Did you just hear that rip?

It's not very often that you get the chance to say this, but happy leap year people!

Supposedly, February the 29th is the one day a year that a woman can propose to a man... So, before we begin- I would just like to make it known that I will not be one of those women... ever. When I get engaged, there will be romance. The tale of the proposal will go down in history and be the stuff of engagement dreams. Super nice. But call me traditional- which I think I am, in every engagement imagining I've ever permitted myself, I have never once been the proposer- I've always being the proposed to; the one asked, not the asker. This is not about to change... Poor Dave, please don't read this and be put off... but you've got a lot to live up to in a few years' time, my friend!

Anyhoo, back to reality. This blog is based on a rather blush-worthy incident that I believe happened last night. However, I could be totally and utterly wrong: this incident may have happened last week. If that's the case, my rosy cheeks may well rocket off the blushometer.

Last night, I was driving to work which- to be honest, wasn't that exciting. When I arrived, I parked the car (as you do) and then had a read of my book as I had a bit of time. Unfortunately, the book took an exciting plot turn, completely engrossing me and making me forget that I was sat in my car in a very uninspiring car park. Catching a glance of the clock, I suddenly realised that I was about to be late.

Throwing my book aside, I grabbed my relevant music books and flung the door wide open. And then- that may or may not be the moment when I heard an ominous 'rip' as I hurried to get out of the car. You see- I have forgotten to mention that I was actually wearing a rather smart and fitted dress to the knee. It was so fitted in fact, that it didn't really give you much room to move. It actually made driving a little tricky as you can only really move from the knee's down. This dress is also not conducive to running. Likewise, it has a very specific car-exiting manoeuvre... that I don't believe I properly applied.

So at one point or another, I somehow managed to rip the back of my dress. Yes, there was already a split at the back. No, it wasn't intended to reach the top of my leg...

Did anyone think to mention this to me? No.

Did I even notice? No, not until I got home and was changing into my pyjamas.

The thing is, I can't recall when the dress ripping incident actually occurred. For all I know, it could have happened a fortnight ago. Maybe it was last week? I just don't know. What I do know though, is that it was rather embarrassing.

I'm sure this won't be the last blush-worthy incident, but I'll be honest- there have been many many more! But that's for another blog.

Thank goodness for computers: at least you can't see my rosy complexion!

Ladies- beware of the pitfall's of the fitted dress. Let this experience be a lesson...

Mx

Can you believe it? My 50th post!

Hello everyone and welcome to my 50th blog!

To mark this occassion, I have decided to review the key things that have happened since I began writing my blog way back in March 2011. For obvious reasons, I'm only going to choose the items of interest, otherwise this would make very dull reading indeed. No, actually, I'm going to pick my favourite moments!

So, March:

Erm... after much deliberation I have decided that March is a month of little consequence, so I'm skipping it. Next!


April:


Oh April... you were not a good month for me, were you? I say this for two reasons:

1). April was the month of the doomed interview (I'm PIA-ing... I'm Post Interview Analysing and I can tell you I was not on form... ). Not only did I drop my CV off to the wrong garden centre, but I researched the wrong market and started spouting off facts that were about the other garden centre when I was being interviewed. Not to mention, I turned up to the interview dressed in high-heeled smart shoes and classic interview gear, only to see that the next candidate was wearing an anorack and steel-toed shoes (the footwear of choice I've since been told). One word: DISASTER.

2). April was also the month when Grandma played Cupid and set me up on a date (which- I would like to add, I had exceedingly high expectations for: (I wanted to bring you a success story, but I have to face facts: I am a dating disaster... ). Unfortunately, said date did not go to plan... especially when I inadvertently managed to turn myself orange. I remember it well: on Sunday, I was an English Rose. On Wednesday, I was an English Dandelion. A day later, as I wrote that blog, I was the colour of a satsuma. Since this unfortunate incident, I have never fake-tanned, preferring greatly to be pale and interesting. I have just one word to sum up this incident: ORANGE.


