Cambridgety

Steve and I are going to have a few days together, just the two of us. With Steve's work, my work, and Amy responsibilities, time away together isn't easy to organise. So our two and a half days of 'just the two of us' feels like as much to celebrate as any fortnight in the Caribbean. We once managed to go away together, we took a train and had a night away at Whitstable. This time we're hiring a car and going to Cambridgety. Not Cambridge.

Cambridgety.

I told Steve that I was worried that Cambridge wasn't a very magical place, because our magic places always have silly names. Like Whitstable. Like Tooting Bec. Like, um... Like Steve's team is Trannmere Rovers?

So Cambridgety it is. And Steve tells me, 'If it's not magic enough I know there's a village nearby called 'Shuddy Crumps'. We can always drive there as fast as we can.'

We've been together six months now. I think we'll find some kind of magic in Cambridgety.

There must be some kind of magic at work that I feel happier to be with him with every month that passes. Cambridgety, Cambridgety, Cambridgety, Cambridgety.... Can't wait!

Taking money from strangers...

I got an email from someone who wanted to give me money. That's very nice, I thought. And it was a friendly email from a nice chap called Michael, so all well and good... So I replied to Michael, and a mildly flirtatious email exchange ensued. Michael was ok, his emails made me smile, he seemed nice, even though he was in Marketing. And I think I'd have liked him even if he wasn't trying to give me money.

I told him my Paypal details, so he could send me the cash. Well, he seemed keen... So I put the bit of text he requested by the side of my blog. He asked me very nicely. The text said 'For quotes on your motor
insurance visit www.yourmotorinsurance.co.uk.'

So there you go, nice money, nice emails, nice chap. I don't know anything about the insurance though. If I were you I'd shop around...

Multi-purpose, Multi-Cultural

Tayba called around a few days ago, she was carrying a plastic plate, covered with another plastic plate.

"We're fasting," she said. Then she uncovered the plate to reveal a selection of bhajis and other golden indian snacks. "My Mum cooked these for you," she said.

I took the plate. I felt really touched. Tayba's Mum had never said a word to me before, and now she was giving us homemade indian treats. I told Tayba to thank her.

Well, what I really said was, "Tell your Mum that's really, really, really, really, really, really, really nice of her. Only you can leave out some of the 'really's if you like."

Tayba smiled, like the gift was no big deal, and then she went home. She left me to feel guilty that Social Services were now investigating her family because I'd heard some child having a tantrum.

The snacks were great. Really, really, really, really, really great... As we ate them Amy piped up, "Tayba's Mum has won prizes for her cooking."

I know Tayba's family is Muslim, and Diwali is a Hindu festival, but on the 'multi-cultural Tooting' theme, here are Tooting Bec's Diwali street lights. I photographed these this morning. I like that these decorations are multi-purpose as they're always left up for Christmas.

Tooting Bec Christmas lights have Hindu lamps and nothing special to do with Jesus. I don't mind. Christmas doesn't have much to do with Jesus for most English people, does it?

Blogging the EPT

You'd think I'd be sick of blogging, after working 14 hour days writing about poker for PokerStars blog. It was an intense experience in lots of ways, my first time blogging about a major poker tournament. There were 400 players, and I was thinking -I don't know the names of the people I need to know, and I can't count chips, and how do you keep track of who's gone out, and how do you write about poker hands and make it seem interesting?

I spent quite a bit of time worrying, and hating it, and writing stuff quickly and wishing I could go back and write it better - but always there'd be something else I needed to write. And being tired didn't help. Amy has a getting up at 6am habit, this doesn't really suit getting to sleep at 5am after working all day.

I muddled through, and there was some blog posts I regretted, and some I thought were ok. And it was sort of lonely, I didn't have a lot of help, and the camera was a nightmare, everyone looked at it to try to advise on why the pictures were coming out blurry, but no one could properly figure it out... But none of that mattered, despite the bits of it I hated (it all got a bit much sometimes) I feel proud that I got a blog written that almost made sense. It was a great feeling on Sunday night when it was all over. Good or bad, I was happy to have done it. Funny that I could hate bits of it so much, but by the end I'd just think, 'I loved that! So when can I do it all again?'

It's because it's writing. I've always been happiest when I'm writing. 14 hours of high pressure writing about a fairly dull subject, when you're a bit of a perfectionist, isn't ideal. But the same principle applies as anything else, it's still weaving something out of nothing with words on the page.

There were 50 stairs from the press room to the casino, I was constantly running back and forth trying to make something interesting out of players sitting in a room with some chips and cards. When you write a line you like, that's special magic...

Steve and I were worried about working together. How odd that we should end up doing the same job? Do you think we're the only poker blogger couple in the world?

We snatched a few dinner breaks together, Steve showed me the ropes, we shared chipcounts and hand stories... We both care about our work a lot so we didn't let the boyfriend/girlfriend thing distract us. There were just a few secret kisses in the casino corridors.

And now, back to answering emails from players who don't think their chat should be banned.

I would love to write for PokerStars blog again, to get right the things I did wrong, to beat that damn camera and take decent photos this time, to get to know the players I'm going to see again and again, to write a better blog next time...

We'll see.

Allah!

Amy is friends with Tayba, aged 10, who lives next door. They sat for about an hour in front of the TV yesterday, wearing giant 3D glasses. Tayba has never seen a 3D film before so she and Amy tried every DVD Amy owns, and cartoon kid shows too, looking for the magic of 3D.

There were many excited exclamations, 'I think that bit was 3D!' 'That bit was 3D but really fast!' 'Should we try Shrek? I'm sure Shrek's 3D!'

It was one of those times where as an an adult I could easily spoil their fun. I knew that none of the films in Amy's collection were 3D, but telling them would be cruel, so I kept out of it.

Tayba doesn't have many toys, I know this because her eyes are wide every time she opens Amy's toy cupboard. She says things like, 'How do you play dominoes?' And, 'I played Operation once.' As a 'holiday present' Amy's Gran bought her a Nintendo DS. Tayba was given the board game Ludo on her birthday. Amy asked when Tayba's birthday party was, she wasn't having one. But Tayba's already excited about coming to Amy's Halloween party.

Tayba never goes to the cinema. She boasted once, 'We used to have a DVD player, but we had to give it to someone.' Amy's seen every recent kids cinema release, a box of popcorn on her lap every time. Her DVD collection is bigger than mine.

