Oh to be a pencil-pusher again . . .

Well as usual, I'm in a terrible mood . . . mainly because I've managed to do something to my laptop and now it types really slowly and makes a clicking noise, and freezes if I press the same key twice too quickly (this also applies to the 'backspace' button, which is infuriating!)

Additionally, these last two weeks or so, I can't help shake the feeling that . . .

. . . perhaps it's part of my education as a History graduate, but I tend to reflect on past events, and eventually dig out things I missed when the occurance -erm - occured (what?! It's late and I am feeling unimaginative in my utilisation of vocabulary) and so it is fair to say that I am momentarily somewhat riled. I keep being told that I am 'a really nice person'; the truth is, I'm actually not, I can just disguise it incredibly well; cutting remarks, bitchiness and downright petulance are just three of the services I offer, and I do so hate attempting to take the moral high ground at times - it clashes horribly with my never-ending mission to get the last word in.

Anyway, since Gareth claimed earlier that I have 'gone all weird' recently, I suppose I shall cease my grumblings and lighten the mood which I have worked so hard to darken thus far.

Like most people, I loathe my job . . . I mean really loathe my job.  True, I was once told by my boss to spend four hours doodling because there wasn't much work for me to do, but when I compare that to the cushy job I had at Durham County Council, I pretty much had two years worth of being paid to doodle and invent ever more productive ways to be unproductive with my existence. 

Alas, t'was not just me that had this issue, but everyone in the office . . .

On a bright day in the North East of England (which obviously means that the sun held absolutely no warmth) I arrived at work, turned my computer on . . . and turned the Metro newspaper I picked up to the 'Puzzles' section. T'was at this precise moment, when I reached for my trusty chewed Biro, that I realised that not all was as it should be in my domain, and there was an evil presence.  Everything on my desk had gone; my stationary, my pile of papers (which I was relatively pleased with at the time) my foot stool, even my football boots from the drawer had all gone missing.

Because nothing says you're bemused more than a Togepi armed with a banana . . .

In a state of puzzlement, I raised my newspaper, half expecting to find all of my missing possessions underneath it. Alas, there weren't there, but I did find something of great importance to unravelling this spiralling conspiracy (for there was an awful lot of poker-faces around the office.) The note conveyed the following message;

"At 09:30, go to the fax machine."

I checked my watch; 08:46. It was here that I began to realise the full extent of the malevolent goings-on surrounding me; this was no simple "oh let's hide all 'le Silk's' stuff". No, this was on a par with the Da Vinci Code. I waited tentatively, and even had to sacrifice my 09:30 scone time (oddly, in Durham you are considered 'la de dar' if you pronounce 'scone' properly, for it is allegedly a 'sconn', which in Derbyshire is considered the 'la de dar' terminology for said bread-based product).  At 09:31, the fax machine began to violently hum it's distress call of having a function, so I sprang into action, hoping for my next clue to retrieving my Biro (for I do enjoy chewing my Biro's to buggery) and I suppose my football boots weren't particularly cheap either.

I received what I can only describe as a treasure map . . . directing me into the ladies toilets.

With the evident look of mortification on my face, there was a ripple of sniggering, and then a suspicious lack of eye-contact.

After what I can only describe as a sinister amount of time to be waiting outside the opposite gender's restroom, I was confident that the coast was clear . . . so in I went.

My stapler awaited me inside, with a stapled treasure map lodged in it's unforgiving jaws.

And so the trend continued; I followed the treasure map down two flights of stairs to a meeting room and found my calculator hideously tangled with my sellotape reel with another treasure map. Now, the Council building was fairly sizeable; 12 floors, if I remember correctly, and I was being forced to spirograph my way through it's maze to find my possessions. The last item to be retreived were my football boots, which were in the room directly above mine (according to the crude drawings I was presented) and it was here where I uncovered the mastermind of the hideous ploy, beaming with smug satisfaction.

That Rebecca from upstairs . . . I shook

my fist in her general direction.

However, this was not my favourite memory of working in an office, no.  That came nearly a year later, when I was working in Mansfield.  T'was the day of the Royal wedding, and some jester at work decided that it would be brilliant if everyone came to work as if they were going to the Royal wedding . . . for some reason.  Well, no one out-jests me . . . no one!

You need security at a Royal wedding.  Oh yes ladies and gents, I'm not just a freakishly girly face.

