A Very Merry Christmas

Only time for a short post tonight - we're off out in a bit to commence the second day of festive celebrations (whilst still very much feeling the effects of the first day's revelries). I shall very much be relying on hair of the dog to get me through the whole experience.

Anyway, as this is the last post before Christmas day, it seems only fitting to use it to wish you one of these:

Hope you have a great day!  

Christmas Shopping: The Hardcore Way

Thanks to the weather based distractions that have been bestowed upon us lately, it's taken a while for the Christmas spirit to make its presence known, to me at least. Whilst I was starting to wonder if it had abandoned its effort thanks to the treacherous travelling conditions, it finally completed its journey last week, thanks in no small part to the drunken event that was the work Christmas party - the usual affair of free-flowing booze, food of questionable quality, and some awful, yet undeniably energetic, dancing.

The sudden arrival of my festive spirit meant that the fact I had only bought about 1/4 of the required presents finally transformed from a vague acknowledgement lurking somewhere in the depths of my brain into a full blown realisation that SOMETHING HAD TO BE DONE QUICKLY.

Yesterday was the day for Stage One of the Christmas Shopping Operation - a visit to the huge local shopping mall to collect an item I'd ordered last week. Not surprisingly, given that it was around -5 degrees all day, every other person in the city apparently had the same idea - especially annoying given that most of the kids finished school last week and were being dragged unhappily around by their parents, for the most part in a path that coincided directly with my feet. The simple task of making my way from A to B turned into something of an assault course, with direct routes frequently requiring a child hurdle, a pram swerve or (my most hated manoeuvre) the chav-stopped-in-the-middle-of-a-busy-path-to-have-a-conversation dodge. It is experiences like this which make my belief that I should be permitted to carry a cattle prod when in public spaces all the stronger.

After spending two focused hours on forging the most efficient path around the mall, I found myself with about two-thirds of my overall shopping done - a much higher amount that I had set out expecting to achieve. I had even mustered the sense to save buying the heaviest present until last - my usual tactic tends to involve buying the bulkiest item first without fully understanding the burden I am condemning myself to carry around. Not this time though - I was ready to go home, and bask in my success.

There was just one minor flaw to my plan: I had offered Fiance a lift home from work, and that would mean I'd get home, just about defrost myself after the minuscule amount of time spent outside, before having to head out into the bitter cold again. Despite my desire to put my feet up and have a relaxing cup of tea, I decided I might as well stay out until I was ready to pick Fiance up, although my thinning patience would not condone me staying in the shopping center any longer, as more and more shoppers continued to arrive with the apparent sole intention of getting under my feet.

A trip to the city centre formed the key foundation for Stage Two of the Christmas Shopping Operation - it has an advantage over the shopping centre in that it has a much higher percentage of independent stores. This was exactly what I was looking for, hoping that a simple browsing session would provide inspiration for those whose gifts I hadn't yet purchased. It would also mean I was in place to provide Fiance with his lift home.

Somewhat hesitantly, I proceeded to put Stage Two of the Christmas Shopping Operation into motion and pointed the car in the direction of the city centre. "Yes, on the same day as going to the shopping centre" I explained to a flabbergasted Fiance, who was entirely perplexed by the idea of spending a whole day shopping in two different locations - but then, the thought of a shopping trip that lasts longer than a couple of hours generally strikes fear into his heart, so I suppose his reaction wasn't all that surprising.

Shopping in town bought it's own unique style of assault course - rather than avoiding people and children (who had all sensibly headed to, and stayed at, the shopping centre), I found I had to dodge patches of black ice, swerve the remaining piles of snow that had previously been cleared from the high street but hadn't melted yet, and brush off the totally annoying flyer-guys who seemed to outnumber the shoppers at an alarming ratio (again, the cattle prod would have proved itself a most useful tool in this situation). Also, I had to manage all that while facing a temperature of -5 degrees which, I have recently discovered, is not a particularly pleasant climate to meet when dashing from shop to shop.

However, despite all the trials faced during my dual-core Christmas Shopping Operation I pulled through. I shopped and I shopped until everything Christmas was sorted. I even shopped for a new saucepan even though it wasn't required for a present. In short, I was awesome for a day, because only an awesome person can get Christmas sorted in seven hours.