Tayba doesn't know where the local playgrounds are, she's never visited them. I long to take her, as much as Amy would love her friend to come along as a companion, but every time I've suggested this, Tayba's said matter of factly 'I have homework.' I know that's not the real reason. She lies instinctively with, 'I can't', as if it's easier not to let herself consider the idea at all.

I meet her parents sometimes, they come to the door and smile. I call Tayba and she goes home, or occasionally she gabbles at them in their own language and stays a little longer. Her parents don't speak any English.

Tayba is a happy child, if reading my description of no toys or playground outings you're thinking 'deprived' that would be wrong. I think it's Amy, and most of the middle class children I know who are spoiled and pampered. Tayba simply comes from a different background, one that doesn't involve 3D films and Ninendo games. I tried not to smirk when Amy and I were discussing which theme park to visit and Tayba interrupted, 'I've been to Poundland. Have you been?' She didn't even get a £1 plastic toy when her family visited this shop.

Tayba regularly calls round, and helps herself to our biscuits, and I like that she makes herself at home. Thinking of her makes me understand how fostering and adoption works, if she were to move in to our home to live tomorrow, I'd be quite happy. I suppose it goes to prove that children and animals are easy to love.

Tayba, and a couple of her cousins were just having a 'party' in Amy's room just now. They blew up some balloons they found and were all singing along loudly to music on Amy's CD player. The only CD they could find was Christmas Carols. These four little girls (three of them Muslim) were singing 'Away in a manger' and 'Silent Night' at the top of their voices in September. One of the little girls apologised to me for making a noise. How could she not understand that I loved that noise? I just wished I could join in. So I found them a CD of kids pop music and they danced to Amarillo and Bob the Builder.

Then an Asian lady came to the door, and I guessed she wanted them home, although she didn't say a word. I called the girls and they all obediently left. But it wasn't their bed time, or tea time, it was that their Mum didn't want them to play at our house. So the game could continue, but outside now. Amy put her shoes on and went outside, and the party relocated to the front of the house. No music or balloons, but the girls were determined the party spirit would live on. I made them a bowl of microwave popcorn and Amy asked for juice. I gave them a jug of it, and paper cups left over from Amy's birthday party.

Tayba's often called home by a silent visitor at our door, and sometimes it seems to be on a whim. Although perhaps I'm being unfair on her parents. I never know what they say to her. Perhaps it's a happy, 'Make sure you say 'Thank you for having me.' And not, 'Muslim girls shouldn't mix with their kind.'

Yesterday Amy found a walkie-talkie, she has so many toys that she's barely played with this before. Tayba picked up the walkie-talkie today and was excited to try it. When Tayba's Mum called round, Tayba went home with the walkie talkie. Soon I heard Amy shouting, 'Hello!' And from next door I heard Tayba's voice, 'This works! This can be our top secret!'.

It's a happy friendship, despite Amy and Tayba's different backgrounds. But I heard a noise from Tayba's house this morning, and it didn't come from the walkie-talkie.

There was a child screaming. The child was shouting so loud that we could hear it in our living room. The screams went on and on, and after several minutes when the noise didn't stop I looked out of the window. An old man from over the road had come out of his house to see what this noise was too. We exchanged worried glances, neither of us knowing what to do. It sounded like a frightened child wailing and crying, the wailing went on and on.

I went upstairs, and the noise seemed to be coming from the room beside my bedroom. I could hear it clearly there, it sounded like a little boy saying, 'Allah! Allah! Allah! Allah!' There were grown up voices too, then a brief shout, then maybe the sound of a scuffle. Then just, 'Allah! Allah! Allah!' more. I looked out of the window to see that old man, in his vest, standing beneath Tayba's house, he shouted up, 'What's going on?' and then 'I'm calling the police!'

I didn't know what to do. I hoped the police would come, then hoped they wouldn't. It was probably just a child having a tantrum, wasn't it?

I don't even know who this boy could be. I've never seen a boy playing with Tayba, although I know she has lots of cousins visiting. I've only see her play with girl cousins. Just a few times I'd heard a boy shouting from an upstairs window next door. Strange shouts of, 'Amy's mum!' or 'Amy!' I wondered if this unknown boy was responsible for the strange notes on our front door. I've never seen this boy, so I don't know who he is, or why he shouts our names. I asked Tayba about her brother, he's 15 and he called to collect her once. I know it isn't him.

When she visited to play today I asked Tayba about the crying, she said. 'Oh yes, that was me. I was crying because my brother wouldn't let me watch TV.'

The voice didn't sound like Taybas at all, although it was muffled by the wall, so perhaps I was mistaken..? Tayba and Amy played, and I found it hard to imagine this happy westernised girl, with a south london accent shouting 'Allah!' for over twenty minutes.

Amy told me later that the police had come to Tayba's house, 'They told them off for making too much noise.'

Stickering the EPT

I'm blogging for PokerStars at the London European Poker Tour event next week. Last time I wrote on the PokerStars official blog, about the World Cup of Poker I was stupid nervous.

That's a Steve phrase, 'stupid' this and 'stupid' that.

I like it.

Anyway...

This time I'm not exactly nervous, it is daunting writing for lots of readers, but it will be a lot of fun too.

The hardest thing is to keep it interesting when it's just a lot of 'this player has chips', and 'this hand happened'. I have a few ideas...

I want it to be fun and a 'me' thing, and the best thing is that PokerStars can't sack me as their blogger. You see, chances are I won't be able to write another one. If I was young free and single I'd love nothing better than to go around the world writing blogs about poker, but I have Amy. If Amy's dad wasn't already employed by the EPT TV people, if my boyfriend wasn't at all the EPT poker tournaments already, maybe I could... As it is, Amy has to come first. There's only so many times I can ask my Mum to stay the best part of a week caring for her, and anyway Amy would miss me, and I'd miss her.

The advantage of all this is that the pressure's off. I can write what I like about this London poker tournament. I can enjoy it, knowing that this is my 'one time blog' so I'm not going to feel bored about trotting out chip counts, or finding new ways of saying, 'there was an unlucky card on the river.'

And as I don't mind if I get sacked as PokerStars blogger, I'm going to be able to mess about a bit. Expect a photo of Tooting Bec tube station, an unnecessary use of the word 'frock' and also a few stickers stuck on players backs when they're not looking.

Hmm, stickering Phil Ivey...

A friend remarked that I had an unusual fascination with Isabelle Mercier's bottom last time I blogged about poker. Only this wasn't 'messing' about at all, it was an accurate report of this star poker player. Isabelle started it - she had the bottom fascination..! It was simply good journalism to write about it.

