On Thursday 9th September it will be my Dad’s birthday. Unfortunately he’s not here to celebrate it, so my blog today is in remembrance of him and features some of his finest moments. For those of you who read this and knew my Dad, I hope you enjoy these little memories. I know I do...My handsome, funny, articulate, intelligent, stubborn, grumpy and two-left-footed, wonderful Pops.
(NB when I refer to “real mum” I mean just that, when I refer to “Mum” I mean Joanne, the wonderful woman whom many of you know, who raised me and my brothers as if we were her own and whom I owe everything to)
Me, my brothers, my Ma and my Pops...
Tomato Ketchup Sarnies!
Real mum was going through her RAF basic training and Dad was a complete novice at looking after four children on his own. The live-in Nanny was on her weekend off, and the best he could do with regards to dinner, with very little food in the house before the “big shop” was tomato ketchup sandwiches! He denied doing this to the day he died – but if four of us remember the ketchup sandwiches we can’t all have imagined it!!
Surprise!
Due to a mix up with exeat weekends from boarding school, my Mum was unexpectedly lumbered with me, the middle bro and the baby bro. My Dad was down route on a trip (by this point he had left the RAF and was flying for British Airways) and was incommunicado so had no idea we’d be at home when he returned from his trip. At the time he used to catch the Flight Link bus from Coventry bus station to Heathrow for each trip, so Mum had to take us along when she went to collect him on his return. Mum has a rather wicked sense of humour, and thought it would be really funny to let the three of us climb into the boot of the Peugeot 605 we had at the time so that we could jump out at him when he opened the boot of the car to put his trolley case in. My Dad was never one to visibly show fear, so I will never, ever forget the look of sheer terror as three of his children launched themselves out of the boot of the car at him. Over 24 hours without sleep – most of them without nicotine, the poor guy nearly had a stroke. I will also never forget the next few hours or so, which saw Mum repeatedly bursting into giggles every time she relived the moment in her head.
Can I Be Excused?
Dad was pretty strict about table etiquette. There was no elbows on tables, no chewing with your mouth open, no talking at the dinner table, your knife and fork had to be held properly and in the right hands etc, and there was certainly no bad manners or laughing/joking at the dinner table. Rule number one however was that you couldn’t leave the dinner table until the meal was over...because apparently that was just rude. On this one occasion my poor Dad’s whole dinner table etiquette teachings fell spectacularly to pieces as a result of my baby brother. We’d been at the table less than two minutes when the baby bro (no more than 8yrs old at the time) asked to be excused. Furious my Dad declined his request telling him he should have gone before he sat down at the table. What followed was about thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence as me and my siblings tried to pretend we hadn’t just witnessed the baby bro being given a dressing down...before the baby bro let off a fart that a 40yr old trucker would have been proud of! I actually though Dad’s head was going to explode with anger at the audacity of his youngest child. The baby bro (in his sweet childlike yet-to-break voice) simply said in his defence... “I did say I needed to be excused”
This belter of a defence sent me and my Mum into fits of giggles which resulted in both of us being sent away from the table by my Dad until we’d “composed ourselves”. I still don’t know what I find funnier – Ralph’s man sized fart, or the fact that my Mum got sent away from the table!!
Dad’s quirky dress sense
Now aside from Dad’s numerous moments of fancy dress genius, which included dressing as a Witch’s familiar in black cat suit, Marilyn Monroe (complete with blonde wig and beauty spot) and at a food themed party, skin tight white jeans, a silk Chanel print jacket, Brylcreamed hair, red lipstick and yet again a beauty spot whilst carrying a tin of marrowfat peas (he’d gone as Faggot and Peas), Dad had his own quirky sense of style. The man was never seen out in public without a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. I have no idea where this came from but I think it started after a trip to Texas to visit some old RAF Pals (Kev & Karen that’d be you!) and it remained his style for the rest of his life. At a rather midgey 5’6” (ish) I think the cowboy boots simply gave him the extra inch height-wise that the good Lord didn’t think it necessary for him to have in the first place. The Stetson became my Dad’s trademark look though, and even now, I sometimes see a guy walking around Nuneaton who’s a similar build and wears a similar hat, and I have to do a double take thinking it’s Dad. I’m always disappointed when it’s not.
