Spell cheque

It's not that there haven't been examples of PPSp (Piss-Poor Spelling) since the bear/bare and past/passed debates, it's just that I have been in too much despair to even record them, but two came upon me in such quick succession recently that I have to share them because it's selfish not to.

Coming up to Burns' Night, I mentioned that I was going to be making cock-a-leekie soup for friends and had had a trial run, which turned out to be delicious.  New colleague asked if I would let her have the recipe so I duly emailed it over.  I got an email by return: 'Sounds yum!  I will defiantly give it a go.'

Am I the only one seeing a cartoon of an angry woman in a chef's hat, standing in the middle of a kitchen, hands on hips, fuming, 'I will give it a go, I don't care what you say ...' ?

Only an hour later, I had calendar invitation from a colleague changing the time of a scheduled meeting, stating, 'I hope you don't mind that I've reduced the length of this meeting.  I'm trying to illuminate time-wasting.'

Hm, apart from the thought that she considers our meetings to be a waste of time (frankly, so do I!) the image of said colleague fumbling around in the dark with a torch, shining a spotlight on the words 'time-wasting' did make me chuckle.

I guess they both ran spell cheque but it didn't no what they were trying to say. 

She's back!

I've just re-read my last few posts from over 6 months ago, and I'm happy to say that the situation has vastly improved since then.  Skippy and I get on better since she's realised I won't take shit from anyone, least of all her, and also since she has been coming in for a load of the brown and smelly herself from someone a little higher up the food chain than she is.  In fact, she is fast becoming as disillusioned and fed up as I am and my 1:1 'work catch-up' sessions frequently turn into a bitch-fest with few people safe from our despair and cynicism.

Despair and cynicism had no place in my world on Sunday, however, when my oldest and best friend and I went to see THE OSMONDS on their final UK tour.  Older brother Alan hasn't toured with them for a long time, as he is very ill with MS, and Wayne, who survived a cancerous brain tumour a few years ago, had a stroke just before the tour started, and he wasn't with them, so the line-up was just Merrill, Jay and Jimmy.   Hang on, what am I saying, 'Just'?  It was a superb show - a bit on the short side, granted, with an overlong first half of 'Osmond Trivia' on a massive screen on the stage and a warm-up band called The Dropouts.  The audience was comprised of mainly menopausal women: we did not need a warm up! 

The brothers played mainly old songs from the 70s, and hearing an audience of 2,500 people sing along was very moving (if a little out of tune!)  Kate and I were in the 2nd row, on the aisle, allowing us to dart up to the stage for a sing and a dance the moment they came on and, in my case, to hand Merrill one of the 800 wooden rosebuds I bought about 7 years ago in the vain hope that they would make me a fortune at car boot sales.  They didn't.  I still have about 750 left, but it doesn't matter!  Merrill Osmond now has one, and so does Jay.  And if you don't believe me, here is the proof - not one but TWO Osmonds, holding one of my wooden roses.  My work here is done.

Where has she been?

You may well ask.

I have been teetering on the brink these last few weeks, between sanity and total meltdown, ever since the Child-Who-Would-Be-Line-Manager joined the organisation. How patronising to be told by someone who has been in the organisation for only 2 weeks that she will do all she can to help me progress - as if she knows what I am capable of or what I want to do. I've been working since before she was born, for goodness' sake. I thought that was the final straw there and then, but there were many, many more straws to come over the next few weeks, as my work got eroded, things that I took sole responsibility for just ended up on her desk instead of mine and, the final insult, absolutely the last straw was when I was told that I could only work on a particular project for one day a week. If it hadn't been for that project I'd have had no work at all, but Skippy, so called because she bounces around with so much energy and (misplaced)enthusiasm that I have been wondering if anyone has any Ritalin I can administer, has decided that I should be doing crap admin for someone who isn't even part of our team. Now, it all might just seem like semantics to the casual reader, but I am an Assistant Programme Manager, not an administrator. There is a grade and about £5K difference between administrators and APMs, and I am NOT going to be treated as a human shredding and photocopying machine.

