Dear Mr Right (you know who you are),
Ref: My feelings with regards to the ridiculous distance you have put between us.
I’m writing to make you aware of my feelings with regards to the way our relationship has developed over the last year and a bit, so that you can fully understand the predicament I find myself in now.
Firstly I feel that on our first encounter, you falsely advertised yourself as a potential “Prince Charming” by being utterly gorgeous and wholly available (i.e. living just thirty minutes from me), when in fact you were in the process of packing up your castle, and riding your steed three hundred miles away, to what felt like the other side of the world.
I could have accepted that I had made an error, and that you weren’t actually supposed to be in my life, however despite the ridiculous distance, you have been able to hold my attention and I can only assume this is because of the following:
1) You speak to me and text me so regularly, that it’s kind of like having a boyfriend, but without the “sexy time”.
2) You call me at work (granted this is usually to try and embarrass me in front of my colleagues by arguing with me on the phone) but again, it then feels as though I actually have a “significant other” on the end of the line, who cares enough to call me.
3) You laugh at me when I say stupid things, but never make me feel stupid...even when I accidentally send you a text telling you about my most recent bikini wax appointment, that was clearly not meant for you!
4) You do sweet things like send me 51 (at the last count) messages one after the other, each containing a single kiss: one because it’s sweet and two, because you know that my phone will be having a dickie fit with all the “pings” and vibrate alerts that it will make me giggle.
5) When I was actually seeing a real life person (as opposed to you, who’s so far away I sometimes wonder if I’ve made you up) you were decent enough to refrain from flirting with me, but you kept our friendship strong by not losing touch with me.
6) You have a funny accent, which I adore.
7) You wear Superman pants...I mean...what girl could resist that?
8) You are one of just two people who tell me off (the other is my mother) that I struggle to argue with.
9) You’re the first man in the world that I’ve ever let get away with calling me “woman”, and I’m still not sure why I don’t mind when you do it?!
10) You don’t take my crazy ramblings too seriously, even though I do a pretty good impression of a complete lunatic at times.
Given all of the above, I have come to the conclusion that actually, I have been left no option other than to let myself become smitten with you, and this, I feel, is where you have let me down, because clearly this is not an option whilst you live a gazillion miles away. I therefore respectfully request, that as a form of compensation to me, you re-locate back up to the midlands. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request under the circumstances.
Yours sincerely
Miss (Always) Right
Monday, 5 December 2011
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Man Talk
The other night I was delighted to see that ITV2 were showing The Witches Of Eastwick as their late night film. I love this movie. The first time I watched it I was probably about sixteen, and as a big fan of Cher in her capacity as an actress (ever since I was introduced to the film Mermaids as a youngster) I remember thinking it was dark, funny and just a little bit wicked.
My first TV was an old black and white portable and I was allowed to have this in my bedroom. My parents were quite strict though with regards to what I watched on TV, so the rule was that I wasn’t allowed to watch anything in my room, past the 9pm watershed. Naturally I ignored this rule completely as soon as I got my first TV set, and would sit watching late night films, perched on the end of my bed. I should state that I had to perch on the end of my bed, with the volume on at practically NOTHING, because the ancient TV set didn’t have a remote control, and my parent’s had the very annoying habit of coming to “check on me” before they retired for the evening. I therefore had to be at the ready to switch it off and jump back into bed and offer an Oscar winning “sleepy performance” with some fake snoring noises, should I hear their footsteps on the stairs.
I mean seriously – why do parents have to check on you like that? Where exactly do they think you’ll be when they go to bed? This isn’t the States! We don’t live in one story houses where climbing out of windows is a relatively easy affair! I lived in an urban area, and there were no giant trees outside my window that I could have used to climb in and out of my bedroom...besides...I was a good girl and to be fair have always loved my bed, so the chances of me getting out of it for any reason other than for food, were relatively slim.
Given that I’m currently back at mums house, when I saw the TV listings, I was filled with nostalgia, and decided to settle in for the night for my Jack Nicholson fix. Whilst watching it (now as an adult) a certain line in the film struck a chord with me. The three main characters (played by Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Phieffer) are talking about what they want in a man...good looks, a kind heart, money, a big...e-hem (!)... After much deliberation they decide wishing for the perfect man is futile, and Cher’s character concludes that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy, at which point Susan’s character points out:
“Well why do we always end up talking about them?”
