Just close your eyes and jump

When I was a young thing Mum and Dad decided to send me to go and have swimming lessons.
For the most part I liked them. I took to it pretty well and enjoyed splashing about and learning to swim my first width and the like. I just had one small problem...

...I was terrified of jumping in.

One morning the teacher got us all out of the pool and asked us to line up on the side. My knees were already knocking together, I just didn’t want to do it. And then I came up with a cunning plan. I would do the tiniest jump ever, just a little bit away from the side and then the side of the pool would still be close to me and everything would be ok.

I watched the other children leaping off the side of the pool. There were a couple of helpers who were in the water with us and some little girls and boys were aiming for their arms and flying off the side of the pool. Not for me. I had a plan.

I was last in line. The teacher tapped me on the shoulder and I put the plan into action. Just one teeny tiny weeny jump. I jumped...

And landed smack on my backside on the pool’s edge. I can still remember the pain that shot up my spine. My Dad, who was sitting along the side watching at the time, told me later that his first thought was “My god, she’s paralysed herself.” The pain was unbelievable. And I made sure everyone knew how much it hurt. I screamed like a bitch.

I was helped up from the side of the pool. It hurt to even walk and they let me hobble into the changing rooms and told me to sit down. I sat and I sobbed. A few minutes later my teacher came in.

“Come on. Lets get back in the pool” he said to me. I was absolutely horrified and protested but he insisted. He was very wise and knew that the best thing for me to do was get back on the horse, or in the pool, whatever, basically I had to do it straight away or my phobia of jumping in would get worse.

Reluctantly I agreed to go back to the pool. I got there and sat down on the edge, ready to ease myself in. The teacher tapped me on my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asked
“Getting back in the pool” came my reply
“No no no. You’re going to jump back in the pool”
“But what if I do it wrong again?”
“You won’t. You’re going to jump into the pool this time.”
“But what if my head goes under?”
“Then you’ll come back up again. Just close your eyes and jump. Everything will be alright.”

Simple. But true. And so I followed his advice, jumped properly this time and yes my head did go under the water and yes I came back up again, but most importantly I managed to overcome my fear. It became a standing joke amongst everyone there about my failed jump into the pool, a joke that continued to the point 6/7 years later when my swimming teacher was teaching me to be swimming teacher. No-one would let me forget it. If anyone mentioned jumping or diving in to water, a little wink would be thrown my way.

And I’m glad they did because I thought about this story a lot in the past few weeks. Especially what Paul said to me.

“Then you’ll come back up again.”

And so. On Tuesday. I closed my eyes and I jumped.

And ended my relationship.

I haven’t been happy for months now and I’ve tried to make things better but I can’t. Something just isn’t right and I think that the boyfriend deserves more. He deserves someone who is happy and fully appreciates him. Maybe I’ve been stupid and will forever go down in the annals of time as The Girl Who Gave Away The Perfect Boyfriend, because he really was. But sometimes perfect isn’t enough. There needs to be something more and that something, whatever it is, is missing.

I could stay. Nothing was drastically wrong, we didn’t argue, he adored me and would have done anything for me. But I wasn’t happy. And I can’t stay in a relationship where I’m not happy. Yes stability is great and wonderful and yes I have given away my shot at marriage, babies and houses, but I can’t settle.

Maybe one day I will settle, maybe I’m being unrealistic (although I don’t think I am). But the fact remains that at 27 I can’t make a life with someone if I’m not really happy. Imagine a lifetime of being ok but never really being happy, always knowing in the pit of your stomach that something is wrong...I just can’t do it.

I hope you won’t judge me too harshly, although I fear that some of you will. It’s hard to properly convey things in a blog. Especially when you don’t know the people involved. I’ve tried my hardest to explain in the above two paragraphs but I’ve done my best.

And although I’ve gone down, I know that I’ll come back up again.

Warfarin wanderings and wonderings

So life carries on since my week in hospital, it’s as if I was never ill. How annoying, I didn’t realise how nice people are to you when you get hospitalised, I absolutely revelled in the attention and I kind of miss it now. Don’t miss the embolism that much though.

Although life is carrying on, it is now slightly modified and there are new things for me to consider/come to terms with.

One is the presence of Warfarin in my life. For those not in the know, it’s a blood thinner (and a rat poison) which has, you know, thinned my blood, ensuring that it whizzes round my body and doesn’t get the chance to clot (that’s basically the science).

I am on it for 6 months at first, then after 6 weeks I’ll have a blood test which will determine whether it was just a one off or whether I’ll have to take it for life.

Things I now have to consider

1. Going to the anti-coagulant clinic.
I have to go here regularly to have my blood tested to check that it’s not too thick or too thin. This is called an INR rating and it’s basically the time it takes your blood to clot. Normal people will have an INR reading of 1. I need to have one of between 2 and 3. Too low and they increase my warfarin, too high and they decrease it.

How regularly I go will depend on how stable they think my INR is/will be. My first appointment since leaving the hospital was on Monday of this week and my INR was only 1.6 so they increased my dose and I had to go back today to see how it was going. (It's 1.4. No that's not good. But that's going to be a whole other Warfarin-filled drama post) Once it’s stable then the visits to the clinic will drop off to just monthly appointments, unless I am prescribed any medication, in which case I will come in more frequently to check the medicine isn't messing with the Warfarin. Any over the counter things I want I will have to talk to the pharmicist first for advice.