It got to the stage where I couldn't speak to Skippy, or my previous line manager, for the lump in my throat, and eventually I gave in to common sense and went to see my doctor. The hurt and upset and angry part of me wanted to be signed off on full pay for as long as the University would allow (not long if you are a lowly APM - above that and you get a minimum of 6 months, no questions asked) but the bolshy, 'I'll show 'em' part of me was still just about alive, so I opted for going back on a full dose of Prozac.

The situation at work hasn't improved, but at least I don't feel sick the moment I wake up in the morning and realise I have to go to the office. I think, hope and pray that I can bide my time until an opportunity comes up in a different department where I won't have to listen to condescending children telling me what to do.

In the meantime, email me if you know where I can lay my hands on some Ritalin. Or cyanide.

To promote or not to promote ...

That was the question, and the answer was no.

Remember all you've read about the numpties here who don't know the difference between bear and bare, and past and passed, before reading on.

I'm a level 3 here, which is 2 up from bottom feeder and 5 down from Director. I've been a level 3 for almost 2 years and I feel I've paid my dues, I've done my time (I've done my sentance, but commited no crime ... and bad mistakes? I've made a few. I've had my share of sand kicked in my face and I've come through ...) Sorry Freddie.

My interview for a level 4 post was good, so the feedback goes, my presentation was excellent BUT, they're not going to promote me, oh no. They're going to bring in someone who is almost half my age (HALF MY AGE!) and this child is going to be my new line manager.

Spitting feathers? You betcha!

I suppose I could just about swallow that (with difficulty, admittedly) but, as if to slap me back firmly in my place, I'm being prodded back down to the bottom of the pond with piles of bottom-feeder type jobs to do.

Sometimes it's all too clear to me why I made a break for freedom in the first place ...

Repeat after me, 'It pays the bills, it pays the bills ...'

We all have our cross to bear ...

One of the people involved in the great past vs passed debate earlier this week had another dilemma today and asked my advice. Keep in mind this person is a manager, earning shedloads more than me and has the responsibility for writing papers that are published on our company's website.

Manager : when you ask someone to keep something in mind, is it bear as in GRRRRR, or bare as in take your clothes off?

Now, maybe I have been a little short-tempered today, for a variety of reasons that I won't go into here and now, but I did manage to stay calm as I said to her, in the tone one would use to encourage a small child asking a blindingly obvious question for the 25th time, 'Well, have a think about it. What do you think it's likely to be?'

While she was umming and aahing a colleague, obviously as irritated as I was, said, 'Bear. It's bear. B-E-A-R.'

'As in GRRRR,' I said helpfully, just in case she couldn't spell, baring my teeth.

Tell me again, it's not me, is it? There is something wrong with someone who can't get the bare essentials right getting a highly-paid and responsible job, isn't there?

It doesn't bear thinking about ...

Is it me?

People who have not had the same educational opportunities as I have can be forgiven for the odd lapse in their grasp of the English language. People who are 1 and 2 grades above me at work, who have been to university, are English, and who earn between £10,000 and £20,000 more than me cannot.

This is a verbatim conversation between two such highly-paid individuals:

Senior Manager: 'I get confused between passed and past, can you help?'

Manager: 'Yes, of course. What are you trying to say?'

Senior Manager: 'When you run something by someone to get their opinion, is it past or passed?'

Manager: 'Oh, um, it's, it's PAST.'

Senior Manager: 'Oh, right, thanks.'

Manager: 'Don't worry, I always have to stop and think about that one, and the more you think about it, the more confusing it gets.'

NO IT DOESN'T! It's not confusing at all, it's very simple. Passed is the past tense of to pass. Past means (in this context) beyond or by, and if the senior manager had any doubts, why didn't she just say, 'Let me run this by you' instead of showing her ignorance by not knowing the difference between past and passed?

I could give her this example to help her remember:

'How the hell did you get your job? No, don't tell me, I'm past caring.'

Something fishy!