I hope she's there again. I was too scared to interview her last time. In fact the first few days I barely dared say 'Hi' to anyone I didn't know. By the end of the event, and desperate for something to write, I was chatting to anyone who'd stand still for a minute, who might be able to tell me how a hand went. It was just the 'celeb' players who scared me still... This time I'm going to stick a camera in the famous poker player's faces, tell them I'm writing the PokerStars blog, and demand that they say something interesting. They can have a sticker if they do!

It'll be strange working with Steve. He'll be reporting on the tournament for the Gutshot site. I don't think I've ever spent more than five minutes in the same room without hugging him. The toughest bit of the whole event will be resisting the urge to kiss him when he shares chip counts, or tells me who some famous player is that I don't recognise.

It will be weird, yes. He takes his work very seriously, and so do I. If you see me writing expect nothing but a 'grunt' if you try to interrupt. I've seen Steve with his 'writing head' on too and he's the same. If we get through the four days without a row I'll be surprised. We haven't had a row yet. Five months without a 'first row' do you think that's some kind of record? I don't think either of us are 'row' types. But if we do have a row expect to read all the action here on the happy, silly, (magic), fun blog. And if you want to hear how many chips a PokerStars FPP qualifier from Georgia has you need to go to PokerStarsblog.com... Anyone from Georgia will now be stickered. Need to get busy preparing for this event, where are my pens..?

Wanking in the bath - Part 2

I write about the things I like. My boyfriend, my daughter, my work (although I'm not allowed to any more, got told off) about sticking stickers, about magic stuff like Tooting Bec tube, and sex too, I've written about that. Well, I'm enjoying sex at the moment, and I've written a few blog posts about that, but they're unpublished. I don't really like holding back, I like writing about the things I like, but I didn't hit 'publish' because I know I'm not supposed to talk about sex. Even though it's one of my favourite subjects.

I think about my boyfriend. He's a sensitive guy, and he doesn't read this. It wouldn't seem fair to him to talk about rude stuff that might turn on other guys.

Although I'm confused about the whole issue. I have talked about the time I wanked in public view in a jacuzzi, and there was the anal sex thing the other day. It's odd, because they feel like just a part of life like shopping on Ebay or cornish pasties in June. It's just life, isn't it? And it's one of the best bits too...

And if you're reading this blog in the hopes of a few sex references you really don't know how to Google right...

So tonight Steve told me he'd got upset, about something someone had said to him about this blog, that he doesn't read. And I was upset because I felt bad that I'd told you lot (blog readers) that I quite like anal sex, but not him.

That is quite fucked up, isn't it?

This blog has made me really happy, it's just me wittering, and I like wittering, and when I don't have anyone to talk to I can witter here. Note how many posts there are whenever Steve is away.

So yeah, I like to witter, and I suppose I like to entertain to. About Amy, about Steve, about Ebay, and cornish pasties, and about sex too.

I suppose I know that talking about sex is interesting. I like it, it's interesting to me too. But I'm not supposed to talk about it, am I? Nice girls don't!

But excluding one night, I've had 6 boyfriends in 37 years, I've been in love with every one of them before we... 'ahem', errr.. um.... err... 'you know'. I think I am a 'nice girl'. I'm just an ordinary girl who likes sex. With my boyfriend, who I love, and means everything to me.

So if you're reading this for a cheap thrill, I suggest you try Google and type in the rudest phrase you can think of. You'll have more fun that way. I'm going to talk about Yorkshire Pudding recipes tomorrow.

And while Steve's away I'll entertain myself, by writing about four ounces of flour and an egg.

Fuck that, I'm glad I have my faithful pink battery powered friend upstairs. It has 3 way action....

Oooh, my head!

I didn't get as much money as I wanted for my sofa on Ebay, and it was generally a day of annoying niggles. I felt crappy.

'Feeling crappy is normal.' Steve said. I did see his point of view. But I felt really crappy.

'I feel crappy.' Steve's email continued. 'I have a headache, I'm tired, my back hurts and my feet too.'

I felt bad for bothering him with my, 'I feel crappy' email then. But I felt really crappy.

I read on. Hoping Steve's emailed words of wisdom would help.

'It's called having a bad day. We all have them,' he said.

Wise words indeed.

But I felt really crappy.

I opened a beer. I checked the BBC website, West Ham were losing against Palermo in their UEFA Cup match.

I felt really crappy, and I knew that Steve's concern was that I'd take this to heart and use this to think myself into trouble. I was worried about that too.

I wrote back to tell him to take paracetamol, and to drink lots of water.

He soon replied, to say he was fine. 'I was saying all that stuff in a fun kind of way.'

I was relieved. But I still felt really crappy. The problem was that this bad day had started to make me think. Thinking was dangerous. I turned to Steve for help again.

His email said, 'I just wanted to tell you to write this off as a bad day, and the fact that it was a normal bad day was better.'

But I felt really crappy.

'Don't worry. Have a beer. I have £2.01 riding on West Ham to win. And regardless of that I'll send over nice thoughts again.'

I had a beer. I tried to switch off my head. And West Ham win would make a nice end to this post, but I never thought that was going to happen. Just a bad day. I felt less crappy at the thought. Just a bad day.

'I'll write later regardless and tell you how i got locked in the toilet. :o)

Love,

Steve'

Everyone has bad days. :-)

The Battle of The School Run

I'm onto au pair number four now. I suspect I've told you that having an au pair doesn't automatically make me 'posh'. People seem to think that it does, which means I have a chip on my shoulder about it all. So I'll quickly run through it once again, just so we're clear. I'm a single mum with a job that means I leave at 6am, and there's no childcare available that early in the morning. Plus at £60 a week an au pair is affordable. I pay mine £75 admittedly, but I'm just like that. So it's all good. Except it means I need a 3 bedroom place, which in Tooting starts at £1300 a month. So you see not only am I not posh, I'm poor. Glad you understand now. I wouldn't want you to think I'm posh. I don't mind you knowing I'm poor.

My au pairs childcare skills have varied a lot. I've had one sullen swedish teenager who barely took her ipod headphones out to hear what Amy wanted for breakfast, and I've had a loud Australian nanny who terrified me, and now I have Agi, the best au pair I've found. She's 28, and was a primary school teacher back in Poland, she told me her class cried when she told them she was leaving.