It’s not so bad though, the clinic is in a lovely area of Hull called The Avenues and I’m more than happy to wander there, feeling huge pangs of envy looking at the gorgeous houses and admiring all the trees. Photos from my travels are illustrating this post to break up the really boring text.

2. Cranberries are no longer my friends
I’m not allowed to eat, drink or ingest them in any form while I’m on warfarin. Apparently they react with the warfarin (it’s science, don’t ask me why). With some people it makes no difference at all and with other people it can send their INR rating sky high so to be safe there’s a blanket ban.

Sorry cranberries.

3. Watching out for the leafy greens
When we were young, Mum allowed us to name 2 vegetables that we wouldn’t be forced to eat. Mine were broccoli and spinach. Now I’m a ‘grown-up’ I eat them just fine but I really don’t love them.

Now I have a cast iron excuse not to eat them. I can’t have masses of vitamin K (more science stuff) in my diet so that means I have to make sure I don’t eat too much cabbage, broccoli, spinach etc etc. I can still eat them but in moderation. No broccoli binges for me now.

4. No being a superhero
Because I have thin blood I need to look after myself. I will bruise more easily which should be fun, I can show them off to people. However, if I cut myself badly I will bleed like a bitch so no more playing with knives. And if I get hit or fall over or sustain some kind of trauma then there’s a risk of internal bleeding so it’s safe to say my rugby playing career is over before it’s started. I need to try and keep myself out of trouble.

Failing that all my friends know to tell the paramedics that I’m on warfarin should I decide I have to go and break up that fight that’s happening on the other side of the street and get injured.

5. Bye bye binge drinking
The most devastating news of all is that I can no longer drink alcohol. Ok. That’s not strictly true. I’m allowed 1 unit of alcohol a day but as far as I’m concerned it’s just not worth it. I am the original binge drinker – I drink to get drunk, and that is now officially a thing of the past. I did ask if I could save up my units of alcohol during the week to go out on a weekend but apparently it doesn’t work that way.

It shouldn’t be a big deal but it’s thrown me for a loop which has actually made me question my relationship with alcohol a little bit. Probably a post for another time.

The potential good news is that my blood is so thin a glass of wine might just do the trick.

So not massive changes to be made, but enough to make a little bit of change to my life and enough to make me ponder the life, the universe and everything as I wander from the clinic back home, taking a shortcut through Pearson Park and maybe lying under a tree, in the sun for a little bit...

Why I got banned from watching The Crystal Maze

Hands up if you remember The Crystal Maze.

For most people it was a fun and lively gameshow and they gained much enjoyment watching the team progress through the 4 zones, completing challenges and trying to win as many crystals as possible, earning them more time in the crystal dome at the end of the show.

For me, I break into a sweat just typing the name.

I don’t know what it was about The Crystal Maze but it induced a state of such high anxiety in me that I was in danger of putting my health at risk.

It all centred around the concept of getting locked in. For those of you that aren’t in the know, one person from the team was selected to play a game that came under the categories of Mental, Physical, Skill or Mystery. That person went into the room alone to complete the challenge. They were usually between 2-3 minutes long, with the clock starting the second the door closed.

If you completed the challenge and got the crystal, happy days. Much celebrating. You didn’t always have to win the crystal though. If it became apparent that you weren’t going to solve the puzzle in time, you just had to ask to be let out and you could be, no problems. As long as you didn’t let the time run out.

Really it was no big deal. You were locked in. You had to stay in the room until your team decided whether or not to use one of the crystals to buy you out. They could move on to the other zones and you would be left in there.

There really wasn’t anything to freak out about.

But for me I just had this thing about them getting locked in. It was if in my brain, getting locked in equated with them being killed or something because the whole idea just gave me a mental breakdown.

It would start as soon as there was only a minute left on the clock and it started counting down the seconds. My breath would start getting shorted and my heart would begin to pound. Then I’d get really really hot. Then I would be completely unable to stay sitting down and would have to get up and pace about, clenching my fists. I would start saying “Come on come on come on come on come on” under my breath. When it got to 30 seconds I really started losing it. That’s when I would start telling them to “Get out! Just get out! Get out now!” And start covering my face with my hands.

If they left it any later than 10 seconds I would completely flip my lid.

And there were people who would just always leave it to the last second to come out. They clearly weren’t going to be able to solve the puzzle so why did they insist on leaving it until the clock had 2 seconds on it?! And then there were the people who had had to go through some maze or over some bridge or some other crazy challenge which meant that it would take longer for them to get back to the door. Those people would get yelled at by me.

Don’t even get me started on the games with automatic lock ins. They were the games were you weren’t supposed to touch the floor or you couldn’t let something drop or get the wrong sequence 3 times in a row. Once they’d done it twice I was begging them to “Just get out!”

One morning, during the school holidays, I was watching an episode, it was always part of the Channel 4 school holiday programming schedule. I’m not going to lie here, I wasn’t really that young. I was probably 12/13.

