Halloween

Halloween is one of my favourite holidays.  I love the marriage between the macabre and fun.  It doesn’t seem a natural union, like marshmallows and peanut butter, but somehow it works.

I don’t think Halloween is wholly for children though.  Not because I think their little innocent minds can't handle the implied preternatural horrors of the night.  Most are less perturbed by gore, terror and malevolence than many adults.  No.  I just think adults have more fun with it. The costumes become feats of artistic frenzy, as originality strives to match technical ability; the abundant parties where being socially retarded is actually a bonus for once; the elaborate pumpkin carving beyond the prerequisite of the evil smiley face (which usually looks like the poor squash has had a stroke when a child's been let loose on it). All these factors contribute towards a night where you can indulge in your more alternative side and be a bit naughty.

This year however, I just can't be bothered with it. I'm not sure why.  Maybe it's because it's my last child-free Halloween, and I'm secretly resenting all the grown-up Samhein parties I'll no longer be invited to (not that my social calendar was ever particularly over-saturated with invites anyway).  More likely, it's because I'm not in the mood to haul my heavily pregnant bulk off the couch every fifteen minutes, just so I can pretend to be impressed by the paltry creativity of a parent who has draped a sheet over their kid in a last minute effort to secure a few squares of nougat.  That was a very long sentence.  I hope you took adequate breath before reading it.
 So, tonight I'm ignoring the doorbell, turning off all the lights and pretending to be deaf to calls of "we know you're in there" bellowed through the letterbox. In fact, I'm writing this sat in a dark cupboard with a tub of treat-size sweets (I'm sure they used to be called fun-size.  I guess the manufacturers realised it's a misnomer to call a smaller version of a chocolate bar 'fun').  Actually, that's not quite true.  I'm actually sat on the couch with an empty tub of sweets.

I’m looking forward to when Little Parasite is older and Husband and I can have some fun decorating the house with cobwebs, skeletons and ghouls for a blindfolded ghost hunt and serving bleeding heart cakes and rice crispy scabs.  And other activities that ensure Little Parasite requires a lifetime of therapy.

What’s your favourite holiday? What are your fondest (or darkest) memories of Halloween?

Clothes shopping

Clothes shopping is one of those activities that should be enjoyable, but typically leaves me feeling disheartened by the whole process.  Maybe I just over-complicate the whole experience with my usual mix of social angst and diffidence, but I suspect I'm probably just a fashion pariah.

I'm really good at the sorting out and throwing away part of assessing my wardrobe.  I have a ruthlessness that would rival Ghengis Khan on discovering someone had put plastic in his glass recycling bins.
So, once the wardrobe has been stripped of its contents, I am then faced with the prospect of refilling it with new attire. This poses several issues for me. Firstly, I have the fashion sense of a blind lugworm.  Secondly I am easily intimidated by clothing store staff, with their pristine hair, prettily made-up faces and perfectly manicured nails.  I tentatively make my way into these stores, keeping flush against the walls like a feral rat.  Catching the beautifully eyelined glare of the assistant, I lurch awkwardly toward the nearest clothes rail and grab the first couple of garments my hands land on.

And then comes the trauma of 'trying them on.'  After selecting a few items in two different sizes, I then queue outside the changing rooms.  Whilst waiting, I cast my eyes over the other customers' potential purchases, and compare them to my own choices.  I am instantly disappointed with my garments, and feel strangely shunned by Womenkind for my lack of fashion knowledge.

When I eventually make it to a changing cubicle, I'm immediately struck with the paranoid thought that the assistant thinks I'm stealing as I've brought my massive backpack in with me (in combination with my clothing this makes me look like a nomadic turtle).  I then spend an inordinate amount of time checking that the curtain is drawn completely, so no gaps or unwanted eyes can enter.  Once satisfied that I've created a temporary modesty bubble, I then don the new clothes.  Frustration (and a little depression) soon sets in when the size 8-10 is too small, but the 10-12 is too big for the exact same style, and the item I adored on the rail makes me look like a disfigured Bobo doll.
This pattern repeats over several stores, until I either find a shop that proffers clothes that actually fit my shape (I'm beginning to wonder if I have a weird body shape, like a tetrahedron or something, and that's why I find buying clothes so difficult) or I give up and buy the outfit that gives my physique Bobo doll qualities, and pretend it's a deliberate style statement (i.e. I have no sense of style).