Yesterday I treated myself to a Fish Pedicure at Mermaid's Corner in Southampton, the first place in the city to offer the treatment, and I can thoroughly recommend it. If you're anxious about having your toes chewed off by miniature pirhanas, don't be! The lovely staff will be able to reassure you. They are extremely knowledgeable about the fish, and the history of this entirely natural method of pedicure.

Dozens of toothless Garra Rufa fish inspected my feet before tucking in to the rough skin around my heels and giving the cuticles around my toenails a good tidy up. The feeling isn't as ticklish as I thought, it was more like the pins and needles sensation you get when your foot has gone to sleep and then starts to 'wake up'. It was lovely and soothing, and I could have stayed there all evening, but after half an hour my feet were beginning to wrinkle, and it was time for me to lift my feet out of the tank. After I had dried my feet, moisturising cream was applied, and I left the salon feeling as if I was walking on air. When I got home I whipped off my shoes to have a close inspection and I don't think my feet have been as smooth and soft in years.

If I'd had any sense I'd have booked a toenail shape and varnish to top off the treatment, but I didn't think about it when I made the appointment. Never mind, that's a good excuse to go back and feed the fishes again!

If you've been thinking about having this done but aren't yet convinced it's for you, give it a try! It really is relaxing and the results are fantastic! Give Mermaid's Corner a try - you won't regret it!

Spring cleaning

Those of you who know me will agree that 'tidy' is not my middle name. In fact, it's not even in my vocabulary. My brother calls me Mr Trebus after the elderly gentlemen in the TV Series 'A Life of Grime' and, when I invited my neices for a sleep-over when they were tiny, he replied, 'No, they haven't had their shots yet.' When he brings his dog over he says, 'We like Aunty Linda's house, don't we? Lots of places to hide, lots of interesting smells...' He even put my name forward for Kim and Aggie to come and pay me a visit on their show, 'How Clean is Your House' but retracted the request after I gave him the death stare. My Aunty Janet, whom I love dearly (and thank goodness I do!) came to vist once (I'd tidied before she arrived) and declared, 'My God, look at the state of this place! I don't even want to think what your bathroom is like!'

So, you get the picture. It's not dirty, but it's untidy. I have too much stuff, I am a hoarder and I am not ashamed of that fact. So many of the things in my house that others may call rubbish have a use that has not yet been identified, or a value that has not yet been exploited. One day, someone might want a couple of hundred empty CD sleeves. One day, back issues of Psychologies Magazine, still in their cellophane wrappers, may become collectors' items.

No-one was more surprised than I was when I decided that the Time Had Come, the time to pick up everything that was lying on the floor and the stairs, and clear everything away for the Carpet Man to come and deep clean the carpets in the hall, lounge, stairs and landing. I spent a whole weekend moving furniture and bookcases and shoes and bags and piles of paper and magazines and boxes of stuff that I was going to sort out 'later'. The result? A fabulously tidy and beautiful lounge! I love it! And I intend to keep it that way.

Now, if I can just beat a path through the furniture, bookcases and shoes and bags and piles of paper and magazines and boxes of stuff that are now crammed into the rooms upstairs, I might be able to find my way to bed ...

Perhaps Mr Trebus was an accurate description after all.

It's me! I'm back!

I can hardly believe it’s been so long since my last blog entry!

After being escorted off the premises of my last so-called ‘job’ I went home and emailed my ex-boss from CooperVision, and one of the people who has written references for me in the past, just to let them know that I was back on the job market again and would be needing more references in the future. Within a few minutes I had an email back from my referee from the University (job before CooperVision) asking me to give her a call. We had a chat on the ‘phone, I met her the following week for lunch and she managed to get me a week and a half‘s temp work there …

That was very nearly 18 months ago.

Those of you who have been sharing this blog from the beginning will know that I started writing it to ease some of the frustrations I had working here and no doubt you will be scratching your heads and wondering why on earth I would put myself through the trauma all over again. In fact, I’m doing a completely different job, working with a different team, and rarely see any of the people who made my life so very difficult last time around. I really enjoy what I’m doing, I like the people I’m working with, we’ve moved to a new building so are no longer in the gulag known as ‘Mouldy Boldy’ or ‘Bolditz’ by those who work at this particular University.

