In a relationship...?

As many of you may know already, I seem to have developed a wee bit of a commitment phobia. Many friends have a variety of conflicting views on either what has caused this, or whether it is even a real phobia. Either way, relationships have a way of frightening me and I have to admit that I find myself hiding behind the phobia rather than embracing new situations and new" friendships" when the opposite sex are involved.

I have lost the ability to sense when others are expecting me to move things forward and when I am to wait to be nudged along by others. I can blissfully ignore whole situations without the realisation that I am in fact missing them. I am being given the signal left, right and centre and yet I am too busy watching the rugby to notice and by the time these signals have caught up with me, the boy trying to give them to me has run away to Peru to breed Alpacas and forgotten all about that chubby girl with the big boobs who didn't seem interested. This does sort of leave me no where. I think the main problem is I simply don't speak 'relationship'. I speak friendship; in fact I am fluent in friendship. I could earn a masters in friendship in less than a year and come top of the class. Dynasty and The Blonde One think it is my main problem, they have now informed me. I meet someone and the first thing I do is become their friend and give out the wrong signals and by the time I would like to start a mild flirtation they can only view me as a 'friend'. I thought I was simply being nice. I do so like being nice. What they fail to realise is without a basic grasp of 'relationship' I am left with very little to help me and almost nothing to say. A few choice phrases here or there, but they quickly expire and my only choice is to return to the safety of friendship. My best flirtation comes out when there is absolutely no chance of it going anywhere, as soon as it could develop into something I freeze and turn into friendship Freda. And who wants to be her? 

I do believe I am improving though, and even managed to put my most seductive smile to use at work. Alas, the man in question I fear is now terrified of these strange smiles I am giving him and am sure is becoming a bundle of nerves whenever our paths cross. I'm sure his response of a 'startled smile' is not translated into 'I have seen your seductive smile and I like it', but then again, I don't speak relationship, perhaps it is. 

This is not my only issue, as if this whole 'look at me and fancy me, please' beginning of a flirtation wasn't difficult enough, the world of social networking has thrown a whole new can of worms into the mix. Dynasty and I were discussing the new 'who is going to put that you're in a relationship first' dilemma. I almost long for the days when greeting your new beau at school on Monday, after he had so cooling asked you to 'be his girlfriend' on the Saturday was like, totes the most awkward thing, like ever. Oh, how I miss that almost turbulent science room moment (science being my first lesson on a Monday. Clearly). I fear that even if my ability to communicate in 'relationship' improves, I will stumble on the very first hurdle of not putting that I am 'in a relationship' on a social networking sites soon enough. Or too soon. Which is worse? Who do we ask? And who made these new rules, anyway. Zuckerberg, you have a lot to answer for. Socially, this seems to be going backwards on the maturity metre, but as we have discovered on many an occasion, what the bloody hell do I know. 

I have, I fear, missed out an entire section of relationship confusion, of course; labelling. I despise the moment when someone asks you 'are you seeing each other? together? dating? fuck buddies?' or whichever label they ask you. I have so often come a cropper on this issue, and it seems I am not the only one. And I have to apologise to my sex here, because I feel, on the whole, it is us that have to most issue with this (I know plenty of men who have had an issue with this, of course, but rule of thumb, I'm afraid tells me it is the female of the species that antagonises this area). Why, can someone tell me, do we need to 'put a label' on something so quickly? I don't ever remember pacing around, frantically wondering if The Blonde One and I were best friends after a few weeks of friendship. I don't remember sitting her down and saying 'OK, Blonde One, where is this going? Can we wear matching t-shirts with our photos on and the words BFF's written on the back? Are we at that stage yet? Are we?' No, of course, I didn't. The Blonde One would have thrown Marmite at me and told me to Fuck off and then warned all our friends that I was some sort of deranged stalker. So, please, can someone make it clear to me why we need to do this with relationships? I am not saying that we must all run around sleeping with every Tom, Dick, Harry and Clive and not even bring up the subject of whether we like one another (I am far too Catholic for that, I thank you), but why rush things, and why put a label on anything? Would it not simply be easier if we see the people we like, and avoid the people we don't? If we enjoy spending time with the nice people then continue spending time with them. Sooner or later you will both realise how you feel and it should all fit into place. This, however, is unlikely to take place after two weeks. Or perhaps this is where I am so different. 

The Mature One recently gave The Darling One the advice to stop worrying about all the little things and start enjoying it. If you analysis it all, you'll miss the most exciting parts. I would have to say I agree; I may not speak relationship as well as Dynasty or The Blonde One, but I am not going to start questioning everything either. I think I speak enough relationship to get by and will simply have pick up the rest as I go. So I may be very odd in my notion of what needs to be said during the first weeks of flirting, but believe me, if you so much as ask me 'where is this going' before the month is out, I may just point to the top of beachy head, for that is where the relationship will now be heading. 

Not Tonight...Gary

What can I say? I have once again been rubbish at keeping this blog up to date. Shame, shame on me. I should lock myself in the cupboard under the stairs and be forced to watch 'Last Of The Summer Wine' on repeat with my eyes propped open with matchsticks 'Clockwork Orange' style. Actually, that seems extremely harsh. Surely no one deserves that sort of punishment? 


