I'm Just Not A Morning Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A (Wo)man's Best Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I’m not a bloke.

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

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

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

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

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

The Modern Dating Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Friends, A VW Camper, & An Unfortunate Garden Appliance Themed Fatality

I have ridiculously varied musical tastes, and pretty much listen to most things. Jonesy is the same as me. In a game of Guess The Intro she will beat anyone hands down, correctly supplying the band name, song title and release date (UK and Worldwide) within a matter of seconds – which ultimately annoys the crap out of everyone else playing (no’one likes a smartarse Jonesy) – but neither of us could say we were into any particular “genre” of music. My iPod holds a truly mixed collection of genres from classical to country, indie to electronica, dance to rap, show tunes to goth rock, and much, much more in between....which incidentally makes the “shuffle” function a dangerous choice at parties or in the office!

When Jonesy told me that she and her chap Will were going to be getting tickets for the Download Rock Festival and did I want to go too, I thought – why the heck not? I’ve been to festivals before. Oh okay, that’s stretching it a bit...I’ve been to the V Festival on several occasions – that’s sort of the same right? Granted I was younger, less likely to miss the creature comforts of a flushing toilet, a daily shower and a comfy chair to sit on, but I figured I could hack it. Besides we’d be in Will’s VW Camper “Betty” so at least it was a step up from camping in a tent! I have to be honest and say that most of the line up consisted of bands I didn't even know the names of, never mind any of their material, but as I perused the website’s line up confirmation I was at least amused by some of the more colourful band names, for instance... Lawnmower Deth. Seriously – can you imagine your musically gifted and talented child coming home, after several years classical guitar training, and saying;

“Mum we’ve done it! We’ve been signed! We’ve got a record deal! We’re going to be billionaires!”
“That’s lovely son, what’s the band called?”
“Lawnmower Deth”
“Oh, your Grandma will be proud – I’m sure she’ll come to see every concert!”

Then we had the Cancer Bats – nice (I’m sure they’re a very polite group of young men) Suicidal Tendencies (presumably you’d have these after listening to them for too long) and my personal favourite...Five Finger Death Punch. Now what is that? Is that different to a normal punch? I.e. Four fingers and a thumb punch? Maybe that just didn’t sound sinister enough?...but surely a five finger death punch is a two handed affair? So perhaps a four finger slap and a poke in the eye...? Maybe I’m thinking about this too much??

I should state for the record that I actually thoroughly enjoyed most of these bands, despite the fact that with all their heavy death metal “raaah-ing” I’m quite sure by the time they’re forty they’ll have no voices left. In fact Jonesy and I delighted in winding up the hardcore rock crowd around us by exclaiming in loud voices things like;

“Oh...Oh dear no...well that’s just shouting isn’t it?”
“I agree entirely Jonesy, I’m sure if he sang the melody he’d have the voice of an angel”

Needless to say we weren’t taking it very seriously, but that’s because we’ve got the experience of age on our side, and we’re secure enough in our own personalities to not need to latch onto any one particular “trend” and embrace it as some kind of expression of our own personal angst...unlike the yoof of today it appears, who proceeded to give us some rather confused and sometimes even disdainful looks. I can honestly say though, that despite the high levels of teen angst, and equally as high levels of aging rocker syndrome, (seriously guys...there comes a time when we should all cut our long hair...for you, it’s when it doesn’t start until you get behind your ears) I have never been to such a pleasant event. It was superbly organised, and the kids and adults alike were all well mannered, likable – if not a little eccentric – individuals. There was no trouble, no fighting, no obvious signs of hard drugs, no chavs and much to my delight, barely even a whiff of world cup fever, despite it being the weekend of England’s first match. Everyone was there to enjoy the music, and more importantly, themselves.

The reason I was there was for two bands in particular...Rage Against The Machine and Aerosmith. Pure and simple. But I do love a good festival atmosphere, and I’m also quite partial to men with tattoo’s so as I’m sure you can imagine – I was in my element! Age is a bitch though, (and a particularly mean bitch at that) and so I’m suffering now from back pain after sleeping on an airbed for three nights, and chronic heartburn after surviving on a diet of burger van cuisine and pot noodles for the weekend. Never the less though the three of us had an amazing time. Will was the epitome of patience (being an aging rocker – albeit minus the ponytail now) having to accompany a couple of daft girls around the place...I think he loved it really...and Jonesy gave me the highlight of my weekend...