May:


In May, I decided that the time had come to absolve myself of any wrong-doing over the years and to dish out some well-earned thanks: (A series of thank you's and apologies ). Unfortunately, I accidentally publicised Scott's (secret) phobia of spiders to the world... now I've just realised that I've (accidentally) done it again. Oh well, it's out in the open now so I may as well share with you what I wrote: 'SORRY for all the spiders that you've thought I've removed from various locations for you Scott. Sometimes they went into my hand and out the window, other times they didn't. Of course, on those occasions I'd always say that the spider was long gone when in reality, it was probably hovering pretty close to your bed/ close to you... Sorry, really I am!

June:

June... what a peculiar month you were.

1). I learnt what it felt like to be in your ever loyal stead (AKA your car) and experience the feeling of insignificance and total inferiority to the beauty of a machine parked next to you. In my case, I was in my trusty Poop Mobile (Ford Fiesta) and somehow ended up parked beside a brand new red Aston Martin (Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority). There was a wonderful twist to this tale though, when I realised that: 'Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.'


2). I learnt what it felt like to be surrounded by folk aged over 60 for over 100 solid hours. (And let me tell you, 100 hours may not sound a lot... but it is)! That holiday with Grandma was certainly an interesting experience to say that least (Life with a coach-load of old folk (and me)). 

3).Very sadly, at the end of this month, I lost my beloved car- better known as The Poop Mobile (Farewell my friend). We had some good times, you know.


So dear friends, I am going to leave this blog here. Let's call it 'PART 1', shall we? Otherwise, it's going to become a blog-essay. PART 2 will follow shortly.

50th blog... I'm thrilled!

Mildred x

A whirlwind hello and goodbye!

Dearest friends,

How lovely it is to write to you from the comfort of my kitchen with the soothing tones of the dishwasher sloshing away in the background. Ah, such small delights I have missed!

So, to recap the last few days.

Dave and I returned to Surrey, after completing the epic journey from Scotland to home in his little Ford Ka. Who knew that car was cut out for life in the fast lane? With a little faith, it exceeded what Dave and I thought possible... That's right, it took on the big boys of the car world: BMW's, Mercedes, VW's, Audi's, Jaguar's... you name it, the little Ka over-took them all! (Disclaimer: all over-taking was done in a considerate and careful manner- Dave is a superb driver, and- if I don't say so myself, I'm rather good too).

Anyway, that was then. Since being back on home turf, I have had to complete zillions of tasks that I put off before departing to Edinburgh as time is of the essence. You see, I am due to fly to Bulgaria tomorrow. In true Mildred fashion, I am yet to pack anything. In fact, I am yet to unpack my goods that were taken to Edinburgh... but I would like to here make it known that I have at least done all my washing (and ironing), so credit where credit's due I like to think.

Instead of packing, I am doing things that I probably should have done ages ago. Things like printing off my insurance certificate, printing off some work, learning Bulgarian phrases and general procastionatory measures. However, the learning of the Bulgarian language is not going as well as I hoped it would. So far I have managed to master six crucial phrases (or more truthfully, words) which- in theory, should make the experience that much more authentic. And Bulgarian.

I know how to pronounce the following words (but if you are Bulgarian please ignore the phonetic spelling):

• English: Yes. Bulgarian: Da.
• English: No. Bulgarian: Ne.
• English: Goodbye (informal). Bulgarian: Ciao.
• English: Thank you. Bulgarian: Molya. 
• English: Bean soup. Bulgarian: Bob.
• English: Sheep's cheese salad. Bulgarian: Shopska.

So, I think you'll all agree that these are going to be extremely useful whilst out there. I will admit that there is a bit of inconsistency in my key phrases, but the reason is simple: these are the only ones I can remember.  If all else fails, I may need to use the fail safe method of communicating whilst abroad: body gestures and enhanced facial expressions. However, I am fairly confident that the essentials are all there- if needs be, I'll just eat sheep's cheese salad for the week and bean soup... 

Of course, there is one thing I am neglecting to tell you. In Bulgaria, their written text is Cyrillic, meaning it looks a bit like this: Името ми е Mildred McManus и аз живея в Англия*. Just in case you are interested, this translates as: My name is Mildred McManus and I live in England. 

With that in mind, reading the menu is going to be impossible I suspect. So it looks like it's shopska and bob for the duration of the holiday! 

Anyway, I shall be popping off as I have loads to do and- as so often happens, time is slipping away.