They were doing their usual trick of leaving it until the last minute and I had, totally subconsciously, risen to my feet and was standing the middle of the room, screaming, and I mean screaming, at this person to “GET OUT!!!! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

My Mum came storming into the room. “That’s it. I’ve had enough. You are ridiculous. You are absolutely not watching this programme anymore!” and switched off the television.

I haven’t watched it since.

She said she was genuinely afraid, I was completely puce in the face and looked like a wild woman.

I tried to watch it a year or so ago, it was repeated on Challenge and my sister had Sky. I put it on for about 2 minutes and as soon as the countdown started I could feel all the old feelings coming back. I just switched it off, it’s not worth the emotional wreckage.

Just talking about it stresses me out. People think I’m mad when I tell them the story but I don’t understand how they don’t understand how that’s not stressful. Even typing this out my palms are sweating. Seriously.

I have no idea where it comes from. I’m not claustrophobic in the slightest. There is just something about that concept of being locked in that taps into something primeval in my DNA that makes me need to escape.

I revisited the stress in the form of a new gameshow that was on ITV recently, The Cube. It wasn’t the same kind of format at all really, you didn’t get locked in as such, but if you decided to go into the cube to play the game, you couldn’t leave unless you won the game. I got through one episode of it but spent most of it standing up behind the sofa going “This is really stressing me out”, while the boyfriend looked at me bemusedly.

I need to go and sit in a darkened room for a while now, stop my pulse racing.

A tale of two cousins

Once upon a time there was a child born unto a man.

And lo this child was a girl and there was much rejoicing because she was a) a girl, b) the man’s first child, c) the first child born unto the man’s side of the family and d) she was frickin’ brilliant.

And this girl led a wonderful, charmed life, doted on by all who gazed upon her and much lauded and praised by all who spent time with her.

Then, a mere 14 months later, the man’s sister had a baby, another girl was added to the family.

“How wonderful” they all proclaimed “Little girl cousins, so close in age, they will be the best of friends.”
Wrong.

The eldest cousin was, to be frank, a bit of a spoiled brat. She was the worst of combinations, a youngest child and also sort of an only child, having 2 much older siblings.

The cousins didn’t see that much of each other, the eldest lived in Hull and the youngest all the way down in the deepest realms of the South, also known as Devon. So when they came together it was usually for week long holidays.

The youngest cousin ruined everything. She was cuter and younger and always got her own way. This displeased the bratty older cousin who was used to all the attention.

This photo aptly demonstrates the 2 cousin’s relationship:

The eldest cousin wanted the yellow bag with the red strap. The youngest cousin was given it. Not. Fair.

Sometimes they got on. Usually when the youngest cousin adoringly followed the eldest cousin about.

As time went on they grew up and grew apart. The eldest child didn’t speak to her Dad for many years and lost contact with that side of the family, she didn’t see her little cousin for a long long time. When they got back in touch everything had changed.

The eldest cousin was no longer as much of a brat. Or at least she hid it better. This was a good thing because the youngest cousin was now ridiculously attractive, could dance, and was studying to become a Doctor. This would have pushed the eldest cousin over the edge had they been younger.

And they now had the ability to become very good friends, the closeness in their ages was a positive and they were actually very similar – mainly because they both liked a drink and shared a rather evil sense of humour. (And they also now united in a dislike for the littlest girl cousin, who came 5 years late to the party.)

But still the distance kept them apart. And the price of train fares in this stupid country. Until eventually, the eldest cousin figured that God invented credit cards for this exact reason and booked a ticket to go and see her younger cousin, now a real-life Doctor, and living by the sea in a far off place known as Newton Abbot.

See you after the weekend.

Oh wait, didn’t I tell you? That story was about me! I’m the eldest cousin. Aren’t I hilarious and clever and still obviously the best cousin? (say yes say yes say yes)

Probably the worst way to ask a girl out. Ever.

So. First things first. Thank you for all the advice you wisdomous lot. Don’t fret yourselves, I won’t be rushing in to any enormous decisions, difficult though that is for me because I’m a throw yourself in at the deep end kind of person. Things are obviously going to take time and there’s a lot of things to work out and you needn’t worry that I will bore you with it all on here because that would be de.press.ing. But obviously I’ll keep you updated because a) I’m needy and b) I know that deep down inside you’re all nosy.

So I thought I might lift the mood a little.

By the time I got to my final year at school I was more than a little bored of it. A private school that catered for you from Year 4 all the way to Year 13, I’d been stuck with the same people for nearly 10 years, seeing them day in and day out.

As with a lot of private schools there was a huge emphasis on sport. Music and theatre were in there but no one really cared about them, it was all about being on the rugby/hockey/netball/cricket team. (No football for us. Only common people play that you know.) The ultimate in boyfriend material was to bag yourself a rugby player.

If you enjoyed going out with morons.

My group of friends were in an odd position in the social hierarchy at school – at the top of the ladder were the male sporty types, then there was the popular group of girls who funnily enough weren’t all that sporty, but were definitely slutty. Everyone rather charmingly referred to them as the Pussy Posse (proof that you can spend all the money you want, your kids are still going to be gross). Their pool of boyfriends came exclusively from the rugby boys. Then you had your geeks, freaks and weirdos.

