Can you issue an ASBO to a three year old?

Okay. I think I spent too much time finding those Nikki clips last night. This morning, I turned into her and had a diva strop. Still in bed, rather early, I sat up and screamed my frustration at the opposite wall. It was a case of, if you can't beat them join them. I have spoken before about The Wailing Wall. But let me tell you, the decibel level has escalated to epic proportions since that time. The noisy little bastards have grown a year older - our street has become occupied territory. I sometimes forget that they don't actually live next door. Could they really be only visiting? Do their erratic acoustics merely echo and reverberate in my mind, or ricochet around the walls of my home, hours after they have left? And who visits anybody at 6 am, pray tell?

Can you issue an ASBO to a three year old?

I knew this would happen, of course. I could see it coming after The Ugly Dogs took up residence. My neighbours' grown up daughter, mother of The Loudest Children in the Land - seriously, if this was the Victorian era, the brats would be circus freaks - bought these two very large dogs of the same breed, and when she got pregnant, begged her parents to take them off her. So since then, my baby Puppy has had restricted access to the front garden, and we have to coordinate walkies so that the Ugly Dogs aren't in their front yard when we pass; one of them is particularly vicious, and Puppy has delusions of grandeur. When I found out the girl was having twins, I should've known they'd go the same way as the dogs and started looking for a new place to live immediately. At least three towns away.

But I digress. Back to this morning. For me, it was the culmination of weeks of torture. According to Wikipedia: 'Tenko was created by Lavinia Warner after she had conducted research into the internment of a nursing corps. officer Margot Turner for an edition of This Is Your Life and was convinced of the dramatic potential of these women's stories.' Yeah, whatever, I know the truth; she was laying in bed one morning after two weeks of being subjected to early wake up calls from the Spawn of Satan and trying to imagine something worse!

But enough of the dramatics. Let's look on the bright side. I am glad to report that one of the twins is very imaginative. This morning she invented a brand new game called Let's Shout the Same Word Over and Over Until Chica's Ears Bleed. The little darling! How precious!

This is seriously decimating what little desire I had to ever have children. Although you know, obviously I would be a much more responsible parent. I don't know why they don't make muzzles for children yet, but if I ever reproduce, you can expect to see them in all the major stores. Although to be fair, some days it's not even the kids that wake me up. It's their grandad, Bellowing Bill, an amateur town cryer if ever I heard one. And at least this morning it was the shouting rather than the crying (although the crying has since begun in earnest.) The crying is the absolute worst. Not because they are any louder, but because this provokes their mother into unleashing a string of expletives so loud and so unnecessary that I'm surprised it hasn't had some real and vital consequence. For instance, her high-pitched viral warblings could attract the advances of a randy Johnny Vegas, much like the mating call of a drunk badger. Or, her short-fused temperament and gutter mouth might invoke the spirit of the Slater Sisters. I can see her now, joining their ranks, painting their faces with Burberry stripes, running riot over Albert Square and placing a Chav Embargo on The Queen Vic. This would then plunge Walford into economic crisis and destabilise local politics to the Nth degree, allowing them to take power and exercise their will over all Cockney men, bringing closure to all of their affairs with Alfie Moon.

I tell you I am not taking this laying down. I am plotting my revenge. Maybe I could get BB's Nikki to visit me for Sunday lunch, then we could adopt her as a house mascot and wheel her out every morning as a sort of human alarm clock? Or I could take all of the clips I posted last night, set them on a tape loop attached to a succession of megaphones, and pump it into their house, or failing that directly into their eardrums? I could get a top surgeon to put a chip in their brains perhaps, and control their waking and sleeping hours with my mobile phone. I'm sure I could get someone to work on this with me; just think - I may have found an actual use for Bluetooth!

I think I just need to be an adult, invite their mother over here for a cup of tea and sit down and talk about this rationally. She could probably get an absolute fortune for those kids on eBay. Think of all the handbags!

Who's that Girl?

That moment, for my fellow BB obsessive and Nikki fan Wondy! You'll find more classic Nikki-isms below.

Nikki is the caring, sharing type... I hear everybody needs good neighbours.

There's something rotten in the State of Susie, Nikki stages a coup!

Further evidence that Nikki is in fact the love child of Jimmy Krankie and Vanessa Feltz (if only such a union were possible!)

One year ago

Paint the whole world with a rainbow

Hmm, for some reason Blogger is being very finickity about letting me upload certain images, so apologies for the lack of pictorials in the last few posts.

