Emma-Louise's Blog

Resolution.

2012-01-02T12:33:00.006Z

So here it is, 2012. New Year is here again, we start afresh, and all of that malarky. Gym memberships are finalised, Slim Fast sells out, wine bottles with the dregs tipped down the sink are put outside for recycling (and still there a few weeks later, because you're not quite sure where you are in the collection timings) Nicorette patches are purchased and when you go out for food to pubs and restaurants for the first week of the New Year, you see people looking like idiots with a big lump of plastic hanging out of their mouth like a phallic toothpick. "Yah, I've given up smoking, but this is like, a cigarette". Despite the protests of it not being a real cigarette, I tell those people to go outside. See, the thing is, I'm actually cringing to be seen with them, with that naff thing in their chops and I don't want to die of passive embarrassment. Adverts for random subscription magazines are on the television ("Craft World? First month 99p and it comes with a free folder?? I MUST buy it!!! I'd love a whole collection of that. Yes, I know I can't sew on a button, but by Christmas, I'll have everyone's presents and cards MADE!")Dietbooks are on the shelves in Waterstones, and Z list celebrities are pushing their fitness regime DVDs at us in between Corrie episodes.
Actually, I love the first few days of the New Year. I do - the optimism, the feeling that you can take on the world. However it doesn't last, and that's what I have the problem with.
I will tell you now - in fact, I'd put money on it - that the presenters of Breakfast or Daybreak will be telling us at about 6am on Monday 9th January or possibly Monday 16th January, that it is going to be the most depressing day of the year. Poor 2012! Only just possibly a fortnight old and already suffering from post natal depression. Why is this? We'll be told that it's because the economy is crap, the nights and the mornings are dark, everyone is just going back to work after Christmas, and many other sociological reasons. I'll tell you the reason - it's massive guilt. By the most depressing day of the year, the DVD fitness routine will have been missed one night, because you're too knackered from work to have done it. The diet has gone out the window, because Elaine from accounts had a birthday, and brought in cakes. You've realised you look a twat with a lump of plastic hanging out of your mouth, so you've had a sneaky fag outside the office. You have cancelled your subscription to "Craft World" because you realised that next month, it costs £8.99, and you can't even thread the needle, let alone make a tapestry for your friend's baby. So all of these little things combined leave a huge guilt cloud hanging over your head - it combines with clouds from everyone else, and before we know it, there is a huge guilt fog, or "gog" acting as an ozone layer over the British Isles. The most depressing day of the year is born.
In 2011, I was diagnosed as bipolar and also suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I'm not telling you for sympathy - in fact, I don't want to harp on about it at all, I just want to get better, however the diagnosis has been something of a relief for me. The guilt I feel at times is overwhelming. Medication and therapy is undoubtedly helping, but I've come to realise that guilt isn't just something suffered by those that have broken the law. It's a very damaging, destructive emotion.Therefore, I have decided this year not to make any resolutions. Normally, I am the first to make them. I buy a new notebook and start writing them down, because hey, anyone who knows me will know that there's nothing I love doing more than making a list. (Scratch that, I don't love making a list, I feel the need to make a list, but first I make a list of lists I need to make, and before you know it, I have a full notebook and am organising my sock drawer into the colours of the spectrum.)However, I don't stick at them. I went on the Wii Fit seven days in a row at the beginning of 2011, but when the bloody thing suddenly decided that my BMI classed me as obese, and informed me of this in a cheeky computer generated fashion, I gave up! What was the point? All that hard work, for seven days and it wasn't working? In fact, I have become obese in seven days? Stuff that. The Wii Fit went back to my parents, and the only time I got the Wii remote out was to thrash foreigners via the internet at MarioKart.
I have joined the gym, but don't get time to go - guilt. The money I am spending could go on my wedding but it isn't - guilt. My plan to do 4 hours of ironing on a Sunday goes out of the window, because I enjoy catching up with television and cooking a Sunday roast, so I end up frantically ironing something an hour before I walk out the door - guilt. I don't eat my five a day - guilt. I spent £179 on wedding shoes!!! MEGA guilt.
I cannot cope with the overwhelming, let-down with myself, crushing guilt that I feel when I don't live up to my own expectations. Therefore, excuse the language, but bollocks to it. My resolution is to not make resolutions.
Perhaps the problem is New Year's Eve. We expect that when we see the clock strike Midnight, and we all kiss and hug and sing that ridiculous song, then drink ourselves into oblivion, that a mystic, cosmic force is going to come over us, and give us the gift of willpower. It'll change who we are. So that when we become conscious again around 1pm New Year's Day, we'll wake up, hangover free in a Disney style fashion. We will step out of the front door as if we'd come out of rehab. That feeling will stay with us up until Easter. By then you've lost a stone in weight, you can run a marathon, you have no need for any shite nicotine replacement system, and you're a better person, with a collection of subscription magazines that is coming along nicely, thank you very much.
We have a need for instant gratification. I think it's a human instinct. When the results aren't apparent immediately, we give up, we lose faith. This we could cope with. But perhaps it's the guilt associated with that, that makes us feel so helpless.
So for 2012, I wish you to be guilt free (unless you're a thief or murderer who has concealed your crime.) Good luck with your resolutions. If you break them, don't feel bad. But when you see the "news" article about the most depressing day of the year in the next few weeks, do me a favour and change the channel.

The Gift.

2011-08-28T10:12:00.013+01:00

This is for the wonderful "Sleep is For The Weak" workshop. The prompt this week is "Gift"

It was my birthday in July, before the Summer Holidays. This year I wanted a SodaStream. In my younger years, I would get very excited it I went to a house and discovered that they were able to "Get Bizzy with the fizzy" The SodaStream meant two thing if you had one. 1) Your parents and you clearly had a lot of fun, and 2) You were probably posh. (If you not only had a SodaStream but a Coffee Machine, you were practically royalty.!) So this year I'd decided that was what I wanted.

However, what I got was infinitely more better. This year, on 19th July, me and my boyfriend of 6 and a half years got engaged. He bought me a beautiful engagement ring It's a yellow and white Welsh gold brilliant-cut diamond in a 4 claw setting. It's such a beautiful and dainty ring - and I was completely overwhelmed and surprised when I returned from a meal out, and saw my

boyfriend down on one knee.

So not only does this gift mean that finally we're engaged, but it is also the portal to wedding planning. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a bridezilla (Well - not yet) but planning things has begun, and the engagement ring seems to be proof of wedding credential. When we went to find a venue, the ring was shown before entry. I haven't tried on any wedding dresses yet, but I'm told that it's appointment only, and the dress women show an avid interest in the ring. All of this I don't actually mind, as I love showing it off!

This ring however doesn't just mean that it's time to plan the wedding. It's not just a tool to open the doors of wedding planning establishments. It's truly a symbol of love and support. It's a sign that we're ready to begin the rest of our lives together, and despite our ups and (many) downs we're strong and everlasting. With the ring itself, it's exactly everything I could have wished for, and it's perfect for me. I am also amazed that Ben chose it, order

ed it and bought it without any female (or *ahem* my controlling )intervention.

So outwardly, writing about an engagement ring could focus on the physical features of the ring - the diamond size, the metal, the setting - but for me it's a gift that means the world to me. Not just because it looks gorgeous on my manicured left hand, but because finally, we're in the place we want to be.

Ben has had a lot of stick for about 5 and a half years. At weddings, there have been comments of "it'll be you two next" and people have openly shoved me to catch the bouquet. (They needn't have bothered - my shoes were off and I was ready to rugby tackle people to the ground in order to catch it) People have said things like "So when are you gonna make an honest woman of her?...Eh? (nudge)....eh? (NUDGE) EHHH? Ben was ok with this at first, then it got annoying. Why do people do that? It was frustrating to say the least. But the more people did it, the more we were determined not to give in. It's stopped over the last few months. So it was a complete surprise when Ben proposed on bended knee. Now people are asking "When's the date?" and every engagement card practically, had "about bloody time." Not that I mind.

I'm thrilled with this wonderful gift, and every time I get het up whilst planning the wedding for sixteen months time, I will look at the ring and calm down. Because we all need something to help calm us down and keep focused, and I think it will do just that.

(By the way - I did get my SodaStream as an engagement present.)

Riot Reflection - My Birmingham.

2011-08-15T10:31:00.004+01:00

On Monday morning last week, I was preparing to go and visit the in-laws in Norwich. As I packed my bags, I had BBC News 24 on permanently. (I wasn't in the mood for Jeremy Kyle - I'd seen enough angry teenagers on the news) The people in Tottenham and Enfield had my complete sympathy, and I just couldn't fathom how people could behave in such an appalling and indecent manner. I felt sorry, and a huge surge of concern for the emergency services, as they battled to restore law and order, and care for those injured. I was relieved that nothing had happened in Birmingham, although there was a niggle at the back of my mind that was telling me not to count my chickens.

As we hit the motorway that afternoon, I heard via Twitter that the Bullring closed early. By clicking on a Birmingham hashtag, there were constant updates. Then things started to change. By the time we got to Norwich three hours later, there was tweets saying that various shops had been looted, things had been smashed up (and a rumour that the bull's head had been removed from the bronze statue) The hashtag had now changed to #birminghamriots. I was extremely upset. For the three days I was away from Birmingham, I used Twitter to hear about the riots - the looting of city centre shops, the burnt out cars, the police station in flames, and finally the deaths of three young men who finally had the guts and the strength of character to stand up and say "enough's enough".

I spend a lot of time persuading people not from Birmingham that it is an amazing city. I am proud that even though I was not born in Birmingham, I was bred here. In my opinion, it's under-rated. So, it was disheartening to hear of the devastation that mindless yobs were causing, and that they were chewing up and spitting out the city buildings. Friends and family from other areas think it's a rough place to live, and I try to explain that it's the same as everywhere else. However, it struck me that they wouldn't have cause to think anything else. My friends that live in Wales, Germany, even New Zealand were texting and tweeting "Are you all ok?" But even though none of my family and friends were in the City Centre, I was far from ok. I was safe, and well. But I-as well as many other Brummies - were shellshocked.

Sadly those that live outside of Birmingham only hear the negative. The national news will, quite rightly, cover events such as shootings, bomb scares, murders and events that we saw last week. Of course, people jump to conclusions, and almost stereotype the city. Whilst I watched the national news on Tuesday and Wednesday, I was unbelievably upset. What was happening to my city? Ironic to see stores that stocked electrical appliances, leisure clothes and mobile phones smashed up, yet the book stores remained untouched - we are a city of culture after all. I was upset to see the window of my favourite shop ever - Nostalgia and Comics - smashed, yet relieved that it hadn't been completely ransacked. (Obviously these hooligans noticed Richer Sounds next door, and opted to get something to watch Superheroes on, as opposed to reading about them)

Thank goodness for Twitter and Sangat TV. There, I've said it. Whilst there were unconfirmed rumours that my hometown of Northfield had been smashed up by looters, three accounts that I was following, reassured me that everything was under control. Two of these were police, the other was @B31blog. Twitter also was used as a tool for the clean up, and by day clicking on the #birminghamriots hashtag, you were informed of the clean-up (10am Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, meeting at the bull who hadn't been decapitated) Had I been home, I would've been there, armed with rubber gloves, dustpan and brush. This was encouraging. My fiance said "This could be a good thing that comes out of a bad situation". He was right - everyone pulling together and working to clean up, as well as assisting and supporting police, was amazing to see. Had I just watched the National news, I'd have been hysterical, as I wouldn't have known about the clean up, the comradery, the optimism. Then of course it was Twitter that informed me on Sangat TV, which was showing actually what was happening in Birmingham, instead of showing looped footage like the national news.

We came home on Thursday and it was a relief. However, whilst the windows are fixed, and the shops are restocked, and everyone continues with their daily business, I feel a sense of determination. Yesterday, there was a peace rally, following the murders of brothers Haroon and Shazad Ali Jahan and their friend, Abdul Musavir. It was peaceful, it was well policed, and it didn't turn into another riot. That is dignified, that is determination - that is Birmingham.

I was impressed to see that my hometown of Northfield has been (as always) well policed, and that the accounts I'd followed had indeed been accurate and truthful. Northfield gets a lot of stick - and sometimes admittedly, I will hold my hands up as being guilty of this. But everything was in order. My father delivers milk to houses in this area, and when he spotted a gang of adolescents, he did not need to phone the police - they were arriving and dispersing the gangs. When he spoke to customers in the area when collecting money, they were blissfully unaware of it. I take my hat of to West Midlands Police, they have done a fantastic job during these difficult times.

So I suppose the "moral" of this blog is don't underestimate the power of social media. The pen (or in this case, typing fingers) are mightier than the sword (or the brick that gets lobbed through windows) And for those of you who were of the opinion that Birmingham is a city that's on the brink of destruction - come and see for yourselves, we are not all like these vicious, spoiled youngsters, who have been appeased by technology and media so that those responsible for them can continue with their lives uninterrupted. Also don't assume all those from council estates are mindless yobs. I am proud to say I was brought up in a council house in Northfield, and even though my parents struggled, I learned that you don't get everything you want in your life, you have to work hard, and most importantly, have aspirations. The looters and rioters may have a nice new shiny pair of trainers, and the latest smartphone. But they don't have aspirations. Perhaps that is the saddest thing of all.

Birmingham - this week you have amazed me. The resilience and steely determination that has been displayed has left me astounded. I started off the week being ashamed of you. Now I couldn't be prouder to be a Brummie.

Ding Dong Merrily on Days Gone By.

2010-12-14T19:38:00.000Z

Here it is again, that time of year, when everyone is trying their best to get festive, and Christmassy but despite the endeavours, it looks like it's going to be a big fat stressorama. I've been shopping for the last two weekends, and it's been tense - and not just between myself and my other half. Couples in card shops rowing about the cost of a card for "in-laws" (Male:"Why are we even bothering? I'm not paying £4 on a card for your mother! Female: "Oh I might have known my mother would come into it, we've bought your mother one, but no I'll put it back." And so on until they reach the queue and are speaking to each other through clenched teeth.) People stressing over the fact that the rolls of wrapping paper are falling out of carrier bags, numb fingers as plastic bags cut off the blood supply, screaming kids in the queue for Santa, getting impatient, and just as it gets to their turn, mam and dad whisk them away, as you have to pay a small fortune for the photo, but not allowed to take your own. Women physically elbowing others out of the way over the 3-for-2 in Boots. And don't even get me started on Wilkinsons!!

I listen to the things that the children in my class are asking for for Christmas - and not just the children I teach, but children in general. I'm gobsmacked, I really am. I know of an 11 year old that wants a BlackBerry. Not only am I miffed that her social life is more chaotic than mine, so that she needs a Smartphone to organise it, but I just cannot comprehend it. 5 and 6 year olds asking for laptops, televisions in bedrooms, mobiles! What's going on? I'm not saying that these children don't deserve these things, I'm sure they're all on the "Good List". But I'm wishing for the simpler time, when children got what they were given. Here is a reflection on my Christmas times and gifts gone by.

1983 - Of course, as a five year old, I wanted what every five year old girl wanted. A Cabbage Patch doll. Wow - you could properly adopt them and everything! I was desperate for one. Christmas day came......no Cabbage Patch doll. But I wasn't bothered. There was no story from Mam and Dad about how Santa Elves didn't have the parts, or that they workshop had ran out of them. They didn't try to convince me that I'd been on the naughty list. And there certainly wasn't a big guilty pay out ("But look, to make up for it, here's £30 - which was a lot of money in 1983)But instead I got a Big Yellow Teapot, AND I'd got a desk and a blackboard! Inside the desk was pens, pencils, felt pens, colouring books, and best of all.......BEST OF ALL!!.......Fuzzy Felt!!! Wooooo! I was in my element. And when we went to Mass at midday, I remember praying very hard and thanking the Baby Jesus from the bottom of my Cabbage Patch Doll-less heart for my presents, and vowed to make a Nativity scene out of Fuzzy Felt in honour of the occasion. Looking back, via the gift of the "I Love 1980s" shows where shit comedians whom you've never heard of talk about times gone by, I now know that this was the year that Cabbage Patch Dolls were very hard to come by, that there were physical punch-ups and domestics in the US, and that my parents scoured shops in Birmingham (pre Toys R Us!) for one, and just couldn't get one anywhere. When I played with my friend's doll, I wasn't jealous - more relieved, as she told me that she had to turn it to face the wall, before she went to sleep.

1985 - This year I wanted an "A La Carte Kitchen". I used to watch all the toy adverts that were on at 6am on the weekends, and be insanely jealous of the little girl that offered her daddy a feast of swiss roll and baked beans on a blue plastic plate. (Although the plastic, role-play hue of this amazing toy, didn't get rid of the feeling I had, even at the age of 7 that a pudding and beans didn't quite go together, even for breakfast.) So I wrote the letter, I sat on Santa's knee in the newly built "Hamley's" in Birmingham, and asked him for an A La Carte Kitchen. Christmas Morning.......no A La Carte Kitchen. But I had something much better. A wooden cooker, with a grill! My father, who had recently gutted the kitchen, in favour of a fitted one from MFI, artex and MDF boards that looked like tiles but weren't, had kept a cupboard - and made me a cooker out of it. It had knobs on the front (coasters for under the wheels of settees.) hotplates, and various other "cooker effects". I can honestly say, I was ecstatic! I now realise that my Dad, who worked at Austin Rover, had used various odds and sods from a discontinued car line, and made me a cooker. It lasted for years, I got hours of fun - although I never got around to preparing swiss roll and beans.

Various other presents

1986-"Hobbygirl knitting machine" I thought I'd be able to knit presents, only ever manage to successfully knit unfinished scarves for cuddly toys.

A typewriter, it was proper metal one, not the "Petite Office" fold up one in a case like my sister had, that was naff. This was a fully functional typewriter, that mam and dad had to get repaired after I used it so much.

1987 - A small keyboard, which played a demo tune, and helped me completely fox my Grandad by making him think that I was a child prodigy like Mozart - only had it a couple of hours, and I played it like Clayderman. I also got a baby doll and pushchair, a "Fisher Price" record player that played real records. (Like Paul McCartney's Frog Song - We All Stand Together.

1988 - A ZX Spectrum, which wasn't current and up to date technology wise, the Commodore 64, and early Ataris and Segas were more modern - but I loved it all the same. As well as this, I got a pink and grey hairdryer, which I loved and made me feel very grown up at ten years of age, and a big fashion faus pas - a reversible sweatshirt that I wore all Christmas at my Grandma and Grandad's house. They had an open fire. I was boiling hot, but refused to take it off.

