter of its designated time) by this point.

Third cyclist appeared out of nowhere and in order to avoid hitting me he had to slam the brakes on so hard he fell off his bike.

I did at least have the grace to turn and enquire “are you all right mate?” and wait to receive an affirmative answer before walking off down the street giggling really quite hard (but quietly).

I am a bad person. I hope landing on his bum in the street after running a red light (a) hurt and (b) taught him a lesson.

*Incidentally, before anyone starts, pedestrians who ignore the Green Cross Code are also squarely in the “mad” category and deserve to be run over by irate cyclists.

Make sure Nick Griffin* isn’t about to be interviewed on Radio 4 as you start cleaning your teeth, since drowning in mouthwash is a particularly unpleasant way to go.

The trouble with thugs-in-suits is that they sound perfectly pleasant, and then your brain catches up with your ears, and you draw a deep, outraged breath, preparatory to shouting at the radio**.

Only you have 15ml of Aquafresh Clear Mint mouthwash in your mouth at the time.

15ml of Aquafresh Clear Mint mouthwash making abrupt and unplanned contact with your lungs results in you coughing and choking and rolling round on the bathroom floor trying not to die for about five minutes, and oh but it burns, my precioussssss, it burns, since it’s not designed to be used as a sinus rinse.

Ow.

*Well-known thug-in-a-suit.

**Is it just me that does this?

I have a couple of weddings to go to this year, and needed an outfit. Having found a fabulous pattern (Dior New Look, mid calf, long sleeve), that the equally fabulous Rosamummy is entirely confident of being able to get to fit me, I went shopping for fabric. One of the suggested fabrics, shantung silk, is Not Cheap, and I need about a mile of whatever I decide to buy. Anyway, I commenced poking Google with a stick, and it disgorged a website that was selling aforesaid fabric for $5 a yard.

“Squeeeeeee!” I said, only precariously maintaining my perch on the giant purple ball that passes as a seat at my “no, Mr Bond, I expect you to die” desk. The cheapest I’d found it elsewhere was $12 a yard (eBay), which is fairly impressively cheap, or in John Lewis at £20 a yard, which made me blink and go “bibble,” after I did the dressmakers’ equation of “£20 a yard * 7 yards = ouch.”

I perused the site further.

“Ah,” I said, as all became clear.

No wonder it was $5 a yard. Who’s going to go to a wedding wearing a dress the colour of sick?

Which I’m quite glad about. I did read “The Rules once, and, frankly, if I have to be that manipulative to catch a man, I’d rather take my chances on ending my days as the Mad Cat Lady of Old London Town.

Anyway – evidence of why I will never be a Rules girl, or a Created to Be His Helpmeet one, or even a Fascinating Woman (If anyone ever suggests you read a book called Fascinating Womanhood, or, even worse, Secrets of Fascinating Womanhood, decline. Forcefully).

My laundry lines broke, so I bought a replacement. Much to my irritation, one of the fixing holes from the old line is in the wrong place for the new one, so I had to borrow my brother’s drill to drill a new hole.

A man of my acquaintance (certainly not a close enough friend to let him into my house) said “I’ll do that for you.” Note, not “would you like me to do that for you?” but “I’ll do that for you.”

“No thank you, I can manage.”

“Are you sure?”

[Thinks: “I’ve re-tiled my bathroom floor, put several items of IKEA furniture together, wired a cooker into the mains, replaced a bathroom light switch, disconnected the kitchen clock from the mains (that was weird, that was*), and all without doing myself bodily harm or burning Rosamundi Towers to the ground.”]

Actually says: “No, I’m really sure. It’s only a couple of holes and rawlplugs, I really can manage.”

The conversation dragged on, and then he said “Well, it’s just that you give out help me, save me, be my hero vibes, so I thought you’d like a hand.”

“What? Erm, no, really, I can manage, it’s not difficult, excuse me please,” I blurted as I ran down the corridor to the toilets, whereupon I locked myself in and collapsed, howling.

Whereas if I were a Fascinating Woman, I would have tossed my head, given a girlish laugh, batted my eyes, pouted, and said “gosh, that’s so kind of you, I can’t possibly manage all by myself,” and then when he turned up with his drill, I would greet him on the doorstep in my prettiest dress, have a nutritious meal ready for him, and utter things like “gosh, you’re so clever, and manly, I’d never be able to do that.”

