Better than a kick in the knickers with a winklepicker

Impulse have a spray out called 'London'. That's right - a whiff of old Smokey. Nobody was looking in S/burys and the one can left of it was already open, so I gave my wrist a little spray. It smells sweet and a bit lemony, as do most Impulse Scents, not the heady combination of bus exhaust fume, sweat, grease, grime, vagrant, stale alcohol, Starbucks & misery that I usually associate with the Capital. I have never known London to actually smell this sickly sweet. I should write and complain.

Using this icon again makes me want to rewatch Ghostbusters of East Finchley. Hmm. Might have to root it out of whatever backup file it's been saved in.

Kev chose a pub that was ONE MILLION MILES FROM ANYWHRE.

I pinged my nosering off which gesticulating enthusiastically to Kev's Dad (who knows my Uncle through Biker Stuff) and lost it, I also appear to have lost my sunglasses :(

McKinley turned up!!!! And apparently reads this blog!!! (*waves*) I know this because she managed to preempt my claiming La Reynolds to be The Pintsized God Of All His Sex. She could not have known this to be a CAPSLOCK FACT unless she read my ramblings. I then declared her to be the female La Reynolds (Short, cheery Londoner, mostly eyebrows). She seemed quite pleased. She is campaigning to become the next Dr Who Assistant. I think she'd be brill.

Got drunk, was generally loud and obnoxious. Shouty debates (with Miss McK) included Mal v Wash and Stewart v Spiner, both of which I lost. Boo.

Found out at Charing Cross that Paul Newman had died. Was most upset.

Very nearly feel asleep o train and must go to bed now so I'll say goodnight.

GOODNIGHT!

Oh, lovely fun in Smokey today... once we, and the rest of the party actually got there! Because this is Britain, huge chunks of our public transport system had to be closed down today, leaving Flo to travel from Margate to Faversham by bloody bus and everybody else to try to get to Covent Garden without the Victoria line. We had to squish like sardines onto the district & circle tube, then change to Northern, then change again at Leicester square. It was hot. And cramped. And stressy. Nobody ever seems to want to let people off the train before they get on, or move down the carriage once they're on, leaving everyone needlessly squished at the door. Bah. I am blaming Boris for all of this, and for the fact that London has made my face and hair really greasy today. Evidently, his oily Tory slime is oozing rampantly through the streets of our Captial, infecting all and sundry with its grease.

Still, a good time was indeed had in the pub talking about this, that, the other and what uses we might have for a 1,000,000 times life size model vagina (roof to the Wembley stadium, in case you were wondering) and Vi had a fun time at home with her aunt and uncle. Everyone's a winner!

More Next Generama... ( three... this one's a two-parter! )

To quote Edmund Blackadder: 'I believe the phrase rhymes with "Clucking Bell".'
Yes folks, the crappity continues. The first lame part of yesterday (which resulted in me being covered in plasters) was my Diabetes Test which I found out this afternoon I have failed with flying colours - so, yet more blood tests tomorrow (have I mentioned my terrible phobia of having my blood taken, by the way? It's three-fold - I hate limb constriction, even for blood pressure tests, so I panic as soon as the torniquet goes on, I don't like needles in general and I also hate veins so the feeling of the needle going in, blood being drawn and the needle coming out again freaks me out no end... unless a Path Lab nurse is doing it it tends to result in my hyperventillating, crying and/or nearly passing out. Joy!) and a further restricted diet at best, possibility of lifelong Diabetes and problems for the babe at worst. Very despondant and angry with myself since there is no history of The Big D in my family - if I do have fully fledged Gestational Diabetes now I only have myself and my weight to blame.

Right, that bit of self pity over I may as well tell you that this will be a longer and more Everyday post than usual since I will be copying it onto http://www.historymatters.org.uk/output/page97.asp once I'm done. They want as many British bloggers as possible to record 'This Day In History', so my fellow British LJ Chums might want to get involved too.

