Monthly Archives: May 2013

Wet Sleeves

Is anyone else really annoyed by wet sleeves? I always try to pull sleeves up when doing messy jobs but occasionally water slops when you didn’t expect it and you get the sleeves of your top wet. I think it is one of the most uncomfortable feelings. The water may have started off as pleasantly warm but before long it cools and you are left with a cold, wet sleeve sticking to your arm. Try as you might to rub it with a towel to remove excess moisture, it seems to take hours to dry. If possible, I change into dry clothing but sometimes this is not practical so you are stuck with ‘WSS’ (wet sleeve syndrome) until the moisture finally disperses. Wet trousers (no, I’m not incontinent yet), wet feet, wet head – these I can cope with. But wet sleeves? No, no, no.


Isn’t spitting a truly disgusting habit? Nobody can convince me that it is in any way necessary. When I was little, we had double decker buses with signs on them saying ‘no spitting’. This, of course, was a time of mining in the north east and many men had coal dust in their lungs and coughing and spitting was pretty commonplace. Still not good though, even though there was probably a medical reason why they did it.

In many schools I worked in, boys thought it was generally OK to spit – after all, their grandfathers had done it and their fathers had done it. No amount of explanation or chastisement could stop them. I remember litter-picking with some children once and reaching down to pick something up to discover that some little tyke had spit in the same place and I ended up with it on my hands. I also once went to a cashpoint in Chester-le-Street to find that someone had ‘hockled’ all over the keypad. Two nearby tittering brats watched as I bravely keyed in my number and got my cash regardless. I also gave them a good ticking off about their disgusting habits despite their protestations of innocence.

One of the most irritating examples is in football. Men have assured me that spitting is ‘necessary’ when playing football. I dispute this. YOU CAN SWALLOW. We do not want to see the camera zoom in as the footballer produces the ‘gob of the day’. Even if we accept that spitting is essential for footballers, what excuse is there for the Manager, sitting on the sidelines, to do it too? It is a habit. A dirty, filthy habit. And thoroughly bad manners.

So there!


Oh dear, oh dear……people who wear Crocs. These have to be the most hideous shoes ever created. There is no excuse for wearing them. Not when camping. Not when hanging around the house and garden. Definitely not when out in public. 

Is there anything worse that wearing Crocs though? Oh yes, there is. Crocs with socks. Unbelievable, I know, but even important people have done it. See this item in the Huffington Post:

Crocs with socks. The ultimate sign of someone whose mind has gone off the beaten track.


What is it with writing ‘the’ as ‘da’? I can’t stand it! The word is THE, T-H-E, not da. Add to that ‘de’ and ‘dey’ and it is enough to make me scream.

This is not evolution of the English language. This is destruction of the English language.



I got inspiration for this today in the town centre at the traffic lights. I was approaching the lights as they changed to amber. I slowed and stopped. However, the car to the right of me sailed on through and so did the one behind him – when the lights were definitely on red. I see this all the time. Some people don’t seem to think that the red light applies to them and that they will get lucky and get through before the other traffic moves on their green light. 

We are all in such a rush these days. But are we in so much of a hurry that we are not only prepared to be a ‘riskit’ but also prepared to cause harm to others rather than just waiting 60 seconds?


This one is inspired by Little Miss Stubborn…..

Have you been to the gym lately and watched some of the people who go there? You should all know by now that I can’t stand the ‘look at me’ mentality you see on Twitter. Well the gym equivalent is the person who exercises, does weight training or uses the instruments of torture in front of a nice big mirror. Each flex of the muscles is checked out to make sure that physical perfection is being achieved. Every movement is followed by an admiring glance at oneself, loving the body, begging others to look and admire and wish theirs were half as good.

Well, gym bunnies, I have news for you. We are not admiring you. We are smirking at your vanity, watching as you grow to love yourself even more and dying to get home to tweet about how silly you are.


I hate anyone confiding in me and asking me to keep something secret. It sits inside of me, begging to be let out. It makes me feel unsettled and irritable. It is like a little worm, wriggling away around about my diaphragm, reminding me that I know this information but can’t tell anyone else. I have one of those little worms inside me right now. It has been there for six months now and I still can’t talk about it. It is quite a serious secret with legal implications. It will either explode with possibly national coverage or it will fizzle out and be brushed under some grubby carpet. Until then, the worm will wriggle from time to time, reminding me that it is still there.

P.S. Don’t worry……this secret is not about me!