Please not that I am sat down, and whilst I'm doing my best to look like I'm deep in thought (as it was my boss who took this photo) that folder spent most of the day lying across my lap.

Why, you ask?

Well, it was the first time I had donned such a costume, and unfortunately it was only about twenty minutes in to my nine hour shift when my co-worker Mark noticed that my trousers . . . how to say . . . were somewhat unforgivingly tight around the crotchal region.  Being the first to notice, he seemed to delight in spreading this information to everyone else in the office . . . and then asked me to come over to his desk (which was greeted with much cackling).  

It turns out that, on this occasion, I was out-jestered . . . TWICE!

Michala, the manager of the sales team, was wiping her tears away at the . . . unfortunate show I inadvertedly put on, and declared "oh I can't take it" whilst she weeped feebly.  Mark's riposte?

So I slinked off to my desk, placed a folder over my lap, and rued the day I got a 'good idea' whilst on eBay.  Still, the torment was not over; at lunch-time, Hollie came over to my fortress . . . 

Hmph, last time I try and do anything novel and a bit quirky . . . in theory.

Almost impressive . . . almost.

I'm just going to put this out there for anyone that may empathise; being single on facebook is scary.  Unfortunately, I didn't screen-print it at the time, but the advertisements facebook deemed most suitable for me were the following;

"25 and still single?" - 'Still'?  Duuuude, ouch!

"Ever thought about adopting?" - Erm, no . . . and I am quite happy to go on not thinking about adopting.

"Protect yourself" (with a picture of a rifle) - Facebook even knows that I have moved into the ghetto!  After some investigating though, it turned out to be an online game . . . shame really.

But alas, I am no longer plagued thusly, following mine and Adam's man-love matrimony.

Now, I realise I promised an amusing story about a brilliant office prank, but this shall have to wait, for I have a pressing issue that needs addressing.

Several years ago, Grace and I were on a day-trip to Nottingham (as Derby is just awful . . . #TheSmithOpinion: "why did you come 'ere?!") when she was trying to not-so-literally twist my arm and make me buy a felt jacket . . . mainly because she had a crush on Richard Fleishman who did some nonce-esque celebrity singing competition in a felt jacket.

 My response?

True story.

A few weeks after this event, my dear friend Richard accompanied us to Nottingham (again, since we were too embarrassed to show him around Derby) and visited the same shop with the same felt jacket.  Not unsurprisingly, no one had snapped it up in my absence.  Grace once again said it would suit me, to which she got my flippant riposte, and then Richard stated something along the lines of . . .

"it wouldn't look gay, it would make you look like Dr. Who."

Orly?

Needless to say, I bought it.

Me and said felt jacket had many a treasured memory in our years together, and not once did I ever suspect that I looked even remotely gay attired as such . . . . until last Saturday evening.

Having visited my sister's house, where my jacket was located, I decided to take it back to my dwelling in Derby (which recently has seen a homeless chap move onto the street . . . not into a house obviously, or else he wouldn't be homeless.  No, he lives down near the Kensington Arms) but couldn't fit it into my bag, so instead just wore it.  I was stood outside Chesterfield train station, with twenty minutes to waste until my train arrived.  Approached was I by an incredibly small southern male called Tyler who asked me for a lighter.  Unfortunately, he appeared to want to socialise with me, whilst I was more than happy being nostalgic over my bleak teenage years listening to Finch (anyone remember the band Finch?  Brilliant!) when, about forty seconds into our conversation, he slipped it in (err, in fact, it's best to swap that to 'dropped' it in . . . or just 'mentioned'; 'mentioned works) that he had 'recently split up with his boyfriend and was looking for a relationship'.

This left me with something of a bone to pick with Grace when I saw her at the weekend.

Grace: "What else were you wearing at the time?"
Me: "Well I was wearing a woolly jumper underneath the felt blazer, these shoes (gestured at the shoes) and some black skinny jeans. . . . . . . . . in fact yep, yep I must have looked gay."

Last week seemed to contain many a deep conversation; through facebook messages with Linda, a very one-sided drunken conversation with Adam (since I wasn't allowed to drink due to medical tests) and again with Grace.  The most stand-out of all of them, with a quote which sort of made me die inside, came from the latter.

"Michael . . . . . . . . . is the reason that you are always so down and miserable because you are denying that you are gay?"