I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. My group of friends are a mixture of serial singletons, long term relationship-ee’s, and married women. All of them are strong and sometimes feisty women, good jobs, great social lives, outside interests and hobbies. All of them caring and compassionate women, who’s friends mean the world to them...and yet nine times out of ten, after half a bottle of White Zinfandel, the topic of conversation will have turned to men.
BLOODY MEN! And I’m one of the worst culprits. Do I feel like I need to be in a relationship? Nope. Do I rely on a man to do things for me or look after me? Nope. None of my friends do...and yet we always end up talking about them. My married friends complain about the lack of help they get in the home, or gush about the romantic things their husbands do for them, my friends in a relationship talk about whether they should be taking their relationship to the next level, or tell you excitedly about the surprise treat their boyfriend had for them when they got home yesterday. My single friends wonder when their Mr Right is going to walk through the door, or just entertain me with tales of their dating disasters, but despite this constant dialogue centred around the male of the species, we all maintain that we Do NOT Need A Man!
Clearly we all do, else they wouldn’t be our fall back conversation...surely??
I’ve recently stopped seeing CB, and have found myself back on the singles market (another one bites the dust). I know that when the time is right I shall revert back to my single mentality and continue the search for my Prince Charming, despite the fact that I’ve actually got far bigger and more important life ambitions to focus on at the moment. I’m not sure whether it’s coded into our genetic make-up that we should constantly be aware of the opposite sex, and always looking for the man that’s going to give us beautiful babies, and provide us with a safe environment within which to thrive. All I know is, that a group of women will always end up discussing what they don’t have, what they do have, and what they truly want, and it will always somehow come back to relationships. I guess it’s like they say – we’re all looking for true love, whether we realise it or not.
My first TV was an old black and white portable and I was allowed to have this in my bedroom. My parents were quite strict though with regards to what I watched on TV, so the rule was that I wasn’t allowed to watch anything in my room, past the 9pm watershed. Naturally I ignored this rule completely as soon as I got my first TV set, and would sit watching late night films, perched on the end of my bed. I should state that I had to perch on the end of my bed, with the volume on at practically NOTHING, because the ancient TV set didn’t have a remote control, and my parent’s had the very annoying habit of coming to “check on me” before they retired for the evening. I therefore had to be at the ready to switch it off and jump back into bed and offer an Oscar winning “sleepy performance” with some fake snoring noises, should I hear their footsteps on the stairs.
I mean seriously – why do parents have to check on you like that? Where exactly do they think you’ll be when they go to bed? This isn’t the States! We don’t live in one story houses where climbing out of windows is a relatively easy affair! I lived in an urban area, and there were no giant trees outside my window that I could have used to climb in and out of my bedroom...besides...I was a good girl and to be fair have always loved my bed, so the chances of me getting out of it for any reason other than for food, were relatively slim.
Given that I’m currently back at mums house, when I saw the TV listings, I was filled with nostalgia, and decided to settle in for the night for my Jack Nicholson fix. Whilst watching it (now as an adult) a certain line in the film struck a chord with me. The three main characters (played by Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Phieffer) are talking about what they want in a man...good looks, a kind heart, money, a big...e-hem (!)... After much deliberation they decide wishing for the perfect man is futile, and Cher’s character concludes that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy, at which point Susan’s character points out:
“Well why do we always end up talking about them?”
I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. My group of friends are a mixture of serial singletons, long term relationship-ee’s, and married women. All of them are strong and sometimes feisty women, good jobs, great social lives, outside interests and hobbies. All of them caring and compassionate women, who’s friends mean the world to them...and yet nine times out of ten, after half a bottle of White Zinfandel, the topic of conversation will have turned to men.
BLOODY MEN! And I’m one of the worst culprits. Do I feel like I need to be in a relationship? Nope. Do I rely on a man to do things for me or look after me? Nope. None of my friends do...and yet we always end up talking about them. My married friends complain about the lack of help they get in the home, or gush about the romantic things their husbands do for them, my friends in a relationship talk about whether they should be taking their relationship to the next level, or tell you excitedly about the surprise treat their boyfriend had for them when they got home yesterday. My single friends wonder when their Mr Right is going to walk through the door, or just entertain me with tales of their dating disasters, but despite this constant dialogue centred around the male of the species, we all maintain that we Do NOT Need A Man!
Clearly we all do, else they wouldn’t be our fall back conversation...surely??
