Defier of Logic, Drinker of Coffee

So very, very tired.  I agreed..no.. wholeheartedly volunteered/flung myself at the opportunity to cover the early shifts at work for the second week running.  Not because I'm some kind of saintly, generous soul who thinks only of helping out her fellow man in the work place.  It's because it means I get to do a little "enjoy the rest of your shift, suckaaas!" dance on my way out the door at 3pm while my well rested co workers ferret away at their computers for another couple of hours.

While it is true that I do get to leave the office at 3pm (in theory, depending on how much left over faffage I have from the day's work), what I neglected to factor into my decision was the fact that I really, really like sleep.  If sleep was a person, I would marry it.  

But. In order to get to work on time and fit in a short dog walk (let's face it, a Becky walk - the dog has made his desire for "just another 5 minutes' sleep.." clear more or less every day that I've dragged him out of the house), I have to get up at 5am.  A weird hour which is neither day nor night, and when the only other people around are nurses coming home from night shifts, insomniacs and other people who have made bad decisions.  Because of this Godforsaken waking hour that no amount of coffee can remedy the effects of, I've been completely and totally bollocksed by 8pm like clockwork.  

I've been getting into bed at about 9 each night, praying for a solid 8 hours' sweet, sweet unconsciousness and instead waking intermittently for the first hour or so (after a decent to improper amount of Facebook scrolling of course) because I'm convinced that it's morning as the sun hasn't even gone down yet.  I'm later woken again when the residents of the house (Andy and my small zoo) come up to bed at a normal, functioning-human hour and then again several more times in the night because I'm having mini panic-wakes because "Agh! It's only a couple of hours before I have to get up!"

My life choices often defy logic in this kind of way.  Of course 2 weeks of waking at arse crack o' clock = sleepy and barely functioning.  And yet I would still lunge at the chance to go to work at 4am if it meant I could leave at midday.  Or even offer to do the same shift indefinitely ("You mean I get to leave at 3 EVERY day? Wow!  Sign me up!") if the chance came my way. Common sense eludes me.  Here are some other ways that I laugh in the face of logic:

I eat until I'm immobile

Anyone who has read more than one of these blog posts (thank you, you lovely person if you have!) will know that to say I am a fan of food is like saying that erroneously trusting a fart in white trousers would be a little bit embarrassing.  It's a massive understatement. 

Clarification: I have never sharted in public, but I couldn't think of anything more unpleasant that could hypothetically happen as an example.  Let's be honest, if I had that kind of experience, I would have blogged about it already.  I have little to no shame.  Also my thoughts go out to anyone who has lived through the trauma of public sharting.  Your bravery in soldiering on is commendable.  Everything in this paragraph is indicative of how tired I am.  Help me.

Moving on from shart based digression: I start every meal telling myself that I am going to eat only enough for me to be able gain an adequate amount of nourishment.  Like you're supposed to.  Once I have done that, I reward myself with further mouthfuls.  Sometimes I reward myself so much that I spend whole evenings clutching my stomach and asking the ceiling "why, God, why?"  God has never spoken back to me, because s/he knows I already know the answer.  It's because I am a greedy so-and-so who will eventually be the proud owner of four chins.   It's good to achieve things in life.

I broadcast my failings

Okay, maybe not failings.  Mishaps.  I'm cack-handed by nature and so am frequently betrayed by my own body's inability to perform simple tasks.  I've unintentionally thrown things I'm holding at the floor whilst standing still.  I'm skilled in tripping over nothing at all.  I've been known to choke on air...you know, that stuff that keeps you alive?  Lots of these things are done without witnesses, so if I wanted to, I could maybe portray myself as a semi capable hominoid if I really wanted to.  Instead, every time I've done something inexplicably stupid like temporarily forget what the number 9 looks like or trying to hang up my work phone by lightly smacking the receiver against the table instead of the holder, I immediately look for people I can tell about it.  I think it's because my body is constantly finding new and fun ways to fuck my day up a little bit and I want to share my awe of its stubborn independence and creativity with others.

I always find ways to piss Future Me off

This goes hand in hand with the whole eating-until-I'm-in-pain thing.  I know that doing the thing is going to have consequences I'm not going to want to deal with later, so in the long run, it's actually easier to not do the thing.  