Dad Dancing
There’s only one person I’ve ever known with less coordination than me, and that was Pops. Anyone who took part in the Am Dram production of Anything Goes will remember how Dad’s two-left-footedness lead a whole ensemble into chaos during the musical number “Blow Gabriel Blow” He knew he’s gone wrong, and that all anyone could do on the jam packed stage was try to avoid his clumsy footing. Everyone, distracted by his floundering efforts to follow a dance routine, lost track of the words they should have been singing, and the timing they should have been keeping. It must have been tragic to watch! You couldn’t help but laugh at him though it was so funny to watch him.
Despite his shocking attempts to move with grace and dignity however, he did manage to shuffle me across the floor on my wedding day. A moment I will treasure forever, regardless of how my marriage turned out. To have him there, proud as punch that he hadn’t stepped on his baby girls toes at any point during the dance, all I can remember thinking was how wonderfully lucky I was to have my Dad. Handsome, funny man that he was. Always the joker, always generous, always caring. I remember this, and Luther Vandross’s lyrics spring instantly to mind... “If I could steal one final glance, One final step, one final dance with him, I’d play a song that would never, ever end, ‘Cause I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again”
My Friends & My Pa
So many of my friends had great relationships with my Pa. Rae and my Dad shared a sick sense of humour over April Fools jokes, Hannah always called him “Mister Cooper” in the same way Perry (from Harry Enfield’s Kevin & Perry) called Kevin’s mum “Missus Patterson”, and Ruairi, well he and my Dad had a special bond, and I’m never sure where it developed from, but I think it may be from the fact that Ruairi always had my best interests at heart, and always looked out for me without ever being someone who had the potential to do rude things to his only daughter haha! I don’t know a single one of my friends who didn’t love my Dad....but then they didn’t have to live with him I guess haha!
Just Me & My Pa
One of my earliest memories was Dad in his green RAF flight jumpsuit, with clear plastic patches on the thighs which contained maps and flight plans usually – but for me, as I sat on his knee, it was replaced with a plain paper background, so that I could draw pretty pictures on the clear plastic with these special “crayon” type pencils.
Dad’s smell – Dad always had a smell – aftershave, cigarettes and breath freshener/mint chewing gum. I can’t describe it really...it just smelled like Dad. It wasn’t a stale cigarette smell, it was woody and kind of sweet. When I think about cuddles with Pops now that’s the smell that I imagine, because it was so distinctively him.
Just the two of us in the house, singing along to Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballe’s “Barcelona” playing full blast on the Hi-Fi whilst Dad pottered around the kitchen and I dusted the lounge – it started with us both humming/singing quietly along and ended in us singing at the top of our lungs – me making up the words as I didn’t know the Spanish, Dad doing his best Freddie impression with a mic stand we already had for the Karaoke machine...sounding God awful but finishing, collapsing on the sofa and laughing at how ridiculous we were. One of my favourite memories of all time.
Finally, a very early memory...Dad playing guitar, singing Yiddish folk song “Dona Dona” to get me to sleep as a very young child. The lyrics have always stayed with me:
On a wagon bound for market
There's a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there's a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky.
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night.
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do,
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do.
"Stop complaining," said the farmer,
"Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?"
How the winds are laughing ...
Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
Like the swallow has learned to fly
I hope you’re flying now Dad x x x Miss you loads, sleep tight x x x
Monday, 6 September 2010
Monday, 30 August 2010
My Dog Is Trying To Kill Me
I’ve become aware over the last year or so, that my inclination towards clumsy behaviour is worsening somewhat. A prime example of this is that I’ve just managed to rather spectacularly fall down my stairs. My stairs aren’t particularly steep, and I wasn’t running up them, or dancing down them when I fell. I did however have the pooch at my heels (as always), and he seems to think that when we walk down the stairs it’s a race. He gives me a head start (presumably because I only have two legs compared to his four) and then he likes to gambol past me at a million miles an hour to beat me to the bottom. This is a game he plays, however I generally just ignore him and let him do his thing. Today however I think perhaps he thought I was in with a chance of beating him, and in a particularly unsporting fashion decided to leg me up half way down.
