I'm engaged!!!

That's what I keep saying to myself (and others) in stunned tones. Paul and I got engaged on Saturday and we are unbelievably excited about it. And for once, 'blank mind' really does describe my head because I'm stuck for something to say on this except "YAAAY!"

EDWIN WAUGH

Those of you familiar with the CFZ blog Still on the Track may have seen my recent postings concerning the composition of editorials from the Edwin Waugh pub in Heywood, Lancashire.



The JD Wetherspoons venue takes its name from a local poet named - you guessed it - Edwin Waugh. Having said that, he wasn't actually a Heywood man; rather he was from nearby Rochdale but the 'Wethies' there took the name 'Regal Moon' for some reason so I imagine the Heywood managers decided to undo the insult to the borough's famous bard.



Now, for many years I laboured under the misapprehension that Edwin Waugh was the father of the more widely known Evelyn Waugh. Apparently they're no relation so when playing tour-guide to non-local friends, I've inadvertantly been telling porkies.

Mr Waugh wrote a variety of literature but is most famous for his poetry written in the Lancashire dialect. His talent was such that he became rather a local legend and has been referred to as Lancashire's answer to Scotland's Robert Burns.

Anyone interested in finding out more about Edwin Waugh or the Lancashire dialect can contact the Edwin Waugh Society

It's (Still) Going to Take Some Time....

Mum keeps telling me I must be patient. It will take time but it's only four weeks now until my appointment at the hospital when I might be told I can go walkabout again.

The title of my post refers to an earlier one after I came out of hospital last year and was pondering my recovery. It feels as if history (albeit fairly recent history) is repeating itself, only this time its bodily recuperation that is required and I am not a very patient person.

The plaster cast is off so I can at least have a bath now but I am still on crutches or in a wheelchair (yes - Mum got a wheelchair for a remarkable bargain from a mobility shop in town); crutches at home and wheelchair out of doors. I am perfectly aware that there are far worse situations to be in but it is still maddening. And to top off the inactivity, it seems that having been starved of oxygen whilst beneath an inch of whatever it is modern multi-coloured plaster casts are made of, the hairs on my left leg have felt rather a strong longing for the sun on their follicles. Without a word of a lie, I waxed my legs just a couple of days ago and already the little buggers are back, six feet long and crying joyously "We're free, we're free! Here comes the sun, little darling!"

My birthday went off recently mainly without a hitch, although for a famous tourist attraction, the museum my sister took me to for a day out really ought to have better wheelchair access. Bravo, Museum of Science and Industry, Manchester, for having ramps all over the place, but could you put lifts in the buildings the ramps lead to please? The main building had one, yes, but unless we just couldn't find it, there wasn't one in the electrical building or a way down to the bigger engines in the engine building.

Gah!!! Somebody pass me the dairy-free white chocolate buttons while I console myself.

AT LAST...

I feel like I've been away from my blog for years. Long story, short: I fell down two steps, shattered my ankle, spent just less than a week in hospital after surgery to render me part human/ part Meccano, and am now at home.

My day consists of sitting on my bottom reading, sitting on my bottom watching TV and sitting on my bottom surfing the internet. Paul gutted my house for me so it finally looks like liveable accommodation and he and Mum are taking it in turns to stop overnight at my house to make sure I don't fall on my backside because I'm not very good on the crutches.

However...

I just fell on my backside because I'm not very good on the crutches.

Well, I actually fell on my foot; the foot I'm not allowed to walk on because it's currently in lots of little pieces beneath the skin. That bloody hurt so I quickly jumped off said foot but didn't manage to land on the other one and landed face down on the toppled-over bathroom bin. Bad foot, which had been behaving itself for the last couple of days, now hurts lots again and has pins and needles again. Previously-okay foot also hurts now, as do my arms, which tried to stop the fall and my bottom (for goodness knows what reason).

I did mention at the hospital my particular disability when they presented me with crutches but it seems physiotherapists and nurses are not good at maths: Dyspraxia +crutches = lack of recovery and probable further injury is apparently not an equation the medical profession can work out. Hopefully the trip to Halfords will be a successful one; even I would struggle to fall off a wheelchair unless completely kalied.

Controversial anti-rape device

I'm not sure my use of the word 'device' here is accurate but 'controversial' certainly fits the bill. The 'Rape-aXe' was invented by South African doctor Sonnet Ehlers after he heard about a rape victim saying she wished she had had teeth "down there" when she was attacked.

The item can be inserted into the vagina like a tampon but has 'spikes' that face inwards so as not to harm the woman, instead causing incredible pain to any sex attacker who would be unable to remove the object from his penis without professional medical help.