                                                                                                     Grace Cunningham, March 2012

Now, bare in mind that I was in a relationship with Grace for six years - five of which we lived together - you would think that if there is one person on this planet who whole-heartedly would think I'm straight, t'would be her. 

Nope.

She has previously dished me one of my Top 10 all-time insults, which goes;

"You are so far in the closet that you are technically in Narnia"

. . . in fact, thinking of it, Poppy was also fairly convinced I was gay; her 'affectionate' nickname for me was 'Harrygay McBentfag', and I still have the barbs of her brutal form of fraping as evidence to this day.

'Mike' as well . . . I hate the name 'Mike'; t'makes me picture a grubby mechanic.

I couldn't quite say whether Melissa is able to complete the hat-trick in having all my exes convinced I was gay; we never made it that far as we only lasted thirty-seven days.

But then she didn't stay around too long to realise just the full extent of my perceived 'campness' - it takes me longer than thirty-seven days to lace up my Converse All-Stars.

My friends and family are not much better at attacking my alleged sexual preference; I seem to have been lumbered with the unfortunate moniker of 'Captain Queero'.  Both my mother and sister have asked me on different occasions whether I'm gay or not, and I accidently 'gayed' my father at Hallowe'en.  He popped over for a flying visit, and I quizzed him whether or not he was heading back into Chesterfield centre.  He responded in the affirmative, so I asked him if I could get a lift as I needed to go in, to which he convivially asked what it was I needed from town.

"I need some more make-up . . . "

My father's reaction.

". . . for my Hallowe'en costume."

At times it all gets a bit much, so I turn to my facebook friends for some comforting reassurance . . . and find none whatsoever.

. . . . yeahhhhhh so it transpires that Melissa also thinks I am gay.  Hat-trick of ex-girlfriends who think I'm gay.  When you think about it, it is almost impressive . . . almost.

Not a one for the easily outraged . . . or my mother.

Y'know you watch far too much anime when one watches 'Tales of Earthsea' undistracted (unlike last time!) and recognise that Arron is voiced by the person who does the voice of Light Yagami in Deathnote; brilliant series, Deathnote is, people need - and I mean medically need - to read or watch it.  Unfortunately, Melissa managed to escape my vile clutches before her anime conversion was completed . . . along with an introduction to Flight of the Conchords and a crash course in Red Dwarf.

Oh well, more foreveralonetime for me.

Friday 9th March proved to be a date that shall long live in my memoirs; the fact that I have managed to get the material for an entire blog post in twenty-fours is quite impressive.

On Thursday, I got a text message from Gareth loosely conveying the following message for the forthcoming Friday evening;

Having no real valid excuse to respond in the negative, I reluctantly responded in the positive. Tim and Tommy had already arranged a Left 4 Dead night in, and combining our efforts we bullied Adam into partaking, and after some tense negotiations between Claire and myself, we agreed that we could stay over at myweekend retreat in return for a bottle of Smirnoff for Tim and Tommy, and drinks for Claire.

It worked out cheaper than a taxi back to Chesterfield, so t'was agreed, and Adam and Gareth were press-ganged into the bargain, much to their bemusement.

Upon meeting Gareth, the insults just seemed to be hurled in my direction, and the volume of which only seemed to gather momentum as our group slowly expanded.  There's me, concerned over a mystery illness and coming to terms and accepting other things, and there they are, telling me I'm 'softer than a cotton cloud' and 'such a fag'.  I was hoping that Claire might subdue their tirade, as she has been known to defend me before, and drunkenly exclaim loudly that I'm "SOOOOO CUTE!" when I'm asleep . . . obviously I'm not asleep to register this, and in my mind it's all

 

But no.

"You can be such a twat at times," Claire de-claired.

Ouch

Why such abuse, you may be wondering.  Well, t'was the first time I'd seen Gareth since me and Melissa broke up, and there were an awful lot of questions thrown about.  I can't quite remember how it came about, but the whole Poppy 'fiasco' got thrown into the mix, and he seemed completely dumb-founded that I don't either hate Melissa or hoped that something bad had happened to Poppy for what she did.

(Neither were said with any malice I should add, but more trying to wake me up a bit and shake off any remnants of feelings I might have for either of them and establish how I'm feeling based on my reactions.) 

And then, that question came;

"If Poppy re-appeared and wanted to try again, would you get back with her?"