Now if it weren’t for my cat-like reflexes I would have missed grabbing the banister, and surely fallen to my demise in a gruesome “Death Becomes Her” fashion. However I just about managed to grab it, ensuring my fall was more of a bumpy slide down the last five or six steps. It didn’t stop me from staring accusingly up at the pooch from my crumpled heap position on the floor and stating...
“You pushed me down the stairs!”
Obviously he’s unaccustomed to seeing mummy on the same level as him, and he simply sat their wagging his tail and tapping me with his paws as if to say, well this is a good game isn’t it?
I’ve no doubt that I’ll have a number of bruises to show for this little incident, and the pooch (who is currently on the naughty step – or as it’s better known, his bed, with his ears flat against his head and tail wedged firmly between his legs) probably won’t pull a stunt like that again after the telling off he’s just had. My biggest concern however is that...what if I’d actually hurt myself? What if I’d broken my leg...or my neck!!? I could have been lying there for days before someone found me!
Living on your own has its draw backs for sure. When you’re single you miss the benefits of having a partner in as much as you’d like a warm body to cuddle up to in the night. When you house share with someone it’s nice to have someone to natter to of an evening. But one of the things you don’t really think about is the safety aspect. You forget that you could indeed become that Bridget Jones spinster, found dead in her flat months after the fact, half eaten by Alsatians...or in my case a rather dopey German Shepherd/Collie cross.
Now I’m trying my damnedest to not let this little incident freak me out, as the last thing I need to do is become terrified of being alone in my own home, but I am getting more and more clumsy as I get older. It’s kind of like dementia of the limbs. I think maybe I have caught spazzy coordination from Beck-lar, as that girl is the queen of the klutz. For now though I’ve purchased an industrial sized roll of bubble wrap to make sure I’m fully protected from any potential hazards until I can get a health and safety officer out to inspect the premises and any potential “danger” areas. Wish me luck!
Now if it weren’t for my cat-like reflexes I would have missed grabbing the banister, and surely fallen to my demise in a gruesome “Death Becomes Her” fashion. However I just about managed to grab it, ensuring my fall was more of a bumpy slide down the last five or six steps. It didn’t stop me from staring accusingly up at the pooch from my crumpled heap position on the floor and stating...
“You pushed me down the stairs!”
Obviously he’s unaccustomed to seeing mummy on the same level as him, and he simply sat their wagging his tail and tapping me with his paws as if to say, well this is a good game isn’t it?
I’ve no doubt that I’ll have a number of bruises to show for this little incident, and the pooch (who is currently on the naughty step – or as it’s better known, his bed, with his ears flat against his head and tail wedged firmly between his legs) probably won’t pull a stunt like that again after the telling off he’s just had. My biggest concern however is that...what if I’d actually hurt myself? What if I’d broken my leg...or my neck!!? I could have been lying there for days before someone found me!
Living on your own has its draw backs for sure. When you’re single you miss the benefits of having a partner in as much as you’d like a warm body to cuddle up to in the night. When you house share with someone it’s nice to have someone to natter to of an evening. But one of the things you don’t really think about is the safety aspect. You forget that you could indeed become that Bridget Jones spinster, found dead in her flat months after the fact, half eaten by Alsatians...or in my case a rather dopey German Shepherd/Collie cross.
Now I’m trying my damnedest to not let this little incident freak me out, as the last thing I need to do is become terrified of being alone in my own home, but I am getting more and more clumsy as I get older. It’s kind of like dementia of the limbs. I think maybe I have caught spazzy coordination from Beck-lar, as that girl is the queen of the klutz. For now though I’ve purchased an industrial sized roll of bubble wrap to make sure I’m fully protected from any potential hazards until I can get a health and safety officer out to inspect the premises and any potential “danger” areas. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Okay, so as per usual I’ve left it waaaaay too late to start preparing for Christmas. I’m not talking presents you understand...I’m talking about that Little Black Dress (LBD) that I’ll want to get into for the party season. The dress that you know would look amazing on you if you could just lose a bit of bark. Unfortunately in my case I always leave it too late...oh okay, ridiculously late (as in November) and never see the results that I really want, and therefore never buy the dress.