However,  Present Me doesn't care.  Future Me is a whiny bitch who'll just have to suck it up and get on with it when the times comes.  Which is all well and good until Future Me becomes Present Me, who is gobsmacked and infuriated by Past Me's audacity at leaving Present Me all of those dishes to do/ making her have to get up from bed twenty bajillion times to go to the loo to relieve herself of the twenty gazillion pints of water she had before sleeping/ leaving her staring forlornly at her bereft bank account because Past Me decided that money is just a concept and therefore not real.  Past Me is a dick.

I assume that THIS will be the time that I drink and don't get a hang over. Every. Single. Time.

Self explanatory.  I blame Past Me.

Note: Am not currently drinking.  I might defy logic, the but having to get up at 5am after a Thursday night booze up in my jammies makes me want to cry.  I'm illogical, not insane.

I drink coffee as a remedy for stress

Yup.  That rocket fuel made ground-up of jitters and fear is the perfect, soothing remedy for a tough day at the office when you need your wits about you at all times.  It's so much easier to type when your fingers are engaged in involuntary jazz hands.  Genius.

I could go on.  Maybe I'll do a part 2 some time.  I'd better round this up now, because it's 5 minutes to 8pm and if experience has taught me anything, I'm about to fall asleep sat bolt upright with my mouth hanging open.  

I'll leave you with this -  A photographic depiction of logic slapping me in the face while I remain blissfully unaware of it:

 

Actually, it's me drinking a mojito at Christmas time, leaning on my own hand.  Also, I don't know if logic would wear a fitbit.

...Goodnight!

How You Know You're the Office Noob

I'm getting worse at blogging regularly, but this month I have an excuse.  The validity of my excuse is debatable, but I'm going to use it anyway.  So there.  

I've been crap lately because I started a new job a few weeks ago.  I've moved on from a full time career in listening to people shout at me about car tax while I do colouring in (disclaimer:  wasn't all bad - got to work with some lovely people, and I will hold the fragmented memories of nights out I've had with said people for a long time.  And they let me do colouring in) to a more rewarding one where I have to use my brain in different ways.

My brain is not used to this.  Until I get accustomed to it, I think I'll continue coming home every weeknight with the I.Q of a baked bean, attempting to put my dishes in the washing machine and staring into empty mugs which held tea that I have no memory of drinking.  Or making, come to think of it.  It's challenging and absorbing, and so far the days are flying by more quickly than I can blink (I have very dry eyes.  Shut up, it's a thing). Also, I've discovered that I actually enjoy commuting with a flask of coffee and a load of podcasts to burn through at the ass crack of dawn.  I found out that I don't really mind occasionally having to get up at 5am to pootle to the office for an early shift either.  What's wrong with me?

My new work folk have made being a noob a nice experience for me, and I'm trying to return the favour by fucking as little shit up as possible.  So, far, so good.  I think.  I mean, nothing's caught fire under my watch and no one has sustained minor injuries as a result of my work.  Even if I am working in an office and the biggest injury I could probably inflict is a paper cut.  It's been a good couple of years since I've been the office fresh(ish) meat.  Here's what I've been reminded it's like to be the new guy in town:

How You Know You're the Office Noob

1.  You're so "helpful" that it's annoying.

Yes, you're eager to show willing and so grateful to have been given your new role that you offer to do EVERYTHING.   You then need to ask those same people you've ever-so-kindly taken those jobs from (because you're a bloody saint, you are) to show you very... slowly... what to do from scratch, ultimately resulting in them doing all the work anyway but in half the speed they normally do it so that your blank little mind can keep up.

"Wait, wait.  Can you show me that again?  I missed that part."  Look how helpful I'm being!

2.  Offering to make tea for the first time = stress sweats.

Okay.  So there are about 20 people in the room with me, and every one of them has made me a cup of tea or coffee at least once this week.  I need to offer to make one for them soon, or they'll assume I'm a terrible, selfish person.  But what if they all say yes at the same time?  How will I remember who wants tea? Coffee? One sugar?  Two sugar?  None? Strong? Weak?  What if I give them someone else's mug by accident and then they all tell me I'm wrong?  *Gasp* what if no one tells me I'm wrong and I keep making them the wrong thing in the wrong mug forever and they secretly resent me more and more for the rest of my career until they want to stab me in the leg with a teaspoon?  THIS IS SO STRESSFUL!!  