Because of my abhorrence for clothes shopping (and the fact I'm growing another human in me that's rapidly turning my regular t-shirts into crop tops - the white trash look; the antithesis of haute coutre) I am currently in a sort of wardrobe Groundhog Day.  I have decided that once Little Parasite is born, and I get my figure as back to normal as it's going to (currently I actually do look surprisingly like a Bobo doll), I'll attempt to revamp my wardrobe more successfully.

Dregs of my sketchbook

I'm feeling a bit guilty about not adding any sketches lately.  My excuse has been that my graphics pen is still packed from our last move, and with moving on the horizon again I don't see the point in unpacking it.  This is a little lazy, since once I've dug it out of the moving box all I need to do is plug in the USB port.  Meh.  Still reeks of effort to me.  I will sort it out when we move (once we've unpacked.  And the baby's born.  And I've got used to no sleep... don't hold your breath).  In the meantime I've delved into one of my sketchbooks from last year and have uploaded a page of random sketches.  I think at the time I was trying to work on drawing people, since I suck at people-sketching.

Sketchbook page.

Yep, still suck at drawing people.  I try, dammit!

What nobody tells you about pregnancy

There are a lot of pregnancy symptoms that most people are aware of (i.e. morning sickness; fatigue; swollen ankles etc). However, no one tells you about some of the less common ones, or at least they leave out the grimmer details. It’s not until you’ve swilled with mouthwash for the twelfth time in one day, trying to stop your mouth feeling like a camel’s arse that you suspect your experience of pregnancy may be more unchartered than you first thought.

I’ve listed a few things that no one told me about pregnancy that I’ve discovered for myself as I’ve waddled blindly through this baffling and remarkable journey.

1.  Your nipples constantly stick out like frozen Tic Tacs, forcing you to carefully choose which shirt you wear with which bra.  Everyone is too polite to point out your points, so you walk around looking like you’re smuggling marbles until you happen to notice them in a mirror.

2.   Whilst vivid dreams are a known phenomenon of pregnancy hormones, no one tells you just how weird they can be. I always thought the dreams would be about the baby, where you could feel the softness of their skin, and smell the soft talc of a freshly changed newborn.  Nope.  One of my dreams entailed the ceiling caving in on our bedroom.  I woke up in an adrenalin-fuelled panic, shot out of bed and squinted at the ceiling, and could actually see the insulation from the loft falling into the room.  It wasn’t until I turned a torch on that I realised I was hallucinating.  Not quite the lovely new baby dreams I was expecting.

Husband notes: “Or getting grumbled at for not understanding quite how chop sticks could be used as back supports when trying to sneak into the bedroom in early hours of the morning, having binged out on all those foods wife can’t have.  Yes now I look like I’m carrying triplets.”

3.  Get a group of pregnant women together in a room, and suddenly a whole range of topics usually deemed unpalatable suddenly become socially acceptable.  Everything from breast changes, piles, flatulence, bowel movements and pelvic floor exercises are discussed.  I know far more about complete strangers’ cervixes than I ever really wanted to.  However, it is nice to be able to talk about some things with other pregnant women.   Announcing your pregnancy to parents or other pregnant women is like signing up to an exclusive club.  This, I feel, is a great service to the rest of the population because, let’s face it, unless you’re expecting or have kids yourself, babies are frankly dull.

Husband notes: “This is same for men, however it’s info about friends’ partners’ cervixes which is frankly never appropriate.”