We were placed under the Pussy Posse but above the geeks, freaks and weirdos. It was sort of a limbo position, neither one nor the other. Most of us were in the sports teams, most involved in the musical life of the school, drama, fairly high academic achievers, all but 2 of us were Senior Prefects (and yeah I was one of the two that weren’t). I found out years later that the people in Year 12 who shared the Common Room with us called us The Nice Girls. I can live with that.

So there was this one guy who had fancied me since we were about 12. He would send me Valentines Day cards and make half-hearted attempts to snog me at discos but nothing really happened. It was just one of those things that defined school – the Deputy Headmaster is the scariest human being on earth and Tom will always fancy me.

Tom was in the rugby team and we got on okay. One of the nice things about being one of The Nice Girls is that you straddled all groups, no one particularly minded who you were friends with.


In Year 13, Tom and I were chosen by one of our old form teachers to be his prefects for his Year 9 class. It involved little other than being at registration each morning and supposedly being a shoulder to cry on when they didn’t feel like going to a teacher (NB if you were a male form prefect your life was distinctly easier than a female, 14/15 year old girls are all about the drama)


During this time Tom and I got a bit closer until one fateful night in LAs.

LAs was short for Lexington Avenue, the club we all went to when we were in the 6th form at school. Now very sadly not just shut down but recently torn down, it used to be the hub of all social activity in Hull on a weekend. Our school had a little corner in LAs, turn right when you come through the doors and there was a little burger bar, you could be assured that the surrounding area would be filled with pupils past and present.

Tom and I were sat down in the burger bar, sharing a plate of chips.

“So I wanted to say something to you” he said. “Well it’s just I really fancy you, and I have done for ages and I was just wondering if maybe you’d like to go out sometime”

I thought to myself “Maybe I’ll give him a go” and was about to reply in the affirmative when this came out of his mouth...

“I mean I really do like you. I mean so much that I’d be prepared to go out with you even though you’re not in the pussy posse”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, you know because I’ll probably get the piss taken out of me for going out with you, but I like you that much I’m willing to put up with that.”

...


...


Who knows what possessed him to say it. I think it was an attempt to illustrate just how much he fancied me that went incredibly awry.

“Yeah Tom, I’m going to go ahead and say no to that.”

He was quite visibly stunned.

“Well I won’t wait around forever you know” came his reply

I didn’t want to laugh in his face. I felt that would be cruel. He obviously meant everything he said (which was half the problem) but in his little way I think he genuinely thought he was paying me the ultimate compliment. What could I say to him?

“I totally understand. I’ll just have to live with that” was my eventual response.

There were no hard feelings. A few months later we all left school to venture off on our own lives and I’ve actually never seen him again.


But I will remember him fondly, he provided me with one of the funniest stories I’ve ever had the pleasure to recount.

Mother knows best

I remember the first time my Mum took me to the ballet.

Let me rephrase that.

I remember the first time my Mum dragged me to the ballet.

She had decided she was going to culture me and the first stop was the ballet. You can imagine the response she got from a very non-girly 12/13 year old.

“Oh my god it’ll be sooooo booooooooooooring” was most likely the response.

(This was a time in my life when I refused point blank to watch black and white films because they were ‘sad’. Aren’t we charming little things when we’re young?)

My Mum has never been the kind of mother where we were allowed to make our own decisions and do our own thing. Actually that’s a little harsh, we were absolutely allowed to make our own decisions and do our own thing, just not when it clashed with what she’d decided we were going to do.

I was going to the ballet.

We took our seats in Hull New Theatre (as far as I was concerned this place opened at Christmas for the pantomime and that was its only raison d’etre) and I sat deep in the throes of stroppiness that only you can conjure up when you’re a hormonal teenager.

“Why don’t you go and look in the pit?” suggested Mum. Most likely as an excuse to get my petulant face out of slapping distance.

Off I mooched to the front of the stage and peered down at the orchestra. I did a secretive inside jig at seeing the viola players.

(At school I started off torturing the violin but they had the cunning plan to move me to the viola when I reached senior school. “You see your arms are so long you might find the viola more comfortable” They told me. In actual fact, they had no viola player in the string group and orchestra and I was an easy target. Don’t play the viola. For a start no-one bloody knows what it is. I used to describe it as a fat violin but that led to people thinking of me as the Fat Violin Player – not a good thing. Actually it’s far better than a violin, much less screechy. Unless I played it. This is a long aside, I should wrap it up now.)

As the curtain went up I was beginning to think the ballet might not be so bad. I did like music after all.

First thing that struck me about the ballet? They’re so freaking loud! They look so graceful floating through the air and spinning about on one leg. The reality? Those wooden blocks in their shoes make a hell of a lot of noise. They have all these lovely graceful arms and lovely long legs and then as they’re running around they’re going “BANG BANG BANG BANG”. It rather spoils the effect.

Second thing that struck me about the ballet?

I couldn’t tell you because I was totally absorbed from start to finish. My cold teenage heart was melted and I was forced to do something I have always hated doing...

Admit my mother was right.

