Dating Disasters #...I don't know, having lost count...

Now one of our two dear readers may consider it rather imprudent for me to continue to describe my dating disasters now that I am ensconced in affianced bliss to Mr Parsnip, but as he also gets a kick out of reading how bloody awful my single life was, I don't have too many qualms.

Peter was my very first date after Mr P and I initially split up. Always one to get back on the horse after falling off, I went out with him within days of our break-up, utterly determined not to waste any more time in mourning.

Peter had chatted to me some time previously, during my initial foray into internet dating, but we never seemed to pin each other down to actually organise a date. He was a very, very handsome chap judging by his photographs, and also held down a very good job as an accountant. He told me all about his property development ventures: his six houses and the seventh he was purchasing; and his little Mercedes SLK sports car. Being of quite a mercenary mind at the time, this all screamed money to me and as I quite fancied being treated by somebody loaded down with pots of gold, as soon as he offered to meet me for a drink, I jumped at the chance.

As some of you may recall, I am a bit of an anal retard when it comes to short men. I discovered to my delight (and surprise) this weekend that I am actually 5'8 1/2", not the 5'7" I thought I was and so, sometimes, it can be very, very difficult to find a date over whom I do not tower, particularly as I like to wear 4" heels most of the time. Trouble is, I don't like to be with a man upon whom I look down. I do that in my head with most blokes, but I don't actually want to do it physically, so when Peter confessed to me that he was 5'7 1/2" and in my ignorant state that I was only 5'7", I thought, Blast! Another short-arse, but at least he has that upper 1/2" over me...Flats tonight, eh?

Well, I did consider wearing my flip-flops, but as it was December, bitterly cold and I would have looked somewhat daft in them, I thought, Sod it! Heels it is.

For some strange reason, despite Peter having an enormously lengthy jouney to meet with me, he whittered on about aftershaves, designer labels, what perfumes he liked ladies to wear and his SLK on MSN long after I wanted to jump in the shower and get myself sorted out. Weighing up the merits of John Paul Gaultier versus Versace did nothing for me as I am most definitely Woman at Oxfam or a George at Asda girl and would find it fairly difficult to know my Farhi from my Farah.

Eventually, I encouraged him to stop talking about what he was going to wear, and just wear it.

An hour and a half later, I arrived at the meeting place and there was his sports car and he was sat in it. I climbed out of my beaten up Yaris, as gracefully as is possible from a heap of junk, and shimmied over, attempting to ooze as much sexual magnetism as possible. I seemed to make an impact, as his eyes lit up and he emerged from his car...all 5'5" and Cuban Heels. I don't think my face fell quite as much as my heart did, but I pulled myself together and shook his hand whilst delivering him my most beaming smile.

As was expected of me, considering he had banged on about it enough, I Ooohed and Aaahed over his little motor, which was, I have to confess, sex on wheels and I wouldn't have minded leaving him at the Leigh Arms for the night while I went off out on the pull in his car. But, ever the lady, I accompanied him inside where I got the drinks.

Yes, I bought the rounds all night! Considering he went on and on and on about how much money he earned and his six (soon-to-be-seven) rental properties, and his three foreign holidays a year, I did think he was a bit cheap for not dipping his hand into his pocket and treating me to a lime and soda.

I have to confess that Peter bored me rigid. Apart from Master Chef, I have never encountered a date who could talk a glass eye to sleep like Peter could.

Despite having already given his car a massive ego boost, I then had to sit in the pub and look at photos of it on his (new) mobile phone. The photos were taken at different angles, all on his ex's driveway (with whom he was still in touch, and which is always a no-no in my book if children aren't involved) and all showed...a car...

Yes, it was a lovely car. I had stroked his ego about it for the first ten minutes of our meeting, but I didn't fancy having an orgasm over a car that night.

I think he could tell he was losing me, so he then showed me his new watch. It was some posh make, but I cannot remember what now. All I know is that I had to watch the hands spin round while he set it to different time zones and the hands played catch-up to France, Japan, Brisbane and back to the UK. It was stultifyingly dull, and even when he confessed that he had procured it by his Nectar points, I didn't bat an eyelid, despite being ever a one for a ruse or bargain.

