Snow in June

CRUNCH! Ohmigod...I think I’ve just broken something.  One of my limbs must have fallen off.  I’m probably pissing blood out of a main artery as we speak.  The Snowdome will look like the site of a massacre. The children will be scared, for the love of God, someone get me an ambulance!

“You alright down there Nicola?” comes the voice of über cool Luke, the snowboarding instructor.

“It’s Natalie, and no, I think I might be dying.”

“You’re fine Nicola” he says as he plants an über cool snow boot on my board and hauls me to my feet.  I think he knows my name is Natalie (this is the third time I’ve corrected him), so clearly he’s deliberately trying to annoy me by continuing to call me Nicola.

I must say he’s enjoying my spazzy lack of co-ordination a little too much.  It may be because I’m the only girl in this group who hasn’t either a) come with a boyfriend or b) is over the age of ten, but he appears to have taken a liking to me and keeps insisting I have more attempts at the run.  All I want to do is have a breather for five minutes.  I’ve been snow falling (I can’t in all truth call it “boarding” just yet) for two hours now, and I know damn well there’s a Starbucks at the bottom of that slope, and it’s calling me.

I unhook my boots and head to the rope pulley to make yet another ascent to the training area.  In front of me is some wannabe WAG in her 1980’s Princess Diana style skiing jumpsuit.  I instantly hate her.  She’s all blonde hair and bling, looking gorgeous, while I’m knackered, as red as a tomato, and the snow has given me a runny nose, so I look simply delightful.  I have an Ally McBeal moment, and visualise smacking my board over the back of her head to knock out some of her dodgy extensions.  I stop short though when I realise between her legs is an adorable child, who’s probably about two, on a teeny tiny pair of skis. How cute?!  As we get to the top of the run I watch the bimbo abandon her poor child.  I’m horror struck!  The poor kid has probably only just learned to walk and she’s just left him up here!  He turns his cherubic little face to me and grins....Then the little bastard slaloms down to his mother with the grace and speed of an Olympic champion.  I’m so taken aback that I wobble on my board and face-plant the snow.

“No time for napping here Nicola” comes über cool Luke’s mocking tone.

“Ifts Nathfali, you fmuffing fcretin” I snap...luckily my face is still in the snow, so I don’t think he really caught the gist of what I was saying.  I make a mental note not to indulge the urge to drop kick the two year old down the slope when he gets back up here.

Once again Luke hauls me to my feet.  The sadist has new plans for me; we’re trying a new manoeuvre.

“Right Nicola, We’re going to try going forward now, so you’re going to stick your bum out and straighten your knees”

I oblige and assume the position as instructed. 

“Erm, not yet though, I’ll need to be in front of you” says Luke. 

Fuck! I realise that über cool Luke is actually standing very close behind me, holding my fleece so that I don’t start sliding down the slope, and I’ve just pressed my arse right into his crotch. Why isn’t he moving away?? Surely he must know I can’t move too quickly or I’ll lose my balance again?  He needs to move! In an effort to move my arse away from his nether regions I wobble, and the unfortunate result is that I essentially gyrate against him.  Well this is awkward. I’ve just sexually assaulted my snowboarding instructor. Great.   Finally Luke moves in front of me (if you ask me he takes a little too long to move), taking both my hands to guide me down the slope.

“That’s great Natalie”

Oh brilliant.  Now he remembers my name!  (I wouldn’t have minded if I’d been known as Nicola-The-Butt-Wiggler because at least then I could have claimed that clearly it wasn’t me as my name is Natalie.)  I make my slow descent, ignoring the fact that the kids who started their lesson at the same time as me, now look like pros, and I still haven’t made it down the slope unaided. Luke lets me travel the last few meters of slope on my own...Oooh! I’m doing it!  I’m actually doing it!

Splat.

Ok I’m not doing it. I’ve finished doing it.  I will do it no more.  Instructor number two (I didn’t catch his name) appears from nowhere and picks me up.  I think I’m done now.  After nearly three hours, I don’t think my body can take any more bumps and bruises.  I look at him, my eyes pleading.

“I’d like to have a grande latte now with a shot of vanilla” I beg him. 

Thankfully I think he can see I’m done for the day as he doesn’t force me to finish the last fifteen minutes of the lesson.   