I think the thing that draws me in the most is the music. I don’t sit at home and whack on a bit of classical music but when I do hear it, it always draws me in. I’ve never been able to understand how someone could sit down and write all that music for all those instruments and have it not only sound good, but be able to tell a story. I had to write 2 pieces of music for my GCSE and could barely put two notes together, let alone describe the prince searching for his beloved through the use of a violin and piccolo.

Anyway, since that fateful day I have been to see a few ballets – the Nutcracker’s still out there as the lead, especially the last time I went to see it, wish I could remember which ballet company it was as I would give them credit. But I can’t.

Anyway this post had a purpose, what the hell was it?

Aaah yes. So. A couple of weeks ago I read on Hayley’s blog that she’d been to see Sleeping Beauty, performed by the Russian State Ballet of Siberia. I had a look on their website and lo and behold, they would be performing a week later in the grand city of Hull.

Last year for my birthday, the boyfriend promised me that he would buy me tickets to go the ballet. 10 months later I decided to take him up on that offer. “Birthday present please” I demanded. “And don’t go thinking that if you get me this, it counts as an early birthday present for this year. YOU. PROMISED.”

Naturally the boyfriend obliged because he’s nice like that. Only problem was that it started at 7.30pm and he probably wouldn’t be back from work by that time. Who else could I take?

The Mum. Figured I could pay her back for being right in the first place.

And nearly 15 years on you would think that I wouldn’t laugh at the principal male’s bulge in his lyrca pants.

I try to be mature about it but really. It’s like, in your face. You can’t help but look.

And FYI Russian State Ballet of Siberia. When I imagined the Prince fighting his way to Sleeping Beauty he was a pretty masculine chappy, seeing off evil Fairies and the like. He did not have a pink silk cape and glitter in his hair. I’m just saying.

Anyway, you might think it’ll be boring. You might think it’s a bit gay. But, if the chance arises, give it a go and you too can laugh at men’s crotches and thumping ballerinas.

Saying goodbye

I’m not a particularly demonstrative person. I’m not really a hugger, unless I’m either a) drunk or b) upset, in which case you’ll need a crow bar to pry me from you.

You might think that I’m therefore a pretty cool, calm and collected number. I’m not, I’m a ragbag of emotions and can go through the day experiencing dizzying heights of giddiness, before crashing into a malaise from which I can’t be shifted.

This doesn’t make for a good combination. I have all these emotions and no outlet for them, so they buzz and buzz and buzz around inside me until they eventually come screaming out at amazingly inopportune moments.

When I’m upset the first thing I’m likely to do is make a joke. Usually an inappropriate one. It's a great avoidance technique. “Me? Upset? I don’t think so. Here enjoy some witty banter with me so I can prove how not upset I am.” The defence mechanisms are well and truly raised.

And this is something I’ve done from being a wee thing. If I’d done something bad and my parents gave me a smack for it (this was back in the day when you were allowed to discipline your children, nowadays I’d be on the phone to Childline and have been incarcerated in a foster home before the redness had disappeared) I would refuse to acknowledge that I was hurt. I would apparently stand there with a defiant look on my face, my bottom lip trembling, but no tears would be shed. Their solution? They used to tell me to go and stand in the corner and be sad at which point I would dissolve in to sobs and cry myself in to hysteria.

Wow. I’ve never realised that story sounded weird until I just wrote it down.

Anyway.

This unwillingness to show emotion was brilliantly displayed when it came to saying goodbye to The Americans (yes I am still banging on about them). I’m horrendous at goodbyes and I have no idea why. Just dropping Fred and Lily back at Mum’s house makes me want to curl up in to a ball and howl. It’s the ultimate test for the part of my brain that doesn’t want me to show any feelings.

So I said goodbye on the train platform. Hugged them both. Did a comic run down the platform while they walked down the carriage to find their seats, followed by an impression of the Burger King (when I said I used humour as an avoidance technique I didn’t say it was a good). And then I promptly turned around and left. I could have stayed and waved them off but I know my limits. The emotion was desperate to make its escape. Mostly out of my eyes.

As I walked back through the station I was relieved that the train they were catching was at 7am so there weren’t many people around to see my squinty, red, watery eyes.

“Don’t show emotion in public. Don’t show emotion in public” My brain chanted.

“But I can’t hold it in!” Said my eyes.

I had to do something incredibly normal and mundane to stop this leaking.

So I went to Tescos.

(I recommend going to Tescos at 7am to get your shopping done, there’s really nobody there)
And amongst the washing powder I found myself calming down. “

“There now. Well done. You didn’t show emotion. You’re a winner” crowed my brain.

So I came home and started cleaning. I didn’t really know what else to do. And all was fine until I emptied the dishwasher and broke a plate.

Cue floodgates.

Every bit of emotion I had repressed came flooding out in mourning of the plate. It’s not even a nice plate, it’s a crappy plain white one I got from Asda when we first moved in together and didn’t have anything to eat off.

The rest of the day was marked by periodic bouts of crying. I cried when I got the last text message from them to say they were about to board the plane. “NO MORE TEXT MESSAGES!!!” My emotions cried out.

My brain tried to be rational. “It’s fine. You live in an electronic age. You have Facebook and e-mail and all kinds of wonders with which to stay in contact with them. It’s not like it used to be. It’s like they’re there in the room with you.”