Admittedly, I became somewhat less awesome after reading one too many chapters of The Deathly Hallows while lolloping in a lovely hot bath, which resulted in me being reduced to a warm and cosy, yet mostly brain dead blogger.

Post delayed until Tuesday...

I had written about two-thirds of today's post, when I noticed I was staring uselessly into space on an increasingly frequent basis, each time snapping back into reality and noting that I had still not managed to type the words so essential to updating a blog.

I took an executive decision to postpone the post until tomorrow, so that I can stare into space without feeling guilty that I should be writing instead. I am quite convinced that the post will be better for it.

The Ugg Boot and other Unsuitable Footwear

Like most women I know, I love shoes. Shoes are the ultimate accessory and can make or break any outfit. This is why I have so many pairs (and Fiance will confirm that I am talking about a pile of shoes that could probably challenge Everest's claim to being the tallest mountain) - for every outfit I compose, I have at least two sets of footwear that are capable of bringing the outfit together, and dictating whether it is smart, or casual, or quirky, or comfortable (as well as being entirely colour co-ordinated, of course).

But like many things, making an appropriate footwear choice can be a complicated affair. No matter how far ahead you plan your outfit, life can throw little things at you which instantly make your shoe choice entirely unsuitable.

Let's take my recent hot topic of disgruntlement - the weather - as a perfect example. You cannot do a look other than casual when it snows - glamorous heels just don't cut it when trying to wade through the powdery stuff. Although they did once, when I was able to use a particularly thin stiletto as a built-in crampon that actually helped me to walk when caught out in an unexpected snow fall - but it's not something I'd recommend, given that the second time I had to get through snow in heels, I ended up abandoning the effort and walking barefoot.

It is because of the barefoot experience that I will now not venture outside during snowy times unless I have donned a pair of wellington boots. They make your feet invincible, allowing you to walk confidently through the worst the conditions can throw at you - snow, slush, water, mud - you can skip happily through them all, knowing your toes within will remain clean and dry. But even wellies have their downsides - the first is their inflexibility, and the resulting hindrance of your travelling speed. This was proven all too recently when I missed a bus to work because I was incapable of moving at the necessary speed to get to the stop in time. My second issue with wellies is their lack of heat insulation. Even when wearing three pairs of socks, my toes quickly go numb when wading through the snow - and I physically couldn't wear any more socks and still be able to squeeze the wellies on.

But without doubt, nothing compares to the wellington boot when it comes to snow. Yet even with the increasingly cold and white winters we have experienced over the last couple of years, many women still haven't embraced the practicalities of a solid pair of wellies, instead opting to head out in their fashionable wool-lined Ugg boots (or any of their more reasonably priced equivalents).

At first glance, these may seem like perfect snow shoes - they are flat, flexible, have a good grippy sole and are lined with soft and fluffy niceness, designed to hold your toes in a warm cuddle of comfort. However, you should not be fooled by the apparent appropriateness of this popular boot because they hate you for wearing them in wintry conditions.

Let me expand. I ventured out in the snow last weekend, and saw a worryingly high percentage of female shoppers walking round the city centre with expressions of pure misery painted across their faces. There was a single cause for all the sad females - their warm and cosy boots had not protected their feet from the snow, but instead had maliciously soaked up the melting slush and transformed into sodden lumps of fabric attached to the end of their legs. The lack of waterproofing renders these boots not warm and cosy, but damp and cold and to be avoided at all costs in bad weather.

This isn't the only problem with Ugg boots. I have a pair - well, I have a more reasonably priced Rocket Dog version - which cause me their own problems even when the weather would not result in them turning into water hoovers. When I wear my boots to work I become electric - and not just because I wear them so awesomely.

It turns out that I don't pick my feet up properly when I walk, and the rubber soles and wool lining thus combine together to turn me into a walking charge of static electricity. This is unfortunate, because it means that this happens when I touch metal things:

My inability to open a door with a metal handle without receiving a static induced electric shock has become something of a hindrance. This is especially upsetting because I need to pass through two such doors on the way to two vital locations - the kitchen and the toilet.

