Spartacus Rising

The combination of flash heavy showers, brilliant July sunshine, the fabulous Park Hall hills and Vicky's enthusiastic dog Spartacus produced these pics.

A Sinking Feeling

Yesterday was one of those "one of those days"

I was in London by 9am for a meeting with a private NHS contractor in the offices of a rival (sorry, sister) Trade Union. The meeting was in the Unite offices in Islington Borough so I had to decide on my mode of travel. Despite all my natural urges I decided not to take the lazy and expensive option of a taxi all the way, so I hit the tube. The Northern Line has some of the most extreme escalators I have ever seen. Not being the most brave and sure footed of people, and having a slight touch of acrophobia?? I always find these endless escalators a bit unnerving so I never look down. I am always impressed with these native Londoners who attack these with such abandon. As I went up I watched with admiration a stream of daredevil commuters hurtling down the other side, not satisfied with the mechanical progression provided. They develop a lean-back gait which enables them to hurtle down the down, with a degree of confidence, whereas I would hold on for dear life and stair at my feet.

Anyway the Underground had spared my soul on this occasion, so I made may way from the Angel tube station along City Rd, in this July's all to rare sun. Lacking company I called Vicky on my mobile, put her on speaker phone, hooked the phone under my bra strap and continued my progress while having a good natter. My inane prattle was brought to an end with a sudden cry of "What was that. Oh that's bad, that's really quite bad". Rounding a street litter bin, I had banged into something with my foot. Looking down I saw a foot that had, been slashed across the bridge and the resulting wound gaping to reveal the squelchy flesh beneath. I cant say it hurt that much, but it was quite a dramatic looking injury. I looked back to see what I had walked into and there beside the litter bin was a new ceramic hand basin broken in two, clearly discarded by a feckless builder or DIYer. I must have banged my foot into the sharp broken edge of this particular abandoned bathroom furniture. All this time I could hear Vix on the phone, clearly not taking my plight all that seriously. Her response was as sympathetic as mine was when she rang to tell me she had swallowed a picture hook. Telling her I would call back later, I decided to press on. The meting was only 1/4 mile away and although the foot looked bad, there wasn't that much blood. I hobbled to my destination and got a First Aider to patch me up and went ahead with the meeting after a taking a couple of snaps for evidence! (A blogger and her camera are never far apart). Despite proffered advice that I should visit the a hospital I bravely (actually cowardly) carried on. After the meeting I realised I hadn't snapped the offending dumped sink so I decided to shuffle my way back to the scene of the crime. This was partly in some vague optimism that I could sue Islington Council and partly because I wanted another pic for this post. The problem with being an obsessive Blogger is that whatever happens to me my first thought is how to blog it! A combination of limping, precipitous escalators, the Northern Line, Euston, Westcoast mainline, final realisation and car brought me to the North Staffs Hospital A&E.

At 5pm on a Thursday the A&E was relatively quiet and I had a vain hope that I would be out before Friday dawned. Thankfully I was armed with an mp3 player stuffed with 2 whole series of the genius Down The Line radio 4 series, so I was well prepared for a long wait. After only 2 episodes, though which I puzzled fellow patients with bursts of sporadic unexplained laughter ( thats the thing with in ear headphones in that it appeared I was laughing at voices in my head) I was called through. I related my foot / sink collision to the nurse and her response was an almost knowing Ahhh. I said " Do you have many people injured by sink", perturbed by her lack of surprise. "No, but we will have to send you for x-ray in case any sink is left in your foot" My heart sank at the prospect of a longer wait. Card deposited at another reception window I sat down in the x-ray waiting room and did as the name required. There were only 4 other patients there so I didn't think it would take that long. So on went Episode 3 which I hoped I wouldn't finish. Anyway, Episode 5 finished and I had made the "front" of the queue. I put this in quote because it was a virtual front, because if anyone was wheeled in on a trolley or chair they would take precedence. I resisted all those Daily Mail type urges to get annoyed t the delay. After all as soon as I was done I would only be tootling home to watch the telly and stuff my face, hardly gave my treatment urgency. Eventually after another half hour episode later I was in the x ray room. To get a proper image of the wound I had to have my foot absolutely flat to the bed (not really sure what the thing was called but bed is closest!) This meant I had to effect a side-on half lying , Reader's Wives like pose, propped up on one elbow. It was at this point I wished I had worn trousers instead of a skirt. My remaining dignity now lost I sat back in another queue and waited for the nurse to receive my snaps. I was by now absolutely parched, desperate for a drink of anything, but right opposite a sign said "Please do not eat or drink before you see the doctor". Eventually thirst overcame my innate nature to obey signs and I sneaked round the corner to the treatment are and found a water cooler.