So there were a few Christmasses where I didn't get what I wanted. I'm not on the couch, having therapy for the lack of an authentic "A La Carte Kitchen". I'm not a heroin addict, blaming my using on the fact Mammy and Daddy didn't buy me a Cabbage Patch doll. I got a television for my room the Christmas that I was 14, so that I could watch "Vic Reeves Big Night Out" in bed, and didn't have to stay up late, past 9.30pm. My dad pulled the plug out when it was over and a) because I was in a cabin bed and probably a bit lazy, and b) I was cold, I didn't disobey my parents and plug the television back in. That telly came to college with me, and all houses/rooms that I've lived in since, and now resides on the top of my wardrobe. At the age of 13 I had a Casio keyboard, something I'd longed and longed for, but didn't even bother asking for, as Mam and Dad couldn't afford it. Imagine my surprise when I was sent upstairs to wash and get changed, and then heard music downstairs, only to enter the kitchen and find a stonking huge keyboard on the kitchen table. I got a lump in my throat and blinked away the tears. I still have the keyboard, it works even now, and I will get it out and play it - when no-one's about.

Yes, it's great the technological age, it's fantastic that the children of today can keep in touch, play amazing electronical games. They have toys we couldn't have dreamed of - but is it so wrong to wish for the Christmas past? A Christmas where the mickey wouldn't have been taken out of me for playing with a baby doll at the age of 9? A time where everyone would have been jealous of my unique cooker, not picked on me because I didn't have the same as everyone else? Because that was my Christmas past, and perhaps I need to remember it as I scour the shops looking for a Buzz Lightyear for my 4 year old nephew, willingly ready to trample on any fingers that snatch the last one off the shelf. I understand why parents buy their children these toys and gadgets - it's such a different world to the one we grew up in. But whether Santa's delivering a Big Yellow Teapot, or a Yellow DSi, the child that wishes for it is still a child, so let the magic continue, and the adults strive to get what their children desire. There may be massive differences between the 7 year old me, and the 7 years olds of today. But I bet they both ensure that a carrot's left for Rudolph, and a mince pie for Father Christmas.

And on that note, I'd just like to say, Merry Christmas Bloddies, and I hope your Christmas shopping is successful.

Red-dy and waiting!

2010-11-20T08:29:00.000Z

This post has been inspired by prompt 4 - Red.

What do I think of when I hear the word "Red"? Well, it's many things. Here are my top five "Red" moments.

5) Being in the red - This is a condition that I have suffered from since heading to university. Some months it's a bit debiliating, other months it's positively crippling, then last year, it appeared to be terminal! Now I'm suffering from it mildly, and a trip to America seemed to exaserbate the conditions slightly, but the time before the symptoms was so good, I don't mind suffering. I usually experience being in the red around this time of year, and into the New Year. Symptoms of "being in the red" trembly fingers, particularly when opening post from the bank, sleeplessness, panic attacks, and anxiety. However, despite suffering this condition since the age of 18, I was shocked and saddened to see that mob madness is a new side effect for potential young student "in the red" sufferers. The images of things getting smashed up, missiles thrown, and an attempt by a student on the news to justify these actions really upset me. I know suffering from the red sucks, but lobbing a fire extinguisher at a copper isn't really a good treatment for the condition. Believe me, I've contemplating throwing one at the bank manager many a time. So even though I still suffer from the symptoms of being in the red, I try not to let it worry me as a) the symptoms are not as bad as they were, and b) I think about 96% of the population are suffering from this.

4) Seeing red - during the last couple of weeks, I've toughened up. No more Mr Nice Em. Apologetic, bumbling along, and finding it difficult to say no. The problem is with saying this word, is the build up to it. When you think about saying it, you're concentrating on being on auto-pilot, whilst thinking "Shit, I'm going to have to say no to this." Then, because you've been on auto-pilot, you've agreed to it without even knowing and you're not finishing work til late/babysitting/doing someone else's job. (Delete as applicable) Not so with seeing red! It happened to me a fortnight ago, and whilst someone was talking, the mist was building up, clouding my mind. In my case, the mist wasn't made up of anger or resentment - it was made up of a sheer sense of unfairness, and morphed into a voice that commanded "enough's enough." Without going into too much detail, I blurted out to this person "I am NOT doing it. No". There was a tense silence for a moment, and the commentary in my brain said "Jesus, you've done it now. Epic fail. Tell her why you can't do it. No actually don't tell her, that's what all the management books say, don't explain yourself and give too much away" So I repeated again "erm, yeah, anyway, no". To which the person said "Ok, I'll do it." Hazzah. Job done - and despite my resemblence to Vicky Pollard at the end of the conversation, I'd done it, I'd said no, and I was home and dry. True, the person involved got someone else to do it, but I don't care, I didn't have to do it, and what's more, I don't feel guilty about saying no. Thank you, red mist!!

3) Red Shoes - What is it about red shoes??? Whenever I see a pair, they consume my every waking thought, and I think "I NEED THEM." Course, I need a red handbag then to go with them, so before I know it, I have a load of red accessories, and a boyfriend contemplating buying a house with a spare room to house comfortably our ever expanding accessory collection. And next time there's a party, event, night out, I plan to wear them. This lovely thought is savourted. I put the red shoes in the wardrobe carefully, and fantasise about how I will take on a daring, sexy, sultry new persona in red shoes. When I put them on, despite the crippling pain in my feet, the pinching of the potential bunions, and being six inches higher, causing me to walk like a gazelle with a vapour-rub enema, I care not, because my shoes are SHINY AND RED AND I CAN TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!! The confidence I feel is unravelled, the "Working Girl" style theme tune in my head comes to an abrupt halt, with a needle scratching sound the second someone says (and they always do) "Uh-Oh, look at you! You know what they say - red shoes, no knickers". The effect of this is similar to someone taking a pair of pliers to your red heels and wrenching them off, causing you to topple over backwards. Also everyone is then debating which red accessory it actually is that signifies you're wearing no pants, (No, it's hats surely! Or is it gloves?) and whilst this debate is going on in a fashion that would make the delegates of the G8 summit make notes and look at their strategy, I am sitting in a chair crushed with my new purchase, and worried that these ridiculous shoes have brought on symptoms of being in the red.

2) The Lady In Red, by Chris De Burgh. Aaaah the 1986 ballad. Whenever I hear it, it takes me right back to the 80s. I'm in our council house. It's Thursday night, I've had a bath and I'm in my pyjamas watching "Top Of The Pops" The second I hear the "Oooooooh, ooooooh, oooooh" of the introduction I can remember the way the woodchip paper felt on the living room wall, and I can smell the Vosene shampoo that used to be used three times a week on my hair. I'm sent back to an innocent time before the internet and digital television, when Iceland's was Bejam, when arctic roll and cripsy pancakes was part of a child's five-a-day. I know that for some couples of this time, and maybe still now this is their song. I am also aware that Chris De Burgh looks like a poisonous little dwarf, and that whilst he was singing this song for his missus, he was shagging the nanny. I know the lyrics to it off by heart even now, but can't tell you for sure where Belize is. Where's the sense in that? Surely having a comprehensive geographical knowledge is a far more suitable skill to have than knowing the words to a shitty song? ( I can see Mastermind now. John Humphries: Contestant Number 3 is Emma-Louise and her chosen specialist subject is The Lyrics to Lady in Red. Question one, What do the highlights in her hair match? Me: Her eyes! John Humprhies: Correct for one point!) Despite the memories this song have nothing to do with it's lyrics, they are still happy ones. Who cares, eh?

1) Red foods. I LOVE red sauce but I find tomatoes repellent. I can't stand any other red sauce, apart from Heinz. It's lush - I've been known to have it on a sandwich. However red tiptops/opal fruits/fruit pastilles/jam tarts, now there's a world of red foods closed off to me, being allergic to strawberries. They make my skin swell, and bring me out in a most unpleasant rash. I'm not anaphylactic with them, but resembling the food you're eating is not something I enjoy, so I avoid them. As a little girl, I'd chant "I can't eat red food." My nephew, when asked what flavour ice lolly he wants, will automatically go "red flavour". I think it's the concept of colour being a flavour that amuses me. If I had to describe red to a blind person, I wouldn't give them spicy, hot, fiery stuff. I'd give them Heinz tomato ketchup.

So, there we have it folks, my "red list". You may agree, you may disagree, but you're entitled to your opinion. I'm feeling awkward that I haven't written a flouncy, emotional poem, about red symbolising danger, anger and the like. But I'm a simple mind, with simple pleasures!

If only I knew then.......

2010-10-07T20:35:00.001+01:00

I am ashamed of myself. I didn't blog at all during the month of September. For this I do apologise, but I've been very busy spending time with family and friends. Whilst I have been working hard, things have been/are happening that have given me a sense of perpective and a much needed realisation as to what is important.
Anyway, I am writing this prompt in response to this week's Writing Workshop Prompt 3. I have chosen a "me" to write a letter to. Here it is:

Saturday 22nd September 1996.

Dear Em,

You're probably very startled to recieve this letter. This is you - I mean me, writing from 2010. I am aware that you're freaked out to recieve it, and need proof that it is me - I mean you, writing. So here it is.

You are 18 years, 2 months and 3 days old. You are currently lying in your yellow and blue box room that you have decorated yourself (apart from the border) in your parents house, on a futon. You have had a boozy, beery goodbye sesh with your friends in the Navigation, but are surprisingly sober. Your feet are cold - and tomorrow you are off to your Auntie and Uncles in Wales, then Monday morning, you are driving to the nearby university. The foetal position you are curled up in could be due to the fact that that's how you sleep, or that you are apprehensive, anxious and excited all rolled into one. Is this enough proof?

I'm going to presume that it is. To business. It's a weird night, isn't it? You're so excited about this big life venture, yet the bullying and paranoia of your school days still comes back to bite you on the backside, despite you coming a long way during the last two years of Sixth Form College. You have made some fabulous friends, and leaving them and your comfort zone is making you feel frustrated and nervous. Yet you are itching to break free from the confines of West Heath, and the family (even though you love them dearly and will miss them) This also leads to you feeling guilty for wanting to leave and embark on something new. Don't worry, it's all going to be ok.

Here are 20 things that I wish I'd known tonight.

1) You are about to make some excellent friends. They will be there for you through thick and thin, and you will be for them. You will still be friends with them in 2010 - and although I have not travelled into what would be classed as my future, I don't need to be a time traveller to know they will still be around in another 13 years. You will laugh with them, cry with them, celebrate and comiserate with them.

2) You will keep the friends that you have in Birmingham. Despite the miles that separate you all, the payphone will be in use, and the post will come thick and fast. You will meet up in the holidays, and it will be like you've not been apart. So stop worrying about it!

3) You will fit in - they'll find you hilarious, albeit a bit noisy. They'll love you for it.

4) Your grant payment will suck - perhaps I should have written this a bit earlier, so you could have put a few more barwork and waitressing hours in. Ooops. I'm just saying, don't rely on it.

5) You WILL EVENTUALLY pay your student and graduate loans off. It's an awesome feeling when you do.

6) It's probably best you do not apply for those Topshop and New Look cards (I am aware that New Look doesn't exist yet, just trust me alright??)

7) The "kitchen" that your university have written to you about is not a kitchen. You really should take a kettle and a microwave.

8) Nanna thinks you are living in WW2 times judging by the care parcels she sends. You will have a cupboard full of tinned fruit and evaporated milk.

9) Actually, take a tin opener as well - like I said, this kitchen is dire. A sink and a table, and that's it. Oh and a corkscrew - nobody ever has one.

10) Labour get in - they do introduce tuition fees, despite them saying they won't, and generally muck things up for everyone. I know! I was shocked too!

11) There will be a big bumpy time coming up this time next year. Christmas 1997 will utterly, totally, completely suck. In Feburary 1998, you contemplate giving everything up. Hang in there. Shit happens, and I'm not going to warn you about every bumpy time. You'll be ok. That what hasn't killed you has made you stronger. One good thing that comes out of it is you realise how precious your family is.

12) You are a size 8, and can eat anything! Enjoy it - your Grandma is right, it doesn't last!

13) Christmas, Valentines, Halloween and in particular the Summer Balls are awesome! You will love it.

14) Teaching practice is NOTHING like the real thing -and don't piss your school secretary's off on the first day by asking them to do photocopying.

15) You do party like it's 1999 - in 1999. Nostradamus was completely off. PLEASE stop worrying about the end of the world. You've lost so many hours of sleep over it. STOP IT - right NOW!

16) You really should take your make - up off before you go to sleep,"Sun-In" spray does not make you blonde, it does make you ginger, and you really will look better with your monobrow plucked.

17) 30 isn't old - it really isn't!!!

18) You do eventually pass your driving test. That bloke in Carmarthen that charges you £6 a lesson may look like a good deal, but after 3 months, you will realise he just uses you to drive him around town, and will never put you in for a test. He doesn't even teach you how to reverse!

19) Treasure the next three years of your life. You have an absolute blast. You will look back with fondness and a total love on your time at university. Those problems that will seem so big in the upcoming 3 years are trivial. You will become a completely different person, and you have made such a great decision. Don't bottle it. And don't feel guilty for trying to get rid of Mam and Dad on Monday when you arrive as quickly as possible because you want to explore. Your homesickness will come a week today when you wake up for the first Saturday since you were 15 and realise you are not taking the dog for a walk with your dad, before a cooked breakfast and going to the football. You will feel miserable next Sunday, when you are not with the family on your father's birthday. But it does pass, you crack on, you suck it up, and you enjoy it. Like I said, there are low times - but you will have a fantastic career, and things that you wanted. You do everyone proud. So embrace it - you can't get those years back, but you will absolutely love it.

And finally 20) Your sister is hiding a load of clothes in her room she doesn't want you to take with you. Grab them now!

I shall leave you now, you have to be up early, as I know you haven't finished packing. There is loads more I could tell you - but I'm not going to. Discover it for yourself, it's part of the fun.

Goodnight,

Emma-Louise xxx

Random Acts Of Madness.

2010-08-24T09:06:00.001+01:00

Well hello Bloddies,

I hope, as we approach the end of August, it's treating you kindly. I cannot believe that we're nearly in September - mad!

I have been going through the "notes" section of my Facebook. Before I discovered Blogger, I used to write made ramblings, notes and a "blog" on there, you see. Anyway, I have been reading through them, and this "game" made me laugh, I thought I'd share it with you, as well as some pictures of me from my youth. Ignore the rules about being tagged and everything, however if you're ever bored, why not try writing out 25 random things about yourself? I found it has cheered me up immensely.

Enjoy!

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you. (To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish).
1) When I was little, I used to sit in a bucket and expect my family to carry me around the farm in it.
2) I am allergic to strawberries and horsehair - which means I miss out on puddings 96% of the time at functions, and my Mam and Dad getting a horse was maybe not such a good idea.
3) My blood type is O positive.
4) ET, clowns and people who spray themselves silver and stand on the box in the middle of the highstreet, who move when you lob money at them, all scare the shit out of me.
5) I think I have a fungal nail infection brewing, but I've painted over it.
6) I do posess a Blue Peter badge. It's a limited edition green one, for being a friend of the environment. They read my letter out about me charging my family everytime they used a spray can actually on the telly. I NEVER used it to get in anywhere.
7) When I started senior school, my new coat came from "Adams - The Children's Store". It was aged 9-10.
8) Chickens - in my opinion - are the Devils Minions.
9) I hum along to the hoover, sometimes the fridge.
10) Wellingtons were the only form of footwear I would wear as a small child.
11) I like to amuse myself by reading words backwards out loud.
12) I kicked my dentist once.
13) When I was a little girl, I wanted to be Bonnie Langford, and threw a massive hissy-fit when I found out that I couldn't be her, because I was me.
14) My invisible friend was called Sadrick. He was my assistant. He sadly came to a tragic end when my mother put him in the washing machine. I made her do his coat up once whilst out shopping, once. She did as well.
15) When people hide from me, I get really, really upset. Hide and Seek used to regularly send me into floods of tears.
16) In 1992, I was shortlisted for BBC Newsround's Press Packer of the year, after my article on Bullying appeared in a national children's magazine. I don't have the magazine copy anymore. It was blue and had Macaulay Culkin on the cover.
17) I own 4 pairs of Converse.....and I want more.
18) My nickname is Emma-Whizz, or just plain Whizz, after when I was a little girl I couldn't say Emma-Louise and it came out Whizz.
19) My shoe size is a 3, sometimes two and a half, and I still buy my shoes for work from Clarks. Mam was right all those years ago, they are expensive. At least I no longer have to go on the metal machine foot-measurer thingy.
20) I think light switches look like owls. Have a look, you'll see what I mean. Twitt-Twoo!
21) I always struggle pronouncing the word digital.
22) When I was 6, a girl in fourth year juniors swung me around, and I smashed my head open on the green drainpipe (the one that was Den in Tig) at Saint Brigids Catholic Primary School. I still have the scar.
23) I like the smells of tar and petrol.
24) Reading music is impossible to me, despite being able to sing, and being music subject leader at school.
25) I have eaten cat food. (Wet and dry) I was not under the influence of alcohol.

So after finding out a little bit more about me, you've either enjoyed it and will continue to read my blogs, or now will avoid me like the plague!
Until my next blog, have a good one xxx

Pictures go from L to R top to bottom.
Me on Saundersfoot Beach, complete with ice-cream.
My sister listening to me playing the guitar. I'm not sure Bonnie Langford played. Sadrick is also in this photo sitting on the settee.
Me on the farm in Pentlepoir, obviously bucketless on this particular day.
I was a good reader for my age! Loving the 1980s kids furniture - god job that's a biscuit and not a fag in my hand.....foam furniture wasn't the best in them days.
My first senior school photo - I was tiny. The coat that we got from Adams saw me into Year 8 as well.
Me enjoying birthday cake on my 4th birthday - raspberry jam in the centre of course!

Getting into Gym-Jams.

2010-08-17T09:08:00.000+01:00

Last week I did something which was either really good, or really stupid. I haven't decided yet.

I joined the gym.

I was a member of one a few years ago, and was going regularly with my friend. However as the monthly fee went up, my free time and opportunities to go (alright, ALRIGHT, my enthusiasm and determination - you happy?) dwindled, and so the membership ran it's course and I didn't go again.