I head back to the changing room, and as I get into my dry clothes I realise I’ve forgotten to bring a pair of dry knickers. Fabulous!  I guess I’ll be going home commando then!  I meet Jonesy in the changing rooms.  She’s been getting some practice in while I’ve had my lesson.  She asks me if I’ve enjoyed it.  I tell her no.  But that’s only because I’m not already amazing at it.  I don’t like doing things that I’m not automatically good at.  It doesn’t mean I’m not going to get good at it though.  I’m already thinking of my schedule for July to see where I could squeeze another lesson in.  Did I enjoy it?  In hindsight I guess it was fun.  My calves, thighs and pride disagree with me, but they’ll shut up in a day or so.  Now, after a few hours in wet gloves, my nails are ruined, so if you’ll excuse me I’m off to give myself a mini-mani.  Wish me luck for the next lesson!

New Job, New Shoes!

Clothes ironed? Check.

Lunch made? Check.

New shoes polished? Check.

Glass of wine for my nerves? Double check! 

I started my new job this week, and sitting there, going through my pre-work checks made me feel like it was the first day of school.  Minus the wine of course.  I didn’t drink wine before my first day at school...vodka was my weapon of choice in those days (sighs wistfully). 

Waking up on the morning of my first day was exciting.  I have never been this organised.  At Bra Towers I would just throw on a leggings and top combo, or my jeans and Ugg boots, jump in the car bleary eyed, and make the long slow journey to work.  An hour’s commute was the norm, and so I’d leave it until the very last moment to get up, ensuring that I stopped off at Nero’s for a caffeine hit on the way.  At my new job, I only have a ten minute commute, meaning I have time to watch a bit of Daybreak, have a cup of tea and wake up gently.  It’s a novel concept for me!  I was also kind of excited about the more business-like dress code at my new job.  Being in front of customers all day means I have to at least try and look professional, whereas with next to no contact with customers in my previous job, it was über casual.  It’s been so long since I’ve had to look smart, most of my work trousers are the ones I had from when I was three stone heavier, so I have invested in some nice work clothes.  I also fell in love with some black patent court shoes from Next which were a steal at £28.00. 

I put a lot of thought into the heel height.  This is an important issue for me.  I’m a walking (or falling) disaster on heels, particularly if they’re stilettos.  It must be something about the way I clomp about in shoes, but I cannot seem to stay steady on them.  I’m nervous in heels, and in fact the only time I’m able to master them is after a bottle of White Zinfandel, a few Malibu and Diet Cokes and at least one Jaegerbomb, which results in me throwing caution to the wind!  Sober and I’m a liability.  I was therefore delighted to find shoes with a small two and a half inch pyramid heel, (much better for stability) and at a price that I thought was more than reasonable....I was not however quite so delighted after around three hours wear, when the blister’s that had formed on my little toes had grown so large, they’d actually developed their own personalities.  What made it worse is that these blisters hadn’t turned into nice skin welts.  They were pious little nagging bastards, who wanted to make me hobble around for the rest of the day.  I have learned my lesson though...no matter how un-sexy they are, or how much it offends me that you generally only see them on women over the age of fifty – pop socks are a must if I want to continue wearing these shoes!

I opted for flats today (my second day) to give my poor tootsies chance to recover.  I can’t help but feel this was a wise move, because the last thing my colleagues want to hear is me whinging about my sore feet, and I think customers would think I was mental if I “Ooh” “Aaghed” my way across the showroom, (did I mention I’ve moved from bras to cars?  Bit of a leap product wise...I’ve gone from cup sizes to engine sizes in one easy move), and my new colleagues actually applauded me on my sensible shoe decision!  I’m going to be wearing a skirt tomorrow, so unfortunately I’ll have to brave the heels again, but I’m sure with a little wearing, and some perseverance on my part, they’ll soon be the comfiest shoes I own (??!).  In the meantime, while I settle in, I’ll just have to make a small tweak to my pre-work checks...

Clothes ironed? Check.

Lunch made? Check.

New shoes polished? Check.

Blister plasters packed? Triple check!

The Call Back

So when I left my job at bra towers, I knew I was taking a risk.  No other job lined up to go to, just some time to myself and the hope that a potential employer would be ready and waiting to snap me up.  Some may call this reckless, or even deluded...I liked to call it, optimistic.

I’ve spent the last two weeks, in and out of interviews, sending numerous applications off, but also taking a long hard look at my skills, and what I love doing.  I actually love doing this – writing, but could I make a career out of it?  Probably not – there are far more talented writers out there, who won’t ever get a look in on that front, so it would be a little daft to assume I could ever do this as anything more than a hobby.

I would have loved to have gone into Marketing and used my writing skills there.  When I was at college we visited the head office of the long haul tour operator Kuoni as part of a residential trip.  I loved the idea of being the person who was sent out to the various resorts and hotels, to write about each location, and the merits of choosing this as a holiday destination.  Marketing is tough to get into with no qualifications though, and at my heart I know I’ve always had a real passion for customer service.. The idea of getting back into this appealed to me massively, so I took a chance and applied for a couple of positions that I thought I could shine in.