I was soon in a cubicle being tended to. The nurse was an absolute artist (in the good way). She had said that she didn't want to stitch the foot, because it was such a soft tender part of the body. I of course happily agreed with this opinion. She carefully cleaned the wound out while I tried not to show pain and then she started to patch the thing up. Using sticky Sterri-strips she painstakingly closed up the skin and glued over the top. I remarked that I imagined she was good at wrapping awkward Christmas presents. She laughed saying she was actually. After a few exchanged comments as fellow NHS employees I was on my way. So with her advice ringing in my ears to try and keep off my foot for a few days I am now settling in for a couple of sofa filled days. Now where are those takeaway delivery menus?

A Letter From A medico

Out of the blue I've just received the report from my last visit to the mecca of Gender Reassignment that is Charing Cross Gender Identity Clinic. I nearly missed it as it had somehow wormed its way into the inside pages of the free North Staffs Advertiser newspaper right next to the adverts for plumbing service.
So here I had it in my hand, an experts opinion on my personality, my place in society and my ability to assimilate as a woman. I opened it expecting to read a long technical report full of psychiatricspeak.
The report was actually quite brief and matter of fact which I guess is entirely appropriate, but the arrogant fool in me was disappointed that my life can be distilled into one side of A4. The report contained the following points

• I am apparently prospering in my work for the Trade Union
• My debts are not increasing
• My weight is decreasing
• I need to get down to 15 stone and 37'' waist!!

and finally

• My only persisting difficulty is my dysconjugate gaze (wonky right eye) which he proposed the radical solution of glasses or a contact lens!

Such insight could only be gained from years of study and research. Joking aside, they seem happy enough with my progress, which I guess makes the long trips to London wort it.

Libel and Liability

Yesterday we had a briefing from one of our solicitors who specialised in libel, especially on web sites. He was with Thompson's Solicitors, our Union's legal services providers, but had previously worked at Carter Ruck the most notorious of libel lawyers (Any Private Eye readers will recognise that name, and their nickname!). The reason for the briefing was that many Union branches have web sites (as does mine) and there is always potential for being sued, especially when we criticise employers, the BNP etc. For me the advice was just as useful for this here blog. The following is what I learnt from the session.

Libel Law in this country is more weighted in favour of the litigator, than for instance in the USA. The Press also have more protection in law. The law sees libel as "Inherently Risky"

The Claimant only has to prove the following.

• Defamatory- That they have been defamed. This is not defined in law but the test used is . "That it has lowered the reputation of the claimant in right thinking minds"
  
• Identifies - That the libel identifies the claimant. This does not have to be by name. A company can also be seen as a person in law.
  
• Published - This includes web sites, forums and even chat rooms. This of course includes comments on a blog.

The Claimant can sue any or all of the Author, Editor and Publisher of the libel. This effectively means anyone who runs the website, even if they did not write the libel. So if a comment was libelous and you allowed it to appear on your blog then you could be sued as the publisher or editor.

Defences to a libel.

• Justification - Or truth. In UK law the defendant has to prove the truth of the alleged libel. In the US the burden of proof is on the Claimant to prove he libel is not true.
  
• Fair Comment - That it was opinion, based on facts, in good faith and in the Public Interest.
  
• Privilege - Relates to the occasion of the alleged libel. It is based on a duty/interest test. For instance the press use this in that that have a duty to publish and a reader has an interest in the article. This is called the Reynolds privilege and give the press protection that we do not have. Technically if I copied an article from a newspaper web site that was libelous, I could be sued whereas they had a defence.
  
• Statute of Limitation - A libel has to be brought within a year of the date of publication. For a website this date is from the last day before the article was removed.

Damages and Costs

The damages in libel cases are relatively small, ranging usually from £5,000-£50,000. The damages are decided upon by the Jury.

The Costs however completely overshadow the damages and have been known to be in the millions of pounds. If the Claimant had no real assets and was on a no win no fee basis then even if you won you could still be saddled with huge costs.

Anyhow all that seems a bit scary, so from now on I am going to be nice about everyone, all the time for ever (except for my brother Bill, because whatever I say is definitely Fair Comment!) Then again that would be a bit boring so what the heck I will Publish and be Dammed, just be careful on them there Comments.