It was time for the analyses. His first question was: Do I look like my pictures? Well, to be perfectly frank, I am pretty sure he buys miniature furniture with which to decorate his homes because he looked enormous in these photos. And in real life, he was a perfect specimen of a midget. I was also considering using the Trades Descriptions Act, as I am blowed if he was only two years older than me. Either that, or he'd had a bloody hard paper round as the lines on his face could have directed me to London if I'd given them closer inspection.

It seems I did look like my pictures, if a little thinner in real life (hardly surprising, since I had shed about two stone since they had been taken) and he informed me that he was pleased with his choice.

Now, I don't like it when blokes come over all proprietorial like that on a first date. I am not his choice - I see it as a contract: he has invited me out on a date, and I have accepted. Offer and acceptance. That's it. I don't belong to him. This raised my hackles, somewhat, and I started to wonder about an escape route.

My trustworthy pal, Tracy, was out on a date herself that night and was therefore unable to imitate the sound of a dying child, in distress, down my mobile to me and I was thus stuck. Guilt overcame me at the distance he had travelled to meet with me, so I suggested that we went back to my house for a coffee. He readily agreed, much to my chagrin, as I really quite fancied an early night by this stage, now feeling as though the life blood was draining from me.

He followed me home and I let him in to my Mott and Bailey where I offered him a coffee and a bite to eat. He was singularly impressed by this, for some reason, and launched into a speech laden with pathos, about how much he yearned for a woman who would care for him, make his meals for him, and who would allow him to shower her with endless gifts in gratitude. Hmmm...I thought, I could do the latter...but what about sex? I'd have to be stoned every night...I metaphorically shook myself and continued with the coffee making while he annihilated his past girlfriends (with whom he kept in touch - yeah, right!) and told me how much he liked tall, dark women who could cook.

I nodded at all the appropriate points, smiled graciously, and kept him well at arm's length, going insofar as to sit at the opposite side of the living room from him, just in case he decided to propose to me.

At some point, he got onto the subject of his job, and, dear reader, it is at this point that I can tell you no more as, apart from him being some type of accountant (and not a 'normal' one, if you will excuse the oxymoron), it was like white noise. My last memory is of him catching me totally unawares and asking if he was boring me. Unfortunately, as my guard had slipped right down by this point, I bluntly replied, Yes.

Much to his utter horror...

I apologised profusely, and stuttered that I basically didn't understand what he was talking about, that I was tired, that the goldfish had kept me up half the night crying with earache, and that I wasn't quite myself.

He got the message and left in a hurry...

I decided that I wasn't going to pursue this date in any way shape or form, so he was promptly deleted from MSN and my mobile phone. Unfortunately, he didn't delete me and thus bombarded me with text messages for many months, sometimes being suggestive, sometimes being pathetic, but always being irritating. In the end, I told him I had found the man of my dreams (it was a new kitten in the household) and that my new chap wasn't happy with this contacting me.

That was the last I heard of Peter, thankfully. I am sure he now has an eighth property to brag about, and no doubt he has exchanged his SLK for a Mitsubishi Starion, but the fact of the matter is, I am 3 1/2" taller than him and that will just never do.

Present Presentations

I am not very comfortable in Public Speaking situations, despite being able to talk to any loony, alcoholic, tramp or lawyer on the street.

So, when I was informed that I would be accompanying the commercial director and the marketing manager on their ‘Roadshows’ to present the work I have done on their e-commerce site, my knees wobbled slightly, I paled dramatically and my voice broke like a teenage boy’s.

For weeks, I have fretted about the forthcoming presentations, but resolved to use Power Point to the best of my (limited) ability and put on such a good visual display that they wouldn’t really bother to listen to me and my stammering deliveries.

The boss, a blunt Northerner if ever there was one, hauled me in to go through the presentation with him.

So, what the f*ck’s this mean? Whatcher on about ‘ere? Talk to me in Northern speak, not yer tecky stuff. I only just understand bits of what yer say, so f*ck knows what the rest of them’ll think if yer don’t speak normal.