And now here I am.  I’ve picked up a voicemail from one of the potential employers asking me to contact them...which I do immediately.  Dammit, the chap who interviewed me has gone into a meeting – can he ring me back in half an hour? “Of course!” I trill, as my bowels turn to mush.  Is he calling to offer me the job?  Is it a rejection call?  I’ll be gutted if it is, I really wanted this job.  I sit nervously in my PJ’s (I'm lead to understand this is the daytime attire of many unemployed people, so for the moment, it’s the look I’m going with).  I could go and get changed I suppose, but I don’t want to miss the phone again. Hmm perhaps I’ll make myself some breakfast?  My stomach flips in protest. For the love of God do not consume any food, because there’s a strong likelihood that I will reject it immediately, and I’m not guaranteeing from which end I’ll be making it leave!!  For once, I listen to my gut (literally) and push the thought of breakfast out of my mind.

Bleugh!  This is torture, honestly, why am I putting myself through this?  I liked my old job...I loved my old colleagues...I’m starting to question whether stepping out of my comfort zone was such a good idea?!  Hmm, if he’s calling to offer me the job I’m going to have to buy some work wear...I’ve been used to not being in a customer facing role for quite some time.  I don’t think skinny jeans and a top are going to cut it.  Actually, now I think about it, I quite like the idea of power dressing for work.  Knowing me though I’d forget to scuff the bottoms of my new work shoes and make my grand entrance by going arse over tit on their shiny tiled floor with a rather undignified splat.  Doesn’t matter how well dressed you are in you’re as uncoordinated as I am in heels.

How long has it been now?  Gah, I can’t take the suspense any longer, I may have to call him and tell him to hurry up calling me back...erm no, that’s probably wouldn’t get me off on the right foot.  Aaargh! I don’t even get this wound up waiting for men to call me back after dates!  What is wrong with me?!  I just want him to caaaaall Briiiing!  Oh crap!  That’s him!  I don’t want to answer!  Jeeez I’m indecisive today!  But what if he says you’re a pile of crap and we don’t want you? Briiiing!  Deep breath in, mental slap across the face...Actual slap across the face because the mental one did nothing to calm my hysteria. Posh telephone voice at the ready...

“Hello?”

Ten minutes later and I’m doing a victory dance around the living room.  I’ve been offered the job!  I am the candidate extraordinaire!  I can leap buildings in single bound!  I’m faster than a speeding bullet! I’m...ouch! Oh bollocks, I’m definitely not eighteen any more so I certainly shouldn’t be dancing like this.  I think I’ve just popped a hip. Dancing aside though...this is exciting!  My venture into the unknown is taking me in a direction I didn’t expect to be going, and it feels bloody brilliant.  Right, best get the Scooby gang together for some celebratory drinks!  Congratulations me! :-D

Farewell!

I walked into the office today to be confronted by a picture of my (very drunken) ugly mug, pulling one of my more attractive faces.  The larger than life poster, which had been put up in my honour for my last day at Bra Towers, gives a great view up both of my nostrils, (seriously, people shouldn’t be allowed to carry cameras when I’ve been drinking!) and the caption on the poster reads “Don’t ever change, we love you just the way you are xx”.

This pretty much affirms my Bridget Jones status once and for all, but I was overcome with a warm fuzzy feeling that I think…and I’m about as emotionally retarded as you can get, so there’s always the possibility I’m wrong…but I think it was probably a feeling of belonging.

Lots of people love what they do, or love the people they work with, but for me – well I started here as a nineteen year old, and I’ve actually grown up in this place.  Some of the people I started with on my first day are still here and have watched me grow from a stubborn teenager into…well a stubborn thirty year old (sorry guys, the stubborn bit is genetic I think).  They’ve celebrated each step forward with me, picked me up every time I’ve stumbled (granted many of them have laughed and pointed at me before picking me up…!) and helped me through all of the hard times, of which there have been many.

You spend on average, eight hours a day sleeping, two hours a day commuting, and eight hours a day working, leaving just six to be spent with family and friends, and that’s if you’re lucky.  Over the years I’ve spent more time with my work friends than I have with my husband or boyfriend (by the way for the record I didn’t have a husband and a boyfriend at the same time…just in case you were wondering).  Your colleagues can often become your friends, and here it’s just been made even easier, as they’re such a wonderful bunch of lads and lasses.

