Mermaid in the Mail

Following on from the Mirror's piece at the end of November, the Daily Mail also called the Mermaid to interview me about my money saving tips for Christmas.

Mermaid at Harrods looking to see what I could buy for 90% off in the January Sales 

This piece is a bit longer - and went into a lot more detail about individual savings, so it is worth having a look at this one.

Of particular interest to me was the hilarious comments at the bottom of the article, including one 'Boring' - which I upvoted, and 'woman saves 50% on her Christmas shop? How is this news, DM?' - which I also upvoted. I love these guys. This is exactly how I would react to such a story too!

The comments are the best bit! Have a look at the Daily Mail article online here or use the URL below: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3344391/Blogger-reveals-pulled-1-000-luxury-Christmas-500-without-going-Poundland.html

The train, the lie and the 12-month gestation

Children, it is never right to lie. Even if you think you are being kind or diplomatic, do not lie. You should always find a third option that allows you to soften the blow while telling the truth.

For example:

'Does my bum look big in this?' There are three options from which to choose.

1) No, not at all (lie)

2) Your bum looks massive no matter what you wear. It's like the Pillsbury Dough Boy is wrestling with a hippo inside those jeans. (Truth)

3) Sweetie I was so busy looking at how your eyes sparkle and that colour makes your skin glow to even notice your lovely bum. (Third way).

And again: 'Meet my new baby!'

1) Oh what a beautiful baby! (Lie)

2) Ye gods what is that wretched thing? Why have you replaced your baby with a sack of red onions? No, really, where are you hiding him? What a prankster! (Truth)

3) Oh look at those little feet! And such little hands! (Third way)

Some mother will see this photo and realise her friends put it on the 'Ugly Babies' section of Buzzfeed

Nota Bene: when opting for the third way, avoid all pronouns. Parents tend to be offended if you think their girl is a boy and vice-versa, while 'it' just means 'I have no idea what gender your ugly little sprog is'.

These third way options are always there, but it is not always easy to think off the top of your head. I suggest keeping a few memorised in the event that you will need a third-way comment, so you can be ready when next presented with Sloth Junior.

All this is preface to a situation in which I once found myself, which led to a series of ever-increasingly uncomfortable lies. Actually, there were two such situations, and both were caused by my tendency to bloat drastically when 'sitting upon the household gods'.

Yesss... yesss....love it. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.

The first situation was when I was feeling painfully bloated at an investment dinner I had to attend. I was kitted out in a (thankfully) flowy dress that hid my stomach (mostly) but boy did I need to unleash the Mistral of Doom. While contemplating my route to the bathroom, an old acquaintance came bounding up to me like a joyous puppy in a park.

He was so chuffed to meet a friendly face that we ended up talking for a while. I had just gotten engaged, and my friend was super-happy at the news, so wanted details. All the while, my stomach pain was increasing.

A waiter came up to offer champagne and I refused, as I do not drink at any work functions. At the same time, my friend said 'are you not drinking?' I put my hand on my distended belly, opened my mouth to say 'well actually I am feeling so bloated', but I could only manage 'well actually'. He saw my hand, my belly and, joining the dots with my refusal of alcohol, immediately gave me a massive hug.

'Congratulations! You're not telling people yet, are you? Do not worry, I won't tell anyone. I am so happy for you!'

I was dumbstruck. All I could muster was 'please don't tell anyone' as I watched him beam an enormous smile at me. Even if I could have disenchanted this happy wretch, I had no time to do so, for another acquaintance bowled up and started a conversation.

To this day, I have not seen him or been in contact with him to tell him the truth. Hopefully he reads my blog.

You would have thought then, that once bitten by a fake pregnancy lie, the Mermaid would be twice as cautious not to let this get out of hand again.

That would have been the sensible thing to do.

But no. A year after marriage, I had put on a couple of stone, which made occasional bloating a more serious embarrassment. On three occasions in one week, people stood up for me on the train. On the third occasion, I even shoved my belly into someone’s face to make him stand up. Yes I did that. I am not proud of that. It was crowded!

OK, OK, it was not THAT crowded. But still...

Perhaps that is why the fourth occasion that week proved to be a salutary lesson in honesty.

It transpired thus.