And in between the highs and lows of life back in the private sector (the high being a fact-finding mission to Gran Canaria, followed by the Finance Conference there – a brilliant way of getting some winter sun in December 2007 – the low, of course, being made redundant) and re-entering academia I’ve got older, a little wiser and a lot more broke. I’ve been on holidays to Bergamo, Paris, Edinburgh and New York, and have the overdraft to prove the latter. I still have the beach-hut, which needs to be painted, and the cat, who doesn’t.

And I do have a wee bit more time because I actually take a lunch-break! So watch this space - you may be seeing blog entries on a more regular basis from now on.

Tempers fugit ...

... or, 'Flying off the Handle'

I've lost my temper countless times since joining Ron and Ron's Family Firm back in April. If you aren't familiar with Ron and Ron, this might jog your memory :

or this : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YiWnwfWrcU


Ron & Ron, and Ron Senior, took me on as a PA and then gave me 2 years' backlog of filing, 5 years of archiving, a year's shredding, and about 200 invoices to raise. Some PA role that turned out to be! Never one to simply smile and keep my mouth shut, I think some of my tirades (albeit behind closed doors) were loud enough to be heard by Da Management. Ron & Ron, and Ron Senior made sure they were away from the office, and left the dirty work to Uriah Heap, aka, the cringing apologetic HR Director. My cell-mate - sorry, the person who shares my office - was given an hour off in the afternoon, leaving the way clear for Uriah to come in and tell me they were 'letting me go' as I hadn't reached the 'standards they expected'. How they could judge me as a PA when all I did was effing shredding, filing, archiving and invoicing I don't know but in a way they were right. I couldn't sink to their standards in a million years.


So I'm back on the job market again. Anything considered as long as the job descriptions are honest. Oh, and family firms need not apply ...

Excused invoices!

The Chairman of The Firm burst into my office today as I was shaking my head over another stack of invoices that had been emailed to me. If you are not up to speed with the invoicing saga, I seem to be bean-counter's apprentice and spend inordinate amounts of time raising invoices. I thought I was very restrained when 20 appeared in my email in-box this morning. I finished them all at 2.30 in the afternoon, and then 25 more appeared! So I was chanting my mantra 'it pays the bills, it pays the bills' when The Chairman appeared.

'Stop what you're doing!' he cried, slamming two full lever-arch files down on my desk. 'I've got something much more important for you to do!'

Well, I didn't need to be asked twice to stop doing the invoices!

He showed me the contents of the two files: a. 800-page document for a job we are going to be tendering for, which, if we win the contract, will net us about £10 million next year. Goodie goodie! And how can I help us win this important bid?

'I want you to make six photocopies of each file,' he said. 'Quick as you like!'

There were several reasons why I didn't hit him. One, it's grounds for instant dismissal, and in a credit crunch, any job is better than no job. Two, he's an old man. Three, he'd probably hit me back.

So tomorrow I'm going to be photocopying all day, apart from the time I'm going to be spending showing my boss how to do the invoicing. Not because he's going to take the job off me, no no no, he wants to see why it's taking me so long ...

Excuse me while I spit feathers ...

Fortitude and Forbearance

No, not a double act like Hinge and Brackett - although come to think of it ...

I have displayed a good deal of F & F since I joined 'The Firm' on 6 April. I have told myself that I am being taught a lesson in humility, that I am lucky to have a job, that it pays the bills - I have told myself all these things, and continue to tell myself a hundred times a day, but although all these things may be true, it still makes me feel as if I'm going to burst when some well-meaning pensioner who is still working says to me, 'Has someone shown you how to use the photocopier?'

Just to clarify: I am not on work experience during school holidays. I first started working in an office when I was twenty, and that was nearly 30 years ago, so I DON'T NEED TO BE SHOWN HOW TO USE THE PHOTOCOPIER, YOU SILLY WOMAN!

I'm taking a moment to calm down.

