Various Mini-Updates:

Job: The 20% deal is all done bar signing my name to it. Having got over the initial "omigod, I'm gonna spend the rest of my life living off fish fingers and 19p Aldi soup" phase, I've entered the second section of "coping with change"; thinking of how to construct the necessary alterations in a positive and constructive manner.

The main saving that needs to be made – and various bits of motivation including this are leading up to this – is that I need to give up nicotine.

This is not something I can do straight away – for various reasons I need to get medical permission before I embark on this – but it's certainly something I can work on at the minute in terms of getting my strategy and my mindset prepared for when it actually happens; say, a month's time.

This may all sound like a pathetic addict putting off the day of reckoning, but the fact that I'm seriously contemplating this change is, in itself, progress. I am, of course, no stranger to "addiction recovery" – it's now the best part of two decades since first realizing I had to stop drinking at some point – and I know that my way is the only way to do this. You can't force any addict to give up [unless you utterly isolate them 24/7 for years and years] – you can only set the conditions in which recovery can be allowed to happen. And I think the time may soon be ripe…

Stomach: Since the bout of food poisoning pre-Xmas, and the splurge of food which the festive season always brings, I've been a lot more careful about what I put into my digestive system. And it's paid dividends. Apart from a small tempestuous event on Saturday evening – which I'm putting down to some dodgy veggiesausages – things have been brilliantly quiet on this front.

The main "loss" has been that I've cut out curries. Yes, yes, I know, it's surprising that this particular addiction has gone unsated for six weeks, but it's actually been easier than I thought.

One particular aspect of the change in diet has been the addition of a daily "bio-yoghurt" pot. Opinions on these differ wildly, and of course my subjective perceptions of their effects are invalid as evidence; the fact that they've coincided with a calm period in my digestive system may be entirely accidental or placebo. Bottom line, though; if you're not concerned about the amount of sugar syrup put into the things – and, luckily, sugar is not an addiction of mine – I figure it's at least doing no harm to put a small amount of sickly-sweet yoghurt in my system every day.

Saucy Writing: Something is brewing. It's not ready yet, I can't even tell what it is yet, but I can feel it there…

February: Always the "joker" month – it's either brilliant or crap. This year, apart from that one "down" day, it's been good so far – although one never knows what's around the corner, natch.

No V-Day cards or presents will be sent this year; and CarolineDay will, hopefully, be spent pootling around Knorwich with S. wetting ourselves over too-expensive shoes before going back to New Look, which has thankfully cottoned onto the size-9 wide-fitting affordable but doesn't-look-like-stereotype-lesbian market.

Plankton: PLANKTON!!!

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Today's Big Question: What "change" are you currently contemplating?

Ooh, that's better.

I had an emo moment – well, morning and early afternoon – earlier today, but a few hours spent in bed with some appropriate depressing gothy bleak 80s miserableness seems to have done the trick of draining off the worst of it.

[yes, it's that damn badly-lipsticked bloke. If you've not got this album, but would like to try out its utterly divine despairness, give me a shout and...]

There's a difference with me between momentary emo-day-ness, which can be nicely solved by lying down with crap music, and actual depression, in which I can't abide any music at all. You'll know the difference, because with the former I moan a bit about feeling emo, and with the latter I don't talk at all.

Also: with the former, I get momentary fleeting ideations of "hey, a drink would be nice right now". Not the latter. Even if I wanted to – which I wouldn't, because in that mood nothing is thought of as "nice" – I could hardly get out of bed as far as the offie [liquor store].

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Good Things:

The old printer, which died last month by having its cartridge carriage fall off as if it had electronic leprosy, is now in the back of Priscilla waiting to be "recycled"; luckily someone else had just got a new one and asked me if I had a good home for their redundant HP.

Priscilla, by the way, is thankfully not affected by the current "sticky pedal" nightmare – she's too old. Her MOT* reminder has just come through, though, so someone will have to get underneath her and have a good poke around. Lucky girl.

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Another Good Thing:

On Tuesday night, I had an epiphany. For the past few months, I've been drawn into weekly hospital-soap Holby City like a fly around a particularly delicious stool; I found myself rooting for some characters [often evil ones] and booing others.

Then, halfway through the episode the other night, suddenly it dawned on me. "hey, this is utter pish!"

I won't be going back to it.

Promise.

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And A Slightly Surprising Thing:

The people of my little town are, well, they're Suffolk. They're not known for their advanced intellectual abilities; yes, I know, that's a country bumpkin stereotype, but like almost all stereotypes, there unfortunately is a small grain of truth for some people behind what gets blown up into complete bollocks for everybody.

