The Girl and The Shoes

Their eyes met across a very crowded room.

The Girl, a shoe lover, found her soulmate, The Shoe, one Saturday in the far off land of Manchester in Office.

Normally The Girl did not go in to Office. Lovely shoes but very expensive but this shop was different, it was a tucked away treasure trove that had cheap Office shoes in it. End of the line shoes and sample shoes, shoes that were no longer wanted by the ‘normal’ Office store a mere stone’s throw away in St Ann’s Square.

It was a store not for the faint-hearted. You needed guts and guile if you wanted to be victorious. You had to throw yourself into the melee, make your way to the rack containing your shoe size and hope for the best. No “Have you got this in size blah blah?” If it was there, on your rack, it was meant to be.

The Girl was lucky. She has big elephant size 8 feet and no-one is never normally hanging round that rack. Unfortunately nice shoes also never normally hang round that rack either, nice shoes belong to the realms of size 5 and size 6, sensible shoes are the order of the day in a size 8’s world.

Then she saw them. Her eyes locked in on the prize and, like a valiant soldier, she charged full throttle towards them.

She snatched The Shoe up and held it to her chest. Her eyes were very wide and excited. “Ohmygodilovethemihavetohavethemthey’reonlyfifteenquid.”

She tried them on. “Hmmmmm.” She thought as she realised she could see the top of every single person’s head in the shop. “Maybe these are a tad too tall.” When you’re already nearly 5’10”, adding 6 inches to your height is something you might want to think twice about.

But the love was overpowering. She had to have them. (And, you know, they were £15 and heels that high always make your legs look awesome)

She wobbled about the flat like Bambi trying to break them in. She realised that sometimes the thing you really love isn’t always the best thing for you. She sensed trouble ahead. “I’ll just wear them when I’m mainly sitting down” she told herself.

But then. One fateful night The Girl had to go to the ball (alright, a night round Hull, same diff’) and she knew The Shoes had to accompany her. They had to. She would take the plunge and put her faith in them and they wouldn’t let her down.

And they didn’t.

The Girl and The Shoes had a wonderful night. They pranced over the cobbled streets of Old Town and they flitted across the dancefloor of various scabby bars with ease. And they were wonderful and charming and The Shoes received compliments wherever they and The Girl went. And they didn’t hurt her little toes and she arrived back home safely in one piece.

So when another opportunity came for them to go out together again The Girl snatched it up at once. “Oh what fun we shall have Shoes. We will dance and whirl and all who drink along Princes Avenue will be stunned and amazed at our gorgeousness.”

But there was an interloper.

Someone determined to spoil their fun.

And they went by the name of Rose wine.

The afternoon started off well, The Girl, The Shoes, The Wine were all getting along famously, what a marvellous little threesome they would make. But then the evening came and The Wine began to dominate, and The Girl became confused, she fell under the spell and she forgot all about The Shoes. They needed her full attention and so charmed was she by The Wine that she became distracted. The first evening she’d worn The Shoes had been fine because The Wine wasn’t a factor, this time was different, for a start The Wine came along at 3pm. Quite an early start.

The Shoes were rageful. How dare The Girl forget about them. How dare she treat them this way after lavishing so much attention on them? The Wine was annoyed too. It knew that it wasn’t The Girl’s first love and was angered by this. So The Shoes and The Wine conspired together. They decided that they would let The Girl enjoy her night out but when it came to the end they would teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget.

And they did.

And the next morning, through her tears and fuzzy head, all The Girl could muster up the energy to do was sit and feel sorry for herself and promise and swear that she would never disrespect The Shoes again.

And then she came up with this equation because it was all she had the strength to do.

(And then you know she kind of had an pulmonary embolism and ended up in hospital as a result)

But it’s not really The Shoe’s fault. And they are very pretty. And some people did want to know where they were from and so The Girl, in an act of benevolence decided to see if she could find them online. And she did. (And she did a happy jig in her seat because they should have been £70! HA!) And she thought she would pass on the link to other people because that would be the kind thing to do and ohmygodtheydotheminredwhydidn’tiseethose.

So here you go, if you want the shoes (and you have either very small or very big feet because that’s all they have left) then click HERE.

But don't say you weren't warned...

Duck Rescue 2009

A long long time ago (ok it was last year), when I didn’t work in a windowless hell I used to look out of my office window into Queens Gardens. In particular I looked out on to this expanse of water.

I run into difficulties here. What to call this? It’s clearly too big to be a pond and yet I feel calling it a ‘lake’ is perhaps exaggerating its true qualities, that of a stagnant pool most likely littered with beer bottles. For the purposes of this story, let’s call it a lake, but rest assured I do not have delusions of grandeur.

I walk past this lake on the way in and out of work and one spring morning I was beyond myself with delight to see 5 little ducklings swimming about the water. Who doesn’t turn into a babbling moron when they see those little black and yellow balls of fluff? They were swimming about cheeping to themselves and I stood and watched them for a while until I realised what was wrong with the picture.

No Mummy and Daddy duck.

They were all alone (cue sad faces and cries of “Awwww”).

I wasn’t sure what to do and I thought that maybe their Mum was just somewhere I couldn’t see and took myself into work.

All morning I kept turning round to look out of my window.

“They’re still on their own.” I kept saying. “I can’t just leave them there.”

At 10.30am I made the highest sacrifice possible. I decided I would take my bread outside. My bread destined to be my mid-morning toast, and try and throw it to them. But they were so tiny they hadn’t been told that it was ok to eat bread from passersby.

(Disclaimer. I know that you shouldn’t feed ducks bread. But everyone else does and I didn’t have any grubs to hand.)