I'm used to au pair's playing with Amy when they're needed, then leaving me to do my Mum thing. With Agi it's different. I'll happily suggest to Amy that we draw, then Agi will sit down beside Amy and say, 'Or perhaps you want to play maths games on my laptop?'

At first I was glad that Agi took Amy out, or played with her on the computer, she even joined in and made teddy bears talk when Amy played 'schools.' Even though Amy was already happily playing teddybears with her schoolfriend.

With Agi taking good care of Amy I've had lots of extra 'me' time lately, to relax, to email Steve, to read, or write, or cook, or do the things I want to do... But you see, all I really want to do when I'm at home with Amy is to be with her.

It feels like Amy is a tug-of-love child. I'll say, 'Do you want to paint?' and Agi will step in, 'Or shall I take you to the playground?' I offer Amy a snack, 'Do you want a biscuit?' Agi will stand up, 'I'll get it. And would you like a drink too?'

Of course I can't complain, Amy must feel pampered and loved, and enjoy all this attention... Yeah, there's going to be a 'but'

If I have a day off and it's a school day I want to take Amy to school. Amy likes this too. Only Agi insists on taking Amy to school. I mean really insists. She seems like a meek, quiet, person, for most of the time, but when it comes to the school run she is determined to be the one to march Amy to the classroom door.

So I tell her, 'I like taking Amy to school.'

Agi tells me, 'I really want to take her. I must take her.'

Amy says, 'I want Mum to take me.'

Agi puts her coat on and says, 'Oh look, Matthew's coming down the road, if we go now we'll meet him.'

And somehow she hurries Amy out the door. And I take my shoes off and sit down with a coffee.

She's won.

But I had a plan for this morning, 'I'll take Amy to school this morning,' I told her.

'No, I'll take her.' Agi said.

'I want to take her,' I say to her. 'I have to go to the school office to pay the dinner money.' I have no intention of paying any dinner money, I'm broke right now, I'll have to ask Alex.

'I can do that for you,' Agi says. She puts on her coat.

'I need to go to the supermarket,' I say. I don't really, but I will if this is what it takes. 'I can take Amy to school, then go to the shops after that.' I put my coat on too.

'Can I go to school on my scooter?' Amy asks.

'No,' I tell her, 'I can't carry a scooter when I go to the shops.'

Agi has her shoes on. She picks up the scooter. 'I can take Amy to school on her scooter, so you can go to the shops,' she says.

Agi talks to Amy, 'I can take you to school on your scooter,' she tells her, and she puts Amy's coat on.

'Where's my PE kit?' Amy asks.

The PE kit is lost. I know this. Hurray! I say, 'I need to go to school, to ask if the PE Kit's at the office.' Victory is within sight...

Agi looks flustered, but she's grabbing the scooter now. 'I'll bring the scooter home, so you can go to the shops after school,' she says.

So off we go, all three of us. Plus the scooter too. I collect the PE kit from Lost Property box in the office, I don't pay any dinner money. I suppose I have to go to the shops.

I kiss Amy goodbe.

'Who's picking me up?' Amy asks.

I look at Agi. 'I'm picking you up, and Ruby's coming home with us.'

Agi says, 'I can collect both girls. I'd like to.'

'It's ok, I can do it.'

Agi goes to Amy, 'Can't I pick you up today?'

Amy says, 'I want Mum.'

'But I really want to,' Agi says. 'And if I don't I'll cry.'

Amy looks at me, 'Like Mum did last time?'

I hope Agi didn't hear that. I've been a bit fragile lately. Like last Monday when Agi took Amy to school, though Amy wanted me, and I felt like I was letting her down.

'So I pick you up from school?' Agi asks Amy.

Amy nods, 'Ok.'

And I go to the supermarket. And I don't cry this time. I needed shopping anyway.

:0) Love, Steve :-) Love, Jo

The world does you no favours if you're a short, ginger male, of a thoughtful disposition. There isn't a cure for the curse of being someone who'll stand out in a crowd when you'd rather disappear, or being deemed 'sensitive' by a world that decides this is another word for weakness.

I love my poor dear boyfriend for a long list of reasons, and I wrote these down in the first ever post I ever wrote for this blog*1. I didn't hit 'publish.' Not sure why - I don't usually hold back. I think I decided the list was unfinished. If I'd thought to update the list it would be five times as long now.

I know Steve would shy away from the 'sensitive' label, and that he'd rather be six foot tall than just five foot something. I expect he'd want pink skin not freckly white, and of course he'd choose mouse brown not orange hair, who wouldn't? But I love everything he is, and everything that's made him this way. And orange is my favourite colour.

As for 'sensitive' meaning 'weak'?' Well, I don't think there's a braver way to be than being the sort of person who notices things, and considers the way other people think and feel, and uses this to take on the world, in a single handed battle against all things taken to heart.

When you have to deal with abuse for your bright hair, or the worry that every girl you like tells you you're 'nice' but 'no thank you', you're supposed to get a thick skin. But if this doesn't work, and your skin stays thin, thin enough that it nearly bleeds? What then? Maybe it means your special, maybe it means your skin is so thin your heart's on open view. Girls aren't supposed to want nice guys? Well I do. I'm lucky I've found the nicest.

So surely everything should be in place for my happily ever after? That's how it feels when I look at it all logically. I have the perfect boyfriend, a wonderful daughter, a job for a company who never cease to impress me, and who seem to like me almost as much as I like them. But yeah, there's a 'but...' Of course there is. But... But for once I want to forget that unhappy 'but' I just want to 'think chipper thoughts' as Steve would say.

We had a silly messenger conversation last night, Steve's in Barcelona now until Sunday. He sent me some funny photos of his hotel room*2, with stripy zebra bedding. And I told him about a long 'shortlist' I'd made, of music*3 I decided to share with him.*4 And from talking about this 'shortlist' we soon 'laugh out louded' ourselves into making shortbread together soon.

This morning I started my day with Steve's traditional 'late night long email' about Barcelona thunder*5 and a spaghetti meal for a fiver in a spanish cafe with formica tables*6.

And I love him. More than anyone could know. And I love that he would say, "I know you’re sad but I just love you."

He's back on Sunday and I feel the same way that he describes, stuff about hearts stretched from London to Spain.... And I agree with his remark, "for me it’s the basic ‘missing you’ stuff. I never get used to it. It’s got a point where it feels unnatural to be away from you now, like it’s not fair."*7

He always signs ':o) Love, Steve'. And I always sign ':-) Love, Jo'. The important thing is the smile. We can do that, through partings, through any sad stuff, I know the thought of him will always be my best hope of a smile, and perhaps one day a happily ever after.