This week there has been a flurry of activity whilst the Boyf and I have been gathering things together for our trip to France. Cue many trips to B&Q and Ikea. Last night at about eight o'clock, we set out for Ikea and bought lots of soft furnishings to try and brighten up the building site AKA maison where we'll be living for a month. Now, the purchase pictured here may not seem to be the most necessary item of equipment for such an endeavour, but just look how pretty! I'm sure it will cheer me up of a morning when I'm drinking my French coffee and eating croissants! :)

The thing I like about Ikea is the little demo rooms they have set up. I remember being dragged around Ikea as a child, desperate to sneak in when the shop was closed and play house in the gorgeous little sitting rooms and kitchens. Now that I'm a 'grown up', the impulse hasn't waned, and I sometimes think wistfully of that phase I was determined to become an interior designer and make everything beautiful - a phase that was killed, I think, by overexposure to programmes like Changing Rooms and all the rubbish on UK Style my mum inflicted upon anyone who wanted to spend time in the sitting room. But now that I get to pick and choose my own surroundings to a certain degree (cash flow allowing), I can see again what a cool job that would be. And perhaps the French venture will be a good test for whether I'd be suited to such a life or not.

This may seem a bit of a swerve in direction considering I'm always banging on about how much I'd love to write for a living. And that may be true; writing will always be my first love. But I'm happiest when I'm being creative, and a job that not only allows but encourages and even demands my creative side is like my own personal holy grail. If I ever won the lottery, I would up and go and buy houses all over Europe to renovate one by one. Then I could write all about it and indulge both passions simultaneously!

Ah, we can but dream eh?

Overload

You know you've watched too much Big Brother when:

- you recall a conversation you had at work, but try to remember which housemate said it

- 'babes' becomes a catchphrase not only amongst your group of friends, but is used indiscriminately, with your bus driver, shop assistants, and the odd traffic warden

- you have a disturbing sex dream about Glyn

- you can remember the names of the blandest of housemates; Vanessa, Steph, or Amma anyone?

- during a fight with your boyfriend, you accuse him of being in it to win it and playing up to the cameras (he's not even Pete's real friend, he just knows he'll be popular on the outside!)

- you demand the use of at least three beds, and force all new comers to sleep on the floor

- you tear up an old gold lame number that's been rotting in your wardrobe since the eighties, festoon your loo seat with it and start ranting about how you're living in a house full of fake people every time you spend a penny. I take it as read we all have leather-clad bathroom walls yeah?

- when walking down the street, you suddenly start shouting "real people!" and screaming in the faces of passers by

- instead of popping down to the local Asda, Tesco, or what have you, you don an heinous amount of neon and lycra, dance very poorly on the lounge rug, then sit back and wait for the shopping to be delivered. When it doesn't arrive, you speculate about how 'they' are trying to turn you against each other, and that kicking up any sort of fuss would be playing right into their hands

By the by, I don't like all this secret house next door business. It's gone down like a lead balloon with me. Although Jonathon's "nice" when he left to a definite lack of fanfare was pretty funny. Poor old Jonathon, and mean old Big B!

Sasperella

A couple of quotes from my day at work.

Child: What's your name?
Sassy: Sassy.
Child: How do you spell that?
Pete Burns: C-O-W.

Sassy, answering the telephone: Hello, I'm a robot, can I help you?

In other news, I've had half of my hair cut off! I still get a shock every time I look in a mirror!

I am also searching for some pretty bikinis, and have e-mailed my tutor!

And Boyf and I have possibly settled on 'summer pecan 4' for the walls of our French bedroom.

Next post: how to... bring lasting peace to Tajikistan.

Symphony in Yellow

So. Friday I had a half day booked at work, and rode off into the distance with Studmuffin for an afternoon of sexual experimentation. Or at least that's the rumour we've fuelled by leaving together at half twelve :P I did a bit of shopping in town, purchasing 3 stripey tops and a few bits and bobs, and getting my euros for our holiday!! Boyf met me, and caused me to get blisters on my feet rushing about from prospective meeting point to prospective meeting point while he tried to park the car, eating into my valuable shopping time, the swine! He also bought himself a striped jumper from River Island, then had a crisis when he saw somebody who "looked gay" wearing it. It's lovely so I reassured him that it was indeed very manly, and not the slightest bit effeminate. Though it is yellow. And MJ would so wear it.

Then we scurried off to have pizza, but were too late for the legendary pizza buffet lunch. This is a £3.99 all-you-can-eat wonder that allows numerous trips to the yummy salad bar. Every year before Christmas me and my sisters used to take our mum shopping and we'd have pizza buffet for lunch. Because we're such classy birds! Not the Ritz for us!

The evening brought a Big Brother eviction with a twist - the new neighbours. I am cautiously backing fellow scouser Jennie. Until she, you know, makes a tit of herself and I am forced to disown her. What the eff was Aisleyne wearing???!

Oh, and I've resurrected my Last FM account, hence the new button in the sidebar - I had a George Michael period last November it seems!