Laughter - There's Nothing Sexier!

One guy once told me that he wanted a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the parlour and a whore in the bedroom. He wanted a woman with principles and manners, someone ladylike and presentable, yet sexy and provocative behind closed doors. As women, we’re expected to be alluring and slutty in secret, yet demure and successful in public. Men want to have their cake and eat it, and, it seems - we’re programmed to give them what they want.

I met a guy months ago – from that dating site I was a member of. He gave me his number pretty much straight off, which admittedly unnerved me a little, but I was pacified by the fact that he told me he wasn’t really sure what the “on-line dating etiquette” with regards to number swapping was, but figured if I wanted to chat to him when we were offline, that was the best way to do it... A week or so, and several e-mail conversations later I decided he didn’t appear to be a serial killer, so I dropped him a text, and our conversations continued. He seemed as cute as a button – always knowing the right thing to say to make a girl feel at ease, so it was a no-brainer when we decided to meet up. I really wasn’t expecting much – I’d been on dates with sweet guys, and whilst they were always pleasant, they never really rocked my world. I always worked on the principle though, that the worst thing that could happen was that you could make a new friend.

We arranged to meet at a pub near me (what? – it’s my prerogative as a woman to ask that the date takes place in my territory – a guy who wants you to travel to him clearly doesn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body!) and by sheer fluke we both pulled into the carpark at the same time. When he stepped out of the car I was surprised by how tall he was. Even with a sizeable heel he towered over me – which admittedly sent me a little weak at the knees right from the off. I was instantly attracted to him, but I don’t think it was necessarily his looks that attracted me in the first instance...in fact I know it wasn’t... The first thing he did when he got out of the car was take the piss out of me....and that’s what did it. He laughed at my mardy driving face (in all fairness he did nick the parking space I was attempting to occupy, and at this stage I didn’t know he was in the car!) and told me he'd nearly turned around and driven off! It made me laugh, and ladies and gentlemen...there is nothing sexier than a guy who can make me laugh.

I’m a bit of a joker – my friends and colleagues will testify to this – it’s not something I’m always aware I’m doing - in fact sometimes I make sarky and somewhat distasteful gags in the most inappropriate situations. I very clearly remember the phone call I received from the hospital asking me to gather my brothers together to come and see my Dad after his heart bypass surgery, and the comment I made directly after putting the phone down. I was at work, so had to explain why I was suddenly leaving. I turned to a colleague, knowing that the only reason they’d be calling us in was because he was either already dead or about to die, and said;

“Well it would be just like the melodramatic old git to die on us!”

Appropriate or not, humour acts as a band aid, an ice breaker and a conversational tool for me. I use it to put people at ease and diffuse awkward situations (even if ultimately the situation affects me in the most negative way) and more often than not, I just like people to enjoy themselves when they’re around me. The problem with being the one who’s always cracking the jokes, is that it’s very rare that someone comes along who genuinely tickles me, so when they do, it completely takes me by surprise. This guy got me hook line and sinker, just by being funny...by being brave enough to take the piss out of someone he’d only just met, and having the balls to bare his personality right from the off...oh okay...it kinda helped that he was cute too...but I’d like to think his sense of humour would have kept me interested, even if he’d looked like the elephant man!

Now do guys secretly want the same thing? Someone who can make them giggle? Sure they love the sexy seductress thing (and we kinda love being that for them), but ultimately, if they were given the choice, would they go for someone who looks hot and is a “whore in the bedroom”, or will they go for someone who’s genuine and can make them laugh? I’ve always believed that if you find someone’s soul attractive, the way they look to you will always be sexy...which is why some of us (erm yes...me included) wouldn’t kick Simon Cowell out of bed for farting, and yet others would dry heave at the prospect of having to get close enough to his high waisted trousers to unzip them!

I guess we’re all after different things – some people are driven by looks, others by intelligence and the ability to stimulate them cerebrally. Some people are driven by lust and physical attraction, others by feeling secure and protected. Some of us have had enough hardship in their lives that they just want to laugh. They want to laugh so hard that their sides ache, and they genuinely feel joy again. Whatever the attraction though, I know what I want, and perhaps just knowing your own mind is the most important thing...so what do I want you ask?

I want laughter...and an older man...a much older man with a big bank balance...and a nasty cough!!

Can Girls Suffer From "Man-Flu"??

It’s no secret that I’m not very good at being ill. I actually think this is because I don’t get ill very often. It’s normally a once (maybe twice) a year event, and so unfortunately I don’t handle it very well.

If you could all take a moment to visualise me now. I’m sat here up to my ears in used tissues. I am probably single handedly responsible for the destruction of a mile wide section of the rainforest, which has been used to keep me well stocked in mansize Ultrabalm tissues. Over the course of the day, the whole world, has literally fallen out of my nose. Seriously, on one blow I swear to God I evicted a small family of Armenians and a Whirlpool washing machine (circa 1994) from my nasal cavities...I could have been mistaken, obviously...I mean it’s not like I spent ages dissecting the contents in the manner of Gillian McKeith or anything weird like that...it’s just that’s what it looked like!

I have been dosed up on max strength cold and flu capsules, throat sprays, mucus friendly cough mixtures (to aid a productive cough, I’ll have you know!) and lemon flavoured menthol drinks since yesterday. Quite frankly, I’m smacked off my tits on cold remedies and I’m not 100% sure I should be taking them all with the glass of red wine that I’m currently enjoying...but I like to fly by the seat of my pants, so I’m gonna roll with it.

How come some people can handle being poorly better than others? Some people deal with flu like it’s a walk in the park...me...I’m like a man with man-flu. I’m convinced I’m actually about to shuffle off this mortal coil. It’s not just because I’m a drama queen (which I am a little, I’ll admit) but genuinely, because I don’t get ill very often it feels like I’m dying. God only knows what I’d be like with something like child birth. My problem is though, is that I’m not at all gracious about being poorly. I complain mercilessly about it, and I know that I sound like a whiney cow, but if I don’t verbalise how miserable I feel, I’m likely to just curl up in a corner and sob to myself...which on the whole would be far more disconcerting for my work colleagues I’m sure!

The only person (sort of) that seems to want to give me sympathy in my time of need however, is the pooch. Reliable as always he has stationed himself at my side, since this rotten lurgey first set in. He dutifully fusses around me when I’m struggling with a coughing fit...which basically just means when I start coughing he sits up, cocks his head to one side and looks at me in a worried manner, as if to say;

“Ooh ‘eck mum....that doesn’t sound right!”

Understandably everyone else feels I should really just be getting on with it! I get it...I’m a disgrace to my sex, I should be able to handle illness better than this...But the way I see it...hopefully one day, I’ll have kids of my own, who will get poorly and need looking after, and so I won’t be able to be this self indulgent. Until then, I plan to let everyone know when I’m not feeling 100%...and maybe (just maybe), someone might feel inclined to look after me a little....someone other than the pooch that is!

One Man and Three Little Ladies

It’s a well known fact (amongst girls) that women behave slightly differently when we’re in the company of other girls, to when we’re in the company of men. When you’re in the company of men, you are generally mindful that your language should be ladylike, that you should maintain a certain level of decorum, and the conversation choice is carefully selected to ensure you don’t bore men to death. When you’re with your girlfriends, it’s entirely acceptable to spend up to an hour talking about shoes, and the perfect heel height. If you’re bitching about other people, you’re not afraid to use coarser language, and (especially after a couple of glasses of vino) the behaviours seen within a gaggle of girls can be raucous, giggly, loud and very often screechy.

So what happens when you find you’ve let a heterosexual red blooded male into your female circle of friends? I was wondering this earlier as Gaga and I sat in our friend Gareth’s flat gossiping like the girls we are. I’m quite certain that Gareth feels he’s gathering a great deal of intel on the enemy by spending so much time with us. He’s in the enviable position of having myself, Gaga and Princess there to learn from, as he observes us in our natural habitat... But I wonder, as a man...what must he think of us??? In all fairness, I was mainly wondering this after announcing that I was;

“wearing a £15 pair of knickers, and had at least £8’s worth stuck up my bum”

I then proceeded to adjust the wedgie situation in one quick (but not-so-elegant) manoeuvre. Sometimes I forget he’s not actually one of the girls, and often end up mortified by my behaviour when I remember he’s there! I’m not the only one to do things like this however. Last week on our usual Saturday trip to the coffee house - our very own Central Perk, Princess, (who to be fair to her, was suffering from the mother of all hangovers) forgot whose company she was in and announced;

“Shit... I completely forgot to put a bra on today”

It was hilarious to watch poor Gareth’s face as that mental image flashed up in his head, and he battled with the urge to say something blokey and smutty. The thing is he’s integrated so fully into our little gang that he hears everything, and has an “access all areas” pass to the daft, neurotic, inane and ridiculous world of my female group of friends. He sits and listens while we discuss our dating disasters, he humours us by not complaining when we talk about shoes/make-up/clothes etc, and always tuts in a suitably “don’t be ridiculous” manner when we complain about our weight, the size of our ankles/arse etc. He also does a really good job of controlling his gag reflex when we talk about our period pains or our preferred methods of birth control, and doesn’t appear to judge us when we say absolutely awful things about people we don’t like. But what I’m wondering is...what does he do with all this information? Is he sharing it with his guy friends? He’s gone out with his guy mates this evening, and all I can imagine him doing is taking them to one side and saying;

“Geez guys, trust me, these chicks are NUTS!...Did you know that it only takes an average of seven minutes after sending a text before they start complaining about the fact they haven’t had a reply?!”

Or maybe he’s storing up all this insider information, so that when he meets Miss Right in the future, he better understands the female mind, and can therefore be a better Mr Right for her? (I’d like to think it’s the latter, but I suspect it’s probably the former!)