But, I protested, I have to use these terms because...well...that is their name. Search Engine Optimisation does what it says on the tin. You optimise the site for the search engines. Moves you up the SERPs...er...Search Engine Results Pages...

Look. It’s all boll*cks to me. I know you’re bringing in the sales and I know we’re gettin’ loads of visitors, but I want you to show off to them. Actually, keep talking yer tecky boll*cks ‘cos then they’ll realise that you know what you’re on about and give us a load of online deals. Just make them visuals bigger. Can’t f*ckin’ read anything...

Off I went to make the visuals bigger.

The visuals were then pulled apart again as, unfortunately, we weren’t showing ourselves quite as favourably as the boss wanted in comparison with other sites who’d had an online presence for many years longer than us. I was called in to account for my action as to why I had left one particular slide in which didn’t look brilliant. This was first thing Monday morning, the morning of our first presentation. I had thought of this on the Saturday night and realised I had been a wally about it. Unfortunately, so did the boss.

Get it sorted out, he barked.

Yes, I know, I had thought about this over the weekend, and it was my first job today. Sorry.

S’alright. I don’t have the monopoly on being a tw*t, you know, he informed me, quaintly...

The presentation went OK, I guess. As I stumbled out of the meeting room with knees knocking and lit up my cigarette with fumbling hands, the boss came out after me.

Alright, Tiger? He asked me. What d’yer think of that, then?

I dunno? What did you think of it?

You were OK. You talked your tecky boll*cks and nobody knew what the hell you were on about. That’s fine by me. Just try to tell them what meta information is next time, though. That’s really weird stuff.

The next presentation was on the Wednesday. We were flying to Gatwick from Manchester in the morning, which meant a start of 5am for me. I was most distressed that Mr Parnsip refused to rouse himself from his pit to make me a cuppa as I showered. It is the last time I do it for him when he is travelling at ungodly hours, I have since vowed...(Charles, are you reading this?)

I was told to tailor the presentation for the second supplier by using slides of their products and some of the online collaborations I have supervised. I attempted to get it sorted out whilst rushing around like a headless chicken as my phone rang repeatedly with calls from my colleague in the e-Pharmacy who was having a panic about a knackered refund system which was deciding to credit a customer’s credit card with almost half a million pounds for two tubes of haemorrhoid unguent. I deemed sorting this out with our developers slightly more important than the presentation and thus only had half an eye on it all.

As the boss waddled off to the toilets and passed me as I skulked back to my desk from a sneaky fag, I asked if all was OK on it.

Aye, apart from not screen shooting the home page, and getting the procedure of purchasing in the wrong order. So, apart from it being sh*te, it’s fine. Gerrit sorted.

I did. I got it sorted, and as I went right through the presentation, slide by slide, I realised that yes, I didn’t actually have to take on the mantle of being a tw*t: rather than go right through to the end, the boss had left up the name of the supplier to whom we had presented on Monday. My somewhat sneering query as to whether I should alter it to the more appropriate supplier was greeted with: Stop being a smart*rse! And meet me at Boots in the airport tomorrow. 7.30am. Don’t be late. And don’t forget your passport.

I arrived at 7.15 and parked up in the long-stay car park, to which I had been ordered and where I handed over £19.00 for a day’s parking. It was bitterly cold and there had been freezing fog all the way. I deeply yearned for the warmth of my bed, where I knew Mr P slumbered and pushed out the zeds as his mouth gaped and slobbered across the pillow. I was not happy.

I was even more unhappy that I couldn’t, for the life of me, find Boots. Off I went to the Bureau de Change to ask where it was. Upstairs, I was duly informed.

Upstairs I went. No Boots. Not anywhere. So I then asked Security where it was. Through Departures.

Harumph! I was a bit narked that the boss couldn’t be fagged meeting me before check-in, but I did my bit, got strip-searched, bleeped a few times going through machines and finally got to Boots.

My phone rang.

Where are you?

I’m outside Boots. I couldn’t answer the phone immediately because I was going through security.