“BUT THEY’RE NOT IN THE ROOM WITH ME!” The emotions wailed.

That’s the thing I realised during this last trip. Yeah it’s great that there’s all these methods of keeping in touch with people and saying hello and checking in and sharing things. But it’s rubbish once you’ve had the real life thing. It’s not that same as being in the same house and talking face to face. In fact it’s a poor substitute.

I tried to do some sums to figure out how long it would take me to save up to go over to American and see them again.

And I cried.

The boyfriend came home and asked me how I was.

And I cried.

And so on and so forth until every last bit of emotion was cried out of me.

And that would be why I make jokes rather than let my emotions show. It’s much less exhausting.

Things I love about the house - Part 7

Presenting to you all

MY CHRISTMAS TREEEEEEEEEE!!!! a.k.a. The Beautiful Beast.

We went out this weekend to get our Christmas tree, which was making me rather excited because this is the first Christmas tree I've ever had that's mine, all mine. At uni we never bothered because we were all going home over the holidays and I've lived at home every other Christmas.

When I was growing up we always had a gorgeous tree which my Mum would decorate beautifully but she was rather onerous of it and I somehow never put the right bauble in the right place.

Well no more! I will put what baubles wherever I wish on this bad boy!

We had a little look around and soon came to a conclusion. We could either get one that was about 5.5 feet or we could get a humongous one that towered even above the boyfriend.

Luckily we have the great pleasure of living in a flat that was a very old house so has ceilings way way way way up in the sky.

Decision made. No snivelly little tree for us thank you very much.

And The Beautiful Beast came home.

One downside about this being my first Christmas is that...well...it's my first Christmas. I have nothing. Not even a bit of tinsel to my name.

Correction. I had nothing.

The past few months have seen a rather scary sum of money being spent on Christmas tree decorations, including £35 on Past Times which nearly made me choke on my tongue (I wasn't keeping track! I was just putting stuff in the basket!) I have got some cheapazoid ones and I know that as time goes on we will accumulate more, but I didn't want a bare tree.

And yes I know I could make some decorations and I will do, one day. But I can barely find the time to make my Christmas cards so those kind of things are going to have to wait for Christmas 2010!

My fears about my Paperchase buys colliding with my more traditional decorations has been unfounded. I'm thinking they all look pretty good (although I guess I am biased).

Only thing missing? No star or angel! I forgot about that one essential!! So for now, Beautiful Beast has no crowning glory but I don't think he's holding it against me.

He fits in a little corner perfectly and I like that he's by the window because then, when his lights are turned on, people driving home in the miserable weather might just look up and see him and he'll make them smile a little bit.

Decorating the tree with the boyfriend made me a very happy person indeed, even if he did keep putting baubles in the wrong place. (Naturally it's completely different to when my Mum used to complain that I was putting them in the wrong place.) But he was very handy for putting baubles at the very top of the tree, even if he had to stand on his tippy toes to do it.

Now I'm going to sit and admire him in all his beautifulness.

And then get the hoover out for approximately the 14 millionth time because I swear to God if he doesn't. stop. shedding. needles.....so help me

PS The birdie, cat and Union Jack baubles are all from Past Times and the little lady with the teddy bear was from a little shop in Ashby de la Zouch when I went to see my sister.

Things I love about my house - Part 6

GRANDMA'S CLOCK

Two years ago today my last remaining grandparent, my Dad's mother passed away.

I always felt a bit guilty about my relationship with Grandma. When my Dad left my Mum I didn't speak to him for 4/5 years and consequently lost touch with half of my family. I didn't mean to, it was just one of those things that happened. I was young and at uni and yeah probbly a little bit selfish.

When I started seeing Dad again I went round one afternoon to see my Grandma and stepping into the house was like stepping into a time warp. I was immediately transported back to my childhood as all the familiar objects surrounded me. I remembered the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls. I remembered where the floorboards creaked and remembered stealing biscuits out of the larder. I remember walking about the garden with Grandpa, who died when I was about 9.

He loved that garden and I remembered helping him clean the fish pond out one summer's day and trying to catch the newts while the next door neighbour's cat, Fat Cat, stood hungrily by.

I remember helping Grandma do the washing. She had one of those twin tubs and she would let me swirl the clothes around with the big wooden stick while I inanely chattered away.

But if I had to pick one ting that encapsulates all these memories it would be the clock.

I was obsessed with this clock when I was a little girl. I absolutely loved it and would sit staring, never daring to touch it, for ages at a time. It was just the most beautiful thing and I couldn't get enough of it.
When I first saw Grandma after the long absence I snuck into her room just to have a look at it again. Would I still love it? After all your tastes changes over 10 years or so.

If possible I loved it more.

I have many regrets about my relationship with Grandma. I should have tried harder, I should have asked her all the questions I wish I had the answer to now. What was it like during World War II? How did she meet Grandpa? What was their wedding like? All the things I was too young to ask when I saw her all the time and totally absent from her life when I would have thought to ask them.

