Miss Hacksaw: The jolliest hockey stick in the box

Today has been the most successful day ever. IKEA delivered when they said they were going to! The plumber came and fixed the shower pump, as certain people can't get out of the bath without some sort of zimmer-type appliance any more! The scaffolders removed the scaffolding that prevented us from receiving a Sky signal for the last four weeks, so that I no longer think I am living in some sort of Amish reality show! Junior Hacksaw has four heart chambers and a normal spine, plus various other pleasing features! My hormones have sent me completely crazy!

Heh. Fear not, I've not turned into Jean Slater, as the paragraph above may suggest. In truth, the fact that IKEA delivered stuff when they were instructed to has been enough to send me skipping (for that you can read waddling quickly) around the flat in a state of high excitement.

The Hubbo and I realised we'd not had an argument for a few months, and therefore decided a trip to IKEA to buy a sideboard was the best remedy for that. Actually, things went tremendously - apart from ending up with a Billy With Doors instead of an actual sideboard. It's the law to buy a Billy when you go to IKEA, so I don't care. We also managed to buy the wardrobe for the nursery without too many mishaps, apart from me nearly biffing the wardrobe genius one for not being able to tell the difference between wardrobe heights. We even managed to get through the blasted market place without one of us picking up anything more untoward than a new floor lamp (as opposed to the usual "WE DON'T NEED A TEA STRAINER BECAUSE WE DON'T USE TEA LEAVES" type argument one sees every couple having in the market place at one time or another.)

The problems began when we entered the dreaded Vault of Flatpack, Where No Staff Dareth Enter. Or something. Seriously, you can't move for bloody IKEA staff stocking up the tealights and plumping sofa cushions, but the minute you need them for something, i.e getting the furniture down from the 12 foot high place where it lives, they all bugger off for meatballs and herrings leaving you to teeter precariously on your husband's shoulders while you hoof a two stone flatpack bookcase off the shelf.

It's not that we argued as such, it's just that when the idiots put aisle 2 along the back of the shop instead of in between aisles 1 and 3, as any sane shop designer would suggest, the Hubbo rather lost patience with the entire fiasco and blamed me for not reading the aisle map right. However, it turns out that growing another head inside you has the side effect of developing a fairly monstrous temper, so I made it clear to him that we could either blame each other and fight this out until the end of time in the middle of Swedish flatpack hell; or we could find a member of staff and give them some temperamental customer feedback on the spot. We found one rather quickly (hiding behind a yucca plant from a customer whose wife had just been flattened by a Benno CD rack) and proceeded to give said feedback, which I'm sure has been noted and is being actioned upon as we speak.

After all this fandango I wasn't expecting said furniture to actually turn up when we asked for it to (after having to pay a storage fee of £10 A NIGHT, damn crooks), but it did and I now have a place for all the baby clothes, and storage. Must ixcillent! Bork bork bork!

Bork bork bork

Sorry for the continued absence. As ever, there are no excuses. Back tomorrow with an undignified rant about IKEA.

Equation

Dot + Big Mo + misplaced sack of vibrators off the back of a lorry = Classic EastEnders comedy that puts even Neighbours to shame. Scriptwriters, all is forgiven.

Nice of me to pop in

I'm back. Not that I went anywhere of course. I've spent the last two weeks being driven completely insane as I've had Phil Collins' "In The Air Tonight" in my head almost constantly. The man won't leave me alone. Why, in the ad break during Twister just now (one of the two movies owned by ITV2 along with A Few Good Men) three ads in a row have started with the "Air" drum beats - the Cadburys ad (which is quickly reaching "Wassuuuuuuuup" levels of annoyance), the Collins Greatest Hits and some dad rock drive-time compilation.

I've also spent the last two weeks patrolling the shops dejectedly for a winter coat that will fit over the bump (which appeared two weeks ago and is very much growing by the day) still by the time March rolls around, when I expect to be the size of Henry VIII. It is not proving successful, and if anyone has any ideas (preferably better than my current solution of "big cardigan over eight layers) I'd be most grateful.

Away from the grumpiness - a question. Where on earth has this "Peggy in a landslide of debt" storyline popped up from on EastEnders? Where was all the foreshadowing? EastEnders loves foreshadowing. At the very least I expected to have a scene or two of Peggy manfully playing down a card declination in the Mini Mart, or squishing a mountain of Jacques Vert shopping bags behind the board games in Ben's closet. Get a grip, writers.

Dear Amir Khan...

Elvis called - he wants his trousers back.

Soldier boy

We all know that Sean Slater is a hardcore soldier whose personality quirks are due to war horrors, but is that really an excuse to stand with his arms half a foot away from his sides as if he was Action Man?