Worra yer goin’ through security for? I told you! Meet me at Boots!

Well, I was told that the Boots was in the Departures lounge. That’s what I was told by security.
No, no, no! When you get to the top of the stairs, it’s on your right. You can’t miss it. Got that dirty big sign B-O-O-T-S outside it.

Well, I’m here now. So I’ll meet you at this Boots, eh?

Fifteen minutes later, he and another colleague pitched up. He wouldn’t meet my eye properly and so I asked R where the Boots was.

The silly s*d, she expostulated. There isn’t a Boots on the other side. You found the only one.

The boss had the dignity to look suitably sheepish and blustered about being sure it had once been a Boots but was now trading as WH Smith. It didn’t wash with R who shot him down. She’s a hockey player, so she takes no cr*p from anyone.

We stood and waited...and waited...and waited...

Eventually, the captain came to us and informed us that, due to a technical hitch, the plane would not be taking off and Gatwick was fog-bound.

We were not flying to London that day.

We left Departures, having queued for an eternity to have our tickets validated for refund and headed out.

Right, we’re off this way, said the Boss. Where are you? In Long Stay? Oh. Thought I told you to park in Short Stay where I am?

No, you bloody didn’t, I snarled.

I waited at the shuttle bus for 15 minutes in the icy wind and the -2degC temperatures, shivering in my short skirt and thin suit jacket.

Then I realised that I had left my parking exit ticket and couldn’t leave the car park. I rushed back in to the machines and some kind soul, bless his/her heart, had had the decency to leave my ticket atop the machine. That person will go to heaven one day.

Another fifteen minutes wait for the next bus.

And eventually, I got to the office. I decided not to stay long and made an excuse to slope off up to our internet pharmacy where I sat and drank lovely hot coffee with my opposite number up there until 3pm when she told me to clear off home and put my feet up.

I did.

And in a few weeks, I will be attempting to make the rescheduled Gatwick trip again. Wish me luck...

More Shopping Tales...

I, Charles Parsnip, am happily engaged to be married to one Agnes Shirley Bandage Petticoat Mildew - the love and light of my life. Last weekend, she walked out on me...

It was during a completely innocuous shopping trip to the local shopping centre. We had a lovely coffee, and walked arm in arm through the ranks of ill-dressed northern oiks to find something nice for dear Agnes to wear.

After an hour or so, Agnes proclaimed boredom with the whole sojourn and so we began to make our way back to the safety and comfort of the car. No cigarettes in the shopping centre these days: indeed, Agnes remarked that she was considering cutting down on the volume of tar she lines her lungs with which pleased me greatly. We were nicotine free for around an hour. As a smoker myself, I agreed with her decision that we needed to get out into the fresh air and suck some smoke into our lungs tout de suite.

So it was with some surprise that, as we walked past the huge "Sale" signs hoisted in shop windows, I noticed the red neon of the "Anne Summers" shop. Regular readers will note that this is a subject that Agnes associates with some embarrassment and, in an effort to reclaim some form of upper hand, after the Scrabble-annihilating episodes, I nudged her and nodded towards the almost-nude plastic models in the window, two of which were in the process of having sexy air stewardess outfits removed and replaced with latex policewomen.

"Look! Anne Summers...."

It was a strange force of nature that caused me to take her by the arm and guide her towards the doorway. Shop assistants dressed in black nodded and smiled as we walked in, and immediately, I began to look at the wares on display with a sense of wonder akin to a small child given £500 to spend in a sweet shop with no threat of dentists in sight.

Agnes and I have a very strong relationship. There is little we cannot discuss, or indeed have not discussed, so I was confident of her ability to strike down any "looks" with either her dagger-like stare, or razor sharp wit. Failing that, Agnes can deliver a rather painful and unerringly swift roshambo when it is required. As a consequence, I was not prepared for the reaction I received after five minutes of browsing.

I think it was the air stewardess uniform that did it. As I took it off the rack to examine the quality of the material, shaking my head somewhat at the plastic tray and authentic sick bag attached, I turned to Agnes and made a comment. An innocuous enough comment at the time, but I think it was one of those moments similar to when you shout at someone in a pub (in order to be heard over the noise) and the entire place falls silent.