So now that a) I have passed my driving test and have my own transportation, b) money isn't as restricted as it was and c) I'm feeling optimistic and want to be all svelte and lush for my trip to New York in two months, I decided to go back. I joined one that was nearer and cheaper. But before I broke out my Speedo swimming costume and the Pineapple joggers and sweat-tops, there was another hurdle (haha excuse the pun) - the Kick-Start appointment.

This is a simply embarrasing experience, in which you are weighed, measured and your eating and exercise habits are analysed and discussed. Kick-Start appointment? More like Kick-In-The-Teeth. I am officially overweight! My BMI is pushing me over what I should be by .6 and my body fat is...well shocking. I also have no muscle. I now feel like a big wibbly-wobbly mess and was grateful when Steve (my kick-start consultant, and potential personal trainer, who did have something weirdly attractive about him) wrote me an exercise programme, and recommended which classes I would benefit from.

So my days have consisted of going to the gym. I do the program that has been written for me, I have been to classes, I swim - and I do this all on my own. After the workout, I am a red, sweaty, knackered mess.......then I notice the girls that are in there, and it makes me want to go and put my face in a bucket of lard and just give up.

There's a couple of these girls - I'm sure they are employed by gyms to make the ordinary people feel like crap, and keep coming to the gym. This particular girl starts her workout the same time as me. She is tall, skinny and immaculate. Her gym clothes match, and are emblazoned with reputable sports clothing emblems. Her hair, highlighted clearly, but with no roots showing, is scraped back neatly in a ponytail. She has perfectly tanned skin, and make up so neatly done, it would have given Max Factor a run for his money. Her face is dainty, with a little turned up nose, and her nails are beautifully manicured, with no signs of breakage as she expertly tippy-taps at the program buttons on the treadmill. Her trainers look like they mean business - seriously, they look like they could do a workout on their own.

I am insanely jealous of this girl. She has that air of smugness about her - similar to that of the popular crowd in school. I remember breathing it in when entering the girls toilets at my secondary school. The anxious feeling that it stirs up inside of you is the same as well, nearly twenty years later. I sneak a look at her program - profile 5, effort level 7. Shit! Is she the bionic woman as well?! She must have sensed that I was watching her with complete interest and seething jealousy, so tilts her head toward me. I cover up my treadmill's program board, similar to the way you'd type your PIN in at a cash machine, so that she couldn't see me typing in profile 1, effort level 3. It doesn't matter anyway, there's a green pixilated board on there that looks like little mountains, that basically displays your workout. I wince in horror as this frigging gym-siren sees it, and smirks.

Ten minutes in to the program ( I have three other machines to do after this) and I'm a big sweaty mess. I am trying to think about other things - my iPod, the news on the television, my shoelaces. My sweat towel and water bottle are taking a battering. I feel like my legs are going to go into the future. I turn and look at the girl next to me. She's running. Her feet are pound-pounding in perfect sync to the music video on yet another screen. I have resorted to taking my iPod headphones out - I can't control it properly, and I am so convinced I am manically breathing, or slurping the water, or erm....making some other bodily noises, that I can't hear, but everyone else can and they're looking at me like a freak. She, on the other hand is silent.

This continues for forty-five minutes. She is on every machine that I am on, doing an expertly more intricate and difficult level on them than me. She looks at me with disdain, and whilst I want to go over there and - er I dunno -pull her bobble out, or chuck my sweaty towel in her amazing non-sweaty face - I'm also wishing that I was her, and hoping that after three months of exercising like this, not eating carbs in the evenings, and taking advantage of the beauty treatments on offer in the gym, that I will look like that!

She follows me into the changing room. Again, another pit-fall. I can't bear the changing room. Communal changing rooms should be banned. Those girls that look like the subject of this post walk around in matching underwear, doing the "bend and snap" as they open their locker, or get their expensive hair products out of their bag. It makes me feel ridiculous - my bra very rarely matches my knickers, and I don't like changing in front of others firstly because again, it reminds me of my secondary school experiences, and that anxious feeling returns to my throat. Also, I teach locally, and the thought of seeing a parent in there, or them seeing me, fills me with an incomprehensible amount of embarrasment and mortification (if that's a word)

She looks in the mirror and find a stray hair, which she precisely clamps between her manicured nails, and tucks carefully into her bobble. She still had the same skin tone, and even though she has sweated, that too looks expertly done, and has formed a mark similar to those ink blot stains psychiatrists show you and ask what you can see (I've not had this test done, I'm not talking from experience, I've seen it in films) "This girl is just bloody perfect!! Even her frigging sweat is symmetrical!" I think to myself. She strides off to get changed.

I look in the mirror. My University T-Shirt is one that I've never really grown into, and still hangs down low, but covers up my sweaty backside, which seems to be growing! My joggers are all shiny. My face resembles boiled bacon. I think I'm having a heart attack. The sweat has soaked through my clothing, any more and I could enter a "Wet T Shirt Competiton" My hair, although tied back, has gone all wispy and frizzy, and loads of little hairs stand up horzontally and vertically from my head - every one of them is grey. My skin looks greasy and I look like Jimmy Krankie without the school uniform. Or a pissed-off gnome.

I go and get showered, and as I walk through, she's scrolling through a BlackBerry mobile. At least that's one thing we have in common, we both have BlackBerrys. I don't think we're quite best friends yet though. I finish showering and go to get changed - the girl is in her matching underwear on her mobile phone, having a rather irate conversation. I go into a cubicle, and as I'm dressing, she's still on her mobile "I'll be home now", "Oh baby, don't be like that", and "Owwwwww no!" are phrases that I hear, in a whiny and slightly exasperated tone.

As I leave the changing room and throw my bag over my shoulder, I am starting to feel a bit better. True, I am knackered and still sweaty despite the 20 minute shower - but truly looks can be decieving. This girl may look like a goddess, and epitomise everything that a gym represents, but clearly she's in a controlling, obsessive relationship, where she can't even go to the gym for an hour without being harrased. She's probably got to get home and cook "baby's" tea. Poor girl. I didn't even take my mobile with me. The object of her affection probably pays her gym fee, and all her beauty treatments for her, so she remains looking that way for him. What a pig of a man! And how oppressed is she?

Ok - that's probably not true. I have no basis for that except for a potentially misleading phonecall. But a girl can dream, can't she?

I have to go, I'm off to the gym. It's swimming this morning. Now, where did I put that bikini?..........

This post is written in response to writing prompt number 3 on "Sleep Is For The Weak's" writing workshop - Pay attention to a stranger you meet this week or observe, and write about them.

Making a song and dance about it - Good times!!

2010-08-15T12:14:00.000+01:00

In April, I went to Edinburgh, in my role of chief bridesmad, for a Hen weekend. My friend Liz was getting married, and so I arranged for a morning in a recording studio. Here's the videos - we're not the Pussycat Dolls, or Girls Aloud, but we had a real laugh and it was such a fun experience. I hope you enjoy watching it, as much as we enjoyed doing it.

Bohemien Rhapsody - with the obligatory "Wayne's World" headbanging at the end.

Madonna's Material Girl.

"All That Jazz" from Chicago - funnily enough, we haven't been called up to perform on Broadway yet......shocking!! I'd love to be Velma.

A biological clock contemplation.

2010-08-07T08:49:00.000+01:00

Aww.........Just look at 'em. I love babies.

I really do. I love their little, chubby arms, and the warm, snug way they fit in the crook of your arm. I love the feeling of their cotton babygros, and there's nothing cuter than browsing "Pumpkin Patch" and Mothercare clothes. It's lovely. Awwww. There's nothing like holding a sleeping baby, they look so peaceful, and calm, and gorgeous........then I give them back, when they start screaming.

I haven't got children. I'm aware of the biological clock ticking, and that I am the only one of my friends that hasn't had a baby yet. I'm getting more and more aware of not having a labour story to share, that I don't know anything about making up a baby's bottle except that powdered milk is frigging expensive, and that the only reason for my lack of sleep is the fact that I've been out for a night on the town. Not that it matters, I can have a little nap in the afternoon. Consequently, I am aware that as I am telling a mother this, there's a tiny jealousy glint in the eye - a wish that they had the spare time, and the lack of harrasment, so that a good, long sleep could happen.

Everyone tells me I'm good with children - I should hope that I am, I've been teaching for 11 years. I think they're funny and honest, and so optimistic about the world around them. But that's how they are around me.....and when they get home, they turn into demons!

At the moment, all children look like this in my mental picture.

I've just turned 32. Ten years ago I thought that you had to just be able to answer a truthful and honest "yes" to a a couple of questions, and that would decide whether or not you were ready to have kids. These were 1) Are you in a stable, strong and loving relationship?, 2) Are you earning good money?, 3) Are you living in a house, with room for a baby? and 4) Can you live a healthy lifestyle for nine months? If the answer is "yes" to all of those, then ready, steady, go!

I can answer yes to those questions - well maybe not the house one, but hey a cupboard under the stairs was good enough for Harry Potter, it could be good enough for my kid. And by the time my father had finished with it decoration wise, it'd be a nursery that would make J. Lo's twins envious. It's not as simple as that.

Recently I've noticed conversations with people that I have not seen for a long time seem to follow a thread. Plesantries are exchanged"Look at you, you're looking well!", then you reminisce on old times and previous gatherings. I complimented them on their children who are usually hanging off each arm/demanding sweets/picking stuff up ("No, put it down, you look with your eyes not your hands, I'm talking a moment, just wait.") And then it changes - "Have you got children?" To which I say, "No, no, not yet". That's it - conversation over. "Well, it's been lovely to catch up......" and we go our seperate ways.

I have done things that I'm proud of. I have accomplished a lot. The fact that I can just get out of bed at the moment without anxiety lodging itself in my throat, and me not being reduced to a snivelling, emotional wreck because I cannot locate my shoes is a plus. I have been eight months without antidepressents, and although it's been a struggle, I'm doin' ok!

I got married on my 25th Birthday, and was seperated by my 26th (this is a good thing, believe me). I paid off my student and graduate debts early. I persisted with a divorce. I have bought a flat. I met my soul mate, and watched him go on a six month tour of Iraq. I passed my driving test. I offered love and support during a difficult year when my boyfriend left the army. I'm furthering my career and going for Assistant Headships. I've been through the emotional wringer, and I know that I am up to the physical and mental challenge of children, and family life.......I'm not sure I want it yet. I haven't decided. I've achieved a lot, yet sometimes I'm made to feel like I haven't because I don't have a little bundle of joy in a buggy in front of me.

So yes, my biological clock is ticking - I know that time is limited, but being emotionally and physically ready isn't always enough. Blogging and being part of a writing community has really opened my eyes. All of the blogging parents I follow are saints in my opinion. I don't know how you do it. I never realised that being a parent meant that you literally don't get five minutes to yourself, that being able to put your make up on without somebody hollering "muuuuum!" or crying for a nappy change was a luxury. Sleep is a privelege, the constant battle with the "five-a-day" rages. Spending time with my nephews has also opened my eyes, you have to be all-singing, all-dancing, creative, inspiring and constantly chirpy and cheerful. It's tiring!!

So at the moment, whilst I know that I'm ready in body and mind, I don't know if I'm ready in spirit. I'm enjoying going clothes shopping and out to lunch without little hands clamouring around me. We're off to New York in October, the holiday of a lifetime, my real one ambition and it's nice that the only thing we have to concentrate on are ourselves.

I read Robert Webb's column today, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/7931323/Will-it-really-matter-if-my-daughter-doesnt-love-scampi.html and it summed everything up for me. And I do want children, I'll have tons of them.....just not yet.

Perhaps I am being selfish, but I now know that once you become a parents selfish tendencies have to go out of the window. I'm looking for a bit of reassurance from you bloddies, that I am doing the right thing - that for now, at least, I'm being selfish for a while, knocking the biological clock onto snooze for a year........and that I am ok to do that. Unless you know where I can get one of those babies in the pictures at the top from.

Relentless Civvy Street.

2010-08-05T09:41:00.000+01:00

This week I've chosen the prompt "Relentless" from the writing workshop at "Sleep Is For The Week".

As those of you know, who follow my blog, or if you happen to know me in the real world, my boyfriend Ben is an ex-serving soldier. We've been together for 5 and a half years, and he left the army in April 2009, although he came home in November 2008. It was a massive shock, for both of us. Even though we knew that he would be leaving the army, we were extremely naive and thought that our problems were all over. Hindsight has proved us to be very foolish.

My boyfriend didn't leave the army due to misconduct. It wasn't an admission discharge. He was discharged on medical grounds, after a tank accident in Canada in 2003. Despite the accident happening many years ago, he still completed an operational tour of Iraq in 2006. I'm immensely proud of my boyfriend and his colleagues.

So what has been relentless lately, about the whole experience? It was Ben's quest to find employement. He was unemployed for an entire year, and it was so tough. We were a couple that had always been apart, that a long-distance relationship seemed to be the only way to function. To suddenly be in a one-bedroomed flat together with no money, no prospects and the depression and shock of it all rampant in the air, was so difficult.

We split up for a week in March. There was no way we could carry on. I was working all the hours God sent to pay the mortgage and the bills. Calculations proved that we had £8 a month for things like clothes and food. Thankfully, parents were very understanding and completely helpful. Ben went to the job centre, he phoned around, he dropped his C.V in to places. He got the local newspaper, and he joined agencies. When he left the army, he was offered resettlement training. Let me dispell a myth that the army train their leavers up, and offer training up to £3000. Wrong. You find a course, and pay up front for it, then they reinburse you. So Ben, at the beginning of 2009, went on a forklift truck driving course, passed with flying colours - but no-one took him on because he was inexperienced.

I'm just explaining all of this so that you can see that Ben was relentless in his search for a job. His benefits were cancelled after 6 months, so for half of this dreadful, awful time, we had no benefits or support from the government. It got so bad that Ben went to see our M.P.

On top of all this stress - looking for a job, getting letters of rejection, being told that he had "no real skills" - Ben had to deal with life after the army. I don't know a lot about what he's seen or done, and I don't think I ever will. He was a superb soldier, with letters of high commendation. Yet he feels rejected, let down and messed about by the government and society that he was fighting on behalf of. Thirteen years of service has amounted to nothing. He feels forgotten about and neglected.

And finally, my support has been relentless. Everyone always asked about Ben, and would muse about how hard it must be, how it's shocking how soldiers get treated, how it's a difficult time for him. Not one person - not one, with the exception of family - asked "how are you?" Me, the one who was keeping it together, me who was going out tutoring to bring in extra money after doing a full day in the classroom, me who did the shopping and juggled the joint account - and I was getting kicked in the teeth for it. Ben didn't take me being the main breadwinner very well, and displayed typical macho tendencies, "It shouldn't be you, it should be me" etc. I didn't buy new clothes, I didn't go out - I didn't do anything, yet I was being treated like someone who spent all the money on a shopping spree, as if I'd get my wages at the beginning of the month and rub it in his face. I just went on autopilot and got on with it.

Thankfully Ben is now employed. He got his job through looking and asking around - no support from the job centre or from the government, or more importantly the Army, who haven't contacted Ben since April 1st 2009. Everything about this situation was relentless - the stress, the lack of money, the frustration and the constant reassurance and support that I had to give. I'm so glad it's over, and that we're still together. Yes, we're not married, but we've been together "For richer, for poorer" (what with the lack of money) "for better, for worse" (The whole situation was miserable and lower of the low) and "in sickness and in health" (Ben's injury means he suffers from excrutiating neck and back pain, and I was mentally, physically and emotionally drained)

I wish I could tell you that this is a one off situation, but this is going on up and down the country. Ben's friends who have left the forces are experiencing exactly the same as we did, and it's not fair. The good that came out of this situation is that I can now budget food shop and I can tell you where every Aldi is in a 10 mile radius. But that's it.

So my next relentless quest is opening people's eyes to the plight of ex-service men and women. It's not just those who have been injured that we need to work with and help - it those who are leaving the army, with skills and qualifications that are not recognised on Civvy Street. Please, if you do one thing after reading this blog, look at http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=312993534927 which is the Facebook group for Hire-A-Hero, an agency set up to support our ex forces. They were extremely supportive toward Ben, and showed him a great understanding. They had only just started up in April, when Ben had found his job, but I'm "biggin' them up" so that people do not have to go through a year or longer of hell, when they come out of the services. You can also find out about the Care 4U conference here http://www.care4uconference.co.uk/care4uholding/index.html which is where Hire-A-Hero will be speaking.

And obviously the "Ben and Emma" phenomenon, which some people refer to as "Bemma" - well, the love, support and friendship for that will always carry on relentlessly.

An Unsworn Sorority

2010-07-30T09:02:00.001+01:00

I've put a lot of thought and consideration into the prompt I was going to use today but it has to be prompt number one, from "Sleep is for the weak's" writing workshop. I'm blessed with a lovely sister, who I've written about at length before, and I probably will again. But this one is for my unsung sisters - the wonderful and fantastic female friends that I have. I haven't written much - but I've included a few photos, which span the period of time that I've known this particular group of friends.

I know this is a weird way to start but I'm very much looking forward to the weekend. It's my friend Gill's 10th Wedding Anniversary. First of all I cannot believe ten years have gone past since they "tied the knot".....so much has happened since! It also was the first wedding I attended as a "grown up" and not one where I was invited to accompany my parents. It was such a lovely day. So on Saturday, there's a party at the same venue as the Wedding was, and I'm thoroughly looking forward to it. I get to see my University friends.

I met Gill, Lyndsey, Becky and Katrine at Trinity College Carmarthen, when I started there in September 1996. Within 48 hours we we're all firm friends. I'm not going to go into the in's and out's of those college days - I'd be here all day, and I'm not sure that I want to share them with you anyway. But after we left university, we all have kept in touch despite the large distances, the mobile number changes, and the trials and time consummation of motherhood and careers. We will have been friends for fourteen years in September, and even though it could be very easy to lament those days, and whinge about where the time went, and what the hell happened to my figure, and wish that I was back in halls/dark student house/posh halls, I think it's important to keep a perspective on how much we've accomplished and achieved.