Got To Pock A Picket Or Two

Braise Pe to Spooner (well sort of)

Yesterday was the first of a two day Unison Local Government Strike. Indulge me a moment for a dose of Trade Unionism......

• The strike is against the pitiful pay offer of 2.4 % by the Local Authority employers. With the current rates of Inflation this is simply a pay cut. The Government and ourselves dispute the rate of inflation. They use a the CPI (Consumer Price Index) figure, which this week is 3.8 %. This is a disputed measure as it does not include Mortgage payments, but does include such staples of life such as ipods. We use the RPI (Retail Price Index) which is now 4.6 %. This is a more inclusive rate including mortgages and fuel and stuff people actually need.


• The truth is for lower paid workers neither of these figures is accurate. The lower paid you are the larger percentage of your income is spent on essentials like food and fuel, which have increased dramatically so the real effect of inflation is much higher.


• The Government will try and make the point that Public Sector pay rises fuel inflation. No serious economists believe that paying Cleaners, Classroom Assistants and many other similar staff an appropriate living wage boosts inflation. The massive City Bonuses certainly do. After all Public Sector pay has had year on year below inflation settlement, but inflation has still risen. The current inflationary pressure is clearly due to global market pressures, particularly oil prices .

Preaching Over ....(well until my next post)

Anyway although the NHS isn't part of this action, I wanted to show some solidarity with our colleagues so I took a days leave and became A Blogger in Search of a Picket Line. I bedecked my car with a Strike poster in the side window and Unison flag across the parcel shelf. I set off around North Staffs, starting with the Moorlands town of Leek. Sadly I missed the picket at the civic offices who had moved on elsewhere. My next miss was due west where again at Newcastle Civic centre the successful picketers had relocated. Eventually I found my quarry` in Stoke town centre (yes I know Stoke on Trent's a city, but Stoke itself is a town. Its too complicated and dull to explain). So I stood shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and sisters in the consistent July drizzle, waving at the passing peeping motorists. Well the others waved I seemed to respond with a bizarre and probably inappropriate raised clenched fist. It felt good to be just a little part of this action. I just hope it is effective ....and did I Pock the Picket...well, that would be telling

Modern Life really Is Rubbish

I have just succumbed to an encounter with that scourge of my socialist class, the privatised utility company. The one that provides my Gas & Electricity is called E.on (well its caled that for this week at least). Somehow they, or an even more sinister entity their market researchers have got hold of my mobile phone number. Well, in a weak, off guard, moments madness I answered the phone to a withheld number. So there I was, talking to an overly polite young man (How old do I sound!), hooked in to a customer survey, too polite and reserved to escape.

After a few establishing shots he started with questions of satisfaction. I had to rate experiences from not satisfied at all to extremely satisfied. I immediately started a grammatical debate over whether you can be extremely satisfied or was satisfaction an absolute. "After all" I said "the root of satisfaction is the verb to be sated, and you are either sated or not. You can't be extremely sated just as you can't be extremely pregnant!" I don't think this poor cold caller, who had probably spent the day being sworn at, appreciated my pedantry. God bless him, he stuck to his task with a level of steadfastness you could only expect from Guantanamo Bay interrogators. He was bloody well going to get some straight answers out of me, probably because I'd been his only catch of the day. Next I had to rate my opinion of their services from 1 - 6 and then respond to statements by agreeing strongly, disagreeing weakly or not giving a F***. We plodded on like this for the next 15 minutes, he desperate for simple answers, me trying to shoehorn debate at every turn. By the end he got his answers, and I lost 15 minutes of my life that I will never get back. I did want to ask him at the end if he strongly agreed that market research is b*******and if he was extremely satisfied with his career choice, but never got the chance.

On another matter. My laptop has just completed yet another update. I decided to see what this one did. The description went as follows.

Install this update to enable future updates to install successfully on all editions of Windows Vista. This update may be required before selected future updates can be installed. After you install this item, you may have to restart your computer. Once you have installed this item, it cannot be removed.