A park attendant man happened to be walking past. So I pointed them out to him and asked him what I should do. He informed me that the mother was dead on the other side of the lake, amongst the reeds. He didn’t seem too perturbed, I think he was a survival of the fittest kind of bloke. He said they’d probably get killed by other ducks and shrugged his shoulders and walked off.

Well Darwin didn’t have the RSPCA around did he?

Back to the office I went to phone the RSPB, who told me I should phone the RSPCA. So I rang, they even had a number for you to press if you were calling about birds or ducks, that made me laugh. I spoke to a very nice man and told him about the poor orphaned ducklings.

I spent the rest of the morning with a crick in my neck, trying to look at my computer and simultaneously keep an eye on my babies. I worried for them, there’s a big 6th form college across the road and I didn’t want the rowdy youngsters scaring them.

Then my mobile rang. It was a lovely RSPCA lady who was coming to rescue my ducks!
Except she didn’t know where I was or how to get to me (She wasn’t from Hull.) and after a lot of talking and some probably very poor direction giving from me (I don’t drive! It’s not my fault!) she appeared by the lake and I was, naturally, there to greet her. Work was clearly a lost cause that day.

She appeared with a net on long stick. “Yeah that’s not going to work” I told her. “They’re really jittery they won’t come near you.”

But she tried nonetheless.

And it didn’t work.

She resorted to calling the landscape company that looks after the city centre parks and gardens because they would have waders.

Half an hour later and there’s landscape man in waders, net on long stick in hand, most probably cursing the day I was born, striding around the lake trying to catch some rather agile ducklings whilst I, the RSPCA lady and several of his colleagues shouted/laughed encouragingly from the sidelines. My favourite bit was when they all decided to huddle by the little fountain that comes out of the wall, forcing the landscape man to just get wet. Second to that was the bit where he tripped up (probably on said beer bottles) and fell his full length.

Eventually all little babies were safely captured in a cardboard box and ready to be taken to their new home.

I could finally rest easy, knowing that I had done my bit and kept my ducklings safe. Survival of the fittest my arse. And better yet? I’d managed to waste half a day at work on my duck drama.

So that is why I take such an interest in these babies, (although really not as cute as Mallard babies but don’t hold that against them. Look at their freakishly large feet!) and every morning and every evening I check and make sure that they’re all well and Mummy or Daddy is there supervising. I don’t want to have to mount Duck Rescue 2010...

...but someone who did mount a Duck Rescue 2010 is Foods and crafts; fuel for body and soul who has posted her story HERE

Anyone else have any Duck Dramas they would like to share?!

Oh hello, when did you appear?

Do you remember when the world looked like this?

And we thought it would never end?

And now a mere 5 months later the trees look like this.

And there’s loads of this flying about.

And, just to make your heart feel all fuzzy and warm, I spied these babies on the lake in Queens Gardens. (Ok, I know they're a little weird looking but come on, they're all fluffy!)

I keep a close eye on this lake, have I ever told you about Duck Rescue 2009 which I mounted last year? No? I’ll get working on that one for you.

Hello Spring almost Summer!

A Bank Holiday Equation

Silly silly silly high heels

+

Lots of alcohol

=

Ankles that look like this

Hope your Bank Holiday has been slightly less painful than mine!

So this one time I confronted a man when I was naked...

I recently remembered that I was asked by a few of you about a story I briefly mentioned way back when 2010 was but a mere babe in arms. I published this post listing some of the things that had happened to me in the previous 10 years and I mentioned the time I confronted a man who had broken in to my Mum's house when I was naked.

Now is the time to tell it. Sometimes these stories work way better when you tell them in person rather than writing them down so I hope I can pull this one off.

Many moons ago (ok, it was about 2004/2005) I was living back home with Mum. I had finished my degree and was spending a year saving up to begin my Masters degree the following year. To be honest I never did really save up, I spent more of my time not eating and getting drunk - I've never been thinner or more hungover, it was fabulous.

One night, after finishing work at the cafe, I went out with a friend for a few drinks. I came home not drastically late, I think about 10.30pm. I wasn't steaming drunk, just in that incredibly happy state somewhere between feeling a bit fuzzy and complete incoherence. I took myself off to bed with the aim being to sleep away the inevitable hangover I would suffer from the next day.

I awoke suddenly to the sound of my Mum dashing about in my room. I peered through bleary eyes (I've still never learned to take my mascara off at night) at her. What was she doing? Didn't she know I wasn't back at work until 12pm? Why was she trying to get me to wake up?

As I slowly surfaced to join the world I became aware that she was saying something to me.

"There's a man in the house!!"

There's nothing like a healthy dose of adrenaline to cure a hangover.

Mum had disappeared out of my room after making this revelation and disappeared into hers. Still unsure of what on earth she was on about I decided to follow her.

Now. Sometimes when I've had a bit to drink, the whole notion of getting out of clothes and putting pyjamas on is an idea which is too difficult to comprehend. I'll get halfway through the task and then just give up. Unfortunately, this had been one of those nights.

I scrabbled about on the floor for my clothes and couldn't for the life of me find any. I don't even know what I'd done with the ones I'd taken off but they weren't lying in their usual heap beside the bed. At this point I thought the important thing would be to find Mum, who was still in her bedroom.

I grabbed my single duvet and wrapped it around myself, holding it with one hand at the small of my back and came out of my room. Mum was standing in the door way of her bedroom with the phone in her hand.

"CALL THE POLICE!" She screamed at me.

"What?! You've got the phone, you call them!"

At this point I turned round to see an absolutely enormous man coming up the stairs. He was seriously huge.

I'll never really know if it was the drunk that made me do the following or if this would be my natural reaction. Maybe a little bit of both.

I stood in front of him and pointed my finger in his face.