Much to the incredulity of his male friends, Gareth has developed his own little harem, who unquestioningly entertain him with silliness on nights out, cook for him, pick up his dry cleaning and give him lifts whenever he needs them...in fact all the things we’d automatically do for our girly mates - courtesies that aren’t usually extended to members of the opposite sex...and why do we do this? Well to be fair, it’s because men are simple creatures, and as a result they simplify things for you. If you’ve been wronged by a friend and bitch about them, girls will intensify the witch hunt by goading the bitchfest....a guy will become confused and point out;

“but didn’t you do something similar to so’n’so the other week?”

thus highlighting your double standards, bringing you back to reality with a bump. Likewise if a guy doesn’t text you for a day, and you complain to a girlfriend, between the two of you, you can blow everything out of proportion, and before you know it, you’ve got visions that the reason behind the delayed reply is because he’s secretly got a wife and kids tucked away somewhere, and can only text when they’re not around. If you complain to a guy friend like Gareth, you get a non-committal shrug of the shoulders and a simple;

“He was probably busy when you texted him, and now he’s forgotten to reply”

Guy friends take the drama out of every situation, which truth be told makes life refreshingly easy sometimes. Of course, we’re girls so we enjoy a bit of drama, but every now and then it’s nice to be brought back down to earth and reminded that life doesn’t have to be crazy to be fun. Besides, it’s nice to have someone to mother a little... we haven’t got kids of our own yet, and as Gareth has the mental age of a six year old, it’s kind of like having a child!

Tears Of A Clown

She’s the joker in deck of cards, the first to take the piss,
And the opportunity to mock herself, she’ll never ever miss,
She seems so strong and forthright,
Quick of tongue and mind,
In fact a more jovial individual,
Would be difficult to find,

But behind that tough exterior, lies a sensitive soul,
Her confidence in tatters and her heart no longer whole,
She hides the ache in her chest from everyone she knows,
But the pain is catching up with her,
And every day it grows,

She’ll do all she can to shield you,
From the hurt she holds inside,
She’s fearful that one day the pain she carries,
Will be impossible to hide,

She’s terrified you’ll see her for the woman she really is,
Weak, broken and empty,
Unable to forgive,
So for now she dons her make-up, and paints her jester face,
And she’ll play the role of the joker for you,
As she knows, that it’s her place.

He's My Type

Most of us profess that we don’t have a “type”. None of us would like to think we’re so shallow that we’d only be attracted to someone who looks a certain way. Some of us however are acutely aware of the fact that we are attracted to the same people time after time.

Gaga, for instance is drawn to “pretty” boys. She’s naturally attracted to guys who look like they belong in a boy band, or a Calvin Klein advert. This probably shows how much more confident she is in herself than most other women, as the majority of us would shy away from such Adonis-esque males, mainly because they make a normal feminine woman feel ever so slightly butch....plus there’s something a little annoying about a man who takes longer to get ready for a night out than you do. Gaga is definitely safe in this area, because no’one takes longer to get ready for an evening out than she does!

Princess is attracted to a “protector”, someone who when times are tough can make her feel safe and secure. She’s not especially attracted to a certain look – they’re usually always attractive guys, but it’s not a specific look – as long as they have those protective qualities she’ll be attracted to them. It’s certainly not because she needs protecting, however she’s just slightly traditional, and likes her men to play a caveman “guardian” role in a relationship.

Me, well I’m attracted to man’s men. By that I mean I like a rugged man. I can appreciate a pretty boy, of course I can, but I like a man to look like he’s done a little hard work over the years. I like them to be broad, because it helps me feel daintier, and I am a sucker for a hairy man. I think this is just a natural reaction to wanting the absolute opposite of what you’ve grown up with. My poor Pops had one measly chest hair that was quickly tweezed by my Ma whenever it made an appearance, because from her perspective, she couldn’t see the point of having “just one” (I kind of see her point to be fair).

My brothers likewise are not furry...in fact I’m pretty certain that if I went for a week without shaving my legs I’d have more to show than my three brothers combined. Hilariously though they can all seem to grow fairly impressive beards (Dad could as well). I’m quite convinced Mother Nature creates men in batches...Fuzzies, Non Fuzzies, Pretty Boys, Not So Pretty Boys. It’s like she accidentally mixed a non pretty/non fuzzy batch. I can almost hear her now when she realised her error with the men in my family:

“Oh crap! Right – who mixed the non fuzzies with the uglies?? Come on...who was it? Shit, well it’s too late now, they’re cooked. Right well just give them a bit of fuzz in the facial department so they can at least cover their faces, else they’ll never get girlfriends!”

I’m joking of course. I’m proud to say that all of my bro’s are fairly pretty, and my Pops was ever such a handsome chap. Don’t tell them I said so though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.

That has left me however, ridiculously attracted to hairy “Manly” men. I know it completely grosses some women out, but for me it’s a very real display of a man’s masculinity. They’re supposed to have it! I’m not freaked out by chest, back and butt hair – the more the better as far as I’m concerned. Okay, every now and then I’ll come across a guy and be a bit “Woah”, but it would only because he’s taken hairy to new levels for me. I don’t think I could ever find it unattractive though, as I genuinely find there’s nothing nicer than lazing in bed on a Sunday morning snuggled up to a warm fuzzy chest. For me though it’s definitely the masculinity side of things that I find attractive. Deep voice, powerful commanding presence etc. A man who straightened his hair would actually make me want to be a little bit sick in my mouth. Yuk.

But what are the drawbacks of having a “type”? Well...

Pretty boys usually know they’re pretty. Men are driven by female attention as much as we’re driven by a man with charm and charisma. They know they can make a woman feel great just by giving them the time of day, so between the ages of Seventeen and Forty they tend to be players. I know this is a bit of a generalisation and I apologise to all the pretty boys out there that aren’t players, but the truth is, a lot of the time they’re heartbreakers. Even if it’s unintentional they are, and being snubbed by a pretty boy can make you feel ten times worse about yourself than being snubbed by a regular guy.

Protectors, well they’re great...but then every now and then, they get overprotective. Protectors can forget that you’re capable of making your own decisions, and reminding them (when you’re usually asking them to act as an emotional bodyguard for you), can cause problems, as you essentially strip them of their role in a relationship.

Manly men, well these are tricky. If you’re a particularly girly girl, and you’re attracted to manly men, then you’ll probably be fine. But if you’re strong, forthright and independent, then it can cause problems. Manly men get confused because they don’t know where they sit in the relationship. If you can re-wire a plug, hang a picture and do your own tiling they can easily become emasculated. It’s silly I know but men like to feel needed. Something I learned the hard way!

Knowing the above doesn’t stop us being attracted to our “types”. We’re all attracted to different looks and personalities for a reason. The world would be a very dull place if we all had the same ideas with regards to attraction. But perhaps, knowing what we know, we can try to adapt our own personalities to suit those we’re attracted to.

If we like the pretty boys, we can empower ourselves to not stand for any crap when their ego’s get too big for their boots, and we can ensure they realise a good thing when they’ve got it...if we like the protectors, perhaps we can show them how it’s their nature that gives us the strength to be strong when we need to, that it doesn’t take anything away from them, because at the end of the day we can be strong knowing that they’ll catch us if we fall...and if it’s the manly men...well whilst as a single woman, you have to be able to handle everything on your own, you have to be strong, independent, domesticated, to able to run and maintain a home and your life in general... if you’re in a relationship, maybe we can let them teach us that we don’t have to do it all by ourselves. That it’s okay to let someone else ease the burden, every now and then. Perhaps being aware of all this can help us forge stronger and more meaningful relationships with our “types”.

Or maybe not. Either way there’s nothing worse than listening to a man whinge, and as they’re incapable of changing, clearly one way or the other, it’s up to use to make the compromise!! ;-D

Loving The Gaga

I swear to God if it wasn’t for Beck-lar I would spend most of my time sat indoors on Facebook. Beck-lar as you’ll know her from previous blog entries is actually known by a number of nicknames, but probably the most apt name we have for her is “Gaga”. The nickname comes from the fact that she bears an uncanny resemblance to Lady Gaga, but it also suits her personality perfectly, because quite frankly, she’s as mad as a box of frogs.

I’ve never known anyone else as prone to spontaneous outbursts of crazy like Gaga. When she decides to do something, it’s never by halves. For example, after leaving university, she took the gap year that so many people never have the balls to take, and went to live and work in New Zealand for a year. She’s the type of person who despite never running in her life, when she decided to do a fun run, ignored the beginners 5km race and entered herself straight into the 10km race. Likewise when she decided she wanted to do a charity bike ride, she shunned the idea of a 10km ride, and opted to mountain bike across the Isle of White instead. When an idea pops into her head that she likes the sound of, she just goes with it. She flies by the seat of her pants, and I’ll regularly get a text asking me to join her for some random unplanned night out, or day trip to somewhere obscure, just because she’s bored or wants a bit of company. I’ll be honest, I’m quite happy to hang in for the ride, because I just wouldn’t do these things by myself.

On Thursday I got a text, which simply read “A bit random, but do you fancy coming to Birmingham to watch a gig with me tomorrow?” Now Brum is only a about 30 miles from our home town so it wasn’t exactly a crazy idea, but this is the thing with Gaga...something that shouldn’t be crazy always ends up as a daft night with her. I work about 45 minutes from my home town, and don’t usually get home until just after 6pm, and the train to Brum left at 6:45pm, leaving me with just enough time to thrown on a clean pair of clothes and walk to the station. Typically it was peeing it down, and in an effort to have less to carry, I’d shunned the idea of a coat opting instead for a compact brolly to keep me dry on my walk to the station. Of course my cheap fold away brolly is quite possibly the most useless example of an umbrella in the history of the world. If you were to burp fiercely enough in its direction it would blow itself inside out, so naturally I arrived at the train station looking like I’d been swimming.