In my work life I’m relatively organised, however in my personal life I’m a liability. I have a lot of grand ideas about how I’m going to shed the 3 stone that I could REALLY do with shifting, but it never seems to happen for me. Mainly because I’m rubbish at dieting. In fact, the only diet that’s ever really worked for me is the Divorce Diet
“Do you need to lose the weight that’s making you unhappy? Then try the Divorce Diet! One simple separation agreement effortlessly removes around 13st of useless husband, while you sit back, take it easy and start enjoying life again!”
I’m proud to say that nearly 2 years on, and I’ve managed to keep it all off! Yay me!
But on a serious note, this year is going to be different, and although I didn’t quite start in June as planned, I have started in August and this time...I’m going down the exercise route. I’ve done every diet known to man, and never really achieved my goals. I’m not really sure why. I think it’s mainly because I’m a big fat greedy guts and if you put chocolate, cake, cheese, sweets, crisps (anything that tastes nice) in front of me, I’m going to be inclined to eat it. I don’t like being told I can’t have something that I want, so my willpower is shocking and invariably I get bored of denying myself nice things, and ultimately give up. Sucks to be me.
Now Beck-lar is a different animal entirely. As a rather dainty size 10, she has the figure most women would kill for. Slim and athletic, but with a soft and feminine shape. Curves in all the right places, (a good rack for someone as petite as she is) a small waist, hips and a well proportioned bottom. You ask yourself why on earth she needs to diet, and to be fair she doesn’t. But at a teeny 4’11” tall, she does have to monitor what she eats. Unfortunately for Beck-lar she’s not very good at it. In fact she’s pretty darned rubbish. She spends months eating and drinking whatever she wants, and naturally puts on a bit of weight. Because she’s tiny, it is more noticeable when she’s put on weight (not to the untrained eye like mine I have to say), but obviously she feels it in her clothes and in herself. The thing is, when she feels it, everything changes. The diet (based loosely around the Weight Watchers point system and her own regime of denying herself anything nice) becomes her sole focus. She’s like a machine! Her willpower is unfathomable, and she literally can shift half a stone in two weeks just by becoming a little obsessed with the diet.
Now Jonesy is also prone to weight gain, but unlike Beck-lar, she rarely goes through the “eating anything she wants” phase. In fact she and has spent the last ten years meticulously watching her weight. Every single scrap of food that goes in her mouth is accounted for either through counting points/calories/syns (depending on which diet she’s doing at present) or by going out and running five miles every morning thus giving her more “free calories” to use on the foods she’s consuming. Jonesy is a walking talking example of changing your eating habits for life...erm...and of being a bit anal retentive.
The problem with both of these styles for me, is that I cannot be arsed to account for every morsel of food that enters my system...nor can I honestly say that I could refrain from eating “naughty” foods for any period of time in order to lose weight. Life is too short to be that mean to yourself, right?
So, I have come to a compromise with myself. I accept that I am never going to be a size 10 again...which to be fair doesn’t bother me. I looked ridiculous when I was skinny as my boobs were always too big for my body. I’m also now happier with my curves than I ever have been before, as I’ve learned that for many people, curves genuinely are more attractive. However, I could (and should) lose a bit but in order to do that...I’m going to have to exercise waaaay more.
So my regime has been stepped up a gear – cue Rocky theme tune music! My personal trainer (the middle bro - because drill sergeant Jonesy has knackered her knee) is taking me out 3 times a week for running and “ton ups”, plus smaller workouts on the days in between. I’m knackered...I ache...I think I may have a collapsed lung, but on the whole I feel a lot better for it already. I don’t think I’m ever going to particularly like exercise, but if I want to see results, well then this is the best way for me to do it. This way I don’t have to give up all of the things I like – just some of them. It’s the only way I can see myself getting that LBD...and it will be mine...oh yes...it will be mine.