"Get out of this house immediately" I said, in what I can only describe as my most imperious, regal voice.

He stood looking at me with more than a hint of confusion on his face.

"Go on! Get out now." I was reprimanding him in much the same manner as you would a naughty puppy who had trampled dirt into the house.

Mum told me later that it was the most ridiculous sight she'd ever seen. My hair was all over the place, my backside was hanging out of the backc of the quilt and I was pointing at this ridiculously massive man like Queen Boudicca, commanding him to leave my domain.

He still looked a little confused but started to back down the stairs.

"Right! I'm going to phone the police" I said, and marched into my Mum's bedroom, taking the phone from her and calling 999.

Luckily for us we lived seconds away from a police station and the police were round incredibly quickly. Now dressed, I was at the front door, waiting for them. As I described the man they looked at each other. "We know who he is, he's just walked into the station."

It turned out he was a gurkha, out on a night out from the barracks near to Hull. He'd got ridiculously drnuk and had just decided that our house was his house and had broken in. This would explain the very confused look on his face. Imagine you've come in to what you think is your home, you've climbed the stairs to come to bed and instead you've been faced with two screaming women, one of which is holding a quilt around her, telling you to get out. I kind of feel sorry for him.

So it all ended well. Yes we were supremely lucky that it was a confused drunk personand not a burglar or raging lunatic. Yes Mum was very lucky that I was living with her at the time because God only knows what she would have done if she was on her own. She later told me that the reason she hadn't phoned the police, despite holding the phone in her hand, was that she had literally gone blind with panic and couldn't see the numbers. And yes I have been gifted with the ultimate bravery story that proves that alcohol isn't always a bad thing (unless it means you sleep naked).

PS When I think about it, the above events took place in the space of approximtely 30 seconds, from Mum waking me up to me ringing the police. It might even have been less than that. I guess it's true what they say about time slowing down. It's bizarre how I can remember every, single second of that moment as if it happened yesterday.

The Dark Hours

There is a time of day that I have come to dread.

The hours between I arrive home at 5pm and when the boyfriend arrives home at 7.30pm.
No this is not some sap about how I can’t bear to be in the house without him (to be honest I’m gagging for a weekend on my own in the house, doesn’t he have any plans to go away somewhere?!) but is instead about my other love.

Food.

I get dinner on the go to be more or less ready when the boyfriend comes in from work. This is less a picture of the domesticated housewife having dinner on the table when her man comes home and more about me getting the green light to shovel.

7.30pm is a long way away from lunch time.

I’ve tried to put things in place. My daily yoghurt I now have about 3.30pm, instead of with the rest of my lunch, but the second I step through the door at 5pm my stomach starts whinging,

“You should feed me now.”

No stomach. We must wait for 2 and a half hours.

“But I’m huuuuuuuuuuungryyyyyyyyyyy”

And so this battle rages on through those long dark hours. Sometimes I win and I can stave him off until the boyfriend comes through the door and is greeted by me saying “Hello yes lovely you’re here, aren’t you great, now change because I need to eat.” And other times I fall victim to his wily ways. “I’ll just have a nibble of this” I’ll tell myself, before devouring a block of cheese/packet of crisps/bar of chocolate.

And the stomach is satisfied. So satisfied that he appears to have grown to twice his acceptable size.

So I have officially entered battle with my stomach. During the day I can keep him at bay. I have a routine, I stick to it and I eat pretty well, but every night I enter the danger zone, when the fighting is at its most severe.

I am trying to develop coping strategies as I feel it’s all just a case of keeping busy.

If I go to the gym after work that’s a good hour or so taken care of. I can come in and start the dinner and once that’s on the go the stomach quietens down in eager anticipation of the meal ahead.


But let’s face it, that ‘if’ at the beginning of the sentence is a really big ‘if’ and any excuse I can find not to go to the gym I will take. “Oh sorry the clouds are in the wrong formation today, I couldn’t possibly go and sweat in a room full of strangers.”

And the stomach knows that it has won that battle.

So new coping strategies are in order and I have turned to who I hope will be my General in this long and lonely war.

Barbara Currie.

She of the yoga fame. I have dusted her off and stuck her in the dvd player. This is officially the new plan. If I cannot drag myself out of the house and walk the 10 minutes down the road to the gym (yes I really am that lazy) then I will push back the sofas, throw a blanket on the floor and I will try and stretch and bend my body into terrifying shapes for an hour or so.

And so far General Currie and I are doing well. Yesterday, not a morsel touched my lips from lunchtime until dinner time and yes I know we shouldn’t starve ourselves and we should eat little and often but I’m afraid I was not born with the power of willpower. My brain does not understand the notion of ‘little and often’ when it comes to food, or anything in life. I’m an all or nothing girl which is why I fling myself head first into projects, becoming all consumed by them and forgetting everything that went before. Life would be great if I could have just one crisp, or half the bag, but it is not to be for me. The bag must remain unopened or all the contents will be poured into my stomach in record time.

So off I trudge into battle once more with a leotarded pensioner by my side. I put my trust in her and if she fails me I have a back up keeping busy strategy....

Housework.

Facing the fear

One of my greatest fears in life is public nakedness.

I’ve told you all about this before, remember? (It was back when The Curious Cat was my only commenter, bless her heart for sticking with me for so long.)

This weekend in Center Parcs I came, literally, face to face with that fear.

One of the great things about the Sherwood Forest site is the Aqua Sana spa where, for £40 you can spend 3 hours in a state of almost catatonic relaxation as you wander in and out of Japanese sea salt rooms and saunas and Indian blossom steam rooms and aqua meditation rooms and tepidariums....you get my drift?