4.  I’m pretty sure some elements of my personality are changing. I have never been one to gush over the perceived cuteness of anything. Quite the opposite; I’m usually accused of being uncaring and emotionless. Lately though the mere sight of a tiny pair of booties renders me a simpering mess.  Most embarrassing.

Husband notes:  “Survival guide 101:  Always have hidden baby product in case of anger wave, then toss and run like hell.”

5.  For some reason I thought that my belly button would be an innie one day, and then I would wake up one day and it became a complete outtie, like some kind of fleshy aerial.  It turns out there’s a gradual migration of the navel.  Mine seems to be unfurling gradually like a limpet questing for algae.  It’s kinda gross.  When I sit up from lying down my navel sticks all the way out like a depraved, Ridley Scott inspired jack-in-the-box.

6.  Once you get over the holy-crap-I-had-no-idea-boobs-could-hurt-this-much stage, you reach a point where your boobs look awesome.  Unfortunately, for me anyway, this quickly transcended to a less aesthetic point where they just look bruised.  This is the capillaries bursting due to the increased blood flow and rapid growth.  Yippee.  It detracts somewhat from one of the few good pregnancy symptoms!

Husband notes: “I’ll always help apply the Bio-Oil.  I’m kind like that.”

So, pregnancy isn’t simply a case of hurling your way through 9 months of exorbitant tiredness resulting in a screeching, leaking being at the end of it.  Pregnancy throws your body into a major hissy fit with its assault of hormones, stretching skin and volatile mood swings.  I only have 3 more months to go, and I’m both exited and apprehensive about what I will experience over this time.

Estate agents

You may have noticed a (further) lack of posts here.  If you're a regular reader of my other blog then you'll be aware that I have been parasitised.  Yep, Husband and I figured out this breeding lark and will soon be throwing our genetic contribution into the populous

As if battling constant fatigue and nausea wasn't time-consuming enough, we've also decided to move house again.  Call me old fashioned, but an ex-grow house doesn't seem the ideal setting for a nursery.  We're a bit fed up with being evicted, so this time we are looking to buy.  Now this comes with a whole new plethora of issues to contend with.  If you thought landlords were unscrupulous, then just wait till you have to deal with estate agents.  It doesn't take long to realise you can't trust anything they say.  Whether that's through deliberate lies, or an innocent lack of knowledge is unclear.  I'm incredulous how an industry can survive when it seems to be full of incompetent oiks.  Maybe the sheer weight of their ineptitude's drags a furrow of success in their wake.

In order to help others survive the tribulations of house-hunting, I've written a handy guide to interpreting estate agents' common phrases:

They say                                                       They mean
"Some updating required"                             "There's no bathroom"
"Fully air-conditioned"                                 "Missing windows"
"Plenty of natural light"                                "There's a massive hole in the roof"
"In a popular location"                                  "Anti-social behaviour orders are rife"
"Mature gardens"                                          "Untamed jungle.  May contain lions"
"Lots of potential"                                         "It's currently an inhospitable dive"
"Priced to sell"                                               "Severe structural problems"
"Good investment property"                          "Rent it out; you won't want to live there"

I'm sure we will find the house, and it will be worth the stress and waiting.  Whether this happens before Little Parasite is born is another thing.  Currently, we're in a state of limbo as we're reluctant to completely unpack in this house as we may be moving soon.  Being a grown-up sucks.

The potting shed

Our house used to be grow-house.  This wasn't exactly a startling revelation, since one of the upstairs rooms reeks of cannabis.  We hoped the smell would dissipate after we moved in, but it's still really pungent.  It explains why our landlord had strategically placed plug-in air fresheners everywhere when we viewed the place.  Annoyingly, he also removed them once we moved in.  Cheeky.
I think the smell is so bad as it's wood flooring, so the smell has permeated into the wood.  It's awful, and makes me feel sick if I'm in the room too long. And no, that's not because I'm getting too stoned; the room just smells, there's no active THC! I hope.*
It smells like a concentrated version of student digs, minus the obligatory fermenting fungi fumes, and rotting sock stink.