I’m not a huge fan of public transport (call me a snob if you want) and only ever use it for work commitments. I think it’s because I have an uncanny ability to attract all the weirdo’s, drunks, sex pests and perverts. Plus, call me picky but I’m always uncomfortable with the lack of personal space these loons leave me. I mean why do they practically have to sit on your lap? Seriously – back off buddy! To be fair though as we sat there...posing...camera at arm’s length, pointing back at us for our “on the train” shot of the evening, (looking like day release kids who’d never been on a bloody train before!), it occurred to me that for once I didn’t mind having to use public transport. Sure I still had a lunatic leaning all over me and invading my personal space...but at least this time the weirdo was one of my best friends!

It only occurred to me to ask where the gig was, and how far it was from New Street station, once the train was in motion. With hindsight I probably should have checked this earlier, as it turned out Gaga had no clue where we had to go once we arrived in Birmingham! So armed with only the knowledge that to get to the gig’s venue The 02 Academy, we needed to turn right out of the station’s main doors, off we plodded, rubbish brollie’s in hand in the direction of the city’s bright lights. Gaga, had half listened to some directions given by a friend, and the only thing she was really able to recall was that we needed to use the subway when we came to a big roundabout. This actually later caused a little confusion when it became apparent that at the big roundabout , there was actually a Subway sandwich bar, and unfortunately Gaga wasn’t entirely sure as to whether we should be looking for a subway, or just somewhere to grab a snack. Putting my sensible head on I called into a hotel reception for directions and found that amazingly, Gaga had managed to get us pretty close to the venue...although more through luck than judgement I feel.

I hadn’t a clue who we were going to watch, but Gaga filled me in, telling me we were watching “Chromeo” who are an electronic pop duo. She’d been randomly perusing The Academy’s gig list, Googled them and decided she liked the sound of them, so thought why the hell not? Now I love all sorts of music, but this gig was completely up my street. Chromeo have a really contemporary feel to their music, with a very distinctive 80’s pop vibe, which I absolutely loved. So much so I downloaded their album Business Casual from Itunes as soon as I got home, and I’ve been listening to it non-stop ever since. You should check them out on You Tube – If you like feel good music I doubt you’ll be disappointed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppNC0uAaCv0


By the time we arrived I looked even more drenched and bedraggled, which was a little irksome. I had anticipated the place being full of grungy students so had opted for a fairly casual look (which with the rain now looked more like trampy) however it turned out that the place was full of very cool people, all looking very stylish, without a hair out of place...compared to them I looked like a chubby version of that scary girl from The Grudge... Make up down my face, hair looking like a rained on birds nest, but what the heck – I rolled with it. I danced all night, literally from the second the music started until we left the gig, and I didn’t care who saw me – which is pretty major for me, as anyone who knows me, knows that I have no natural coordination, and whilst I try really hard to shake my booty like Beyonce, the fact of the matter is I usually end up looking like I’m doing a less elegant version of the truffle shuffle. Bad times.

After the gig had finished we walked back to the station, chatting loudly, stopping to take pictures of Gaga hanging off a street post a la Singing In The Rain, and trying to avoid getting mowed down by taxis and bendy buses. We caught the last train home, and I have to say it was a fantastic night. Sometimes I wish my brain worked like Gaga’s. When I get home I sit down put my feet up and veg out. If someone texts to say, do you fancy doing x y z...then I’m usually up for it, but I’m rarely the one to initiate that text. I just don’t think that way. Maybe it’s because whilst I enjoy a bit of excitement, and not being stuck in a rut, I don’t crave it like Gaga does. My needs are fairly simple, whereas Gaga has to be stimulated and entertained. In her day job as a radiographer, she has to be able to cope with the harsh reality of dealing with, and treating cancer every day. It makes sense that in her home life, she feels compelled to just “do stuff”...grab the bull by the horns and live her life...Have fun, and make every day count. With Gaga, her crazy persona isn’t scary, or weird. It’s actually quite inspiring. So, whilst I might laugh at the absurdness of some of her loony ideas, I know only too well that by letting me share her crazy adventures, however unplanned and random they may be, she’s enriching my life a little. Thank you for sharing Gaga, Beck-lar, B’Go, Nurse Becky...or whatever your name is!

It Was Only A Dream

What are dreams? I don’t mean aspirations or hopes for your future... I mean actual dreams. The ones you have when you’re fast asleep.

I used to have a reoccurring nightmare...well I say a reoccurring nightmare, but it was in fact a reoccurring character. The dream scenarios were always different, but the main character called Carlos was always the same, and the theme was always that he was systematically killing off all my friends before coming for me. Naturally I would always wake just before he got to me, but the dreams always upset me.

I remember being on holiday with a friend of mine aged about fourteen, and we befriended a couple of lads, who introduced themselves as Jim and Carlos. I was so terrified that my nightmares were about to become a reality, that I pleaded with my friend to ditch them immediately! Luckily it seems “Carlos” was actually called Ashley and was merely trying to make himself sound more exotic. I’ve yet to meet a real life Carlos, but I think my reaction will probably be fairly similar to that of Sarah Conner’s, on coming face to face with the Terminator in T2... a slow-mo slide to the floor and desperate back track with echoic “Nooooooo” before running for my life....just in case, y’know?

Naughty dreams are often the most intriguing, not least because they usually involve someone that you would never dream of looking at in “that way” during your normal day to day life. The problem is of course, that once you’ve had this dream, each and every time you see that person, you look at them in a different way...mainly because in your mind you’ve seen them naked!

Although you know the reality would probably be quite different, (because naturally your unconscious mind will always miss out the messier, more awkward aspects of sex - such as, cramp which let’s face it, is always a bit of a passion killer, or the fact that you have never, and will never be able to contort yourself into “that” position...plus you’ve probably been a little over generous in the estimation of what’s going on in his trouser department...and undoubtedly you’ve mentally airbrushed all of your wobbly bits out, to ensure that visually, the whole scenario is far more aesthetically pleasing!) never the less though you can’t help the rather pleasant mental flashbacks to your make-believe evening of passion and debauchery every time you see them. Even when you really don’t want to look at them in that way! Of course in real life you’d never act on those impulses, because they’re just dreams...but should you?

We all know our dreams aren’t reality... that they’re something our subconscious mind acts out for us, and most of the time we ignore it. Sometimes we can’t though, or it plays on our mind. We all have those dreams, the ones where we catch our partners cheating on us. The dream isn’t real but the feeling of betrayal and humiliation we encounter is the same. You get up the next morning and your stomach turns at the thought of having to give them a kiss goodbye before you set off for work, because you know what they did and you despise them for it! It doesn’t matter that it’s not real, your emotions around the subject are. Within an hour or so, you’re over it, and laughing at yourself for being upset by a stupid dream, but until then you’re in turmoil – having flashbacks to something that didn’t even happen!

How clever must our unconscious mind be to convince us that these dreams are real? At the time you don’t even question that it might not all be happening, and yet we accept that when we wake up, this little dream world we’ve been inhabiting is completely false, and we don’t let it have any bearing on the rest of our day.

It occurred to me though that perhaps we should pay more attention to our dreams. Only the other night I dreamt that I wanted to go to the loo, and when I finally found some public toilets, each of them was locked apart from one. The one that wasn’t, couldn’t be locked because it had no door. I had a choice – I could try and hold it, or I could chose to pee in front of everyone currently queuing for the other lockable stalls. I woke up desperate for the loo and I don’t think anyone can argue that my dream was my brain’s way of telling me I needed to wake up so I could use the little girls room. Thank the lord my usual conscious stubbornness doesn’t transcend to my unconscious, or I think I would have used the stall with no door, and in reality done something a teeeeeny bit childish!!

My point is though, that if our brains can use dreams to send us the most obvious instructions...alerting us to something that isn’t right, or could potentially end badly for us (!!) then why do we assume that all of our dreams are just fantasy? Anyone who has been cheated on in real life must wonder why they ignored the literal meaning behind the dreams they had of their spouses being unfaithful to them? When we've had naughty dreams about unexpected people, why do we try to convince ourselves that we wouldn’t enjoy the real life version? When let’s face it – we probably would! Surely if dreams are the only way for our subconscious to speak to us, shouldn’t we listen? I’m not saying we should always take them literally (I once dreamt that my ex was having an affair with our cat, and I’m pretty sure that never happened!) but listen to the message, because it could be entirely based in reality.

It turns out that back in 1982, when I was an infant, perhaps the world’s most elusive criminal, Ramirez Sanchez, was allegedly masterminding a series of brutal bomb attacks, hijackings and kidnappings across Europe. It was a killing spree which included a car bombing in Paris, which killed one person, and injured sixty three others without any warning. As an infant you wouldn’t think I’d have absorbed much of the news, playing in the background as I had my night feeds...but the mind is a wondrous thing. The media didn’t call him Ramirez Sanchez.

They called him “Carlos the Jackal”.

Facebook - Good Or Evil?

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a big fan of Facebook. In fact most people reading this will have followed a link from my Facebook to this very page. It’s a way for me to know what’s going on in my friends lives, a way to organise my social life, a way to chat to my friends for free, an outlet for me to vent my daft sense of humour, my observations on life in general, and on tough days, when I’m sat on my own at home, with only the pooch for company, it brings the people I care about most into my living room, so I don’t feel quite so alone.

For me Facebook should be a positive thing. It’s supposed to be fun...it’s a social networking site which aims to bring people together. So why is it, that sometimes, people can take this good, wholesome idea, turn it around, and use it to make other people lives unpleasant?

Facebook stalkers are my favourite. I have had to recently block two people from my Facebook, and they weren’t even my friends! They were viewing my profile through mutual friends and then posting bitchy statuses about me based on comments made in a conversation they shouldn’t have even been looking at!! Who does that?? You’re not a part of my life, I clearly don’t want you to be or we’d be Facebook buddies already, so why do you feel the need to spy on me through mutual friends? It astounds me that some people’s lives can be so empty that they feel the need to do that.