It’s going to be strange not turning up at the office every morning…not that I’ll miss the commute, but it’s a routine I’ve had for nearly 11 years…but more than anything I’ll miss my Bra Towers family, and know that wherever I go next, I’ll never get to work with a more wonderful, genuine, friendly, supportive and bloody gorgeous bunch of people.

Thank you everyone – for making my time here so special, and for putting up with my singing, and my sarcasm, and my verbal abuse towards our systems.  I’m going to miss you all heaps xxx

Big Bro's Big Day

My big bro is getting married, and last year I promised myself that I would never again look back on someone’s wedding photos, and see myself looking chunkier than I wanted to be. So naturally my diet for his big day has started in earnest. The only problem is, the numpty has decided to forsake the usual eighteen months worth of wedding preparations. Instead he got engaged just before Christmas, and is having his wedding in July! This combined with the fact that I only remembered the little promise I made to myself last week has put the pressure on somewhat!!!

Therefore I have disregarded all “healthy” weight loss efforts and have opted for a good old fashioned fad diet. I must say it’s working very well, and in the first week I’ve lost 6lbs (Yay for me). Originally I was thinking of going really traditional, and surviving purely on laxatives and smokes, but as I haven’t been living with my house mate for that long, I had second thoughts for her sake. It’s actually not a crazy fad diet...The last one I did saw me giving up actual food, in favour of meal replacement shakes for every meal. At least this one means I get to chew stuff. It’s a high protein, low carb diet, and whilst I usually live on Pasta and Pizza and other foodstuffs with a lot of carby goodness in them, I can honestly say at this point (let’s remember I’m only a week in) I don’t miss them too much.

I’ve got nine weeks until my bro’s big day, so if I can lose about 2lbs a week, then I should be feeling pretty good about myself, but then comes the trauma of finding something to wear for his wedding! Obviously I don’t want to buy something now, as it will (fingers crossed) be too big for me...but then what if there’s nothing nice in the shops when I go to buy something in July? Aaagh, nightmare! There is something very exciting about a wedding though – granted this one will be a bit weird for me, as I’ve only been to one wedding as a singleton, and that was a friend’s so therefore I was surrounded by my group of friends. This is a family wedding, and therefore I suppose I’ll be surrounded by my family...which is great, but there’s also a part of me thinking I might feel a little bit like I’ve regressed to being a teenager again, where you’re dragged along to Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob’s ruby wedding anniversary party – you don’t know anyone but your family, and you therefore end up stuck with them for the evening, when what you want to be doing is busting a few moves like Beyonce on the dance floor. Incidentally, nowadays, if you ever actually see me doing my best Beyonce impression, feel free to slap me hard across the face and remind me that I have no rhythm. (Unpleasant performances like that are best nipped in the bud quickly I find.)

I also have the added dilemma of finding a new signature. That sounds like a really random thing to throw into conversation, but my divorce is imminent (is it wrong to want to shout "Thank F**K for that!" when writing a blog about an impending marriage?) and so by that point I should be fully reverted back to my maiden name (Whoop). I’m actually going to be a witness at the wedding, so will have to sign the marriage book thingy. You may say, well just use the one you had before you got married, which would make sense, but it’s really long, and I’ve got used to the very quick little one I use now...so it’s going to have to change. I better get practicing! I certainly don’t want to fluff it up on the big day....

"Do any persons here present...have an ink eraser pen??"