And now I will give you all a minute to think about that.

Stopped laughing yet?

Good good.

Instead of faffing about with nutritious meals and mascara, I borrowed my brother’s drill, and togged myself up in safety goggles (yes, I still look like a frog in them), measured, marked, drilled, refrained from drilling through my hand and impaling myself to the wall, put up new laundry lines, put a load of laundry in to wash and then hung it up and had a gin and tonic to celebrate. So far, the lines have been up for four whole days and have completely failed to rip out of the wall and deposit my clean laundry in a heap on the carpet.

Mr Help Me, Save Me, Be My Hero remains most unimpressed that I’d managed to drill my own holes in my own walls.

“I could have done that for you,” he said, looking like I’d just drowned his puppy.

And, before you ask, I have no idea what the ever-loving mercy “help me, save me, be my hero, vibes” actually are. I have never dared ask, in case the resulting laughter imperils a rib or two.

*The person who’d owned the flat before the Rosaparents had obviously got fed up with changing the kitchen clock’s batteries, and being one of those sorts of handymen, the sort who should have their soldering iron and screwdriver set taken off them for the public good, he’d taken the faceplate off the nearest socket, which just happened to be the one for the washing machine, attached two wires to the clock circuitry (two, not three, two, so, a bit lacking on anything approaching earthing), taken these two wires and attached them to the live and neutral points in the socket, tightened all the screws, re-attached the faceplate, sat back with the warm glow of a job well done and had a cup of tea. Fortunately, time passing, as it does, the clock died, so I got the job of disconnecting it and replacing it with a sensible, battery-powered, radio-controlled one that hangs from a hook on the wall, as is only right and proper.

A bluetit looks like this:

The photo’s not terribly clear, for which I apologise, but I didn’t dare move in case I scared him off.

Please note the safety system, namely the string along the bottom of the feeder…

The bluetits appear to have developed a queuing system for the bird feeder on the window. For some unaccountable reason, I find this hilarious.

There’s two bluetits, and they don’t appear to have learned to share yet. So they sit in the tree that’s just outside the window, on two separate branches of it. Then *one flies into the feeder, eats a bit, drops the bits it doesn’t like onto the ground, while the other waits. Then the first one flies into the tree, the second one flies to the feeder, stuffs its little feathery face, and flies back to the tree, repeat from * until bored/not hungry any more.

I went into Selfridges Foodhall today, on a Quest.

Totally disorientated, and slightly panicky, I accosted a youth in Selfridges uniform, working on the premise that if he worked there, he might know useful things, like where to find stuff.

“Can you tell me where the mace is, please?”

Please note that I was using “mace” in the sense of

mace n. An aromatic spice made from the dried, waxy, scarlet or yellowish covering that partly encloses the kernel of the nutmeg.

[Middle English, from Old French, from Medieval Latin macis, alteration of Latin macir, fragrant ailanthus resin, from Greek makir.]

However, judging from the panicked look on his face, I think he thought I was using it in the sense of

Mace Trademark. a nonlethal spray containing purified tear gas and chemical solvents that temporarily incapacitate a person mainly by causing eye and skin irritations: used esp. as a means of subduing rioters.

Erm, no. It’s a food hall. Why would I be looking for tear gas in a food hall, you silly boy? I know it was a bit crowded in there, but that’s why we have elbows.

So I went to Waitrose, who have staff that do indeed know things, and do not start looking around for security guards when you walk in and ask perfectly innocent cuisine-related questions, and walked out with exactly what I was after, and most of the ingredients for dessert as well, as a bonus.

On the bus coming home tonight, one of the girls in the back row of seats started having a loud mobile phone conversation about her love sex life. And when I say loud, I mean loud. Never mind me being able to hear it at the front of the bus, I think the people on the lower deck could hear as well.

“So then Wayne said to me, right, that ‘ee wann-ed me to [sorry, but I do have some limits, people, unlike her], and I said ‘no,’ right…” And so on.

So we all started chipping in with advice.

She got the hump.