Fortitude and Forbearance may well be a very good name for a double-act, as it happens. My new 'roomie' - or rather, the person who shares my office, and my distaste for The Firm - can also be heard to mutter, 'I'm lucky to have a job. It pays the bills.' Spookily, we share several key hobbies and interests and have a pact: whatever is said in our office remains in our office. I don't know if blogs count. I'll have to ask him. I'll also have to ask him if he would rather be Fortitude or Forbearance.

The job certainly hasn't got any better, but the company has.

Lies, damn lies, and interviews ...

One in three adults lies on their CV when applying for a job, according to research published in The Independent on 19 February 2009. The figure emerges from a survey of about 1,300 adults.

I’ve yet to find any research about how many employers lie about the jobs they have on offer, although I can quote two cases from my own career history.

Take a well-known University, for instance, where I was employed as a PA to five senior programme managers. The other half of my title was General Office Secretary, although my interviewer assured me that this was really an office manager’s role.

He lied.

The five senior programme managers had never had a PA before and didn’t have the kind of work they could give to one, so that part of the job really existed in name only. As for the so-called office manager’s role, I seemed to spend most of my time reporting faulty light fittings and being called to look at blocked toilets. I took to signing my emails ‘GDB’ (General DogsBody) but no-one noticed.

I left that job as soon as I could and, while I was looking for another opportunity, I started this blog. My early entries show how fed up I was.

After two very happy years in my next job – where the role lived up to the promise at interview – I was made redundant and I’d either forgotten, or pushed to the back of my mind, the fact that employers lie at interview and in job descriptions just as much as candidates do on their CVs.

I took the first job I was offered after my redundancy and it didn’t take long before the lies became apparent. PA to Group Finance Director sounds good, doesn’t it? So you can imagine I was a little perturbed to be given a stack of paperwork on my first day and shown how to raise purchase orders and invoices. This, apparently, is going to be a regular part of my work. So is endless archiving (the Group Finance Director having done no filing at all since taking the job 5 years ago). And I was told by Group FD that the HR director was pleased I was on board because he had lots of work for me to do. GFD also told me that if anybody else gave me work to do, I was to do it. Hmm, so not just PA to Group FD then, more like – yes, general dogsbody.

Unlike the chief executive of a local authority who allegedly failed to mention she had suffered from clinical depression and then took 18 months off from her new job for it, I have mentioned on my ‘new colleague health declaration’ that I take Fluoxetine for depression. Much more of this job and I have a feeling that I am going to require an extended break. The new company pays eight weeks sick leave, and I think that would just about cover it.

Unless they’ve lied about that, too.

Guillotine!

It's just like waiting for the axe to fall. Even before I knew what was going on, the decision had been made, and no amount of telling me that I am merely 'at risk' can change the outcome: on or shortly after 18 March, I shall be told that I am going to be made redundant.

I am scared.

I am the only person bringing a wage into this household of 1 + cat. There is no fairy godmother to wave a magic wand and make up the difference between Job-Seekers (pitiful) allowance and the salary I totally depend upon. The local paper, which used to boast, 'Hundreds of Jobs in Today's Echo' every Thursday now shyly advertises 'Dozens of Jobs in Today's Echo.' In any given week, one or fewer of those jobs is suitable for me.

Employers may no longer ask your age, but they may ask when you received your qualifications: if you say you got your O levels in 1976 they can easily work out you were born in 1960. That can work two ways: either you are too old for them, or you may be over the age to ask for maternity leave, and that may be in your favour.

I'm 48, going on 49. I have no children, no dependants (unless you count the cat - and she will argue she is independent, although I have yet to see her manage to fill her own water bowl or open a pouch of Gourmet Perle - other cat foods are available) but I do have a mortgage, high credit card bills due to my desire to further my education - four years (part-time) at University has given Visa and Access a lot to be grateful for! I see my salary disappearing on or shortly after 18 March, and I see the president of the European sector of our business gleefully taking his annual bonus of £450,000 while he makes 65+ people redundant in the UK.

This is small beer compared to other companies that are closing, making their entire staff redundant: at least in my (soon-to-be-ex) company over 1,000 will be keeping their jobs. Good for them. Not good for me. It's hard not to be bitter. It's hard not to tell my replacement boss (my own has left - jumped ship before the rats were given their marching orders) to eff off when he asks me a 'favour' (not simply asks me to do something as part of my job, because he's pretending that job no longer exists: it does, he's just giving it to other people).