I thought I could resolve the situation by touching the wooden door before the metallic door handle, thus earthing myself and stopping the shock. I have had to ensure that I drop an anecdote about the situation into as many conversations with colleagues as possible, lest they start to question my method of opening doors - which, in its current form, has evolved to stroking the door and tentatively reaching for the handle, before jumping dramatically backwards (usually accompanied by a swear word or two) and shaking my hand vigorously. It's the kind of behaviour that would draw a questioning glance without insider knowledge as to what I am doing and why.

Of course, the other foolproof method of avoiding shocks would be to ensure I don't wear those particular boots to work anymore. In fact, that is the tactic that I am likely to embrace, because I can already feel a Pavlovian association forming between the act of opening a door and receiving a shock, and being scared of doors is, quite frankly, an affliction that I can afford to live without.

To conclude: Damn you all unsuitable footwear. I love you, but you have the power to make me fear inanimate objects.

It's not always beneficial to be the early bird

I got a bit carried away this afternoon with my drawing tablet and GIMP (which, in case you were worrying about following the link, is a free alternative to the extortionately priced Photoshop) and ended up spending none of my time creating visuals to accompany the story that I intended to post today.

Instead, I did this:

It was basically an excuse to work my way through all the tools in the GIMP toolbox to see what each of them do. I still don't really know the answer in most cases but things did start to become a bit clearer towards the end - there may be hope yet, providing I manage to retain anything I picked up. I shall endeavour to practise - there is definitely still an element of the amateur about the pic that I couldn't seem to iron out. But even amateurish is impressive given that I have always been convinced I am not a person who is adept at drawing. 

Anyway, here's to another Monday without a story-based post because I let myself get distracted from my intended visuals. Somewhat ironically, I probably would have had time to get them done if I'd gotten out of bed a bit earlier this morning.

PS. I so want to live in that cute little worm home. The fireside chair looks super comfy!

Tea: why it is not an appropriate cure for everything

I love to drink tea. In fact, the only thing I like drinking more than tea is alcohol, and I have found this gets me exceptionally drunk if I try to consume it as frequently as I do a good strong cuppa. No-one bats an eyelid at me quaffing bucketloads of tea at 8 in the morning, not to mention that it is good for me, and can help me through the most trying of situations. There are certain times when nothing but tea will do.

Take this week for example, when the hot beverage has proven itself to be my saviour. As you may have picked up from previous posts, the weather has taken a turn for the worse recently, and hasn’t seen the right side of zero degrees for the last two weeks. This was fine when I was working from home and didn’t have to face the bitter temperature, but since returning to the office it has become more of an issue – not least because the heating system in the building has decided it was being overworked and elected to go on strike. 

I believe my addiction to tea helped me deal with the temperature better than my colleagues, because each cup would warm me up from the stomach outwards as I devoured the deliciously hot liquid contained within. As long as I permanently had a cup of tea on the go, I found I was able to maintain a bearable body heat, assisted only by three pairs of socks, a vest, a t-shirt, a jumper, a cardigan, a pair of leggings, lined trousers and a scarf. Oh, and a wonderful pair of USB heated slippers given to me as a gift by the lady I share a cold section of the office with. 

It’s a good job there weren’t any clients in, because I was frequently seen nipping to the toilet in my plug-in slippers – a simply unavoidable phenomenon thanks to the significant volume of tea consumed in order to keep warm. 

Without tea, I would have succumbed to the cold, but with it, I was able to face the temperatures bravely and with a smile on my face. Let me stress that this is just regular have-it-with-a-splash-of-milk tea that made me feel better by keeping my body temperature at a reasonable level – I haven’t even started on the virtues of herbal teas, amongst which is a whole world of ailment busting remedies.

Take peppermint tea for example. Peppermint tea is the king of herbal teas. Traditionally renowned for its ability in aiding digestion, I prescribe it willy-nilly to anyone for pretty much any complaint they may mention in passing.

OK, so it can’t cure everything, but it is great for settling indigestion and the menthol vapours really help clear out the nasal cavities and soothe wheezy chests – particularly effective if you cuddle the mug to your face in between sips and inhale the steam. It is a wonderful drink, as long as you can get past the initial sensation that you are drinking chewing gum.