I was on a crowded train, I was bloating badly and had terrible cramps. The bulge, and my obvious discomfort spoke for me, and a young woman stood up for me. Not wishing to embarrass her or me by saying 'it's okay, I'm just TOMming', not to mention that one does not declare these things on a train, I thanked her and sat down.

A few stops later, a very pregnant woman got on and, as I was sitting nearest to her, I offered her my seat. The young woman who had given her seat up for me shot me a glance, so I thought I would be diplomatic.

In other words, I lied. 'You need it more than I do', I said to the preggo, and smiled. Unfortunately for me, another young woman seated next to preggo heard and she stood up for me. Why did I tell a half truth? A half truth is still a whole lie... I had no choice but to smile and sit down next to preggo.

And Ms Preggo was a talker. She wanted to know everything about my 'early stage' pregnancy. She threw me a bunch of acronyms such as DPO and WPC; thankfully I subscribe to MumsNet for work purposes and knew what these meant. She asked me about symptoms. I had to blag. By which, I mean lie. A small lie turned into a series of bigger and bigger ones. “Large fleas have small fleas upon their backs to bite them. And small fleas have smaller yet, and so ad infinitum”. And that’s what was biting me, except the smallest lie had bigger ones ad infinitum trying to take a chunk out of my soul.

It was awkward as, and I reverted to pounding her with questions about her DB and DD. All went well until just before we pulled into my station. In the slowness and quiet fullness of the commuting carriage, she asked me 'so, when is your due date?'

I had not expected this. It was December so I said August. Which would have been fine if I had only just conceived that very morning, and a cytoblast or plastoblast or photonblaster or whatever it is called, was zigging its zygotey way across my fallopes and burrowing into my uterus.

Except I had already 'said' I was pregnant, which would mean I was at least a month, maybe two months, gone. So the due date would have been June. Add to this the swollen bloat of my belly which suggested at least three months, and well, we were looking at a total gestation period of maybe 12 months.

My mind was trying to extricate me from the situation more quickly than my mouth could work, and I managed to fumble my way around a conversation, hoping that lovely Ms Preggo had what my mummy friends call ‘pregnancy brain’ and I would not see her on the train again.

I haven't, but I still get nervous when I see similar-looking women on the train. If I should see her, the truth must be told, but while a man might think this was hilarious, I have learned that the MumsNet Brigade is not so forgiving. Mothers do not forgive so easily some woman scamming a seat pretending to be pregnant.

Since then I have lost a little weight and thankfully nobody stands up for me even when the household gods are beneath me. But one day when I am sporting a 'Baby on Board' badge and need to cadge a seat, be sure my sins will catch up with me.

Children, do not lie.

The peculiar incident of the cat in the daytime

Monty Baggins the angelic (?) cat

It started off so well.

Actually, not so well. It started off with me cleaning the windowsill of a (then) empty study overlooking the back garden.

From there I could see our Rum-Tum-Tugger, aka Monty the Cat, perched insouciant on the border fence between our house and the neighbours' on the left.

He was making rude noises at something small and fluffy on their lawn.

It looked like a grey owl, but turned out to be a small kitten, all fur and eyes the colour of ripening pumpkins.

Before I could utter a warning, he had leaped into their garden and was saying very nasty things, dark things, irascible things for which there is thankfully no discernible human meaning. But not for long - as a sudden jet of water sprang out from a hosepipe and he bounded back into the sanctity of our home.

Of course, I laughed out loud, which prompted three ladies sitting in the garden to look up. These were our new neighbours. Correctly, we were their new neighbours, and Monty had just attempted to rough up their kitten. What a bully!

But this was nothing compared to what happened one terrible, sultry, summer afternoon, back in '14.

It happened thus. Monty and I were doing nuttin while sitting inside and saw Rowdy cat (the un-neutered black and white tomcat) prowl into a neighbour's garden and pick a fight with Flea (the fluffy black cat who lives up the way).

They were at it hammer and tongs, dancing the steps of death, hissing and spitting and kicking each other in the face. They leaped over the fence into our garden, then in a few bounds entered Left Hand Neighbours' garden.

There was their grey kitty, still too young to be speyed but old enough to be on heat, lying in the sunshine. Within a few seconds, the two randy males were chasing her round the garden, making those weird, angry sexual sounds that only cats can make.