Reality (realit-tea...haw haw)

Noob: "Who wants a drink?"

All of office bar the two people who drink only black coffee: "No, I'm good, thanks."

3.   Novelty makes every nice thing about the job seem AMAZING!

We don't have to work weekends?  Hells yes!  There's a kettle within a few feet of my desk?  Omg! I can eat food at my desk?  Outside of my lunch break? Wow! And I get paid money to come here?  My new colleagues aren't fascist, violent, fire breathing lizards from space? Shit, this job is THE BEST!!  

4.  You spend a good 50% of your brain power trying to rein in the clumsy.

These people don't know that you have a penchant for spilling tea up walls while you're stood still and for tripping over wires that aren't actually there.  For all they know, you're a tight rope walking ballerina in your free time.  Enjoy that while it lasts, and try not to chew on the wrong side of your biro again 'kay?  We don't want another blue moustache.

5.  You feel a sweet, sweet sense of relief that your new place of employment appreciates cake just as much as your previous job.  Thank God.  Thank God for cake. Cake is the best, isn't it? Mmm, cake.  What was I writing about again?  I don't care.  I'm going to find some cake.

Good Mor-AAAAAGH!!!

Hullo, interweb! I'm feeling a bit twitchy and face-punchy tonight, so I'm going to offload by telling you all about my morning. By the end of this post, you will know how this day and I got off on the wrong foot, and hopefully I will have had a nice chuckle to myself about its events in retrospect. Hopefully. Failing that, I will repeatedly run into a wall until I feel suitably calm/disorientated. I will post footage of it and become an overnight YouTube megastar. Win-win.

*clenches fists and exhales*

I awoke to the sensation of gentle sunlight pawing at my face through the blinds and lovingly prying my stuck-together eyelids open with its warm, affectionate fingers. A snored obliviously next to me as I attempted to will my lifeless arm back to the land of the living, as it had been smothered in the night by my unconscious head. Kind of like how Uma Thurman coaxes her toes back to life in Kill Bill.

"Wiggle you big...thumb."

I felt drowsy, calm and peaceful. And then confused. It was a Wednesday morning, wasn't it? Why was I feeling calm, drowsy and peaceful? Surely something was amiss?

And then I realised. I wasn't being beaten around the head by the usual sound of my alarm going off. I blearily peeped at my iPhone. It looked goofily back up at me, informing me that it was 10.30am exactly (the exact time I should have been walking through the doors at the office). I imagined it innocently cocking its head at me like a mentally subnormal spaniel.

snooze?

OHMYGODI'MLATEFORWORKTHEY'REGOINGTOKILLMEAAAAAGH!!!

"A, WAKE UP I'M LATE!!"

"So? Just get ready and say you're sorry. And stop calling me A. I have a name."

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, A, I CAN NEVER BE LATE, I'M GOING TO GET FIRED AND THEN THROWN IN THE RIVER TO SWIM WITH THE FISHIES!! THE PIRANI WILL EAT MY FACE!!"

"Calm down...Don't you mean piranhas?"

For the record. I hate being late. If anything, I am always socially unacceptably early to everything. I leave the house in a blind state of unfettered panic even if I am comfortably on time, just incase something catastrophic happens on the way to the thing I have to be at that might result in my lateness...

...Like my running over a person while rifling through my CD collection with one eye on the road (not that I ever do that. Honest.), or having to slow down because I think I've seen the three wheeler from Only Fools and Horses pass me by (I swear, I saw it by Tesco! If I see it again, I WILL take a picture).

Anyway, with one eye still crusted shut, I fumbled with my phone until the text message to my manager read something akin to

"FUCK, slept through my alarm, be there straightaway! I'm so so sorry!!!!"....Yeah, my company's cool...you can say "fuck" at the managers by text if the gravity of the situation calls for it...But I didn't have time to sit there and appreciate this happy fact.