If you do see me out and about, please give me your encouragement. I need it, seriously!! I’d also appreciate it if you could refrain from pointing out that I run like Phoebe from Friends. Thanks.
In my work life I’m relatively organised, however in my personal life I’m a liability. I have a lot of grand ideas about how I’m going to shed the 3 stone that I could REALLY do with shifting, but it never seems to happen for me. Mainly because I’m rubbish at dieting. In fact, the only diet that’s ever really worked for me is the Divorce Diet
“Do you need to lose the weight that’s making you unhappy? Then try the Divorce Diet! One simple separation agreement effortlessly removes around 13st of useless husband, while you sit back, take it easy and start enjoying life again!”
I’m proud to say that nearly 2 years on, and I’ve managed to keep it all off! Yay me!
But on a serious note, this year is going to be different, and although I didn’t quite start in June as planned, I have started in August and this time...I’m going down the exercise route. I’ve done every diet known to man, and never really achieved my goals. I’m not really sure why. I think it’s mainly because I’m a big fat greedy guts and if you put chocolate, cake, cheese, sweets, crisps (anything that tastes nice) in front of me, I’m going to be inclined to eat it. I don’t like being told I can’t have something that I want, so my willpower is shocking and invariably I get bored of denying myself nice things, and ultimately give up. Sucks to be me.
Now Beck-lar is a different animal entirely. As a rather dainty size 10, she has the figure most women would kill for. Slim and athletic, but with a soft and feminine shape. Curves in all the right places, (a good rack for someone as petite as she is) a small waist, hips and a well proportioned bottom. You ask yourself why on earth she needs to diet, and to be fair she doesn’t. But at a teeny 4’11” tall, she does have to monitor what she eats. Unfortunately for Beck-lar she’s not very good at it. In fact she’s pretty darned rubbish. She spends months eating and drinking whatever she wants, and naturally puts on a bit of weight. Because she’s tiny, it is more noticeable when she’s put on weight (not to the untrained eye like mine I have to say), but obviously she feels it in her clothes and in herself. The thing is, when she feels it, everything changes. The diet (based loosely around the Weight Watchers point system and her own regime of denying herself anything nice) becomes her sole focus. She’s like a machine! Her willpower is unfathomable, and she literally can shift half a stone in two weeks just by becoming a little obsessed with the diet.
Now Jonesy is also prone to weight gain, but unlike Beck-lar, she rarely goes through the “eating anything she wants” phase. In fact she and has spent the last ten years meticulously watching her weight. Every single scrap of food that goes in her mouth is accounted for either through counting points/calories/syns (depending on which diet she’s doing at present) or by going out and running five miles every morning thus giving her more “free calories” to use on the foods she’s consuming. Jonesy is a walking talking example of changing your eating habits for life...erm...and of being a bit anal retentive.
The problem with both of these styles for me, is that I cannot be arsed to account for every morsel of food that enters my system...nor can I honestly say that I could refrain from eating “naughty” foods for any period of time in order to lose weight. Life is too short to be that mean to yourself, right?
So, I have come to a compromise with myself. I accept that I am never going to be a size 10 again...which to be fair doesn’t bother me. I looked ridiculous when I was skinny as my boobs were always too big for my body. I’m also now happier with my curves than I ever have been before, as I’ve learned that for many people, curves genuinely are more attractive. However, I could (and should) lose a bit but in order to do that...I’m going to have to exercise waaaay more.
So my regime has been stepped up a gear – cue Rocky theme tune music! My personal trainer (the middle bro - because drill sergeant Jonesy has knackered her knee) is taking me out 3 times a week for running and “ton ups”, plus smaller workouts on the days in between. I’m knackered...I ache...I think I may have a collapsed lung, but on the whole I feel a lot better for it already. I don’t think I’m ever going to particularly like exercise, but if I want to see results, well then this is the best way for me to do it. This way I don’t have to give up all of the things I like – just some of them. It’s the only way I can see myself getting that LBD...and it will be mine...oh yes...it will be mine.