. . . and because I paused briefly before answering he made his own answer of yes, and went talking louder than me to everyone about how I want Poppy back.  In all honesty, I was a bit hurt how everyone believed Gareth - man man who is utterly convinced that 'chicks dig buttons' - on my previous relationship/friendship with said subject than myself.  Well, since I know Tim, Claire, Gareth, Adam and Tommy read this, it's now my turn to explain, so firstly please . . .

No, I don't hate Melissa.  Why would I?  We crammed in a load of giggles in just over a month and we had some utterly hilarious moments in a short space of time (the 'that's what she said' moments in the lift were just brilliant.)  I don't hate any of my ex's; me and Grace were together for six years and are absolutely best friends nowadays and it's great, and me and Poppy broke up in August but remained thick as thieves together up until December. I don't understand why people think that it is 'normal' to hate or just pretend someone you once thought the world of is no longer of any significance to you.  I'm happy that Grace is doing well in her career and has someone who clearly adores her, and I'm pleased for Melissa that she is now with someone that makes much more sense for her to be with than me.  Now, whilst I think it's good to have ex's still as friends, sometimes it gets a bit strange - Poppy was once messaging Grace to find things out about me, and the other day Melissa suggested that maybe me and Grace should give things another go.

And yes, that means I don't even hate Poppy.

True, she showed herself to be - and I do hate to swear, I really do, but I think in this circumstance it's justified - a calculated conniving cunt . . . but for a while she was my calculated conniving cunt. She was my best friend and there wouldn't be a day goes by without us phoning one another (well that's a lie, since we fell out every Wednesday and made friends again every Saturday) and it is fair to say that she and Lyla combined changed me for the better (I'm sure Grace will be more than willing to testify that.)  And so, to answer the question; no, if she did suddenly re-appear, I wouldn't get back with her.  How could I after what she did?  That doesn't mean that I don't want her to come back into my life, because I hope that wherever they both are that they are okay, and I do miss them both terribly.

Anyway, onwards to Friday's tomfoolery!

So the night consisted of Adam, Gareth, Claire and myself, and after visiting 'the Bowery' - a pub owned by the drummer from the Arctic Monkeys - we ventured on to Corporation.  We got in at around about 23:00, and Gareth disappeared by 23:15 . . . . on one of my many trips outside, I found him giggling to himself on a bench at 23:45.  Quite how anyone can get so schmock-faced in a thirty-minute period is truly beyond my comprehension, but alas, this was the situation I was faced with.

Now, perhaps I am doing him a disservice, but I honestly do worry about Gareth's survival skills - he doesn't now how to cook bacon . . . even I know how to cook bacon and I've been a vegetarian since I was 13 - and he considered it a ground-breaking achievement once he had mastered the art of cracking an egg at the age of 24. So with this at the forefront of my mind, I whisked him outside and text Claire - our student nurse - that "I found Gareth, he is bloody obliterated. Halp!  Come outside plz (:"

Claire always seems to get messages from me containing the word 'HALP!'

Adam and Claire arrived and believed that he was faking it . . . and then it all became apparent that he wasn't.  Like a child with too much sugar in his system after his bed time, we couldn't get him to be still, and he spent the night prowling around Corporation.  With Adam and Claire dancing, it sort of left me with a great deal of 'reflective' time outside . . . . until it happened.

A girl came up to me. An actual female!  She reminded me of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on it.  She said that my jumper was 'brilliant' - chicks dig woolly jumpers, fact! - and we were 'talking' for a while, all the time I was trying to place where I knew her from or who she reminded me of.  Then, we . . . err . . . sort of kissed . . . quite a bit . . .

. . . and it was at this precise moment that my world collapsed and realised that she was an absolute Poppy-clone - angel-bite piercings and everything.

 

Oh for a really world-class therapist . . .

Now, I am no good at this whole 'being single' malarky.  Despite Gareth's claims that I am a 'serial womaniser' I've only been in three relationships, and can probably count the people I've kissed on my hands, but what was more alarming is, after we kissed, she asked me "where are you staying tonight?"

Not sure if come-on . . .

And so with that, I blurted out "I'm staying at a friends house . . . . I should really go and look for them."  And so I skulked off into a dark recess with a whole heap of regrets.

Gareth wasn't entirely finished though.  I saw my good friend Rachel quite a few times and got one long lovely hug from her because I 'looked so sad', and just as she was leaving, she said "I spoke to your friend Gareth, he is sooooo funny." She left chuckling.