Upon my return from Bulgaria I shall once again be in touch.

So for now, ciao! 

* The translation of the Bulgarian came from this source: www.bulgarie-bg.com/tradbulgarian.php.  

Farewell my friend

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a loyal and devoted friend: the Poop Mobile.

*

That's right friends, my trusty stead is no more. 

Early one evening last week, the Poopster and I were driving home when a woman driving very fast hit us. Luckily, we were driving slowly, so I wasn't injured. Though I was taken to hospital as a precaution in the back of an ambulance. Lying down whilst being driven is an exceedingly strange sensation- one (I must add), I hope never to repeat again. 

After being given the all clear, I sought news on my constant companion. I found my Dad. He'd been talking with the policeman and was wearing an expression that was very grave indeed.

He told me to sit down. So I did. And then he proceeded to tell me that my little dalmation-ified car was no more. 

Dad was right to ensure that I was seated before delivering this sad news. Silently I looked to him as his eyes met my gaze. And then I spoke in a voice that didn't sound like my own.

'When can I see them?' (The Poop Mobile was like a fish- neither a him nor a her, so they became a 'them', in case you were wondering).

'Tomorrow love, tomorrow,' he replied.

I nodded. 'Okay.'

And with that, we left the hospital. 

*

As a tribute to my wonderful Poop Mobile, I would here like to take a moment to reflect on all the good times we shared as it ocurred to me earlier today: many of our good times have featured in this blog.

• My very first blog entry was about my little Poop Mobile as the exhaust had fallen off. It was the first time our relationship was tested and I wrote to you when they were being patched up in the hospital for cars garage.
• I pay tribute to my car for enduring and surviving ALL THE POT HOLES.
• Though my car may often have been splattered in offerings, when it was clean and dandy, it was a car for any outfit.
• My little car had a wheel transplant during it's time in my care.
• When I first bought the Poopster, I pimped it. I bought a pink air freshner and stuck it in the vent. That was as outrageous as the pimping got.
• I received some fabulous Halford's finest hub-caps for my birthday. To the Poop Mobile, that must have been like wearing a new pair of Manolo Blahnik's.
• Whilst driving along one evening, the car and I were attacked by the cannon-balling bee that flew in through the open window and had to be removed with my shoe.
• It was in my little white Fiesta that I first experienced car-o-feriority when parked next to that gleaming Aston Martin. I'll never forget that feeling; the moment I deduced my car was worth two Aston Martin tyres... I'll never forget the feeling later in the evening when I returned to my car to see that some birds had deposited on the shiny Aston bonnet. It was a feeling of contentment, knowing that to a bird, a car was just another surface: our feathered friends didn't care about the price. That was the moment when I felt most loyal to my car; the moment I realised I was very happy driving my Poop Mobile.

I will miss you.

Thank you for the good times. Though our time was short, it was exceedingly good fun.

There'll never be a first car like you.

*

Thank you for being here to say goodbye to the Poop Mobile. May they rest in peace.

Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority

Hello Friends, and welcome to the glorious month of June. Well, it may be glorious for you, but it most certainly wasn't for me as the promising start to the month that I'd been hoping for never materialised. Instead, I suffered from my first bout of car-o-feriority.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, let me take a moment to familiarise you. Car-o-feriority is when you are sat in your automobile- in my case a white poop splattered Ford Fiesta, and then you park next to another car. But it's not just any car. Oh no. Car-o-feriority only happens when you realise that your little baby is decidedly mediocre. This fact becomes blindingly obvious the longer you sit next to perfection, ie, a car that you can only ever dream of owning and is usually ever only seen on Top Gear. Car-o-feriority is more commonly a male affliction (I have noted at least) and affects my poor father usually on a bi-monthly basis. It is yet, however, to affect my mother- she is very happy cruising along in old faithful- a Honda Civic.

Anyway, there I was sat in a car park, minding my own business (as you do) when I was suddenly struck down by a most peculiar sensation. I began to feel e-feminated (if this isn't a real word I apologise, but given that I'm of the fairer gender, it is impossible for me to be emasculated. Note: I have not put a double 'f' in the term e-feminate, as if I did it would become effeminate, which means to display womanly characteristics, which obviously, I do).