I didn't get to see her much during her final months. Her house was flooded in the July 2007 floods and she went to stay with my Auntie down near Plymouth while the house was repaired. She got too frail and ill and never returned to Hull. She passed away in a lovely nursing home, where they took absolutely amazing care of her. I did speak to her on the phone a couple of days before she died so I'm pleased I got to say my goodbyes.

After the funeral I found out what Grandma had left me in her will. There was a savings account that she had opened when I was born and had been putting small amounts of money into ever since. And then.....

I got my clock.

When I got it home and I was examining it from every angle I looked at the bottom and saw that she had written my name. I think that clock had belonged to me for a very long time.

So although I have my regrets, most importantly I have memories that are all sealed up, ready to be opened whenever I glance at my fairytale clock.

Things I love about the house - Part 5

Everybody, I’d like you to meet Ted.

(He’s imaginatively named isn’t he?)

Ted was given to my sister when she was born, which means that he has just celebrated his 40th birthday.

He hasn’t aged terribly well, but shush don’t tell him.

He’s supposed to be that light orangey colour all over but he was loved so much that he got a bit threadbare and parts of him started to leak stuffing. Whenever a part of him leaked stuffing, he would be patched with some fluffy dark brown material. (Except that it’s not that fluffy anymore because it’s getting old too.)

Eventually, Ted was more patches than original.

And now some of the patches are coming away and he’s leaking again.

Once I decided that I was too old for Ted anymore and declared that I would throw him out. Mum asked me if I was sure and I wasn’t but I said “YES” because I am stubborn and don’t enjoy being wrong. And she threw him out and I secretly cried.

But it was ok. She didn’t really throw him out. Mums are wise like that.

Ted even came with me to Manchester for my first year of university. However he retired back to Hull during the 2nd year as uni living was a little too rough for him and his rate of leakage increased to such levels that I feared for his safety and took him home.

Now he looks after the spare bedroom. He’s keeping an eye on things and making sure the room is ready for when The Americans arrive.

And just sometimes, occasionally, I go in to the spare room and give him a little hug, just so he knows I still love him and I tell him that one day I will patch him up properly so he can look after more little people.He seems happy with that.

Ant & Bee and the Rainbow

Once upon a time when I was a little girl somebody got me this little book.


Ant & Bee see a rainbow one morning and decide to make their own out of an old tyre in the ground. They paint it and then they make swings to swing under the make-believe rainbow, which they paint. Then they play bat and ball over a net but the ball keeps hitting the swings so they sit on top of the rainbow and watch the sky until it gets dark and they go home.


Then during the night it rains...


And it washes all the pain off the rainbow and the swings and the bats and in the morning they decide to paint the rainbow all over again.


And at this point I would demand to be the read the story again. And again. And again. And again.


So much so that my Mum, Dad, brother and sister would hide the book from me so they didn't have to read it for the billionth time that day.


Fast forward to about 20 years later...


Now wheneverthe boyfriend's niece comes to see us she immediately asks for the "rainbow book" and we have to read it to her.


And then we have to read it again. And again. And again.


This weekend I knew she was coming round and we hid the book.


Shame on me.


(I decided that I would buy the niece her own copy of Ant & Bee and the Rainbow but a search online revealed it wasn't to be that simple. The books were first published in the 1960s and then reprinted in the late 1980s/90s but are now out of print. And on Amazon 2nd hand copies of the series are fetching up to £100 with the Rainbow book going for £42!! I clearly had good taste!)

We're off to the fair!

If you grew up in Hull then the chances are that Hull Fair was a large part of your childhood. If it wasn't then your family is just plain weird.

A few facts for you...

Hull Fair visits once a year for a week and is Europe's largest travelling fair. It takes up residence on Walton Street car park which is just beside the KC Stadium. Walton Street is completely shut down and is lined with stalls selling burgers and chips and candyfloss and tacky gifts.

Everyone goes.

I can't believe that there is anyone who lives in Hull that's never been to Hull Fair (and if you haven't - what are you doing?! Get yourself down there, it's open until Saturday!).

I've been pretty much every year, only time I didn't go where those years that I was at uni and if I'd had the money I'd have been back on a train and flinging my money away on cheap thrills.

We would have a routine when we were little. We'd come in from school, Mum would make us eat this broth thing that she used to make which I hated. It had barley in it. Bleurgh I couldn't stand it but we had to eat it so we had something in our stomachs so I would force it down. Then came the interminable wait for said broth to settle properly in our stomachs before we got all bundled up in jumpers, coats, gloves, hats and scarves and made our way there.

When we got there I'd immediately go mental pointing at every single ride I wanted to go on. "That one! And that one! And oh my god, that one!" Mum would make us walk round the whole fair so we could see everything and then decide what we wanted to go on. The fun house was always a must, that's enjoyable for everyone because even if you don't go on you can stand and watch everyone falling over. Same goes for the glass maze, I remember one year being bent over double with tears falling down my face watching people in there.

The waltzers were always a must although a few years ago I had a rather vomitous experience on some and I haven't dared go back on since. Watching people stumbling off them is hilarious though.

I'm pleased to say that as I've got older, although more extreme rides have appeared, the oldies are still there - there's a hall of mirrors, there are helter skelters, there's even a museum of horrors and of course the obligatory ghost trains. It's great seeing the same familar rides which are exactly the same as when I went on them all those years ago (although there is a small part of you that starts to wonder just how old these rides are...)