The ladies next door managed to get their cat in, and the couple to the left had managed to spook the black cat with a gentle squirt to the behind, but Rowdy and the black cat were still circling each other - now in our yard. This catfight had been going on for hours. It was getting out of hand. I looked at Monty. He looked at me. This was now time for the professionals.

They were still spatting by our gazebo. Thinking the coast was clear, and with Monty definitely raring to go outside and show these rug muppets what a real bruising was (he grew up in Streatham), I decided it would be a reasonable, grown-up, adult thing to do to don a cape, put Monty on my shoulders, and gallop out of the back door towards the two spatting cats while singing the Feline version of Ride of the Valkyries.

I called it ..... Apocalypse Meow, and it goes like this.

"Meow Mi-mi MEOW Miaw, Mew mi-mi MEOW Miaw, Mew mi-mi MEOW Miaw, MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOOOOOWWW."

Just in case you were wondering.

Anyway the two caterwauling kitties froze mid-yawl and looked at us in horror: the caped pink, two-legged beast (me) and the Ginger cat sitting astride her shoulders like the Colossus of old. And then they scarpered.

"Yeah" I shouted at their retreating forms. "Monty brought a Human to a cat fight". I think I even did a gangland sign.

Just then, heard a male voice shout with laughter "Well done Mermaid" ... and looked round to see pretty much all neighbours, left and right, looking out of their windows at me.

I will never live this down.

Caveat Ambulator

Oh no! I've fallen over while using my phone!

Regular readers of the Mermaid's rants will know that one of her pet hates is people who do not look where they are going. Whether it is because they are simply letting their imaginations wander down tangled forest paths or because they are wrapped up in a newspaper, I get frustrated when their meanderings end up with near-collisions.

Recently - over the past few years I should say - my very British tutting, sighing and sometimes foot-tapping has been reserved for the moble phone gazers. People who are spending far too much time attempting to answer a text or finish a message on facebook, and thus spending far too little time paying attention to the road.

I've narrowly avoided an umbrella spike to the upper body unmentionables this week, because a man was engrossed in what looked like a BBC news interview with Jeremy Hunt. Now I have nothing against Jeremy Hunt as a person. But if his ferrety little face prevents someone from paying attention to what they are doing with a steel-point umbrella, then I do take issue with it.

Last week, a woman on the phone, with pushchair afore her and a toddler behind her, didn't notice her child was attempting to get back onto the train, because she was too busy telling "Kaneesha" that "If he thinks that I am going to sit down and take it just because she's my sister, then he's got another think coming."

And not to mention the innumerable times common-sense commuters have been held up at the ticket barrier because people in front have been absorbed by erudite textual conversations, such as "what are we having for dinner tonite" "Pizza" "OMD we had that last night u gtb laffing. U got jokes". Yes I was reading it over his shoulder. No, he didn't get his train pass out in time and we all waited behind him patiently. Sort of patiently. There was a lot of tutting. It was me.

Having ranted on many occasions about this perambulatory phenomenon, I was glad to find my gripes justified by claims statistics this week.

According to a pan-European study from SquareTrade, the majority of phone-damage incidents in the UK and elsewhere have occured because people were Wexting - the word I have coined to refer to "Walking and Texting".

The study also claimed 86 per cent of Britons have tripped, stumbled, walked into a lampost or wall because they were distracted by their mobile devices. As someone who has been often frustrated at every corner by an oblivious walker, I am not surprised by the statistic, but I am somewhat disappointed that I have never witnessed immediate Karma. It would be so good to say "I told you so", even if I hadn't actually told anyone so, unless a sharp London "tchah" and kissing my teeth counts. (It doesn't, apparently).

However for all those who, like me, wish for the good old days when people watched where they were going, and left poor lamposts and walls to mind their business without being walked into, we can take some comfort.

The SquareTrade study has revealed that, in a league table of mobile mishaps (yes, this is a thing and I have seen it), the Mediterranean countries are the worst offenders.

Greece, Italy and Spain have "the clumsiest mobile phone users in Europe".

