Buyer's Remorse (and how to avoid it)

Shopping. It is a past time that divides people into those who see it as a treat and those who regard it as a chore. Without doubt, I fall into the former category, and find it possible to dedicate entire days to the sport. Fiance, however, is a member of the latter persuasion and stubbornly refuses to be dragged out of it, despite my attempts to convince him otherwise.

It takes all my powers of persuasion, and Fiance to be in distinct need of an item, before he will willingly agree to accompany me on a shopping trip, and even then he will only concede to a fleeting meeting with the wondrous goods on offer. I have come to accept that this will always be the case (although I will always endeavour to change his mind - persistence may win out in the end). 

Since I started working full time again, it transpires that the majority of my shopping trips are now restricted to hour long bursts at lunchtime. Fortunately, there is a big shopping centre within a 10 minute drive from the office, so I get to satisfy my purchase cravings pretty easily and as regularly as I like. Unfortunately, an hour long shopping burst for me is the equivalent of an amuse-bouche - a mouth-wetter, something to build up your appetite for more - which often leaves me feeling like I have been denied a potentially wonderful opportunity. Who knows what could have been waiting in that shop I didn't have time to check out?

This reminds me somewhat of an article I read last week - a BBC Magazine piece entitled 'The Strange Psychology of Panic Buying' by Brigitt Hauck. Reading it was like knowing that someone had shone a torch into my head and written down my precise thoughts and actions during any given shopping trip. For example:

"Most shoppers attach greater significance to potential loss - missing out on a bargain - than they do to a reward like having bought something that was needed. The purchaser thinks if they don't buy the item at that instant they might miss out entirely"

So, so true. The one winning argument I know I can fall back on when I'm trying to convince myself to buy a particular (un-needed) item is that "I may never have the opportunity to own this quite nice item at this price ever again. Could I live with myself if I walked away? Unlikely. That's it, random item - you are mine. I am buying you".

Take today for example, when I went on a lunchtime jaunt to Debenhams to see if there was anything I could spend the rest of my Christmas gift card on. I was delighted to find the end of the sale had gotten even better as it started to invite willing customers to buy one item and to get one free. Bloody brilliant. I was totally willing.

This is where my cunning started to kick in - if I found one item I liked, I needed to make sure I could find a second item of comparable value, so as to make the most of the deal. It was, without doubt, the best time to look at the more expensive items - available to me at a knock down price, with double the fun at no extra cost.

This is a most appropriate point to bring in another quote from the Beeb's article:

"...when an item is discounted, consumers focus on the discount as opposed to the actual price of the good, even if the ticket price is still high, says Dr Denison. "You're thinking 'this is a bargain' rather than 'this costs £100'.""

GET OUT OF MY BRAIN, DR DENISON. 

When contemplating a reduced item, I will always compare the original price with the one I am being asked to part with. I can unscientifically confirm that the chance of me making a purchase is exponentially related to the distance between the starting and the current figure, even if the current figure is much higher than I had intended to spend in the first place.

Obviously, whether I need the item or not is completely irrelevant.

This is why I ended up taking three coats, a dress and three tops into the changing room with me this lunchtime. I don't need coats. I have a wardrobe's worth of coats, most of which are ignored as I consistently elect to wear one of a favoured few. However, when coats are reduced and on a buy one get one free offer, then all of a sudden I do need coats, mainly because TWO COATS FOR £50 IS AWESOME. The same can be said for each of the other items I had lugged along with me.

This is where the final point from the article becomes significant. Here's Dr Denison again:

"But if a shopper hasn't gone through a rational process because of time constraints or other elements of stress, they may feel guilt or anxiety, referred to as "buyer's remorse"."

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say I have suffered anxiety after buying myself something nice, but I have definitely returned home with an impulse buy and a nagging question about whether I really needed it, a flicker of guilt making its presence known at the edge of my conscious. Oh yes, I know this "buyer's remorse" and I do not like it.

So, to avoid experiencing it, I deployed my (slightly irrational) attempt at a rational process strategy as soon as I entered the store today - by which I mean I decided to pick up all manner of goods, try them on, and if they looked good, they would be mine. The key to success was not caring for suitability - the dress was dry clean only, the BOGOF item to go with it was a handwash only jumper (I don't often do trips to the dry cleaners, and I don't think I have ever handwashed an item), one coat had a small pull in the sleeve, another was two sizes too big (but to give me credit - it looked small on the hanger) and one of the tops was two sizes too small.