There were a few clues that the house was a grow-house, and not just home to some dedicated stoners.  A policeman knocked on the door asking for someone who doesn't live here anymore; and the back door has a broken hinge, which is consistent with the door being kicked in.  The biggest clue was when our neighbours told us there was a police raid, and the growers' stock was turfed out into the garden. This explains why Willow, who has bad arthritis, spends so much time in the garden just sat there looking thoroughly chilled.

Since regularly spraying with air freshener doesn't seem to be having an affect, and I'm worried our books are going to start acquiring the smell, I'm going to try the plug-in air fresheners the landlord used - they seemed to have a pretty good effect.  Although I reckon they will only continue to mask the smell and not actually eradicate it.

Every house has it's story, and one day we will live in one that doesn't read like something from the Brother's Grimm.

*After writing that I got all paranoid and scoured the Internet to find out if this was true.  Luckily, just smelling it doesn't mean it's active. Phew.  I would not have been pleased else.  Although I doubt I'd have the motivation to do anything about it if it was active.

System Crash Sketches

Here are a couple of sketches I did whilst waiting for the computers at work to unfreeze.  They crash with an alarming regularity, so this may become a regular feature of the blog...

Lord of the similies

I think I'm generally ok at thinking up similies.  Recently however I've been so busy and tired that I can't seem to complete them.  I have several unpublished draft posts that are littered with such incomplete sentences as:

"It's been so hectic  lately it's like... playing swingball with a... building glass... I'm busy."
 "He's as impatient as... a firefly at dawn... a bus driver during... He's rude."
 "My ability to create similies was dimishing faster than a... pervert's libido in a leper's camp... I now suck at similies."

Yep.  A sorry state.  I've decided to try not to overthink writing for now.  Right now I'm going to focus on moving house, and hope my ability to communicate via wordy bits will restore shortly after.

Have you ever found yourself losing a skill you were once confident with?  How did you deal with the feeling you were getting stupider, and how did you rebuild your skill again?

Thought of the day

Some days I like my job.  Mostly I just want to bash my own head in with a keyboard.

Domesticated preferences

Pet Hates 

1. Recordings of live music
I have inadvertantly bought these sorts of CDs (and more recently downloads) on several occasions, much to my chagrin.  I find the screaming, whooping enthusiasm of thousands of fans a tad irksome, and it makes me feel left out: "Wow. Sounds like you all had a great time. I wish I'd been there."

2. Cats
What really is the point of them?  You can name them, but they don't come when you call.  They only deign to let you pay for their board and food as long as you continue to buy the specific (and discontinued) brand quail's liver pate avec ambergris dressing.
You can spend a fortune on cat toy gadgetry, just for the cat to survey you with a haughty, aloof expression, whilst you pitifully twirl strands of feathers and cotton tied to a stick in a vain effort to engage it in some reciprecated interaction.

3. The new Johnson's Baby Oil bottle
What was wrong with the old one!? The old bottle used to have a handy flip top, now I have to contend with a screw cap followed by a 'no-spill' lip, which is a blatant misnomer.  Now everytime I open the damn thing, oil pours all down the side of the bottle, and subsequently onto cabinets, clothes and carpets.  Not cool Johnson, not cool.

4.  The skin on hot milk
Who wants something stuck to their lip that looks like a bodily fluid Spiderman would excrete?
It seems a horrible trick to be enticed by an inviting mug of hot chocolate, only to be attacked by a volcanic film of clawing nastiness that tries to merge into your skin using reverse binary fission.
Bletch indeed.

5. Txt shrthnd
If you can understand the above, then I probably hate you.
Whilst I appreciate the English langauge has changed dramatically over several hundreds of years, from Chaucer to Shakespeare through to Dickens and Heaney, and will continue to evolve, I abhor the role text shorthand is playing in the development of our language.  For a start, what happened to all the vowels?  Are they cowering in some POW camp, waiting for the time when they will once again be accepted and understood?