It is marvellous (or acesome, if you wish to use my amazing new word) and well worth the money.

We were booked in at 3pm on Sunday afternoon and I’d spent the weekend looking forward to it. I told my boyfriend I’d see him on the other side and we disappeared into her respective changing rooms.

And that was when it happened.

Full frontal nudity right in front of my face before the door had even closed.

It did not put me into a state of relaxation.

It also didn’t help that the changing rooms were some kind of labyrinthine, wooden-lockered nightmare and every corner I turned brought me face to face with more naked flesh. Getting changed wasn’t an issue, I’d come prepared with swimming costume under my clothes so everything was whipped off and shoved into a locker and I bolted for the sanctity of the spa.

I tried not to let it prey on my mind as I concentrated on feeling like a lotus flower, gently floating on a summer’s breeze.

But I kept getting flashbacks to images of pubic hair.

Three hours later, I returned back to that room of hell. It was now busier. Great.

I looked up and saw that there was indeed a private changing room. I could use that! Except I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to admit to this room of naked strangers that I really had a problem being a naked stranger too. Maybe it’s because I know I shouldn’t be bothered by it, maybe it’s because I have an extreme narcissus complex and assume that everyone’s going to be noticing what it is I’m doing, who knows.

“Get a grip” I said to myself, “You’re almost 27. Time to stop being embarrassed.” Also I figured that because I wasn’t showering (no I’m not horrendously filthy, I’d just decided to shower back at the lodge) I didn’t have the complication of drying whilst trying not to reveal yourself.

Repeating the mantra “No-one’s looking. No-one’s looking.” to myself I got all my clothes out of my bag.

I lined them up neatly.

I checked my phone to see if there were any interesting messages I had received.

I made sure my socks were turned the right way out.

I went over to the mirror to see what my hair looked like. (crap, if you were interested)

I did everything I possibly could to avoid actually taking my clothes off.

Then I had a brainwave. Knickers were easy to do! The spa provides you with a lovely white towelling robe which I still had on. It would be easy peasy lemon squeezy to just whip off the bottoms of the tankini and replace them with pants. GO GO GO.

Mission accomplished. I had pants on. And then trousers. I was half way there.

There was nothing I could do to hide the boobagement though. It had to be done. Off with the towelling robe young lady.

I still wanted to dither though. I had another quick check of the bag to see if the answer to my prayers was somewhere in there.

As I dithered a young girl came in to the changing room to get ready for her spa session. In a manner of seconds she had whipped off her clothes and put on a bikini without seemingly displaying anything. I decided this was to be the new mantra, “Quick like a cat, quick like a cat.”

The tankini was undone, the bra was picked up, I was almost there!

Oh no! The catch wouldn’t catch! “Come on come on come on” I silently prayed as the hooks point blank refused to get into place. It was at this point that I realised I was holding my breath and would need to sort this situation out quickly before I became a passed out half naked stranger on the changing room floor.

Finally the clasp was done. I was officially covered.


When the boyfriend came out of the changing rooms I looked about and conspiratorially turned to him. “Guess what?” I whispered, “I’M WEARING UNDERWEAR” I announced to some probably rather freaked out passersby.

I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of myself and this trip will be remembered as the time I was brave enough to show strangers my boobs (without the consumption of many glasses of alcohol and the promise of sex). The next stage is to try and get to the point where I don’t nearly give myself an aneurism doing it.

I’m still a long way off the ladies who were stood, completely naked, drying their hair and talking to their friends who were also stood completely naked. And do you know what? I’m quite happy to not reach that point for some time to come. If ever. No need ladies, no need.

Saying goodbye.

Today we said goodbye.

The service was lovely (aren't they always? Have you ever heard someone come back from a funeral and say, "God that service was rubbish"?) and the boyfriend read a eulogy which officially makes him the bravest person I know.

And then one of his sisters read this lovely poem that I had never heard before.

Apparently I'm one of few because it was read at the Queen Mother's funeral.

Now I'm not really a poem person but I thought this was lovely. And I thought I would share it with you.

You can shed tears that she is gone

Or you can smile because she has lived,

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back

Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left,

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her

Or you can be full of the love that you shared,

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday

Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday,

You can remember her and only that she is gone

Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on,

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back

Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on

David Harkins (1959 - )

This weekend I will be mostly...

1. Laughing at these two.

Yep, they're back for a visit and will be staying until Wednesday. Hopefully there'll be plenty of hilarious photo opportunities like the above. Yes they seriously both got in those bags by themselves. They know I need good photos to show you guys.

2. Le cross stitch.

We have a project on the go at Stitch & Bitch, hoping to put on a mini exhibition. I think this one deserves a post all of it's own on another day though.

3. Shopping for wool

I need to stop putting it off. Just go out. Buy the wool. Attempt the crochet. I will not be defeated by the devil's craft!

4. Getting my bake on

Haven't baked anything since before Christmas. Mostly because there's an unfortunate side effect of baking. Having to eat the produce. I either eat it and feel guilty because if there's one thing these hips don't need, it's extra inches. Or I don't eat it and end up throwing it away. Equally not good.

5. Enjoying a Saturday night in

This is the first Saturday night I'll have stayed in for 6 weeks. I know, I'm such a giddy party animal aren't I? My post box is simply overflowing with invites to all the best shindigs. No, not so much. It just happens there's been a flurry of activities lately and I find it actually impossible to say no in case I never get another invite out and have to spend the rest of my evenings in for eternity.

What will you be mostly up to this weekend?

Tell me why I don't like Tuesdays

Tuesdays are the worst days of all.

I have declared them Stupid Tuesdays because they are, you know....stupid.

Allow me to explain.