DVD Heaven

At a recent house party, my friend’s boyfriend asked whether my new house mate was a guy. He was in fact sitting right next to my new house mate, and she’s very definitely all woman, but what made him question it was the DVD collection he was currently admiring – which is in fact mine. In his mind it was a very masculine collection of films, and he couldn’t match up my taste in films with the person he knew me to be. I should probably have been offended, but it’s not the first time someone has commented on it. I once went on a date with a squaddie, who when he dropped me home and saw my DVD collection, automatically asked whether I had a “thing” for soldiers, due to the fact that a) I was on a date with him, and b) I have over twenty films/documentaries which follow a military theme. I don’t (for the record) but obviously I have a military background so it’s something I have an interest in. He wasn’t as observant as he thought he was though, because if he’d looked more closely he would have noticed than many of my DVD’s feature Matt Damon...I have a “thing” for him...not soldiers! Your DVD collection is like your iPod. It’s a window to your soul, and once you put it out there for people to see, they’re able to make assumptions about you, and your personality. I was once on a photo shoot with work, and our photographer had forgotten his iPod. He wasn’t happy to be shooting without music so I offered him the use of mine without really thinking it through, and then witnessed the horror unfold as he hit the “shuffle” button. Annoyingly, I think I was doing okay until Enya’s Orinoco Flow deprived me of any cool points I’d earned up to that point. Was I ashamed though? Was I hell! My musical taste is MY musical taste. Sometimes I want to brood listening to The Cure, other times I want to lie in the bath with a glass of wine unwinding whilst Andrea Bocelli serenades me with Canto Della Terra. When I’m getting ready for a night out I want to listen to something that gets me in the mood to dance, and when I feel the need to be angry at my lot in life, and the men who’ve made me mad, I’ve got Alanis Morrisette and Skunk Anansie to help me vent. I can get lost in a song as easily as I can get lost in a film. Men look at my DVD collection and see the CSI and Spooks series box sets...they see Jarhead, Full Metal Jacket, The Hurtlocker and Black Hawk Down and make assumptions, like my squaddie date did...but that’s because they’re so preoccupied with the films they see that they like they don’t bother to look any further. My girlfriends see the Bridget Jones films, the Titanic’s, Pride & Prejudice’s and the PS I Love You’s of my collection. They see the chick-flicks and Rom Coms that I rely on when I’m feeling low to cheer me up because they're the films they love too. There’s a film for every mood on my DVD shelf, just like there’s a song for every emotion on my iPod, and a book for every occasion on my Kindle. Perhaps the conclusion people should come to, is that I love escapism...and if you want to hold my attention, you’re going to have to make my time around you as much as an escape from the bland reality of day to day life as movies, books and music do. I love my life, and the world I live in, but sometimes it’s just better to get lost in another place altogether. That’s real freedom. That’s my little slice of heaven.

New Look, Same Old Me

Until recently I’ve never actually been dumped. There’s nothing quite like an unexpected ditching (by text no less, and for a reason so pathetic, it’s actually made me glad he gave me the heave-ho, as he was clearly a little bit of a plonker). It makes you reassess absolutely everything. When you’re with someone, there are things you don’t change about yourself image-wise, because you work under the assumption that your partner must be fond of the way you look (or why else would they be with you?).

When I broke up with my ex husband, and moved in with Princess, we spent half a day literally going through every item of clothing that I owned. Possessed by the spirit of a Roman Emperor, Princess sat on my bed as I modelled each garment, simply giving them either a thumbs up or thumbs down. Needless to say after about 8 years of not being particularly fussed about my appearance (it’s difficult to care about the clothes you wear when you’re modelling them in a size 22 carcass) most of my outfits were given the thumbs down.

Luckily the break-up diet had ensured that at this point I’d already dropped a couple of dress sizes, so we set to work on finding out what styles did suit me, and quickly established that I have good legs and great boobs, so it was all about making the most of those assets. We looked at finding ways to disguise my waist (which has no definition) and my arse (which quite frankly has the same surface area as most modestly sized English villages). Leggings and skinny jeans are now my best friends, and empire line tunic style tops which accentuate my boobs and leave my waist and bum as a bit of a mystery are common place in my wardrobe. I also discovered, that whilst I enjoy dressing up in conventional “going out” dresses for nights out at the weekend, I’m most comfortable in my day time attire, which I suppose has a casual, slightly safe “wannabe rock chick but too old to pull it off properly” feel to it, and this is certainly my happy place.

Following the demise of this most recent break up, it wasn’t exactly necessary to have a wardrobe overhaul to quite the same extent, but a couple of things have indeed spurred me on in terms of a slight image make-over. Firstly I was (and it’s sad to admit it), slightly inspired by the recent advert for Boots...you know the one, mental woman twirling around in a summer dress, hair two shades lighter than usual, and a lipstick a shade brighter? Yep, that made me realise it was time to go back to blonde. Also though, I read a great little blog entry (http://news.bravissimo.com/003970/work-smarter-not-harder/) which completely made me think about the power image can have on one’s self esteem and productivity!

So, for these reasons, last week I hit the bottle...the bottle of hair lightener that is... and I scheduled myself in with the hairdresser for a chop. It’s not often you walk out of the salon instantly loving your new do, but I can honestly say that as my hairdresser did the obligatory “show you the back of your head with a mirror” thing, I felt instantly revitalised. A graduated bob, and a few highlights have done wonders for making me feel as though I’ve regained control, and the diet has started again in earnest. I’m saving my pennies for a bit of a spending spree once I’ve shifted a few more lbs, and I’m ready to face summer head on.

I’m not a vain person, and I also don’t feel that you should ever judge a book by its cover, but it’s certainly true in my case, that a pretty frock and a set of killer heels makes me like myself that little bit more, and there’s nothing wrong with putting yourself first every now and then!