I'm thinking of one particular person of my friendship and acquaintanceage, who has arrived in Suffolk from Essex and whose outward personality and identity sometimes reflects the stereotypes of both regions.

So when, over coffee the other morning, she says "oh, I love Shakespeare", it doesn't quite fit…

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* Note for non-UKers: an obligatory annual roadworthiness check for older vehicles. Despite everyone's moans when the time comes around, it probably saves thousands of lives a year; and if you're the kind of stupid rabid libertarian who thinks this is unwarranted over-Government regulation, then get the fucking fuck off my website now. Seriously.

Dear HM Government,

This is to notify you of the founding of the First Church Of Blessed Toastology, which will formally bring into being an organization to bring together all those who respect the divinity of flat bread-based cooked breakfast foods not only in this country but all over the world.

I am High Priestess Of Jam And Sweet Spreads. I am infallible, apparently*, I have ultimate authority over all members of our faith, and it is I who holds the holy Bread Knife – as once wielded by our deity, Mr Bun The Baker – which I can pronounce any doctrine I like so long as I am holding above my head.

Now that we are incorporated into a body – we'll have our own Facebook group and everything! – we shall of course expect to be treated with the deference given to other religious groups.

1. Since, apparently, "traditional beliefs" come before the law of the land or what is morally or philosophically correct, I feel it important to point out that the law against shoplifting is not in accordance with traditional Toastist doctrine.

Therefore we demand an exemption from the Theft Act 1968 to allow our followers to purloin supplies of bread, toasters, butter, spreads, and crockery in accordance with the High Priestess' First Decretum; "And lo, verily, thou must empty the shops of all Toast-related items, so that they do not fall into the hands of the heathen unbelievers. Hoard your bread! Hoard your butter! Hoard your toast racks! For it has been revealed to me that only those who truly believe in Mr Bun The Baker will be saved when the Big Oven explodes!"

2. The Second Decretum holds that followers of the faith must carry a jar of Nutella with them at all times, in a small handbag, just in case there's a bit of dry toast that needs spreading before consumption.

We expect that these jars – which, of course, must remain untouched by any heathen – will not be subject to airport or other scrutiny. We will regard it as "human rights abuse" if they are ever taken from a follower in police custody or similar circumstances.

3. We demand that the National Curriculum includes Toastist doctrine as part of the "balance" necessary in young people's education, and that in our own schools [which you'll give us lots of money to set up] we can tear up the whole sodding thing and just teach what we like.

Central to this is the truth revealed by our A Bit Burnt Cosmologist, Nicholas Parsons**, that so-called "atoms" are merely crumbs from Mr Bun The Baker's Really, Really Big Piece Of Toast; the fact that so-called "science" reveals them to not be made of bread, nor that anyone has ever seen, detected or logically deduced the Really, Really Big Piece Of Toast is heresy, and if anyone tries to say any of that we'll argue with them in a circular and irrational way until they get bored and give up.

[Also see: climate change, which is absolutely nothing to do with CO2, but it means Mr Bun The Baker turned the browning knob up a bit.]

4. The First Church of Blessed Toastology is a peace-loving religion, which teaches love and compassion.

Unless you disagree with us, in which case you're going to be damned to having red-hot toasting forks poked in your genitals for the rest of eternity.

We have no concept of "holy war" or "crusade", but we don't like Luton's one-way system very much. Watch it.

5. Followers of the faith must, in accordance with The Third Decretum, wear cute shoes at all times. The fact that cute shoes have nothing at all to do with toast is utterly irrelevant  here, and you've been mortally damned just for thinking that already, okay?

And don't even think of trying to besmirch our name by splashing all over the papers the kind of thing the High Priestess does with followers with cute shoes. That won't work at all.

6. Oh, and by the way, we own Inverness now. Bad luck.

The above represent only a part of the customs, laws and traditions of our Church, which we'll change any time we feel like it just because we can, and which you're not allowed to question. At all. So yah boo sucks.

Love to Rowie and Cormac.

Signed,

The High Priestess Of Jam And Sweet Spreads, In Her Infinite Glory And Butteriness.

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* "Infallible? he must be a bugger to play Trivial Pursuit with". Credit for this joke: Who Dares Wins, circa 1985.
** Not the Nicholas Parsons. Unless you're reading this, Nicholas, in which case you're welcome to join.