Mondays: They are indeed rubbish. You're back at work, the whole week is ahead of you and it would be easy to sink in to a deep depression. However they usually pass in a blur for me because I'm still adjusting and living in the weekend. (Also Glee is on E4 at 9pm which makes Mondays worth getting through.)

Wednesdays: Well come on. It's Hump Day isn't it? It all gets better from here on in.

Thursdays: I like Thursdays because I know that it's really when the weekend starts. I just have to get through the day and then it's Stitch and Bitch in the evening and I can stay up late because the next day is...

Fridays: And everyone knows they don't really count do they? I can actually do a lot of work on Friday and be 'happy' doing it because at the end of the day you get to go home and start your weekend.

Saturdays: You can't hate Saturday. It's physically impossible. A weekend full of promise lies ahead of you.

Sunday: Ok, it's not a great day because you know Monday's looming but it's still a weekend day. A day for laziness. And Hollyoaks.

Now.

Tuesday.

Ugh.

Tuesdays are far away enough from the weekend that it's just a distant memory, you've already been back at work for one day. And yet the next weekend isn't even a glimmer on the horizon and you have to get through another 4 days (4 days!!) at work.

And that is why Tuesdays are stupid.

However this Tuesday is not so stupid. The reason?

It's time to announce the winner of the 1 Year Blogaversary giveaway!!

Are you ready?

Is your breath bated?

(What does that even mean by the way?)

The winner is....

Now unfortunately Heather has difficulty commenting on some blogs (damn you blogger!), but I can assure you that she did enter the giveaway and I can even tell you what her favourite crisps are....Doritos with a hint of lime. A very fine choice indeed.

You should most definitely visit her - she has crochet skills to leave you in awe (I have appointed her my Crochet Mentor. She didn't know that until now.) and she has crazy escape artist rabbits. And even if she can't comment on your blog, she will reply to your comments on her blog by e-mail which makes her a very lovely person in my book.

Right.

I'm going to get back to hating the rest of Stupid Tuesday.

Any of you lot have a day of the week you particularly don't like?

The most embarassed I've ever been

So. When I did my back in I wasn’t really sure what the best course of action would be. I could go to the Doctors but I didn’t really know what he’d be able to do for me. Maybe refer me to a physio that I would get to see in 2 years time at the next available appointment. Then I thought I could try a chiropractor but I’m pretty sure they cost money.

The boyfriend suggested going to see his Dad who is a doctor but who also does a few of the hippy things, hypnotherapy and acupuncture are part of his repertoire.

And the boyfriend assured me that acupuncture really sorted him out when he had a bad back.

So in we went and his Dad got the massage table up and said to me “Would you like the boyfriend to sit in with you while we do this?”

“Erm...yeah?” I said. I mean I know I’m not the world’s bravest person but I reckon I can handle a couple of pins in the back.

But.

The boyfriend had neglected to tell me that not only would his Dad be acupuncturing me (yeah I just made up a word, what of it?) but he would be performing a kind of massage called the Bowen Technique which would promote my muscles to heal themselves.

I don’t know much more. I had stopped listening because I had realised one thing and one thing only.

You must remove clothing to have this done.

In my head, I’d just push up my top a bit, have a couple of needles stuck in where it hurts (right hand side, lower back) and I’d be cool.

At no point had it crossed my mind that I’d be taking my top off in front of my potential future father in law.

“Right so if you want to take your t-shirt off. Leave your bra on though.” Boyfriend’s Dad says to me.

LET THE NIGHTMARE BEGIN.

As I’m taking my top off I think to myself, “This is really fine. Just whip it off, throw yourself on the table on your front and he never has to really see anything.”

T-shirt was whipped off.

Threw myself on to the tabl....oh wait. Yeah, no I can’t do that. BECAUSE I HAVE A BAD BACK. Instead I end up having to be helped on to the table by boyfriend and his Dad in a most ungainly fashion. At that point I wasn’t sure what was worse, the pain in my back or the deep rooted shame and embarrassment that I knew was, at that very moment in time, scarring me for life.

Bowen itself is fine. It’s not really a massagey kind of thing. And it doesn’t hurt at all. Just felt like he was putting his hands in random places on my back.

And the pins are fine. You can feel little tiny nips as they go in, but I wouldn’t say it even registers on the pain scale.

“All done.” I thought to myself. “Good job. You got through it with only minimal mortification.”

“Now if you just want to turn over on to your back.” His Dad said.

Say WHAT?

It doesn’t just take place on your back. Oh no. That would be too easy.

There were many things to consider here, as I went to move on to my front:
1. The Slippage Factor. Could I be sure that everything was where it should be. I’ve been fairly well blessed in the chest area and sometimes it can be a struggle to keep things where they should be. (Yes I know I need new bras but they’re so flippin expensive when you have enormous chesticles)
2. The Mesh Factor. The cups of the bra I was wearing were half some mesh-like material. Could I be sure that the mesh was covering everything it needed to cover?
3. The Ungainly Factor. Is there any way to gracefully turn on to your back on a very small massage table whilst at the same time checking Factors 1 and 2?

(I believe the answer is no)

Did it work?

I couldn’t honestly tell you. I was so horrendously embarrassed through the whole ordeal that I can’t imagine I was terribly relaxed.

His Dad did warn me that sometimes, the next day, the pain is worse. And it was. Oh my goodness it was. It had improved towards the end of the week but I’d also spent 2 straight days lying on the floor so I wouldn’t like to attribute one thing over the other to it.

I did have another session at the weekend (I made sure I was well prepared this time) and Monday was my first pain free day which made me very happy. Until I energetically threw myself into the hovering and ironing and ended up back on the floor by 8.30pm. My bad.