I don’t see what anyone has to gain from Facebook bitching. Deliberate comments between friends, behind which is the intention to upset another individual. Or worse, designed to prompt people to ask what’s wrong, so that you can gossip to the masses about that individual and how you’ve been wronged by them. Whatever happened to good old bitching down the pub? At least then you can have too much to drink, forget what was said and no’one ends up getting hurt particularly.

Then you have those people with a huge chip on their shoulder, who when their lives turn to shite, rant and complain and whinge about their circumstances, (even if their situation is of their own doing), brining every one of their friends down with them. People will always lend an ear to a friend going through a rough patch, but if you spend months on end complaining that your life is crap, the whole world owes you a living and yet you don’t appear to be doing anything to rectify the situation, then people will soon get bored...and start blocking you from their news feed!

For me Facebook is about fun and silliness and it should be treated as such. Facebook has allowed me to get in touch with friends and family on the opposite side of the world. Family that I knew very little about, but that I now feel close to. It gives me the ability to share photos, which in themselves are precious memories of me and the people I love. They’re there for everyone to enjoy, laugh at, cringe at and when it comes to the ones of my pops, well every now and then, just have a little cry at.

It’s allowed me to stay in touch with friends who go to war, to protect this free and safe environment that we all take for granted. It gives them a link to the people they love, when they need it the most. From a morale perspective, can you imagine how shit it must be to get half an hour’s break to access the internet after a particularly awful day patrolling in Afghanistan, logging on to Facebook (because you just want to see what the people you care about have been up to while you’ve been putting your life on the line for them), only to find a newsfeed spattered in bitchiness, “woe is me” updates and boring “Joe Bloggs is doing the ironing” statuses??

Come on people, I know we all need to vent every now and then. Of course I understand that, and I’ve done it myself in the past...but when it’s constant it just makes for depressing reading...

Use it for a giggle, use it to make someone smile...and if you can’t...or won’t, expect to be cleared out on the next friend cull, because much as I might love you, I just don’t want you to bring me down – not when I’m so grateful I have the life that I do, the friends that I have, and the family I was born with. Besides...why rant on Facebook...when you can rant on a blog instead? 

Expect The Unexpected

When my brother told me (after a particularly gruelling training session) that he wanted to “go out and get smashed”, my initial reaction was to laugh. My secondary reaction was to laugh so hard I snorted like a little piggy, and that was because this ludicrous idea. You see, the middle brother isn’t really the “going out” type. He sneers at the chavs, and despises most forms of popular music. He doesn’t usually drink, and when he does go into a pub, he likes to be able to “talk” (rather than mime) to the person sitting next to him. But....I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been out for a night out so I decided to indulge his bizarre and somewhat out-of-the-blue request. He also wanted to invite the big bro out at the same time, and to be honest, I felt sorry for him, because there was no way the big bro would go out on the town for anyone. He really wanted to ask him though so I picked up the phone, and pleaded his case to my eldest sibling. His response was...

“Err...yeah...okay.”

WTF?? Have I fallen into to some strange parallel universe or something?? If there was anyone less likely to want to go out round sunny Nunny on a Saturday night, it was the older bro!

Now when strange things like this happen, my initial reaction, like any shrewd, intelligent woman, is to be incredibly suspicious. These boys tear strips off me for enjoying my nights out at the local pubs and bars. They take the proverbial pee out of the fact that I can be quite contented meeting the girls down at my local, before heading into a town and spending my evening in an over commercialised expensive and overrated wine bar/club, just so I can boogie in my “ridiculous” heels until the wee hours. They claim that no’one really wants to do that...not when they have series 1-4 of Battlestar Gallactica on DVD boxset, and a fridge stocked with Coke Zero and Haribo back at home. If I was going to do this, I needed back up...and that came in the form of Beck-lar.

We decided that the boys weren’t actually ready for our usual haunt right from the off, so we took them to a quieter pub not far from town called The Royal Oak. It’s a bit of a “mans” pub – it has regulars and not many of them are under thirty, but it has a fab atmosphere, and was the perfect venue to break the boys in gently. Luckily this part of my plan seemed to work well. The boys enjoyed the easy conversation between the four of us, and the cheap prices at the bar. The locals, eyed the newcomers suspiciously at first (I don’t blame them, I still thought the boys were up to something!) but soon relaxed when they realised we were friends of their favourite barmaid (Princess – who’s been doing the odd shift here and there when she’s not being doing her day job). We talked about rubbish; boyfriends, girlfriends, family, work etc, but the boys were soon eager to taste the delights that Nunny had to offer. One of the older bro’s friends had made a request that we mark this bizarre and random occasion by taking pictures of him with plenty of “townies” in the background, and he was keen to make a start on his challenge.

Beck-lar and I debated on the best venue to take them to next and decided on the 80’s themed bar, Reflex. Honestly we couldn’t have made a better choice. The vision of my two dear brothers air guitaring to Chesney Hawkes’s “I Am The One And Only” is a picture that will stay with me forever. The big bro was positively buzzing, and the middle bro danced in a state of euphoria (largely owing to the fact that by this point he’d had at least 8 bottles of beer). In fact it was at around about this point that the middle bro decided to really break out the serious moves on an unsuspecting audience. Mum and Dad had forced the middle and baby bros to go to ballroom dancing lessons when they were young, and it appears that the middle bro never lost his moves. I can say this with confidence because it was me he was trying to Jive with around the dancefloor! I’m not what you’d call a natural mover so this was somewhat uncomfortable for me. I did tell him he looked a little bit gay, but he brushed off my comment with a smile saying...

”yeah it can look a bit gay...unless like me you can make it look f**king ace!”

(And that’s what I love about my brothers – they really couldn’t give a crap what the world thinks, they’re just here to have fun)

The evening progressed, the four of us got more and more drunk, and eventually we grabbed a taxi back to my place. Beck-lar wasn’t ready to go home either so she jumped in the taxi with us. The boys had spent most of the evening desperately trying to not “break the seal”, so were quite desperate to visit the little boys room. Unfortunately so was Beck-lar...well the little girls room at least. It was decided that Beck-lar would be allowed to take the upstairs loo, but the gauntlet was laid down for the downstairs loo. A huge amount of trash talking ensued between the boys (neither of them saw the irony of the “yo momma” comments flying back and forth between them), and the wrestling contest between them started the minute they fell out of the taxi.

Now you should bear in mind that it was about 12:30am and I live in a very nice, quiet residential area. My next door neighbour is around seventy years old, and quite frankly you just don’t hear this kind of ruckus in my cul-de-sac. As they wrestled and jostled with each other (sounding like two grizzly bears at the height of the mating season) I quickly let Beck-lar in the house, whilst simultaneously hushing and shhusshhing the boys as they slammed though my front door. The wrestling match continued to the back of the house and into the conservatory, where quite frankly I got bored of waiting for one of them to “win” and decided to walk calmly past them to the loo and use it myself. Silly boys.

The rest of the evening was spent playing Rock Band on the Xbox, drinking, chatting and rough housing with the dog before the boys crashed on the sofas, Beck-lar in the spare room, and me in my waterbed – exhausted at about 3:30am. As I lay there in bed reflecting on the unexpected success of the evening (and dreading the massive clean-up operation that awaited me in the morning) it struck me, that despite the fact we no longer live in the same towns, never mind the same houses, the bond between me and my brothers grows stronger and stronger as we get older. They do more and more things to surprise me, and show me how they’ve grown over the years. I've learned when it comes to my brothers, to expect the unexpected. They’re fun, charismatic individuals, and....despite our best efforts to become our own people, and our decision to actively avoid following the crowd, to each of us, there will always be at least another three people in the world who are just like us...and that feels kinda cool.

To Dance With My Father Again

On Thursday 9th September it will be my Dad’s birthday. Unfortunately he’s not here to celebrate it, so my blog today is in remembrance of him and features some of his finest moments. For those of you who read this and knew my Dad, I hope you enjoy these little memories. I know I do...My handsome, funny, articulate, intelligent, stubborn, grumpy and two-left-footed, wonderful Pops.

(NB when I refer to “real mum” I mean just that, when I refer to “Mum” I mean Joanne, the wonderful woman whom many of you know, who raised me and my brothers as if we were her own and whom I owe everything to)

Me, my brothers, my Ma and my Pops...

Tomato Ketchup Sarnies!

Real mum was going through her RAF basic training and Dad was a complete novice at looking after four children on his own. The live-in Nanny was on her weekend off, and the best he could do with regards to dinner, with very little food in the house before the “big shop” was tomato ketchup sandwiches! He denied doing this to the day he died – but if four of us remember the ketchup sandwiches we can’t all have imagined it!!

Surprise!

Due to a mix up with exeat weekends from boarding school, my Mum was unexpectedly lumbered with me, the middle bro and the baby bro. My Dad was down route on a trip (by this point he had left the RAF and was flying for British Airways) and was incommunicado so had no idea we’d be at home when he returned from his trip. At the time he used to catch the Flight Link bus from Coventry bus station to Heathrow for each trip, so Mum had to take us along when she went to collect him on his return. Mum has a rather wicked sense of humour, and thought it would be really funny to let the three of us climb into the boot of the Peugeot 605 we had at the time so that we could jump out at him when he opened the boot of the car to put his trolley case in. My Dad was never one to visibly show fear, so I will never, ever forget the look of sheer terror as three of his children launched themselves out of the boot of the car at him. Over 24 hours without sleep – most of them without nicotine, the poor guy nearly had a stroke. I will also never forget the next few hours or so, which saw Mum repeatedly bursting into giggles every time she relived the moment in her head.

Can I Be Excused?