The UK is only ranked sixth in this Darwinian table. Out of 12 countries, you can probably guess which country came in last - Germany. There's probably a law against using a phone while walking. I know there's a law against wearing a mask in public unless it's specifically on a known holiday. I can't tell you how I know this, but suffice it to say that my career as Spiderwoman didn't go anywhere after a stopover in Munich.

Quoted by SquareTrade were several dumbnuts, I mean, survey respondents, who detailed their mobile-related injuries. My two favourites.... with my commentary

“I have walked into a low-hanging tree branch and almost knocked myself out while tweeting.”

Birds have been tweeting since the dawn of time, and they are surprisingly good at not hitting their heads on branches. There is no excuse for you!

“I walked into a shop window and I’ve also fallen over using my phone”

TWICE? This person is a repeat offender? How far down the IQ spectrum do you have to be to achieve such moronity - twice! Walking into a shop window is stunning enough; wouldn't you be doubly cautious the next time you are texting and walking outside of the safety of one's own padded cell? I guess not.

I can only hope they live in Greece. Because if they live in the UK, I'm going to have to emigrate to Germany. With or without my mask.

Dazed and confused

The past month has been a whirlwind for the Merms.

I would like very much to explain why it has been so whirlwindy. Or Whirlpooly. But to do so would be to mention work, and that is a no-no on this blog. After all, some completely exaggerated imaginings that I released online a year ago - which had pretty much no basis in reality except that they had been triggered by a horrid situation at work - precipitated me into a terrible situation from which I had no energy or willpower to extricate myself.

So I can't write about work, nor any romantic entanglements nor any amusing incidents because they are all utterly work-related. Is anything uncomplicated anymore?

The only thing I can do is recommend some links to a fun evening that a few of us in the financial world did a few weeks ago, called glastonbury in the city. The mermins is the one crooning on the mike in the front.

Woman changes name over Thomas Cook dispute

From the news today, courtesy of Associated Press:

An angry holidaymaker has changed her name by deed poll because of a dispute with the travel agent Thomas Cook.

Austin Kettle from Ipswich changed her name to 'Mrs Lorraine Darla I Hate Thomas Cook And Its Associates Big Shot Company Treading On The Little Guy Leeks' after a row with the company.

The 26-year-old bride-to-be took the drastic action after being told that she would have to pay a fee to change her surname on the booking for her honeymoon.

Austin had made the booking under her future married name - Mrs Leeks - and was later told it would have to be changed because it did not match the maiden name on her passport.

When Thomas Cook told her she would have to pay a fee to make the amendment, she decided to change her name in protest.

Speaking about the name change, she said: "At first I was a bit upset but it was just a bit of a crazy moment and I decided to do it. I think my fiance thinks I'm crazy. The amusing thing is my fiance will have to say my new name during the wedding ceremony."

A spokesperson for Thomas Cook said: "All customers are advised that the name on their booking must match the name on their passport."

Mermaid comment:

Numpty. Austin Kettle? Should have changed that by deed poll many, many years ago.

HOLA!

Dear all,

Well, it's been a while since I was able to write anything online. Thank goodness I keep a diary! I've missed blogging and I've missed catching up with all my blogging friends. But there is great hope on the horizon - I may be given the luxury of time back very soon. There are exciting plans ahead for me which will entail me being able, at least for most of the week, to work from home. This will give me back 2.5 hours of my day otherwise spent travelling. An extra 1 hour to add to this will be the lack of me having to get dressed and cleaned up. Nice. Smelly Mermaid. Mmm... arome du home-working writer. Nom de Fume.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Anyway, I want to thank you all who kindly sponsored me in my walk in Cuba, and who sent me kind wishes and thoughts. It was a fantastic success, and really life-changing. I will tell you more about Cuba in Cuba part ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE AND SIX. AND SEVEN.

Believe me, there are LOADS of photos for you to snore your way through. So be prepared for an onslaught.

PS. Oh yes, the mermaid has also found a mer-man.

Cockfosters

London Underground

Cockfosters

Is a station on the Piccadilly Line, taking people into Barnet. Ooh look, how interesting, a map of Cockfosters
It is also a happily-named station, providing me with an august-sounding, euphemistic verbalisation of my frustration.

