Laura and the new shoes

Yesterday I took it upon myself to purchase some new footwear. Unlike most women, I do not enjoy shopping for shoes. I find it a difficult and delicate process which does not often yield fruitful results.This is because I was born with very awkward feet. Depending on the shoe, I can be either size 5,5 and a half or 6. Plus I have very narrow feet and one is slightly bigger than the other. Plus, the skin on my trotters seems to be abnormally thin and so if the footwear does not fit EXACTLY,it can often rip holes in my upper epidermis layer. Sandals are a particular nighmare and I must have wasted hundreds of pounds over the years on bogus ill fitting pairs.So it was with great trepidation I ventured into the shoe stores of Liverpool yesterday.The weather was exceedingly clement and this had drawn the masses of the city out of the woodwork,along with their screaming offspring on half term break. Also, the new 'Liverpool 1' shopping precinct was open, which caused town to be even more chocka. I opted to give this a miss as I like to run against the herd and check out these things when all the fuss has died down. Plus, I have a feeling it might be crap and I don't trust these new developments ever since it was deemed necessary to get rid of the Bluecoat garden in the name of Capital of Culture. Calling on all the prior experience of my traumatic shoe shopping past, I gave all the cheap shops in St.Johns a miss and proceeded directly to the 'Clarks' emporium.Upon entering the store I was immediately enraptured by a pair of shoes which were evocatively titled 'Horse Way'. They were metallic brown in design with an embossed pattern. Quite a chunky sole with crossover straps on top. I'm not one to be taken in by advertising, but I could imagine myself getting up on a Saturday and putting these shoes on before heading off down the country paths on my brown horse, Black Beauty. She would gallop through the meadows as I clicked my heels and attracted many admiring glances from country bumpkins in my Clarks footwear.I tried a pair on in size 6 and they did not fit. I altered all the straps and they did not fit. I asked for a pair in size 5 and a half and they did not fit. I altered all the straps and they fitted a lot better so I bought them.My next port of call was 'Schuh'. This store had so many pairs of exciting foot garments that I nearly came over all unecessary. I selected a funky pair of shoes which were imaginatively titled 'Cake Crumble'. Again, I would like to stress how anti-advertising I am, but I can't deny that cake and crumble are two of the joys of life. Sadly the shoes did not look like a nice big chunk of cake. They were black with navy stitching and a cutaway pattern on the top. They had an ankle strap with the cutest bow you ever did see on the side. I tried on a pair of these Cake Crumble specimens in size 6 and they fitted. I walked up and down a few times waiting for some kind of agonising pain, or slippage at the ankle but there was none.Satisfied, I purchased the shoes. I could not believe I had found 2 pairs of shoes that fitted in one day.I got home and laid out my shoes for inspection on the Matalan rug. I congratulated myself upon a successful shoe shop operation. However, when I inspected the soles of the 'Cake Crumble', I saw they had given me the display model which had been tried on a million times.I am intending to exchange them for a brand new pair of Cake Crumble next week as I believe this kind of behaviour is shabby beyond belief. Even though I know as soon as I step outside, the underneaths will get messed up I think it is a violation of my human rights to be sold a shoe with a dirty sole.

Laura and the final of the novel writing competition

On 27th May I took part in the final of the Writing on the Wall 'Pulp Idol' competition. It was with great excitement I headed off to Coffee Union on Bold St, the designated venue for this event.It was with great disgust that I inhaled a blast of intense coffee fumes as I entered the doorway. I do not enjoy the company of coffee and believe the beans to be grown in the devils own back garden. It has always annoyed me that despite today's 'equal opportunities' obsessed society there is no such thing as a 'Diet Coke Union'. I am quite sure that there would be a huge market for this and it would stop people's nasal passages being infiltrated with evil smells during their entrance to novel writing finals.Anyway, I digress. I was accompanied at this exciting event by Alan, Sallyann and Katie from my office at work. I handed the judges 3 copies of my freshly printed out novel and then we all took our seats at the back. Within minutes I had developed terrifying stage fright again which caused the following unpleasant reactions:

Feeling that I was about to have a stroke, seizure, heart attack, brain tumour or dandruff attack from the stress.
Feeling completely unable to take Sallyann up on her offer to indulge in a chunk of her cake, due to the fact my digestive system had shut down in the midst of the 'fight or flight' anxiety response.
Feeling at a loss as to why I had subjected myself to such a petrifying ordeal and then feeling compelled to ask my assembled posse for answers to this dilemma and then not being satisfied with the answers.
Feeling completely unable to take in what people were saying due to being obsessed by my own feelings.
Feeling sure that I would need to evacuate my bowels in the ONE toilet the establishment possessed, which when I checked, had no flushability credentials.

