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!
Monday 30 August 2010
Tuesday 17 August 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
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 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...
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