And that is where the problem lies. Not everyone can cope with tea and its various forms and flavours. Take the lady I used to sit with at my last job, who suffered a severe bout of morning sickness with her second child and who decided to give ginger tea a go in order to lessen her troubles - which makes perfect sense because ginger is known for its nausea-quelling abilities. Sadly, the woman in question hated ginger with such a passion, the tea didn’t exactly have the calming effect she had hoped for, instead intensifying the sickness she was feeling and making her feel worse than ever. 

By the way, I didn’t suggest she try ginger tea – trying the tea was an idea all of her own. I’d hate to give the impression that I prescribe tea to pregnant ladies and make them sick.

This is one example of tea failing to be an appropriate cure. I have another example, for which I have to thank my Dad, his willingness to believe me, and most importantly my stupidity (without which, the following events could not have occurred).

Many years ago when I still lived with my parents, we went on a family visit to see my nan and granddad. During the visit, my dad’s eyes got really sensitive – red, itchy and watering, he was suffering with the full works. I wanted to help, and recalled reading at some point previously (in a publication I cannot recall the details of) that the tannins from tea can help to sooth and moisturise the eyes, kind of like cucumber does, but in tea form. Taking the role of chief of herbal medicine, I suggested he lay down with a couple of used tea bags over his eyes for a few minutes. For some reason, he agreed to give it a go – my genuine belief that this was the right thing to do must have outweighed any apprehension he may have felt.

Needless to say, this was a mistake. The tea bags can’t have spent more than 5 minutes in place, but by the time they had been removed, the skin around Dad’s eyes had been dyed strong-tea orange. It was not a good look, but it was most definitely giggle-worthy. I can’t even remember if it stopped his eyes itching because I was apparently too busy being doubled up with laughter to notice.  

I guess what I’m suggesting is that if I prescribe you tea to drink, it could be worth listening because it might just work. If I ever suggest that you use tea of any variety or form on your body, you should probably run away. Or say no. That would be equally as effective and much less energetic.

Slugs, Snails and a Day of Laziness

Well, I actually haven't written anything to post today - mainly because I was enjoying a day of doing absolutely nothing, other than a little pottering around the house. It was lovely, but not particularly productive for blogging.

So because I don't want to break my Monday/Thursday routine, here is a little something I spent yesterday working on, made by special request for my sister. 

My sister has complete credit for the idea, but I like to think I've done it justice. I guess you can be the judge.

Winter: Stop Throwing Tantrums

I believe I have proof that Winter is reading my blog.

In my last post, I mentioned that our region hadn’t been hit particularly badly by the snow storms at the weekend. Since then, our region has become the victim of a relentless snowfall that has persisted on falling and turning everything whiter than it should be.

On Tuesday, using the car to get to work was quickly identified as a sketchy idea thanks to a couple of inches of freshly laid snow on our road. We walked to a bus stop on the nearest main road, being passed by a number of intrepid (read: foolish) drivers, ping-ponging their way down the hill, using the kerbs on the opposite sides of the road as their only method of steering and/or stopping. We successfully caught a bus into the city centre, but once there my journey to work ground to a halt. I missed the bus to the business park I work at by a matter of seconds – we (by which I mean Fiance) were level with the back window as it pulled away from the stop. At this stage, I would like to stop and award a big thanks to Fiance for being a gent by running much more efficiently than me and getting a lot closer to hailing it than I managed (although I am blaming that entirely on my wellies and their inability to improve one’s running technique). 

In the end, it took me two hours to get into work, thanks to missing and delayed buses, road closures and Winter’s general maliciousness towards me. Fortunately, I outwitted Winter on the journey home, and accepted the offer of a taxi-based lift with someone from work who doesn’t live far away from me. The taxi even made it up the hill we’d seen cars ping-ponging down earlier, so I only had to trudge up the hill that forms our road – take that Winter.

I actually haven’t left the house since – my boss having agreed to let me work from home for the last couple of days. It was whilst staring into space and pondering one particularly complex Excel formula that I noticed the beginnings of an avalanche forming outside our lounge window.

It took me a while to work out why there was a mound of snow, taller than me, sitting directly outside our window – closer inspection revealed it was the result of our wheelie bins holding up our hedge that is rapidly collapsing under the weight of all the snow that has fallen on it.

I took a few pictures of the avalanche forming.

I may, or may not, have embellished them.