If you do see me out and about, please give me your encouragement. I need it, seriously!! I’d also appreciate it if you could refrain from pointing out that I run like Phoebe from Friends. Thanks.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
It's Not What You Say - It's How You Say It
When it comes to men, I’m not overly concerned by looks. I’m not naturally drawn to pretty boys (although I’m willing to make exceptions) and in fact I’m more likely to be physically attracted to men who have a rugby players build, a bent out of shape nose and cauliflower ear. The rougher they look the more they peak my interest, but this isn’t necessarily a looks thing, it’s just that I prefer “men’s men”. (Any guy who takes longer getting ready than I do is a complete no-no in my book) What matters most to me is an amiable personality, the confidence to speak freely and honestly and the ability to make me chuckle. I’m always turned on by a guy that can get the measure of me quickly, and suss out what’s going to make me laugh out loud. One thing I am a sucker for however is an accent.
I don’t particularly have one myself (the result of spending my formative years moving from one place to another) but there is something about a guy with an accent that grabs my attention, and very often gets me a little flustered! The girls at work laugh at me because I have two suppliers who, without fail, have this effect on me. One (Ben) is an Aussie, and there’s something about the way he calls me “Nahd-alie” that makes me stumble over my words every time I speak to him. It’s ridiculous really that I should react in this way, as I am in fact a grown woman with keen conversational skills, but for some reason my reaction to his voice is for my tongue to become numb, heavy and useless, and for my brain to take leave of my body, rendering me unable to string simple sentences together - thus making me sound like some kind of ditzy moron. The other (Giancarlo) is Canadian, and whilst I’m thankfully able to process thoughts normally and at least participate in our conversations, his accent does send me a little weak at the knees. I have never seen Giancarlo, and for all I know he could be Fifty, balding and weigh 8st wringing wet, but in my mind, when he talks, he’s essentially a Canadian version of Danny Care. (I’m actually avoiding setting up face to face meetings with him just in case the reality spoils my little fantasy)
My love of a good accent doesn’t just focus around the exotic though. I could listen to the Welsh for hours (this accent had the most unbelievably calming effect on me). A broad Yorkshire accent sends a tingle down my spine and brings about visions of Sean Bean (Oooh Major Sharpe – yum!), likewise a Southern/borderline Essex accent is guaranteed to get the heart rate pumping a little faster! I’m not just responsive to accents on men though. In fact my friend The Geordie Lass is a constant source of amusement to me...mainly because with a Geordie accent everything sounds funnier! She can be prattling on about the most mundane things, but I can’t help but listen to her avidly. She doesn’t just have a different accent, it’s a whole new language to learn...where children are called Bairns and where you’re not going somewhere, you’re gannin. Where, when talking about your sister, you never use her name, instead referring to her as “war lass” or your brother, “war kid”. Luckily I can understand her just fine, but it’s hilarious to watch people here in the midlands, as their minds boggle trying desperately to translate what she’s saying. I remember once, we called into a local Greek-Cypriot owned Kebab shop for a bit of scram after a night on the town, and recall perfectly the furrowed brows and looks of confusion as she placed her order;
The Geordie Lass: “Wye aye Pet, Ah-reet? Ahm ganny have a cheeseburg-ah an cheps man”
Kebab Man: “Huh?”
The Geordie Lass: “cheeseburg-ah an cheps?”
Kebab Man: “Eh?”
The Geordie Lass: “CheeseburGAH and CHEPS?
Kebab Man (looks imploringly in my direction but says nothing)
Me: “She’d like a cheeseburger and chips please”
Kebab Man (relieved) “Aaaah! I no understand what she say with her crazy h’accent!”
...Luckily The Geordie Lass is quite teeny so I managed to restrain her before she launched herself over the counter to give the Kebab Man a “Geordie Kiss”.
My absolute favourite accent however, is the West Country accent. Don’t ask me why! I can only assume it’s because over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in the West Country, but this is one accent that I pick up very easily if I spend too much time around it. Which quite frankly recently has been a nightmare as for the last few months I’ve been sat opposite a girl from Bristol, and I have to really control myself, for fear of her thinking I’m taking the piss....of course sometimes I actually am taking the piss – luckily she doesn’t seem to mind.