Would I try Bowen again? Yeah I think I probably would. Would I get my kit off in front of my boyfriend’s Dad again? I’m thinking.... no.

Meet my new friend...

...it's Mr Inhaler!

So I filled in my peak flow meter chart like a good girl and took it to the Doctors and he looked at it and he ummed and he aahed and then he pulled a funny face and then I told him that I had begun to get a cold during the week and the cough had gotten worse and I thought it was a virus that wasn't going away and then he ignored me and said he was giving me an inhaler.

(Why don't Doctors ever listen to you?)

I had to take my new friend home and leave him with Mr Peak Flow Meter and I must have a couple of puffs each day and I must carry on recording my awesome lung capacity to see if Mr Inhaler makes a difference.

Then I have to go back in 2 weeks (I've been at the Doctors more in the past 3 months than I have been in the past 3 years) and see what's what.

(And I'll still think it's a virus that's not going away)

(And he still won't listen to me)

Did you know that inhalers are actually pretty hard to use? I thought it would be easy peasy lemon squeezy but I've choked on the damn thing, had smoke coming out of my mouth and generally messed it up in every way possible.

But I think I have the hang of it now.

What with the inhaler and the bad back I've never felt older.

Take a deep breath and blow as hard as you can

Meet my new toy.

Mr Peak Flow Meter.


A while ago I got another chest infection, about my 53rd of the year. I got a chest infection over a year ago and things never seem to have really cleared up. I’d be feeling ok in my self, but if I cleared my throat I sounded like a barking seal pup. Then, every time I did get a bug or a cold it would flare up again and I’d be hacking away like a 50-a-day smoker.


I got bored of it in the end so when the last cough started I took myself off to the Drs, a place I rarely go because they are the most depressing places on earth.


I was given yet another course of antibiotics and sent for a chest x-ray to get to the bottom of things.


When I got a call to say the chest x-ray was clear I was obviously relieved, nobody wants gunk in their lungs, but also a little disappointed because that meant I had no proof something was wrong with me.


I always feel very guilty when I walk into the Drs surgery with something that isn’t tangible. I worry that I’m going to be labelled a hypochondriac. So the prospect of having to go back to the Drs and say “Look I know this x-ray says my lungs are fine, and right at this moment in time I’m not sick at all, but when I cough it’s really nasty, listen....” was filling me with dread.


But I got a nice Dr who let me jabber on about my lungs for a gazillion years before scratching his head (he really did!) and handing me a cool little tube, telling me to blow in to it as hard as possible. I did so, which resulted in a coughing fit which secretly pleased me because he got to hear it without me trying to find subtle way to cough during our conversation.


And he came up with a somewhat surprising possible diagnosis.


I could have asthma.


Which is weird I think. I mean I know I get out of breath on the treadmill but that’s just because I’m grossly unfit. I’m not a wheezer, I just have a cough.


So he sent me away with Mr Peak Flow Meter and instructions to puff into him first thing in the morning and last thing at night and record my results on a cool little chart for 2 weeks and then come back to see him.


It’s great fun.


Although also frustrating. I’m supposed to be able to blow up to 500 and so far the highest I’ve gone is 420. Even the boyfriend is better than me and he’s a smoker (was, was, was a smoker, as of 1st January 2010). I’m not the world’s most gracious loser. In fact I’m a terrible loser. So bad I actively avoid playing games because I know that as hard as I try I’m not going to be able to disguise the fact that I’ve just lost a game.


But I do like joining the dots together a ruler to make a cool graph.


We’ll see what the Doctor says in 2 weeks...

It's been an eventful 10 years...

Reading and catching up with people’s blogs it seems that lots of people have done a review of the past decade and not wanting to be left out I thought I would sit and have a little think about what has happened to me in the past 10 years.

I shouldn’t really be surprised that a lot has happened, I mean 10 years is a pretty significant time period, but when I looked back I couldn’t really believe it. Maybe it’s because it seems to have gone by so quickly. It really doesn’t seem that long ago that I was 16, excitedly waiting for the new millennium to start.

If you’d told me then that 10 years later I would see in the new decade in London with the man I was living with and 2 Americans that I met while I was at university getting a Masters degree I really don’t think I’d have believed you.

So what happened in this girl’s life over the past 10 years?

She...

- Gained 4 A-levels, became a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of Science (how I have no idea)
- Dealt with my parent’s separation and began to rebuild my relationship with my Dad, who I didn’t speak to for a few years
- Gained a sister-in-law and a new nephew but lost a grandma
- Fell in and out of love, probably more times than was necessary, and had my heart broken
- Fell in love again and began living with a boyfriend for the very first time
- Made lots of friends and left some friends by the wayside
- Got punched in the face, leaving me with a teeny scar which makes me look like I once had my eyebrow pierced
- Lost 3 cats but gained the awesome Fred and Lily
- Lived in Manchester, Salford, Belfast and Hull
- Visited new places in the form of holidays to Dublin, Prague and new part of France
- Learned that cross stitch and baking aren’t too scary
- Got 3 tattoos and had my tongue pierced
- Confronted a man that had broken in to my Mum’s house. Naked. With a quilt wrapped round me.
- Finally grew boobs. Much to my elation. And they haven’t stopped growing since.
- Learned the hard way about the dangers of credit cards and the nastiness of debt collection agencies
- Was a bridesmaid twice
- Did the same reading at 2 separate weddings (note to self, do not choose St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians if you ever get married, people will have heard it approximately 12,000 times before)
- Saw a close friend become a wife and mother and recognised (and have almost accepted) the changes that come with those things
- Worked as a waitress in a coffee shop, a research assistant for a professor, a shop assistant in Primark, House of Fraser and Holland & Barratt, as a temp, a receptionist and in my current job.
- Travelled to America for the first time. School skiing trip at Sunday River in Maine.
- Travelled to America for the second time. Phoenix and Las Vegas.
- Went to my first strip club and had a lap dance (this would be connected to the second trip to America)
- Said goodbye to my childhood home. Begrudgingly. And I still curse them for WRECKING it any time I drive past it. Who takes out an original stained glass front door?! Morons.
- Started and abandoned two blogs before starting again, finally getting it right this time and making bloggy friends.