I’ve recently stopped seeing CB, and have found myself back on the singles market (another one bites the dust). I know that when the time is right I shall revert back to my single mentality and continue the search for my Prince Charming, despite the fact that I’ve actually got far bigger and more important life ambitions to focus on at the moment. I’m not sure whether it’s coded into our genetic make-up that we should constantly be aware of the opposite sex, and always looking for the man that’s going to give us beautiful babies, and provide us with a safe environment within which to thrive. All I know is, that a group of women will always end up discussing what they don’t have, what they do have, and what they truly want, and it will always somehow come back to relationships. I guess it’s like they say – we’re all looking for true love, whether we realise it or not.
Monday, 5 September 2011
The Dinner Date
I've been working for the same company for ten years now, and in recognition of mine and a number of other colleagues length of service, the MD is very kindly treating us to a black tie dinner, with a night stop in a hotel for ourselves and a guest.
Naturally the girls will be taking their husbands and boyfriends, but I was in a bit of a quandary as to who to take, as although I have a new man in my life ...let's call him "CB" (it's the initials of his nickname) we haven't exactly upgraded our relationship to boyfriend/girlfriend status.
I thought about taking my bezzie boy mate...he's more than capable of charming the pants of both men and women, he'd thrive on chatting to everyone, and as a squaddie would relish the opportunity to get fed and watered on someone else's dollar. The only problem is, he knows way too much about me, and after a couple of glasses of wine, would undoubtedly be regaling my colleagues with embarrassing stories of me as a teenager, or me now as a drunken idiot on nights out...and well quite frankly, I don't think him telling my MD about the time he and his girlfriend had to put me to bed after I passed out on their floor following drinking games, is going to do much for my career in the long term.
So I got to thinking about CB, and whether he'd like to come. I didn't expect him to in all honesty. As a plasterer, ninety percent of the time you'll find him in combat shorts and a dusty t-shirt, and the other ten percent of the time he'll be in Jeans and a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, so the idea of him doing the whole "black tie" DJ and dickie bow thing seemed a little off point for him.
He's a quiet man around people he doesn't know, but when he's warmed up with a beer he'll chat to anyone. He's also not at all serious...I mean not serious about anything...this is the man who high fived me after an energetic bedroom session because he wanted me to feel "appreciated"...I don't know what amused me more, the fact that he did it, or the fact that I instinctively returned the high five. (I have advised him that standard post coital procedures such as cuddling are to be followed in future and he seems to have learned his lesson)
Is it safe to take him? Actually I think it is, and not only is it safe, but at least I know we'll have a giggle together. Not least because when he get's his dancing shoes on he REALLY goes for it! I seriously haven't seen anyone else throw shapes on the dancefloor like CB does, so he'll keep all the girls happy just through his sheer entertainment value. Also, its more likely that at this early stage, my colleagues will be able to provide more embarrassing stories about me than he will, so no fear of having my P45 handed to me the following Monday!
Of course if he changes his mind and decides he doesn't want to get trussed up like a turkey at Christmas I'll just have to find another charismatic individual to join me. If you're interested in being put on the back-up list, please apply in writing to
Natz Needs A Date
PO BOX 123
Loserville
Right...well I suppose I better start internet shopping for a new cocktail dress. (Any excuse) so Ta-ta for now!
Naturally the girls will be taking their husbands and boyfriends, but I was in a bit of a quandary as to who to take, as although I have a new man in my life ...let's call him "CB" (it's the initials of his nickname) we haven't exactly upgraded our relationship to boyfriend/girlfriend status.
I thought about taking my bezzie boy mate...he's more than capable of charming the pants of both men and women, he'd thrive on chatting to everyone, and as a squaddie would relish the opportunity to get fed and watered on someone else's dollar. The only problem is, he knows way too much about me, and after a couple of glasses of wine, would undoubtedly be regaling my colleagues with embarrassing stories of me as a teenager, or me now as a drunken idiot on nights out...and well quite frankly, I don't think him telling my MD about the time he and his girlfriend had to put me to bed after I passed out on their floor following drinking games, is going to do much for my career in the long term.
So I got to thinking about CB, and whether he'd like to come. I didn't expect him to in all honesty. As a plasterer, ninety percent of the time you'll find him in combat shorts and a dusty t-shirt, and the other ten percent of the time he'll be in Jeans and a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, so the idea of him doing the whole "black tie" DJ and dickie bow thing seemed a little off point for him.