Never before had I suffered with e-femination, which rapidly became car-o-feriority as I began the mental comparison between my 12 year old battered and bruised old friend and this brand new pillar box red three door Aston Martin. Comprehension dawned on me as I thought about my pimping of my car and compared it to the Aston. Do I have alloys? No, but I have the finest Halfords hubcaps money can buy. Did the A.M. have alloys? Yes, in black. Evidently, this car was too cool for school. Do I have a leather interior? No. Did the A.M? Why, it most certainly did. Do I even have a CD player? Nope. Need I ask the question relating to the A.M? I think you know the answer: it had three.

Barely able to prise myself out of the car due to severe levels of car-o-feriority, I did the one thing that any young woman not in a relationship would have done: I phoned my Dad. He did not offer the comforting words I needed to hear. Instead, he welcomed me to the club and informed me that the entire value of my car was worth just two A.M. tyres at the most. To add insult to injury, he then asked me to take a picture so he could see the beast. Thank you dear father, thank you.

Now, I know you must be wondering: at any point did I feel superior in my speckled white Fiesta? The answer you are looking for would be no. I tried to do that logic thing that my Dad taught me where you work out the expenditure on top of the sum of the car, but it didn't perk me up. Yes, I might have cheaper insurance. And yes, I might have a lesser expenditure. But ultimately, I had a Ford Fiesta. These arguments became inconsequential as I began to question my loyalty to my pooped-up motor. What was happening to me, I wondered? For I had always been happy with my little car, until I experienced the phenomenon of car-o-feriority. All I can say, is that it must be exhausting being a man. I mean, this affliction strikes my Dad down at least a dozen times a year! How he manages to pick himself up is beyond me.

Oh well. Life must go on.

Yes, indeed it must. When I remembered that, I felt heartened. I can aspire to the dizzying heights of Aston Martin ownership and one day, maybe one day, succeed. And then I realised, I'm happy to wait twenty years for one. After all, my Dad's been waiting that long (and some), so he's due his any day now. For now, I'm happy to admire from a distance and wistfully hope that one day my hard work might pay off.

With that realisation, I was at one with myself and my ever loyal car once more.

All was well.

Especially when I returned to my car later that evening and felt a certain sense of smugness. Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.

Am I getting old, or am I just darn tired?

Dear Friends,

I write to you in the strictest of confidence, for I do not think that there is anyone else who will take me seriously. I fear that I have begun the process of marination (better known as ageing), several years too soon. I cannot confess this to anyone else but you. However, I assure you that this is a genuine affliction and not a moment of intense hypochondria. I entrust this most worrying of afflictions for your eyes only and believe that your discretion would be fabulous. 

Kindest regards,

Mildred  

*

Hello, hello, hello.

Today I write to you full of grave concern for my personal welfare. I fear I am getting old- which, let's be honest, isn't really a fear but a fact. Life is linear, meaning we cannot deduct age. Although, scientific advancement means that by the time we're 70, we can look as though we're 37... Now I'm not going to lie, but I'm sure that by the time I'm 70 I won't want to look about 37, because that would be weird. I mean, if my (potential) marriage (one-day) were to fail and I were to end up back on the market, it would just be very very odd if a man of 37 approached me, totally unaware that I was 70! 

So you see, I am aware that I'm always ageing and that that is an irrefutable fact. It's just the whole process that I'm slightly concerned about. You see, yesterday I went on a trip to London with my friend Sophie. It wasn't a particularly entertaining trip (but don't tell Sophie I told you this, because it was actually a roadshow for florists and she is is a florist). Much of the day was spent sitting down and this is where the concern first begins. 

We sat down in the car to drive to the train station.
We sat down on the train to the roadshow venue.
We sat down on the tube on the way to the roadshow venue.
We sat down at the roadshow and listened (or pretended to) for two hours.
We sat down when we arrived at a restaurant for dinner after the roadshow.
We sat down on the tube back to the train station.
We sat down on the train back to the car.
We sat down in the car on the way home.
I then went to sleep.


So, all in all, not a very active day. Though, much of the day was broken up by little bouts of walking to get us between location A and to location B. But for some reason, I was exhausted. Who knew that listening and sitting could be so tiring? I most certainly didn't. And now I'm paying for it dearly.