Oh Cheesus now what's he done?

I found Gareth, strolling around . . . bleary-eyed . . . a big cheesy grin on his face, but I questioned him sharply about what he had said to Rachel.  I would have preferred not to have known, but alas, hindsight is a truly beautiful thing.

"I said . . . I said . . . said 'Rachel . . . I said 'leave it with me Rachel.  I'll make Michael get his nob out for you."

                                                                                                             Gareth Smith. 9th March 2012

What?  Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude!

We got him home without too much further trouble - although he did try and lick someone through a chip-shop window - but then the troubles re-started once we got him home.  Immediately he was asleep on the sofa, and despite me asking so nicely if I could sleep at the end of Tim and Claire's bed like a dog, I got turned down (I attempted it anyway, but Tim being the cruel master that he is slapped me in the juggular . . . TWICE!) So I was confined to sleeping on the floor near Gareth, where I came very close to being vomitted on whilst I slept . . . TWICE!

Fortunately I used the sleeping bag as a cocoon against any onslaught.

Oh he was a sorry state the next morning, there are even photo's to prove it which he promised would never put them on facebook . . . . . nothing got mentioned about a blog though.

Consider it justice for calling me a 'soft fag and offering my genitals around >:D

Well that's me waffled out, the next one will be about the peach of an office prank I had played on me, unless something else crops up over the weekend.  Buh bye!

 

. . . the fudge is 'Woman Day'?

The new look blog . . . too jazzeh?

Ummmm, I feel that I should openly apologise . . . well actually, I should apologise twice.

Firstly, I direct sincere regret for my vindication of the baby next door.  Previously, I have grumbled incessantly about just how noisy it is, to the extent that I couldn't wait to be back at work to be surrounded by heavy machinery for twelve hours solid for a pleasant relaxing time.  My loathing has since shifted to its parents (or a very close approximation) who spend all hours of the day arguing loudly, and then shouting at the baby who is upset because its parents are arguing.  I now just feel pity for the child, and a level of empathy . . . tempted to steal it for myself and raise it in my image - thus granting me the all-clear to be the proud owner of the Sheffield Steelers piece of merchandise "Baby Steeler On Board" - and together we shall walk the sands of time, across the wastes and . . . . . . . . . well I forget where I was going with this, but yo' get my point.

Gah!  It sort of pains me to admit this but . . . this morning, I got in from work at 07:30 and went to bed, and drifted off with the sound of the baby giggling and laughing to himself with the Rugrats theme-tune playing quietly. It was . . . I mean . . . how to say . . . it was . . .

adorable.

There, I said it!  Lyla-Mae turned me into a softie!  Before that fateful time when I first met her as a bump at a party I detested anything under the age of 14, and strongly thought that the world would be a better place if child labour was re-introduced.  For some reason children just hate me; on public transport they stare me out, on mine and Melissa's first ever date I somehow managed to destroy one that ran into the back of me, and I will never forget that grim grim memory of me and Grace in Chesterfield, an infant male was sprinting directly at me with his unco-ordinated feet.  I panicked.  Releasing Grace's hand, I aimed for the relative shelter of pressing myself against the window of Superdrug.

It didn't work.

So much hatred this child had for me, that he deviated his path and charged straight into me.  Pinned against a shop window, I had no escape.  The impact came.  Bham! Headbutted with his big wobbly head right in an area God never intended for foul treatment . . . and he still kept on sprinting!  So I was there, on a Saturday along Chesterfield's busiest street in full view of everyone being essentially sexually assaulted by a seven-year old male who, I presume, was a catheter in a previous incarnation.

Not a consoling word from Grace, just a "come along nob'ed" XD

Secondly, I feel like I should apologise for being such a mard-aardvark recently.  I had an awful lot of things thrown in at once over the last few weeks; Melissa ending things, trying to finish Lyla's story which brought up a lot of what I would term as 'unfinished business' , these worrying black-out spells which seem to be getting a bit more frequent, and it was this time last year when my grandma died so I've been in a rather sullen and reflective mood for about three weeks now . . . which may not have helped things between me and Melissa because I just don't like opening up to people - which is sort of why I write a blog, letters and books, it helps me unjumble my thoughts -  but alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing.  Basically, what I am trying to say is, I have lost what is medically termed as ones 'mojo'.