I could never understand why Mum and Dad didn't want to go on all the rides like I used to. However now I'm older I can see why and the reasons are thus:

- just wandering around and soaking up the atmosphere is enough

- once you get older you get 'the fear' and all you can think about is what would happen if it went wrong

- when you have to pay for it yourself it becomes much more expensive

The boyfriend and I had a wander around, laughed at some people walking about looking a little green around the gills and decided to go on the big wheel. I've actually never been on it before and thought it was about time to give it a go.

And do you know the real reason I went on it?

It was for you guys.

I wanted to get some good photos of the fair and what better way to do that than go up up up in the air?

Well I just hope you bloody appreciate it because I. was. terrified.

I'm not normally much of a scaredy cat when it comes to rides and I can be flung around like the best of them. I think what I wasn't enjoying was the fact that you're not strapped in. You're perfectly safe inside this little cage and there's no way you could ever in a million years fall out but I think it's that psychological feeling of not being strapped in that was just freaking me out. I did eventually get comfortable enough to get my camera out and take a few snaps of Hull Fair from the air.After that experience I took my wobbly legs round the Hook a Duck stalls and shooting galleries to see what was what and the boyfriend behaved like a true man and won me this little guy! He doesn't have a name yet - any suggestions?

We went a few other rides, I won't bore you about them, they were the usual throw you up in the air, spin you round and bring you down to earth where you have to stagger back in to the crowd while your brain stops spinning.

But then the best bit....walking back down Walton Street and stopping off at Bob Carvers for some of the best chips in the world. Then buying brandy snap and toffee apples and cinder toffee and candyfloss and pomegranates and nougat and fudge!

Then it was time to say farewell to the carousel and slowly wander back home, eating brandy snap until you feel sick.

I cannot WAIT until next year :)

Things I love about my house....Part 4

Presenting....

THE DINOSAUR

Next to the bed is a cupboard. And on top of this cupboard sits the dinosaur.

He’s pretty old, my Grandpa made it for my brother when he was a youngster and it’s a papier mache jobber.

It used to sit on top of my brother’s wardrobe and used to scare me a bit. My brother would often take it down and chase me with it, my squeals echoing down the hall and landing as I made my way to my bedroom and safety.

Even after my brother had left home and his room was transformed from a teenage boy’s pit to a charming guest bedroom complete with white muslin curtains and rag-rolled walls (rag-rolling was the craze at that time, if you didn’t keep moving in my house you’d either be rag-rolled or stencilled by my mother), the dinosaur remained on top of the wardrobe, casting his beady eyes over all who stayed with us.

About 2 and a half years ago Mum was finally selling my childhood home and downsizing. I desperately wanted her to stay, I wanted her to stay until the day she died so I could get my grubby mitts on it and keep it in the family forever and ever but she had spent the past 5 years or so living alone in a 4 bedroom Victorian terrace so I had to admit that there was a case for moving somewhere smaller.

This meant that there was a massive clear out of the house and whole rooms were sent to charity shops, furniture and pictures alike, auction rooms were filled with trinkets and enormous chests of drawers, until we were left with the bare minimum. Mum was brutal in this culling, she had no problem sending things to the throwing out pile, while I trailed behind her bemoaning the fact that she was getting rid of my childhood memories.

However I had to put my foot down when it came to the dinosaur.

“You have nowhere to put it” Mum said to me. She had a point. I was moving with her and would be living in the 2nd bedroom of the new house which was about a quarter of the size of my old bedroom.

But I was adamant. I would eventually find a home for him.

And a year and half later I did find a place for him. In our flat.

So he sits on high, back at his vantage point, keeping a close eye on the door in case anyone comes in that shouldn’t be there.

And I look at him occasionally, smile and think of the day that I will use him to scare my own children.

Happy days :)

Things I love about my house....Part 1

People seem to have little themes on their blogs, something that happens with some regularity. And I, not being one to be left out, have decided to get in on the act.

Seeing as this is my first home, even if it only rented, I've decided to photograph all the little things that make it the place I want to come back to at the end of every day at work.

This week.....

TINA TEASPOON
The very first TV programme that I watched when I was a small person was Button Moon. I have very very vague recollections of watching it but my family have told me many stories of my extreme excitement whenever it came on telly.

I apparently called it Button Moom.

A while ago my sister got me a Tina Teaspoon and a VHS video of Button Moon which I have unfortunately lost somewhere in the Land of Moving. It's ok though, thanks to You Tube it can be found and enjoyed again. Like all things you watched when you were a child, when you see them as an adult you wonder about your sanity at the time. I mean Button Moon is particularly crap - I wonder what my nephews would make of it now. They've grown up on a diet on Pokemon and sophisticated animations, I think they would be somewhat unimpressed with a spaceship made of a funnel, a baked bean tin and a tuna can.

I love Tina though and when you press her tummy she sings the theme tune, transporting me back to a very young age. And I've also discovered that babies still like her, she was entertaining Sam earlier this week, a very discerning 3 month old who doesn't like just any toy.

If you happen not to know what on earth I'm talking about then feel free to go here. And be amazed!