Answers on a postcard please? (If they still exist) Its nearly as bad as our workplace Policy entitled - Policy On Writing Policy

The Banks, the Brazilian and The Bishop

Today I've been down to Birmingham for our union's Regional Council (Don't worry 'bout what that is. just a bunch of Trade Unionists trying to put the world to rights through blathering). Since I was elected to an assistant convenor's post I now find myself sitting loftily on the stage platform peering, but not looking down uon the delegates, who between them weild over 100,000 votes. The main thrust of the meeting revolved around the upcoming Local Government strike on Wednesday and Thursday. Hopefully the strike will be well supported and effective. I will be taking some leave so I can join a picket line somewhere. The meeting was in the canal area of the city centre, Brindley Place, which has been beatifully redeveloped over the last few years.







Meanwhile....On a rectangular patch of grass just a mile or two from my home, a football match is taking place between a team managed by Gordon Banks and another by Pele and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I kid you not. I wish I'd been there to see the venerable anti apartheid hero bouncing down the touchline abusing the ref . Its an event to mark the unveiling of a statue of Banks, who was a hero at Stoke. In the 1970 World Cup Banksy (the other one) made what is regarded as the best save ever from a header by Pele.

Back to my Future

I need to change my passport and driving license. It really is time to divest myself or the last remnants of my former maleness. Getting my name changed on these documents is relatively simple, but getting the attached gender to say female is a different matter. Up to a few years ago it was well nigh impossible to get the state to recognise your new improved gender identity. Now, however we have the Gender Identity Act. This piece of legislation ensures legal and statutory recognition of a new gender and some protection from discrimination. An integral part of this is to change your birth certificate and this is important for changing both your passport and driving license. I think this right is real tangible progress and for many other new women like myself, so important in reconciling their past. For me however it just isn’t that simple. My mangled brain just doesn’t do simple.

The thing is, for me its never been just matter of being born into the wrong body (mind you I would have preferred a less lumpy one). I was born a male, grew up a boy and eventually become a man ( sorts). Although, it has to be said that for the majority of this time I felt uncountable and confused in that role. It is also true, that I did spend many of these years with the faint dream that I could one day I would live as a girl and then a woman. Changing who I am now and who I will be, is only right and natural, but the nagging rational pragmatist nested in my psyche finds it hard to change who I was. To in effect change my history. To present a birth certificate stating I was a born a male would feel disingenuous. I’m not proud of much in my life. The only achievements that spring to mind are getting 100% in my Cycling Proficiency Test, scoring a 180 in the Stallington Hospital interdepartmental darts tournament and just once landed a handspring of the pommel horse in high school PE! Anyway, what I’m alluding to is that I am sort of proud of my transition. For someone who spent 35 years taking the easy path of least resistance, I would never have believed I had the drive, patience and occasional bravado to follow this road less travelled.

All this musing leaves me with fundamental contradictions. I want desperately to be accepted fully and deeply as a woman, but I still want to hold on to the reality of my past. Being different is both upsetting and rewarding. In darker moments I just think, Why me? On better days I rejoice, Yes I am me! Much of the mundane minutiae of life becomes such a trial, when you’ve transitioned. On the other hand, what an absolute gift it is, to be able to live and experience both sides of the gender divide. If life is a stage, how fabulous it is to be able to play both Hamlet and Ophelia, Romeo and Juliet, or Terry and June. So whether I do seek to rewrite the history of one February day in 1968, is still to be decided, but at least I have that choice, that predecessors here and compatriots elsewhere were and are denied.

All this thinking's left me weary so in the words of Samuel Peepys, or was it Zebedee “Its time for bed”

Jenksy

You know today has been one of those days when you have just Googled swallowed a ring pull

Becoming Jen (Part 20) Harry Potter and The Lost Parking Ticket

Well congrats for sticking with my rambling story. It has has whizzed about a bit in the last few chapters. I really wish I had thought more about a structure, with some sort of surprise reveal. Perhaps the final chapter could end up with me confessing to be the real Keyser Soze or something. Sadly I think this tale will end up just petering out in a rambling mess of asides (such as this one) I think I would benefit from a kermodian (I'm doing my bit to get it into the dictionary!) critique of my writing style. So where in my ever shifting timeline had I reached?

If my memory serves me at all, I had got to the point where, had completed my first few weeks as a working woman. The first flush of euphoria was over. The weeks soon turned into months. It was now Spring 2006 and the honeymoon period with my work life partners had gone relatively well. Though like many newlyweds the amount of sex never quite lived up to expectations. Looking back now I wish I had taken move care about my transition rather than just blundering into it like an elephant in heels. I realise looking back over this period I did make some fundamental rookie mistakes.