I could make a tasteless "gripping hands" joke here, but I can't quite get to it.

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHA...oh....

I just spent an entire night too scared to go to the loo because I thought there was a slug in the bathroom. Considering my bladder is currently the size of a sultana - judging by the amount of time I spend scampering to and from the bathroom - this required some willpower to say the least.

My slug fears are not as weird as you might like to think. The Hubbo and I used to live in an enormous basement flat in Hammersmith, which was charming in every way apart from the builders' neglect to actually build a bathroom in it. Therefore the ablutions area was very much a damp afterthought, a below-freezing wet room stuck on the side of the house that the W6 slug population fell in love with. The amount of times I ran screaming from the bathroom because an orange invertebrate had wrapped it round my toothbrush is more than I care to think about. It was particularly humiliating the time when the Hubbo (whose marriage vows included a promise to always be on hand to dispose of house-based wildlife) was in Canada snowboarding and I had to summon the upstairs neighbour to rid the bath of a particularly vivd green specimen.

So, when I got up at 3am to visit the facilities I was somewhat alarmed to see what looked like a big black slug on the floor, especially as my Hackney bathroom is pleasingly free of damp and therefore not the most sensible habitat for gastropods. Unable to face waking the Hubbo, who was flat on his back snoring like only those who know that in five months their sleeping habits are to be disrupted for the next five years, and those who have been drinking in the West End for nine hours following a "quick trip to PC World" can, I instead flapped for ten minutes, contemplated shutting my eyes and getting on with it, disregarded this idea because then I would inevitably tread on the slug, cursed the fact that I am such a girl, and decided to wait it out until the Hubbo woke up and could do his duty of slinging the slimy bastard out of the window. Few experiences have been less entertaining.

Of course, I saw the funny side when the slug turned out to be a memory stick that had fallen out of the Hubbo's PC World bag when he staggered in at half past midnight needing a piss so desperately he hadn't even time to drop his bags outside the bathroom door. Hilarious.

Dang it!

This is infuriating. Four minutes spent racking my brains for that last bloody state. Goddamn you, Nebraska!

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Miss J. Alexander

Um, so I meant to do this last week. I had a great idea all ready to go, but then I couldn't find a picture to do the gent in question justice. One for another time. Still, I'm here this week and proud to finally join the ranks of Hackney's finest in celebrating all that is elegant on Wednesdays.

I love America's Next Top Model's J. Alexander. He's always so well turned out, especially in comparison to Janice Dickinson, who generally looks like she got dressed with the help of Pete Burns (actually, I'm not convinced she isn't Pete Burns); and Jay Manuel, whose orange face/yellow hair combo reminds me of a red brick house with a thatched roof. Even Tyra, with her penchant for massive orange hair, looks dishevelled in comparison to J's crisp attire. Just look at that matching shirt and headband!

J. manages to look quite sweet here, and rather as if he's on his way to big school wearing short trousers and a small smile of excitement. In reality, J. is not sweet, but a hardcore runway coach who would scare the crap out of me if I had to walk in the same room as him. Especially if he was wearing his school-marm outfit.

Quink - apologies if I've ruined the notion of EDW by being so thoroughly shallow. If so let me know and I'll make it up with something intelligent next week. If not, there's a treat for everyone in store.

Photo from tv.yahoo.com

Time for Trumpton

Two thirds of the way through E4's Top 100 Kid's TV Shows, I'm clocking in to make the point that Trumpton Council was a hell of a lot more lenient on flyposters than most nowadays. Putting ads for bands up on the side of the Town Hall? Hackney Council would have had Bill Sticker Nick bang to rights.

That's no excuse

Well, that was a ridiculously long blogging break. I do hope that 'anonymous' doesn't think they've put me off blogging after my last post.

In fact I've been gallivanting about the country going to weddings - four in the last two weeks, including a terrific jaunt from Devon last Friday to Ipswich on Saturday - and when I've been back at the Hacksaw Chateau I haven't had the energy to write and have instead sat on my arse watching too much reality TV.

So, what's been going on? Um, nothing. Seriously. Apart from scampering from country house to converted barn toasting happy couples and staying in far too many Travelodges for anyone who isn't Alan Partridge, I have been going to work and then coming back home. Apart from the odd bit of baking, life consists of TV, bed and Gaviscon. How desperately unfortunate.

Still, I've managed to cobble together a few observations and queries over the past week or two - some of which I may develop into proper posts once my energy levels rise again.