For the record, I still hate Winter.

Posh Food Foiled: Part 2

If you read it, you'll know that my last post was a day early because I was about to embark on a fun filled weekend, complete with posh dinner at a fine dining establishment in Nottingham. I was very excited.

Sadly, things didn’t exactly go according to plan, with the first problem making itself abundantly clear when we woke on Saturday morning to this sight:

Damn weather. It’s like Winter read my post about why I don't like it, and decided to throw its worst at the country in a childlike tantrum at learning not everyone wants to be its friend. Fortunately, our area hadn’t been the worst hit by the snow storms and by the time we’d packed our bags and were ready for the off, the retreat down our hill was fairly clear. We made it to our destination in about an hour, and spent a pleasant, if not bitterly cold, afternoon wandering around the many, many shops that the city has to offer. Before carrying our bags back up to our home for the evening, we asked the hotel receptionist to book us a taxi to transport us to the posh restaurant in which we would be dining, before heading up to get ready for our highly anticipated night out.

An hour or so later, we arrived back in the lobby and were delighted to see a cab waiting outside. Except it wasn’t our taxi. Neither was it the taxi of another couple waiting impatiently for theirs to turn up. The waiting taxi was for a room that wasn’t due to be picked up for another five minutes and whose occupants were nowhere to be seen. Another taxi turned up for them too. So there are two couples waiting, two taxis waiting, and another two taxis due to arrive (all four from the same company, I hasten to add). Despite the blindingly obvious solution to the situation, the drivers would not agree to swap and take the already waiting couples, because just screw common sense. It was at this stage that the receptionist chimed in to cheerfully inform both impatient couples that our taxis had actually been jumped and would we like her to reorder them.

We got into the next taxi that turned up – which came from a completely different company to the incompetent one apparently preferred by the hotel, leading us to suspect we may have inadvertently ‘paid it forwards’ and jumped someone else’s taxi. By this time, we were already ten minutes late so all we cared about was finally being on route.

Or were we?

No, we weren’t. The driver kept asking us about Indian restaurants, which we found to be quite strange given that Restaurant Sat Bains is vaguely French. It turns out the cabby's vigorous assurances that he knew our destination were completely incorrect. We ended up parked on a double yellow line while Fiance frantically persuaded his phone-based internet to divulge the post code of the restaurant, while the driver happily pulled out his sat nav. After a worrying hiatus, we were back on course, and eventually found the place, about half an hour late.

But no bother, we were there and our magical food-based experience was about to begin. We had a pre-dinner gin and tonic while taking in the delights of the menu – a seven course set taster menu, with an optional eighth course, comprising of the Ham, Egg and Pea starter which won the Great British Menu. 

The food was lovely, although by the time the second official course arrived, I had started to feel a bit strange and was struggling to eat. The staff clearly aren’t used to seeing food being left, and asked if everything was alright. I told them the food was lovely, but I didn’t want to fill up too early with so many courses left to come. A mouthful into the third course, and I couldn’t will myself to eat another thing. I admitted to feeling a little off colour when the waitress came to collect another practically untouched plate. Within sixty seconds, head waitress came over and asked if we wanted a fifteen minute rest from the food to see if I felt any better – she even bought over some mint tea, renowned for its stomach soothing properties.

Sadly, it didn’t work, and I found myself in a queue for the toilet, feeling ever increasingly nauseous, and trying to formulate a plan if a cubicle didn't free itself in a short space of time.  

And that was the end of my latest attempt at dinner in a posh restaurant. By the time I got back to the table, Fiance had already ordered the bill and a taxi. I am absolutely gutted that we didn't get to enjoy the entire experience, but I am looking on the positive side – last time, I didn’t make it at all. This time, I made it half way through. I take this as an omen that I will make it through the entire experience next time I venture out to a fine dining establishment. 

Oh, and I should probably clarify that I wasn't sick in a vase. 

How come I never know the date?

Up until a few years ago, I did a job that entailed writing lots of letters to lots of people about things far too boring to divulge here. It was far from a stimulating role, but it did bring one advantage that I did not appreciate at the time – I always knew what date it was thanks to the number of times I had to type it out on any chosen day.

I was able to respond with confidence when someone enquired about the day, the month and the year – a feat which made me feel like a proper grown up, an organised person.