While Doctor Ehlers is clearly responding to a need to help victims - reports claim as much as one in four South African men have admitted to rape - I do believe he is going about it the wrong way. The article I read about this issue said that 'critics' think the use of such a device could potential cause more danger for women if their attacker retaliates to his wounding.

But the other point worth mentioning is that this is hardly a preventative measure. The woman wearing this thing will still have been raped, it's just that she has got a little of her own back in the process. Now perhaps for some that is enough, but I doubt it would make most feel better in the long run, and it certainly wouldn't illiminate the trauma experienced in the aftermath. Perhaps also the attacker can then be turned over to the police by doctors identifying and removing the contraption but again, none of this has prevented the rape in the first place.

It is obviously a good thing that professionals with the ability to do something about this are trying to come up with ideas but the Rape-aXe is far from the answer, and it has to be said, women are not the only sex who can be violated in this way. A better solution for everyone needs to be found.

OUTRAGED!

Behold, an invader in our midst, brethren! Yesterday was a wonderful day for Paul and I as we attended the first day of Filmonik's boot camp and filmed on location in Manchester for much of the day.

However, during a much-deserved and much-needed rest, we stumbled upon the atrocity that is Sinclair's oyster bar, Manchester. In what was formerly (according to some of us, still is) a proud Lancastrian city, second only in the county palatine to Lancaster herself, this disgraceful public tavern sells only Samuel Smith beverages, and Samuel Smith nuts. Samuel Smith is a Yorshire brewery, dear friends! We must rise up against this travesty and boycott said bar until they stock Phoenix, Boggart Hole Clough and Boddingtons products - having said that, I think Boddington's left Manny a few years ago. OK, not Boddington's, then.

There are those who seek to suppress us, my Lanky-proud brothers and sisters, but always remember what those of us who strive to keep the war of the roses alive for as long as it's amusing, the Yorkshire Rose is nowt but a Lancashire red with albinism....

Why I deserve chocolate every day for a week....

I found a lot of slug slime on my rolykit, which I keep in the boiler cupboard, so I was going to disinfect it. The only problem was that when I opened the rolykit up just to double-check on things, the slug was still inside! It was huge and it looked unwell, and slugs look bad enough when in fine fettle!

Now, I have had an insane problem with slugs ever since childhood to the extent that I still occasionally have nightmares about them and the thought of including a picture of one here made me feel physically ill. My first reaction because of this phobia was to throw the rolykit in the dustbin outside. I soon realised that this was stupid because the rolykit itself had cost me £15 and I need the contents and couldn't afford to just chuck it all out (I've everything from stationary to art equipment, make-up and sewing materials in there).

My second urge was to ring someone to get them to come and get rid of it for me but then I realised that by the time they came the slug may well have managed to climb out onto the carpet, which would have been worse, at least in my head, anyway. On reflection, I think the reason the slug was dying was that it had perhaps crawled into the rolykit through the titchy hole near the fastener but then couldn't get out again. Serves it right; horrid little blighter.

Anyhow, it was obvious I had to get rid of it myself, which I did with an empty toilet roll card tube, with great difficulty. I was cringing the whole time and convinced I was going to be sick but I managed it. I rushed back into the house and quickly disinfected the rolykit and dashed into the bathroom to wash my hands.

By now the adrenalin was going round me like the clappers because I'd just had to do something that to me, is utterly unthinkable normally, and I didn't stop shaking until I'd chatted to two friends on the phone, done the washing up, had a peppermint tea and four packets of sweets, and made a casserole, all of which took over an hour.

Needless to say, there is no salt left for my chips now, as it's all in the boiler cupboard in case yesterday's invader was only a scout.

FIRST EVER FLAT PICTURE...

...Unfortunately it's not one you've exactly been waiting for. It looks like a steroid-popping rat of Schwarzenegger proportions has been chewing through my wall but this is what the plumber/ plasterer/ handyman/ whatever-the-heck-professional-the-landlord-sent did to the wall in my bedroom this afternoon. The other day I found the carpet in there was absolutely soaked through from a leak apparently from the same pipe I'd called them out to before.

Today it turned out the pipe underneath the little white shelf was not the culprit, but an old, now out-of-use pipe inside the wall that had never been sealed. The leak seems to be fine now but it will probably take a few days for my carpet to stop smelling to high Heaven and walking in my bedroom to feel less like trudging barefoot through a quagmire.