1. Am I a bad person for being pleased when Jacqui and "Little Drummer Boy" Sam got booted unceremoniously off The Restaurant? They were so nice, and enthusiastic, and perky. However, I found myself unable to get past their reasons for choosing their restaurant's name - Ostrich: "I was cast as the ostrich in Peter Pan and I really became one with the ostrich." Be gone, dear. The Luvvies column in Private Eye calls.

2. Devon teenagers' grasp on what makes a relationship is a lesson for us all. Overheard last weekend:

Teenage girl, petulantly: "You never says you love me any more!"
Teenage boy, exasperatedly and in strongest Devon accent ever: "Look. I fucks yer, I buys yer chips. What more do you want?"

3. I really wish that contestants on the American versions of The Apprentice, Hell's Kitchen, America's Next Top Model et al would get a grasp on percentages and how they work. I am in no way a'math' expert (as proven by having to ask a work colleague last week how to work out on a calculator how much my pay rise will be once the unions stop dicking around with the offers) but even I know that 100% makes a whole, or however you care to phrase it. The contestants can't quite get the hang of this:

"I had a close shave with Mr Trump in last week's boardroom, so this week I gotta give a hundred and ten percent!"

"Tyra says I'm losing my enthusiasm, so I gotta start giving two hundred percent!"

"I've gotta start giving a hundred and fifty percent, or Chef Ramsay's gonna kick my arse."

Speaking of Hell's Kitchen, how much of a pussycat has MPW turned out to be? Bless him.

4. Over on EastEnders, I see that Peggy has started rivalling Pat for House Most Like a Tardis. Where on earth is everyone sleeping? I presume Ronnie and Roxy are bunking up on the banquettes down in the Vic, wonky boobs crushed up against each other and breathing vodka up each other's noses. It's a poor man's idea of porn. On the other hand, Phil Mitchell staggering about falling face down into cakes and stamping Airfix models to bits is rich televisual porn, especially now that someone's read this and sorted out his tipple of choice.

5. Now that we've hit 12 weeks (at long last), the Hubbo and I have broached the subject of names for Junior Hacksaw. And where else to find inspiration apart from lists of celebrity baby names? You will be pleased to know that so far we have cast aside the more wacky Poppy and Brooklyn in favour of the completely normal Satchel and Jermajesty.

As I said, not much has been going on over here. However, I'll be around a bit more often, specifically on Wednesdays as I'm taking a long overdue jump into Quink's EDW caper, having been inspired by this post. In the meantime, I'm off to start drinking water in preparation for tomorrow's scan, which I'm sure will result in a post all of its own regarding the madness of Homerton Hospital.

Think on

In response to 'anonymous', who courageously left a comment on my previous post asking if I was the only woman to have ever been pregnant before (which I have now removed BECAUSE I CAN): don't be so silly. A quick trip to Google will prove to you that that is blatantly not the case.

I can't believe I've got dickhead comments about this and not about any of the EastEnders drivel I come out with.

Signs that I am slowly going insane

1. At 8.45am I thought a McDonalds breakfast would be just the ticket to calm that pesky growling nausea.

2. This evening I apologised to a pregnant woman I bumped into by mistake, and then gave her the "Morning sickness eh! That's a lark!" eye contact over the Moses baskets when I realised it was a mannequin.

3. Went to Hamleys, for God's sake. An expedition which nearly ended in the nobbling of the hyperactive "Everybody! You have fun tonight!" demonstrator fellow with a junior telescope.

4. After whizzing all the meatball ingredients together in the Kenwood, tried to disentangle the lump of meaty goodness from the blades using my hand and not a wooden spoon; and as a result am sporting a large ACME style bandage round my middle finger.

5. Of all the songs that could be in my head to musically illustrate this post, I have got that "Out of your Mind" one, as squawked by Dane Bowers and Victoria Beckham.

Bah.

This is not in any way weird

Gruesome twosome

Watching Big Brother's Little Brother, one thought comes to mind:

Dane Bowers and Pauline Fowler - together again at last.

Does life get any better?

Walford bankers...

I wish I lived in Walford, where the banks are apparently open for business on Sundays. It's a bit different to my local branch, which at present is undergoing some extensive wallpapering that prevents them from providing anything approaching a service.

However, I can console myself with the thought that if I was signed up with the Bank of Walford I'd spend most of my life staring at the screen of the cashpoint near the tube while it mockingly told me I had an available balance of £0.00, like everyone else on EastEnders.

Not featuring Barry, Robin or Maurice

"I'm not sure they meant for you to drink that much water."

"But they said come with a full bladder!"

"Yes, but it takes less than a litre to fill your bladder, especially if you've just had four glasses of orange juice with breakfast."