Yes.

Love,

:-)



*1 A blog that was nearly called 'Not sure about fairy tales'

*2 On one photo there was a picture of his laptop, so I got a preview of his half written blog post.

*3 Steve's colleague Ed told him about http://allofmp3.com. An amazing Russian site where if you turn a blind eye to the ethics and legality of it all, you can download any song you can think of for just $0.10. And as Ed told Steve, 'It's KGB approved!'

*4 We've avoided sharing our music until now, even though we've been together 5 months. Now we're dealing with the music issue, so the last 'too shy to share' secret will now be Steve's salary. As it's the only thing he keeps from me, I know it must be really bad! :-P

*5 "The rain was that really heavy stuff - the type that drenches you in seconds. And the ligthning was good too. The whole sky went white."

*6 "Not sure about the spainish pop music... It was one of those places with formica tables, wooden chairs, fruit machines and old men with stubble smoking Pall Mall cigarettes down to their fingers."

*7 Yes, it probably is wrong using his emails in blog posts, he doesn't read this, but if he did I'd tell him that I used his words because I want to remember them forever. This them public, but it also feels like it makes them permanent. I think maybe this blog will be my fairy tale book, and one day I'll write of my happily ever after. And then, 'The End.'

A mug of Horlicks and a razor blade

I sometimes feel a bit like my life is on hold, my slightly weird head operating on a reduced service, awaiting repairs. Repairs unscheduled, as yet.

Tonight there was an office poker game, and my colleagues were going to the pub for a few drinks before this, there was no good reason not to join them for these things. Normally I enjoy pub drinking and poker. Bearing in mind that I'm not sure whether to define 'normal' as the me of the past few months, or the months before that. Right now 'normal' is 'getting by', at work, at home, enjoying the happy spots where everything seems ok, amongst the feeling-a-little-bit-mental spots, and there's a large cloudy grey area where I feel like I shouldn't feel mental, but don't feel happy either. And if I don't feel happy isn't that mental? I get scared about feeling bad, and I tell myself I shouldn't feel like that, and I wish I could just relax, and calm down, and be happy. But how do you make your head do what it's told? I shout, 'Get happy!' loudly at my head. And it just whimpers and says, 'I'm doing my best, but I can't... I'm rubbish...' Stupid head. I hate it.

Last night was a very-mental blip, just when I'd decided I was on my way to happy. Have you read Steve's blog post about his drug experiences? It was so funny, but he told me last night that he was pleased that I was upset about it at the time. I love him for being this safe, and for being brave and fighting his way to 'happy'. after the sad stuff I know he started out with.

Alcohol is my drug of choice, it isn't any help. It promises a different me. But the difference is usually just that I don't care about crying, or hurting, oh and I was going to say 'getting angry.' But I don't do angry. Unless Steve says the wrong thing, like some kindly trying-to-help thing, and then it's just 'Fuck off!' and he's forced to forget help, instead he tries to make me forget, and sometimes it works and the sad stuff is buried, and we continue to enjoy our evening.

He's in Barcelona now until Sunday. That's ok. No hugs, but plenty of emails, texts, and messenger too maybe. Phone calls even. Although I don't like phones.

Last night I fell asleep in Steve's arms on the sofa, our converstation so intense we didn't even notice that we hadn't put the TV on as background noise.

I didn't want to go to bed, that meant goodbye.

And I was drinking and the sad stuff had crept up on me, because it's loosened by alcohol. For some reason I decided drinking more was the best way to shake it off. Drunk, tired, scared of missing Steve like I had the last week he was in Vegas, these were the ingredients simmering in the witches cauldron of my head. Sometimes it hurts so much I think stupid. I think desperate. I think anything outside of my head must be better than what's inside it. I've often tried drinking so much my head goes fuzzy. I've also wished for pills and powders or scary chemicals, like those the cool nutters take, those with the sad-fucker contacts. And I've thought of cutting.

I would never have thought of hurting myself if someone I knew hadn't done this before. It's as if this might make me closer to him. And I know it will fucking hurt! I might be desperate and stupid, and mental, yet still the thought of pain scares me. But physical pain feels like the biggest distraction you can find. Distraction is the Big Plan. I think I want to point and say, 'look behind you' and lose my weird head, as it goes one way whilst I go another.

If you can't get an injection to shake your head out of it, or drink enough to numb it, then why not scare it off with a sharp knife?

It's all about doing anything but thinking.

Which was daft, at least yesterday, as I drowsed in my boyfriends arms. Sleep is a friendly route to oblivion. Even if it comes with the danger of bad dreams.

Of course I didn't do anything daft with any razor blade, and I don't think I ever will. I hope not. And I promised Steve I wouldn't while he was away, and that I'd get help. Although the route to this help doesn't seem easy. I have a doctor's appointment next week - but I have a minor ailment to mention, a cover story if I run scared of bigger problems. And I also have the phone number of an organisation with too many letter's in its name, one of which stands for something I can't say, and I hate phone calls anyway. Can't imagine ringing this place, but I may.

So tonight, instead of going out to the pub, and to the poker game, I came home. Too much drink, not enough sleep, and too much head-mess, had taken out of me. I sloped off quietly as others chatted, to go home, to drift off to sleep. No razor blades tonight, just a mug of Horlicks as my drug of choice. And I hope that friendship and poker will be there for me, to be enjoyed one day when I wake up.

Do looks matter? 'Sometimes'

A friend/colleague recently filled out one of those personal questionnaires on his blog. I was trying to remember the name for them. I asked IT Drew because he knows internet cultural type stuff, and he said it was a 'meme' - before threatening to nullroute all my email if I didn't stop bothering him.

Anyway, people fill these surveys in and pass them on, and they're designed to reveal all sorts of personal bits and bobs about your life, only usually they seem to provide information that no one would ever want to know, like, 'What did you have for breakfast?' Or,'Do you prefer Sprite or 7UP?'

This morning my friend/colleague or, acquaintance/colleague, and I were debating whether it's possible to properly get to know someone who lives a long way away, someone you only ever chat to online. I think it is possible, and I like 'meeting' people on messenger or by email. So I wondered about filling out his meme questionnaire to help him, and others, get to know me better.

I know the idea is to answer the same questions, but I decided to make my own up.

