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Profile for TheWeeWitch:
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30something (I'm lying about my age to claim the badge below) happily married mother of two. Live in suburbia, work in a huge office with way too many "Care in the Community" types. Liable to shift from placid and smiley to stomping about in a rage without any warning.

Most likely to get on with: B3tans (of course), anyone who can laugh at themselves as well as others

Least likely to get on with: competitive mums, Tories, anyone who takes themselves too seriously

Badge by kind permission of Big Girls Blouse ...



Recent front page messages:


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Best answers to questions:

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

It was a simple gesture
but it meant so much (and still does).

When I was a teenager, my dad died. Suddenly. Completely out of the blue, in fact. The whole family were in a state of utter shock and disbelief.

I was spending my time answering the phone, helping with the inevitable arrangements, trying to console my mum, along with general household type duties like cooking and cleaning. I don't mean to sound like a martyr, I certainly wasn't, I'm just one of those people who prefers to be doing something.

The day of the funeral rolled around, and I was up early, cleaning and making sure the house was presentable. One of the first people to arrive was a friend and workmate of my dad's. A big bear of a chap, a real gentle giant. When I let him in, he looked closely at me, and shook his head.

"You haven't taken time to cry properly yet, have you?" he asked.

When I shook my head, that big bear wrapped his arms around me in the biggest hug ever, and pulled my head against his chest. I finally gave into the tears I'd been fighting for days. After I'd cried what seemed like a flood of biblical proportions, he let me go and moved on to speak to my mum.

I got through the day a bit easier for having that cry, and it was an act of simple kindness with no agenda.

Sadly, a few months later, the big bear himself died in a car accident. He left behind a widow and two small children. I wasn't sure I could face another funeral that soon, so I went round to his house and offered to mind the children that day. They were really far too young for a funeral. I took the kids for a picnic in the park, and I like to think their dad was watching me with a smile.
(Thu 2nd Oct 2008, 18:38, More)

» Bastard Colleagues

The List
.
Long ago and far away, there was a psycho chap I shall call "B". B had a notebook, and in the notebook was "The List". The List had been compiled over many years and contained the names of every single person in the building (and it was a big building) who'd offended him in any way. Going back to the day he started.

If you offended him and then left (or got really lucky and died) then your name was scored through with red pen. It was all rather sinister, really. Not the sort of guy you'd ever trust with a weapon, that's for sure.

It didn't take much to offend him. I made it onto The List by laughing when, at the staff Christmas dinner, the toy fell out of his cracker and into his glass of wine. If he could have burned me at the stake, he would have. Instead, my name went into the notebook.

The years passed oh so slowly, and after being incarcerated there for far too many years, his retirement date beckoned. We all began to wonder - what would he do with The List? Would he work his way around the building on the last day, slapping offenders, righting wrongs (real or imaginary)?. Or would he buy us all a special present (not likely).

However, fate conspired against him. Poor old B. Denied whatever satisfaction he'd have gained from whatever he intended to do. The night before his final day at work, his manager got the maintenance guy to jemmy the lock on his desk and removed the notebook. He was unsurprised to find his own name entered on numerous occasions - apparently you got noted down every time you offended. If I'd known that I'd have gone for the record! I asked the boss how many times I was in it and the reply was "Less than me". I felt cheated!

B arrived on his last day at precisely 9am, clocked in and sat down. Noticed the busted lock and opened the drawer. Noted the loss of the precious notebook. Stood up, put on his coat and walked out. All without a single word spoken. No one I know ever saw him again. Although security were on alert for several weeks in case he came back and went postal.

Perhaps not so much a bastard as just downright weird. But there was a sense of hidden menace about the bloke, lurking just under the cheap scruffy shirts.
(Mon 28th Jan 2008, 16:02, More)

» Stalked

Well, they seemed alright
We met a couple on holiday, and for the first couple of days they seemed quite nice. He was a bit of a "fiveskin" but she seemed really pleasant. Easy to talk to, asked lots of questions. Good company.