We've all had our personal problems, our innner demons and our bad times.......they may still occur. But it's so comforting to know that despite not talking every week or month, that we'd drop everything to be there for each other. I love my Trinity Girls so much, and miss them all dreadfully. There's another thing I could moan about - the distances between us. (Lyndsey's in New Zealand, Gill is in Germany, Becky's in Kent, and Katrine in Swansea. I'm living in Birmingham) I could whinge about how I can't get to see them. Again I wont - I'm going to celebrate and rejoice the opportunities and accomplishments that have caused them to be there, and enjoy the fact that when I have my long teacher holidays, I can visit them. (I haven't made it to New Zealand yet - but plans for 2011 are being discussed in the Harries-Hodgson household)

So to my unsung sisters of the unsworn Trinity Sorority - a Trinority if you like - thank you for everything. I love and admire every single one of you, for so many reasons. I'm looking forward to seeing some of you on Saturday, and those who can't make it, you will be missed. I'm lucky to have friends like you, and I feel truly blessed. I love these photos and I can't wait to see future ones.

And to those of you with friends like mine - cherish them. Try not to lament for the lost times and the past - think about the new times, and help create them. xxx

Photo 1 - Lyndsey and me during her Easter visit 2007. 2 - Becky, Katrine and Me at Katrine's Wedding August 2008. 3 - Lyndsey's visit Swansea April 2010 L to R Katrine, Lynds, Me and Gill. 4 - Me and Gill, Christmas 1998, 5 -graduation July 1999, 6 - Lynds, Me and Becky in Halls November 1996, 7, a night in the union 1999 - Becky and me, with Lynds striking a pose in the background, 8 - Halloween 1998 and Gill's 21st L to R Becky, Me, Lynds and Gill. 9 - Christmas 1996 - L to R front row Becky, Lynds, Me and Gill.

Here's to the photos of the next 14 years. xx

There-happy!? A depressive's guide to happiness.

2010-07-15T22:06:00.000+01:00

Dearest Bloddies, I have missed writing for the wonderful "Writing Workshop", but those of you who know me will be pleased to know that I am back with a vengence tonight. There was only one prompt that I could possibly write about today. It's prompt number one, from "Sleep is for the Weak's" writing workshop. So today Bloddies, I'm writing about therapy.

I've always been a bit of a depressive - "highly strung" I think is the term my relatives deemed it, behind their hands as they witnessed the younger me throwing a wobbly over something or nothing. I was a worrier - constantly fretting about things, taking something that may have been a passing comment deeply to heart. Let me give you an example - at the age of four I had a reading age of seven years, five months. So I used to read anything and everything. It got to a point where I was reading the newspapers I found around the house. Think of me like the Roald Dahlo character Matilda, without the "Carrie" thing going on. Anyway, back in the mid 80s, I read about something called clouroflorucarbons or CFCs. These gasses were destroying the protective layer around the Earth, and we'd all die of skin cancer by 1995 because this layer of gas that kept ultraviolet rays out would be gone. CFCs were in polysterene, aerosols and refridgerators. I was terrified - literally. My mother will back me up when I tell you that I got rid of all the aerosols out of the cupboard and hid them, so they'd never be used again. I can still remember my mother shouting at me that it was all mumbo jumbo, and the world wasn't going to end just because she decided to use Pledge on the sideboard. I tried getting a "swear box" system going, so that every time the fridge was opened, the perpetrator gave me fifty pence. I wasn't in it for the money - I was saving the world. Nowadays, I'd be called an eco-warrior - back then I was called "highlystrung" But these little things kept me awake at night. And as the years went on, more things to worry about came. When the Iraq war in the 90s started, I lay awake one night terrified that we were all going to be living like that film "When The Wind Blows" by Raymond Briggs. I was staying with my auntie in Wales, and when she came downstairs the next morning to find me measuring up the doors to make a bomb shelter and enquiring about potato sacks, she knew I was "being emotional again" and carted me off to her dad's. Mr. Lewis (or "Pop" as we called him) was great. He got out a map, showed me where the countries were, explained a lot about treaties, and then told me to basically get a grip. I slept soundly the next night.

Various moments like this however, still didn't lead to me going for therapy, counselling or anything like that.......it was when I witnessed a horrible and violent incident a few years ago that I was finally referred. I went for one session of counselling, and I never went back. The initial reason I went was because since witnessing my friend being stabbed in the head in MacDonalds in Birmingham City Centre one night, understandably I was having trouble sleeping (Ok, you're thinking, "Well if she freaks out over aerosols, that's bound to tip her over the edge" - It's a valid point) My lovely G.P reffered me for counselling. I went to the session, and explained what had happened. She listened for a bit...then promptly interrupted me with "Are you aware that when you say something you're not sure about, you laugh? Has anyone ever told you that before?" After an hour, I came out feeling more paranoid, upset and depressed than ever before......and my post traumatic stress that I'd originally been diagnosed with, had spiralled into things being my own fault because - and I quote - I had "problems dealing with my anger which had escalated and turned into self loathing." WHAAAAT???? I went back to the G.P. He prescribed Zopiclone for a time, and told me to come back in three weeks.

Let me tell you, there's nothing worse than feeling like you're beyond therapy. So what's mine. Here are my therapies - singing and music for a start off. I will sing, sing, sing my heart out when I'm fed up. Or stressed. Or slightly knarked. Hence I'm always singing. In my opinion, the bests invention ever was the Sony Walkman, and now of course the iPod. Music is such a mood matcher. I have a rather ecclectic music taste - everything from Bowie to Take That to Foo Fighters to The Carpenters. But then I'm lucky to have a varied taste, as I can always find something that sums my mood up in a few lyrics.

Comedy is a great therapy. As a kid I grew up watching "Vic Reeves Big Night Out"...the wacky and mental craziness that went on during the half an hour show made me recognise that it's great to be silly. I find comedy a great therapy, a brilliant release. I love Reeves and Mortimer to this day. I also watch Mitchell and Webb, The I.T Crowd, The Mighty Boosh - programmes that will bring out a big belly laugh. It's like exorcising a demon. What a fun therapy! I find making people laugh and amusing those around me not exactly a therapy....more of a distraction. I try and take the micky out of myself and the situation I'm in. It's good for two reasons. Firstly whilst I'm thinking of witty one liners, I'm not thinking about another situation, and secondly I'd rather be thought of as "that loud, funny one" than "that dead miserable one". And as they say, laughter is the best medicine.

So you can keep your talking, and counselling. I may lie on a couch during my next therapy session - but it'll be the one in my living room, with the telly or the hi-fi on full blast. I saw a brilliant motto on a friend's facebook status last week....."Life is for living. We should skid into that box sideways, with a box of chocolates in one hand and a can of 'Bow in the other". Frankly I think it's a good motto, and it says nothing about sliding in on a leather therapy couch. That's it - session's over.

Hair-Em Scare-Em

2010-07-11T13:23:00.000+01:00

I seem to be forever apologising when I write my blog, so I've decided today I'm not going to. True, I haven't written since the beginning of June, but I'd have loved the opportunity to write a blog. The days have been chockablock full with work, hospital visiting and such like. I literally haven't had time.

I am pleased to report that despite my lovely Nanna taking a turn for the worse a couple of weeks ago, she's actually making progress and recovering now. She is back on the main ward, and there is talk of her being moved to another hospital for the elderly. It's great news - and perhaps there is something to be said for the power of prayer!

I've been dropping tired, my hayfever has made my eyes swell up like Jordan's botoxed pout. I look (and feel) like I have gone ten rounds with a kangaroo. So, I've been doing some positive and girly things to keep my mood chipper, and not let the fact that I turn 32 in a week get me down. Here's what I've been doing.

1) I got a hair cut - Following my friend's wedding, I went and got my long brown hair chopped off. I now have a lovely bob, and then yesterday I went and got highlights. I look summery and fresh. As I was leaning over those urinal/sink/basin thingies (which you forget are so uncomfortable until you slot your neck in the u-shaped porcelain.) I wondered if wars would end, world peace could be achieved, and global problems solved if we just gave everyone a new hair do? Perhaps Cameron and Obama should consider making part of some treaties. I feel marvellous after time at the hairdressers.....nothing like a new do, and a good old chat to make you come to your senses and to perk you up.

2) I've bought some clothes - I have been bargain spotting! I bought a lovely black and pink dress from Tesco to wear to work. I find supermarket shopping is treacherous now. I spent £160 in Tesco a few months ago, but just under half of that was on food - the rest was on clothes, underwear, photo printing and kitchen utensils! I love a trip to a massive supermarket. Anyway, this dress had lots of positive comments, so I was cheered right up! The next purchase was a dress from the petites at Dorothy Perkins. Actually I lie, my boyfriend bought it for me. And then I took the plunge, and ordered a jumpsuit from Very.co.uk for my friends 10th wedding anniversary party. It arrived on Friday, and I'm dead chuffed with it. I thought I'd look like Muriel from "Muriel's Wedding".

3) Sunshine absorbing. - I don't really sunbathe, but being out and about in the sun just naturally perks you up. I've taken great care and bought high factor suncream, and I seem to be going a healthy colour. I don't sit out in the sun too long - just enough to feel naturally chuffed, and to have a tanned glow.

4) Spending time with friends - For the last three weekends, we've had a barbecue to attend. It's been great. We don't have a garden unfortunately - I'd love to have one so that we could entertain. Luckily, we have lovely friends and family, who are extremely hospitable and invite us round for barbecues and drinks on the lawn. On Friday evening, we went to our friends, the Godsalls, and had a hilarious game of rounders - it all went well until I slogged the ball over next door's garden. Us girlies were great a batting, but we weren't much use when it came to fielding. We spent much time shrieking and chasing the ball on the floor. Such a laugh - competitive sports like that made me miserable in school, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself!

5) Purchasing a washing line - not exactly the most obvious mood lifting activity, but we have a very small flat, that gets cramped with knickers, t shirts and various other items of clothing hanging all around it. So, my Dad bought us a rotary washing line, which has been installed on the tiny patch of grass outside our maisonette. I love it - nothing like the sight of white garments flapping in the breeze - my mother had a similar love for cloth nappies hanging out on a line, perhaps my obsession has come from her.

So that's all I have to report here really. Over the next few weeks I am going to a theme park - without children, attending a Wedding Anniversary party, and just generally enjoying the little things that 6 weeks off from work conjours up. Have fun, Bloddies. xxx

Hospital at Half Term.

2010-06-04T18:35:00.000+01:00

I haven't written a blog for just under a month.
It's not that I haven't wanted to.....there is just so much going on at the minute, and even though the emotional extremities of recent events would make for great writing, it's been so fraught, stressful and tiring, I haven't had the time to set aside for it.
My lovely Nanna is in hospital, and she's very poorly. As gutted as we all are that she's so ill, and that there's a difficult time ahead no matter the outcomes, we're all on autopilot. We're ensuring that someone is with her throughout the visiting times, and I've discovered today that you can only run on autopilot for a certain amount of time.
Nanna is in intensive care. For those of you like me, who would allow BBC hospital soap-dramas to dictate to you the image of an intensive care ward, the actual place is a bit of a shock. It's bright. It's hot. It's noisy. There are alarms and buzzers going off everywhere. If you sit and close your eyes, you could be forgiven for letting your ears convince you that you're in a restaurant kitchen. Some beeps sound like microwaves going off, others like a telephone. Thank godness the poor souls on that ward are under heavy sedation - there's no way you could sleep otherwise.
And contrary to the television programmes, the nurses are not all obsessed with a young handsome doctor, and dragging them into corners to discuss a latest love life crisis. Every single one of them has been completely absorbed and dedicated into taking care of Nanna, and every other person on the ward. I think that nurses get too much of a bad press, and whatever they are being paid, it's not enough.
The ward is like a vortex - a big timeless void. No-one has any idea of the time, and visiting seems to speed by. I only realised it was Friday today when I looked at my carpark ticket. As visitors, we don't seem to be able to do much - we just sit and talk to our loved ones, and tell them we are there. You feel strangely helpless and useless, and that your sheer presence is futile - however, you are determined to do it all again, as soon as the next visiting time comes around.
You feel everyone's feelings - it's like a great big conduit for emotions. However it's not a depressing place, more sombre and sometimes desperate. You acknowledge the people around you, who are doing exactly the same for their loved one. You may be nothing like them, but for a mere second when you smile and nod at them, or say "Hiya", you feel incredibly close, and a strange stifling connection to them. The understand your feelings, and you understand theirs. You know how they slept last night, you know they are feeling guilty when the one they are visiting shows a small sign of recovery, because they are in front of others who are not.
Me and my family feel physically drained, and ultimately concerned for my poor Nanna. However, I nearly collapsed on the ward today, and I realised then I need to take it easy myself. I felt hot, and fizzy headed - as if my head was underwater. I wanted to cry and laugh, and just go to sleep for a bit. There are many possible reasons for my fainting fit - I suffer from vasovagal syncope, so it's not like they're rare. It could have been the heat. It could have been the fact that for the last two weeks I have lived on Hula hoops, malt loaf and Lucozade. I think it's more to do with lack of sleep, and complete and utter worry for Nanna, as I have a determination to see her every hour of visiting.
I shall keep you in the loop, bloddies, but if you get a minute please say a prayer for my wonderful Nanna. xxxx

My best friend's wedding, and a day at the Races.

2010-05-09T09:34:00.000+01:00

Well, my lovely friend Liz got married on Friday, and what a fabulous day we had. The last time I blogged was the day before, and what a hectic day that was. I told you about my itinary and how I was pleased to be up two hours before it started. I did really well until 10am, when printing problems put me half an hour behind scehdule. Then voting took longer than I had catered for - sorry I am going to go completely off track here - what is so hard about putting a cross on a piece of paper?? I'm sure there were people there that needed the concept of a pencil explaining to them! Honestly, I was getting impatient, and I don't think they would have appreciated a lunatic like me waving a piece of A4 paper in their face, shouting "Hurry up, will you, I'm on a tight scehdule!", Anyway, I got it done.

Another issue with Thursday was the serious pain I was experiencing in my left shoulder all the way up my neck. I shrugged it off - excuse the pun - at first, just putting it down to sleeping funny. However, driving to my dad's proved very difficult indeed, and was excruciating. So Ben then took over, and chauffered me everywhere. Despite sleeping funny, incompetent people, and having to stop for a poor old man that we witnessed fall over, (we were at traffic lights in Northfield, and this man fell over. Obviously, we pulled over to see if he was alright. I have my faith restored in humantiy after this event, and despite Northfield being voted one of the chavviest towns in England, a few people stopped to see if the man was ok, and a white van driver took him to the hospital to get checked out) I made it to Liz's parents on time. We set off for the hotel and when we got there, the staff were fantastic. The suite we had for Thursday night was amazing! It had one of those baths with legs, (like off the Flake advert) and there was a television in the wall of the bathroom, as well as a telephone (that I hadn't noticed, until it started ringing whilst I was in the shower, frightening the life out of me. I comically noticed it was near the toilet, and contemplated fitting one in our bathroom, to stop Ben taking the paper in there.)

Myself anfd Liz chose to take full opportunity to use the facilities. We went in the pool, the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna, and had a full on relaxing hour, before going downstairs for dinner with the family. It was a lovely, relaxed night, with beautiful food. We retired to the suite about 11pm, briefly watching The Alternative Election Show. The pain in my shoulder, thankfully was subsiding.

The next day was Friday - Wedding day. I was awake at 4am, why? I can't tell you. I don't know. I had a lovely comfy bed to myself, in fabulous surroundings. It was so peacefull and relaxed, yet I woke up like a coiled spring. Despite waking ridiculously early, we got up at 7am. I had a bath whilst watching the election news, ready for the hairdresser, who came at 8am. The rest of the morning was a complete whirlwind of hair, make-up, nails, checking the room, clarifying things, helping and assisting Liz, secretly reading through and practising my speech, and packing my stuff up, ready for the staff to move into another room. Before we knew it, it was 12.15, and we were getting ready to go down to the room where the ceremony was taking place.

The ceremony was so beautiful, very emotional and Liz and Craig both looked lovely. The blessing in the chapel was very special and relaxed. The sun was out, so the photographs will look excellent. The rest of the afternoon went by very quickly, and I spent time having my photo taken, taking photos and trying to chat to everyone. Before we knew it, it was time for the speeches. I was extremely nervous about mine, as I was following the Best men. However, it went really well. Our meal was fabulous, then it was time for the band - Smooth Criminals. They must have been good, as Ben even danced. The thing is about my boyfriend is that we've been together five and a half years, and he's danced three times. A successful night. I was really sad when it was all over, and despite the headache I woke up with on Saturday morning, I felt a little bit whimsical. It's taken so much planning and preparation, and we've known about it for the last two years.....I'm so pleased it went so fantastically well.

So we left the hotel, and came home, to get ready for our annual race trip. This year we went to Warwick. Stupidly, we were in Warwickshire for the wedding, but had to return to Birmingham to get the coach, to return to Warwick, but never mind. The weather was chilly, and I was a bit apprehensive, partly due to hangover and extreme tiredness, but also because me and Ben did so spectacularly rubbish last time at the races. I get carried away and all excited "Oooooh that horse is 100-1, I'm going to put a fiver on it!" This year I chose a horse in one of the races called "Bendigedig" - I know this means fantastic in Welsh. She was 100-1, but I slapped the money on it, and it lost. Not so bendigedig after all. It was looking destined to be a bad day at the races, until the third race, and a horse called "My Mate Max" caught our eye. In honour of our friends who had just had a little boy called Max, and other friends with a son called Max, we decided to bet on it. We put £3 on for each little boy, and lo and behold, the horse won. I was extremely excited. Thanks to Max Davies and Max Garner - I shall buy each of them something nice I think.

It was ladies night last night at Warwick, and whilst some ladies looked lovely and classy, there were so many that looked rough - I mean ridiculously rough. My dad was sitting on a bench and he got up to get his pint, and he literally turned round to see a girl sitting in his seat - within 2 seconds. The group of girls she was with looked shocking. One had a polka dot all-in-one shorts set.....fine, but you don't wear stockings and suspenders with shorts. Another one had a white see through lace dress with a black bra on, and hair extensions that were so bad, they make Roxy Mitchell look like Rapunzel, (Blonde hair with black roots are just a no-no) and the other had a dress so low cut, you could see what she had for dinner, and was absolutely caked in fake tan. There's a few things that get me mad....forgetting about itsy-bitsy polka dot shorts girl's complete lack of manners and disregard for the people around them. I can't abide people with no fashion sense, and these girls had it in abundance. We were relieved when they moved on. Ladies night in their case was a bit ironic, and it was funny to see them completely baffled as to why they didn't win a prize.