The first mistake revolved around was my chosen name. I have said before that I hadn't given my new new name more than a moments ponder. I just went for something phonetically close to my old redundant male one. There was no real logic far this but once chosen felt toothed to change again. I don't regret the name itself. I think Jenny sort of suits me The big mistake was that I asked collages and friends to "just call me Jen" That was what I had ended up being called by my friends, so it felt comfortable and accepting that everyone used this (insert) The problem that soon became apparent was that Jen was too close to Geoff As soon as the Je sound left someone's lips then their brain just followed, with unconscious thought, the finishing Eff sound. It I had said from the beginning call me Jenny then perhaps the incidents of "Jeffs" would have been fewer. Who knows, perhaps I should hare chosen a name that could never be confused such as Delilah or Rapunzell !!!


The second regretted mistake, was not to late myself seriously enough. I've said before that I often used humour to put people at ease. For instance, I made fun out of my homemade Rice' n' Tights breast-forms. This was fine at first, but months down the line, and they were still being referred to as the "Uncle Ben's" I started to regret my levity. It just didn't help everyone lose those thoughts that was still a man pretending to be a woman.


The third was that I totally underestimated hour much time was needed to prepare myself for a working day. If everything went to plan I uses five, but it only took a mistimed sneered to smear mascara goo all over my painstakingly applied makeup, setting me back half an hour. Similarly laddering three consecutive pairs of tine cost ill afforded minutes, not to speak of expense! I was never more regularly late for work than this period of my life. Actually thinking now I have been more tardy, and that was when I lived in the Nurses Home at my place of work Stallington Hospital (aside alert!!!). I have figured that my promptness for work is indirectly proportionate (or is it directly?) to the distance I lived away. Ergo the nearer I was, the later I was. The only explanation I could think of was that when I lived on site, work is only a couple of minutes away so lets have another 5 in bed.


Other Rookie Schoolgirl Errors from the first couple of months: Unwearable high heels, doh!Peep toe shoes/ tan tights, doh! Black trousers just that vital inch too short, double doh! and White blouse / Black bra debacle, double doh!

Still all things considered my transition went really well, better than expectations (if I'd had any). I still count myself lucky that I work in such an accepting liberal working environment, I can't imagine how tough it must be to transition in a male dominated workplace, such as the building trade for instance. That is not to say I didn't have the odd hiccup. I remember once when I corrected a colleague on referring to me as he, the response came back "At least I didn't call you It".

It was during this time that I suffered my only incident of street level abuse. Now of course I'd witnessed the odd titter and occasional snigger, and on one occasion a car full of neanderthal unevolved testosterone heckled me, but to be honest their grunty shouts were barely distinguishable as English. These were thankfully rare occurrences that have almost slipped from memory. The one incident that does persist was a day shopping in Longton (one of the famous 5 towns described by Arnold Bennett. Bad luck Fenton!). I was sat on a bench in the spring sun, staring blankly at my mobile thinking of somebody to text when a wet splat hit my right cheek. Looking up I just saw 2 teen aged lads riding past, one of whom shouted "scum of the earth" at me". I was so taken aback I wasn't sure what had happened. Slowly a dawning realisation was that these 2 cycling Asbos in waiting, had spat at me before yelling their witty retort! To be honest I was too shocked to be as upset as I should have been, but the incident is now indelibly inked on my mind.

Anyway enough of the dark side of a life in transition. I know everyone really wants me to get back those stories of my own folly (ie falling down and all that!). Well I have another example of How Not To Pass.

Well, I bored one day I decided to make a solo trip to the Flicks. I was by then pretty cocky about my ability to pass while out and about. After all I was now a working Girl. I plumped for a visit to the Warner Brothers Cinema in Newcastle under Lyme, mainly because they had more comfy (wide) seats. I cant fully recall the film I saw. I wish I could say it was a deep foreign art house opus, but it was actually one of the Harry Potter films. Leaving the cinema I first had to pay for my parking ticket at the machine, just inside the foyer. Duly done, I made my way via the lift to the multi storey car park beneath. Driving down the two levels to the barriered exit, I pulled up to insert my paid up ticket into the barrier machinery, but of course I had now lost it. Somewhere between the foyer and this barrier I had secreted my ticket but couldn't for the life of me remember. After a good 10 minutes of frantic rummaging I abandoned all hope of exit and reluctantly reparked my car. I needed another ticket which was only supplied on entry to the car park. So, I made my way back to the Paystation in the foyer.