I was at the doctors this morning (Friday) and was put back on anti-depressants for the third time in three years, which is just a peach. In all honesty, I should probably have been on them since late December, because . . . well, there can't be many worse things to go through really, but I can't thank Claire, Gareth, Tina, Grace, my mum and Melissa enough for the way they looked out for me and made January one of the happiest months I can remember.  As for the blacking out episodes I'm having, I have to go back for some extensive tests next Friday, but the moustachioed Asian doctor who called me 'Michael Sick' said that it is most likely to be epilepsy, but he ran off some other scary medical conditions too. I endured the awkward moment when the doctor was taking my blood pressure and querying whether I felt okay today, and I replied 'yep, fine'.  He continued, asking whether I usually feel like I do today, which I do - perfectly fine.  He directed my glance to the read-out, which was 98 over 86 (most people's is 120 over 80-something, and unconciousness usually occurs at around 80 over something-something.)

Croikey, I should probably change my nickname from 'Kilroy' to 'Kill-joy' at the moment.  Anyway, to more positive things.

On Tuesday I received my blogs 1000th pageview, and a rather impressive 93 pageviews in February alone, which makes me a happy boy . . . see below for further details.

. . . and this is why I never smile . . . ever.

It pleases me that something which started out as an ingenius way of wasting my life in November regailing my own buffoonery and the tomfoolery of my cohorts and posted solely on facebook (I don't put le tags in or anything like that - effort!) has now got readers in America and people actually googling this blog . . . quick!  Back to the happy face picture!  Additionally, since the events of last week, it turns out that I've also bid a not-so-fond farewell to 7lbs, which I lost in 9 days simply by sleeping my woes out the window.

Not that you can tell; it's the equivalent of 

throwing a deck-chair off the Titanic.

Those of you that have followed my blog from the very first post might remember that it used to be called 'Like A Billionaire But With Nothing To Spare', based on the beautiful song 'Waste Of Space' by Delays (but you probably haven't heard of them: my hipster moment of the day there).  I picked this as the title, as the following line is 'All this time on my hands doesn't go anywhere' which rang true of my November, but alas, this is no more the case, as I've had a relatively productive week.  Along with getting closer to uncovering my latest medical ailment, I also finished the tedious tale of 'Volbert the Mole' which was intended just as a silly but sentimental present for Lyla, an ex-girlfriend/former best friend's daughter, I thought "meh!  Why the fudge shouldn't I try and take it further?" so I've been doing some enquiring around at some childrens book publishers . . . turns out that it is a rather complicated process.  

Who knew?

To be quite honest, I don't think it'll get anywhere, as it wasn't particularly written for a child to read, but more for an adult to read to a child . . . well, one particular adult to read to one particular child (which limits the target audience somewhat).  Also, I really didn't like doing a child's book; my other one -  'The New God' -  involves a lot of backstabbing, assassinations, foul language, violence, a love-hate romance, a main character who goes manically insane, one arse'ole of a woman, and even a scene I found cringe-inducing to type of someone making themselves no longer a man . . . .

. . . which I got really involved in (well that sounded wrong!) but with childrens books . . . . . . okay, I'll say it.  The two things I hate most about myself are (a) my chin - it makes me look like I have a head the shape of a baked bean - and (b) my voice.  Anyone who has ever heard me talk will understand why; it is completely devoid of emotion and sentiment; I would say my wedding vows on the happiest day of my life in the exact same voice I'd read my own mother's eulogy, and when I try to sound warm, welcoming or enthusiastic, it just comes across as patronising and sarcastic.  And so, as I was reading back through the finished 'Volbert the Mole', I could just hear my own voice narrating . . . t'was grim.  Still, I suppose the worst these publishers can say is 'no, its a load of bobbins', and even considering my rather fragile emotional state right now, it's not like I can put my head in the oven and turn the gas on . . . I even fail at failing at life.

Six  Month Single Challenge - Update

Wednesday evening saw me encounter my first obstacle, in the shape of Kristina at work, who - I think - was flirting with me . . . but then I have never been good at determining such things.  Usually I never talk to her - or anyone - but since they have banned everyone from listening to mp3 players now, I am prone to being socialised with.  Kristina, the 5ft 1 inch, blonde Polish girl who it is impossible to put an age on decided to walk across the warehouse to where I was playing with craft knives, and start talking to me about 'Woman Day', which is on the 8th March (apparently).  This is the conversation (and please read Kristina's part in a Polish accent);

Kristina: Hello Michael, I haven't seen you for while, how are you?