So after a successful race meet, we went to a pub for a buffet meal, and then it was back on the coach for the journey home. I am completely and utterly exhausted today. Totally shattered. It's been a mental few days. I don't feel guilty saying that I am the tiredest I've ever been, and I know that people with kids are constantly tired.......but I think it's ok for me to be tired too. I've done so much, but what a wonderful time I've had. I'm sure there's more to come.

Weddings, the Election and cleaning the oven.

2010-05-06T06:54:00.001+01:00

It's been a very busy couple of weeks, Bloddies, but some lovely times are being had. I'm one wedding down, and I have another to go! It's very exciting albeit a bit stressful.

On Saturday I attended my friend Claire's weddding. It was an absolutely wonderful day! Claire looked beautiful - I know everyone says that about the bride, but she really did, and the groom, Sam, looked extremely smart. Bridesmaids dresses and the groomsmen's ties were a really gorgeous sky blue colour, very unusual, I hadn't seen it before. Very nice! I was completely thrown with it - knowing that Sam, like my family, is an avid Birmingham City supporter, I was convinced it would be royal blue.

Several good things happened at the wedding, apart from two lovely people commiting themselves to each other for life. 1) I proved to myself that I can walk in 5 inch heels, 2) Ben had to leave early (not so good) , so I had his pudding (Bailey's proffiteroles, absolutely LUSH) and 3) the rain held off for the photos. It was a truly lovely day.Claire's sister and my friend, Lucy, was bridesmaid, and it was so great to see her. She moved to Cardiff last year and I miss her terribly. My outfit was complimented on. I have discovered a perchant for hats! So I am wishing lots of love and luck to Claire and Sam, and I'm glad they managed to fly out on honeymoon before the ash cloud advanced again.

This week has been a strange one. We had the wedding on Saturday, and Sunday I recovered whilst Ben went to work (I LOVE saying that! It's so ace - and of course, working in Cadbury's has many advantages concerning the chocolate purchasing front.) Monday was Bank Holiday, which I spent doing paperwork and cleaning the oven. Maybe not so great a day, but it was good to get time to do it. Tuesday and Wednesday saw me going to work, and then that brings me to today! Being as it's election day - there we are, I've mentioned it, and our school is a polling station, we're not allowed on the premises. This is good for me as wedding number 2 is tomorrow........and this time, I'm bridesmaid.

Even though it isn't me getting wed, I am suitably anxious. Last night I was frantically writing a personal statement and an application form for a new job, which has to be posted today. This morning, I woke up at 6am, with some ridiculous tune going round my head - I think it's the Lambada. Don't ask, I haven't heard it for years. I wrote an itenary, and I have stressed to Ben it MUST be stuck to. I'm good at that. I write lists, itenaries and schedules at the drop of a hat. That's the good thing about having mild OCD, at least you get the frigging job done. Forget plan B - I have plans lettered all the way through the alphabet. Most people would be annoyed to be awake before the alarm, like I am this morning. Not me. I can get a clear hour to double check the itenary, and knock a couple of jobs off there!

So my friend Liz is marrying Craig tomorrow, which I'm so chuffed and thrilled about. Forget the election, that's the only thing that's occupying my mind at the mo. Today is awash with transporting, rehearsing, fetching and carrying - oh, and voting of course.

I think the election is causing me stress. I've took it all very seriously. I've watched debates, read articles, listened to people at the door.....yet I think I might just vote Liberal Democrat, because Nick Clegg's quite handsome, and I'm sick of looking at Gordon Brown and his big, boiled face. I'm still none the wiser. Just as long as we don't get Nick Griffin and Nick Clegg muddled up, eh?

So I shall sign off now Bloddies, as I'm catching up to the time my schedule begins...and remember to vote! I'll blog again at the weekend, all about Wedding number 2. What the hell - I may even throw in some photos. xxxx

Sibling Why-valry!

2010-04-22T17:23:00.000+01:00

I'm in a real pickle this week, dear bloddies. Josie's prompts this week are just so fab, and I could write something for all of them. However, I've reigned myself in, and I thought I would choose prompt number 4. And even if I have my sister in tears when she reads this (crying or laughing, makes no difference to me, although both would be a bonus) I care not a jot!

It's quite funny actually - by chance we were discussing whether or not parents had favourites in work today. Immediately I said "Oh, it's my sister that's the favourite!". Yet the more I thought about it, the more I thought that favourites just do not exist in our little nuclear family.

I'll set the scene for you. I have a sister - younger than me by two and a half years. When she got married four years ago, I had the privelege of being a chief bridesmaid and giving a speech. I reminiced about my first impression of her. I'm very lucky to have an astounding memory (only when it comes to trivial things. I know all the words to the songs on Kylie's first album, yet Liberal Democracies and Totalitarian Regimes, which I did for History A Level - completely clueless on.) Anyway, despite being two and a half, I can remember walking to the hospital in wellies and bare legs.....Dad, bless him, had failed to think of tights for me in November. I can remember the way the wellies rubbed the top of my legs. When we got to the hospital, the sun was streaming through the window. The baby was in a little glass cot, which I was convinced was a fishtank. Everybody referred to "the baby". I was disgruntled, I think, although I didn't have the vocabulary to express it. I had always been the baby, and then another baby had come along - that was my cousin, Derryn. People fussed over him, and now there was another one! How many babies did we need? Despite this, I lapped up some attention. A lady in the bed opposite gave me a purple wrapped chocolate, and my present from the baby was a toy clock, that you slotted the numbers into. The number 11 was yellow. I played with my clock, ate my chocolate, and snuck little looks at the baby every now and again.

My little sister was a source of constant annoyance to me, in those early days. We had to stop buying toys like Lego, because she'd put it in her mouth. That was a bit rubbish! This wasn't a phase she was keen on leaving behind either, it would seem. My first school report? - bitten in the middle by Shelley and spat down the toilet. My Cygnet ring? - She wanted to look at it, and then rammed it in her mouth. It bent, and never fitted again.

Looking back, there was probably a label for my clumsy, falling-from-a-standing-start, bespectacled urchin like my sister. My mother would despair when she came in with scraped knees, bashed arms, and head cut open, and Mum would declare that "Soshul sermises" would be on the doorstep. Who were they? I used to think they were like the Secure Homes man. Anyway, she was a nightmare, and regularly in casualty. She wanted to help scrape paper off the wall, missed and in a bizarre way, stuck the paper scraper in her forehead. She walked into a lamp post. She fell off a piano stool in nursery. Every now and again, she'd have stitches, plasters or both. She even managed to get attention then!

When I was in first year juniors (what would be called year 3) I entered a writing competition, sponsored by Cadbury's. I only went and won it! I wrote a poem, and my award was a massive box of chocolates, with a lid decorated with an oil painting. Seriously, this box was bigger than me! My family made a dreadful fuss of me, and I was really proud. Cut to two years later, and Shelley was in the same class. The teacher came into my class, in the middle of Maths, and demanded I come downstairs. Petrified, and bewildered, I followed her. There's my sister, by the teacher's desk, looking extremely guilty. "Read your sister's entry for the Cadbury Prize" demanded the teacher. I read through it - I didn't need to. It was my entry from two years previous. Don't ask me how the little madam had got my entry.....it's not like I had it backed up on my computer in 1987. Don't ask me how she'd even thought of the idea! But that's what she did. And I took great delight in telling my parents, despite not needing to - my mother had already been informed. Still, can't harm to check, can it?

We argued like cat and dog. We didn't have fisticuffs - in fact I can remember being round a friends house, and then when we saw the sister and brother laying into each other, and shoving and pushing, we looked at each other incredulously, and made our excuses. But my God, we argued, and wound each other up. Once a month, my Nan would buy us a book. We'd go to the big Dillons (Waterstones now) in Birmingham, and we'd spend hours choosing a book. I'd read mine avidly on the train, and would be walking home from the station, with my nose firmly in it. (Shelley would climb on the wall that's outside the station and try and walk along it. She's fallen off that, and hurt herself, along with the steps outside the Post Office.) Anyway, I was - and still am - obsessed, obsessed with keeping books pristine. No bent spines, no dog eared corners. Keep the page with a bookmark, or if you wanted to keep your book really neat, just write the page number down somewhere. So I'd look for my book, after tea on a Saturday night, and it would be nowhere to be found. Puzzled, I'd go to the bathroom, to have a bath - and there it would be, spine bent, corners folded over! And - sin of all sins - it was on the radiator! The book had been dropped in the bath, and I was now left a pulpy booky mess, that even when dried out, wouldn't recover!! The pages were permanently creased and yellow forever. But dear reader, this didn't happen once, this happened regularly!!

She wore my purple Doc Martens up to the stables, and they were covered in horse shit for eternity! So I wore some of her clothes back to university. She cut my Girls World hair, so I attempted to sell her Transformer. She chewed the feet off my Sindy! I have her doll measles by drawing on it with the permanent marker that my dad used for writing on our coats and lunchboxes at the beginning of term. When she started senior school, I had to wait for her in the mornings. I was the early bird - she was dragged out of bed kicking and screaming. Needless to say, for the first few months, Mam ended up driving us, and in the end I left her in bed.

I look back at all of this with a real fondness, as infuriating as it all was at the time. I will say this - we were always there for each other. When she was bullied in school, I wrote a letter to the headteacher. When a lad was horrible to her on the school bus, me and my mate Stephanie cornered him in the toilets of the art block. It didn't happen again. She suffered with Juvenile Chronic Arthritis, Psoriasis, and also had a collapsed eardrum. This meant swollen joints, itchy, flaky skin and trouble hearing. When we were both working in a restaraunt as waitresses with an extremely tempremental chef (as chefs usually are) there was an occasion where he screamed and bawled at my sister, shouting "Are you f**king deaf, you stupid cow!?" I turned my sister around, said into her good ear "Shell, table two away, quick." When she exited the kitchen, I told this idiot (who later went on, apparently, to threaten another waitress with a knife) that I would come round there, and personally dunk him in the deep fat fryer if he ever, EVER spoke to my little sister like that again, who, as it happened, was deaf in one ear. I informed him that he had delusions of grandeur.....it was hardly cordon bleu, he was a microwave jockey. And he'd better watch his step. Shelley returned to the kitchen, to a quiet kitchen, and a mumbled apology from the chef. It was the little things like that, that brought us closer.

My sister is my best friend. We ring each other every couple of days, and see each other weekly. And we've had our ups and downs, but I am proud and pleased to have her as a sister. She's not the favourite - she never was. We were loved and respected in very different ways. My parents don't have favourites - unless you count the grandkids. They're their favourites. That's the way it should be. And yes, our relationship has changed - I've let Shelley join my book club! Let her break her own book spines and fold over the corners. (Also a word of advice, should she happen to read this - you can't pass this off, as your own work!)

My sister - couldn't be without her, and her various childhood ailments, and I'm relieved to say that the biting of my objects has stopped. Amen to that.

End of Easter Holidays.

2010-04-17T08:41:00.000+01:00

Do you know, I am not dreading the end of the Easter holidays, nor am I wishing that I had more time off. I am actually very positive and optimistic - and looking forward to returning to work! This is new territory for me. It feels quite alien.
There are several reasons for this - 1) Me and Ben will be leaving for work and returning at the same time. This last year has seen me rushing out of the door at an ungodly hour, leaving Ben with a list of chores to do - and then, on the odd occasion, phoning him with something random. I know he's hated it, but fair play he's done it! But now he's got a full time job, he is like a new person, and although the share of the housework will go back to being 50/50, it really doesn't bother me, and it'll be great to settle into a new routine - the old one didn't do much for us, as a couple.
Another reason for this turnaround is 2) The weather is fab. I have never minded teaching in sunny weather. The last term was so grim and cold, and the mornings were so dark - I wish I was a bear! I could just go to sleep through the freezing, icy, dark Winter, and wake up refreshed on the first day of Spring! I would willingly give up all of the holidays I have as a teacher (spare me the "taxi driver" humour about "Bloody teachers, all they do is moan, they go into work at 9 and play til 3.30 and they're always on holiday" - believe me it's not like that at all) and I would use all of my holiday to hibernate. The children could do with it too, as parents will know, they can be so wearing in cold (and windy, for some reason) weather.
3) The sudden, and much needed job turnaround means more money coming into the house, and I feel like a big weight has been lifted from my shoulders. No more frantic struggling to make ends meet, moving money from account to account to balance the books. And a big, fat middle finger to the bank, who have not helped one little bit, who will be getting the bank charges that are craftily slapped on to send us into the red, hence more charges.
4) There are so many lovely things happening in the next few months - weddings, birthdays, parties, and the annual trip to the races. It's impossible not to look forward to it.
So this is what's so weird! My work pressures will be exactly the same as before the holiday - in fact there is greater pressure, as the unknown arrival of OFSTED looms - but I'm ready for it. If I could sum up what this Easter Holiday has been, in one word, it's been RELIEVING. I've been to the pictures with my boyfriend - the last time we did that was -was -well I don't know. I've spent quality time with very good friends, and laughed, a LOT. I've made new friends, and done new things at the Hen Weekend, and I'm also able to go food shopping without having to go for the cheaper, tastless brands! At Tesco too, not Aldi. Simple mind for simple pleasures, maybe. But when you've worried about money for over a year, the weekly food shop is a dreadful chore, instead of a secret pleasure. It'll be great to have the cupboards full again.
I've found that I've been getting into the trap of watching daytime television - what an nightmare. It's like a magnet - you don't want to watch, then you find yourself mesmerised and then before you know it you promise yourself you'll do the dishes after Maury's told you if the American man who is denying his baby, really is the father, or whether or not the chav on Jeremy Kyle is telling the truth, or after you've seen how the house on a makeover show looked before, because it looks amazing now. It's dangerous. I hate morning television now - women picking on insecurities and doubts and feeding them, and before you know it, you're taking your styling advice from a woman who is famous for being in a tabloid newspaper, and that's it. It's ridiculous! (I think I have gone on a rant here). Get outdoors people! Don't listen to this drivel - it clouds your judgement and your mind! Having said this, my love for Jeremy Kyle's show hasn't wained - but I'm using it as a self help tool ("You think you've got problems? Take a look at these people!") It helps you put things into perspective, and realise that things can only get better.
So the Easter Holidays have been a true success for me, and even though I'm sure there will be more difficult times ahead - I can get through them. Things are on the up, and although you may think that I am over-excited about some very small, trivial things - it's sometimes the little things that you take for granted, and it's them little things that get you through. My own personal triumph is that I haven't needed my pick-me-up tablets since December, despite the most difficult period has been the last four months.
Have a good day Bloddies - I know I will. I have to dash now, my boyfriend has just served me a beautiful fry up and orange juice. Happy days! xx

The Hen Do of the Century!

2010-04-13T16:31:00.000+01:00

Just thought I'd do a blog about the fabulous time I had at my friend Liz's Hen Weekend. We flew out to Edinburgh on Thursday 8th April. I totally freaked out at the airport - I have a terrible fear of flying. However, once I'd thrown up and rang my mother, I felt much better. Our suitcase was too heavy -we'd spent a few weeks making "party bags" for all of the girls coming on the weekend with us, but Flybe were having none of it, and wanted us to fork out £81! So some "bag juggling" was done, and we got away with just paying for an extra piece of hand luggage.

The flight over there was very smooth, and we caught a bus from the airport into Edinburgh city centre, where we'd booked a Travelodge. After a bus journey where we had a very smelly man sitting next to us, and then a 10 minute walk, dragging the heavy bags through the town, with my feet becoming sore we finally arrived. Nothing much was done that night - we went to bed.

The next day was glorious. We went out and had breakfast, and a little mosey along the Royal Mile, as well as a brief visit to the "Mueseum of Childhood". It was great - a little bit creepy, what with dodgy dolls and teddies, but interesting all of the same. We then checked out, and got a taxi over to the apartments where we were all staying. The apartments were fabulous! All of the girls finally arrived in dribs and drabs, and we took what we thought would be a short walk into Leith - it took around an hour and a half. We had drinks in a couple of pubs, and then back to the apartments for more drinks, chinese food, some DVD watching and pampering.

Saturday again was an absolutely stunning day. It was off to the recording studios, which was our first planned activity. I did begin to feel guilty consuming champagne at 11.30am, however that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it! Ha! If I ever win the lottery, I'm having Bollinger on tap. We recorded three songs altogether, and I arranged for Liz to do a solo. The bloke who ran the studio was suitably impressed. He also filmed us singing and dancing - not in a pervy way, steady now! We had an absolutely fantastic time!

With a couple of hours to kill, we had a stroll around Edinburgh. Liz and I hadn't really appreciated it when we arrived, as it was pitch black, and our nostrils had been burned out by the BO/stale booze odour of the gentleman on the bus, and I was still stressed from the plane journey, but it truly is a fantastic place. We strolled along the Royal Mile, and found a pub at the bottom of it, where we had a few drinks and a chat. I also had had to nip into Boots -word of advice, Edinburgh is NOT the place to break in new shoes. My bunions had blisters on them, I was in agony. So when I saw a Boots, I siezed the opportunity to buy some much needed plasters.

It was on to the Balmoral Hotel then, for Afternoon tea, in the Drawing Room, don't you know? We had more champagne, and some gorgeous sandwiches. We did a Grand National sweep - I didn't win, so nothing new there then! There were also delicious cakes and pastries, I was absolutely stuffed! Two or three cups of Earl Grey later, it was time to go.

It was then back to the apartments to don our Heroine costumes. The girls all looked fantastic! It was such a laugh. I organised a little "Mr and Mrs" style quiz, and a "How Well do you know Liz" quiz, just to get everyone in the mood. We also presented Liz with a scrapbook, full of photos, stories and memories of the happy times we've had with her. I got a little tear in my eye(nothing to do with the champagne, wine and Bacardi, of course - it was the emotion of the moment.)

We went to a bar first before clubbing. The responses we recieved from our costume were all fantastic! the only let down was the nightclub entry wasn't VIP - more NCP! However, after discussions with the nightclub manager, we were presented a bottle of bubbly! Result!

We boogied the night away, and had such a laugh. There were many other hen and stag parties out - of course none as original as us! There was some sort of kinky Brownie pack (men) and some women with rabbit ears on their heads. That was about it. We didn't get to bed until 4.45am!! Disgraceful I know, but well worth it.

With sore feet and tired bones, we all woke up on the Sunday, having had a fabulous time. We checked out and all made our way back to our respective home towns. I had a better flight home - I even managed to look out of the window, and despite a bumpy landing, it wasn't that bad.