He's a quiet man around people he doesn't know, but when he's warmed up with a beer he'll chat to anyone. He's also not at all serious...I mean not serious about anything...this is the man who high fived me after an energetic bedroom session because he wanted me to feel "appreciated"...I don't know what amused me more, the fact that he did it, or the fact that I instinctively returned the high five. (I have advised him that standard post coital procedures such as cuddling are to be followed in future and he seems to have learned his lesson)
Is it safe to take him? Actually I think it is, and not only is it safe, but at least I know we'll have a giggle together. Not least because when he get's his dancing shoes on he REALLY goes for it! I seriously haven't seen anyone else throw shapes on the dancefloor like CB does, so he'll keep all the girls happy just through his sheer entertainment value. Also, its more likely that at this early stage, my colleagues will be able to provide more embarrassing stories about me than he will, so no fear of having my P45 handed to me the following Monday!
Of course if he changes his mind and decides he doesn't want to get trussed up like a turkey at Christmas I'll just have to find another charismatic individual to join me. If you're interested in being put on the back-up list, please apply in writing to
Natz Needs A Date
PO BOX 123
Loserville
Right...well I suppose I better start internet shopping for a new cocktail dress. (Any excuse) so Ta-ta for now!
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Inner "Zen"
People often speak about the benefits of a healthy body and a healthy mind. I have often listened to people rattle on about their “active” lifestyles (usually as I devour a Mars bar and a large glass of cabernet sauvignon) and whilst I have been curious about their ability to maintain such a lifestyle, I have never been drawn to it as such. This is something that strange “healthy” people do...not chubby girls addicted to wine and chocolate!
Recently however I have been pulled into this strange new world, and now find myself attending three fitness classes a week, and one gym session....more interesting however is the fact that I’ve now been doing this for about six weeks. (A record for me I’m sure).
My routine consists of a gym session, a full body work out session, a tums and bums session (I will have buns of steel God dammit) and a seventy five minute yoga session.
Now the cardio body workouts were always a concern to me, as they’re basically dance workouts with more squatting and more weights, and the fact is, that even though I’ve been doing shows since the tender age of 13, I literally have NO coordination. Ask any choreographer I’ve worked with, and they will tell you, that any kind of organised “routine” will leave me confused, and very often crumpled on the floor when my legs refuse to go in the direction my brain is telling them to go.
Trying to combine this fast paced choreography with a “Ministry Of Sound” inspired dance track will inevitably leave me looking like, well...let’s face it, a complete and utter twonk (Twonk...haven’t used that word in ages!!). It’s not graceful, elegant or particularly cool, so these kind of classes always make me feel a little uncomfortable to say the least!
I have however stuck with it, and I’m pleased to say that I am noticing that my fitness is improving! (Yay, go me!) The biggest surprise for me however has been Yoga. Years ago, a colleague (Lou Galland this is you) told me that Yoga was great, but that she had encountered the worst thing you could possibly imagine at her Yoga class....someone, whilst relaxing a little too much, had farted. I had (until this little revelation) quite liked the idea of Yoga. The fact of the matter is though, that I am too juvenile to be able to cope with someone farting in a class. I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have killed myself laughing, and that this would not really be appropriate in a class environment, not to mention the fact that my giggles would undoubtedly have made the culprit feel worse about their uncontrollable flatulence.
Many years down the line however, (older, wiser and more mature) I decided I wanted to give it a go. I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed these classes. It’s the one time of the week that I can genuinely let go of everything in my head, and have some real “Me” time. I am actively looking forward to my Monday night session (which after the stresses of Monday Trading in a retail work environment is actually crucial to help me maintain my sanity).
I walk away from those sessions with a feeling that I can only describe as similar to that light headed, fuzzy relaxed feeling you get after good sex...well usually I do anyway...this week however was a little different, as for the first time since my colleague’s warning, an old guy at the back of the class decided to drop his arse in the middle of the “Cat Pose”. His timing couldn’t have been better to be fair. It was deathly silent, even the whale music that the Yoga instructor plays on her iPod had paused while it moved to the next panpipes classic track. Obviously I haven’t matured as much as I would like to think over the years, as before I knew it, the chuckle was building in my throat. I thought I’d just about managed to control it as I repositioned myself into “Down Dog”, but with my head tucked under I was then confronted by the next weapon in his “arse”nal...which was the smell. God Damn! My chuckle turned into a choke, and there’s no doubt in my mind that everyone knew the reason behind my half giggle, half gag spluttering fit.
Embarrassing as this was I will continue with my classes...not just because they’re improving my flexibility, and not just because it’s funny watching myself and others try and bend themselves into completely unnatural positions, but because in spite of the flatulence, it’s the only time I get to connect with my inner Zen...and we all need a little Zen in our lives....stinky or not!