The hole will apparently be gone by the end of Monday evening, too, but can anybody tell me, is hammering an old pipe till the opening is closed strictly usual or did today's workman just enjoy battering things?

Eventual post...

Yet again I find myself up early. It's hard to get used to. For the last three weeks I've somehow managed to wake an hour before the alarm (or several hours in some cases) every single day and I don't know how or why, but it's a nice change!

I've been getting the urge to write a blog for some time, now, but can never quite think of anything sensible to put when I actually log in, so generally give up after a paragraph or so, resolving to try again later. As it happens, 'later' turns out to be just as much of a non-starter as earlier and so I've not posted in over a month.

It is lovely to see that we (hopefully, touch wood, etc.) seem to have seen the last of the wintry weather and the traditional springtime flowers are in bloom. We have had some gorgeous (in comparison with recent months) sunshine over the past few days and it feels like this spring, and later this summer, are going to be good ones.

BLIMEY

It's been almost two months since I last blogged! Dear Heavens to Murgatroyd! I am stunned!

Okay, enough.

It's gone two in the morning and I feel tired but for some reason can't sleep. The main reason I have neglected my little bloggo of late is that I've been insanely busy with the flat. Well, all right, that's one of the two main reasons, if I'm honest. The second we'll leave till later.

But yes...the flat! It is shaping up rather nicely at last, and I have been promising photos on the blog practically since I moved in. I had intended to post pictures of the empty rooms before I actually moved in but unfortunately moved in before I had a chance to take any pictures and there was no way on God's formerly green Earth that I was publishing photographs of my new home in it's war-zone-like state on a public forum, even if only three people (now four, by the way, though he hasn't become an official follower as yet) look at it.

I could divide the reasons for my blog-tardiness into sub-reasons, probably. The dyspraxia (I forget how many of you are aware of this particular bane of mine) contributes significantly to my taking forever to get on with anything, for a start. Then there's my darling family who, despite being dear to me, are very far from the full shilling (let he who is without sin cast the first stone, yes, but if he is also casting them at himself, he should fire away, I reckon - you all know I'm bonkers). There has also been the various tasks involved with setting up a home. I apologise to you all for going into this because you all know what this involves but I had to mention it as I didn't and am still reeling from shock. I didn't know it was possible to collect so much bloody paper in such a short space of time. My kitchen worktop looks like the lost items department at Royal Mail.

Also - I can put it off no longer - a good deal of the blame for my absence on this esteemed site I have created, must be apportioned to one tall, dark, handsome stranger who spoke to me in Morrisons the day before New Year's Eve and has monopolised my free time ever since.

Suffice to say, it is going very well with Paul. I have wanted to mention him on the bloggo for some time but since I rushed to mention the toe-rag I formerly called 'boyfriend' on here, I wanted to save Paul for some very special blog. As it is, I've had a wonderful day on the whole and reckon that is special enough. And he is special enough to warrant mention without excuse anyway, it turns out. And now I'm gushing like an Oscar winner.

I've completely forgotten what I was going to say when I started this post but I am at last starting to feel like sleep might well be a possibility so I will close by saying (this time while in a position to deliver) that photos of the flat WILL follow shortly. Oh, and Paul is the fourth blog reader I mentioned earlier, by the way.

HAPPY NEW YEAR: It had to happen some time

Well, I've done my first really stupid thing of the new year. It was only a matter of time, let's face it. Today I was feeling slightly sorry for myself. I had spent the night on my Mum's couch because of a suspected gas leak at my flat (again), and as a result was suffering from a very sore back and shoulders. I wanted to get some work done on my laptop in the Edwin Waugh, which serves great coffee and offers free wifi to laptop-toting customers but until tomorrow I had only five pounds, and that was in the bank. The post office was shut when I got there hoping to draw out my money, 'Due to unforseen extreme weather conditions.' Why on earth could the post-office staff not do their jobs in the warm when customers and outbound postal staff were perfectly capable of braving the snow?

I digress.

So, I'd carried my laptop bag (which is bloody heavy, let me tell you) all the way into town for nothing, fallen on my backside in the snow, and was generally very fed up. I decided to treat myself to a cheering-up coffee and meal in Morrisons cafe instead (they DO accept card payments, unlike the Edwin Waugh).

This was about 3.30pm so imagine my total shock, upon finishing my omelette, mushrooms and beans, to find a text message on my phone that had apparently arrived at ten past eight! Had I really been in the cafe for almost five hours?! I stared at the phone for a good five minutes, totally puzzled before it dawned on me: '2010' was the year the text message was sent, not the time. And Morrisons would have shut at 8pm, anyway. Happy 2010!