Dad was pretty strict about table etiquette. There was no elbows on tables, no chewing with your mouth open, no talking at the dinner table, your knife and fork had to be held properly and in the right hands etc, and there was certainly no bad manners or laughing/joking at the dinner table. Rule number one however was that you couldn’t leave the dinner table until the meal was over...because apparently that was just rude. On this one occasion my poor Dad’s whole dinner table etiquette teachings fell spectacularly to pieces as a result of my baby brother. We’d been at the table less than two minutes when the baby bro (no more than 8yrs old at the time) asked to be excused. Furious my Dad declined his request telling him he should have gone before he sat down at the table. What followed was about thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence as me and my siblings tried to pretend we hadn’t just witnessed the baby bro being given a dressing down...before the baby bro let off a fart that a 40yr old trucker would have been proud of! I actually though Dad’s head was going to explode with anger at the audacity of his youngest child. The baby bro (in his sweet childlike yet-to-break voice) simply said in his defence... “I did say I needed to be excused”
This belter of a defence sent me and my Mum into fits of giggles which resulted in both of us being sent away from the table by my Dad until we’d “composed ourselves”. I still don’t know what I find funnier – Ralph’s man sized fart, or the fact that my Mum got sent away from the table!!

Dad’s quirky dress sense

Now aside from Dad’s numerous moments of fancy dress genius, which included dressing as a Witch’s familiar in black cat suit, Marilyn Monroe (complete with blonde wig and beauty spot) and at a food themed party, skin tight white jeans, a silk Chanel print jacket, Brylcreamed hair, red lipstick and yet again a beauty spot whilst carrying a tin of marrowfat peas (he’d gone as Faggot and Peas), Dad had his own quirky sense of style. The man was never seen out in public without a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. I have no idea where this came from but I think it started after a trip to Texas to visit some old RAF Pals (Kev & Karen that’d be you!) and it remained his style for the rest of his life. At a rather midgey 5’6” (ish) I think the cowboy boots simply gave him the extra inch height-wise that the good Lord didn’t think it necessary for him to have in the first place. The Stetson became my Dad’s trademark look though, and even now, I sometimes see a guy walking around Nuneaton who’s a similar build and wears a similar hat, and I have to do a double take thinking it’s Dad. I’m always disappointed when it’s not.

Dad Dancing

There’s only one person I’ve ever known with less coordination than me, and that was Pops. Anyone who took part in the Am Dram production of Anything Goes will remember how Dad’s two-left-footedness lead a whole ensemble into chaos during the musical number “Blow Gabriel Blow” He knew he’s gone wrong, and that all anyone could do on the jam packed stage was try to avoid his clumsy footing. Everyone, distracted by his floundering efforts to follow a dance routine, lost track of the words they should have been singing, and the timing they should have been keeping. It must have been tragic to watch! You couldn’t help but laugh at him though it was so funny to watch him.

Despite his shocking attempts to move with grace and dignity however, he did manage to shuffle me across the floor on my wedding day. A moment I will treasure forever, regardless of how my marriage turned out. To have him there, proud as punch that he hadn’t stepped on his baby girls toes at any point during the dance, all I can remember thinking was how wonderfully lucky I was to have my Dad. Handsome, funny man that he was. Always the joker, always generous, always caring. I remember this, and Luther Vandross’s lyrics spring instantly to mind... “If I could steal one final glance, One final step, one final dance with him, I’d play a song that would never, ever end, ‘Cause I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again”

My Friends & My Pa

So many of my friends had great relationships with my Pa. Rae and my Dad shared a sick sense of humour over April Fools jokes, Hannah always called him “Mister Cooper” in the same way Perry (from Harry Enfield’s Kevin & Perry) called Kevin’s mum “Missus Patterson”, and Ruairi, well he and my Dad had a special bond, and I’m never sure where it developed from, but I think it may be from the fact that Ruairi always had my best interests at heart, and always looked out for me without ever being someone who had the potential to do rude things to his only daughter haha! I don’t know a single one of my friends who didn’t love my Dad....but then they didn’t have to live with him I guess haha!

Just Me & My Pa

One of my earliest memories was Dad in his green RAF flight jumpsuit, with clear plastic patches on the thighs which contained maps and flight plans usually – but for me, as I sat on his knee, it was replaced with a plain paper background, so that I could draw pretty pictures on the clear plastic with these special “crayon” type pencils.

Dad’s smell – Dad always had a smell – aftershave, cigarettes and breath freshener/mint chewing gum. I can’t describe it really...it just smelled like Dad. It wasn’t a stale cigarette smell, it was woody and kind of sweet. When I think about cuddles with Pops now that’s the smell that I imagine, because it was so distinctively him.

Just the two of us in the house, singing along to Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballe’s “Barcelona” playing full blast on the Hi-Fi whilst Dad pottered around the kitchen and I dusted the lounge – it started with us both humming/singing quietly along and ended in us singing at the top of our lungs – me making up the words as I didn’t know the Spanish, Dad doing his best Freddie impression with a mic stand we already had for the Karaoke machine...sounding God awful but finishing, collapsing on the sofa and laughing at how ridiculous we were. One of my favourite memories of all time.

Finally, a very early memory...Dad playing guitar, singing Yiddish folk song “Dona Dona” to get me to sleep as a very young child. The lyrics have always stayed with me:

On a wagon bound for market
There's a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there's a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky.

How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night.

Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do,
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do.

"Stop complaining," said the farmer,
"Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?"

How the winds are laughing ...

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
Like the swallow has learned to fly

I hope you’re flying now Dad x x x Miss you loads, sleep tight x x x

My Dog Is Trying To Kill Me

I’ve become aware over the last year or so, that my inclination towards clumsy behaviour is worsening somewhat. A prime example of this is that I’ve just managed to rather spectacularly fall down my stairs. My stairs aren’t particularly steep, and I wasn’t running up them, or dancing down them when I fell. I did however have the pooch at my heels (as always), and he seems to think that when we walk down the stairs it’s a race. He gives me a head start (presumably because I only have two legs compared to his four) and then he likes to gambol past me at a million miles an hour to beat me to the bottom. This is a game he plays, however I generally just ignore him and let him do his thing. Today however I think perhaps he thought I was in with a chance of beating him, and in a particularly unsporting fashion decided to leg me up half way down.

Now if it weren’t for my cat-like reflexes I would have missed grabbing the banister, and surely fallen to my demise in a gruesome “Death Becomes Her” fashion. However I just about managed to grab it, ensuring my fall was more of a bumpy slide down the last five or six steps. It didn’t stop me from staring accusingly up at the pooch from my crumpled heap position on the floor and stating...

“You pushed me down the stairs!”

Obviously he’s unaccustomed to seeing mummy on the same level as him, and he simply sat their wagging his tail and tapping me with his paws as if to say, well this is a good game isn’t it?

I’ve no doubt that I’ll have a number of bruises to show for this little incident, and the pooch (who is currently on the naughty step – or as it’s better known, his bed, with his ears flat against his head and tail wedged firmly between his legs) probably won’t pull a stunt like that again after the telling off he’s just had. My biggest concern however is that...what if I’d actually hurt myself? What if I’d broken my leg...or my neck!!? I could have been lying there for days before someone found me!

Living on your own has its draw backs for sure. When you’re single you miss the benefits of having a partner in as much as you’d like a warm body to cuddle up to in the night. When you house share with someone it’s nice to have someone to natter to of an evening. But one of the things you don’t really think about is the safety aspect. You forget that you could indeed become that Bridget Jones spinster, found dead in her flat months after the fact, half eaten by Alsatians...or in my case a rather dopey German Shepherd/Collie cross.

Now I’m trying my damnedest to not let this little incident freak me out, as the last thing I need to do is become terrified of being alone in my own home, but I am getting more and more clumsy as I get older. It’s kind of like dementia of the limbs. I think maybe I have caught spazzy coordination from Beck-lar, as that girl is the queen of the klutz. For now though I’ve purchased an industrial sized roll of bubble wrap to make sure I’m fully protected from any potential hazards until I can get a health and safety officer out to inspect the premises and any potential “danger” areas. Wish me luck!

Okay, so as per usual I’ve left it waaaaay too late to start preparing for Christmas. I’m not talking presents you understand...I’m talking about that Little Black Dress (LBD) that I’ll want to get into for the party season. The dress that you know would look amazing on you if you could just lose a bit of bark. Unfortunately in my case I always leave it too late...oh okay, ridiculously late (as in November) and never see the results that I really want, and therefore never buy the dress.

In my work life I’m relatively organised, however in my personal life I’m a liability. I have a lot of grand ideas about how I’m going to shed the 3 stone that I could REALLY do with shifting, but it never seems to happen for me. Mainly because I’m rubbish at dieting. In fact, the only diet that’s ever really worked for me is the Divorce Diet

“Do you need to lose the weight that’s making you unhappy? Then try the Divorce Diet! One simple separation agreement effortlessly removes around 13st of useless husband, while you sit back, take it easy and start enjoying life again!”

I’m proud to say that nearly 2 years on, and I’ve managed to keep it all off! Yay me!

But on a serious note, this year is going to be different, and although I didn’t quite start in June as planned, I have started in August and this time...I’m going down the exercise route. I’ve done every diet known to man, and never really achieved my goals. I’m not really sure why. I think it’s mainly because I’m a big fat greedy guts and if you put chocolate, cake, cheese, sweets, crisps (anything that tastes nice) in front of me, I’m going to be inclined to eat it. I don’t like being told I can’t have something that I want, so my willpower is shocking and invariably I get bored of denying myself nice things, and ultimately give up. Sucks to be me.

Now Beck-lar is a different animal entirely. As a rather dainty size 10, she has the figure most women would kill for. Slim and athletic, but with a soft and feminine shape. Curves in all the right places, (a good rack for someone as petite as she is) a small waist, hips and a well proportioned bottom. You ask yourself why on earth she needs to diet, and to be fair she doesn’t. But at a teeny 4’11” tall, she does have to monitor what she eats. Unfortunately for Beck-lar she’s not very good at it. In fact she’s pretty darned rubbish. She spends months eating and drinking whatever she wants, and naturally puts on a bit of weight. Because she’s tiny, it is more noticeable when she’s put on weight (not to the untrained eye like mine I have to say), but obviously she feels it in her clothes and in herself. The thing is, when she feels it, everything changes. The diet (based loosely around the Weight Watchers point system and her own regime of denying herself anything nice) becomes her sole focus. She’s like a machine! Her willpower is unfathomable, and she literally can shift half a stone in two weeks just by becoming a little obsessed with the diet.