"I think you'd look a bit daft in that don't you?" I said, as I held it up to Agnes' face for inspection. Heads turned, silence reigned supreme, and briefly, I wondered whether I had perhaps once again engaged my mouth before putting my brain into gear.

The response confirmed my fears. In a quiet tone, her gaze flickering from me to the gaudy uniform she uttered a few choice words... "I have to get out of here... I'm leaving".

And with those words, the lovely Agnes left me there feeling rather foolish and unsure of the best thing to do next.

When your loved one walks out of the sweet shop what do you do? Do you dutifully follow them in order to determine what was wrong, or do you look at the £500 in your hand and think "More for me!!". Unfortunately, I am not blessed with an oversized brain.

I moved past the gentleman towering at least a foot over my own six foot frame who was staggering around on crutches examining the various lubrication oils on offer. Every time he moved his crutch, he groaned (an ironic choice of words for a gent in a shop such as this) and idly, I wondered whether some form of sexual deviance had got him into this state. The obese woman examining a "Spank-Me" schoolgirl outfit smiled up at me as I regarded the nurse's outfit which was coincidentally identical to the very same outfit mentioned in this post by Agnes. I imagined the large lady, crammed into the size "10-12" (yeah right!) outfit, on her hands and knees receiving a spanking and the raw potato I'd had for breakfast began to inch its way up my throat. I swiftly moved on. Rounding the corner, a couple were perusing large plastic replicas of male genetilia. The young lady was holding one in each hand, carefully measuring the weight whilst her male companion looked on with a strange look that I could only describe as disdain. I struggled to stifle a snort as I moved past to the darker recesses of the shop.

As I debated the comedic value of purchasing a PVC police-woman's outfit, simply to see Agnes's reaction, I realised that I had now spent Too Long in, not only the bondage section, but the shop proper, and that it was time to leave.

Exiting the premises, I cast my gaze over the hordes of Manchester as they hurried about their business, and out of the corner of my eye caught a rather subversive-looking Agnes leaning casually against a shop window three stores down

Worriedly, I hastened over to her, expecting the same look of derision reserved for my lengthy browses in DIY stores (paint section) and Jessops. Instead, all I received was a tight smile and a slight pillar box red complexion. Grabbing my hand, she frog marched me through John Lewis and out to the safety of the car park, where she lit up with a speed that would make The Stig nod his head in satisfaction.

Agnes was blushing...

Career Woman versus Kept Woman

Have any of you ever worked in a kindegarten? Or a zoo? Or even a loony bin? Well, I am unfortunately in the position of working for an amalgamation of all three which masquerades as the Retail and Online Marketing department of a large pharmaceutical company in the UK.

I have six immediate female colleagues and one male boss. He hides in a goldfish bowl behind us and never hears the cacophony of burping, belching, farting, impressions of Borat, choruses of Fraggle Rock and the ubiquitous 'baby talk' which comes mainly from my 30-year old 'assistant' (I use that term very loosely - if she understood the meaning of the word, no doubt she would choose to ignore it in favour of sucking her thumb).

She is not one of the slimmest girls, nor was she first in the queue when God was handing out good looks. Consequently, she garners attention by behaving like a two year old having a temper tantrum most of the time. In order to show she is happy, she skips her 20 stone frame down the corridor, singing songs from The Muppet Show (her relatives, probably), which makes my coffee pound in a way reminiscent of the glass of water in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is on its way. If she is cross that we are not paying her attention, she falls off her chair in the middle of the room and petulantly pouts, You weren't listening to me! Look what I had to do!
I've even known her to faint when she trapped her finger in a door. Poof? Probably...Put on? Yup...

I feel like ramming my fist into her mouth half the time, and I deem myself a bit of a pacifist, deep down...