Still wearing the knickers I slept in (don't judge me, I was having a breakdown. Am in fresh, new pants now, I promise!), I rooted around my floor-drobe for anything to cover my shame (aka "body") with. I then dug my hat from between the sofa cushions so that I could hide my un straightened hair - unaware that the part of my hair it most needed to cover stuck out in a... I'll call it a mullet with a kicky Farrah Fawcett flick...fashion at the nape of my neck. I bypassed make-up (by make-up, I mean my usual daily routine of "draw eyes back on in eyeliner"), I'm pretty sure I sprayed only one armpit with deodorant before I bolted out of the door to A's handy parting words:

"Don't crash!"

Always advisable when driving, that.

In the end, I arrived at work bang on half an hour late. Pretty mean feat considering I live approximately twenty five minutes away from the building I work in. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a roomful of people laughing at my pant-pissing facial expression and new tramp-chic, un showered look. I sheepishly sank into my chair and looked at the text I'd just received from the manager who hadn't even arrived yet.

lol. No worries.

Today is a Good Day!

"But today is a Monday! Why is today a good day, Becky?" I hear you ask. "Pray, tell!" Okay then, oddly-spoken scallywags, I will!

- Jennifer Lawrence won best actress at the Oscars and fell over. And this small act of clumsiness made the world (i.e me) love her even more for it (not even my achievement - Oscar, not fall- but it makes me happy nonetheless). Long live JLaw!

- My absolute superstar of a workmate bought me a vanilla Starbucks latte at silly o clock in the morning (FYI, this is the nicest thing you can do for ANYONE on a Monday morning) whilst I was mid serious glare-off with a ringing phone. The phone won.

- I nabbed last minute tickets to see Russell Kane strut his metrosexual stuff this evening.

- I've got a day off work tomorrow! Sure, it's got a trip to the dentist in it, but one takes what one can get...

It's the little things, people! It's the little things.

Owsh!

Welcome To My Office

Today, we are doing some work in bed, on the iPad, in Muppets pj's. While the rest of Swansea is at the pub waiting for the footy to start, I am working... Sadly, it's what I'd rather be doing. Christ, I'm only twenty five! Maybe if I had one of those hard hat/drinking contraption things on I'd come off as cooler?

Or an alcoholic workaholic who hasn't got dressed yet.

Same diff.

Ooh, Soots You, Sir!

Hee...working on some freelance-y bits now (because I've had some incredible luck lately that's lead me to a bit of content writing work to beef up the ole CV - NY resolution number one, tick!), and I'm loving that I get to do this for a living. The task I've got in front of me tonight? Research jokes about chimney sweeping!


Q: What did the big chimney say to the little chimney?
A: "You're too young to smoke!!"


lulz. Sometimes, I love working! You guys got any jokes of similar chimney based cheesiness? If so, do me a solid and leave it in my comments area for all to marvel and laugh at against their own good taste and willpower! Also, I can borrow *cough* steal *cough* them for my own professional gain.

Taa much, lovelies! xx

Morning Demons

It's the weekend!! Sun is shining.  Six Nations rugby is on, and excitement hangs in the crisp, chilly air all throughout Wales.  It's time to crack out the Welsh cakes and have a shandy or six!

And I'm in work.

Don't worry, I'm on my lunch break.  So no need to tell on me, slacker Nazis! *glare*

Surprisingly, I don't feel too gloomy about having to be in an office while everyone else out there in The Big Wide World is having fun and readying themselves for a day at the pub.  I have one of the more relentlessly chipper members of staff working with me today, so it's hard to keep the frown smeared on my chops.

Wasn't feeling quite so tolerant this morning though.  I am categorically, 100% NOT a morning person.  Morning me can only stand 3 things in the wee hours of the day.  These are:

* Coffee
* Hugging
* The snooze button

If whatever is being offered to me isn't one of the above, I am not interested, thanksverymuch.  While Morning Me tries to be fair and hate everything equally, there are a few things that make her feel more murder-y than others.  Inexplicably, these are things that don't generally even register on Daytime Me's radar, let alone bug her.  But to Morning Me, the below are things that I'm convinced exist solely to crawl under my skin to make my brain go into short fits of blind rage expressed as  "fuckingbastardsmphmphmorningfuckertwatmphmumblemumble" because I'm too foggy-brained to vent my overblown anger better:


- Waking up even a nanosecond before the alarm goes off.
-  That strangled crunching noise my car makes when I try to clonk it into third gear. "SQUEEECRUNCHEEEEKTHUD!"
- Morning People. Those freaks of the dawn hours who bounce out of bed, fully suited and booted with stupid grins on their stupid faces.
- Rifling through the floor-drobe (wardrobe alternative to the young and hip like myself) for clothing that doesn't smell and isn't creased, hating myself with a passion for not hanging shit up like grown-ups are supposed to.
- Battling the straw nest situation atop my head with heated tongs only for it to form into devil horns the second I leave the house.