Foolishly I agreed to take Gma (that's Grandma) to Church at silly o'clock in the morning. With hindsight, I should not have done. This decision was magnanimous and had several repercussions. Remembering that last night was of course Eurovision, I had to fight the extreme fatigue my body was undergoing and watch a bizarre concoction of Europeans cavorting on stage in the name of national pride. Like many Briton's, I was immensely relieved that we were not in last place. Phew! Bring on next year Mr Norton and I'll be ready.

But back to Church. The vic chatted and did his bit as I went through the motions of sitting and standing and sitting and standing, a bit more sitting, then a bit more standing and then lastly, sitting again. Why it can't just be on one level puzzles me, but I just copied the masses and got on with it. But by the end of the hour I was drained. I was literally clinging onto the pew in front to lever me off the seat. And then there's Gma sat next to me, springing up like a jack-in-a-box every so often, highlighting to me how old I'm getting. Not good.

After Church, I went to lunch with Gma where we indulged in the ol' Sunday Roast and pudding. Afterwards, I was TTT- which, to those of you who don't know, stands for 'Tummy Touching Table'. I was absolutely full-up and ever so slightly sleepy.

When I returned Gma to her house, I went for a nice long walk in the afternoon. I stumbled across one of those school race-track's that are painted onto the grass and always transfer onto your shoes. Wanting to prove to myself that I still had the ability to run, I did the 100m sprint and felt mighty fine. Or at least I felt mighty fine when I was trotting along.

It was just after that I didn't feel so fine as my legs turned to jelly. And it's been such a while since I last went running that I can't remember if that is normal, or if that means I'm getting old.

Dear friends, I think you'll agree I need to slow down the pace of life. Or do I?

Am I actually getting old? Or am I just darn tired?

I think perhaps, I am in need of a nice long sleep. After, I'll be able to tell you if this blog was born of tiredness or actual ageing.

Anyway, onto A.O.B. (any other business).

• Yesterday, on our trip, Sophie and I met a fabulous pair of people called Heather and Eddie. Strictly speaking, they weren't in the floristry business, but they were very nice and made us smile. So I'd just like to say to them- if they're reading, I hope that your venture goes well.
• Yesterday, it was reinforced to me that you should watch Eurovision with low expectations, so then wherever the UK finishes can only ever be a win.    
•  Yesterday, I met a lady called Laura who was wearing the most fabulous hat I have ever seen in real life on any living person's head. So, I commend your hat wearing panache and hope to one day be able to follow in your hat wearing footsteps!

 But for now, I bid you farewell. I'm off to bed, so nighty-night!

If you built me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta... to some animals that is...

Dear friends and followers, today I write to you about animals, for in the last few days I have had some interesting incidents with man's companions.

Some of them were good, others were not so good.

But first, let me start by saying: if you could build me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta. (For those of you who don't know, Noahetta is the female version of Noah. For obvious reasons, I cannot be a Noah. Nor can I be a Mrs Noah as I do not know any man with a first or last name that rhymes with mower. So, that is how I therefore deduced that I would make a superb Noahetta).

I think that I'd quite like life aboard an ark. After I'd led my animals in two by two I'd lead my friends in two by two and we'd all live happily ever after... Well, that's how it works out in my head.

The reality- I'd imagine, would be highly different. Dad wouldn't want me at the wheel of the boat, especially if I said I was driving it. This would be because 'you cannot drive a boat, Mildred', he would say. 'I've told you time and time again, you Captain it, so you have to wear a hat. You can't call left and right left and right, because when at sea, it is starboard and port. And, in case of an emergency you'd need to be proficient in Morse code in case your mobile phone goes out of range.'

Evidently, Dad doesn't think I'd drive- sorry, Captain, an ark that well. He's probably right. I won't lie. Last time I was in a boat that I Captained, I was in America with my good friends Sara, Brendan and James. Admittedly we weren't in very big boats. In fact, we were actually in very small boats. Well, the definition of boat is being pushed here slightly a lot. We were in a kayak. Sara and me in one and the boys in the other. When we parked the kayak along the stony bank due to calls of nature, Sara and I accidentally dented the front of it because we weren't sure of the correct docking procedure. (It was an accident I'd like to here add). Luckily, we didn't sink when we resumed the boat after business. Whilst one of us was acquanting ourselves with nature, the other 'guarded the boat', though who we were guarding it from is quite a mystery as there was no-one around in the American wilderness. Ahh, such fond memories.