There were 12 of us who had made it this far and once again I was selected to read second. I took this to be a lucky omen and then mysteriously and miraculously, as soon I was called to the front all stage fright disappeared and my performing monkey side surfaced. This always happens and I don't know why God insists I go through hell first, only to become super confident when taking the stage. I will ask him when I die and also demand explanations for the existence of coffee.My reading was a hit and I noticed several people in the audience were unable to contain their mirth. One woman turned to her friend halfway through and muttered 'brilliant!'. She took the words right out of my mouth and I could only hope that the judges thought the same. There were 3 judges; Joe Riley from the Echo, Dan Franklin from Canongate publishers and some other bloke with curly hair whose name I can't remember. I was asked a series of questions and I answered modestly and wittily, whilst displaying my expert knowledge of the novel writing process.I returned to my seat afterwards to listen to the rest of the readings and assess my competition.It seemed there were 2 or 3 other people besides my good self who were all in the running for the winner title.As the result was announced I went temporarily back into major panic mode and then looked up in disappointment. I had not won.Some woman who had written a beach holiday 'chick lit' style novel had won and none of us had had her down as the winner of the competition. She calmly took the stage to accept her applause and then gave a quite obviously well rehearsed speech.I was glad I was sat a the back so that no-one could see my miffed expression.But then when the crowds dispersed, one of the organisers of the competition came over to me and told me not to worry about not winning. He said it had been very close and he had listened to the judges deciding and there hadn't been much in it. He hadn't gone up to anyone else so I took this to mean I almost won.Which isn't a bad result really and I always think it is much better to be a runner up than a winner. Plus, as a finalist I have got a place on a weekend residential writing course and I also get a detailed critique of my novel from the judges.I have tried to analyse why I didn't win and I came up with the following conclusions:A button on my top was undone. This made me look sloppy and trampy and sloppy tramps do not win novel writing competitions.The judges might have had faecal matter blocking up their ears.It might have been because on the evaluation form there was a section that said 'how would you describe your sexual orientation?' and I put, 'mostly heterosexual, but I can't deny I lust after Britney Spears'.When I get my detailed feedback from the judges I will ask them if any of my theories are correct.Needless to say I have been in a World War 3 level sulk since this competition and lost motivation to write blogs. Thankfully, normal services are now resumed and for your comfort and enjoyment, they will never be written in a 'chick lit' style. Despite the popularity of this genre in today's world, I stand firm with my belief that what people really want is cutting edge and sharply observed prose from a post modern girl who doesn't really do very much except go to the Spar and the carvery.

Laura and the humungus spot

Since I last wrote, I have become hideously disfigured by the arrival of acne vulgaris. Or in layman's terms, a massive, pulsating monstrous beast of a spot.

It all started rather innocently about a week ago, when I noticed a small red dot to the left hand side of my nasal passage, approximately a centimetre above my top lip. I was peturbed by the small blemish, but was able to render it invisible with my concrete like make up.However, over the following days, it grew at a most alarming rate and by yesterday had morphed into a nasty, throbbing angry lump. It was still coverable with make up but I had to be pretty careful about what kind of lighting I stood in.This morning, I was awoken at approximately 5.30am by a painful spasm in the region of the blemish. I immediately hotfooted it down to the bathroom for a detailed inspection of my grill area. To my utter horror, the spot had grown a dirty great big head of pus which was threatening to explode at any moment.I could not go back to bed in this condition in case Alan woke up, saw my terrible disfiguration and stopped wanting to be my boyfriend. I decided emergency DIY surgery was the only solution.I collected together my operating equipment, which in this case was a large wad of recycled toilet tissue in embossed 'off white'. Covering my forefingers on each hand, I strategically placed them either side of the gumboil and gave a firm press.A most satisfying splat of yellow gunk type spot excrement shot into the tissue. A blast of pain shot through my face and I stemmed the flow of fluid by applying pressure to the gaping hole. I crept back to bed, relieved and calmed, however my long absence had awoken Alan from his slumber.

'Were you having a number 2?' He asked sleepily.