Recently however I have been pulled into this strange new world, and now find myself attending three fitness classes a week, and one gym session....more interesting however is the fact that I’ve now been doing this for about six weeks. (A record for me I’m sure).
My routine consists of a gym session, a full body work out session, a tums and bums session (I will have buns of steel God dammit) and a seventy five minute yoga session.
Now the cardio body workouts were always a concern to me, as they’re basically dance workouts with more squatting and more weights, and the fact is, that even though I’ve been doing shows since the tender age of 13, I literally have NO coordination. Ask any choreographer I’ve worked with, and they will tell you, that any kind of organised “routine” will leave me confused, and very often crumpled on the floor when my legs refuse to go in the direction my brain is telling them to go.
Trying to combine this fast paced choreography with a “Ministry Of Sound” inspired dance track will inevitably leave me looking like, well...let’s face it, a complete and utter twonk (Twonk...haven’t used that word in ages!!). It’s not graceful, elegant or particularly cool, so these kind of classes always make me feel a little uncomfortable to say the least!
I have however stuck with it, and I’m pleased to say that I am noticing that my fitness is improving! (Yay, go me!) The biggest surprise for me however has been Yoga. Years ago, a colleague (Lou Galland this is you) told me that Yoga was great, but that she had encountered the worst thing you could possibly imagine at her Yoga class....someone, whilst relaxing a little too much, had farted. I had (until this little revelation) quite liked the idea of Yoga. The fact of the matter is though, that I am too juvenile to be able to cope with someone farting in a class. I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have killed myself laughing, and that this would not really be appropriate in a class environment, not to mention the fact that my giggles would undoubtedly have made the culprit feel worse about their uncontrollable flatulence.
Many years down the line however, (older, wiser and more mature) I decided I wanted to give it a go. I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed these classes. It’s the one time of the week that I can genuinely let go of everything in my head, and have some real “Me” time. I am actively looking forward to my Monday night session (which after the stresses of Monday Trading in a retail work environment is actually crucial to help me maintain my sanity).
I walk away from those sessions with a feeling that I can only describe as similar to that light headed, fuzzy relaxed feeling you get after good sex...well usually I do anyway...this week however was a little different, as for the first time since my colleague’s warning, an old guy at the back of the class decided to drop his arse in the middle of the “Cat Pose”. His timing couldn’t have been better to be fair. It was deathly silent, even the whale music that the Yoga instructor plays on her iPod had paused while it moved to the next panpipes classic track. Obviously I haven’t matured as much as I would like to think over the years, as before I knew it, the chuckle was building in my throat. I thought I’d just about managed to control it as I repositioned myself into “Down Dog”, but with my head tucked under I was then confronted by the next weapon in his “arse”nal...which was the smell. God Damn! My chuckle turned into a choke, and there’s no doubt in my mind that everyone knew the reason behind my half giggle, half gag spluttering fit.
Embarrassing as this was I will continue with my classes...not just because they’re improving my flexibility, and not just because it’s funny watching myself and others try and bend themselves into completely unnatural positions, but because in spite of the flatulence, it’s the only time I get to connect with my inner Zen...and we all need a little Zen in our lives....stinky or not!
Monday, 18 July 2011
Treat Me Nice!
I'm not used to being spoilt. My parents never spoiled me. I always had to earn all of the nice things I had, through chores or through a Saturday job. My parents taught me that nothing comes for free and money doesn't grow on trees. (Judging by my credit card statement this month however it appears the latter lesson was somewhat wasted on me!!)
When I was about fifteen I had a boyfriend for about three months, who did indeed try to spoil me. I was in a show and when he came to see me in the show, he presented me with a (silk) red rose, and a silver ring he'd bought whilst on holiday in Devon. At the time I'd thought he was lush. He played the tuba in a local colliery band and I had images of him being my Ewan McGregor in Brassed Off. After his rather naff gift presentation I realised he was in fact just a gimp with an oversized trumpet and dumped him on the spot. Don't judge me! I was young and hadn't grown into my manners yet! (I still feel pretty awful about it now).