Pet Loves

1.  Assassin snails
After unsuccessfully treating our fish tank with molluscicide to kill the pest snails, which resulted in killing our lovely Simaese Fighter, we then resorted to squishing them on a daily basis. This didn't seem to impede their breeding, and we eventially decided to try a biological control in the form of Assassin snails.  These little black and yellow beauties are brilliant!  Within a couple of months all the pest snails were gone. Although they're breeding quite prolifically themselves now, so I think we may soon be in a similar situation to a certain old woman who swallowed a spider to catch a fly...

2. Early mornings
It's not so much the early part I enjoy, but the complete queit and solitude for that first half hour of the day.  I get pretty territorial with my mornings and can be pretty savage to anyone who infringes on them. Apparently, this is nothing new, since I would literally growl at anyone who spoke to me before I had two beakers of tea when I was a toddler (I know, right?  A two year old caffeine addict - imagine my poor parents peeling me off the walls by naptime).

3. Flannelette sheets
I know this makes me sound about 70, and I really don't care!  The flannelette sheet is frankly my BFF over winter. I guess that technically makes it a BFW.  No more the physiological shock of entering freezing cotton sheets on a mid-winter's night, or the restraining limpet-like Husband hug as I try to usurp as much of his heat as possible. Thank you flannelette sheets for your services to homeostasis.

4. Pencil drawing
I love my graphics tablet, but I will always have a soft spot for traditional pencil and ink drawing.  Maybe I just don't know how to use my tablet properly yet (I certainly don't know how to digital colour very well), but I still find that my digital drawings lack a bit of personality compared to my pencil drawing.
On that note, there won't be any drawings on here till I move.  I somewhat hastily packed away my graphics tablet when we were served the eviction notice last month.  Bit premature, since we're not moving for another month.

5. Terrible word play
There's nohing more satisfying than lame puns, especially when they weren't intended (or punintentional humour Haw! Haw!).  I even enjoy that awkward embarassment you feel when you express a particulary awful paronomasia.  Of course, I also love more high-brow word-play, but I'm not smart enough for that, so I content myself with the dregs of the literary gutter.

What are your pet hates and loves?  Are there any little irritations that make your day feel that much longer, or anything that will make you smile regardless?

Not 2B underestimated

Click to enlarge, if you so desire



There may or may not be a substantial gap between posts again soon, as we may or may not have to move again.  It turns out to be rather bad form to request compensation, or a rent refund, if you have to live in a house that has flooded, has no electric, and requires months of building work.  Although the landlord claims he is evicting us as it's the end of our 6 month contract, and we wanted to go on a rolling month-by-month contract, instead of signing up for another 6 months, I suspect it's more to do with trying to evade paying us anything.

Makes me really mad since he's contractually obliged to refund some of our rent - you wouldn't order fish and chips and be expected to pay for chips even if you didn't receive any.  Paying rent on a property that wasn't in the condition we signed the contract is tantamount to the same thing.  What a complete tool.
We are finding out if he will let us stay on if we agree to sign on for another 6 months, at least that would give us more time to find somewhere else to live.

Grr and aarg and all that jazz.

Bookworms

Click image to enlarge

Phone anxiety (and also a pika)

I doubt I’m alone in this, but I really struggle to converse with people face-to-face.  I get anxious, and then start talking at an incredible speed which ultimately results in me stumbling on my words and having to start again.  Unfortunately, I end up actually saying ‘start again’ out loud in an effort to reel in my panic when orating, which does nothing for my already fragile street-cred.  I just cannot seem to cope with conversation, which I find frustrating since I love the English language, and trying to maintain communication with people solely using post-it notes just isn’t working out.

Most people are nice enough not to comment as I flounder in a sea of my own incoherence, but I then assume they are being supercilious, and then imagine what they may be thinking:

“ Oh dear,  poor lass, getting all tongue-tongued. Ah, ok yep, getting the gist... oh no, gone again. Be patient, she’ll get there eventually.  Kinda amusing really.  Ho-hum, I really have things to get on with.  Good grief, she talks that quick and the sentence still isn’t finished? Maybe I’ll just discreetly edge my way to the exit there...”