Until they started "joining" us in restaurants and bars, whether we liked it or not. Turned up everywhere we went, ate the same food, and drank the same beer. Bit pushy, we thought.

Got down to the pool late one morning and they've kept us sunbeds, right beside them. Okay, thanks. Where are we going tonight, they wanted to know. We haven't decided yet. We'll wait in reception for you, then. Oh dear.

We hung about in our room for hours, hoping they'd get fed up and go out by themselves. No such luck. We finally appeared four hours after leaving the pool, and there they were. All gussied up for the night out. Smiling bleakly at each other, we put up with them. For the next ten days, everywhere we went, they were right behind us.

We could not shake this couple off. We tried saying we fancied a quiet, romantic meal. For two. They still waited in reception. We tried going out really, really early, but they still managed to be waiting for us. The person I am now wouldn't put up with it, but this was our first time abroad, we were young and didn't want to be rude.

Our tolerance lasted until the final night. Sitting at the table, nice meal inside us, a few beers have gone down. Then fiveskin asks his question.

"Fancy coming back to our room for a foursome, then?"

I choked on my beer, and couldn't say a word. Mr Witch had no such problem and suggested that they fcuk right off. There and then. Before he got angry. They wisely decided that was the best idea. Thankfully, they were with a different tour company and going to a different airport, so we never saw them again.

Some of you may be wondering why we kept wanting to be alone and reacted with horror at the suggestion of a foursome. More likely you couldn't care less, but I'm telling you anyway! Aside from the fact that we don't share.....

This was our honeymoon!
(Thu 31st Jan 2008, 16:07, More)

» I Quit!

Don't mess with the payroll expert ....
my cousin had worked for a small family run business since leaving college. Not our family, another family.

She'd started out as junior and worked her way up through the ranks, studying in her own time and ending up as the grandly titled "Finance Manager". She was basically a glorified accounts clerk, who kept the books balanced and, among other things, did the payroll.

All was well for some time, then gradually she realised that the atmosphere had cooled somewhat. Her immediate boss, a female, was less and less friendly and was nit-picking everything to death. Minor mistakes suddenly prompted bollockings of epic, nay gargantuan, proportions.

All became clear when the boss' son arrived to work for the family firm. He'd just been kicked out of university after spectacularly failing his exams. He was placed in my cousin's office and she was told to train him on everything she did. He constantly contradicted her, made bitchy remarks and blamed her when he mucked up. It didn't take Mystic Meg to figure out she was being pushed door-ward, so she started looking for another job.

By the time she handed in her notice, things were so bad that she could be at work all day and no-one would speak to her. The failed-student son, meanwhile, was operating a kind of backwards Midas touch - everything he touched turned to shit. His mother spent half her time correcting his mistakes and covering up for him. The one thing they didn't worry much about was the payroll, thanks to the all-singing, all-dancing software my cousin had suggested they buy.

So, on her last day, she input one tiny, minor change. To one person's record. The idiot son's. She changed the first number of his tax code from a 5 to a 3. Not the sharpest tool in the box, she reckoned he wouldn't even notice. He certainly would notice that he was suddenly paying more tax (440 per year at the time). She was willing to bet, however, that he'd be too dumb to phone up the Revenue to check he had the right tax code.

She didn't touch anyone else's record, she didn't steal anything, she didn't muck anything up that couldn't be sorted in a couple of minutes. She merely ensured that a badly-educated, over-priviledged know-it-all would be a little short on beer tokens.
(Thu 22nd May 2008, 18:22, More)

» Kids

Flattery - kiddy style
My eldest daughter, when about 4 or so, was watching me dress one morning.

"Mummy, when I grow up, will I have big boobies like you?"

"Yes, darling, you will," replied a very flattered WeeWitch. Suffice to say, my (bra) cup does not runneth over.

"Mummy, will I have a big bottom like yours, too?"

I smiled bravely and went off to look up the orphanage's phone number.
(Thu 17th Apr 2008, 18:46, More)
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