Time Started: 1.46pm

Full Name: Joanne... Do I have to tell you my middle name?

Is there anything you don't want to reveal in this questionnaire? Yes, my middle name. I hate it. People will laugh.

Do you keep many secrets? No. I just don't want to reveal my middle name at the whim of some silly questionnaire.

Do you like taking surveys like this? No. They're all rubbish.

Ok, and what's that subject heading about? I was looking at other meme surveys online and saw that. It's typical of the type of evasive non-answer people use when filling out these things. Dull people.

Are you an interesting person then? No, not particularly, but these surveys make everyone seem dull because people have to answer 'yes' or 'no' to silly questions about bunjee jumping and eating dog biscuits. It's bound to be 'no' for anything exciting, then we get on to, 'Have you had chicken pox?'

Would you describe yourself as a sneery, snobbish, or dismissive person? Yes, of course I am! I look down on crass, forced, dull questions in online meme surveys. And I feel I must be better than the sort of people who fill them in.

Have you ever filled in a survey revealing personal details about your life before? No. I just said. I hate them.

Do you hate them because you feel forced to reply to their un-flexible set of questions, and struggle with the lack of control this implies, and also have further issues with your desperate attempts to be funny being thwarted because the answer requested is just a simple 'yes' or 'no'? Yes.

If there was one question you'd want to be asked by a survey like this what would it be? If there was something I wanted to say I wouldn't need a stupid question, I'd just blog about it. I don't need any fucking personality questionnaire to tell me what to write about!

So weren't any of your friend/colleague's replies interesting? Not particularly. His last blog post about having anal sex with a girl before they'd been on their first date was much better.

Well what about if one of these personality questionnaires asked you about anal sex? Wouldn't that be interesting? I suppose it might be... Ok, fair point.

Have you ever had anal sex? Yes.

And? You see that's just one of the problems with this type of stupid questionnaire, that's not allowed! You have to reply briefly and move on, there's no follow up questions, even if someone says something interesting. (Unlikely.)

So you're not going to say any more about the anal sex? No. And you have to move onto the next question now. That's how these things work.

Ok, What did you have for breakfast? Sainsbury's Blueberry Muffin.

Have you ever eaten a dog biscuit? No.

Been bungee jumping? No.

Chicken pox? What do you think?

Ok, I get your point. These online questionnaire things are really crap, aren't they? Yes.

So you had a muffin for breakfast? Very nice. Yes. Almost as nice as anal sex.

Hang on, that wasn't a proper question... I'm thinking of a better one now... Check the ones on my colleague's blog?

Ok. Vanilla or chocolate ice cream? He said chocolate. I remember that.

Oh, chocolate? Yes. Not vanilla.

Why are you laughing? I don't know.

Would you say you have a juvenile sense of humour, and enjoy shocking people by talking about sex? Fuck off! Can I just blog properly about my anal experiences now?

Ok. Or maybe finish the au pair lesbian lust post? Yeah, maybe. See, these questionnaires reveal nothing. No one can know about anyone they only know online, you have to meet them face to face. So my colleague will just remain a colleague. I might blog about him, he might blog about me, but... Friends or acquaintances? Yes, no, sometimes...

Not the Lesbian Lust Post...

I did write most of a post about au pair lesbian lust, as I do like to please my loyal readers, but decided to finish this one instead, which isn't rude at all, just a wittery muse about my collector mentality.

I wanted to find a poem to type out to share with you, from that magazine I found in the oddballs and freaks section of Borders. I looked but couldn't find a poem that was just right. As I browsed my magazine for this purpose I realised I like looking for stuff more than the finding. This made me realise that it's why I like collections, I like looking and finding something to brighten the day, be it a new cactus, or a poem, or something that no one else would want to see on a pavement.

I'll find it and the finding will feel special. That's why I've always been at my happiest when collecting something. So what's sparked my collecting need in the past? Cacti, singles from unknown indie bands, 'Warez' (illegal software downloads) new signings in Championship manager, 'vintage' Ebay tat, the perfect hand at poker... I'm sure there are many more.

Have I told you I love my new camera? I think it actually might be magic. Strangely the tiny red dot I stuck on my favourite platform poster at Tooting Bec vanished, although a rainbow and a Humpty Dumpty remained. I don't know why. It bothered me when the tiny dot was removed. I meant to replace it, but stuck a tiny turtle I had handy in it's place.

The red dot on my phone screen has gone too. Taking photos seems to be another collecting thing. It makes me look around for things I like. And here's a few 'things I like' photos I've taken.


I'm not allowed to blog about work now, but this is our office fruit. I'm not sure if I'm even allowed to say this? But I can't imagine a better company to work for than PokerStars. And with fruit like this, how can you disagree?


And here's a sign I like at a local curry house. 'Eat all you can', might be good business for my new sick website.

I bought Steve an espresso maker in my lunch hour today, because his went rusty, and I saw these banana keepers. They protect your bananas from bruising and keep them fresh. I thought, 'How stupid', but Steve is very jealous of our free office fruit and keeps trying to persuade me to steal him some. I don't think this would be right, and I'm not sure how I'd get it home in my handbag anyway. The banana keeper might work...



I told him there were fresh figs, and he went, 'Ooooh!' He likes fresh figs. So I picked a couple of these to eat on my way home, only then I wasn't very hungry.

On a side note, I'm not sure about PokerStars policy on eating their free fruit outside the office? I'm not sure of the plan behind this fruit provision. Is the idea to provide free fruit to keep their staff healthy? Maybe it reduces their premiums on our Bupa health insurance. It could be they get a questionnaire, 'Do your staff eat fruit? Yes/No' A bit like 'Do you keep your car in a garage?'

If this is my boss's plan then eating fruit day and night would be ok, and I could justifiably steal it for consumption at home. However it could be that the fruit is not allowed to be removed from the premises, except in your tummy, and that the plan is to make us happy by letting us munch fruit at our desks. The uncertainty about all of this has meant I've never dared eat the fruit on the way home before.

As I say, I didn't eat the figs on the way home. And I'm not going to publicy say that the PokerStars fruit was taken off the office premises and given to my boyfriend. No, I'm not... I could easily have returned it to the office next day, to eat it in company time, on office premises, in line with company fruit policy.

But did you know that figs are rude? Steve told me. It took him about an hour to explain it to me, without using any rude words at all - well he's very shy. It was a very funny hour though. With lots of nods of heads, and gestures, and many 'errs' and 'you knows' in his explanation. I think I now understand how figs are rude. And if I did get it right, then perhaps my lesbian au pair would enjoy the figs more than me?