In a way, I had transferred the responsibility of decision making to Fate - and I wasn't prepared to feel guilty about owning something that I wanted and that happened looked good on me. I mean, what am I meant to do when an item that should be too small for me actually looks so totally awesome that it would be a crime to not make a purchase?

The beauty of this simple approach is that it works both ways and left me in a win-win situation - when I saw that two of the coats buried me, and that the dress was baggy round the hips, I said goodbye to them and walked happily away from the store with two tops (that cost me a grand total of £6.60), knowing that I had got a bargain and that I hadn't spent money on things that didn't look right.

The fact I left more things behind than I purchased was a psychological plus too - especially because I knew all along that the one thing I needed less than coats was tops.

Family Pets and a Trip to the Vet (aka things I wish I'd witnessed)

When I was growing up, our family had a succession of pets - rabbits and guinea pigs to be precise. By far and away, none touched our hearts like our last rabbit did, a beautiful black bunny with the sweetest temperament and the surprising, but adorable, name of Piglet.

Piglet was the runt of the litter, and probably because she was squashed in the womb (according to the vet) she grew up with a twisted hip bone - which left her looking like her front legs were trying to head forwards toward you, while her back end attempted to head off to the left. She didn't let it stop her from getting around though - and if there were fingers or toes to be licked, she would be all over them like a rabbit who really wanted to lick those fingers or toes.

Mainly due to her adorable personality and condition, she spent her life as a house rabbit, where she lived a happy and warm life, worshipped by the family. As she grew older, she developed something of a mischievous nature, along with a taste for remote controls. A taste for the buttons of remote controls, if I am being exact.

This is the remote control of the TV we inherited from Mum and Dad when they bought a new one:

Damn vandal rabbit, with her apparent dislike of yellow and white (the only two colours of button that remained untouched by her inquisitive teeth).

However, despite getting a little side-tracked by the beautiful Piglet, she is not the intended focus of today's post - that honour goes to Blackberry, a pretty little grey thing who made up one half of our first pair of rabbits along with her life partner, Pipkin.

When Blackberry was about two years old, Dad (who had inevitably turned into Chief Rabbit Carer as time passed) noticed a couple of lumps on her underside. Devastated that our first pet might be ill, we waited with baited breath while Dad made the trip to the vet to have the lumps checked out.

This is how events unfolded:

How we weren't overrun by baby rabbits I don't know, but we sure learnt that you can't necessarily trust the word of any pet store who sell pets for a living. I also learnt that there is nothing funnier than your Dad trying to avoid using the word 'testicle' whilst explaining exactly how the vet had revealed that our pet was a boy.

Anyway, given that I don't actually have any pictures of the deliciously sweet pets we had over my childhood, I thought I'd finish with the cutest pictures of bunnies that the internet has to offer.

Bunnies - you are so adorable, it hurts. We love you. 

Links for pics from these sites, respectively:  
http://readspiderwick.pbworks.com/w/page/13380062/All-About-KimmieT
http://www.wayodd.com/super-cute-rabbit/v/4490/
http://www.myspace.com/dhedgie

An Ungraceful Beginning to Being a Bride

It's been a while since I've written about The Wedding, and given that it is approaching quite rapidly - less than three months to go - things that have been put off until now are suddenly in need of our prompt attention. Wedding fever, as a friend put it, has started to take hold.

I have just reached the end of two very wedding focused days, and I feel practically brain dead as a result. My ability to make a decision - which is shaky at the best of times - has deserted me completely, and I miss it.

Things started out superbly on Sunday - we took our parents to the venue to try some dishes from a sample menu so that we can find the perfect meal to feed to our guests. Some dishes were a delight to eat... and some were not. These two facts led us to a fairly unanimous decision by the end of the meal, and we were easily able to confirm our choices for the wedding breakfast before we left the building:

Fabulous, dahling. (And trust me, it is - even if you can't read my scrawly attempt at calligraphy).