Now that my job doesn’t involve writing any letters, it takes me about a fortnight to realise the month has changed, let alone having the ability to reel off the number that correlates to the day I am experiencing. And I don’t think I ever fully acclimatise to a new year –  I even managed to tell my sister that our wedding date is in April 2010… which is physically impossible without the accomplishment of time travel. She was kind enough not to mention it.

The thing is, it’s not like I don’t encounter the date now that I don’t write letters for a living. In fact, the date is a string of characters I see on a worryingly frequent basis.

 

So, that’s at least four times I see the particulars of any given day, but for some reason my brain refuses to acknowledge it.

In fact, as if on cue, I had just decided on using today’s date in those drawings – and then I realised that I didn’t know what it was, despite it nearly being tomorrow and having had a full day to acclimatise. I am a law unto myself.

.

It was only by pure chance that I realised I should post the second blog of the week today. This is because I have lots of fun things planned over the next few days and I have only just realised that the first one falls on a Thursday, and the next few keep me busy until Monday. They are all written on the calendar that sits right next to me at work, but I only just figured out the fun is due to start tomorrow and that tomorrow is scheduled blog day. 

Tomorrow, evening I shall mostly be drinking lots of wine and eating delicious Spanish food at a fab tapas restaurant that’s doing a food and wine evening. I shall try to pace the food and wine more evenly this time because I like to think I am capable of learning a lesson.

Friday we shall be having a couple of drinks with old friends... but it needs to be a fairly sedate one, because on Saturday:

We’re off to Nottingham to do some touristy stuff – none of which will be Robin Hood related – and to have a 7 course meal at Sat Bains’ restaurant. Even the thought of browsing the art and craft market that’s within strolling distance of our hotel is eclipsed by the prospect of eating proper nice tucker.

I is, as they say, well excited. Especially because my inability to keep track of the date means that the fun times start, unexpectedly, tomorrow. Being unable to pay attention can be a great benefit sometimes.

           

The Nark Monster

At 29 years old, I am convinced that there is a monster living under my bed.

Its name is the Nark Monster, and its purpose is to direct my mood towards distinctly grumpy when I wake up in the morning. I suspect it does this by waiting until I am obliviously asleep before swapping the signs which indicate the best side to get out of bed on any given morning. 

Once the Nark Monster has got me in its grip, all hope is lost for the day. It follows me round, making sure I focus as much as possible on the worst in every situation, thus feeding its insatiable appetite for bad vibes and foul language.

I get caught in a vicious circle of narkiness - the more I grump and swear, the grumpier and swearier I get which means I find more to grump and swear about, and so the circle of mard continues. The tiniest little thing can set me off - reading a self-pitying Facebook status update or watching a neighbour park outside our house elicits an elegant and yet passionate rant. And I am entirely capable of holding a one way (shouted) conversation with/at the TV during particularly annoying on-screen moments (this week, Gillian 'Poo Doctor' McKeith, that honour goes entirely to you).

When the Nark Monster is in charge, I am victim to its every whim, and my response usually involves a lengthy ‘chunter’ – a barely under the breath conversation with myself about the nature of the problem, its many downsides and the potential ways of solving it.

Fortunately, I have discovered a few ways to temporarily alleviate the symptoms of waking with the Nark Monster, each of which I know have the ability to lift me out of my grumps for a few blissful moments.

Singing (and occasionally dancing) with the music turned up loud during a car journey is soothing to the soul:

Making a lovely cup of tea not only gets me away from the situation for a short while, it also results in me having a lovely cup of tea - an instant improvement to any situation:

If I happen to have a few minutes leisure time, I think about shoes:

Or an even better way of spending my leisure time is actually buying shoes (or a couple of pairs of shoes, or some boots, or a jumper):

But there is one guaranteed method I know I can fall back on when I get home, which without fail, will send the Nark Monster back to its hiding place under my bed:

What I'm saying today is that if you're in an inexplicable grumpy mood, do as I do and keep the Nark Monster at bay by singing, daydreaming and shopping the day away until you can drink wine with someone you care about. The monster won't know what hit it. 