Now Jonesy is also prone to weight gain, but unlike Beck-lar, she rarely goes through the “eating anything she wants” phase. In fact she and has spent the last ten years meticulously watching her weight. Every single scrap of food that goes in her mouth is accounted for either through counting points/calories/syns (depending on which diet she’s doing at present) or by going out and running five miles every morning thus giving her more “free calories” to use on the foods she’s consuming. Jonesy is a walking talking example of changing your eating habits for life...erm...and of being a bit anal retentive.

The problem with both of these styles for me, is that I cannot be arsed to account for every morsel of food that enters my system...nor can I honestly say that I could refrain from eating “naughty” foods for any period of time in order to lose weight. Life is too short to be that mean to yourself, right?

So, I have come to a compromise with myself. I accept that I am never going to be a size 10 again...which to be fair doesn’t bother me. I looked ridiculous when I was skinny as my boobs were always too big for my body. I’m also now happier with my curves than I ever have been before, as I’ve learned that for many people, curves genuinely are more attractive. However, I could (and should) lose a bit but in order to do that...I’m going to have to exercise waaaay more.

So my regime has been stepped up a gear – cue Rocky theme tune music! My personal trainer (the middle bro - because drill sergeant Jonesy has knackered her knee) is taking me out 3 times a week for running and “ton ups”, plus smaller workouts on the days in between. I’m knackered...I ache...I think I may have a collapsed lung, but on the whole I feel a lot better for it already. I don’t think I’m ever going to particularly like exercise, but if I want to see results, well then this is the best way for me to do it. This way I don’t have to give up all of the things I like – just some of them. It’s the only way I can see myself getting that LBD...and it will be mine...oh yes...it will be mine.

If you do see me out and about, please give me your encouragement. I need it, seriously!! I’d also appreciate it if you could refrain from pointing out that I run like Phoebe from Friends. Thanks.

It's Not What You Say - It's How You Say It

When it comes to men, I’m not overly concerned by looks. I’m not naturally drawn to pretty boys (although I’m willing to make exceptions) and in fact I’m more likely to be physically attracted to men who have a rugby players build, a bent out of shape nose and cauliflower ear. The rougher they look the more they peak my interest, but this isn’t necessarily a looks thing, it’s just that I prefer “men’s men”. (Any guy who takes longer getting ready than I do is a complete no-no in my book) What matters most to me is an amiable personality, the confidence to speak freely and honestly and the ability to make me chuckle. I’m always turned on by a guy that can get the measure of me quickly, and suss out what’s going to make me laugh out loud. One thing I am a sucker for however is an accent.

I don’t particularly have one myself (the result of spending my formative years moving from one place to another) but there is something about a guy with an accent that grabs my attention, and very often gets me a little flustered! The girls at work laugh at me because I have two suppliers who, without fail, have this effect on me. One (Ben) is an Aussie, and there’s something about the way he calls me “Nahd-alie” that makes me stumble over my words every time I speak to him. It’s ridiculous really that I should react in this way, as I am in fact a grown woman with keen conversational skills, but for some reason my reaction to his voice is for my tongue to become numb, heavy and useless, and for my brain to take leave of my body, rendering me unable to string simple sentences together - thus making me sound like some kind of ditzy moron. The other (Giancarlo) is Canadian, and whilst I’m thankfully able to process thoughts normally and at least participate in our conversations, his accent does send me a little weak at the knees. I have never seen Giancarlo, and for all I know he could be Fifty, balding and weigh 8st wringing wet, but in my mind, when he talks, he’s essentially a Canadian version of Danny Care. (I’m actually avoiding setting up face to face meetings with him just in case the reality spoils my little fantasy)

My love of a good accent doesn’t just focus around the exotic though. I could listen to the Welsh for hours (this accent had the most unbelievably calming effect on me). A broad Yorkshire accent sends a tingle down my spine and brings about visions of Sean Bean (Oooh Major Sharpe – yum!), likewise a Southern/borderline Essex accent is guaranteed to get the heart rate pumping a little faster! I’m not just responsive to accents on men though. In fact my friend The Geordie Lass is a constant source of amusement to me...mainly because with a Geordie accent everything sounds funnier! She can be prattling on about the most mundane things, but I can’t help but listen to her avidly. She doesn’t just have a different accent, it’s a whole new language to learn...where children are called Bairns and where you’re not going somewhere, you’re gannin. Where, when talking about your sister, you never use her name, instead referring to her as “war lass” or your brother, “war kid”. Luckily I can understand her just fine, but it’s hilarious to watch people here in the midlands, as their minds boggle trying desperately to translate what she’s saying. I remember once, we called into a local Greek-Cypriot owned Kebab shop for a bit of scram after a night on the town, and recall perfectly the furrowed brows and looks of confusion as she placed her order;

The Geordie Lass: “Wye aye Pet, Ah-reet? Ahm ganny have a cheeseburg-ah an cheps man”
Kebab Man: “Huh?”
The Geordie Lass: “cheeseburg-ah an cheps?”
Kebab Man: “Eh?”
The Geordie Lass: “CheeseburGAH and CHEPS?
Kebab Man (looks imploringly in my direction but says nothing)
Me: “She’d like a cheeseburger and chips please”
Kebab Man (relieved) “Aaaah! I no understand what she say with her crazy h’accent!”

...Luckily The Geordie Lass is quite teeny so I managed to restrain her before she launched herself over the counter to give the Kebab Man a “Geordie Kiss”.

My absolute favourite accent however, is the West Country accent. Don’t ask me why! I can only assume it’s because over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in the West Country, but this is one accent that I pick up very easily if I spend too much time around it. Which quite frankly recently has been a nightmare as for the last few months I’ve been sat opposite a girl from Bristol, and I have to really control myself, for fear of her thinking I’m taking the piss....of course sometimes I actually am taking the piss – luckily she doesn’t seem to mind.

I guess the thing with an accent is that it gives you a sense of belonging. People can tell automatically where you’re from. You have a “hometown”. That’s not something I’ve ever really had. Nowhere where I felt I had any real roots. But then the joy of not having roots is that you’ll never be tied to one place unless you want to be. The world is your oyster, and your dreams can take you anywhere...

I'm Just Not A Morning Person

Anyone who has encountered me immediately after I’ve woken up will tell you...I’m not a morning person. Actually I think they’d agree that saying "I’m not a morning person” is probably the understatement of the century. I’m actually vile first thing, and I’m pretty useless until I’ve been conscious for at least three hours (and that’s still dependent on whether I’ve been able to get a nicotine and caffeine hit within those three hours). Me and the middle bro share similar early morning traits, including an inability to rouse in the first place, aggressive responses to being woken, irritability once awake, and incoherence for a minimum of thirty minutes prior to consciousness.

I think we take after my dad in that way. As a kid I always remember the different waking styles between my mum and dad. As you sat at the breakfast table, and heard their alarm clock launch into it’s somewhat startling beeping wake-up call, you knew exactly which parent had got out of bed, within a matter of seconds. Mum would launch herself out of bed, so the first footsteps you’d hear on the ceiling above your head were never quite in line with where you knew they should have fallen. Mum could have been a long jumper in a previous life, I’m quite sure of this. If mum was turning the alarm off it managed to get out approximately one and a quarter “beeps” before being silenced. From there you would hear her sprint to the bedroom door in three easy steps, you’d hear the twang of her dressing gown hanging hook as she grabbed it from the back of her bedroom door, and the running sound of footsteps down the stairs (like a child on Christmas morning). This would be followed quickly by the sound of the downstairs loo door being opened, and then the sound of mum going for a pee. Delightful when you’re trying to enjoy your Rice Krispies and your first brew of the day. My parents worked away a lot, although on opposite shift patterns, so it was usually either one or the other getting up to ensure we’d all got off to school okay, and if they both happened to be around together then mum was always the one to get up.

When she wasn’t there however, the responsibility lay solely in dads hands (much to his displeasure I’m sure). In comparison you’d hear the alarm go off for several minutes if dad had to get up and turn it off. Finally you’d hear the heavy “thump” of a leg being thrown out of bed, and an audible grumble as he sleepily shuffled across the bedroom to turn “that bloody thing off”...there would be more shuffling as you heard him make his way to their en-suite (why mum never used this I have no idea??), and then a slow heavy plod to the top of the stairs. Bleary eyed he’d pause at the top of the stairs (grumbling to himself yet again) and make a one-slow-step-at-a-time descent. To my eternal amusement, I don’t think he ever managed to make it down the stairs once in the whole time we lived there without getting some form of cramp half way down the stairs. I don’t know why I found this so funny...I think it’s just because it was so predictable. As a kid you have no idea how quickly things like clicky ankles and cramp will creep up on you. I have to admit – I don’t find it quite as funny now it happens to me! Dad would then shuffle to the kitchen door...always with only one eye open, and make his way to “his seat” at the head of the breakfast table. He would sit, light a cigarette, and gesture at you to make him a cup of tea. He had a strange routine with tea and coffee actually...his first drink of the day was tea with milk, his second was coffee with milk, and then all subsequent drinks were black coffee. Odd little biscuit that he was. There was never any conversation with dad in the morning. He had got out of bed purely to make sure you’d gone to school. I’m quite certain after we’d all left he went straight back to bed.