"But it might not be full enough and we might not be able to see anything."

"Fine, but don't go moaning on to me when we're on our way that you need a piss desperately and are in pain."

Forty five minutes later...

"Ow. Owowowowowow. Can't....walk...properly."

"Ha! I told you so. Look, there's a public loo there."

"DON'T TAUNT ME."

Also known as Incident 8494 In Which I Am Wrong, it turned out that my bladder was so full that it was impossible to see whether I had a uterus at all, let alone find out if there was definitely something floating in it. The sonographer (who turned out not to be a member of the Bee Gees, and in fact wasn't even the mysterious Dr. Gibb who probably earns enough not to have to come in on Saturdays) let me go and relieve myself ("THANK YOU SO MUCH!") and then got down to business.

Sadly, the scanner's broken, so I can't show you all the 10mm embryo that's inside me, with a heartbeat that we heard and everything. In my current emotional state the fact that the scanner is broken is enough to send me into a wailing heap, and the only answer is M&S choocolate cornflake bites.

Mmmm, cornflakes.

Greece is the word

Bit of an extended absence there, although regular readers should be used to that. I went to Greece - Kefalos to be exact - and have returned with an orange tan and an unfortunate case of water retention that makes me look seven months and not seven weeks pregnant. Great!

K, H and I booked the holiday when pissed at the beginning of June - Hubbo had four stag parties planned over two months and I thought I should have some fun by escaping with the girls for a week of ice cold lager and tzatziki.

This would have actually been the case, was I not knocked up and therefore relegated to the position of The Boring One who sits in the corner being all "orange juice please, Tracy", Phil Mitchell style. I couldn't even go mad on tzatziki, as I've developed an aversion to it due to its yogurty consistency. I have also gone off hummus, which surely proves that there is no justice in this world.

Actually, the holiday itself wasn't too bad. I learned some things, namely that drunk people talk a lot of shit. I also got to tip a glass of water over a German fellow who decided to fall asleep on the walkway outside my apartment and wake me up by snoring at around 120db at 6am. He did not react well, and we had a shout-off for ten minutes before he would accept my sane and rational argument that he was a tit for not going to bed IN HIS BED and went to it.

So, now I'm back. Today I got to have my first experience of Homerton Hospital's antenatal unit - something which can be summed up succintly using the word 'chaos'. I was only dropping some forms off (complete with traditional useless scribbles courtesy of Dr Codeine over the road) and was on the verge of a panic attack. A man in overalls wandered in with a snack trolley at one point and it was like watching a load of angry hawks descending on a deer carcass. Because we're generally quite impatient, we've got an early scan booked on Saturday with a private fellow in town - a Dr Gibb. While I'm quite excited about this, it's not stopped me having nightmares about lying on a bed, bladder full and stomach smeared with swarfega, and suddenly realising a Bee Gee is about to give me an ultrasound while squealing a medley of 1970's 'Gee hits.

Obviously this is not the most exciting thing happening at the moment. No, the most exciting thing is coming back from holiday and having four whole episodes of EastEnders to catch up on (and still having three to watch tonight, if you include tonight's episode!) I see they waited till I got the Easties Comedy Award out of the way before cracking on with those side splitting abandoned rubbish/mouse in caff/robbing of QV bust. Anyway, a few questions which I trust regular readers will be able to help me answer:

1. I thought Phil Mitchell was always a vodka man (I can still picture the bottle hidden cunningly in Kaff's dishwasher). P Mitchell does not strike me as a chap to re-embrace alcoholism with a random bottle of Johnnie Walker or any old toot that's lying around Peggy's drinks globe (which she hasn't got, but really should). He'd make the effort to get himself a bloody good bottle of Smirnoff, neck it and then commence with the purple-faced beatings. I hope that on the plane to Rio he digs out Borehamwood's dog-eared copy of The Soap Guide To Alcoholism and takes notes.

2. Where is most of Samantha Janus's nose?

3. Who wrote to the BBC and complained there weren't enough Rubbish Gangsters in EastEnders anymore, prompting them to bring in this gun-totin' James Dean quotin' Blazing Squad member who is trying to get into the tiresome Lucy Beale's knickers?

4. Not a question, more of an observation: Go away, smackhead sister of Tanya.

And now I'm Ross Geller

There's a headline I never thought I'd write. Yet, the fact remains that it's actually true, due to the fact that today I got Sandwich Rage.

Not rage at the actual sandwich. I might be a bit hormonal at the moment, but I've not yet reached the point where I'm yelling at inanimate wheat-based items (stay tuned to see what happens over the next eight months though). I got rage at the Sandwich Maker, or more accurately, the Sandwich Maker Who Dares Pass Judgement.