'No' I expectorated, slightly annoyed my covert mission had been detected and wrongly interpreted. 'I had a sore face so I went to the bathroom'

This explanation seemed to suffice and he went back to sleep.I fell into a restless post operative sleep and then when I awoke around 9am I pranced down to the bathroom, sure that my visage would once again resemble Snow White.I discovered that I still had the whopper blemish and that it was now topped with a dark uneven scab. I was aghast that my cosmetic procedure had failed.I was even more aghast when I discovered that the blemish was not coverable with make up and realised that staying in the house, avoiding all contact with carbon based life forms was not an option.I had to feel my fear and do it anyway, in the words of the best selling self help manual. So I applied make up to the rest of my kite and bravely soldiered into town to pay bills and attend to other matters of mundane importance. I attracted many confused glances and crying children, but I took strength from the story of the Elephant man and also a load of people I saw on the telly who had bits of tree growing out of their bodies. I think the programme was called 'Half man, half tree'. I could now totally understand the pain and suffering they endured at the hands of their cruel disfigurement. I am now thinking of taking a photo of the spot and sending it to Channel 4 so they can make a show called, 'Half woman, half facial carbuncle'.

Laura and the extra vegetables scandal

I feel I must voice my concerns and anger over an issue that has been happening regularly in the carvery. This issue relates to persons who return to the carvery serving area for 'seconds' of vegetables.The carvery is designed for persons who are of already greedy disposition, to heap their plates as high as the heavens first time around. There is no need in my book ( and Alan's ) to then act like you aren't quite full and then re-heap your plate full of vegetable matter. It is pure gluttonous and uneccesary behaviour. If you were anywhere else, you would not enjoy a full roast dinner and then demand that the chef return to fill your plate with extra veg. Which leads me to the conclusion that people only do this because the extra veg is free.

It is a disgusting state of affairs and whenever I go online to complete a carvery survey in the hope of winning a thousand pounds, I always mention this.Besides the fact that extra veg servings are the hallmark of the pie man or woman, the act of refilling a plate that is covered in roast remains,cold gravy and spittle means the vegetable spoons become contaminated with all of the above vile types of matter.It has put Alan and I off enjoying our modestly heaped plates on many occasions.Last night we sat and ate our carvery meals and spouted incessantly about this freakish behaviour. The conversation led me to think of other things and types of behaviour which annoy me. For your comfort and enjoyment I will now detail them in list form:

1) People who stand at pedestrian crossings without pressing the button for the lights to change. What on earth goes through the mind of such a class A moron?Do they think the traffic will be able to read their mind and just stop? It beggars belief that people could behave in this way.
2) People who use 'lol' seriously in texts and instant messaging type communication. Pack it in already. The English language is a masterfully crafted work of art and manipulation of semantics is great fun as well as being useful brain excercise. Stop these mindless abbreviations.
3) Women who flap at their face with their hands when they cry. 'Oh look at me!' it says.'Look at me as I cry and pretend I don't want to and don't like the attention while really I am pure loving it!'.

I feel better now I have got all that off my chest. Please feel free to comment and let me know if you agree or disagree with my vehement ranting. Let me know your personal bugbears in life and I will do my best to get them all banned by the government.