So all in all - and I'm sure you can tell by the photos - it was a super weekend! My feet are still blistered and sore, my voice is just coming back, and I have no money whatsoever, but I don't care. Well worth it!! I hope I gave my friend the best send off she could possibly have had - next it's the wedding. Bring it on! xx

A dangerous reflection.

2010-04-13T11:49:00.000+01:00

It seems like yonks and yonks ago since I've written from a Writing Workshop prompt - it's actually been over a month. Now that I'm holiday from work, feeling relaxed, and the pressures that me and Ben as a couple are now reduced (He has got a job at last, and I'm so pleased for him!) I thought "Why not?" So here it is. The prompt I have chosen is: Write about a time when you felt, or you felt someone you loved, was in real danger.

For those of you that do not know me, or have not read a blog of mine before, my boyfriend of five and a half years was in the British Army. I met him when he was out with friends in Birmingham, in a nightclub, around Christmas in 2004, and we hit it off straightaway. We exchanged numbers and I thought that would be it. The next day we went out, and we were inseperable. Despite him being based in Catterick (my geography is appalling, I just know it's up north from Birmingham, and takes three hours to get there in a car) we kept in touch via mobiles, the internet (thank the Lord for modern conveniences!!) and he came back to Birmingham every weekend. I was immensely proud of him for being in the army.

In those early days, we knew he'd be sent out to Iraq - but it was to be in April 2006, a clear year away. So it was pushed to the back of the mind, and we carried on. We attended army functions and even when he was on exercises to prepare him, it didn't really hit me. You get swept up in so much stuff when getting ready for it - contact details, setting up ways of staying in touch, sorting out uniforms and kit. People asked me how I'd cope without him. I'd turn all "Spice Girls " on them. "I am a strong, independent woman, I only see him at weekends, I'll keep everything ticking over for him. Girl Power"- blah, blah, blah. Then, before we knew it, he was on his leave before being sent out there. Whilst getting his uniform ready, I kept things light hearted. "This pocket is useless!" I joked "What's it for?" "Morphine", came the stark reply. And there it was - the fear, the dread -the reality. Ben was going to an extremely dangerous, highly volatile place, not a lads holiday, despite the humourous commadary between him and his colleagues.

Waving him off at the train station, when he returned to barracks was absolutely heartbreaking. I have never felt so desolate - but I made sure by the time I'd ran up the steps from the platform to my parents waiting on the concourse that my tears were dry - my motto was to be "Keep Calm, Carry on". For the six months he was out there, things were dreadful. Every time the news came on, I'd be scouring it to see if something had happened. It was a difficult tour. I got chatting online to other army wives and girlfriends - some of them I am still in contact with to this day - but it fed my fear. When something did happen out there, all lines of communication went down, which is a sensible thing. However (and I'm now shaking as I type this) you would pray that you didn't hear anything. If you heard something, that meant the worst had happened. "No news is good news" as they say. The relief when I heard his voice, or recieved an email or a bluey (nothing disgusting about that, it's a type of air mail letter) saying those three little words - "I am ok," was like a tidal wave. Then the guilt would hit you - it was still someone's husband, boyfriend, son, brother, father.

Friends, family and work colleagues were very supportive. They were there for me during the day. However, when the night comes and you're awake when the whole world seems asleep, there is nothing you can do. The dread and sense of danger never left me for a second - it was just diluted at different times. Moping did nothing, as no-one wants to hang around with a moper. Getting on with things didn't do much good either - some people can be very cruel, and apparently to them I appeared heartless. I stopped watching the news, I turned my mobile off, so that well-meaning people couldn't contact me to see if I was ok. That was the trouble - I was absolutely fine! I was safe and well. My boyfriend was working all the hours God sent, in an aggressive and unfathomably dangerous environment. It didn't do well to dwell on it. I knew many wives and girlfriends who would text their loved ones on mobiles - I can honestly say, hand on heart that I did not. I wanted him to stay alert and on the job, and mobile networks can be intercepted. He was in enough danger as it was, I didn't want to put him in more, for the sake of sentiments. I wrote a letter every day, most days twice (my record was four letters) and I'm talking physically written letters.

Ironically, Ben returned from Iraq on Remembrance Sunday, after flying out there on Easter Sunday. That Remembrance Sunday I sat and cried, and watched the service on the television. Everything had hit me. Danger is a strange thing, it can bring out the best and the worst in you, and in that six months, I grew up and matured in so many ways. I'm not saying that I want Ben to go on operational tour again (in fact I was so relieved when he was told that he would not be able to go to Afghan, although he was devastated) But it made me stand on my own two feet - and I learned not to be so selfish.

How things come round full circle. The one constant, the person that I can say I got very close to was my Nan. Before, when she'd told stories about the war (the Vera Lynn, the rationing, shelters, munitions factories, whirlygigs, not being able to buy tights) I did listen with awe, but remained dettached to it. Now I heard about her worry, her dread and fear for my grandad, her brothers, for neighbours and friends. The one thing I have learned about danger is it's something that never alters. Two very different wars, and many years have passed between the two, and the technology circulated around both is completely vast (for example, my Nan had to wait for telegrams and the post - I had phonecalls, eblueys, emails, blueys) however that feeling of having a loved one in danger is exactly the same.

I still worry about Ben - I like him to ring if he does go on car journeys visiting the family or such like. But there is such a drastic difference between just worrying and being concerned, then to knowing that your loved one is in deep, mortal danger....and you cannot do a thing about it. I am thankful to have a loving, supporting family, wonderful friends and understanding colleagues - I could not have got through that difficult time without them. And my boyfriend now says that he didn't have to worry about me - my letters, parcels and phonecalls did him the power of good, and he could keep his mind on the job. Of course he missed me dreadfully, and wanted to be home, but he knew that all was good at home - and I like to think that I was supportive. But if I'd have let the fact that he was in terrific danger cloud my judgement, the situation could have been made so much worse.

Already in April?

2010-04-02T12:25:00.000+01:00

Forgive me, I know it's been a while. Things have been completely manic, and I've stared so much at the computer in work, that I've just been unable to face typing a blog. Very bad of me, I know, but I have had another couple of creative outlets -one is my reading group that I have created! We had our first meeting last night, and it was a complete pleasure! We read the book "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer, and whilst I was reading it, I was hooked and totally interested....now I'm not so keen. But that's another story.
So, what else have I been up to in March? Well, I applied for another job, didn't get it, organised my best friend's hen weekend, and re-started scrapbooking. I also had time for a dose of bronchitis, which lasted a fortnight - despite having a temperature of 38.3, I went into work, coughing and sniffing like an asthmatic aardvark on 70 cigarettes a day.
Also the personal life is very strained and stressful.....my boyfriend is still unemployed, and finding life adjusting to Civvy Street very difficult. It was a year yesterday since he officially left the army. Money is a big problem, but we're refusing to let it get us down. That's even more tricky than paying the bills.
However, it's Easter! The time of rebirth and all that! I'm now on my Easter holidays (spare me the jokes about teachers and holidays, thank you!) and I have a super-duper weekend planned in Edinburgh next week. Two of my friends are getting married - within six days of each other. For the first wedding, I have bought an amazing outfit, complete with hat so large that it makes Andie MacDowell's hat in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" look like a fascinator! The next wedding, I'm a bridesmaid. The only thing I've brought is huge, massive pants and a wonderbra for that one. So on Thursday, I'm off to Edinburgh, complete with Wonderwoman costume, and deelyboppers. Oh boy, I'll be blogging loads about that. I may attach some photos, to boot!
So, now that I have some time off, I shall be remotivating myself, and joining in with the writing workshops once again.
Catch you VERY soon! xxx

Discovering Inner Child(hood)

2010-02-24T18:54:00.000Z

Oh to be a child again! I remember the times I thought "I could do that if I was a grown up" at the age of six or seven, and wishing I'd be like Tom Hanks in "Big". Now we crave for those days.
Today's blog is written in response to "Sleep id for the Weak's" Writing Workshop prompt 4.
As a little girl, me and my friend would regularly talk about what we'd do when we grew up. I vowed that when I was really old, say like 20, I would eat pudding before dinner. I'd buy Matey bubble bath, even though it was too expensive, and a MacDonald's Happy Meal would be a regular dinner. I would never, EVER go food or clothes shopping, coz it's boring, and I'd get somebody to get all my stuff for me.
Things baffled me as a young child. What were these things like "More-gidge" or "inshur-ants" that adults mentioned in conversation revolving around money? Why was "going to work" so important? I LOVED going to work with my Mam. In those days, she worked in a hospital for old people as an O.T assistant, and days when I had to attend, I got to use chunky felt pens, or make stuff out of raffia. It was better than school!!! Who wouldn't love work?
So there we were, desperate and eager to be a grown-up. And now I'd give anything to be six years old again, playing in the living room of our house, in front of the fire, with my "My Little Ponies"
My childhood passion was roller-skating. I had a pair of red suede and white leather roller boots with "Starlight Express" on them. I'd go up and down the uneven paving slabs outside our old house for hours and hours on end. If I fell over (which was rare on roller-boots, not so rare on the bike) I got up and carried on. The rubber stoppers on my boots ended up worn down to the metal. I loved roller skating. Every week, at Shenley Court School, there was a kids club, and the Roller Disco was always the option I plumped for.
However, as I got older, I lost interest. It was cold outside. We had moved house and now lived on a hill, so skating straight into an oncoming Austin Maestro wasn't so appealing. Then I got more and more homework, and "playing out" just didn't seem like an option. The days of "Aky one-two-three" and "Tig" were long gone, without me even realising. I still went to the odd Roller Disco......but one day I noticed everyone had moved on from cartons of "Panda Pop" and had started on "20/20". And I didn't go anymore.
Two years ago, I went to a Roller Disco. I bought a pair of roller boots especially for the occasion. (The beauty of having child-sized feet!) I absolutely LOVED it!!! It's true what they say, there are some things you don't forget, and roller-skating is one of them.
So why don't I roller skate any more? I still could - my boots are in the cupboard under the stairs. I tell you why - I don't want to look an idiot. I can't go roller-skating, unless it's a retro disco situation. Roller boots are hard to come by, nowadays kids are into roller blades. I don't like roller-blades - it's not roller-blading, it's roller-skating, and anyway how much of a spoon would I look listing "reading, writing, swimming and roller-blading" as my hobbies on my C.V? I live in suburban Birmingham, not next to Central Park in New York City. A 31 year old roller-skating through the park, past the stream with the shopping trolleys in is just too much! So my passion for roller-skating will have to stay with the "My Little Ponies", bottles of Miss Matey, Hubba Bubba's and Aky 1-2-3....firmly in the 80s.
But there is one thing that I'm determined to do from my childhood this evening. Not stay up past 8pm. Why did we insist on staying up past our bedtime? What was so great about staying up late, anyway?

Half Term - cookers and cupboards and paint, oh my!

2010-02-20T10:42:00.000Z

I'm writing this at the end of a very stressful week, where all the best laid plans have gone out the window, and "winging it" has been the only option. I now have a mad weekend of paperwork to complete - cripes. Here I am blogging. Definite work avoidance tactics.
As you read in my last post, I have had a new cooker. After three days of plates in the living room, one gas engineer visit, two trips to B and Q, several visits from my father, and one trip to the tip, I now have a room where food can be prepared. I also have a new cupboard, as you can see, after the one near the cooker started to fall apart. My father fitted it for us, and now Ben is about to paint the walls white. We were cleaning and scrubbing the walls, thinking that they looked very greasy, then realised that the yellow paint that had coated the walls previously, was coming through. My kitchen looked like a lardy, greasy mess, so it needs a good new coat of paint. I've cleaned, scrubbed and steralised every square inch. My fridge was so grim, that there seemed to be a whole new species growing in the door seal. It is now pristine. I had to stop cleaning, as the bleach fumes were sending me high, and my hands are all cracked from the hot, soapy water.....but it was well worth it.
I had a catch up with a few of my friends - I went to stay with Liz on Monday night, and we did some hen weekend and wedding planning. Her wedding is in May, and I'm bridesmaid, which I am highly excited about!! I'm also extremely looking forward to the hen weekend in Edinburgh. So it was lovely to have a gossip and a chat with her, as she lives in Lichfield, and I'm not able to see her as much as I'd like. On Tuesday I went to see Kyra, and she cooked me a lovely Thai Red Curry. She is a great cook - she does the best Sunday dinner! It was great to have time to chat, and we also watched "What Katie Did Next". I'm fascinated by all these crap, mental celebrities - Ben won't have it on the telly, so I have to Sky Plus it and watch it when he's not around. On Wednesday, I went to see my friend Michelle, and we had a chat over a cuppa (without sugar, as I've given it up for Lent) and then Thursday I went for tea and cake at my friend Claire's house, who is also getting married in May! So this week, I've seen four lovely, brilliant friends who really lifted me out of the dark, foggy mood I've been in.
Also this week, I've watched a lot of television, and have rekindled my love for Eastenders. Over the last couple of years, I've watched it every now and again, wheras previously, I was an avid viewer, who caught up Sunday if an episode had been missed. I'm now hooked, and completely devastated over the death of Bradley Branning, stunned at the revalation of Archie's murderer and chuffed that Rickaaaaay and Biaaancaar are back together! Some say it's depressing - I disagree, it's compulsive viewing for the depressed. It helps you realise that no matter how much your life sucks, at least you ain't livin' on the Squaaayaar. You'd fall off a roof, or murder someone, or have to have every special occasion in the Vic, with Ian Beale doing the catering!
I did something that I'm quite proud of, and started up a reading group. The love I have for writing and blogging is just as strong for reading. I also loved catching up with friends, so I've incorporated all of this by setting up a reading group on Facebook. Will it take off? I dunno - I certainly hope so, and the response from my friends has been fantastic. Our first book is "Twilight" by Stephanie Meyer, and we're meeting at my house in March. The plan is that I bake a beautiful cake in my new oven for the occasion.
So, really I have done a lot this half term holiday - and maybe sometimes it is good to chill out, relax, have a good time. I've worked on my life, my surroundings and my health. Now time to work on work!

One of those days/weeks/months.

2010-02-17T12:52:00.000Z

Forgive me, bloddies for the lack of blogging over the last fortnight, but a very black cloud seems to be firmly floating over my head at the minute. It's one that has started to gather gradually over a period of months, and has accumulated into a massive thunderstorm last night.....thanks to a new cooker.

I'd better explain. Me and my lovely boyfriend live in a little maisonette in a town in South Birmingham. It's certainly cosy. Recently I feel like I'm in one of those cartoons where Daffy Duck opens a cupboard, and it explodes all over him with a "Whaaa-whaa-whaaa" to accompany it. I have a kitchen the size of the Tardis (and I'm talking external police box, not the massive interior view you see with David Tennant fiddling with his what-nots) A cupboard door is now hanging procariously by a hinge, and we're propping it up with a tin of pea and ham soup (which we can't work out is doing in the house, as we don't eat pea and ham soup.) and I can't open the tumble drier and the cooker at the same time.

You're probably wondering why we don't just buy a new cupboard, or kitchen, or even a new house. However my boyfriend, after 13 years in the army, is unemployed, and things are extremely tight. We literally have no money, and my boyfriend is strugging to find work, no matter how hard he tries and searches. That's very stressful.

Anyway, we had to purchase a new cooker last weekend. Our gas cooker is old and rather tempremental, so a new one was very much needed. It was great going to the appliance showroom, choosing it, ordering it and handing over the money to pay for it ("Interest free credit option on this?", "No, here's you're money, buying it, booking it, legging it") So we checked that it had the right parts and what-nots to fit in our kitchen. The eager assistant reassured us it did. Off we went, and the cloud of misery and fed-up-ness was temporarily lifted. I was so looking forward to Tuesday, I'd come home from visiting my friend, and a beautiful new cooker would be sitting in my kitchen, ready for me to make pancakes on. When you've not got two pennies to rub together, it's little things like that that cheer you up.

Yesterday afternoon - I return home from visiting friends to find a cooker in a box (see picture), in my tiny living room, my old cooker still in the kitchen, and the tumble drier in the bedroom. "What's this?" I ask dangerously quietly, pointing to my beautiful cooker, taking up space in front of the book case, with the cat sitting on top of it, clearly thinking it's a new bed. And I know I'm asking a stupid question, it's clearly a cooker. My boyfriend explains that it's the wrong fitting, that there's a problem with getting our old cooker out, and it's going to cost us more money. And this, dear blog reader is where I COMPLETELY and UTTERLY flip, and go on a rant of epic proportions.

"All I wanted to do is make pancakes.....is that too much to ask? I have a kitchen falling apart, and just when something good happens, something else happens that causes more expense!! I just want a cooker in my kitchen, and now every room is this tiny flat has a part of the kitchen in it!!"

Please don't think I'm so shallow that I throw a wobbly because I can't have pancakes.....but this was, as they say, the straw that broke the camel's back. It's not that that bothered me. It's pent-up worry and frustration spilling out. I'm angry and annoyed that I'm working so hard, and that Ben is looking for work, with no luck. I know money doesn't make the world go around - but believe me, it makes it spin at a more comfortable pace, and helps things run a little more smoothly. I'm cross that we were so naive to think that our problems would be over as soon as Ben hit Civvy Street....they were only just beginning.

I'm losing sleep, and worrying about making ends meet. I'm outraged that job centres think they can mess people around, and it seems that when there is a light at the end of the tunnel, we're plunged into darkness again. I'm not going to go into the ins and outs of the struggle Ben's going through to get a job.....but I'm horrified that someone who has spent 13 years in the British Army can be treated so appalingly by the job centre, by banks and by potential employers. Our spirit is broken. And it took a cooker to make all of this spill out!!! One minute we're struggling to solve the problem of the cooker, which then turned into focusing on all that is wrong with British Society. How mad! Please Bloddies, reassure me - do little things make you snap, and question the world? Am I alone in this? Please say I'm not alone, or else I need serious help!!

So yesterday was definitely one of those days, which accumulated after one of those weeks, and one of those months. However, even though the sun isn't shining today, and a couple of other little hiccups have come about, which I won't go into, I feel a little bit calmer. Why? Well, I do have a new cooker, and all the crying and ranting and raving wore me out so much that I managed at least eight hours sleep. Things can only get better, as they say. Things could be worse, and there's always someone worse of that yourself.

I know all that......I just need to start believing it.