I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. When I was at boarding school I was always positioned on a top bunk close to the fire alarm as I’d been known to sleep through them, but I didn’t have problems being sociable in the morning until I hit the age of about fifteen. The transition was a quick one from teenager to early morning monster, and it amused my parents no end. Dad was just pleased to find someone who had more difficulty functioning before 9am than he did, and would go out of his way to wind me up first thing in the morning. The boys knew that by waking me they took their lives in their hands and so rather than enter my room chose to poke me with the metre long loft hatch opening stick from my bedroom door. To be fair if they’d ever got close to me that early and woke me up they would have had a punch in the balls, so this was probably a wise move on their part.

As I got older friends and partners learned early on that trying to hold a conversation with me before I woken up fully was pointless...not to mention dangerous, and co-workers have learned the hard way that my early morning rule of “no talking before Nero’s” is not something I’m willing to budge on. It comes to something when you can go away on a holiday to France with your favourite smug married’s and as their five year old son approaches you (just pleased to see you after a long sleep), they instinctively grab him, haul him away from you whilst reproaching the bemused child with:

“Cameron No!! What has mummy told you? We don’t talk to Auntie Natz until after she’s had a cup of tea and a cigarette! Now come away before you get hurt”

You’d think that my early morning foul moods were caused by tiredness, so you’d think I’d make the effort to get to bed at a reasonable hour...and yet I can’t seem to do it. If I venture to bed before midnight it’s a miracle. I’m a night owl and just can’t bring myself to go to bed any earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m quite sure my late nights only exasperate the situation. But never the less, as I prepare for another late night/early morning combo, at least I can feel safe in the knowledge that everyone knows me well enough to no longer be phased by my split personality with regards to the hours approaching midday...and anyone who gets to know me in the future...well I guess I’ll let them read this first!!

A (Wo)man's Best Friend

Some people believe themselves to be “cat” people. Others vehemently maintain that they are “dog” people. I‘m neither... I’m generally an animal lover full stop. I used to have cats, and I admit that I miss the simplicity of being a cat owner. They pretty much look after themselves...well that’s putting it mildly. Mine used to treat the place like a bloody hotel. They’d turn up at the back door when they wanted feeding or if it was raining and they wanted shelter. Otherwise they spent most of their time next door with my neighbour, who clearly was a far more favourable individual in their eyes. As a result you always felt quite humbled when they did decide to grace you with their presence, and I often found that once either of them had decided to settle on my lap for the evening I daren’t move for fear of spoiling the little bit of quality time they deigned appropriate to spend with me.

Bryn is my German shepherd /collie cross bitza (bitza this, bitza that), and as I write this he’s currently stretched out on the sofa, dreaming doggy dreams - presumably about chasing rabbits, as his little legs are twitching like he’s just been hit by a taser, and he’s busy grumbling and yipping to himself. He’s quite a character really, and I’ve only ever met one person who hasn’t fallen instantly in love with him – Princess is not a fan of “big” dogs (she considers anything larger than a Jack Russell a big dog), and her and Bryn have a love/hate relationship...in as much as he loves her, and she hates him. In her defence though during the year we house shared together he did manage to consume two Juicy Tubes lip glosses, one MAC compact face powder, one Winnie The Pooh mid year diary, one packet of Lemsip Max Strength cold and flu sachets, a blueberry muffin and various packets of tissues and face creams all of which belonged to Princess...so it’s kind of understandable why he may not be her favourite furry friend. I think what was more frustrating was that he never decided to devour anything of mine. I guess her stuff must have just smelled better! Nevertheless it doesn’t stop him from desperately trying to seek her approval at every given opportunity.

Unfortunately for Bryn he chooses his moments poorly, and hasn’t yet learned that humping the £25 cushions she purchased from Next in a display of dominance when her boyfriend came to visit (he’s always trying to impress her), or forcing cuddles on her when she’s just got changed into a little black dress for a night out whilst in the height of his moulting season, are bad ideas as far as Princess is concerned. The look of utter confusion on his face as he gets shooed away is always rather amusing to see; as he’s completely oblivious to the distress he tends to cause our little Princess.

As a dog owner I’ve accepted the fact that I will not own a stitch of clothing that even when washed, dried and ironed will remain dog-fluff free for more than thirty seconds. I understand that when I am wearing white, the dog will only moult black fur and when I’m wearing black he will only moult white fur...just to piss me off it seems... Likewise I’ve come to realise that the chore of constantly cleaning his nose “paintings” from the inside of my car windows (the smeared smudges of wet nose prints caused by sudden braking or sharp cornering manoeuvres whilst the pooch is a passenger) will be one I have to undertake for the rest of his life. Whilst poop scooping isn’t exactly my favourite past time, I will, like any responsible owner, pick up after the dog, albeit with some fairly dramatic gagging and dry heaving sound effects to accompany the process, and even when there is no food in the house for me, I will always ensure he has his dinner, come hell or high water.

Chatting to a guy recently he asked me whether I lived alone, which I replied I did – although with my dog. He queried whether I got lonely, and it actually got me thinking. Did I ever feel lonely? Well the answer was, sure...sometimes. It would be nice to have someone here to chat to...but then thinking about it, I regularly have conversations with the dog. I’m not trying to lead you to believe he answers back (although sometimes the defiant look on his face when he’s being told off resembles that of a petulant and stubborn toddler, and could be described as a definite “answer back”) but I talk to him, and he hangs on my every word. If I’m talking to him from the kitchen, he doesn’t sit in the lounge with a beer in one paw, and the remote in the other half listening to me as he channel hops - he remains glued to my side, excitably listening to every word, forever pleased that I’m paying attention to him. It’s like I am the absolute centre of his universe and it’s really rather cute. If a guy was like that with me it would drive me crackers, and I’d no doubt end up beating him about the head and neck until he manned up a little...but obviously it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour from my fluffy little dude.

Bryn only has one downside. Unfortunately he’s a man’s dog. What this basically means is that while he loves me unconditionally, and isn’t happy unless he’s practically sat on me, he essentially doesn’t listen to a word I say.

Because I’m not a bloke.

He responds to men far better than me. If they tell him to do something in a relatively firm voice he will do it without too much of an argument. With me however he’ll push his luck. He’s obviously not born to be the Alpha in any given pack, so he takes direction from a strong male influence. Having spent the last two years surrounded by girls, it seems he’s even more eager to get in with the boys, and has taken to becoming best buddies with any man who happens to meet him. Random strangers on walks, the postman (I know...that’s just so wrong it beggars belief) the window cleaner, and most recently the Powergen salesman who tried to make a cold call this evening. It’s kind of embarrassing when your dog decides to mooch off down the street despite your calls in vain to bring him back, and you have to proposition the man you’ve just rather abruptly told;

“no I don’t want your electricity thank you very much, and if you don’t mind I’m in the middle of my tea...ooh bugger the dog’s out...Brrrrryyyynn”
“Will he come back?”
“Erm...probably...if you call him”
“What’s his name?”
“Bryn”
“Like Uncle Bryn from Gavin & Stacey?”
“If you like...but erm, do you mind doing it quickly because he’s half way to the park now?”

God love him, he did get him back...I think he expected me to sit and listen to his sales patter as a thank you, but nothing interests me less than discussions about electricity suppliers...so I didn’t. I’m such a cow at times! There are few people that actually command complete respect from my pooch though. In fact there’s really only one person I know who the dog actually seems quite intimidated by, and that’s the Bezzie Boy. When he’s not on tour the Bezzie Boy spends much of his time training new Army recruits, toughening them up for the career they’ve chosen, and at first I thought it must be something inherently authorative in his tone of voice that made the pooch respond to him in the way he did. At times the dog almost seemed fearful of the Bezzie Boy, even though he’s never once raised his voice to him. It was only when I witnessed the Bezzie Boy simply point at the dog’s bed, and saw the speed at which Bryn followed his silent command that I realised it had nothing to do with his voice at all. As I stared open mouthed in wonderment and questioned him as to how he’d done it, the Bezzie Boy simply replied;

“He does what I tell him because when I say ‘Get off the f**king sofa’ I actually mean it Nat... you on the other hand want to mean it because you know he shouldn’t be on the sofa, but you don’t...because the truth is you want him up there as much as he wants to be up there”

Annoyingly the Bezzie Boy was right. That dog has been an emotional crutch for me during two of the hardest years of my life, and when I am feeling lonely, and the girls aren’t around for me to make flying visits to, it’s the dog who ends up entertaining me, and helping me forget that sometimes life sucks, and you are on your own for a large part of it. So I’ve decided that given he plays such a crucial part in keeping me sane...it seems only fair that he should be allowed on the sofa, to stretch out and dream on. Just don’t tell the Bezzie Boy...else I’ll never hear the end of it!!

The Modern Dating Game

It seems as though everyone I know is single at the moment. I say that, but maybe it’s just the circles I move in following my break up 18 months ago are now primarily made up of singletons like myself, rather than the groups of couples I used to see regularly. It also seems that as a singleton it’s compulsory to share your dating escapades with your “smug married” friends. They have an unapologetic desire to live vicariously through your social life, and to be fair you don’t mind sharing your stories. Let’s face it, if they can laugh at all of your dating faux pas, and cry with you at your relationship disappointments, then at least you know their interest is genuine and supportive.

Of course you share with your single friends too, and nine times out of ten it helps to know that someone else out there is as much of a disaster on the dating front as you are. My big brother and I are in similar positions when it comes to meeting people at the moment. As a console game designer, he works in a predominantly male environment, and I, as a merchandiser for a lingerie retailer, work in a predominantly female environment. In fact both of us can say in all honesty that the number of people we work with that are of the opposite sex can be counted on two hands...and in my case they’re all married. No chance of meeting anyone at work then!!

We were discussing this over a recent Skype call, and my brother confessed that (encouraged by my experiences on the dating site I’d joined), he’d decided to take matters into his own hands, and was entering the world of “modern dating” by attending a speed dating session.