Whilst hundreds of pierced, tattooed, studded, leather jacketed rockers wearily made their way back to the campsite on the last night, Jonesy mused (rather loudly) over how much she was looking forward to listening to a bit of pop music. We were quite certain this would lead to someone sticking their size eleven biker boot into the side of her face, and subtly told her to pipe down. Jonesy isn’t really one for being told what to do, so all this did was prompt her to burst into a rendition of 80’s pop icon Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. After several pear cider’s Jonesy’s voice reaches decibel levels that the festival’s sound tech’s would be proud of, so we actually feared for her life at this point...until, much to my disbelief a skinny Irish guy wearing a Megadeath hoodie chimed in for the chorus...then his pals joined in...then some more...then the whole blummin crowd! Jonesy successfully steered them from Rick Astley, to Westlife and then into a rousing rendition of Girls Aloud’s “Something Kinda Ooh” before exclaiming triumphantly...

“I KNEW IT! You rockers think you’re all hardcore, but you can’t resist a bit of cheesy pop!”

Classic Jonesy. You’re my hero! I tell her that when I go to see her at the hospital. They tell me she can still hear me...and that one day it might help her wake up. ;o)

I Must Be A "Special" Breed Of Stupid

Have you ever noticed that some things seem like a really good idea in principle, and yet the reality of these ideas is somewhat less appealing?

I have volunteered to join a group of colleagues to walk 22 miles across the Cotswolds in a couple of months time to raise money for Breakthrough breast cancer. It’s an amazing charity – one that the company I work for has supported for a few years now, so when the e-mail came around asking for people to sign up for the challenge, I thought – what the heck?

They say that when a woman gives birth, the brain (after time) wipes the most painful/traumatic aspects of the event from her mind. It’s a species preservation thing. If she were to remember all the worst bits then there’s a strong likelihood that she won’t want to go through it again, and the brain isn’t haven’t any of that! It appears that when you slip a disc, the brain does pretty much the same thing in order to lure you into charity walks. As I pressed “send” on my e-mail registering my interest in joining the team, I had completely forgotten about the six weeks I was off work unable to walk, followed by the several weeks after that where I could only shuffle around looking like I’d had a childish accident, and I had absolutely no recollection of the months of chiropractors and physio appointments that I went through after that in order to get me back to the point where I could get out of bed in the morning and not be in pain. Clever brain. Stupid Natalie.

I seriously have no idea what I was thinking signing up for this. I’m not anywhere near as fit as I should be – my gym membership expired about two months ago, and since then I’ve been on precisely two runs (What can I say? The lure of Britain’s Got Talent has kept me somewhat glued to my sofa). I was discussing this with a colleague, and describing my general lack of motivation at the moment, and she came up with the “genius” idea of me hiring a fitness coach. Someone who’s only goal in life was to make me fit. Someone who’s there specifically to beat on me and bully me into fitness. Someone who wouldn’t care or sympathise if I complained that it was all too hard. Someone who’d work my sorry ass into the ground in order to achieve the ultimate goal of getting me somewhere close to being “in shape”. The idea was almost perfect. I say almost because the prospect of paying someone to be that mean to me seemed a little narcissistic. Besides...why would I hire one of these Rottweiler’s when I’ve already got one?

Cue Drill Sergeant Jonesy.

Oh she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time! Her Monica-esque anal retentive attention to detail with regards to her own diet and fitness regime has made her somewhat evangelical about the results, and she’s been screaming to convert me to her cult of the “downright annoyingly healthy” for months now, so I expected nothing short of sheer enthusiasm when I asked for her services in the coaching department. I wasn’t disappointed. Good old Jonesy – she does love a project.

She also knows me ludicrously well, and so in an effort to disarm me and put me on the back foot, she suggested a training planning meeting at the pub last night (you’ve got to love her style). It appears that after several large glasses of wine and a couple of Malibu’s I’ve agreed to embark upon the new regime as of Monday, and she’ll be dragging me out five times a week! As a result my chiropractor and physiotherapist have been alerted, and both have kindly cleared their appointment diaries in anticipation of me requiring their services. Still it’s going to be a long haul, so I think perhaps (in order to keep me on track and focused on the end goal) it would be wise of me to try and gather as much support as possible from all my lovely friends and family, and I think the best way you could help me, would be to help someone who really needs it. You can do this by sponsoring me on my walk through my just giving sponsorship page : http://www.justgiving.com/Natalie-Cooper3

Thank you for your support, and please... as you settle down to your dinner of an evening, spare a thought for me as Jonesy puts me through my paces! It’s been lovely knowing y’all.