The sympathetic expressions are the worst.  On top of feeling like a moron for not being able to form a complete sentence, I then have to deal with pity.  It’s like they’re saying “it’s ok, we don’t really expect anything more from you.”

So, me and phones, we really don’t get on.  Happily, phones don’t play a huge part in my role at work so I’m saved from a constant onslaught of anxiety attacks.

The hoody, it turns out, is not an effective tool to handle

phone related anxiety.

However, external calls are most often from foreigners, when English is not their first (or even second) language.  These calls progress like a wedding dance.  Everyone knows what’s expected of them, but because nobody knows the other party’s relatives that well, no one gets up and jives wholeheartedly.  Instead, everyone furtively skulks around the outskirts of the dance floor, occasionally thrusting in an apathetic foot when the Hokey Cokey plays.

After I've attempted to respond to the caller’s query, the conversation goes along the following lines, although perhaps with less xenophobic overtones:

Caller: “I sorry, you very much talk fast. Repeat?”

Me: “ver’sorrytheformsyouneedcanbefoundonyourhomepageyoucanthenemailitwhencomplete”

Caller: “I not comprehend; please slower?”

Me: “Sorryformsonhomepagepleaseemailsorry”

Caller: “.........”

Me: “Could you email your query, and I’ll answer it directly”

Caller: “Yes. I think that would be best.”

After setting the phone back in its cradle, and, florid with the heat of humiliation, I scuttle away like a startled pika (which are incredibly cool, but endangered mammals) to calm myself with a cup of tea, which is the only valid British reaction to mild social discomfort.

            

 The pika.  Looks a lot like a chinchilla, but belongs in the

lagomorph (rabbit) family. Kinda like a 2nd cousin who

looks a bit like the milkman.  Not to be mistaken for

Pikachu of Pokemon fame. Although I reckon the pika

must have been an influencing factor in his creation.

Are there any everyday tasks or situations that you dread?  What’s the worst, or best, phone call you’ve had?  Have you received (or dialled) a crank call?

Dear fellow pedestrians...

...just pick a line and stick to it.

 

I swear, if I have to perform a pedestrian equivalent of an emergency stop one more time, I will hit the gas instead of the brakes and stomp your indecisive feet into the pavement.

Ta.

Career advice

Today I received what is quite possibly the most depressing piece of career advice ever.  I was advised to stop looking for a job I'd like to do, and focus on something I could cope with.


I could probably cope with being blind, but that doesn't mean I'd chose that over having vision.

Instead of making an effort and eating a varied diet, I could probably cope with eating nothing but corn flakes for the rest of my life.

Instead of changing the track, I could probably live with listening to one song over and over...


I can cope with a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.  My argument is that you spend at least 40 years of your life at work, you may as well make those years as interesting as you can.

My intital reaction to this pessimistic view was a superluminal descent into my very own well of depression; lamenting the fun-filled, enjoyable job that never was, envying those who were paid for doing what they were passionate about and generally being a miserable grump troll.

Grump troll

Apologies for the crapness of this drawing. It's

been a while since I used my tablet, and I've

completely forgotten how to layer properly,

or indeed draw.  That is my excuse, and I'm

sticking to it. No excuses for my previous

cartoons.  They're just shite.

Eventually, after a period of introspection and loudly playing Mindless Self Indulgence over and over (see, told you I could cope) I decided to snap out of it and be a little more mature about it all.  So what if I am pursuing an idyll?  I'd rather try and attain happiness at work than spend the rest of my working life moaning about my job.

What's the worst advice you've been offered, or given?

Flood

So, you remember my last post where I lamented the woes of letting. Yes?  Well, two weeks later our house flooded.  I suspect there is some demi-god of habitation who took offence at my post, and took it upon themselves to smite me.  So, justly smoted (smited? Smitten?) I am now gradually getting back into the swing of things.