I met my ex husband a couple of years later, and he was the polar opposite. Not a "gifty" kind of person at all. In fact for the last three years of our relationship I didn't even get a birthday present. Promises of "I'll take you shopping for something you REALLY want" never materialised unfortunately. He claimed he didn't believe in Valentines Day, dubbing it "Hallmark Day" so my treat would consist of a card from the local Costcutter, brought at the end of the day on his way home from work. His best ever gift-faux-pas however was the Christmas where he thought a set of plastic cooking utensils from Woolworth's, would be an appropriate gift for me. He was lucky he didn't end up with a fish slice shoved up his poop chute. I spent all day thinking that my "real" present would be given to me at some point, only to find that alas...the man was a tool, and there was no "real" present.
So taking all the above into consideration, (and my inexperience with regards to men treating me) imagine my surprise and delight, when on Thursday last week, I had the most enormous bouquet of flowers delivered to my door! The new "bit of stuff" ;-) decided to treat me, and its not the first time either. He's really rather good at doing unexpected, genuinely lovely things. I'm not just talking about gifts and treats (which are sooooo lovely, don't get me wrong), but he's generous with his time, and has already spent time helping me move, helping me and my brother move a non road-worthy motorbike from here to Coventry, and just generally being there to indulge me when I need a bit of attention, be it in person or by text/phone.
Time is the most precious thing we have ladels and jellyspoons! I love being treated for once in my life, but time with someone who makes you giggle, be it friend, lover, sibling or spouse is the best way to be spoilt, and we should never take it for granted!
When I was about fifteen I had a boyfriend for about three months, who did indeed try to spoil me. I was in a show and when he came to see me in the show, he presented me with a (silk) red rose, and a silver ring he'd bought whilst on holiday in Devon. At the time I'd thought he was lush. He played the tuba in a local colliery band and I had images of him being my Ewan McGregor in Brassed Off. After his rather naff gift presentation I realised he was in fact just a gimp with an oversized trumpet and dumped him on the spot. Don't judge me! I was young and hadn't grown into my manners yet! (I still feel pretty awful about it now).
I met my ex husband a couple of years later, and he was the polar opposite. Not a "gifty" kind of person at all. In fact for the last three years of our relationship I didn't even get a birthday present. Promises of "I'll take you shopping for something you REALLY want" never materialised unfortunately. He claimed he didn't believe in Valentines Day, dubbing it "Hallmark Day" so my treat would consist of a card from the local Costcutter, brought at the end of the day on his way home from work. His best ever gift-faux-pas however was the Christmas where he thought a set of plastic cooking utensils from Woolworth's, would be an appropriate gift for me. He was lucky he didn't end up with a fish slice shoved up his poop chute. I spent all day thinking that my "real" present would be given to me at some point, only to find that alas...the man was a tool, and there was no "real" present.
So taking all the above into consideration, (and my inexperience with regards to men treating me) imagine my surprise and delight, when on Thursday last week, I had the most enormous bouquet of flowers delivered to my door! The new "bit of stuff" ;-) decided to treat me, and its not the first time either. He's really rather good at doing unexpected, genuinely lovely things. I'm not just talking about gifts and treats (which are sooooo lovely, don't get me wrong), but he's generous with his time, and has already spent time helping me move, helping me and my brother move a non road-worthy motorbike from here to Coventry, and just generally being there to indulge me when I need a bit of attention, be it in person or by text/phone.
Time is the most precious thing we have ladels and jellyspoons! I love being treated for once in my life, but time with someone who makes you giggle, be it friend, lover, sibling or spouse is the best way to be spoilt, and we should never take it for granted!
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Mum's The Word!
Okay, so two weeks ago I did something I never thought I'd see myself doing. I moved back to my mums.
My nan is selling the house I rent from her, so I had two options. Find a little flat to rent...or go back to mums and save for somewhere to buy. I chose the latter, and don't mind admitting I was scared stiff!
Don't get me wrong, it means I can pay off those pesky credit cards, and get myself on an even footing again, but it's been 13 years since I left home! On top of that, mum has only been married to her hubbie for five minutes...talk about gatecrashing their honeymoon period!
Having been moved back now for two weeks I realise there wasn't much to be scared of really. We're pretty much ships that pass in the night, and I haven't felt claustrophobic or uncomfortable at all. My mum does have a habit of leaving messages for me on the fridge with magnetic letters...which would be fine if they weren't messages which the guy I'm seeing can read when he stops over...such as "practice safe sex Natz!" and such like, but that's mum and that's her sense of humour!