"You're as old as you feel".....

2010-02-02T21:07:00.001Z

.....as the saying goes. So currently I'm 210 years of age, give or take a decade.

Ok - you've got me, that's obviously not my real age. I'm sure someone who had clocked up 210 years on their "ageometer" would have such bad arthritis that they could barely touch a keyboard, or the technological understanding necessary to contemplate the breakthrough that is a blog. So I'll be straight with you - I'm 31 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, 1 hour and 2 minutes old. I could work out the seconds too, but I can't be arsed and also it's pointless as I can't determine when you're reading this. So already my age is older than stated.

So, to business. This week, I seized the blog prompt that is "What has made you feel old lately?" There is so much, I don't know where to begin. Here's five things that's made me feel 30 something. They are Signs Of Getting Old. (S.O.G.Os)

1) I have a bunion coming - let this be a warning to you. It's not just for Nannas!! A bunion, I have discovered, is a bony disfigurement on the side of your foot. I'm not a chiropodist, so I'm not into physcial terminology - in fact the whole concept of feet makes me feel sick. (Yeah, the weird OCD thing kicking in there, excuse the pun) It's like not your big toe, and it's not the ball of your foot. Rest assured, it frigging kills. More so in cold weather, I feel. I'm 31 and my tootsies look like something Roald Dahl would have written about in "The Witches." Not only do my feet look old, they feel it. All those warnings about "sensible shoes" in my youth now seem like such wisdom! However I am vertically challenged - a shortarse if you want to put it in Laymans Terms. Heels are the only way forward I'm afraid. So no pain, no height. Nights out must end with "Oooh bloody hell, me feet are killin' me." S.O.G.O number 1.

2) I find that regularly, whilst watching television, I say things like "Oooh, that telly's loud" when the adverts come on, and "There's no need for language like that ten minutes after the watershed!" One programme I can't stand is "Shameless" - I think it's horrible. It's so crude, and coarse, and I can't watch it (Now, when did I start using the words "crude" and "coarse". Such old words) Come on!! Who am I trying to kid!? How old do I sound!? My language is shocking. I enjoy swearing. Some swear words just some it up. So I am completely baffled as to why I have a problem with the bad language on the telly. I have no young children in the house, and the words used are nothing I haven't heard before. I'm just being old. Sometimes - and this is really bad - I follow one of these sayings up with a "Tshoch" or a "Tut-tut-tut". S.O.G.O number 2.

3) I live in Birmingham - home of Broad Street. This street has many pubs and clubs on it. The next few things basically cover the last night out I had there. Basically, most Saturday nights were spent there. Me and my friend went there a few Saturday's ago.....I wore Jeggings (jeans/Leggings mix style combo) and a sparkly top. I made the "comment-that-no-woman-dare-make" unless you're getting past it. Yep, I turned to my best mate and said "I can't believe how short her skirt is. She must be freezing!!".....NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!! As an eighteen year old, flouncing down the stairs in a short skirt and glittery top, I was always suspetible to my Dad's comments, you know the ones:
a) You're not going out like that, you'll catch your death!
b) Is that a skirt or a belt, Emma-Louise? (Perhaps if your name is Emma-Louise too.)
c) I can't believe that outfit cost you £50.....there's £49.50 worth of material missing.
And such and such.
To which I replied.
a) I'll wear a jacket!
b) It's a skirt Dad...Jesus!
c) Oh Ha ha Dad.....Benny Hill's career is safe with you around.
I'm sitting in England's second city, in the hottest, popular nightspots, and I'm commenting on the girls dressed exactly the same way as me 13 (Oh no - 13!) years ago. Is it because I'm jealous? Is it because I am concious that my jeggings came from Tesco, my top from Primark, and they've clearly been to River Island? Erm....no. I'm genuinely concerned that they are freezing, and they will need a coat later. That's old!! S.O.G.O No 3.

4) Again out on Broad Street. The first bar we went into. I asked for two bottles of Vodka based fruit drink. "£6.70" announced the girl behind the bar. Yeah I did it, I reacted......"£6.70????? Are you havin' a laugh?" (I'm cringing as I'm typing!) As if this wasn't bad enough, me and my friend then started to reminice "D'yer remember, when we only used to come out with £30? That was your entry in, your drinks all night, and dinner in "Mr. Egg" or "Skippers" AND a taxi home.....a proper black cab, mind. AND you STILL had a purse full of shrapnel at the end of the night" Oh my God! I'm complaining about prices!! (Eh, when I were a lass, I were given two shilling, and I made do.) A definite S.O.G.O No 4

5) When I'm on a night out, and it's really late, I wish - for a split second - that I'm at home, with my pyjamas, enjoying a nice cuppa tea, and a slice of toast. Now that's sad, but I really do enjoy being at home. Oh dear. S.O.G.O No 5.

There's no hope for me. I don't fit into the "mutton dressed as lamb" types on nights out....and I'm not a young, nubile teenager, strutting my stuff either. On applications and surveys, I have to tick the 30-45 box!!! That makes me want to curl up and cry. And - this really annoys me - I can't go on a club 18-30 holiday anymore (Why I want to I dunno - cup-o-tea-pyjama-girl doesn't sound like someone to "have it large" with in Ibiza)

The final realisation that I'm not as young as I used to be is that I no longer get ID'ed. It happened without me noticing. I used to get ID'ed for lottery tickets. I got sent to the function room with the rest of the kids in a pub shortly after my 21st birthday. I even - and this is true, and was blogged about on my myspace - got ID'ed buying a PG DVD. Now I don't....and all those people who used to suffer the wrath of my tongue, and a passport/provisional license thrown in front of them were right when they said "You'll be grateful when you're older, bab".

.....Yeah. Don't I bloody know it.

Don't judge me on first impressions (although mine of you was probably right)

2010-01-28T19:27:00.001Z

Hooray, hooray, it's blogging day!
My prompt this week is "What do people always wrongly assume about you?"

I have a few people following me now on here, although some who read my ramblings do know me extremely well....and they will tell you I am loud. I am noisy. I don't have a volume control, and the higher the emotion, the louder the voice. Most people just go "Sssshhhh" when I'm getting noisy - and I generally do quieten down.

Some people presume that the reason for my loudness is because I'm deaf, or have trouble hearing. You couldn't be further from the truth. I have perfect hearing. I like my music loud, not because I can't hear it, but what's the point in playing music if you can't thorougly appreciate it? Although I am not hard of hearing, my younger sister is. She is completely deaf in one ear, and as a very small child struggled to hear. I don't know perhaps I've grown up trying to help her hear and now just set myself at that volume.

This assumption however, is much more preferred than another - that just because I'm noisy, I'm gobby. "What's the difference?" I hear you ask. I'll attempt to explain.

I hate bitchy arguments. If someone tells me something in secret, it bloody stays that way. This story may get ambiguous now, but I'm not naming names, or breaking any confidences. A good few years ago, during my school/sixth form college days I was told something by someone. I gave them advice, and kept this great secret to myself, even though I thought this person was being a prize twatt. A few days later, I was confronted. This person was furious.....how did "so and so" know "such and such"? I protested and got upset, and explained that I honestly didn't know. This person said "It must have been you, you've got such a gob on you." I was deeply offended. A few days later, I discovered the guilty party. Turns out I wasn't the only one that had been told this secret, and the other person had "let it slip" to someone.....and you know girls, chinese whispers, it escalates. Although I never got an apology, and I've never really seen these people again, and the secret was extremely trivial in the great scheme of things - it's not the point. And yet this situation has occured a few times in the sixteen years since - but my attitude and response has changed.

I'm not gobby - I don't shout abuse, or have blazing rows about "she said, he said". Yet as soon as something hits the fan, or beans are spilt, all fingers point to me. Why? Because my volume is set to "stun". My real friends however, know this isn't the case, and if someone accuses me of confessing all, they now get an earful from me.

Another thing that people assume is that I'm all-singing, all-dancing, chirpy, couldn't-give-a-stuff sort of soul, always hyper and bouncing around. Not true - I'm so paranoid, I give the hash-smokers on Jeremy Kyle a run for their money. It's just a natural thing for me - paranoia. I worry about offending/upsetting people, and if I know someone doesn't like me, I turn into a quivering, miserable wreck.

So there are times where I turn down the volume, I try not to be so God damn perky. But the second I do that, I am bombarded by phrases like "You're not yourself", "Bloody Hell, you're quiet," "what's wrong with you?" and I want to scream "I'm just being quiet, I'm fine, leave me alone!!!!" What a Catch 22 I find myself in! Perhaps I'm bipolar!!

So this is me - paranoid, noisy, well-meaning and doesn't always engage brain before shouting. Just don't presume I'm gobby or mouthy. And whilst people's impressions of me are usually completely wrong, I find mine are usually right!

"You should never judge a book by it's cover". I know this - but I'm still going to, just like people will continue to with me. You just have to grin and bear it, and set out to prove them wrong, which I will - at three million decibels!

A virtual box of Roses goes to......

2010-01-19T21:13:00.000Z

This blog is in response to prompt number 1. Write something to say thank you to some who has made a difference to your life, whether from your past or present.

At the age of 31 and a half (exactly, today) I have finally come to the realisation that I will never make an Oscar Thank-You speech. As a very young child, I threw a wobbly when my mother told me no matter how much I wanted to be her, I would never be Bonnie Langford. I will admit that back then (ah sod it, even now) I was - am - a total drama queen. Slightly egotistical, on the verge of tears and constantly singing, dancing or gushing "I'd like to thank my director", whilst clutching a trophy/certificate/hairbrush in front of the nearest mirror - that was me. These days I'm not so bad - I'm not as egotistical.

Noticing I had a talent for dance, and more importantly a keeness and enjoyment for it, I was enrolled at the local Irish dancing class. It was 85p for 2 hours - I kid you not, although it's worth remembering that this is 1986 I'm talking about, and way before Michael Flatley's "Riverdance" phenomenon. Every Tuesday and Thursday night, and Saturday morning, I was chapernoned the mile there and back to a draughty little community centre to practise my reels and jigs. My mother gave up many weekends to escort me to a Feis in Wolverhampton, Cardiff, Bridgend, Coventry, Bristol. We didn't have a car, so my friend's family would drive us there. My family spent money on dresses, socks and other paraphanalia. And to be fair, I won many trophies, and a shed load of medals. In 1988, I'd done it - I was due to dance in qualifying rounds for the World Championships in Brean (it may have been Bristol - I can't rightly remember) My new dress was being made, money had been set aside.....and then I announced over dinner that I didn't want to do it any more. My mother picked up the dinner plates, and told me through teeth obviously as tight as the knuckles that gripped the crockery "That's fine....now how about some Arctic Roll?" My dad dragged his hands down his face, and went into the front room.

A few years later, it didn't matter anyway - I wanted to learn piano. Despite not having much money (and I don't say that for pity) I had had bought for me, at the age of five, a Bontempi organ. When it was switched on, it sounded like a vaccuum cleaner getting warmed up. I could always tell if Mam hadn't dusted, because the second that baby came alive the dust was blown from the speaker, and danced a pretty pattern. I only ever plonked out "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star", or "When the Saints Go Marching In". So when we moved to the new house, when the Thatcher years were coming to an end, and things were on the up for the Harries family, I was enrolled in piano lessons. Every Tuesday evening, after school, and when my Mam had returned from University in Coventry, which was 40 miles away, where she was a mature student, she would drive me to a house in Kings Norton, and wait that half an hour whilst I practiced my scales, and located middle C. I had a proper Casio keyboard bought for me Christmas that year, and I painstakingly practised....until it became apparent that I could not read music for toffee. At the same time, in school, also on a Tuesday, I was blagging my way through violin lessons. Funnily enough my piano and violin teacher's were cottoning on to the fact that music notation was not my forte. My in school violin teacher told me I was useless.....my piano teacher said I was gifted. Not liking the mixed signals, I quit piano lessons at £6 an hour (to which my mother replied "Oh okay, well at least I don't have to rush home from Coventry anymore") I hid from the violin teacher every time he came in until he got sick of coming to look for me, and told my music teacher, I fancied giving the flute a try. "Wonderful", she said. My parents looked briefly exasperated for a while at the dinner table, and then the silence was broken by my Dad...."Just give the flute a try, use the school one for now. At least it's got to sound better than that bloody violin".

I stuck with the flute for 2 years, using my ear for music to my advantage. In this time I also showed an interest in Drama, I won the main part in the school play ( I was the Pied Piper of Hamlyn...and had to go home on the school bus in my costume one night after rehearsal, but that's another story) and played the piano, flute and sang in school concerts.
Into year ten, I told my music teacher (and my poor parents) I wouldn't be doing GCSE music.....surprise! Still can't read music. My music teacher refused to speak to me for the month she continued to work at my school, and my parents were relieved in a way, as they were fed up of driving to Bartley Green or Yardley Wood bus stations looking for a school flute that their dippy daughter had left on a bus again.

6th Form, and I was part of "Stage 2 Drama Company" (I quit after three months after I decided all the kids there were pretentious twatts) I began Irish Dancing again (although this was shortlived too - Riverdance Fever had hit, the competition and costumes had all changed, and my new dance teacher said I was slightly "top heavy" - I was rather chuffed! After three Feis and six months, I gave up again) and then "The Alexandra Youth Theatre" which I loved, and really did stick with, until University beckoned.

I played football for my university ladies team, and one match for the county - I didn't like Sunday morning practise for the county, it was miles away, and I'd been out with mates on the razz the night before. That year I had football boots for Christmas. It had been a struggle for Dad to find them, and in the end I had boys ones, as my feet were so small. I still have them now, and I suspect they still have mud on them from the last match played (Trinity College Carmathen Ladies V Aberwystwyth University Ladies March 1998 score 4-3 to Aber, although we beat them in the Drinking Games and got the Rugby boys to nick stools from the union - again another story.)

A few years ago I got into competitve singing, and got through to the final round of "Cop Idol" - a talent show organised by West Midlands Police. My parents accompanied me to the auditions and final rounds - one in a club, another in a packed out shopping centre. I decided not to persue it for a third year.

Despite the opportunities I've had to get into the arts and entertainment business, and clearly there have been many, to have my name up in lights and all that.....I'm still at almost 32, pretending I've won an Oscar in front of the mirror, imagining I've just landed the role of Doctor Who's Assistant and wondering why my dream isn't a reality.

So in true Oscar style, I'd like to thank my parents for not pushing me, but supporting me. The second anything stopped being fun, or was out of my capabilities, I gave it up. And my Mam and Dad, despite the personal expenses, the time given up, the opportunities I had, the talent that people said I had to them, and the blushes of pride and pleasure they experienced - were fine with it. When I came up with the next hair-brained scheme to be a superstar, they did whatever they could to let me do it. They must have been raving with me, when I gave up dance, drama, music, sport - yet they never really showed it. Seriously they must have been gutted! I wonder however, how different my life would have been....I could have been a 31 and a half year old, violin, piano, flute playing one woman band, who Irish danced and recited "Shakespeare" at the same time.

So the virtual box of Roses goes to Kay and Bryan Harries! Thanks for not being pushy parents! I've had a blast.

A Monday.

2010-01-18T20:15:00.000Z

Hi Bloddies....I've been shocked and saddened by the images of Haiti in the news in the last few days. So, as a response to prompt 5 at Sleep is For The Weak's writing workshop, I've written a poem.
Yes, I know they do not have to rhyme, but this sort of came to me. Please read, comment, but most of all, do something for the poor, desperate people of Haiti.

A Monday.

I’ve stuck the alarm on “Snooze” too many times,
The weather outside is grim,
Why didn’t my boyfriend wake me up?
That’s it, I’m not talking to him.

Time to scrape the snow off the car,
Oh God, I just hate this task!
A Monday morning where things go right,
Is that really too much to ask?

My workspace looks like a bomb has hit it,
I suppose that’s another job for me.
Where’s my mug, has someone used it?
Argh, I can’t even have some tea!

Get through the day, I don’t know how,
My mood hasn’t really changed.
Phone calls - and in my lunch hour too!
Now my diary is all re-arranged!

Home at last, it’s freezing cold,
What’s this all over the floor?
More bloody charity bin bags!
Stop sticking them through my front door!

Turn on the telly, the news is on,
Endless drivel and chatter,
Snowing around the country,
God, does it really matter?

Preparing the tea, my ears prick up,
Don’t tell me there’s snow in Haiti?
I go to the lounge, and look at the screen,
“Worst earthquake in their history.”

I am ashamed, I feel so bad,
And I think quite rightly so.
Lives devastated, homes destroyed,
Puts into perspective the snow.

Hospitals shaken down to the ground,
People scrabbling to try,
To rescue their loved ones from concrete rubble,
And I begin to cry.

I realise that those poor people,
Woke up that Monday like us,
To a different kind of alarm,
That reduced their lives into dust

Children are orphans, parents bereft,
Survivors lack water and food.
There’s me getting stressed when I misplaced a mug
And with loved ones, I was just downright rude.

So it now time to turn off self pity,
That’s it, change the track, no more,
I turn off the television, and go to pick up,
The Red Cross bag from by my front door.

"Missing" in Action.