I'm not sure I like thinking about 'err' (imagine me nodding my head now) and, 'you know,' as I get my 5 a day. This put me off figs a bit. And I would like to assure everyone that I will not be consuming any more fruit away from the PokerStars premises, and neither will Steve. He says he prefers the real thi - I didn't buy that banana keeper either.

Although looking at it, I wonder if...

See, this wasn't a rude post at all!

If it was I'd probably tell you that I suspect Steve's fig eating teqnique might be responsible for me coming three times last night.

Front Door Note Sticking Update

No new nasty notes have appeared on our front door recently, so I'm hoping the nasty note stickerer has stopped. Amy talks about it a lot still. She went back to school today, and she's convinced that two of her schoolfriends are responsible. As part of her plan to catch these wrongdoers she told me, 'I have to cry at school today.' She said this with a smile, and wouldn't tell me any more than that.

Today a letter arrived, from 'Tower Investigations' Private Investigators. 'We act on behalf of a client and would be obliged if you could telephone us in order to assist our enquiry.'

I don't know if they're investigating the note sticker, but I suspect it's more likely they're trying to catch the monster I saw in my living room the other night...

Jesus Paperclips

I used to love using Ebay to buy myself bargain tat. Unfortunately I'm very competetive, which means Ebay becomes an expensive habit for me. They call it 'winning' an auction don't they? Well, I don't like to be called a 'loser,' so whenever I got outbid by 10p on a deco vase, I'd go all out to claim the 'winning bid' tag as mine. If I saw another Ebay name beside an item in a frenzy of greed and hostility I'd outbid the current buyer, deciding 'I don't care how much it costs me - I want revenge!'

Did you know that if you write £1,000,000 as your maximum bid you can win any auction? I should write a book, 'Winning at all costs - the Secrets of Ebay revealed.'

I'm very proud of my Ebay #76 100% rating. I little care that I can barely remember which 76 bits of tat I purchased, I'm satisfied to know that these purchases earned me 76 'positive feedback' comments.

On a low day I can sign in to Ebay and read my reviews, and it does wonders for my self esteem. 'Very good buyer with excellent communications & payment!' - jessica2605. 'A superb Ebayer and friendly customer. Recommended! A++++++' - collectorman9. And I particularly like, maypolechamp's remark, 'Very easy to sell to.'

I can no longer afford the pleasure of outbidding fellow Ebayers to increase my Ebay scores, but I've discovered a cheaper way to continue my Ebay addiction. You can sell stuff on there too you know!

When my Ex sold his house he wanted rid of a tatty Victorian sofa (bought on Ebay, of course) he was going to give this to house clearance people which seemed wrong, but I didn't have room for it, so I thought, 'I'll get it reupholstered' as a stalling move, to get it out of the way until I decided which of of the four sofas I owned I'd keep. I couldn't really afford the upholsterer's £500 fee at the time, but I figured I might be richer by the time it was finished.

I wasn't at all concerned when five months later the upholstery guy still hadn't got in touch about the Victorian sofa. Did he know I couldn't afford it? It felt like the nice chap was doing me a favour, storing the sofa until I had a lottery win. Eventually I decided I should ring him. When I did he told me he hadn't started work on the sofa. Which was just fine by me - plus it was a rollover week... Unfortunately he took the phone call as a sign that I wanted action. Three days later I had a smart Victorian Chesterfield blocking my back door, and a bill for £500.

I now have four sofas in my house, so I decided to sell this smart Victorian one. I stuck it on Ebay, hoping to get the £500 back. The day it was listed 4 people wrote to me asking if I could add a 'Buy it now' button so they could get it quicker. One guy offered me £800! My sofa's now been added to 14 'watch lists'! Decisions, decisions... Should I take £800 or let the auction run and gamble on more? It's very exciting!

So I've been looking around the house for other stuff to sell on Ebay. I have a Simpson's cell picture, I think that could be quite 'collectible.' From my days spent searching market stall singles for new indie bands I have a Coldplay Promo from 1999, their 'limited edition first release on Parlophone'. I like that the promoter's label talks about the band 'finishing their exams.'

I was telling Steve about these potential Ebay treasures. He spends lots of time Ebaying 1940s fountain pens and typewriters. He decided he should sell stuff on Ebay too, and wrote a funny email about this, 'I’m looking around my room trying to work out what there is to sell on eBay. So far I’ve come up with the following old stuff…

A box of multi-coloured paper clips (hardly used)
A pair of blue converse boots (still being used)
A packet of 1999 aspirin (all used)
A small bottle of vintage cough syrup (half used)'

We decided he ought to sell the paperclips. He suspected they might be antique, but we decided they were more likely 'retro'. On Ebay 'retro' is better than 'antique'.

Steve decided he should list these paperclips as 'collectible retro paperclips', selling each one individually to maximise his profits. Eg. 'Limited edition paperclip 4 of 123, from a limited total run of 100 million.'

I still don't feel I have enough to list. I know that Jesus toast always sells on Ebay, so when I found the face of the Christ Child in something I owned I was happy to Praise The Lord that I could make a shitload flogging it on Ebay!

I thought carefully about the listing. I decided to show my 'Christ Child face' next to an old master painting of Christ, I thought this would better show the uncanny resemblance in my item to the 'liddle baby Jesus'. It felt like easy money becase I had lots of these 'just like the Holy One' goodies available to list. At Snappy Snaps I could get Amy's baby photos printed at only 8p each...

Of Mice and Monsters (and knights with cardboard paper roll swords)

Dolly brought a mouse into the living room a few weeks ago, I jumped, and screamed, and my heartbeat went from a steady 'hmm hmm hmm' to sudden 'eek!!! eek!!! argh!!!' This state of 'argh' came upon me as fast as my eyes saw something grey in her mouth and my brain could register 'mouse!' All my fuss scared Dolly and she dropped the mouse and I saw it scurry under the coffee table.

What do you do when you have a mouse hiding in your living room, and a cat pawing under the table trying to get it? I grabbed Dolly, took her out of the room and firmly shut the door.

I'd used a 'humane mouse trap' before, a box that can catch a mouse so you can release it outside. So I visited a DIY shop that had a range of traps designed to poison, bash, splat, and messily glue mice to death, thankfully it also had a 'poison free' trap amongst these weapons of mass mouse destruction.