Hopefully I’ve come out of the past decade a little bit wiser than I was. I would hope so because I’m certainly older! I mean if I can fit all that in to a decade then I can certainly handle whatever 2010 has to throw at me.

Bring it 2010. I am ready.

(Please note this list is not in chronological order – I wrote them down as they came to me!)

----------

And on another note. I'm taking another wee bloggy break!

The Americans are back from Paris and on their way to Hull as I type so I will be leaving you alone until Tuesday 12th, next week.

Please don't leave me forever, I'll be back, I promise!

BYE FOR NOW!

An Open Letter to BA Cabin Crew

Dear B.A. Cabin Crew

I read about your upcoming 12-day strike action beginning on the 22nd December with some concern.

You see I don't know if you know but I have some friends coming over from America on the 29th December (that's in 14 days by the way). I haven't seen these friends for some time. Since April 2008 to be precise. And you may not realise this, but Arizona is a very long way away from Hull and I, a mere mortal, do not get to fly to America an awful lot. Unlike some cabin crew.

We are all supposed to drinking in 2010 together in London and everything is sorted. Train tickets are booked, places to stay have been arranged, hotels booked, Eurostar tickets to Paris organised.

Not to mention the almost indecent excitement that I've been feeling for a few months now as I count down the days.

I've been so looking forward to it, I don't think I can really convey how much. Do you have a best friend? Do they live a billion miles away from you so you can only communicate by e-mail (and Facebook obviously)? Do you know how much you would look forward to actually SEEING THEIR FACE if you hadn't seen it in over 18 months?

I understand that you are striking at this time to cause maximum inconvenience in an attempt to get what you want but I don't think you quite get it. You're not just going to cause a little bit of inconvenience, you are going to ruin, actually ruin, peoples' Christmas and New Year. Have you really taken that onboard and are ok with it? Because I find it a little hard to believe that people would actually behave like that.

I hope that if you do go ahead with the strike and you do keep friends and families apart over the festive season then I hope that someone videotapes all the people with a story to tell and then makes you sit and watch them so you can see the consequences of your actions.

Oh and did you realise that by striking and pissing people off you'll probably just end up losing your jobs because people will not wish to fly with your airilne. And also, you know you're not going to get what you want, strikes never end up with you getting what you want, you must know that by now.

I know I won't be flying with B.A. if you keep my friends away from me.

Yours sincerely,

The Girl


(Apologies for my little absence, I will be catching up with everybody's blogs over the next couple of days)

An open letter to the oldies

Dear Pensioners,

Let me begin this letter by thanking you for all the work you have done for this country. You have worked hard for many years, some of you even fighting in wars for our freedom, and you thoroughly deserve to have some time off and enjoy your lives.

However.

I have one very small favour to ask. Could I please ask you to refrain from enjoying your lives and going in to town between the hours of 12pm and 2pm, especially in the run up to the festive period. You don’t want to be among the hubbub of people, you should avoid the melee, stay at home and have a nice bowl of soup.

In particular it would be much appreciated if you could keep clear of;
- Marks & Spencers
- Banks
- The Post Office

You see the problem is that those of us who are still working in an attempt to earn our own pensions one day only have a very short period of time to get our lunch, post our letters, pay in our cheques, pick up a few bits for tea and have a look for some pressies. And when you guys are in these places....well.....it just makes life so difficult.

Really you have all day to do this stuff. Most of you are up at 5am, maybe you could run your errands first thing in the morning when the shops open?

I know that life at times must be a little dull when you reach the later stages of life and your only source of excitement comes from slowly browsing the shelves in the M&S food court, deciding what to spend your hard-earned pension on. But you know what? Those shelves are still going to be there after lunchtime and won’t it be nicer to browse at your leisure without some young upstart jiggling and jostling behind you, trying to reach for the last BLT?

I know that you might be lonely and look forward to your chats with the lovely lady in the post office but think how much more time she could spend talking with you when there isn’t a rather large queue of shuffling people in suits and ties, groaning under the weight of all the Christmas packages they want to send off.

I hope this letter has not caused any offence. I merely want to make the town centre a comfortable environment for all Hull’s citizens and avoid me completely LOSING IT AND SMACKING ONE OF YOU WITH MY UMBRELLA.

Yours sincerely,

The Girl.

Only left handers are in their right minds.

Have I mentioned that I’m left-handed?

It’s very strange being left-handed because whilst it’s very normal for me, it seems a great source of wonderment for everyone else.

I’ll be innocently writing something down and someone will exclaim “I didn’t know you were left-handed!!” with the same tone you might reserve for discovering I was from Mars.

It confuses me a little because I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say in reply to this statement. “Yes I am. My apologies for not fore-warning you of my freakishness.”

I mean I guess I’m in the minority but is it really that weird?

And then there are the people who seem completely freaked out about it and go on and on and on and on and on about how it’s not normal and usually end up insulting you. One of the best one’s I’ve ever had came from a work colleague, “You’re left handed?? But your handwriting’s so neat!” Yes because most left-handed people hold a pen in their fist and daub strokes all over the page whilst right-handed people all have perfect handwriting don’t they?!