Me: Erm, I just cut my finger with a craft knife, so not great.  How are you?

Kristina: You always bleeding!  I'm sad.

Me: . . . . . why are you sad?

Kristina: Tomorrow is Woman Day, and every woman is meant to get flowers for Woman Day, but I never had Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Woman Day? Do you mean Mother's Day?

Kristina: No!  I mean Woman Day.  You never heard of Woman Day?!

Me: I don't think anyone's heard of Woman Day.

Kristina: Is Woman Day tomorrow!

She proceeded to google 'Woman Day' on her phone . . . turns out the 8th March is Woman Day.

Kristina: See?  It Woman Day, but no one ever buys me Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . probably because no one knows it's Woman Day.

Kristina: I'll be sad tomorrow if I come into work and I have no Woman Day flowers.
Me: So when is Man Day?
Kristina: Is . . . . five days away . . . after Sunday.
Me: Oh! Oh no, no. . . no.  Man Day for . . . a man. (at this point I semi-pointed at myself; she didn't look convinced).

Kristina: There is no Man Day!
Me: . . . . . s'a wee bit unfair.
Kristina: [in a patronising voice] Awww, would Michael like pretty flowers?

And with that, she walked off giggling to herself and talking to a friend in Polish, who also started giggling, and all before I could even answer in the affirmative that I would indeed like some pretty flowers.

My thoughts exactly Picard.

My plan of action.

. . . nothing, obviously.  Six-month single challenge ftw.

Sorry Kristina, but no 'Woman Day' flowers 
for you for another year.

Challenge Accepted

*sigh*

I was fairly convinced that I would never have to endure a day quite as awful and traumatic as 27th December, 2011, but alas, we have a worthy contender on our hands.

4th March 2012.

Not just the day I had been feeling particularly glum over due to it being Lyla-Mae's first birthday and the book I wrote for her unearthed some rather unpleasant memories in the latter few days (along with a half-buried burning desire to crush, kill and destroy said person's mother) but I did some further investigating into the reasons behind Melissa's reasons for ending things . .

Here's a word of advice for my disciples: being blissfully unaware of everything is drastically underrated. 

So yush, on accounts of both Poppy and Melissa, I've come to accept that excavating too much is never going to end well . . . I mean just look what happened in 'The Mummy'. 

And so I ended up saying 'goodbye' to the two people that meant the most to me on the same day . . . but if that wasn't bad enough, oh no!  My long-standing feud with modern technology jus' had to stick the boot in there, didn't it?  I got trolled by my mp3 player, which just so happened to select the much appreciated song 'Push It' - well known for the lines 'ooh babeh babeh!' which me and Poppy once sang to Lyla (my part down the phone) for teh lulz  - which is done by Salt 'n' Peppa - the names of Melissa's two dogs.

Needless to say, I spent the night weeping copiously into Totoro's comforting mass.

(but on a more serious note, although things didn't work out between me and Melissa and I'm quite hurt I don't have a bad word to say about her.  She has a heart of pure gold and an infectious smile, and will make a certain someone very happy.)

And so, as you can probably imagine, today I wish I was dead . . . or in bed . . . or had just stubbed my toe (I dunno, I fail at this whole emo malarky). But, as I have previously said in this blog about December 2011, things after March 2012 can only improve.

Given that I have once again tried to find someone amongst my own species who can appreciate my existence and subsequently failed, I am partaking in an activity - nay, a drastic change in lifestyle choice, you may say (according to both Grace and Gareth, the two people who probably know me the best) - and, from this day forth, I shall be endeavouring to complete the great undertaking of . . .

That's right folks!  I'm not even going to consider entertaining the idea of one of these fancy womenfolk until 5th September 2012.  In my mind, I have the image of me spending the next six months will be spent thusly;

- Without a care in the world.
- Getting hilariously drunk on many an occasion.
- Acting incredibly immaturely for my considerable age.
- Passing my driving test
- Finishing 'The New God' - yeah the title changed due to one of those bolt-upright-at-5am moments of inspiration.
- Curing smallpox.
- Errrrr . . . . think I'm about done, but you get my drift.

However, I think we all know that in all actuality the next six months will be spent mainly on Tim and Claire's sofa and moaning about anything that comes to mind. Oh well!

But yep, I shall be staying one step ahead of the inevitability of rejection by spending my next six months . . .