When I got there there was a newly formed queue of cinema goers waiting to validate their parking tickets. The machine had a sign saying Press here For Assistance. I pressed the button and a voice boomed out of the speaker situated adjacent "Can I help you?". I looked up at the queue of impatient car parkers who up to this time had taken little notice of the suspiciously tall woman in their midst. "Ive lost my ticket" I spoke softly into the mic, not wanting to draw any more attention. "Sorry you will have to speak up", came the response. "I've lost my ticket" I replied at fuller volume. "I will be with you in a couple of minutes SIR" came the answer even louder out of the machine. By now the whole queue was either staring at me or whispering to each other about me. Either way any semblance of passing had gone. Right then I could have used Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. I then had to stand there in solitary uncomfort as I waited for the Parking attendant, as the queue filed past, the more discrete of which at least attempted to hide their sniggers. Eventually a rather bemused man in a security uniform arrived looking for a man who had lost his ticket. I caught his attention and confessed it was me he was seeking. I made sure I kept hold of my ticket all the way to the barrier. Sometimes you just have to shrug and accept that however well you think you are doing the world will find a way of of bringing you down to earth.

Bloggary of Terms

Blogcrastinate – v To put off attending to something important by Blogging
Blogma – n A belief system espoused over the net
Blog Roll – n Useful for wiping tears, coffee etc from your keyboard
Blogstandard - adj A dull but workmanlike Blog
Commentairy – n A readers rather vague views
Post-haste – Blogging in a hurry
Post Meridian – Blogging after lunch

Hotel Hobbies

I've just awoken in my hotel room, with that initial feeling of disorientation. A couple of moments of self inquisition Where am I? Why am I here? elicited quick answers. The third question Why am I ? would take a little more thought.

I am in a faceless corporate hotel at the behest of a faceless private sector conglomerate in a faceless midlands town, well Wolverhampton to be honest (it might actually be a city, I'm not sure). We never really forgave Wolverhampton for deserting Staffordshire. I always arrive at these big relatively posh hotels with a sort of childish relish, like it is some sort of treat. Though to be honest when you've stripped away the veneer and the overly servile staff its not really different than a Blackpool B&B. After all a room is a room, a bath is a bath, an underpowered wired in hairdryer is an underpowered hairdryer and a bed is a bed (actually it isn't, this one is huge and dreamily comfy! but you get my point). I have resisted the urge to follow the teachings of my TV guru, Ross from Friends, who believes when staying in an expensive hotel it is your right nae duty to help yourself to as many consumables as you can. Toiletries and stationary are obvious, batteries from the remote and bulbs from the lamp less so. In fact I have let my guide down so badly I haven't even touched the tea and coffee!

Anyway its time a got myself moving instead of Blogcrastinating. We are doing something called Job Matching, which is unfortunately not matching Debt Collectors with a pack of ravaneous hyenas but something to do with Job Evaluation, Job Descriptions and Job Specifications but not sadly Bob a Job (a blast from my 70's past!). I am having trouble focusing (Well duh! says any reader of these endless parentheses, parenthesise, parenthesises, oh well brackets!), now I have found out that one of the managers used to have a much more interesting job. Dean is a lovely, personable man who is like Danny DeVito's cockney cousin. Anyway he dropped in conversation that after leaving the RAF, he worked for Prime Ministers flying them all over the world (Not sure if he flew the plane, he was something called a Loadmaster). Anyway he worked for John Major (a really nice guy who still sends him Christmas cards, and Thatcher (spit in the waste bin!) who was a bit unapproachable but worked amazingly hard). Of course I was suddenly full of questions ranging from "Where was the most dodgy place you through into?","Yemen" to "John Major & Edwina Currie! what was that all about?", He couldn't believe it either. I wanted to ask him if he thought it was his duty for the nation to push Thatcher out the airlock at 15,000 feet, but thankfully resisted it.

Anyway (I really use anyway too much! any suggestions for an erudite alternative?) so much for nonblogcrastination (check that! spell checker), the weather is fab and I still have my eyebrows to pluck.

Adendum. For no particular reason I have Shrek the Third on my TV. Well actually the reason is that I had free hotel movies along with internet access, and I didn't fancy "No Country For Old Men" violence at 7 am!.

Anyway again, Ive just done my hair and makeup and noticed I look worryingly like Princess Fiona, just less green! Oh well, I suppose its an improvement from looking like Shrek! ...