So I set this trap in the living room and Amy and I resigned ourself to a day spent living in the kitchen. Amy wanted me to check the trap every ten minutes, but I thought it best to let the mouse be, so I checked the trap every few hours. It was no good, Amy's bedtime came and still there was nothing in the trap. Steve came round and I told him why the living room door was shut. He volunteered to look for the mouse so I could have my house back.

He looked under the coffee table and behind the sofas, but there was no sign of any mouse. Dolly came into the room, she wanted to play with her favourite toy, and showed no interest in hunting or pouncing on hidden rodents. I was starting to wish I hadn't tried to save the mouse from Dolly, deciding I'd rather have a firmly dead mouse on my hands, than a mysteriously hidden living one that might suddenly scurry past me and make me go 'eek!!! eek!!! argh!!!' at any time.

My head was a bit weird around this time, and even though I'm not usually scared of mice I'd start to jump every time I saw Dolly, always checking her mouth for signs of grey fur, and screaming every time I saw her carrying her grey cat toy. It was as if everything, and nothing, could trigger 'eek!!! eek!!! argh!!!' panic. I couldn't explain it, I couldn't control it. I just felt edgy and odd all the time, like there was a permanent state of unknown threat.

The non-appearance of the mouse made me feel even stranger, at a time when I was feeling strange already. Of course I wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing. The mouse was never found. I thought it was real, but how could I be sure if every time I saw Dolly with her toy I was sure this was a reason to panic too? I screamed at a mere toy just as if it were a real mouse. I wasn't quite myself at the time.

Organisations with strange letters in their name finally wrote back with an apology for website failure, and, 'that sounds like post traumatic stress my dear' but their email made me go 'eek!!!' so I just closed it quick. And I feel better now in any case.

Steve believes in monsters. If you read his blog you'll know that he keeps hearing monsters at the bottom of the garden and getting scared. I'm open minded about this, I believe in Tooting Bec magic, but my poor boyfriend lives down the road in Streatham, is it possible that monsters lurk there instead of Tooting's happier magic things?

Last night I woke up when I heard a crash downstairs. Then I heard the sound of a scuffle. My first thought was 'burglars!' Then I heard Dolly growling. I sleepily thought, 'Dolly's fighting the burglars'.

Then as the strange row of tackles and cat screeches continued I decided 'Oh, a cat fight' deciding a stray moggy had got in the house and Dolly was seeing it off.

I nearly turned over and went back to sleep, but the noises didn't stop. They was loud, strange, noises, there were Dolly's screams and bashes and thuds and strange panting, and... I can only describe it as (don't laugh) 'snickering'.

Snicckkkker snikkker snkkk went this inhuman noise. It didn't sound at all like a cat.

I'd fallen asleep with no clothes on when Steve left that night, so I had to find my nighty, then my dressing gown. I was getting dressed quickly in a fluster as the weird noises continued. Dolly was quiet, all I could hear was the odd heavy breathing, and the weird 'snic snick snicckkker' now and then.

I tried to stay calm as I headed downstairs to investigate. Dolly ran up the stairs to greet me, her fur and tail all puffed up with fear. I stroked her for a few minutes, to calm myself as much as her, and then I slowly moved, from half way up the stairs I could peer into the dark living room. The 'pant pant snickker' noise continued. And as I looked I saw a large grey shape slink behind the sofa. It was larger than a cat... Maybe dog size. Was it a fox?

The noises worried me, well of course they did... But foxes aren't supposed to come in houses, are they? And this fox had just sat there long after Dolly had stopped fighting it, that wasn't right... It had sat there making very weird and scary noises. I wondered if it was injured? And soon I was jumping to all sorts of conclusions about crazed and dangerous foxes, I even thought 'Rabies!'

This shadowy beast was behind my sofa, deep in my house, with no obvious exit. What was I going to do?

I'd left the office door open, so that must have been how the creature had got in, but it was in a different room now, hiding and cornered. And how was I going to get it out of the living room? That 'humane mouse trap' wouldn't do it.

I decided to open the front door, so it had two ways out. And I sat on the stairs, waiting and watching, and hoping I'd see this mystery creature run out.

I don't know how long I waited. I heard movement briefly from the living room, then it all went quiet again. I guess I sat there an hour, wondering what to do. I thought about calling the police, but I knew this didn't justify a 999 call. Of course I thought about going into the living room and chasing it out, but I couldn't I was just too scared. So I rang Steve.

Steve was still up, blogging about the journey home that night, and when I explained the situation he said he'd get a taxi and be right there. He turned up carrying a long cardboard roll in one hand and with a green towel draped over his arm.

I'd expected him to provide nervous morale support as the terrified two of us tackled the scary thing in the living room together. Instead he had a plan, he was decisive, he was brave. He gave me a job to do, holding a towel to block the stairs so the fox didn't run that way, then armed with a cardboard paper roll sword and green towel shield, he entered the room, and looked for the beast.

He moved the sofa, and we both jumped when we heard a noise. But Steve was valiant, prodding behind the sofa with his cardboard paper roll. He found nothing so we decided the creature must have gone under the table, maybe that was the noise we'd just heard?

My laptop and Ipod docking station were on the floor. I guessed the bang that woke me had been these falling. I could see that the wireless reciever bit of the laptop was broken. Not that I cared much at the time.

Steve peered under the table, then prodded with his cardboard roll, and picked up the bin to look behind there.

'There's nothing here' he said.

But that was where I'd seen the shadowy shape go...

He looked behind the other sofa, and then behind the curtains, and the TV.

'There's nothing here, I'm sure.' he said.

And I suddenly felt worse than if he'd found a mean and cowering rabid fox. It was like the mouse thing all over again... Had I just imagined a large, shadowy, snickering monster in the living room? And was it a goblin, or even a troll?

I'd brought Steve in the middle of the night in a taxi from Streatham for no good reason, was I mad and only imagined a beast in my living room?

I made Steve check the room again, and then I nervously joined him and looked everywhere too. There really was nothing in the living room.

Steve mended the broken laptop, and reassured me, he said whatever it was must have got out while I'd gone in the other room to call him. I suppose that was possible.

And I'll never know. I'll never know whether I had fox in the house, or a monster snick snick snickkkkering in my living room that could mysteriously vanish at will in the night. I wonder if the monster ate the mouse that never turned up?

Will a bigger monster come one night to eat the snick snick snickkker monster?