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself a “girly girl”. I’ve always considered myself a bit of a tom-boy. I grew up rough-housing with my brothers, and got pretty good at learning how to handle myself. One brother managed to lose a thumbnail owing to my particular brand of self defence, another had his face smashed off a windowsill which resulted in a rather nasty broken nose and a lot of explaining/lying as to how the incident occurred to my parents. I look at my girlfriends and they’re somewhat daintier than I am. Even those with brothers would have been far more likely to run to mum and dad to snitch on their siblings if they were doing something unpleasant rather than just roll their sleeves up and give them a good battering themselves. I’ve always felt more at home in the company of guys because you rarely have to watch your P’s & Q’s and they tend to find it amusing rather than offensive if your language gets more foul the more you drink...which mine invariably does.

Don’t get me wrong...I’m feminine. It’s not like I’m a big butch man-woman or anything weird like that. I love my shoes and handbags as much as the next girl, and I like nothing better than glamming up for a night out. I just don’t go in for all of the behavioural etiquette rules that many girls appear to live by. I’m not a diva/princess. I’m not into pink and sparkly, (although I do appreciate the attraction) I can’t do dainty little lady-like “eh-choo” dry-sneezes, (when I sneeze the whole world falls out of my nostrils, and I make a noise not dissimilar to an F1 racing car as it passes you at a gazillion miles an hour). I’m also not really a coy, giggly kind of girl...in fact I’ve been told that my laugh is downright dirty, and you can usually hear it carrying across our entire office floor.

With this in mind then, imagine my surprise when during a recent date with Le Linguiste (owing to his fluency in French) he out right accused me of being girly? Now this is a guy who would really have been basing his judgements on first impressions, and I knew that I hadn’t been anything other than my usual self - as I find it impossible to be anything other than “me”. So how could our opinions of “me” differ so dramatically? I hadn’t squealed at delight over anything, I hadn’t clapped my hands or jumped up and down in an excited manner, I hadn’t giggled like a girly girl and I hadn’t even bothered to flutter my eyelashes at him. I should state that in all fairness this was because his eyelashes were far more impressive and quite frankly I didn’t like the competition.

In fact during the course of this first date, I’d managed to rather spectacularly trip myself up (klutz), I’d spilt my drink (double klutz) I was waaay too comfortable around him and had caught myself slouching on a couple of occasions, and as our date had started in the early afternoon I was dressed casually and wearing flat ballet pumps. Nothing about me was saying “girly”, I’m quite certain of it, and yet here he was, convinced by my girliness. I can only assume he knows some really butch women! Now I could have passed this off as a one off - perhaps my nerves had got the better of me and I’d been uncharacteristically calm and demure around him on our first meeting, but he’s since spent another full day with me, spent hours on the phone to me and I feel more than confident that I’m being myself around him...and yet he still feels it’s appropriate to call me... “Baby”.

Now I can hear some of you cooing and ahhhing with remarks like “awww, isn’t that lovely” and “oh it’s so nice when a guy feels comfortable enough to give you affectionate names” etc, but it’s just further compounding my worries that he has me mistaken for someone else. My ex-husband called me Princess once and he nearly lost his teeth. I could manage “Hun”, “Darling”, and even “Babe” (although the latter makes me think of that talking pig) but if he’d ever called me baby I think I would have punched him in the face and told him to man-up! Baby suggests something tiny, and delicate...and in it’s very essence, something kind of...well...helpless. It’s a name you’d give someone who perhaps needed protecting from the big bad world. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a strong, independent woman. I’ve never needed a man, and I cope well on my own. That’s just the way I roll people – and so probably the most annoying thing about this whole incident is that for some bizarre reason I didn’t actually mind Le Linguiste calling me baby. Did it confuse me? For sure. Did it make me doubt whether he was actually talking to me or some other random stood behind me? Definitely – but did it generate a violent rage within me? No. Did it make me want to projectile vomit at the mushiness of his sentiment? No. In fact it actually made me feel kind of good inside.

It’s been a long while since anyone’s even wanted to treat me like I need protecting from anything...and maybe, after the last few years - fire fighting against bereavement, and divorce, heartbreak and humiliation - pretending that I was strong enough to handle it all on my own, and forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I felt dead, broken and hollow – maybe to have a few minutes protection from a somewhat-stranger was just what I needed? Maybe with his fresh eyes he was able to look closely enough to see the little girl who needed to feel safe again – just for a moment – instead of the tom-boy, straight talking, strong willed young woman I’ve allowed myself to become? Who knows? But for now, I’ll let him get away with it...just while I re-charge... just don’t tell anyone I’m enjoying it though okay?

It could ruin my reputation ;o)