Given that what I have neglected to share with you is that when Sara and I boarded the kayak, we ended going about 50m against the current, before realising we were going the wrong way. Our one saving grace was that we did not get lost (though we had an accidental detour)...

Anyway, I perfectly understand why Dad would have his reservations about me steering the ark to rescue. I think I'd have to leave it to him. I mean, if he can Captain an aeroplane, how tricky could an ark possibly be?

I'd like to think that if Dad went, Mum would go too (because they're a pair after all), but I have a funny feeling that she'd get really bad sea-sickness. And then we've got Graham whose fear of confined spaces would get out of control in that environment. Then we've got my friend Sophie whose spider phobia would be exacerbated due to the close proximity to these eight legged foes.

All in all, it's a recipe for disaster.

But then again, if I were to kind of 'help' the process of natural selection along a bit, would I really need to bring on all those animals whose only purpose in life is to induce fear in humans? For instance, wasps.

Yesterday, I was cruising along at a breezy 50m.p.h with my window half open when all of a sudden WHACK! A great big wasp cannon-balled itself into my car and then got caught in my skirt, all the while buzzing at me angrily, as if I was in the wrong. Sir waspalot, please explain this to me given that I was simply minding my own business when you propelled yourself at me, an innocent human being. It hit my arm with such ferocity that I was left with a huge red splodge on it for over 2 hours. But I have to say, the whole experience was totally alarming as the shock almost caused me to collide with numerous stationary objects (grass by the road in case you were wondering). I had to wriggle about indignantly to get this wasp off me  and then it fell on my seat into prime bottom territory...

But worry not, you'll all be pleased to know that at the traffic lights that were mercifully red, the wasp got knocked unconscious as it was scooped up in a high-heeled court shoe and thrown out of my open door (the wasp that is, not the shoe).

Note: If you are a lover of all animals, you'll be pleased to know that the wasp regained consciousness before making contact with the ground and was able to fly off into the distance, alive. If you are not a lover of all animals, you'll be disappointed.

Later on in that same day, I saw four small rabbits lining the road at various intervals. The fifth one I saw was no bigger than the palm of my hand and was all cute and fluffy. But, it was under attack from a predator. The predator was a magpie, but luckily, due to my unknown recently discovered Noahetta knowledge, I was there at the right place at the right time and Benjamin bunny lived to see another day (ta to Beatrix P for the name).

And yesterday, I saw a giant rat thing the size of a cat! Well, that's not quite true. It was about the size of half a cat- no smaller, but with it's tail, it was the length of our next-door neighbours cat Versace.

So, it is with all these experiences that I have deduced that I have new-found animal magnetism. Unfortunately it does not seem to be for the best. But if you're up to the challenge, feel free to build an ark and I'll see what I can do. Or- as the case may be, I'll see what my Dad can do.

Until next time, Mildred the Noahetta must sail off into the distance to come to the aid of the rest of the animal kingdom.

I'm PIA-ing... I'm Post Interview Analysing and I can tell you I was not on form...

Yesterday, I had a job interview. Unfortunately, the job interview had me... I was not on form. It was not my finest hour: I have disgraced the ancient family name that I call my own and shamed the McManus household. As I write, I hang my head in shame (not just because I'm partially watching the keys, but also because I am ashamed). You see, it all started last week...

I suspected that things would not go well the moment I turned up at the wrong garden centre to drop my CV off.

After perusing the local paper, I stumbled across this job and thought, a-ha! I could do that! Lo and behold, I could not. However, before I realised this I promptly set about updating my CV and amending my list of key skills to suit the job. Can I really keep a plant alive for longer than a fortnight? No. Can I really work in an environment where I don't talk to anyone all day? No. Do I really know the difference between Taraxacum officinale and a dandelion? No. Yet I answered yes to all these questions on my CV... I tweaked the truth to make me more of an eligible candidate, but who doesn't? (I'm hoping that it's not just me who's dishonest, given as I've told you this now...).