I'm aware of how petty these things are, but in the morning, before I give myself a chance to come around, they are world-ending, red-eye-turning, possessed-scream inducing banes of my life.  For this reason, I would like to call upon other sufferers of morning demonic-ness to band together as one in spreading word of our plight.  Awareness must be raised, and I feel that it would be charitable of the Morning People I hate and envy so much to form a morning army of sorts.  If this were to become a working idea, it would be the morning army's responsibility to:

- Wake us up gently with coffee and hugs, but not, I repeat NOT before the alarm goes off.
- Drive our semi-lifeless bodies with quiet patience to work, in cars that don't make crunchy noises.
- Continue not to talk to us unless absolutely necessary until it is at least 10am and the light has turned back on in our eyes and we can function as humans again.

Not too much to ask, is it?  In return, us Non-morning People will gift you with snacks and beverages in thanks throughout the day, and promise not to bug you too much when our energy levels explode just as you're winding down at the end of the day.  The world as a whole, I truly believe, will be a much happier place.

I Come Bearing Gift....

Hello, Blogspot.

I have something for you. But first, I want to talk about me. Me, me, me! Bear with.

I am one of life's impossible stress-heads. Though I'm prone to bouts of childlike regression and silliness, I take pretty much everything I do WAY too seriously. Life-or-death seriously. I give too many fucks in most given situations, which has a super-fun side effect of sucking the joy out of everything I do.

I've been battling with my innate lazy creature all month, trying to get it to go to the gym, trying to get it to strive toward forging some sort of career in writing (anything, lord, help meeee!!). Trying to just make it try. I feel under immense pressure (by myself, of course. No one else would be mean enough to constantly berate me like this) to be better at everything I do.

My relationship with the gym is probably the easiest example to demonstrate this. I am not a natural fan of exercise. Once, at primary school, I even "accidentally" poked myself in the eye to get out of playing netball (I don't know either, but somehow it worked!). So, since I realised a couple of years back that I didn't want to be immobile and wheezy by my middle age, I decided I'd better keep up some kind of routine. Ever since, it's been a continual cycle of;

*lolloping around neighbourhood in trainers*

"Yeah!! I didn't die that time!! Soon, I'll be running like Flash if I keep running lots! Nothing can stop me this time!! I won't be anywhere near as bad as last time I took this up. I actually like it now! Hahahahaha!!

Ow. Stitch."



"Wow, I'm still REALLY fucking slow. Why aren't I good yet? How is that pensioner overtaking me??"



"I know, I just need a little break, take the pressure off. If I stop making such a big deal of this, I'll remember how to run for enjoyment...yeah...just a few days..."



"I'm such a fucking fatty! Why can't I stop eating?! I could go to the gym, but the idea just makes me want to eat more cake and cry...I'll go tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow."

*picks some old cheese flakes out of clothing and eats*



"I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE STUPID GYM!!!!"



"Hey remember I used to run a lot? That was fun. Might take it up again..."


See? I'm a fairly regular exerciser, but my bursts of activity come in an infinite loop of hope, optimism, disappointment, attempted self-bullshitting and then crushing self loathing. Not a fun trail to jog, skip then crawl, bleeding and weeping down. I've tried trying really hard(ish). I've tried not caring. And neither method has worked.

So, Blogspot. You've been patient so far, so I'll give you your present now. It's our new new life motto.



.....Half arsed is better than not arsed


(replace arse with ass if American).