We had been at our current house for just under two months, and I had returned from work one evening to an empty house (except for Willow and Tangent, of course. And the fish - they don't go out much) as Husband had recently started a job that means he works away overnight.  After taking a bath, I returned downstairs and noticed that the back door was open which slightly concerned me since I was sure I locked it.  Deciding I was probably mistaken, I carried on with my evening of home-alone frivolity (which basically entailed watching TV and eating Twix bars).  I then heard what sounded like creaking floorboards upstairs.  Of course, I immediately surmised that someone had got in the house and was meandering about upstairs (it couldn't possibly be due being in a new house and not knowing all it's peculiar sounds yet).
I went upstairs into our bedroom, grabbed a couple of martial arts weapons which are always lying about as trip hazards (thanks Husband!) and slowly made my way from room to room, checking behind doors as I went.  Satisfied that there was no one else in the house (and proving I tend towards paranoia) I headed to bed.

I woke up at 6am to the sound of torrential rain thundering outside, but after a few minutes I realised that I couldn't hear any rain hitting the windows.  I sat up and looked outside at the empty, dry sky.  Hmm. I listened closely to the rain, and thought it sounded like a flushing toilet.  I got up and flipped the light switch, but there was no light.  I concluded that there was indeed someone in the house and they were messing with my head (it's the sort of psychological warfare I'd employ if I were sociopathic. Ha! If).

Opening the bedroom door, I stepped out into an inch of water. Thinking many glorious, colourful (and unsavoury) curses, I finally realised there was a flood. I waded to the bathroom, and peered through the darkness at the water literally cascading from the ceiling.  It was too dark to see where it was coming from.

I then rushed downstairs to check on the dogs.  Tangent was sat meekly at the bottom of the stairs having a bit of a breakdown, and I couldn't find Willow.  Going back upstairs, I found her cowering in the spare bedroom - smart dog; get above the water!  I brought her downstairs, then checked the kitchen, where it was happily raining like the Amazon rainforest.  Next, I phoned Husband and in my most calm and collected manner, blurted the situation to him (he had to ask me several times to repeat myself).  Fortunately, he was able to arrange emergency cover and was on his way, once he deciphered my incoherent stuttering.

I then attempted to find the tenancy paperwork, and cursing my somewhat neglected filing system, found the emergency plumber number.  Impressively, he was out within 20 minutes.  He checked the attic, thinking it may have been a burst tank, but there was no tank, so that wasn’t the source.  Eventually, it transpired that it was the cold water inlet pipe to the toilet that had a tiny crack.  The plumber turned off the mains water supply, and replaced the pipe, and that was it.  All that drama over something so innocuous and simple to fix!

 The offending pipe

Husband arrived just as the plumber was leaving, and there was a momentary calm as the immediate situation was over.  We obviously didn't have any electric since the circuit broke after being doused in water. But as the day broke, and more light filtered into the house we saw the extent of the damage, and suddenly everything felt very heavy.

The kitchen ceiling was on the floor; the bathroom tiles had come down; the upstairs carpets were under completely sodden; the electric mains box was dripping water... it was difficult to know where to start.  We grabbed all the towels we had and starting numbly mopping up the water whilst we waited for the letting agency to send out a contractor to assess the damage.

 The damage to the kitchen. Pretty sure the ceiling

shouldn't be on the floor...

 More water damage

Bathroom tile damage. Clean-up: Where to start?

 We spent the next three weeks with no electric bar one room, with the loud, grating hum of an industrial dehumidifier gradually steering us to insanity.

Well, that was a riveting (and long) couple of months, but things are getting resolved now.  The house has dried, and the redecorating has started.  I’m gradually getting on top of things now (the house is still a state, but that more lack of housework than flood damage), and my sense of humour is creeping back. So hopefully blogging will return to a normal frequency soon (and cartoons will be making a comeback)!

What’s the worse indoor natural disaster you’ve experienced?  Have you ever lived somewhere that ended up biting you in the ass?