Another girl suffers with IBS and don't we know about it! We hear, in minute detail, about her daily bowel movements, smell and hear her flatulence problems, and are subjected to her medical history with vivid, gesticulative accounts. She is marrying her long-term partner in July. I guess OK! magazine will hear about it at some point, because, by Christ, we do, in stultifyingly dull detail, every five minutes. I, conversely, keep my mouth well shut about my own nuptials. Nobody knows much about my wedding, apart from the date and venue, and none of them are getting an invitation, either, let alone organising a Hen Night for me.

If I am asked about my own arrangements, and answer honestly, I discover next day, that she has done the same, but bigger and better. Boring? Yes. Irritating? Most definitely. Resolving to keep my mouth firmly closed? Absolutely.

She bought her wedding dress a few weeks ago. It fits her perfectly, we are led to believe. However, oddly, she is now trying to get pregnant. Now, call me old fashioned, but weren't children supposed to traditionally come after the wedding? And is there anything more off-putting than seeing a Bride, in virginal white, waddling down the aisle with a 6-month lump protruding from her dress? Yes, I know it's the 21st century, but I know what looks good and what doesn't!

Then we have Animal. I call her that in my own head because she reminds me of Animal, the Muppet drummer. She even talks like him when she is on the phone to her father. She has a very chequered love life which involves jealous lesbian ex-wives, homeless criminals, men on the verge of drawing their pension, and her most recent, a white Aborigine (her words, due to his plethora of tattoos). She regales us with her most recent 'romantic' mishaps (again, I use that word loosely because any story of love punctuated with every expletive known to man doesn't exactly conjure up images of doves, red roses and Barbara Cartland to me) in an exceptionally loud voice every Monday morning. I find them amusing to a degree, and somewhat smug in that I have been lucky enough to only ever get embroiled with peaceful loonies as opposed to violent ones. There but for the grace of God go I, I guess...

Out of the other three females, one is part-time, a new mother, and exceptionally quiet. I like her. Another is a middle-aged harridan who has had a sense of humour bypass and has become a bit of a diet bore. She goes on a new diet every month and has lost a grand total of 3lb. The last girl makes me laugh, but has a tendency to get rather over-emotional from time to time and can take off into day-long crying sessions. It must be her hormones, I reckon.

The boss is the best of them all. He possesses a fantastic sense of humour, is one of the laziest blokes I have ever met, wants us all to do his work for him, and effs and blinds like a Merchant Seaman. For some reason, he appears to view me as 'One of The Lads' as opposed to one of his 'Bitches'. He also told me at my staff review that he found me one of the scariest women he had ever met - Psycho Hose Beast were his exact words, which threw me marginally, until I recovered and held a carving knife to his throat until he retracted.
I've never had a boss like this before, and I would be very, very loathe to leave him...

And then there's me: The Techy Freak. That is their name for me because I understand what an XML feed is, I know how to write in HTML and I remember ALT functions. I also say very little because I realise that my sense of humour simply wouldn't be understood by them and it is easier to keep my thoughts to myself than to attempt to make some intelligently witty remark which would only be assimilated if they could interpret words of more than one syllable.

I actually enjoy my job - it is stimulating, full of new things to learn, and fantastic opportunities to develop oneself, but I cannot abide working with Morons. You never know until you get there, though, do you?

I continue to press home to Mr Parsnip that I would make a fantastic Retro Housewife as I enjoy having a clean home, can bake bread as well as The Dough Boy, and would love to wear gingham dresses, and sport a demiwave and bright red, indelible lipstick. I can also grow my own vegetables, shoot and gut pigeons, and dig over gardens, all whilst wearing aforesaid gingham frock. He doesn't seem to take the hint, so if there are any gents out there who fancy making me their 'kept woman', drop me a message with an outline of your earning potential, your bank account details and PIN number, as well as a photograph, and I shall assess your competency as My Hero and let you know...

Driving Me To Madness...

There is a TV programme in the UK called Top Gear, presented by James May, Jeremy Clarkson and Richard (the Hamster) Hammond which I watch on a fairly regular basis since the installment of Mr Parnsip in the house.