Write it on your arms and face, tattoo it on your body, put it on post-it notes and stick them on your mum. This, my friends, is what a genius sounds like! We live in a world whose positive, sugary "you-can-do-it-follow-your-dreams" sentiments work for some, but not all. The idea of everyone always being their best person and trying REALLY hard and doing REALLY well at everything just terrifies me. If I fail at anything I give even the tiniest of shits about, I beat myself into such a pulp over it I'm that barely recognisable for a few days. Too much free time overwhelms me because I think I should constantly being doing something, anything, that will make me a better person at any given moment (i.e not a lazy, cake dribbling sloven). For this reason, I don't know how to relax. I'm incapable. And, to top it off, society tells me I have to be happy and fulfilled, or my life is worth nothing. After all, we could die tomorrow.

What is this horse shit?? Gunning after happier, better, fitter, wiser, prettier, richer, more sociable, more successful all at once just freezes me like a rabbit in the headlights. I care so much about having it all at once that I can't physically move. And I'm fairly confident that there are droves of equally stuck people out there too.

To you, my fellow rabbits, I say be happy being the sometimes-conversationalist who, instead of being the life and soul, interjects with the odd funny comment when they can. If you don't feel like you're making progress on the treadmills, just ponce about on the bikes for a bit. If you aren't a gourmet chef yet, eat a packet of cous cous with lumps of cheese for dinner. Hell, at least you had to boil the kettle to do it! Boiling is cooking, right?

What I'm saying is, don't berate yourself when sometimes you just want to do the bare minimum. Let yourself. I'm not saying don't give a shit. Just do enough to unstick yourself a little. Who knows, you might even end up actually excelling in and enjoying doing those things you avoided doing because they just seemed to immense when the pressure was on. And if you don't? Who gives a fuck? I'm not going to tell you off. I doubt your friends and loved ones will. You can't fail at life, because the only one making you feel so crappy about not hitting every single target is you, stupid.

Half-arsed is better than not arsed.

Amen.

Pant Soiling, Many Fucks and a BUGGERFUCK (aka A Day At The Office)

Welp.  I very nearly had a mental breakdown this morning.  Admin manager texted me at 7.30am to see if I'd picked up office keys as I was rota'd to do. The other girl, we'll call her S, also rota'd to collect some had forgotten hers. S and I had something in common.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!" Cue much flapping and blind panic.  I'd inadvertently helped lock the entire early shift out of work.  Now, an understandably pee'd off admin manager was en route to let us in, even though she wasn't due to be in til later, and lived too far away to let us in for 8a.m, our opening time.  In her shoes, I'd be wanting blood.  Pasty, caffeinated office drone blood.

Flapping and swearing kills a surprising amount of time. So, now, fifteen minutes before I'm meant to be at an unlocked and buzzing (busy,not smelly) office, I'm still in my living room, twenty minutes' drive away, doing my best impression of an alarmed chicken.

So, i grabbed my bag, bellowed an "Agh, fuck!!" at A, in lieu of a goodbye, ran out of the door, Bambi skidded my way to the car.  Naturally, car was encased in a solid block of ice.  Wobbled back to house, grabbed kettle, splashed warm water on car, car cube melted, back to house, deposited kettle, back to car.

Car is cube again.

"BUGGERFUCK!!!"

Mad dash around car, spraying messy patches of de-icer on windows. Peeping through the patches, I race down the road, probably mowing down cats and schoolchildren I can't see.  I run a red light, and nearly kill myself skidding on some ice at a busy roundabout. 

But I make it to work on time. Ish.  One measly minute late. Admin manager hasn't arrived yet anyway, but S is there to greet me, also soiling herself over the bollocking to come.  Now, S, funny and chatty as she is, isn't exactly the office optimist.  She believes that things happen for a reason (reason being to make us suffer horrily), and by the time the admin manager turns up, our preicted punishment has escalated from stern words to immediate firing and possible death by stoning.

Admin M turns up and let us in, being too polite to eff and blind at us.  Instead, she takes the British route of talking very little and looking knackered enough to make us feel awful for dragging her from her slumber.  Fair one.  

We start work half an hour late, S and I waiting with trepidation, pooing our knickers in readiness for the Big M's (in hindsight, Big M not the best choice of label for the main office manager. Makes him sound like our pimp... Oh, well, I've used it now) arrival, which we've been informed will be at about midday. 

