Rise of the Kneehigh Terrorists

"Grumpy", "A bit ranty", "No good without caffeine".

Just a few of the ways I have been described in the past. Another way:

"Yeah, I can't see her having children".

This bothers me less than you might imagine, given that I'm one of the least maternal people EVER. Me, Furious P and TabTwin#1 discuss our lack of maternal instincts on a regular basis. Usually over a glass or 3 of wine. In a restaurant. Without having to rush home for the babysitter. Ha.

Furious P is well-known for her intolerance towards Yummy Mummies who feed their children houmous ('HOOOMUSS!!'), and don't get her started on the Babyccino. TabTwin#1 says she's too clumsy and doesn't want to give up smoking yet. And me? Too selfish and far too intolerant of noisy things that poo innapropriately and keep irregular hours (which is probably why I don't like the Ignorant Kiwi if I'm honest).

I'd be a terrible mother. I'd forget to feed it or something, or leave it on the bus. When I was Squidgy Niece-sitting last week I let her watch Monsters Inc twice in a row cos it meant that she would sit down and eat her toast. That I'd put chocolate spread on. Pixar and Nutella? Bad Auntie Badger.

That's not to say I don't adore my friends' children. They're lovely, on the whole. But I REALLY have a problem with the kids that live near me, and their too-lenient parents. Little kneehigh terrorists weaving about the pavement on their scooters, with mummy squawking into her mobile at the au-pair about giving Buttercup and Orlando organic weetabix. SW15 is rapidly becoming the new Nappy Valley, rather than the Antipodean playground I moved into 6 years ago.

To all the Yummy Mummies and Daddies out there, over-populate the planet if you must, but please, keep your progeny away from me, preferably on a leash. And you probably shouldn't ask me to babysit either. Especially if you don't want me putting a cork up its arse so I won't have to change its nappy.

Not. Playing. Any. More.

I've had it with this shit. I've just spent my lunch hour researching more effective ways to combat mildew in my bathroom and comparing prices of different cleaning solutions online. Last night I had a conversation with the Ignorant Kiwi about taxes and dividends. Yesterday afternoon I threw out at least 50% of the stuff in my room. The day before that I was at a christening wearing an outfit smarter than I usually wear to work, and only got the giggles in church once. I bought lunch with me today because it was cheaper and healthier than anything I could get here. I even offered to look after Squidgey Niece for my sister, and I wasn't being ironic. In short, I've been behaving like some kind of grown up.


So, if anyone wants me tonight I'll be under the duvet watching Labyrinth on VHS with the rodent, eating a Sherbet Dibdab and washing it down with fizzy pop.

An Unkindness of Ravens

OK, the title of this post is a shameless plugging of my mate's band. I won't put a link cos I want you to read this not listen to that but when you've finished go and have a look. I'm not overly keen on them to be honest but what do I know? I was walking through Waterloo this morning and suddenly realised I was listening to Westlife.

Tenuously enough though, I was also thinking about unkindness this morning. More specifically, I was thinking about the dastardly duo that clean our office. Let's call them Beardy and Weirdy. Whilst it goes without saying that they probably have a fairly thankless job, they really don't do themselves any favours...I mean seriously, if your job is to clean, how difficult is it to maintain your own levels of personal hygiene??

Beardy likes to share his conspiracy theories with you. Even when you've got headphones on and are staring intently at your computer screen pretending that you've never seen a more interesting spreadsheet in your life. His theories are mad and delusional, and I don't think I've ever seen him happier than when Michael Jackson died. Ultimately though, he's harmless. Crazy, but harmless. It's Weirdy that you've got to watch out for.

She's like a silent assassin. Sneaking up behind you to empty your bin and wrestle the coffee mug you're still using from your hands, if you aren't talking on the phone then in her eyes you're fair game for a conversation. She'll look to your computer screen for inspiration first. Bank balance open? "Oh, you're skint yeah?". The Ryanair website - "Oh, you're going on holiday again yeah?", a banner ad for Durex - "Oh, you're gonna have sex yeah?". You get my drift.

But more fool you if you make eye contact with her and she can't comment on your web browsing proclivities. Cos that bitch can be VICIOUS. Me and Mrs Kiwi have been told on countless occasions that we look old and haggard, prompting her to bring us green teabags which will help our wrinkly eyes and presumably make us look less offensive to the world. People we share the office with get told they look like shit on an even more regular basis, but can't retaliate. Because this is the genius of Weirdy. She doesn't say these things to be cruel and unkind, she says them because she genuinely thinks she is doing you a favour by letting you know that you have eyebags, or visible eczema, or a second head, cos you can then do something about it. Brutal honesty with the emphasis on brutal.

I put people like her in the same bracket as Sunday Christians, vegans who think it's ok to eat cake and icecream, and my old bosses at Runbynumpties International: if I could be arsed I'd probably want to throw bricks at you. But, unlike L'oreal, you're just not worth it.