Unfortunately, besides my Joyous news, not much has happened today. Much happened yesterday, which I still can't be bothered to go into, but in a nutshell I had my Diabetes test in the morning and went to the CAM Expo in London for work in the afternoon.
The list of annoyances goes thus:
Due to staff shortage at the KCC Birthing Unit and every heavily pregnant woman in the Canterbury area deciding to go into labour that day, waited an hour for first bit of test, listening to women scream and plead for an end to their agony, while thinking 'Only 3 months now and that'll be me!'
Panicked and nearly fainted at 1st lot of blood tests.
Waited another 2 1/2 hours for second bit of test.
Panicked again at 2nd lot of tests. The vein in the crook of my elbow had to be abandonned and they took it from my hand, which hurt.
Discovered far wing mirror was falling off - it eventually came off and swung around its wire on the A2 up to Smokey. Spent entire journey worrying that it would swing too heavily on the window and smash it.
EcXel was too hot and full of teenage girls (there was also a huge Hairdressing show on at the same time - it was like walking through TopShop on a Saturday) and their Car Park was very, very annoying. Cue much wandering around looking for a payment machine that worked, eventually going all the way back to the exhibition centre.
Traffic leaving Smokey an absolute nightmare at only 4pm - took an hour to get from ExCel to the Blackwall tunnel (5 miles if that).

Most of today has been spent complaining about yesterday. Although I did invent a song about a kitten hugging your foot to the tune of Deutchland Uber Alles:
Have your foot hugged by a pussycat,
Stick a tiddles on your toes...

Most of my actual work today comprised of keying in new leads from yesterday, chasing overdue leads and analysis of the Seminar Attendance Sheets from this year's show - hardly the most exciting aspects of my job. The lunchtime conversation with Bossbabies Nanny and the Cleaner (Nanny's Mum) about Vaginal Tearing. Whee!

The History Matters bods want me to say how History has affected my day, which is a little like asking me how Politics affects my day - it's too intrinsic to pin down! Although tomorrow is an important day in my own personal history - it'll be 8 years to the day since my 1st Impro Group at UKCD, where I met many of my best friends and the man who would eventually become Hubbily-Hoo. And I shook my head in despair at a flyer that claimed the inventor of a certain product was 'skilled in the art of alchemy' and was able to tell my Boss that Isaac Newton was also a keen 'alchemist', played with too much Mercury and went potty (apparently he was A Gay as well!). And the Cathederal bells were one of the many things that woke me up this morning, which I suppose is fairly Historic. The first thing that woke me up this morning was the usual Idiot's Parade of students at half 2, incapable as ever of walking home from a nightclub without screaming vaguely agressive inanities, which I suppose is as much a part of Canterbury's history as its Cathederal.

So I thought I'd end on current affairs, since today's is a special post...

Has anybody else heard about this kerfuffle over a BA (I think it's BA) stewardess sacked because she refused to hide a cross necklace from view? I worry about the escallation of silliness over causing Religious Offense usually but I can't see how anybody in their right minds would object so much to a small piece of jewellery to warrant sacking. Apparently they have the same policy on all visible jewellery, no matter what the meaning is to the wearer - does this include stuff like wedding rings, I wonder? I would certainly refuse to remove mine for anything other than hygeine reasons - even then I wouldn't be happy, since I never take it off. When I was in 12th Night since Fabian was obviously not married, I put a sticking plaster on over it, which didn't show from the stage.

And this story always seems to get linked to the Veil Thing, which I've got mixed opinions about - I personally think Jack Straw was needlessly picking away at the Muslim/Non Muslim divide by asking his consituants to Unveil - 'it bothers other people who don't understand it' is never, and never has been a relevant reason to stop doing anything. People tried to stop me doing/wearing oddball things that I wanted to when I was younger, and it's like a red rag to a bull. I merely thought it was all the more reason for me to do/wear it, since the terminally ignorant and 'bothered' would learn nothing until they were forced to face it. They never did of course, but it was never going to stop me. However, if you have somebody wearing clothing that impediments their job, especially if that job is giving kids with learning problems extra communication, it's very unfair to expect those you're paid to help to put in the extra effort to overcome how you have impedimented yourself.

And I just want to finish with the fact that I have come to the conclusion that the Dairylea Dunkers advert is pure evil. School Run Mum. In Urban 4x4. With one whiney kid who's old enough by far to have got a bus home in the back. Already you'd have to show Hitler raping a puppy to get a much more loathsome image. But no, it goes on. 'Muuuu-hu-hummm,' whines the Middle Class arsewit, 'I'm huuuuunnnngry...'
Now if School Run Mum were me, I'd have left him in the woods for the wolves to get long ago. If she were my own Ma, she'd have come out with the line she always used to give me and Sis if we ever asked for a snack/pudding - 'There's plenty of fruit in the fruitbowl'. But no, the waste of DNA need not fear eating something natural, for the plasticine cows are here to help Captain Whiney! In they parachute, leaving him with a pre-packed plastic pot of cheesy goo and the smug knowledge that whingeing will get him whatever he wants.
Two words, kiddo: National Service!