He's going to murder us, I think.  He's going to murder us dead.  

Stressed, I start to work with my head bowed apologetically, despite my co workers being sweetly breezy about having been made to stand out in the cold, unpaid for half an hour while the sun wasn't even properly up yet.

I am a hopeless people pleaser, and I hate hate hate being told off, especially when I know I'm at fault.  The worst thing someone can do to me is make me feel like I've let them down in some way.  I dread my bollocking, and feel like a five year old about to be told off in front of the entire school.  Exaggerating? I wish.

So, I work. And I work, and I work, and I work some more.  I'm like a machine, getting a whole day's worth of stuff done in a single morning, just to avoid dwelling and building up a humdrum chain of events into something of cataclysmic proportions. Holy shit, I think, I didn't know I had it in me to get this much done!

Big M rocks up.  I avoid eye contact for as long as humanly possible.  But it has to happen eventually.  And here it is...

"So."  He places his palms on his desk, forcing us to look down the row of computers and acknowledge his presence. "Girls.  You both managed to forget to take keys home last night..."

"Forgottolook mumblemumblemumble..."

"Sorry mumblemumblemumble wonthappenagainmyfault..."

"Okay. So, who's doing what today?"

What. 

That was IT?  After all that stress, all the palpitations and clammy fear, we don't even get a patronising finger waggle?  A clip round the head? Five Hail Marys? I feel numb.  Even a little cheated.  I'd invested a whole morning of sweaty panic over "okay"?!!  Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

So.  What I've learned today:

1. Things are never as bad as you imagine they'll be.

2. Terror is an excellent motivator. I mean, it just gets shit done!

3. I might have a slight...just slight...tendency to overreact to trivial things.  Slight.

Just about to finish this entry, but I've had a text off S, which I feel I have to share with you guys. I'm sure she won't mind:

"You still in work?  I can't find my house keys xxx"

Lolz.

Moods And Foods

My first thought upon waking today was "woe betide meee!" I mean, after the initial wordless horror of realising that I was no longer asleep.*

Someone's crept into my room overnight, replaced my brain and bunged up my nose with a delightful mucousy substance. I only have today off this weekend because of stupid work (boo!), and I have agreed to spend most of it at the boyfriend's parents' house. FML, I would have thought if I sometimes thought in text speak.**

I've now breakfasted on coffee and LLama Bites. If you've never heard of these... Investigate! I have included in this post a handy pictorial example to make spotting them in supermarkets easier for you. They're fucking ace! I recommend the barbecue flavour. Probably not recommendable as a breakfast snack though...

Since "breakfast", my snot leaking brain has done a full, screeching U-turn. I've got a whole day at my disposal. It's cold, but so gloriously sunny that I briefly forgot that I live in Wales - a place that's usually Dull-As-Fuck Grey (check the Dulux colour chart - it's a real colour, honest!), even in the summer months.

I joke. Everyone knows summer's a myth.

I only have a cold. Man Flu at worst, so I'm hardly bed ridden. And, I get to spend it in decent company, eating free food.

Free food. Food that's free!! Today isn't a social obligation. It's a perfectly valid reason to sit on my arse, chatting and eating. What's not to like about that scenario?! Ungrateful prick.

Seriously, it worries me how much my mood depends on how long it's been since I've last eaten. I will spend entire afternoons wondering if I'm clinically depressed, only to have a sandwich and realise that I am Queen Of The Fucking Universe when it comes to life. Even my family have cottoned onto My spiking and plummeting mood levels and their correlation with munching. My sisters bring sweets on shopping trips so that they have something to medicate with when they see the storm cloud passing over my eyes.

If that's not a good reason to eat my way through a day I don't know what is.










*Note: not suicidal melodrama. I just suck at waking up.
** Which I do TBH. Lol. BRB.

Becky's Guide To Life: Employment Enjoyment

Part 1: How To Suck All Potential Fun Out Of Your Work Day

1. Look at the clock every twelve seconds and complain about how it seems to be moving backwards.

2. Think and talk incessantly about food from the second bum is planted on seat.

3. Over think everything you say to your colleagues. They obviously all think you're a massive tool.

4. Complain about being bored whilst staring wistfully into space. Pick at nails.

5. Sigh.

6. Bury every bit of criticism management give you in brain for use during future meltdowns and "oh fuck, I'm getting fired!!!" Crises.