I must apologize for my radio silence; a few times I've clicked "New Post" to blog here, found myself not only grouchy but far too grouchy even by the standards I've set myself on this site over the years, and decided in the interests of propriety that the one thing the  Interwebz doesn't need is even more strongly-worded grouchy invective – even if I hope mine would at least be gramatically above Speak You're Branes level.

The upshot, it seems, will be that to save my job I will accept a 20% reduction in both hours and salary, though this is not finalized yet.

Of course this will have ramifications upon my lifestyle – it's certainly not undo-able, but it will mean some modifications. It's not as if I'll be on starvation level, so there's no need to worry here; just that "lifestyle change" is something I know I have a blobfish-on-a-seesaw-type inertia with.

Change generally is not something I look forward to – I'm fine with it actually happening, I'm just crap at anticipating it, with a huge propensity to pessimism that even Charlie Brooker might regard as slightly deviant and self-defeating.

So again I'll apologize for grouching and if, in whatever medium, I'm not as entertaining, communicating or as verbose as I should be. This too will pass.

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In the meantime, to give you something else to do, may I direct you to this link, in which you can waste an hour and a bit of your time watching the "classic" Santa Claus Conquers The Martians?

You're welcome.

Apologies for lack of update – workshite [possible redundancies, reduced hours, or outsourcing the whole damn operation to Azerbaijan]

Back soon!

The heavy rain this morning, usually greeted with the kind of "meh" that makes me sound like I'm still fifteen years old, was for once welcomed with open arms here as it slowly helps get rid of the four or five inches of snow that trapped me indoors for the weekend and drove me slightly stir crazy.

I think I've now read every book in the house – with the exception of those dull social work ones which I never read properly for my degree and aren't about to start now – and I'm nearly up to speed on the DVDs-to-be-watched pile, currently up to part four of ten of the last Second Doctor serial The War Games.

My absolute lifesaver over the past week, though, has been the magnificently amazing Zo, whose gift of a bumper pack of Nintendo DS games has kept me sane [whilst ruining my eyesight and giving me a "stylus wound" in the palm of my right hand].

Especially enjoyable is how I've zapped all sorts of things in Space Invaders Extreme – at least until it got to the sodding impossible level four; I've been working my way through New Super Mario Bros, which has all the fun of the original whilst being new enough to be fresh; and I've been working my way through Mario Kart DS trying not to break the buttons with furious stamping.

Along with the others she included they've been very welcome: that is, apart from the Countdown spin-off game which I beat on Champion level on first try, and I Love Horses which Z rather malevolently added to the bundle knowing that giving me a horsey game was rather like sending Fox News an I Love Socialism title. [Thanks, sweetie ]

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One of the fun things about being indoors over the past few days has been the schadenfreude of watching the news as the fanatic bigots that are the Robinsons implode over in NI.

Ang has documented this much better than I have with good insight into the moral implications for their particular microcosm of society, but one thing I particularly want to point out is how Northern Ireland has always existed in a time-warp several decades behind the "mainland". This may be no exception.

Twenty-five years ago, we [the UK in general] had a Conservative government big on "family/Victorian values", ready to enact a horrendous piece of legislation known colloquially as Section 28 to enforce its "moral" credentials. Like the Robinsons, homosexuality was an abomination outside of "normal family" life.

Then, a few years later, during a campaign which was known as "Back to Basics", the shall we say "interesting" private lives of many Government ministers – including my MP at the time, which gave the little town I worked in a week of media frenzy – were revealed in sordid [and sometimes made-up] detail which convinced them, and the subsequent Labour government, that any attempt to preach sexual morality would only show them up as hypocritical.

The issue's not completely gone away – Cameron has made noises about "tax breaks for marriage" [oh yeah, like I'm really gonna get married just to save a couple of hundred quid on my income tax bill], but has fought shy of trying to take any moral high ground [yet] – but the kind of language the Robinsons have used has been out of fashion – and out of order – here for fifteen years; Iris would have found herself immediately chucked out of any of the three major parties for her stupid rant eighteen months ago.

It may well be, then, that this is part of NI's "normalization" post-troubles; one step on the road from segregational, isolationist, extreme-religious politics to one more closely based on the values that all serious "mainland" politicians now hold.

After all, DUP etc., if you lot keep insisting how you're so sodding British, shouldn't you show it by adopting the greater tolerance and liberalism that we have?

Don't you see how being fanatical about anything, outside of caravanning, canal restoration or collecting horse brasses, is the most un-British value there is?