I'm starting to feel the obvious benefits of living cheaply which feels great and has allowed me to relax quite a bit, and that's no mean feat giving that my divorce is now going through so obviously that should normally be a stressful time, but the money I'm saving is going to help me afford it, which relieves some of the stress. I'm also reaping the benefits of having access to a free home gym and have shifted a good 4lbs since moving home (bonus!). Its not like being a kid all over again. I don't get my meals cooked for me, or my cleaning done for me, but its safe, comfortable, and for a little while at least...its home :)
My nan is selling the house I rent from her, so I had two options. Find a little flat to rent...or go back to mums and save for somewhere to buy. I chose the latter, and don't mind admitting I was scared stiff!
Don't get me wrong, it means I can pay off those pesky credit cards, and get myself on an even footing again, but it's been 13 years since I left home! On top of that, mum has only been married to her hubbie for five minutes...talk about gatecrashing their honeymoon period!
Having been moved back now for two weeks I realise there wasn't much to be scared of really. We're pretty much ships that pass in the night, and I haven't felt claustrophobic or uncomfortable at all. My mum does have a habit of leaving messages for me on the fridge with magnetic letters...which would be fine if they weren't messages which the guy I'm seeing can read when he stops over...such as "practice safe sex Natz!" and such like, but that's mum and that's her sense of humour!
I'm starting to feel the obvious benefits of living cheaply which feels great and has allowed me to relax quite a bit, and that's no mean feat giving that my divorce is now going through so obviously that should normally be a stressful time, but the money I'm saving is going to help me afford it, which relieves some of the stress. I'm also reaping the benefits of having access to a free home gym and have shifted a good 4lbs since moving home (bonus!). Its not like being a kid all over again. I don't get my meals cooked for me, or my cleaning done for me, but its safe, comfortable, and for a little while at least...its home :)
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Get Off Your Soap Box - No'one Asked For Your Opinion!
Twenty a day. I’ve been smoking since I was about thirteen, and I’ve smoked twenty a day for at least the last ten years – probably more. That means that in the last ten years I’ve spent over £16.5k on cigarettes. Insane.
I would love to give up smoking, and I’m reaching that point where I know I’m ready to give up. I can tell because I’m more conscious of the fact I can smell cigarettes on my clothes, and it offends my nostrils. Looking back over the years though, I’ve always defended my decision to smoke.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been approached by random strangers, who feel it’s appropriate to point out that I have “a filthy disgusting habit”. It’s always bothered me – the gall of some people. If you saw an overweight person walking out of Greggs with a sausage roll, you wouldn’t walk up to them and say;
“Oi! Fatty! Put down the sausage roll! One more of those and your arteries might give up for good!”
Yet anti smokers seem to think it’s completely okay to tell smokers that they shouldn’t be smoking. I remember one time a man walking up to me and asking me the most ridiculous question I think I’ve ever been asked. I was stood outside my office enjoying my first cigarette of the day. He walked towards me, stopped (literally inches from the end of my cigarette) and said;
“You know those will kill you, right?”
My response was simple.
“To be fair sir, out of the two of us I would suggest that you were closer to your death bed right now, owing to the fact you’ve broken the golden rule and pissed off a smoker before she’s had her morning nicotine fix.”
I mean really! What kind of a stupid question is that? I mean it’s not like smokers aren’t bombarded daily with statistics and facts about the health implications of their addiction. It’s not like we don’t see the adverts and the stop smoking campaigns. We watch as acupuncturists, hypnotherapists, life coaches and authors make a lot of money out of nicotine addicts through various quitting treatments, which in itself suggests there are reasons to give up. On top of that though, every time we purchase a pack of those evil little sticks, we’re confronted with images and government warnings about how our purchase will undoubtedly affect our health in a negative way.
What kind of a moron would I have to be to have missed all of this, and be unaware that cigarettes are bad for me?!
Anti smokers, are in my opinion, some of the biggest arseholes on the planet. I’m not talking about non smokers, or ex smokers. They two choose not to smoke. Ex smokers have taken the decision to change their habits for the better, and non smokers have chosen never to fall into the trap. These non smokers don’t have any particularly negative feelings towards smoking, other than the fact it’s not something they choose to do themselves. Anti smokers however, harbour over exaggerated feelings of contempt towards smokers, and their choice to smoke despite having no understanding of what it’s like to be trapped by an addiction.