7. Avoid conversation with colleagues where possible.

8. Look at the clock some more.

9. Decide you hate any and all customers before you speak with them.

10. Fantasise about other, better jobs you could be doing right now because you're, like, so under appreciated in this one....pick nails and look at clock.




Part 2: Holy Beeps, Bruce, This Is Fun!! AKA How To Enjoy Your Job (even if you're not a cake tester or super hero.... Yet)

1. Take full advantage of spinny chairs. Wheeeeee!!

2. Doodle whenever the opportunity arises.

3. Laugh along at all the brilliant, ridiculous things your peers tell you. Feel inwardly chuffed when they laugh with (*cough*at*cough*) you.

4. Get stuck the fuck in. Whatever you're doing. Enthusiasm = faster hours (not too much enthusiasm, though. I once smacked myself in the face with a phone before I could bellow any "hello"s down it).

5. Smile. But only if you feel like it.

6. Build something out of paperclips/stationary... E.g binder clip robot

7. Make effort to recall weird customers, and later regale others with tales of their screwiness for mid afternoon giggles. Unless you're a psychiatrist. Confidentiality and that...

8. If someone brings in cake, love them forever, eat the cake, and spend the following week reminding everyone how good the cake was, so that people feel obliged to bring in more cake.

.......CAAAAAKE!!!

9. Drink so much coffee that you leave the office in spirit and enter a new dimension where everything takes on a buzzy, cartoonish quality (when in reality, you're freaking your co workers out by giggling and shivering at them).

10. Realise that, despite the ghoulish mass moaning about the pay, the hours, the boredom etc etc, you probably never would have had the luck to meet any of the people you get to spend at least 8hours a day with, faffing,laughing and eating, five days a week if you hadn't worked there. And you know for a fact, that wherever your life takes you next, you know you'll remember the good WAY more than the bad, and part of you might even miss it a little.


Aww.


Retch.

I'm Not Drunk, I'm a Social Bloody Butterfly!!

Christmas dinner with work last night. Nothing quite like watching your workmates happily chatter amongst one another over a well cooked....

Bah, fuck the saccharine blog talk!

Last night was my third Christmas meal/do with the company I've been swapping time for money with since the day I ran out into the car park, leaping for joy that I'd got my first proper job... In front of my now-manager, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was still stood by the door, probably immediately regretting his decision.

This was the only one I've attended sober. It was bizarre. Good, but bizarre. The food was cowing lush, my workmates were making me do little almost-wees of laughter, and the secret Santa gift I got was so thoughtful it made me squeak.

As I said, I've been nothing short of plastered for the past two such events. Most of us end up being in the same state. Tis the season to run around dance floors with no shoes on with your professional superiors...or something.

It just doesn't feel like Christmas has been done justice if the next day, at least half of the office aren't sweating in front of fans, groaning and wearing sun glasses indoors in the dead of winter. And it's never in vain. The nights out we have are silly, memorable, and nearly always end up in a casino at six in the morning.

But last night was weird. I'm socially awkward at the best of times (a socially inept blogger? Holy crackers, Batman!!), but because I wasn't lubricated in the brainular region this time,I just couldn't bring myself to relax. My posture was so rigid, I looked like I had hot GHDs lodged up my anus for the whole thing. I was hypersensitive, and could feel my brain lighting up like multi coloured fairy lights. At least it kept things seasonal.

I was either talking so quickly that I wasn't forming real words- just sort of chirruping at my colleagues, talking too quietly to be heard, or shouting in mad, overly enthusiastic bursts.

I looked. And sounded. Fucking. Mental.

I'm not sure if it's just a British thing, or If there's a sad truth in my saying that, contrary to my prior belief, I've never got over the fear of big groups of people, no matter how well I know the people in it. I've been more or less convinced that I got over all that shit at sixteen, seventeen....coincidentally, somewhere around the time of my first alco pop (gag).

Hmm. Something fun to think about.

Right after my night out with aforementioned work buddies this Black Friday. Christmas spirit first, over indulgent self an analysis after!

Cheers, all!