Just what is so odd about ciabatta with parma ham and fresh tomato anyway? LOTS, apparently. Enough is wrong with it to make the Sandwich Maker give me a raised-eyebrow stare for ten seconds and then shout across the sandwich bar: "You eat strange foods, yes?!"

And then I shouted back about piss poor customer service and my rights to have whatever sandwich I damn well wanted, yes?!

Then I turned on my heel and slipped on a wet leaf. Tomorrow I am buying my lunch from M & S.

In other news: shut up, Orange gigs and tours advert.

Easties Awards: Part Three

Welcome back for Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline. Apologies for the extended absence – I had to go and buy a new awards dress in which to accommodate my new comedy breasts. Also, I’ve been struggling with this category, as EastEnders is such a desolate wasteland of misery most of the time that the comedy storylines get hoofed into the background and are over and done with before you know it. Why they can’t just hire Janice Dickinson to sit in the corner of the Vic passing loud crack-fuelled judgement on everyone I don’t know – that would be enough comedy to last me a lifetime. Anyway, here we go:

1. Ricky’s stag night

Oh, glory days. Why can’t they bring Ricky back? He was always there with a cheery word and a buffoonish expression on his face; losing spanners, incurring the wrath of Bianca and causing Frank to squeeze that bit of skin between his eyes eight times an episode. Mind you, I suppose they’ve got Gary now. Anyway: background. Rickaaay is about to marry screaming orange harpy Biancaaaaaar, and because nothing ever goes wrong in EastEnders, decides to have his stag party the night before. How wise!

Unsurprisingly, a great time was had by all until young Butcher woke up in a field in France the next day. Along with three men who anyone would want in a crisis – Phil, Grant and Nigel. Oh, what larks! Luckily, Nigel had taken GCSE French and asked a local peasant where they were (as far as I recall, Nigel’s French sounded rather similar to my dad’s on the legendary occasion where he got absolutely trolleyed in Paris and lost his hotel key; and then decided to sort out the whole fiasco by lurching up to the snooty receptionist and ask in ‘Allo ‘Allo style English: “Escooose me! Der yer ‘ave zer key?”). The peasant took pity and revealed that they were in fact in – wait for it – Kent. The day is saved! Although considering the fuss people in EastEnders make about going Up West or to the High Street, chances are that this fact caused more distress than finding out they were in St Malo or whatever.

2. Walford One Owed Freedom

Any canine who bites Ian Beale’s arse deserves a paw shake in my book. However, when this jolly event happened, thanks to the ever reliable comedy staple Wellard, Beale failed to see it that way and spent what seemed like weeks whining on about it and making his voice go all high pitched. When everyone failed to listen, or in fact care, Beale dug out his biggest Unreasonable Hat and decided that the only solution to keeping his butt bite-free was to have Wellard put down. “Nooooo!” cried the loyal audience. “He’s a much better actor than nearly everyone else on this soap!”

Luckily, the People’s Poet Gus Smith (new owner of said antisocial dog since Robbie took his acne to pastures new) and Newcomer In Need of a Storyline Deano Wicks were on the side of the viewing public, and started the unforgettable campaign WOOF, complete with T-shirts and everything. Beale got red faced and shouted, Gus banged on incessantly about dog rights, and in the end everything was resolved, as ever, by the sensible Jane, plus Peter and Lucy (aka The Woodentops). Also, in order to teach Beale that Dogs Have Feelings Too (Or Summink) they bought him his own dog, who has not been seen since.

3. Patrick and Jim, generally

I love it when EastEnders scriptwriters realize that there is so much moroseness abounding in the Square, and decide to lighten up life by getting Yolande or Dot to scamper off for three weeks to Jamaica/'to visit Michelle in Florida’ respectively, and Patrick and Jim to indulge in non stop boozing, betting and breaking of much-loved pottery products. ‘Hilarity ensues’, mostly involving Jim’s eye going wonkier and Patrick bellowing about plantains and rum at the top of his voice, until Yolande/Dot returns early and subjects them to a week of stupid punishments such as training for a marathon or manning the fruit stall. Oh, how we laugh.

And the winner is….(drumroll this week provided by Sean beating his head against the bar in protest at the lameness of this category’s nominations…)

Walford One Owed Freedom!

Well done, Wellard. Everyone knows dogs are funny. Dogs biting the hell out of Beale are even funnier, so props to you.

Next up: it’s bemused expressions at the ready for Category #4: The "Hang On, This Totally Doesn't Make Sense" Award. Which will hopefully be less of a Mick Fleetwood/Sam Fox type washout than this one.