So, onwards to decision number two - the cake. Yesterday morning, me and Mum went to meet the cake lady - a sensible arrangement given that Fiance has advised that he will be happy with the bakery-based arrangements as long as the cake is made out of cake, and that I am full of ideas about the pattern, the colour, the shape, and ensuring it consists of layers of both sponge and fruit cake.

Despite my preparation, it turned out there were still a couple of important cake-related things I hadn't thought of. Like if we definitely wanted sponge for the bottom layer and fruit cake for the upper layers, we'd have to keep the layers separate using a cake stand - a fact which I had neglected to recognise earlier despite it being pretty obvious that a wimpy sponge wouldn't be able to hold the weight of a hefty fruit cake without the use of steel reinforced marzipan.

The question that threw me the most though was what would be going on top of it - my reaction when I realised I hadn't given this any consideration whatsoever went along the lines of 'arrrgggghhh, I don't know, stop asking me questions I don't have the answer to', which I think I controlled by maintaining an outwards appearance of human-mimicking-rabbit-caught-headlight. The cake designer was obviously used to dealing with easily bewildered brides-to-be, and calmly handed me a bunch of wedding cake magazines for me to peruse at my own leisure so I could go back all inspired with what exactly should sit atop our cake.

Magazines in hand (mistake - they were heavy), we headed into town where I nearly found my ideal bridesmaid dresses during a three hour shopping marathon in Debenhams - waiting for me in the Jane Norman outlet were dresses of the perfect colour, the perfect shape and as for the price... well, at £13.50 a pop they were a fraction of what we've been intending to spend (I feel obliged to point out that they weren't cheap dresses - they had been knocked down to a giveaway price as part of the end-of-sale-price-drop-bonanza). Sadly, however, it turned out they were not to be the perfect dress - I tried two on, both of which had unworkable zips that stuck at a certain point and refused to move any higher. Or any lower, for that matter. 

By the way, the wardrobe malfunction was nothing to do with the size of me, or the size of the dress - the zip got stuck even when it was on the hanger. But just for the record - Jane Norman, there is no way that was a size 10. 

Bearing in mind that I was guessing at whether they would fit my bridesmaids, and the distinct possibility that the zip could give way on the morning of the wedding, a prudent decision to not make the purchase was taken. A prudent decision that I was incapable of making and that came mainly thanks to my mum stepping in with her voice of reason as she realised my brain was stuck on a hamster wheel, going round in circles about what to do.

The potential bridesmaids dresses left behind, we took a break from the shopping to grab a bite to eat and to take some time to look through the cake magazines. It was a painful process - being faced with hundreds of pictures of cakes was somewhat intimidating when I didn't really know what I was looking for, and I felt my head fuddle as I turned each page and found myself faced with yet more options. Once again, Mum came to the rescue with some sensible opinions and gentle questions that helped me to narrow down what I'm after. Eventually, it became a productive browse, and I now have a couple of ideas that I can go back with to seek a professional opinion on which would work better. This is a rather bad impression of what the ideas look like:

And yes, that is a faint image of Winnie the Pooh that can just about be seen on the bottom left of the paper. I've only just noticed him - and he seems to be looking at the bottom image with some excitement. I wonder if he's indicating his preferred design? I'm happy to look to anyone else for an answer - even if that someone else is a cartoon character printed onto notepad paper that completely accidentally happens to looks like it is giving an opinion.

There was only one more decision I was asked to make yesterday, and once again I failed. This time, it was during our trip to pick The Wedding Dress up (wooooooo, I have my dress!) and to try it on before taking it away for alterations. While I was being laced up, I asked if I could try on a veil too, as I hadn't got one sorted yet. They were most obliging, and after I tried on a lovely example, the shop assistant asked if I wanted to order one. My brain had melted by this point, and while I didn't really want to pay them anything else because of the far from ideal customer service I had experienced previously, the convenience of sorting it there and then was rather enticing. I turned to Mum. 'I don't know, what do you think', I said, while my eyes pleaded TELL ME WHAT TO DO! On this occasion, it was the assistant who came to my rescue and said we can always order it at a later date because it only takes three weeks to arrive. I was delighted - I had been handed a get out of jail free card by the establishment itself, which meant I didn't have to feel guilty for testing their stock before going and buying the winning item from another shop.