But anyway, after deciding that my CV was good to go, I promptly set about delivering it to the garden centre. This, dear readers, is the beginning of the end...

Confidently I drove the 12 minute journey to the garden centre and boldly walked in. I requested the manager and handed him my CV with the obligatory winning smile that asks how their organisation has managed this long without me. However, my winning smile failed me for it was not returned. Instead, the man silently handed my CV back to me. Understandably I was confused. I was lost. I was alone... I was in a garden centre.

"I'm afraid we don't have any vacancies at the moment, Miss," he informed me.

"But- but, the newspaper said-"

"The newspaper said Watkin's Garden Centre, not Wilson's Garden Centre." He then paused for dramatic effect. "This is not Watkin's Garden Centre. This is my garden centre and I am Mr Wilson."

Oh.
My.
Goodness.
Me.

Major embarrassment!! Why, oh why could the ground not have swallowed me up? I muttered something incoherent to Mr Wilson and dragged my beetroot self to the exit. I stole a glance behind me and saw a very bemused Mr Wilson watching me go. Unfortunately, I made a fatal error in my glance and had continued to walk. Promptly, I collided with a pyramid display of Taraxacum officinale seeds. As my now sub-human coloured face and I frantically bent to pick them up, I saw that the Taraxacum officinale was in actual fact a common dandelion and realised that I would probably look like a bit of a ninny if I kept that on my CV. But by this point I was passed caring.

By the time I got back to my car, I was mortified. So I phoned my Dad to ask him where Watkin's Garden Centre was, only to be told that he was flying to Vancouver by his secretary. I then phoned my Mum, who asked me what good I thought it would do in phoning Dad when, to the best of her knowledge, he doesn't even realise that we have a garden shed. (Mum's not even sure if Dad is aware we have a garden, he spends that much time in there!). But anyway, Mum gave me directions and off I went in my pursuit of finding this new mecca of mine. When I got there, I handed my CV in before I could put my foot in my mouth and instantly left. Upon getting back home, I had to take a cold shower: it was the only way to stem the burning in my cheeks.

...

A few days later I received a telephone call. Next thing I know, I'm in the interview room, fumbling my way through. Somehow, I don't think that they thought my degree's would be as useful as I said they would. Will your degree's help you to lift the plants Miss McManus? (They make a very good point). No.

After, they took me on a tour of the greenhouses, but this was not good for me. The reason it was not good was because I had carefully selected my outfit the night before and opted for my black court shoes that I wear if I need to be taken seriously. Unfortunately, they failed me as they kept getting stuck in the holes in the floor... I think you'll agree: not good. But, in the spirit of my dramatic training, I kept to my script and feigned interest in a job I never really fancied. And this may, or may not, have been my downfall: I started to reel off all the facts I'd learned about Watkin's Garden Centre, only to be told that I was describing Wilson's Garden Centre.

So, I took that as a sign from the God's. Fate really didn't want me to get this job. I realised that the moment I saw the next candidate. You see, I had turned up in standard interview wear consisting of a white blouse, black pencil skirt and stockings and simple (fake) diamond studs. I think you'll agree: classic. I had however, accessorised my outfit with a superb purple coat that was belted at the waist and gave me a super figure (well, in silhouette form at least). Now, purple Mildred, really? I hear you ask. Yes, I reply. I chose purple because the day was rainy, grey, cold and dreary, so I thought that I'd spread some Mildred cheer and brighten up the interviewers' days. With hindsight, I think that may have backfired, because I saw that the next candidate was wearing a grey and lilac anorak. She had her hair scrapped back into a messy ponytail and was wearing (flat) trainers with unflattering man trousers. I started to doubt myself: was I appropriately dressed? Or did my appearance scream too high maintenance to make me an eligible candidate for the job? I don't know, but whatever it was I shall never know.

The following day I received a phone call from the garden centre people. They told me that I was their second choice and thanked me for my time. As I hung up the phone, I wondered why they'd thought it necessary to tell me that I was their second choice, because who enters a race with the intention of coming in second?