So I am facing the chop. It's symbolic : my head is to be separated (metaphorically) from my body, and that sums up my working life. My brain has never been fully occupied, my ability and my intelligence have never been fully utilised, so maybe it's fitting that my head is freed.

And, funnily enough, a very dear friend is a professional knitter. It gives me some comfort to know that she will be sitting by the guillotine as the axe falls, knitting furiously and crying, 'Guillotine! Guillotine!'

I shall smile at her as my head hits the basket.

Continuing the musical theme ...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Dl-ai9HuR60

Things can only get better?

Don't you believe it. Despite some reassurances from my outgoing boss, I'm still getting the cold shoulder from the incoming ...

Oh well, back to scanning the jobs pages, I guess ...

Soothing sounds

There is a song I've been playing over and over again, and I haven't tired of it yet. At the moment, while things are so up in the air at work, I'm finding it very soothing - in fact, I think it's doing me more good than Prozac! Because with Prozac you only know if it's been working after you've stopped taking it for a while, and with this song, it's like a 'hit' of calm whenever you need it. It's Mykonos by Fleet Foxes, and it's definitely going to be one of my Desert Island Discs ...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=EeiRe4Qp9Dw

Bad manners!

I'll be the first to admit that I'm feeling just a tad sensitive at the moment. For some time now there have been things going on at work that have led my boss and me to think he's not long for this (corporate) world. A few days before my trip to Paris he confirmed that he would be leaving, but didn't know when, and when I came back from Paris there was an official announcement.

Now is not the time, and here is not the place to go into the rights and wrongs of it all. Suffice it to say, I am feeling pretty insecure. The person taking over from my boss hasn't had the courtesy to come and talk to me about whether or not he wants me to work for him (he's an internal appointment, so it's not as if he'd have to make a special trip - just walking up a short flight of stairs would do it). He has called a meeting to discuss the organisational changes, followed by lunch - was I asked to set up the meeting? Was I invited to the meeting? Or the lunch? Answer to all three questions is a resounding no. To my mind, that's just bad manners.

And a ghastly female with tenuous links to our department (not sufficient for her to actually sit anywhere near us, thank God) came upstairs today and started speculating about my future with the company in front of me. How I managed not to tell her to fuck off I really don't know, but while she was still in full flow with the rudeness she turned to my (pregnant) colleague and asked, 'Was it planned?'

I don't know about you, but I've come to the conclusion that good manners and courtesy are a thing of the past. If you have any evidence to the contrary I'd be delighted to hear about it.

This time last week ...

... I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, packing my wee small case for my £1 flight to Paris. Of course, after 'passenger fee' (what??) it turned out to be £10, but hey, who's arguing at that price? We had to book in on-line and we could only take hand luggage so it was a fun challenge! Now that I've been back for 3 whole days it seems as if I've hardly been away, but we had a lovely time. We opted to go to Paris instead of staying in the airport town of Beauvais and as soon as we hit the Métro I found myself walking taller, walking more quickly and with more purpose: I knew where we were going and I knew how to get there. It was great to be back - it felt like coming home, although it hasn't been home for over 20 years. My travelling companion was very laid-back and indulged my wish to go and see my old quartier and was happy to put up with my running commentary: 'Oh look, that was my post office, where I used to post my parcels and letters. That's still a bakery. That little lebanese grocery store's always been there. That's the bakery where I bought bouchées à la reine and didn't dare tell my guests that the 'meat' inside was lung ... Oh, and there's the park where I used to sunbathe, and there's ... '

A lot had changed since I left in Spring 1987, but a lot was reassuringly the same, and our final evening in Paris was a real trip down memory lane. I used to take all my visitors to a place in the Latin quarter called La Petite Hostellerie. The food was simple, but good, and reasonably priced. Tourists flocked there, but so did Parisiens - always a good sign. Not expecting to find it still there, I took my long-suffering friend along the narrow streets, again with the running commentary: 'That's the street where there was an Italian restaurant where I found a cockroach in my pizza ... that's where my brother and I ate when he came over for the Roland Garros ... and that's ... oh my God! It's still here!'