My conviction for not giving them any further money was entirely confirmed when the dress was presented to us for transportation - no box, no tissue paper, just a wedding dress sized suit protector and a hasty farewell.

I had to wander half a mile from the shop to the car, carrying my prized dress across weary arms that had been burdened with the magazines and a handbag full of junk for most of the day. I did not feel like an elegant bride-to-be by the time I placed the dress as tenderly as I could into the back of the car, and slumped like a sack of jellyfish into the front seat.

 
This wedding planning malarkey is harder work than I gave it credit for.

Home Made Burgers (and mild concussion)

Last night, I took over cooking duty from Fiance who had just started to make burgers for our dinner - he does an awful lot of cooking, and my turn to create something fabulous was well overdue. I sent him back to the TV, where a football match that I have absolutely no interest in was being shown, and set to work continuing the burger making process.

I should probably point out that I had already drunk three glasses of wine by this point.

Now, our kitchen isn't the largest of rooms and we have to scrabble for space at the best of times. but on this occasion the washing up hadn't been done, which made the fight for room even more tactical. Fiance had already managed to reshuffle the plates to find a big enough gap in which to place the hallowed container that contained the beginnings of the meaty treats (aka a pack of minced beef in a bowl), and with a sprinkling of imagination (that I will come back to later) I was able to find a little more space in which I could weave my culinary magic.

A little onion, breadcrumbs, cumin, cayenne pepper and regular S&P seasoning later, the meaty mixture was ready for its glorious transformation from mush to burger. Having heated the oven (for some chips, obviously), started frying some onions and set a griddle pan on the hob to heat up in preparation for the burgers, I looked around and noticed that the room was getting a little smokey.

No problemo, I thought, as I opened the panel that started the extractor fan and waited for the air to clear. It was taking a bit longer than I expected, and thanks to the washing machine going at full pelt and the mp3 dock blasting out its wares at top volume, I wasn't entirely sure whether or not the extractor was working, on the technical basis that I couldn't hear it.

I decided to investigate by moving my ear towards the hatch and assessing whether it made a noise when I was closer to it and less distracted by the music and machinery. My mistake came from holding the handle of the panel as I leaned in to get my ear closer to the vent - thanks to the laws of science, my weight bore down on the hatch and pulled it closed.

That's right - I pulled it closed, right onto my head.

It must have taken me ten seconds to work out the physics behind my head becoming trapped in the extractor fan door, all the while giggling at the sheer stupidity of the situation I had ended up in. I extracted my head, and thanks mainly to the alcohol, plundered on regardless, frying my onions, baking my chips, flippin' my burgers and grating some cheese. Burning my fingers a couple of times too. Fiance came through to see how things were going, and immediately commented on the imaginative techniques I had used to clear some space in the kitchen (I told you I'd come back to it).

Fiance raised an amused eyebrow. To me, a teapot on the floor made perfect sense - it gave me a teapot's worth of room on the side to play with (a worthy prize, regardless of the implications of me frequently forgetting it was there and tripping over it). To him, a teapot on the floor was plain weird. 

I went on to confirm that the unsuccessful teapot hurdling hadn't been my only issue and revealed that I had in fact also suffered an altercation with the fan only minutes earlier. He thought he must have misheard the first time round.

Fiance: What, you banged your head on the edge of the fan?

Me: Um no, not really. I said I actually managed to shut my head in the fan.

He walked away laughing.

Fortunately, the end result was (somewhat miraculously) a success, leading us to the drunken consumption of a couple of beautiful burgers, with the added bonus of knowing there is left over meaty goodness that will make delicious meatballs at some point over the weekend.

On reflection, the lump on the side of my head and accompanying headache is a small price to pay.

The Seafood Platter: A Tale of Danger

If you've read through previous posts, then you'll probably have noticed that Fiance and I love food and eating out. A year or so ago, we'd gotten home from work, had a couple of drinks and decided to head out for a spontaneous meal. Within half an hour, we were in a taxi on the way to our local Loch Fyne - which, for anyone who hasn't come across it, is a chain of seafood restaurants throughout the UK.