It's all about cars: sexy cars; sleek cars; sports cars - cars which I covet. Now, I am not a petrol head by any stretch of the imagination, but when I lived in Oman, as cars were so cheap out there, I was lucky enough to own two Jeeps - a Grand, and a Regular Skinny Low Fat - amongst others, as well as having the loan of a Mini Cooper S for a long weekend which I razzed up and down the highway until Sultan Qaboos himself was sick and tired of seeing this blue bottle zipping around.

But for someone who does like a jolly nice car, I don't especially like driving. And this is for a number of reasons:
a) I get severe road rage when somebody is doing max 5mph below the speed limit unless there is a jolly good reason for it: old age and learner drivers do not constitute good reasons to me, I'm afraid.
b) I am a bit night blind since I had my eyes lasered for short-sightedness and find myself slamming on my brakes when driving along dark country lanes, of which there are many near where I live (this is, however, a 'jolly good reason' cf (a)).
c) I always, but always, get hopelessly lost when having to drive to a new place.

Yes, yes, I know. There are these wonderful gadgets called SatNavs which you can install into your vehicle, but I know that the only way I would get one due to their cost would be for a birthday or Christmas and I am buggered if I am going to accept a gadget when I could have shoes, jewels, candles or toiletries.

Yesterday, I had the 'pleasure' of driving to Leamington Spa in Warwickshire to attend an Adobe Photoshop course for work. Having previously been quietly excited about it, I was devastated to learn that Mr Parsnip had discovered a similar course being held at our local college, three miles away, for a fraction of the price. The thought of driving 200 miles, round trip, was anathaema to my soul.

A work colleague was accompanying me and she was charged with navigating our route from supposedly very concise directions I had printed from AA.Com. Don't ever use AA.Com. They are rubbish.

She was rubbish, too. We had a dead straight route down the M6 and all she had to do was look out for the A452. She missed the turning, thus did I, and we ended up driving 5 miles down a road with no junctions, plenty of speed cameras, and lots of police until I could do a very illegal U-turn, shriek with fear, swear a blue streak, and get back to the roundabout where we should have taken the A road turning.

This was where it all went really wrong due to the AA's directions. The A452 didn't take us to Leamington such as it suggested using their 'take a right at the pillar box with the dog poo sticker on the front' and 'left at the off license which sells Carling Black Label to underage school children'. No. It took us into Loonyville country where everyone was rake thin, wore blusher up to their browline, stared at us as though we bore wellies on our heads and missed out numbered junctions on their Motorways.

I ended up on a Motorway heading for London. I got on at junction 14, aiming for junction 15. As I got on, I had a horrible realisation that the next one might not be 15 - it could quite easily be 13. As chance would have it, the next junction was 12. Eh? My forehead knitted in consternation. Was I dreaming? OK, I was obviously heading the wrong way, but had I just gone through a time warp? Saying many silent prayers to my Guardian Angel that coming off at J12 would at least allow me to get onto the opposite carriageway and thus find J15, we got on at J13. Eh? again. How could J12 suddenly morph into J13? I drove along, peering at each blue sign, hoping that even though we were already very late, that the Tutor would understand that you can't be 'later than late' and empathise with my dreadful navigator and my complete panic attacks.

There was no J14.

Either I am going barmy, or some Civil Engineer is playing a trick on unsuspecting, crap drivers, like me. I suspect the latter, to be perfectly honest with you...

I set off from my course in driving rain and a howling gale. I missed the turning for the A46 which my tutor had painstakingly explained and drawn for me. I ended up on the A45 which is painfully slow due to the lights at every 100 yards (I almost wrote 'years' then, which was obviously a Freudian slip), all of which were against me. Red, Red, Red. No wonder I never wear that colour, even though it suits my Raven Beauty hair dye...

I was supposed to return to the course this morning but due to personal issues (a mild nervous breakdown, some harsh critics might suggest), I was unable. My only relief at bombing the course was avoiding the journey. I was also supposed to attend a Flash Animation course at the same centre on Thursday and Friday. Thankfully, I have rescheduled this until May and I shall most definitely take up the company's offer of bed and board for the night.

When will somebody invent a Tardis for eejits like me?