2010-01-13T20:30:00.000Z

Lately, I've been looking through photo albums - a strange concept, but an enjoyable one. It seems that I have just become used to inserting a memory card into the computer, and clicking the mouse. It's been a whistful, whimsical trip down memory lane.
I found an album at the bottom of the pile. It's marked "Emma-Lou. 3rd year of College. 1998-99" covered in Star Wars stickers, and has a label made with felt pens and sticky tape. Oh, the time before printers being so readily available. I flicked through and laughed out loud at the images....me and my friends dressed up for Halloween....a crazy night in the union....me playing football. However, a photograph of my Grandad caught me off guard, and brought that stinging feeling in the eyes and the sharp lump in the throat. It's been nine years since he passed on, and even though another photo of him taking pride of place on my bookcase, via a framed Kodak moment, I was still caught unawares.
The photo on my bookcase, in it's silver frame, is taken at the end of the seventies. I'm approximately 9 months old, clad in a pink dress. I'm smiling. My Grandad - who is in his fifties in the picture, and who is a replica of my father now, is also grinning. We're standing in our farmhouse kitchen, in Pentlepoir, West Wales. I must look - no sorry, glance - at this photo twenty times a day, as the shelf it's on houses so many aspects of my life (keys, memory stick, glasses, daily post.) I think about him every time I look at it. The thought that passes through my otherwise occupied concious is "Aaah, there's Grandad."
The image of my Grandad that set off the spur-of-the-moment emotional rawness, that is glued in next to me and my friend participating in Karaoke, is very plain. My Grandad is sitting in "his" chair, staring into space. He's either deep in thought, or conjuring up a way that he can have a doze in the chair without the wrath of my Gran descending upon him. He's looking tired and bloated from the medication he was on - he had emphesemia, prostate cancer, glaucoma. The steroids that caused him to swell like that could have been for one, all or none of those things. He's sitting by the back door of his bungalow, which leads out to the garden that he loved and tended so dilligently. It's a colour photo, but there's an eerie gloom to it.
So why did I get so upset? Why, when seeing that photo, which was obviously taken to finish off a roll of film, and was stuck in a college album purely because of the time it was taken, did I suddenly completely, utterly and heartwrenchingly miss my Grandad? After thinking further, it hit me - it was a normal photo. It wasn't posed or set up. That image was my Grandad. That was what he did. It was so real, so honest, and so like the image I conjure up in my minds eye, when I have the time to think about him, and still occasionally grieve, that I couldn't help doing a double-take.
My Grandad wasn't a "poser". He liked having a sneaky nap, reading about the War and tending his garden. He told me stories and always made me supper. He called me "Miss Em" and would wink at me when Gran was nagging.
So I shall be taking the "Smiley 70s photo" from the frame, and replacing it with my Grandad in his chair. I still grieve for him. But I "miss" him more with the current photo, by glancing at it with a sense of second nature - the "Smile for the camera" image was gone, a unique photo opportunity. The photo of my Grandad in his favourite place, doing nothing in particular, will now be the one that I will LOOK at daily.
......"Aaaah, now there's my Grandad"

There's "snow" use complainin'!

2010-01-11T18:29:00.000Z

Ooooh Bloddies, if you're somewhere in the UK, then I'm sure you've got a good idea what this blog is going to be about....that's it - snow.

Now I have no idea why we're acting so shocked about the snow we are experiencing at the moment - after all, it is Winter! If heavy snow is so unusual, or not expected, why the hell do I get Christmas cards with fields covered in a blanket of the stuff on the front?

As a kid, I LOVED the snow.....walking in wellies to school, sliding down the road on a tea tray, drying your woolly tights and gloves by the gas fire, hot chocolate in the day instead of just at bedtime, shoving an unsuspecting younger sister down in a huge pile of it, and forcing her to make a snow angel, the routine joke from Dad about eating yellow coloured snow, pelting kids with snowballs.....I could go on. However, I now drive, and despite the ABS and the extremely helpful light on my dashboard which alerts me to the fact I'm skidding (like I don't know!) it's still a pretty scary experience. I haven't driven now since Wednesday - I hope I don't forget how.

Yes, I'm not going to deny it looks pretty. I live in Birmingham, and even England's second city is scenic and picturesque - at skyline level. The grey drudgy sludge at road level destroys that image straightaway, mind. I do prefer a snowy landscape, instead of staring through the rainy, misty haze.

But now, snow for over a fortnight has pissed me off immensely. Here is my countdown of the top 5 annoying things about the snow.

5) No matter how many times I kick my welly-cladded feet against the wall outside, before I enter the house, I still manage to drag snow in all over the laminate. The floor is covered in wet streaks, and standing in a puddle without anything on your feet sucks to be honest.

4) Gritters - got to be honest, I've not seen one. I'm starting to wonder why I pay my council taxes. My bin men love to chuck my recycling boxes all over the road, so I know I'm being done out of some dosh there. I thought the gritters would make up for it. Fat chance.

3) Shovelling snow off tarmac really annoys me. When the shovel scrapes across the ground, making a "kkkkkkkrrrrrruuuuuukkkkkkkk" noise - it goes through me! I did an appalling job with the shovel earlier - I didn't know where to put the snow.

2) Bulk-buying - you don't need to purchase eight loaves of bread!!! It's snowy weather, not the Apocalypse! I went into Morrisons yesterday, and it was like WW3 had been declared. I expected these people, with bagsful of food, to jump into an armoured car, and drive into a secure bunker, flaked by security guard...which of course they didn't, they drove back to a semi in Rubery, with enough food to outdo Jesus at the feeding of the 5000.

1) The constant streaming news reports about the weather. Some poor woman stuck outside with a mic and a "North Face" jacket on, saying "It's snowing here....lets look at North Yorkshire". Cut to an equally wrapped weather man, who says "Ooooh it's really cold here. It's snowing too. Let's go over to Manchester now. What's it like there?" etc, etc, etc. We get it! It's snowing all over the country. It's going to snow for a while. Do we really have to have stupid reports about it, and then cut to the amusing stories about the Yorkshire Terrier that pulls a sledge, or the nutter who has made a ski-ing armchair.

At the risk of being accused of being a grumpy old woman, there are some good things about the snow. Again, in the style of Alan "Fluff" Freeman, here are my top five good things about the snow.

5) Finding rude snowmen in the park. Or a willy and balls sculpted at random along the pavement.

4) Watching people almost-but-not-quite-nearly slip, and then hear the strange "awwwowow" sound that escapes them, and see the look on their face.

3) Sledging - despite being almost 32, I have had a go on a sledge. I had to tell a child not to go on it ("Far too dangerous, let me have a go to test it.") Great, great fun.

2) Wearing wellies - I love wellies. When I was 2, my Mam bought me a pair of red Dunlop wellies. I loved them, however refused to take them off. I wore them around the house, walking to the shops (in July)There is a picture of me, nappy-clad, t-shirt on, wearing the wellies. I may have even have worn them to bed. God help the person who tried to remove them from my tootsies. I have lovely pink patterned wellies, which I love wearing.

1) Neighbourly community spirit. Everyone joining in with scraping the roads clear, and gritting the road. I've just spent an hour trying to get up my Mam and Dad's road, and everyone was out helping. People you don't normally speak to offer rock salt, or clear your path. Now that's nice, isn't it?

So, on reflection, perhaps the snow isn't so bad after all. I am extremely proud of my Dad, by the way, who has delivered milk and completed his rounds despite the adverse weather - good on him, eh?

Wherever you are, I hope the weather is treating you kindly, and stay safe. Happy Sledging!!

Well Hello, 2010!

2010-01-01T14:58:00.000Z

Happy New Year, Bloddies!! Hope your celebrations were mega and spectacular. I am shocked to discover New Years Day doesn't have to be spent with your head down the loo pan, struggling to remember what you did in the first few hours of the new year, hoping you didn't offend anyone! If only that could be said for my other half, who is currently trying to co-ordinate himself sufficiently to consume a bag of ready salted crisps.

We had a thoroughly good time last night. We had our very good friends Liz and Craig around for champers and pizza, before heading into Birmingham. We went to "The Rectory" and then to "The Actress and Bishop" which is our usual haunt on a night out. Much sambucca and Jagermeister was consumed. I danced my l'il feet off - a bit of a shameless advert/promotion here, but a couple of years ago, I bought a pair of "Tipsy Feet" - fold up shoes that come in a wallet, which converts into a bag. Basically, when your heels start to hurt your tootsies, you slip these little shoes on, and then put your heels in the bag, to carry home. Genius. Get a pair, seriously.

So it's New Year's Resolution time - mine are 1) To blog more regularly, 2) Not whinge or moan about de-icing the car, even though it's such a horrible job, 3) not eat Macdonalds - I don't really eat many, but the last couple of times I have, I've not enjoyed it. In fact, I'm going off junk/conveinience foods full stop. 4) Organise my bathroom cupboard, sock drawer and jewellery - sounds tedious, but the amount of out of date medication in my cupboard is ridiculous, and taking Benilyn that went out of date before the millennium is not really going to help any illness. And my jewellery seems to take great delight in tangling itself up when I'm not looking - I'm also fed up of having odd socks, or only finding one. 5) See the glass as half full, as opposed to half empty - preferably without the aid of medication. I need to be more positive and optimistic. 6) Say no more often, and not feel guilty about it and 7) Wash dishes straightaway, not when I'm in the mood too.

Nothing really radical there, I'm afraid. Let's face it - none of them are going to solve the world's problems. However, if world peace is declared, at least I'll have a decent pair of socks on.

All the best for 2010 - enjoy it, live for now, life's too short and all that xxx

Christmas and all that shazam.

2009-12-28T10:38:00.000Z

Well, that's it for another year....all the preparation - the rehearsing of plays, the organisation of parties, the inevitable work's do, the Church services, and the frantic purchasing of presents for the last 6 weeks - has ceased and Christmas is over. It's been a good one here at the Harries-Hodgson household.

I broke up from work on the 18th December at 1.30pm. There is no point even attempting to teach a load of five and six year olds a few days before the fat guy comes visiting. Since then, the time leading up to Christmas saw us visiting people, picking up my gran from Cardiff Gate, and trying hard not to fall over when stepping out of various houses. I never realised walking required so much concentration. I used to love the snow - now I loathe and detest it. Driving in it sucks, although it never ceases to amaze me how the country goes mental after a few snowflakes fall. We spend all this time "Dreaming of a White Christmas" as the song goes - and we get it, and all we do is whinge and moan. Having said that, I was concerned about my father doing his milk round - glass bottles, ice and my father's clumsy gene just don't gel really. However, no accidents were to be had. I have skidded a couple of times in the car, nothing major though.

I had my work's Christmas Do on the Friday before Christmas....much alcohol was consumed, and a terrific night was had by all. I I had a lovely "Secret Santa" present, a tasty dinner and a good old boogie. After spending the hours leading up to the do, getting ready and not sure if I looked good (questions and comments to my boyfriend were: "Does it look like I have cankles?", "My boobs are skewiff," "I think my hair is too curly" and "Does this make up make me look like I have a man-chin?") I was relieved to see that some people sitting at other tables had not made so much of an effort. I mean, do some people even look in a mirror before they go out? Oh well.

The day before, and Christmas Eve itself saw me running around like a lunatic. I took my eldest nephew to the "Kingfisher Shopping Centre" on Wednesday. There was a power cut in the cafe where we were eating - pitch blackness reigned! Danny was extremely well-behaved, and despite being scared of the dark, didn't make a sound. The whole right hand side of the precinct lost power. It was like a scene from a film, people were going nuts! I got the hell out of there quick. Danny decided he didn't want to see Father Christmas in his grotto because "it might be dark in his house." The kid had just sat and ate his dinner in the dark without complaint, so that was slightly ironic. However, it saved me three quid and queuing behind a load of chavtastic parents, so I was happy with that.

I went visiting friends and to Mass on Christmas Eve, although by this point my cold had transformed from a snivel to a raging illness. I'm not jumping on the old 'flu bandwagon, but I have felt pretty shitty for a fortnight now. The children's service was really lovely, and I did feel Christmassy - despite my coughing fit in the middle of "Away in a Manger" doing it's best to piss everyone off and lower the tone. We then went to "The Weighbridge" pub for sausage and mash, with family and friends, but my cold was now really bad, so I came home, changed the bedding, watched "The Office Christmas Special" and went to bed.

This Christmas saw me waking up at a reasonable hour - 6.40am. I stayed in bed til 7am, and then unwrapped presents. I had some beautiful Tiffany jewellery, Supermario for the Wii, Star trek DVD, perfume, sweets, bath stuff.......the list goes on and on. Ben loved the PS3 I bought for him - the best bit about Christmas is the giving, I find.

Mam and Dad bought me a watch. We went to their house for Christmas dinner. This is the second year that my dad has made a traditional Christmas pudding. I love Christmas food, I've probably put on a stone, but I don't care. It was lovely being with the family, especially my Nanna, who was in hospital all over the Christmas period last year, and it wasn't looking good whether or not she'd see this one.

We came home and watched the Christmas specials - The Gruffalo, Doctor Who (which I cried at - I shall be devastated when David Tennant leaves!) I played some more Mario and went to bed.

Boxing day was meant to be tremendously exciting - we got tickets for Birmingham City V Chelsea. Problem was, I had a temperature of 39.3. ( I can't find the little degree symbol on here.) I was on driving duty too. So I wrapped up, "Lemsip"ed up and got on with it. We had a scrummy brekkie in the pub, and went to watch the match. It was excellent. It was then back to Mam's for bubble and squeak in the evening.

Yesterday I lounged around and loafed, watching the Railway Children, and playing Supermario. I was disheartened to see that the game is reccomended for ages 8 up. I am struggling with it, I'll be honest, but there is no WAY I'm letting a cartoon, Italian plumber and his turtle and mushroom comrades get the better of me!!! In the evening, we held a Games Night - although the amount of people participating this year was minimal due to colds, coughs and flu. But Jim came round, and we played "Operation" (which I am useless at) and "Poker" (a card game that needs to be explained to me EVERY time I play)

Today I was going to go shopping, however a frantic phonecall from my mother about the weather forecast over the next few days has stopped me in my tracks. We have to get my Gran - my dad's mam, back to Saundersfoot in South-West Wales, and the snow is due to fall again. So I may have a few hours of driving to do.

I hope you had a lovely Christmas, and I'll be blogging again closer to the New Year - providing I'm not stuck in a blizzard on the M4. xxx

An introduction.

2009-12-27T16:23:00.000Z

Now I'm very confused! I did set up and add to a blog, but then when I was in the mood to add to it further(which usually occurs at the end of the year, or when the citalopram has worn off) I tried to find the previous one, to no avail. Still, it's the end of 2009, and I am determined that this is the one thats going to have the staying power.

You may know me, or you may not, so I'm going to tell you about myself. Well, I'm a terribly neurotic, paranoid female, whose voice becomes quite shrill when upset. (In fact only dogs can hear me sometimes!) I am noisy, with a warped sense of humour. My mouth constantly works before my brain. I'M 31, and although I initially had a problem turning thirty, it's not too bad. Lots of good things have been happening since. I live in Birmingham, but am originally from Wales. (And proud!!Cymru Am Byth) I love to go back whenever I get the chance. I have a nasty temper, but it's rare that you see it. When I laugh, usually a drink comes out my nose.

Believe it or not, despite these rather unattractive qualities, I have a wonderful family, a lovely boyfriend and fabulous friends! This is either because a) they pity me or b) they find me endearing - I haven't worked it out yet. Me and my boyfriend have been together for five years and we live together. How he puts up with me I don't know, as I do suffer from OCD and depression. Also cooking isn't a strong point. I also now have two nephews - Danny is 3 and Mikey is 4 months. I totally love and adore, both of them - I presume the feeling is mutual although Mikey pukes extensively on me when he sees me. I'm lucky to have fabulous family, boyfriend and friends. They all mean the world to me!

I am in a band - Bambasnatch (my auntie was convinced I was in Babyshambles, but we've cleared up any confusion now.) I have been told I am intelligent, but even though this is the case, my geography is shocking. (I recently found out Bolivia is not part of the old Soviet Union) I blame the teachers myself. I like writing, and I now that I have made a concious decision to update my blog regularly, you should stop by if you like reading about hilarious exploits, pet peeves or a crazy insight into life. I used to be able to be found usually on a train visiting people or shopping in the Bullring - now that I have finally passed my driving test, the train is not my only means of transport. You will NOT find me anywhere that is a) dirty, b)smelly, c) dirty and smelly, d) muddy, e) full of chickens or f) a place that incorporated a,b,c,d and e. I am also frightened of flying and dentists. My worst nightmare is needing a filling on a flight to NZ. I love shopping for shoes, and buying clothes. I would gladly eat beans on toast (Not just Heinz beans mind, I can been known to stoop as low as Tesco Value!) for the rest of the month if it meant blowing my wages on clothes.(I don't though Mr. Bank Manager.) Shoes are a particular problem I have to admit. I'm a really girly girl.

A blot on my existence is the depression I suffer from - I have good times and bad times. Scratch that - I have bad feelings and not so bad feelings. My "times" are 75% good, which i should be apparent from all that I've just written. This year saw me being diagnosed, and put on medication. I've started to come off it now - I anticipate a bit of a roller coaster. Still, at least I'll have something to write about. Fear not, blog reader. I'm not going to have a mental rant on here, or write something to slit your throat by. Far from it....I'm going to use this as "virtual therapy".

MY LIKES: Pink, clothes, fashion, writing, Cosmopolitan magazine, my Nintendo Wii, going the gym, handbags, my i-pod, my friends, my family, champagne, manicures, live gigs, the beach, chocolate, sunshine, cups of tea, fancy dress, cleaning, Tesco's, Chiquitos, tanning booths, glitter, disco, and Converse shoes.

MY DISLIKES: Clowns, the fraud department of Lloyds TSB, AOL, ET, wasps, Ferne Cotton, Colleen McLoughlin, Big Brother, olives, tomatoes, being skint, not having a shower that works properly, that baby from the Kleenex advert - in fact any "talking babies" that act like grown ups, Jar Jar Binks, the situation in Rwanda, child poverty, arguments, confrontation, being cold, not being able to find anything good on telly, Sainsbury's, cold callers, getting a pizza menu shoved through the door daily, Sex and the City, bloody Ruth Badger! (WE DON'T CARE LOVE!!!) DJs on radio 1 that just talk about their ovaries, cervix and womb (ie Sara Cox) or about what they watched on telly last night, and you didn't so you lose interest (ie Sara Cox)and that bloody publicitiy sniffing, pathetic excuse for a mother/female/human being Kerry Katona - daft cow.

My interests are Rehearsing / singing, I go to the gym and I also "scrapbook". Other interests are shopping for clothes, reading, trying to walk without falling over/spilling something/bumping into someone, swimming, dancing, sleeping, binge drinking,writing, shouting obcenities at stupid people on the telly, eating crisps and now that I have finally passed my test, I enjoy driving around and about the place! I go to St Andrews to watch Birmingham City, and I also support Wales in the Rugby. I like live comedy/stand up although haven't seen any for ages. It's shamefully bad of me!

If there's a germ or a bug or random illness going round, I usually catch it, and my sister describes me as a sickly child (on account of my vasovagal syncope, asthma, and constant bouts of tonsilitis) If I was a horse, I'd probably have been put down. I do crazy things such as eat stuff I shouldn't to see if it "tastes like it smells", however I am relatively harmless.

I think that's an adequate introduction - I hope I've intrigued you enough to subscribe, or stop by again - who knows, I could make some blog friends - blog buddies - bloddies! That's what I shall call 'em from now on.

Take care of yourself, and dare I call you a Bloddy? Time will tell xxx