For I am frustrated. I have no time to do anything I actually like. I like to watch TV, eat, sleep and maybe even tidy up. But no, every second of my day is clamoured after by people, and not even people who are the closest to me. My closest friends and family know how cockfosterly busy I am and are patient and gentle and forgiving. People who don’t know me – or who don’t care – just demand more and more of my time. This makes me want to staple their heads to the front of a train pummelling its way to Cockfosters.

I also have not had any time to catch up with you all, to see how you are, to read your latest blog posts and email you and find out what's been occurring in your lives-outside-of-blogsville. I do hope you are all well and I aim to carve out more time to splash on your blogs.

I’ve also not had time to write up some rather amusing happenings in the life of Mermaid. Stories I would like to write:

• The chipmunk wot ate out of my hand
• The day my heel got stuck in a train station grating
• The man who just doesn’t get it
• Wings
• Two toads, two frogs, three spiders, one pigeon, one mouse and a small cat
• Mutley still needs to send me an invoice.

I can’t be motivated enough to write them all, so please choose your favourite one and I will write that first.

Except for the last one, that’s a lazy reminder to him that I owe him £ for services rendered.

Willesden Green!

Waterhouse

Mermaid by Waterhouse
I was searching for an image of a knight, a picture I had in my head of La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Poem: John Keats, Painting: Waterhouse) and I stumbled upon this. It was then I remembered that, 10 years ago, I went though a phase of collecting postcards of fine art, particularly Romantic and late 19th Century pieces based on scenes from Classical Literature and from the canon of English Poetry. I wondered if this mermaid was behind my persona in some way - she was one of the postcards I had collected - wistfully looking out to sea, alone, pensive...

But thinking about my collection reminded me of The Wanderer Above the Mists. This was a picture that had such an impact on me as a student. It was at the epicentre of my collection, posted in the middle of my room and surrounded by the other paintings. It is a powerful portrait of a man who looks like he has been transported to an unknown place, to a situation for which he was not prepared (his clothing is hardly that of an intrepid explorer!)... a man facing a task unfinished, a path unseen, yet he is not shirking from his challenge. He will go into the great unknown, he will venture into the mist though he cannot see the dangers, because he trusts in the One who does know the way, who will guide him through the paths of his life.

Wanderer Above The Mists

For me, this is how I have always seen life. I am not really the pensive mermaid sitting around, combing her hair, waiting for a mer-man. I am the traveller, the wayfarer, the journeyman and the lone crusader. I am a lot stronger than people think, even if I have to pour out my siren songs from time to time.

Yet I have never had a 10-year plan, or a 5-year or even a 1-year plan. I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future and I am confident that I, too, can face the future with its trials and with its joys, because I know where my ultimate destination is, I have a shepherd to guide me and I have been given the key.

"I know who holds the future
And He'll guide me by the hand;
With God things don’t just happen
Everything by Him is planned.
So as I face tomorrow with its
problems large and small
I’ll trust the God of miracles,
Give to him my all."

Well??????

I know you are itching to know how it went...

I refer to Tolkein...

"Gildor was silent for a moment... At last he said: "...The Choice is yours, to go or to wait."
"And it is also said," answered Frodo: "Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes."

The answer is yes, with also a no, and a definite wait-and-see.

The Mermaid of Moorgate is not unhappy to bide a while, flicking her tail and singing her strange songs to the wind and the rain and the rocks. If it is worth waiting for, which it most definitely is, Merms will wait, even wait forever. At least she knows.

MONTY SPEAKS

lunatic
Sorry about mummy's last comment on her previous post.

I called the nice men. They've taken her away.

I should be sorry, but she's already cooked me enough chicken for a week.

Besides, she drank milk straight from the plastic bottle. What a chav.

Who, me?

The phone rang chez Mother Mermaid this morning. She picked it up, believing it to be yours truly, and said:
"I'm not in"
A male voice (unknown) replied: "Oh? Well, Mrs Mermaid, would you please tell me when you will be in so I can call you?"
"Oh - well I am in but I'm soon going to be out. I'm just not all there yet." (wittering)
"I see, Mrs Mermaid. I think I'll call back in two hours"
"Okay" gasped my mother, still trying to recover from the embarrassment.
*click*


PS - for those who have questioned my politeness when passing breath (dennis, hitch, tuscan and the rest of you lot), it runs in the family - The Proper Rules to Follow