Living with the traitor [by laura]

I think it's become obvious from earlier related columns that I really don't like babies. It's against my religion to have too much poop, puke, crying, diapers, milk, well, all things baby in my life.

Also: My sleep is sacred.

Therefore it's horrible and confusing when my body is working together with hormones and whatnot to try and convince me it's time to start bulging 'round the middle, and not just because I'm too fond of ice cream and don't exercise enough. I don't want babies. I don't like babies. And yet, I find my eyes wandering around and paying attention to children and babies completely unheeded by the instructions from me. And pregnant women. Everywhere I look, I see big, round bellies (in otherwise perfect bodies, which I think is just plain cheating!), buggies and freshly externalised offspring.

It's not nice when your own body turns against you. It creeps up into your subconscious and puts all kinds of silly thoughts in there, trying to wriggle past all common sense I possess.

Oh look, a baby. There's another one. This one's much older. A pregnant woman over there. O wow, look at that belly. What a nice belly. You like that belly. You want a belly like that. Oh yes, you want a belly like that. You could buy a buggy like that couple over there. And look at the dress on that little girl. You'd like to dress up a baby. Yes, you would. Babies are nice. Babies are gooood. Let's have babies. You want to have a baby. You really, really want to have a baby. Pregnant women get to have all the fun. Let's get pregnant. You want to be pregnant. Yes you do. Let's have a baby!

There's no way I can shut the traitor up. That's what I have to listen every otherwise peaceful moment of my life, when in the not-so-far-past I would just stare at nothing and let my mind unwind. In other words, my body's playing on two fields; on one hand, it's rubbing my defences with false imagery of wonderful motherhood (I'm sure it's wonderful for some) and on the other, it's not allowing my mind to unravel and connect with the greater flow of the universe, thus making it weaker and more susceptible for persuasion.

If a man ever joins forces with my body, I'll be in real trouble. Am I really no better than my animal instincts?

* * *

Although otherwise common as muck, Laura claims the title of the Queen of Procrastination. She's also an expatriate Finn who spends most of the time inside her own head - out of which the words overflow on their own accord. Any resemblance to coherence is therefore purely coincidental.

Caveat Emptor* [by pogo]

I just got semi-spammed. Spammed, as in it's unsolicited email containing an offer I can easily refuse. Semi as in the culprit was Apple Computer, and I probably didn't tick the little don't spam me box when I ordered something from their online store recently.

The untempting offer, in exquisite HTML with glinting graphics customary of all things Apple, was entitled£15* Off Your Next Order over £149* or more.

That little * was the killer. Searching the uberglossy I eventually found it hidden away in a tiny font with matching camouflage colouring: * Price and saving are exclusive of VAT and exclusive of delivery of charge.

Dodgy grammar notwithstanding, the * was enough to make me reach for the DELETE button. Things marked with little stars are Not Worth The Effort. Occasionally, the cynic in me needs a breather and it lets my optimistic side take control, but it's always given a thorough I told you so!-ing pretty soon afterwards. At these moments I am usually left wondering does anyone actually bother with these "offers"?

We recently went through all the palaver of re-mortgaging the house. The usual world-weariness crept over me as Tuther first mentioned the idea. It won't be worth the effort in the end, you'll see was the only thing I could think of, but, for the sake of a quiet life I simply nodded half-heartedly and mumbled something about "well, see what you can find then". One financial adviser and several rounds of paperwork and kitchen conversations which included the phrase "hmmm, how can they justify that charge?" later, we're with The Woolwich. Temporarily. Our supposed saving of £50 a month has been whittled away to about half that. Funnily enough, once the paperwork was all but done, we were told that we would need to take out a new insurance policy. With the Woolwich, of course. Then they tried to take two payments from us at once. And of course there was the admin fee. And the cancellation charge. And the We're-Totally-Taking-The-Piss charge. And so on...

I've decided what I'll have inscribed on my headstone:

Here Lies Pogo. He lived life to the full*.

---

Pogo is continually told to shut up by his long-suffering mates down the pub. Always opinionated yet rarely correct, he can't help sticking his oar in no matter what the subject. He has even been known to offer up opinions on The Small Print, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Biding my time [by Laura]

I finally came to an actual decision about my future plans. They now include saving a lot of money during the winter, taking some extra courses, and going to university next year.

I'm actually really looking forward to being a student again, in spite of the fact I'll be penniless after years of being able to pay for my own living, and will probably have to share a flat with a 16-year old who's moved out of home for the first time in her life.

I'll not have to sit in an office doing the same monkey-job for eight hours a day anymore. No more customer service, no more having to make excuses for other people's incompetence. In fact, I will be free to do whatever I want with my hair again, including all shades of the rainbow and an undercut, if the fancy takes me that way. I won't have to subconsciously worry whether my bag or shoes are too childish, because, hell, students are supposed to be a little weird.

No more managers, conference calls, invoice disputes or pissy customers. I dare say that this time ‘round, I'll have a whole another outlook on studying, because, unlike the last time when I was the fresh-out-of-home sixteen year old, I actually now know what's out there. Having worked a job I loathe for four years suddenly puts the whole thing into a new perspective.

It's always worrying to leave steady income and familiar things, but then again, not everyone's able to start afresh.

All I have to do, now, is get through another nine or ten months of gruelling boredom and, of course, the bureaucratic nightmare of choosing and applying to universities. I think I'll apply to at least two or three different countries just to make sure I have half a chance of getting accepted somewhere.

How's your day in the office?

* * *

Although otherwise common as muck, Laura claims the title of the Queen of Procrastination. She's also an expatriate Finn who spends most of the time inside her own head - out of which the words overflow on their own accord. Any resemblance to coherence is therefore purely coincidental.