Sometimes I can half understand, if their feelings of contempt are borne out of losing a loved one to a smoking related illness. It’s natural to resent those who continue to puff away with no apparent regard for the effect it could have on them, when someone you’ve cared about would have given anything to undo all the harm they did to themselves and their loved ones, when unfortunately it was simply too late. Having said this, nine times out of ten, anti smokers are usually just self important, up their own arses goody two shoes, who get a kick out of feeling as though they’re superior to the rest of us. They’re usually the people who “know their limits” with regards to alcohol, and can always go one better if you’re telling them about your latest achievement. They have to convince themselves of their superiority by belittling others around them, and unfortunately...that just doesn’t work for me.
We all have our flaws, whether we care to acknowledge them or not, and a blinkered perspective on life just makes you look like a tool. Instead of getting on your soap box, to preach about something that you have absolutely no understanding of, why not start looking a little more closely at yourself? If you really feel the need to tell everyone how amazing and perfect you are, doesn’t that suggest that you know people won’t ever see it unless you point it out to them? In which case...can you really be that perfect and virtuous?
I’m getting ready to give up smoking for good. Not for anyone else other than myself, and because in ten years time, £16.5k in my pocket could buy me some really pretty shoes! My life. My choices. My rules. My shoes.
I would love to give up smoking, and I’m reaching that point where I know I’m ready to give up. I can tell because I’m more conscious of the fact I can smell cigarettes on my clothes, and it offends my nostrils. Looking back over the years though, I’ve always defended my decision to smoke.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been approached by random strangers, who feel it’s appropriate to point out that I have “a filthy disgusting habit”. It’s always bothered me – the gall of some people. If you saw an overweight person walking out of Greggs with a sausage roll, you wouldn’t walk up to them and say;
“Oi! Fatty! Put down the sausage roll! One more of those and your arteries might give up for good!”
Yet anti smokers seem to think it’s completely okay to tell smokers that they shouldn’t be smoking. I remember one time a man walking up to me and asking me the most ridiculous question I think I’ve ever been asked. I was stood outside my office enjoying my first cigarette of the day. He walked towards me, stopped (literally inches from the end of my cigarette) and said;
“You know those will kill you, right?”
My response was simple.
“To be fair sir, out of the two of us I would suggest that you were closer to your death bed right now, owing to the fact you’ve broken the golden rule and pissed off a smoker before she’s had her morning nicotine fix.”
I mean really! What kind of a stupid question is that? I mean it’s not like smokers aren’t bombarded daily with statistics and facts about the health implications of their addiction. It’s not like we don’t see the adverts and the stop smoking campaigns. We watch as acupuncturists, hypnotherapists, life coaches and authors make a lot of money out of nicotine addicts through various quitting treatments, which in itself suggests there are reasons to give up. On top of that though, every time we purchase a pack of those evil little sticks, we’re confronted with images and government warnings about how our purchase will undoubtedly affect our health in a negative way.
What kind of a moron would I have to be to have missed all of this, and be unaware that cigarettes are bad for me?!
Anti smokers, are in my opinion, some of the biggest arseholes on the planet. I’m not talking about non smokers, or ex smokers. They two choose not to smoke. Ex smokers have taken the decision to change their habits for the better, and non smokers have chosen never to fall into the trap. These non smokers don’t have any particularly negative feelings towards smoking, other than the fact it’s not something they choose to do themselves. Anti smokers however, harbour over exaggerated feelings of contempt towards smokers, and their choice to smoke despite having no understanding of what it’s like to be trapped by an addiction.
Sometimes I can half understand, if their feelings of contempt are borne out of losing a loved one to a smoking related illness. It’s natural to resent those who continue to puff away with no apparent regard for the effect it could have on them, when someone you’ve cared about would have given anything to undo all the harm they did to themselves and their loved ones, when unfortunately it was simply too late. Having said this, nine times out of ten, anti smokers are usually just self important, up their own arses goody two shoes, who get a kick out of feeling as though they’re superior to the rest of us. They’re usually the people who “know their limits” with regards to alcohol, and can always go one better if you’re telling them about your latest achievement. They have to convince themselves of their superiority by belittling others around them, and unfortunately...that just doesn’t work for me.
We all have our flaws, whether we care to acknowledge them or not, and a blinkered perspective on life just makes you look like a tool. Instead of getting on your soap box, to preach about something that you have absolutely no understanding of, why not start looking a little more closely at yourself? If you really feel the need to tell everyone how amazing and perfect you are, doesn’t that suggest that you know people won’t ever see it unless you point it out to them? In which case...can you really be that perfect and virtuous?
I’m getting ready to give up smoking for good. Not for anyone else other than myself, and because in ten years time, £16.5k in my pocket could buy me some really pretty shoes! My life. My choices. My rules. My shoes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)