(See look a list of other left-handed people. I wrote it in my best handwriting for you)

Left-handers also get accused of acting as if they’re special. Now you can’t have it both ways – you can’t tell us we’re not normal and then have a go at us for revelling in our specialness.

And then there are the people who don’t believe that your life can actually be impeded by you favouring your left side over your right. Not the case my friends!

My childhood memories of primary school are mired by the endless mocking I received for not being able to cut things out properly. I couldn’t cut within the lines and I would often end up ripping the paper. Very traumatic. Anyway it turns out it wasn’t my fault! Scissors are made for right-handed people, meaning that when us lefties use them, they’re upside down. Or back to front. Whatever. Either way it’s not our fault. (And if you wanted a better explanation then go here)

Some of the things I personally have trouble with are:
- Corkscrews
- Tin openers
- Fancy belts – if the buckle has a picture on it, it’ll be upside down when I first put it on
- Peeling anything

We live in a right-handed world – even things you wouldn’t think about are biased towards you righties.

Rulers are a good example! Rulers can be a nightmare for us. When you’re left handed and you go to draw a measured line you have to hold your arm and hand in the air because otherwise they block the numbers and you can’t see what you’re doing. Left-handed rulers have the numbers backwards to make life easier for us poor little souls. Want to buy a present for a school-age lefty? Go here...

Actually, don’t. School’s tough enough without turning up with a backwards ruler.

In conclusion, please don’t treat us like freaks, we can’t help it. And the way things are going with political correctness soon you won’t be able to laugh at us – you will be offending our civil liberties.

Also we could take you on. We’re left-handed and you wouldn’t see our punches coming.

However.

Here are some things associated with lefties that this left hander doesn’t do...

1. I do not write with my hand bent over in a strange angle. Neither do my father or sister. We hold our pens normally. This is a cause of great rage with me. No need to hold your pen in a misshapen claw President Obama – just turn the paper round to a different angle.
2. I use a mouse with my right hand.

3. I don’t play the guitar, but if I did, I’d play it right handed. I think.

So go on. Next time you see a leftie. Don’t proclaim your astonishment for all the world to hear.

Just laugh inside your head.

On the 11th hour, at the 11th day, of the 11th month...

When I was 14/15 I went on a school trip to Belgium to see the battlefields of the First World War.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect, to be honest I was mainly excited just to be going away on a coach with friends and staying up late and messing about.

But what I saw sobered up my little teenage head.

For what the teachers hadn’t mentioned to us was that the battlefields of World War 1 are also the cemetaries for the men who fell there. It’s unavoidable.

After a few days it almost became too much. Too much to take in – rows upon rows upon rows upon rows of little white headstones, marking the fallen. And too much to cope with – how can your head take in and comprehend those kind of numbers. When someone tells you that nearly 60,000 men died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, your head can’t deal with that, how do you picture it?

It becomes a little easier when you see the graves.

We read the names and read the ages and found the grave of someone that went to our school. We stood at the graves which were simply marked “Unknown Soldier” and I wondered who he belonged to and how their families must have felt never finding their loved ones.

We went to Menin Gate in Ypres and saw the buglers play the last post. They do it every single day. And looked up as far as my eyes could see at the names of the missing soliders, whose remains have never been found. And we saw the Thiepval Memorial, the largest British war memorial in the world and we went to the cemetery behind it and looked at the graves of the men who went out to fight a war for their country, died defending it and never made it home.

We all have our views on war and whether or not we should be fighting those we currently are. But the fact remains that it happened and is happening and regardless of whether it was a wise decision to enter into such battles, there are men and women who go and fight them, and are willing to put down their lives for everyone else.

They are the brave because they have no choice in the matter. It’s what they signed up to do and even if they think it’s lunacy they throw themselves in to the breech.

It is easy to sit at home and scorn when you can do so from the comfort of your armchair.

So I will remember. Remember those who fought for us and those that continue to do so.

Photos taken today at the Hull cenotaph.

Things that happened on Tuesday 3rd November 2009

Today my alarm went off. I woke up. Hit snooze.

And got up 20 minutes later.

I ate my breakfast and sat in front of the television and sighed. Ever since I was off work ill, it's been really hard to go into work each morning. I got used to sitting at home all day in front of the tv and cross stitching.

I looked at my latest Christmas card and wished I could spend the day finishing him off but I had to go to work....

I walked in and mentally made a note to remember to buy an umbrella. I keep forgetting and the only time I ever remember is when it rains on me. It's very annoying.

It cleared up once I got into work, although I didn't know until lunchtime because I moved in to a new office yesterday and it doesn't have windows. Yep you heard me right. No windows. So the view out of my office used to be of Queens Gardens....

...now I look at a wall. And if I turn my head I can see when people go to the toilets and the kitchen. Exciting times.

After I got home I went out to meet friends for chatting and coffee. (But no pictures because I forgot my camera.)

And all day long I wore this little guy, in the hope that good luck wishes can reach from Hull to London and even more so, reach this person

And now it's time for a cup of tea and then early to bed because it's someone's birthday tomorrow and someone gets up and leaves to go to work very early in the morning and I feel I should at least be a little bit awake to say Happy Birthday, rather than grunting at him like I normally do.

Say hello to my little friend...

I have a confession to make....

I've never carved a pumpkin before.

(I know, how deprived have I been?!)

I was so determined to do a good job that I decided I would draw it on before setting to with a knife. Except the ruddy pen was one of those Sharpies and you know what? They really do write on every surface! And you can't get it off for love nor money!

I said a bad word when I realised.

So he's not perfect but he's still scary right? RIGHT?

He's coming away with the boyfriend and I as we are off this weekend to my sister's house for her 40th birthday. I'm hoping she'll have got some in for my nephews so I can have another go and do a better job this time!