I guess the thing with an accent is that it gives you a sense of belonging. People can tell automatically where you’re from. You have a “hometown”. That’s not something I’ve ever really had. Nowhere where I felt I had any real roots. But then the joy of not having roots is that you’ll never be tied to one place unless you want to be. The world is your oyster, and your dreams can take you anywhere...
I don’t particularly have one myself (the result of spending my formative years moving from one place to another) but there is something about a guy with an accent that grabs my attention, and very often gets me a little flustered! The girls at work laugh at me because I have two suppliers who, without fail, have this effect on me. One (Ben) is an Aussie, and there’s something about the way he calls me “Nahd-alie” that makes me stumble over my words every time I speak to him. It’s ridiculous really that I should react in this way, as I am in fact a grown woman with keen conversational skills, but for some reason my reaction to his voice is for my tongue to become numb, heavy and useless, and for my brain to take leave of my body, rendering me unable to string simple sentences together - thus making me sound like some kind of ditzy moron. The other (Giancarlo) is Canadian, and whilst I’m thankfully able to process thoughts normally and at least participate in our conversations, his accent does send me a little weak at the knees. I have never seen Giancarlo, and for all I know he could be Fifty, balding and weigh 8st wringing wet, but in my mind, when he talks, he’s essentially a Canadian version of Danny Care. (I’m actually avoiding setting up face to face meetings with him just in case the reality spoils my little fantasy)
My love of a good accent doesn’t just focus around the exotic though. I could listen to the Welsh for hours (this accent had the most unbelievably calming effect on me). A broad Yorkshire accent sends a tingle down my spine and brings about visions of Sean Bean (Oooh Major Sharpe – yum!), likewise a Southern/borderline Essex accent is guaranteed to get the heart rate pumping a little faster! I’m not just responsive to accents on men though. In fact my friend The Geordie Lass is a constant source of amusement to me...mainly because with a Geordie accent everything sounds funnier! She can be prattling on about the most mundane things, but I can’t help but listen to her avidly. She doesn’t just have a different accent, it’s a whole new language to learn...where children are called Bairns and where you’re not going somewhere, you’re gannin. Where, when talking about your sister, you never use her name, instead referring to her as “war lass” or your brother, “war kid”. Luckily I can understand her just fine, but it’s hilarious to watch people here in the midlands, as their minds boggle trying desperately to translate what she’s saying. I remember once, we called into a local Greek-Cypriot owned Kebab shop for a bit of scram after a night on the town, and recall perfectly the furrowed brows and looks of confusion as she placed her order;
The Geordie Lass: “Wye aye Pet, Ah-reet? Ahm ganny have a cheeseburg-ah an cheps man”
Kebab Man: “Huh?”
The Geordie Lass: “cheeseburg-ah an cheps?”
Kebab Man: “Eh?”
The Geordie Lass: “CheeseburGAH and CHEPS?
Kebab Man (looks imploringly in my direction but says nothing)
Me: “She’d like a cheeseburger and chips please”
Kebab Man (relieved) “Aaaah! I no understand what she say with her crazy h’accent!”
...Luckily The Geordie Lass is quite teeny so I managed to restrain her before she launched herself over the counter to give the Kebab Man a “Geordie Kiss”.
My absolute favourite accent however, is the West Country accent. Don’t ask me why! I can only assume it’s because over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in the West Country, but this is one accent that I pick up very easily if I spend too much time around it. Which quite frankly recently has been a nightmare as for the last few months I’ve been sat opposite a girl from Bristol, and I have to really control myself, for fear of her thinking I’m taking the piss....of course sometimes I actually am taking the piss – luckily she doesn’t seem to mind.
I guess the thing with an accent is that it gives you a sense of belonging. People can tell automatically where you’re from. You have a “hometown”. That’s not something I’ve ever really had. Nowhere where I felt I had any real roots. But then the joy of not having roots is that you’ll never be tied to one place unless you want to be. The world is your oyster, and your dreams can take you anywhere...
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
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!!
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!!
Monday, 19 July 2010
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!!
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!!
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
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???"
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???"
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