Laura and the training day

Today I was required to attend a training day for work entitled,'How to motivate and engage young people to realise their full potential'.Before I could do this however, I needed to motivate myself and this proved difficult when I awoke this fine morn and realised some sort of winged insect had bitten my face in the night. As soon as I saw the flaming red angry carbuncle burgeoning out of my left cheek epidermis, I wanted to kill myself.This feeling was enhanced when Alan laughed uproariously at my bulging boil and jokingly asked if I would like him to lick it. I replied that I did not require this service and reminded him that he proffers this remedy to every medical complaint I suffer from. I do think that at 37, he should have a bigger bag of tricks up his sleeve to deal with my health calamities.So I arrived at the training tired and drained from the struggle to cover the bite with concealer.It was one of those training sessions where all the chairs are in a horseshoe shape and there is nowhere to hide. It was also one of those sessions where they have 'fun' team building and ice breaker activities and so within an hour I had done juggling and been told to hold hands with colleagues while we all got ourselves into a knot and then got out of it again. The latter excercise was most vexing as I am simply too old and curmudgeonly to be weaving in and out of people's bodies and pretending the best way to untangle ourselves is not to cheat.We watched a presentation that was designed to encourage youngsters to stay in education. It was frightfully dull and when the facilitator asked for honest feedback, I presented him with a genuis idea.I suggested that instead of having lists and lists of statements blasted into their brains, the kids should be shown a video based on the hit blockbuster film, 'Sliding Doors'. One youth could be filmed making a series of bad choices in life and we are invited to watch as these lead to an inevetably disagreeable conclusion. The same youngster is then shown making a different series of more positive choices ,which lead to happiness and self actualisation.I could hardly believe it when my idea was universally panned by critics. 'Where would the budget come from for such a film?' I was asked. 'It would cost too much to make'. 'You could film it in Kirkby', I retorted. It would not cost too much to make at all and I sat sulking for a good half hour after my winning idea got the thumbs down. In fact, even now as I write this I can feel a fresh burst of demoralisation course through my veins. Although this may be because as Jan says, my ego is spun from the finest filagree of spiders webs and fairy wings. Still, I did not bother to generate any more ideas in my brain factory for the rest of the session.I was gagging for the buffet lunch when it finally arrived, although I got a shock when I bit into what looked like a sausage roll and weird red stuff seeped out of the middle. No-one seemed to be able to identify the matter within, so I discarded it in disgust.I was sickened to discover that there were no cakes or sweetmeats on offer for afters. Myself Ruth and Hayley solved the problem by thinking 'outside the box' and went to the shop to purchase essential chocolate supplies.After I had consumed my red bounty I felt more mentally stable and then Ronnie gave me a sweet he had procured in a toilet in London.We did some quite fun activities in the afternoon and watched some video clips from various films. We had to share our proudest achievements in the group and I held court with my tales of wowing the world of stand up comedy. Although my second proudest achievement is not scratching the head off my bite.We had to write down a time when we were 'on top of the world'. I wrote down 'when I discovered GHD ceramic iron technology'. I was most disappointed that I was not asked to read this out.At four of the clock the session ended and I made my way into town and homeward. Mel has just pushed a baby out of her front bottom so I went shopping for a gift first.

Laura and the tea in kimos

Tonight I took my evening meal in my favourite eating establishment, Kimos. It serves a wide variety of Middle Eastern style foods, however I opted for jacket potato with cheese and coleslaw, with a simple bottle of water to wash it down. There is nothing like traditional English scran, especially when surrounded by exotic, mysterious and downright odd dishes.I was accompanied by Anna, who is pregnant with twins. We had to shout as the lively music always seems to be aimed at deaf members of society. Anna is concerned that the African father of her twins may not be able to get a Visa in time to witness the birth of her young.Before I could stop myself I had offered to be Anna's back up birth partner. I've seen a lot of heavy stuff in my time. Angel dust, switchblades, sexually perverse photography exhibits involving tennis rackets. I am sure I will be able to handle a couple of kids popping out of somebody's downstairs department.Plus, I have seen every episode of 'Casualty'since time began and as such am practically a doctor myself.Plus, I cannot think of anyone better to be on hand to cover Anna's make up and beauty routine during labour.Plus, Anna and I go back a long way with attending each others hospital appointments and it would be a shame to break tradition now. There is nothing we don't know about each others blood and innards. We have had some great laughs in various clinics over the years. Perhaps the best laugh was when we were left waiting in a consultants office and spotted a box of 'leg bags'. To this day, we have never found out the fuction of such an item. Our second best laugh was probably when we went to see my consultant, Dr.Chu and I sat munching on a lump of cheddar in the waiting room. I responded to Anna's startled face with the words, 'I always enjoy a bit of cheese in clinic'.So I am looking forward to my new exciting role as possible primary birth partner. But don't worry, I will be firmly stationed at the 'head' end and not the 'goal' end.

Laura and Wild China

Alan and I watched an interesting documentary called 'Wild China' last night. It featured the stunning and remote landscape of Yunnan.However, the pronunciation of Yunnan caused us to smirk, as it sounded like, 'Your Nan'.Not very funny so far you might think, but imagine trying to keep a straight face as the presenter invited us to feast our gaze upon Your Nan's tropical south. The camera panned around the dense forest of Your Nan and the wildlife which inhabited it. We were invited to examine the sticky sap of Your Nan's bush and view the elephants, which can only be found in Your Nan.By the end of this programme we had almost collapsed with seizures from laughing and Alan's whole head had gone red.We went to bed after Wild China but couldn't get to sleep because we were still convulsing about Your Nan's tropical south. As soon as one of us tried to go to sleep, the other mischieviously recreated the presenters serious tone and deadpan delivery of Your Nan's bush shouts.When we awoke this morning it started again and Alan commented that he couldn't believe it was all still funny 12 hours later.I posed the question, 'Is it still funny because it was really funny, or is it still funny because we are a pair of biffs?'We could not agree upon an answer.