A Short Tale (and a cryptic note)

Standing short at 5ft 3 and ¾ (which I round up to 5ft 4, obviously), I am not exactly the tiniest person in the world, but I do frequently find myself living below the natural eye line of friends and family. This includes my ‘little’ sister, as measured by age, who quickly becomes my ‘big’ sister when measured by height. This is disappointing to me.

It was not always this way though. I have previously been a tall person (well, relatively speaking, at least).

When I left primary school, I was second tallest in our class – obviously an important fact, given that I recall it some eighteen years later. Being one of the tallest was a way of life that I had spent 11 years becoming accustomed to, so I wasn’t exactly prepared when I started high school and within a year, witnessed everyone around me shooting up to the size of giants while my height stubbornly refused to change. 

I still remember the first time I realised that I was officially ‘short’. It was during a PE lesson when I was sixteen and we were told to measure our height and compare it to the expected average for our age. I was not only below average for my age, but fell squarely into the average height of a thirteen year old. I wasn’t even the same height as a tall thirteen year old. And the thing is, I’m pretty sure I spent the next thirteen years failing to get any taller, which means I’m now the same height as sixteen year old me when I was the average height of a thirteen year old.

And that is a pain in the ass, because being the height of a just-teenager makes things more difficult than they need to be. For example, I can’t stand flat footed in front of the mirror on our bathroom cupboard, because if I do, this is what I see:

I have to rely on Fiance to get down any ingredients I need that happen to reside on the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard. (I did actually buy a little foldaway stool that was very handy for a while. But then I found a dead spider stuck to it, and it will probably come back to life and eat me if I try to dispose of it).

And when I go to a gig, I can pretty much guarantee that this is going to be my view of the whole show: 

But these are mere trifles compared to the ultimate challenge I was faced with earlier today. I have been expecting a DVD box set (House M.D. Season 2 – late to discover it, but seriously addicted) to arrive since Monday, and its non-arrival was slowly leading me to suspect that our slightly unreliable post man had delivered my post to someone else’s house, rather then his usual tactic of delivering everyone else’s post to our house (regardless whether or not the intended address was remotely similar to ours). He is a special postman.

I got back from work to once again find a distinct lack of package waiting for me. Stopping mid-way through a sigh of resignation, I spotted this scribbled note from Postie on the envelope of a letter lying on the mat. 

Forgetting the parcel I was expecting in order to make the most of my imagination, I asked myself what the cryptic message could mean. I studied the words. 'You have A PUT IN BLUE BIN'. What is a ‘put’? I have never heard of a put – is it good or bad? Why the capitalisation of the words 'put in blue bin'? Is Postie letting me in on a secret about some wonderful object that resides in the blue bin, or is he sending a warning because he discovered a horrible creature dwelling within?

Or maybe it was an algebraic code, and scribbled on another envelope was the information required to decipher his message. Something like 'A = a package that looks like a DVD box set'.

Eventually, I stopped playing Poirot, and checked the contents of the blue bin (which I should probably point out is for recyclable material, rather than grimy rubbish), hoping Postie’s message did indeed mean the DVDs were here. And joy to the world, it did and they were! I was delighted.

There was just one small problem. 

Despite tipping the bin to various different angles and shifting my position slightly to the left or to the right, I could not will my arms to be long enough to reach the parcel sitting so demurely at the bottom of the bin. After five minutes, I was forced to give up that tactic when an unexpected movement from the bin during a particularly vigorous reach led to me to realise that Fiance could well come home and find this vision waiting for him at the front door:

Managing to defy physics, I manipulated the bin onto its side within the minuscule amount of space available to me and just about succeeded in using one arm to tip the bottom of the bin gradually upwards, whilst leaving the other in charge of making sure the lid didn’t flop open (thus saving the box set from an ungraceful fall into a dangerously close patch of muddy soil).

While the tactic worked, it was not my most successful – thanks to the rain that kindly coincided with my retrieval mission, I got soaked by the water that hadn’t run off the bin because my arms weren’t long enough to stretch along its length without body hugging it.

So technically, while the operation was a success on the basis that I successfully retrieved a slightly soggy DVD box set-shaped package from the bin, I have to say the process was a tad unnecessary, and a lot damper than it needed to be. That is my main reason for saying that being short sucks, because if I was taller, then maybe I wouldn't have had to hug a wet bin.