Electing to continue the consumption of alcohol, we ordered a bottle of white wine to quaff while we perused the menu, so we were heading towards tipsy as we honed in on our food-based decisions. It was the tipsiness that led to my confident suggestion that we should try the seafood platter - a selection of clams, mussels, oysters, langoustines and crab. It sounded amazing to my slightly addled mind, I love shellfish and was more than ready to eat my first oyster - I have seen tens of people knocking them back in pure delight on various TV shows and I was confident that I would join their ranks and be a natural at swallowing whole oysters whilst enjoying the whole experience.

Fiance selected an oyster and elegantly swallowed it, the effortless manner in which he proceeded filling me with confidence as I reached for one of my own and chucked it into my open mouth. I was convinced that for me too, nothing but the most sophisticated of swallows would happen.

It did not. Sadly, the oyster I had chosen was somewhat larger than Fiance's, and as a result, my throat was entirely unwilling to let it slip down my gullet in one piece, which left me with a rather unpleasant salty lump of flesh in my mouth. I had started to panic a little by this point, and without me expressly ordering such an action, my mouth began to chew on the oyster - a mistake of epic proportions. I instantly started to retch as the salt water found its way down my throat and the chewy-jelly texture of the damn thing sat obstinately on my tongue.

Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to heave silently and calmly to maintain an air of composure whilst in a seafood restaurant, but for the uninitiated, I can confirm that it isn't a particularly easy, or enjoyable task. It is, however, possible. Mustering willpower on a level I believed I was incapable of, I eventually managed to chew the oyster into submission, and took a few deep breaths as I convinced my body that it really wouldn't be appropriate to vomit whilst sitting at a table in a restaurant. Eventually, a noise that that can only be described as a strangulated hiccup cleared the feeling of nausea from the back of my throat.

While Fiance saw the whole thing happen, and allowed only the smallest hint of amusement to show through his concerned face, the people on the neighbouring table had somehow remained oblivious to my plight. Sadly, the same couldn't be said when we came to sample the crab.

I love crab, but in a lazy way - I usually only come across it after someone else has done the hard work, specifically, after it has been coaxed out of its practically impenetrable shell. The arsenal of weaponry that had been laid on the table shortly before the platter had been delivered had indicated that it might be a little difficult to get much out of the shelled critter, but we were drunk and naive and happy that we could manage it.

Keen to redeem myself after the oyster incident, I picked up a tool that resembled nutcrackers, and tried to begin the fiddly and remarkably difficult routine of separating the body and legs. It took me a long time to not get very far, so I abandoned the original implement in favour of a hammer, which I took to the joints with a drunken enthusiasm. Eventually, I freed a claw, and handed it to Fiance who set about cracking the shell with vigour.

I think the people on the nearest table would say he went about things with too much vigour - after stubbornly refusing to crack for an uncomfortable length of time, the shell finally succumbed to the pressure he exerted on it and gave way with such force that the shards actually reached our fellow diners. There was only one way we could possibly proceed, and so we started giggling. It probably wasn't the most efficient way to show we regretted covering our neighbours in bits of crab.

We did our best to avoid eye contact with our victims for the rest of the evening, but I don't think we got away with being unnoticed this time. We have since given up ordering seafood platters - the amount of effort significantly outweighed the amount of food we actually got to eat, and it is never nice to leave an establishment wondering if they will forever remember us as the Seafood Platter Couple.

I'm Back! (Also, call centres and catharsis)

Firstly, let me wish you a very Happy (albeit belated) New Year. I hadn't intended to have such a long break in between posts, but thanks to a string of events ranging from festive drunkivity to catching a dose of the flu, I found myself unblogging for an extended period. Fortunately, after some time spent sobering up, returning to work and battling a nasty winter bug or three, my brain is now fully functional (or as close to it as it's going to get) and ready and raring to blog. Plus I have a topic that is fresh in my head, and that requires some furious typing to act as a form of catharsis.

So, let me start at the beginning. About six months ago, Fiance and I purchased a swanky new(ish) car - it hits a year old this month and it has practically no miles on the clock. It is a beautiful car, it was pretty expensive (although the female in me needs to proclaim that we did get an amazing deal and a lot of motor for our money) and it is our pride and joy. I swear owning this car is like having a child - if the alarm goes off in the night, I wake instantly, aware that all is not right with our precious baby vehicle. It has a name - Sweep - and I am seriously considering holding a first birthday party for him. Um, I meant it. As far as it is possible to feel emotion towards a machine, I would say that we love our Sweep.