He told me all about his experience, as I’d admitted I had my concerns about him being able to hold a conversation with an actual girl for four whole minutes without embarrassing himself. Having never been speed dating, I was interested in his male perspective on the whole thing, and I was pleased to hear it sounded like he had a lot of fun, and even came away from it with a couple of numbers. Granted he had to spend four minutes with the obligatory nut job that you’d expect to find at these sort of events...in this instance it was a woman who big bro described as “perfectly normal looking” until she opened her mouth and serenaded him with the Dogtanian theme tune, complete with barking intro. I think his biggest issue with her, was that for the following week he was wandering around work singing “one for all and all for one, muskehounds are always ready” under his breath, much to the amusement of his co-workers.

I was also quite proud of him, as he successfully navigated his way through the “awkward” four minute date without consequence. This is the date we all worry about encountering. Four minutes that feel like four hours because there’s something about the person sitting in front of you that makes you want to make an inappropriate comment or joke. Unfortunately the time limitations imposed by the very nature of speed dating means you don’t have time to decide whether your comments will be taken in the light hearted comedic manner in which they’re intended, or if they’ll go down like a shit sandwich and make the final three minutes and thirty seconds the most uncomfortable of your life.

Big bro found himself in this situation when his fourth date of the evening turned out to be a rather teeny 4’2” tall. His instinctive reaction as she introduced herself was to exclaim

“But of course! I recognise you from your stint in Return of The Jedi as Ewok scout Teebo”

and then make enquiries as to whether she was still acting. Luckily, the part of his brain used to determine whether someone may or may not have feelings kicked in at around about the same time, and he managed to resist the urge. It didn’t however, stop him spending the next three minutes debating (via a JD style internal monologue) whether she’d see the funny side of his comment, and should he risk it for a biscuit? The end result being that he absorbed absolutely nothing that she told him about herself. A typical bloke then!

My foray into the world of dating via the dating site has been somewhat more reserved, as I find I’m still at the stage where I want to weed out the nut jobs before meeting them face to face! Perhaps it’s because I’m a girl and we have to be a little more “security” conscious. Dates have to be planned to the letter and shared with girlfriends just in case your date turns out to be a serial killer intent on abducting you and burying you under their patio. Any variation to the plan has to be communicated to all interested parties and some girls even ensure they have an exit strategy planned, which involves a friend calling to offer an excuse to leave the date if it’s going badly. Personally I have no problems seeing a date through even if its rubbish, as it just seems like the only polite thing to do...besides, you never know when your date might miraculously pull his personality out of the bag!

Nevertheless, the one thing my single friends and I are all in agreement on, is that it’s nearly impossible to meet anyone via old fashioned methods nowadays. Let’s face it...a night on the town doesn’t usually bring the Mr Darcy’s of the world out in force does it? Most guys are so bladdered they can’t even remember their own names, so the chance of them remembering yours is slim! Even if you are lucky enough to catch the eye of a sober guy, it’s invariably because he’s a recovering alcoholic, or even if he’s not, and he just happens to be the sober designated driver (lucky you), where in a bar or club can you actually find a space that’s quiet enough to talk and find out of you actually have anything in common?

“So what do you do then?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what do you DO?”
“Oh yeah” (nodding) “I’m a huge rock fan”
“No, I said WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?”
“HUH??”
“YOUR JOB!?”
“Oooh, no...hate cats!”

It seems speed dating, e-mails, on-line dating, msn chats and Facebook flirtations really are the only way to make that initial contact with new people nowadays. Sure you still get the odd weirdo, but at least you can spot them fairly early on this way. Gone are the days of dating sites and supermarket “singles nights” appearing a bit desperate...this is the 21st Century baby, where we all work unsociable hours and still need a place to go to meet likeminded people. So if you’re in two minds about signing up to that dating site, just go for it – what have you got to lose? If you’ve been toying with the idea of speed dating but you’re just not sure, grab a bunch of your girlfriends and go along as a group for a giggle – who knows what could happen? Worst case scenario – you make a new friend...and who’s ever complained about having too many friends?? Ultimately, whatever your experiences, it will make great conversation when you next visit your favourite smug marrieds and they ask in a hopeful voice...

"So?...Any gossip???"

It's Nearly Christmas...According To Mum!

Now many of you will already be aware of this, but as I write there are only 178 shopping days left until Christmas. Now I know that might seem like plenty and I’m sure many of you are wondering why on earth (when we’re experiencing one of the hottest weeks of the year) I’m thinking about Christmas. Why indeed? Well I’ll be honest with you, this is more about conditioning than anything else.

From the middle of June onwards my mother starts making enquries as to what each and every one of her children has planned for Christmas. This is her not-so-subtle way of trying to "bagsy" you for Christmas before anyone else does. It's a good tactic as in June nobody has ever made firm plans for the holiday season (why would they??), and invariably she manages to secure the attendance of at least two of the four children and their partners/children etc. Mum loves being the hostess, and to be fair she's really rather good at it.

Therefore, it should be a simple decision – It's my second Christmas with no significant other and naturally it should equal dinner with the parental unit, unfortunately my dad decided to throw a spanner in the works by popping his clogs and therefore stuffing up the family Christmas routine. My mum remarried, and although the house is still the same house, and my mum still makes the best Christmas dinner going, the atmosphere would invariably be less like spending the day with your immediate family, and more like spending Christmas with...well...your mum and her new chap. It somehow seems wrong to intrude on newlyweds Christmas celebrations, even though I know she wouldn't see it like that, but the last thing you want to be on Christmas day is a gooseberry! Last year was my first Christmas as a singleton, and to be frank I was dreading it. Princess had kindly invited me to spend the day with her family (Momma and Poppa Smurf as I affectionately call them), but I didn’t really want to do Christmas at all. I’d had a crappy couple of years, and quite frankly I wasn’t excited about the holiday season, even less so with the fact that my family had become so disjointed in the last year. I really just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Now around this time my older brother and his long term girlfriend split up. Big bro was in a similar head space to me in as much as Christmas was pretty low on his list of priorities, so we decided that I’d go to him in Birmingham and we’d have a low key “non-Christmas”. The Middle Bro was working out on the oil rig over Christmas so wouldn’t be around, and the Baby Bro was doing the shuttle run between families, but promised to call in and bring our gorgeous nephew along to see us. My mum wasn’t best pleased, but she’s pretty good at understanding that we all lead our own lives, and we’re quite independent as individuals. It’s something she struggles with every day as she’s the type of person who’ll speak to her parents every day. If she’s lucky she’ll see me once a week, the middle bro once a month, and the big bro and baby bro once in a blue moon. It’s not that we don’t want to see her...it’s just that they raised us well, to ensure that we can look after ourselves, and so that’s what we do.

So the morning of Christmas 2009 started in the house I shared with Princess...I was woken by her at about 7am jumping up and down on my bed, shouting “get up, get up, GET UP! It’s Christmaaaaas!”...this is actually trickier than it sounds on a waterbed. Jumping on a waterbed is actually a lot like treading water...you don’t really get anywhere, it makes your legs ache and it’s basically a cardiovascular workout in itself, so I was actually quite impressed by her energy levels at the ungodly hour she decided to wake me. Princess has a rather odd habit of invading your most personal space (i.e. your bed) at a time when your defences are at their very lowest (i.e you’re asleep). She will climb under the duvet without checking that:

a) You’re wearing PJ’s
b) You are actually even alone in the bed!

She’ll then proceed to natter in your ear hole until there’s no possible way you’ll be able to get back to sleep. She also has a habit of inviting other people to climb into bed with you. Now, I’m pretty okay with most of my girly friends jumping into bed with me, however on this particular Christmas morning, it was her boyfriend she was calling on to “come jump on the bed and help me wake her up”. For one terrifying moment I though he might actually have been about to, until he entered the room and my very naked back, just visible above the duvet, alerted him to the one thing Princess always seems to be oblivious to...I do not sleep in Pyjamas. I do not sleep in anything. I don’t know who was more terrified of the prospect of him joining Princess’s “wake up” game upon this revelation, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was him, although only just, and only because I was too sleepy to fully appreciate the awkwardness of the situation. After ten minutes of excited jostling and squealing, Princess finally managed to rouse me, and with an offer of a brew from her (now somewhat traumatised) boyfriend I begrudgingly made my way downstairs for breakfast followed by present opening.

After the presents had been distributed and opened I showered and changed and prepared myself to make the journey to Big Bro’s house. I’ll admit, I was feeling a little tender after a Christmas Eve drinking session in town, which may have added a certain element of torture to the journey I was about to make, however I can pretty safely say that the true horror that was this early morning journey was mainly a direct result of the fact that my co-pilot for the ride was Bryn, my german shepherd/collie cross. Bryn doesn’t travel well, and forty minutes of non stop high pitched whining and yappy barks shreds your nerves...with or without a hangover. I love that dog. Seriously, I’m daft for him, and he’s precious to me, but there were several occasions where I considered pulling over and letting him out so he could go and play with the traffic on the M6. When I finally arrived at Big Bro’s house it occurred to me that I had no idea what he’d got planned for the day. As it was, we spent the day watching DVD’s and playing Rock Band on the Xbox. Christmas dinner was a modest affair – left over Pizza Hut Meat Feast which we failed to successfully heat up in the microwave. For some reason parts of the pizza remained positively chilled, whilst others were basically nuclear...both of us ended up with mouth blisters on boxing day as a result. It was the most surreal Christmas day ever, but quite possibly also one of my favourites!

The question now though, is what do I do this year? Baby Bro and his girlfriend have now split up, so there maybe one more person to entertain...perhaps I should have the family round to mine? Perhaps having three of the four siblings around will make it feel more like the family Christmases we used to have? Perhaps I’d enjoy Christmas on my own? Perhaps I’ll have a hot date for Christmas by then...but whatever happens I need to start planning now, because I know my mum well, and it really won’t be long before the nagging starts!