I won't lie, I did shed a tear, but I recovered fairly quickly. If it was meant to be, I'd have got the right garden centre.

Yet I have taken some very important morals and life-lessons from the experience:

• Don't pretend to know Latin plant names if you don't know the English. It can only lead to embarrassment. Trust me.
• ALWAYS research your market.
• ALWAYS ensure that you research the correct market.
• Never, and I stress never, wear high heels to a garden centre job interview when their footwear of choice is steel-toed boots.

I hope that my lessons have been of use to you and wish any of you pursuing a new job the very best of luck. Sometimes I'm learning, honesty really is the best policy.

Oh cripes, I've got a car situation

So I guess this is hello: hello and welcome. Nice to meet you!

Right, so my first blog entry comes to you from a supermarket cafe (not as classy an establishment as I'd have hoped for on my first day, but hey, what can you do?). The reason I'm here is simple. I had a choice: pop to this establishment or sit and wait in a glass box AKA a garage waiting room. That's right: I've got a car situation.

Yesterday, when I was driving home after having had lunch with Grandma (aka Gma), the car started to behave very oddly. It began clanking and growling- (something I'm told young men pay an awful lot of money for when they're pimping their motor. I don't understand why as the noise is highly embarrassing). But where was I? Oh yes, I remember. 'Oh heck,' I thought, 'this can't be good'. So, in lieu of a boyfriend, I got the ever trusty Dad (my Dad, that is) to examine it when I got home. "Brace yourself Mildred," he said and then gave me one of those serious looks that only a father can give: "this one's not going to be a freebie jobbie."

I would say I was crest-fallen, but that would be an exaggeration. Disappointed? Yes. Crest-fallen? No. You see, my brother Scott is a mechanic and he usually services my car (for free), in exchange for me keeping his tumultuous love-life a secret from the parents. And our other brother Graham (who happens to be too straight-laced that it's unnatural. He refuses to be drawn into this dark world of deception that Scott and I so frequent). Unfortunately, my car had an incident when Scott was notably absent from The South, and from England, and from Europe. He's gone to Canada for 3 weeks, and I must say that I now think that that was incredibly selfish of him- what do I do now? Pay. Oh.

But anyway, as I was saying- or about to; I need new parts. The back box, or something like that? Or, as I referred to it when on the phone with the garage- "the oval shaped squished thingy that's linked to the exhaust and a long pipe thing on the other end that should be attached, but isn't." (Very nontechnical I know). But they got the gist of it, because, in short, I need a replacement oval-back-box-squashed-thingy. The reason being? Well, mine broke after being subjected to intense pot-hole torture following the long and unprecedented Winter frosts.

You see, my car is white- and until yesterday afternoon, was actually quite filthy. I thought I'd best don the rubber gloves and get cleaning in case the mechanic thought that my dirty car meant that I was a negligent driver (quite the contrary in my opinion). But just to be sure, I got scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. And let me tell you, for such a small car, it took blooming ages!

My advice- if requested, when deciding whether or not to purchase a white car. Quite simply, don't. The positive- that it matches any outfit (fact), is outweighed by the fact that a white car is in fact a 'Poop Mobile' (as in Bat Mobile), because they are magnets for bird doo-dahs. Trust me.

Now, the prognosis of my little white Poop Mobile? Well, it wasn't as bad as I anticipated: £50 all in (labour, part and VAT), thought I do now ask myself if that is good, or if it's bad? Considering I'd been anticipating £55, I'd say I got myself a bit of a bargain!

So, the morals of this story are:

• Don't own white cars
• Ensure that when driving, you do the pot-hole-spotting exercise AT ALL TIMES
• Make sure that any faults happen when the cheap/ free mechanic/ relative is in the near vicinity- preferably the country. More preferably still- the continent.

The questions I pose to you are:

Did I get a bargain at the garage? And, more importantly, am I now entitled to a deduction on my road tax as I suspect that the state of the roads contributed to the demise of my little car's underbelly?

Finally, I would like to end this blog with my thought of the day:

I am...
...thinking how much easier life will be when I'm an OAP and receive my complimentary bus pass after the shenanigans with my motor vehicle. At the same time, I now feel disloyal to the ever loyal Poopster for such thoughts. Oh my...