OK, now that the importance of our car has been emphasised, we shall fastfoward to yesterday, when I noticed a long scratch down Sweep's side as I got out and headed towards the house. Further inspection revealed the likely culprit was a scroat with a key - sadly, we had found ourselves in the unenviable position of being the victims of vandalism. We didn't think to check the rest of the car, the one injured panel we had seen demanded our complete attention and didn't allow us to focus on anything else. With the benefit of hindsight, this turned out to be a mistake - there was another scratch down the driver's door and yet another on the passenger side when we checked again this morning. We have no idea if the damage was there all along and we missed it, or if someone had come back and added to their handiwork last night. Not knowing is a bit of a mindfuck, to be completely honest.

We set the practical wheels in motion this morning - mainly finding out how we could get the car fixed and how much it would cost. This is where the quite inevitable crapstorm of confusion begins. First off, we checked the warranty which revealed that we had to find a dealer approved garage to carry out the work, thus not invalidating the cover. Fair enough. Of course, there isn't a dealer approved garage within a ten mile radius and no, the closest one couldn't give us even the vaguest of estimates without seeing the car. Also no, they wouldn't be able to book it in on the same day that we drive over there to get a quote because that would only involve one annoying journey on our behalf, and why limit the timescale for this hateful affair to a couple of days when it can easily be extended to at least a week? Indeed.

Can you feel the frustration building? My keyboard certainly can. Sadly, this was only the beginning and while it was painful enough, it was nothing compared to the experience that was my next telephone-based enquiry. I should have known better. I should have prepared myself for it. But stupid Virgin Media have lulled me into a false sense of security about what I can realistically expect from call centres, with their choose the style of music you want to listen to while you're on hold, ensuring you speak to someone who can answer an question while laughing at lame jokes and generally making you glad you called, before offering HD TV for a small one-off fee and nothing-else-to-pay-forever approach to customer service. They are awesome for recognising our awesomeness which is, I assume, why they keep giving us stuff for nothing, very politely and preceded by a musical theme of my choice.

As you can see, I have been spoilt and was naive to expect such courtesy from the insurance company when I tried to ascertain how many years' no claims discount I would lose if I claimed, and what the impact of that would be on my renewal quote. After five minutes listening to muzak of indeterminable style or origin, it turns out that I might as well have enquired about their interpretation of the meaning of life, and whether or not the existence of anti-matter should have any impact on what I can expect to pay for my car insurance next year.

It took three departments before I got anything close to an answer: Department One transferred me immediately to Number Two, the representative of which insisted on taking all the details of the incident - most of which I don't actually know, other than that our car has been hurt and we want to make it better as cheaply as possible - and giving me a claim reference number, even though I expressly stated that I did not wish to actually make a claim right then. Repeating the original, apparently unanswerable question to Number Two led to me being swiftly dispatched to Three, accompanied by an explanation from Two revolving around not knowing why I had been sent there in the first place. Number Three was on the phone for a matter of seconds before proclaiming they too were unable to help and inevitably transferring me back to Department One. I wasn't quite able to maintain my cool when I was asked to confirm my details for a fourth time upon arriving back where I'd started out.

At least on this occasion, I spoke to someone who was very apologetic and who did eventually come up with an answer (for anyone who wants to know, the meaning of life is apparently £15.12). I will be honest - I don't believe him. I think he got scared and shouted the first number that popped into his head when he sensed the increasingly annoyed tone in my voice, the undercurrent of which threatened to somehow reach through the phone line and throttle the nitwittery out of him if he didn't come up with the goods.

Reflecting on the experience, I will be honest and say that it felt like a fruitless mission that achieved nothing more than making me feel worse about the whole affair.

But looking on the bright side, I am rather relieved that Fiance spoke to the authorities to report the incident - being a bit snappy with call centre staff is one thing. Being snappy with a police officer is something that I would rather avoid. So thank you Fiance for potentially keeping me out of jail.

And screw you, whoever scratched our car and made me spend too much of today on the phone to irritating call centres. You suck, and I hope you smell bad forever.

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.

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.