'Bonsoir mesdames, vous voulez manger?' We were greeted by a smiling middle-aged man in a beret which I'm sure he only wore to reinforce a stereotype. I started to tell him, 'Je mangais là tout le temps, dans les années 80 ...' and the words were barely out before his face lit up and he hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks and cleverly ushered us inside.

The décor hadn't changed. The menu hadn't changed. The cracked plates were the same - and the prices were still astonishingly low for Paris. We paid €15 for a 3-course meal. We'd paid that for an omlette in the brasserie next door to our hotel a couple of nights earlier. The head waiter sat down and chatted with me about the state of the British economy and it felt as if I'd never been away.

As we walked past Notre Dame and the Hotel de Ville - still aglow with Christmas lights - I wondered why I'd ever left.

Happy New Year ...

... to everyone!

Despite having a head full of snot for over a month now I started 2009 in a cheerful mood. With me, though, cheerfulness is a fleeting thing and I spent all last night trying to find a comfortable position in bed as I have a terrible back ache. I thought it could be sciatica (I've had that before) but I haven't got the agonising shooting pains down the back of the leg - instead I feel as if I've been severely kicked in the left kidney and I just don't know what to do with myself. Received wisdom (well, received from t'internet) is that staying immobile is not good, and that you should exercise. As something as 'simple' as getting out of bed took about five minutes, much groaning and swearing, and the use of the bedside table, I'm not sure that I'm going to manage anything approaching exercise at all today. I had to pour the cat biscuits into Bella's bowl from a great height this morning (she thought it was great fun, chasing her food across the kitchen floor) as I couldn't bend or lean to put the bowl on the floor.

Although I don't hit the big 5-0 until summer 2010, I am feeling every one of my 581 months today. It's no fun getting old, but I guess it's better than the alternative!

Christening

I went to a christening on Sunday, the first since the baby's sister was christened eight years ago. It was lovely to see a full church, and it was a nice service. We all repaired to the church hall next door for a buffet and drinks, and that's when I started to get cross ...

The stepfather of the baby's mother came round to tell everyone that the 'bar' was open and there was anything we wanted, except sherry and except for the people who were driving, who could only have soft drinks.

Excuse me, but when did the law change? If there's one thing I hate (well there are lots of things I hate, but this is a pet one) it's being told I can't do something by someone who doesn't know what they are talking about. The law states that it is permissible to have a small amount of alcohol in the blood and still be legally allowed to drive. This amount is the equivalent to 2 units of alcohol. As I used to calculate alcoholic units as part of my job, I do know what I'm talking about. The amount of alcohol in the tiny plastic glasses on the tray they were passing around would be, at most, 1.5 units. I was planning on staying at the christening for an hour or so, but even if I had downed the glass in one and gone straight out to the car and been breathalised, I would not have been over the limit.

I quite agree that people should not drink more than the safe legal limit and then get behind the wheel of a car, but I don't agree with people telling me that I can't have any alcohol at all. I take responsibility for myself; it's not up to anyone else. The fact that the wine was probably nasty cheap stuff served at the wrong temperature that would have given me indigestion is neither here nor there. I like to make my own decisions, based on knowledge of myself, alcohol and the laws about it.

The christening party was spoiled for me, not because I didn't drink any alcohol - because I don't drink much, contrary to what you might think reading this post - but because someone else set himself above the law. I'm not a 17-year-old who has only just learned to drive and who needs to be reminded of the law. I'm 48, I've been driving for 31 years, and the only points I have on my licence are 3 for doing 36 miles in a 30 mile zone at 7am on a Sunday morning when there was no-one else about. I really don't need to be told what to do.

It appears to be hard for adults who have children to treat other adults as, well, adults, and to let them take responsibility for their own actions. A word of advice: if you're offering people a drink, let them decide if they're going to have alcohol or not. After all, we're all adults.