I have literally had no time to do anything besides work, eat, sleep and remember my name. The latter one proving all too much last Wednesday after FIFTEEN hours at work. I turned to my friend calling out 'Jo, Jo?' awaiting a response until she finally worked out that I was calling for her attention. I suddenly realised when I saw her raised eyebrow that she was not Jo. Did it then dawn on me that I, myself, was Jo? No, no it didn't. In my perplexed state I asked who Jo even was. Who was this strange person I was calling for instead my wonderfully grumpy colleague? That's when the penny dropped, this simple piece of information came rushing back to me, 'Oh Shit! I'm Jo.' It was 10pm and it was definitely time to go home. I guess that's what 12 shifts in 9 days will do to you. 


I have had the weekend off though and was able to attend The Mature One's engagement party (she's not at all mature I might add, she's as blissfully ridiculous as I am and we have been known to spend hours on end simply performing different accents to each other - don't judge until you've tried it - and when you add those accents to songs, I am almost uncontrollable. I once pulled a muscle from laughing with her for so long. The girl is a damn wit! The reason for the maturity label is that she was my rock, my savour, the only other mature student not to behave as if they were a hundred years young during my time at uni) and it was beyond glorious to see her this weekend. Her drunken speech thanking us all for our attendance to her wee celebration was a completely unexpected bonus. 


I didn't even mind that on my train journey home (having forgotten my iPod AND book - moron!) I had to suffer a conversation between two teaching colleagues (one a drama teacher, one a music teacher...which leads me to ask, why is it that ALL secondary school drama teachers must wear unflattering black leather jackets and have one ear pieced with a dull gold stud!? Are you not allowed to become a secondary school drama teacher unless you don this fashion faux pas? Because surely, SURELY, no one would if they had a choice?) which was made up of the exciting 'short cuts' they had both discovered on several train journeys they have taken over the years. This was before the actual exchanging of their latest train tickets. At least it made them happy, I only wish their happiness had a volume control button. I tried sleeping through the journey instead only to give myself a mild heart attack when I awoke in the station of 'Salfords'. The train was at a complete standstill and there were no announcements to be heard. I was sure my three glasses of wine had not rendered me too tipsy to board a train home to the SOUTH coast. I didn't remember Salford having an 'S' on the end, but then I didn't remember heading north to our friends in Lancashire. As it turns out the 'S' on the end makes all the difference and is the name of a wee town just outside Gatwick Airport. I hadn't boarded a train T'up North at all and was still en route to get home. Shame, as The Nice One had offered to be my hero and come and rescue me. 


With the smell of regurgitated Chinese food in my nostrils (only the very best trains were out on Saturday night you see), I tried once again to drown out the teachers talk with a trip down memory lane. Yes, I was all on my own, and Yes, when I giggled to myself at an old memory the rest of the train probably thought I was either drunk, mad or possibly both, but for me it made this long train journey far more enjoyable. One memory that came to mind was a time that The Mature One and I were driving through Richmond Park singing our hearts out to a little Take That. A Million Love Songs came on and I confessed to having thought the lyrics were 'A million love song and Take That' when I was a wee nipper (I sometimes still sings these lyrics just for the hell of it. Who said teacher weren't wild!? Knowingly singing the wrong lyrics. Crazy!). The Mature One laughed at the thought of my tone deaf voice getting the words so wrong and confessed that she had thought they were 'A million love songs are made of...' I began to laugh before I realised that that is in fact what I was now singing. What a fool. How could I still not know the words? The massive child fan inside me tutted so loud, I think even The Mature One heard her. The Mature One revealed that the words were 'A million love songs later'. I didn't believe a word of it. There was no way on God's green earth that these could possibly be the words. I know that our wondrous Gary is a northerner but there is no L sound pronounced in that chorus. Anywhere! (well, apart from in the word 'million'. Oh, and 'love'. Obvs). The Mature One turned the car stereo up an alarming amount and sure enough she was correct. I guess this probably does not seem all that amusing to you, but after over three hours of intense 'Design and Technology' and whichever machine toxins we had inadvertently inhaled that week, I genuinely remember tears falling down my cheek, as well as the snort that likes to invade my laugh from time to time. 


So here, although it may be one of the mushiest songs of all time, because it kept me sane on my joyous teacher dominated, foul smelling, dirty and cold journey home and because it will forever remind of my Mature One, I present my song of the week...


...A Million Love Song by Take That. 


P.S. Note to ALL record producers today; whatever happened to our love affair with the saxophone? Did Kenny G take it too far and ruin it for everyone else? There's always one. 

Put your head against my life, what do you hear?A million words just trying to make the love song of the year,Close your eyes but don't forget, what you have heard,A man that's trying to say three words, the words that make me scared,

A million love songs LATER,And here I am trying to tell you that I care,A million love songs later,And here I am,

Looking to the future now, this is what I see,A million chances that pass me by,A million chances to hold you,Take me back, take me back,To where I used to be,To hide away from all my truths,Through the light I see,

A million love songs LATER,And here I am trying to tell you that I care,A million love songs later,And here I am,Just for you girl, A million love songs later,And here I am,Here for you babe, here for you baby,A million love songs later,Here I, here I am,

*The mighty saxophone fade...*

 (Written by the (now) beautiful Gary Barlow. I do not own the video nor do I own the lyrics)

Wowsa, they just don't write heart felt mush like they used to. As much as I adore Take That, my cold hearted phobic ways want to run and hide in Mount Vesuvius at the mere thought of a man singing those lyrics to me. And I thought being wooed to 'Two Hearts' by Phil Collins was bad. 

(Obviously, I loved both songs. I sing along with all the force in the world. Just don't use them in any form of wooing. How many times do I have to say it; Nutella!) 

Not Tonight...Lykke

I was the model daughter slash Granddaughter today (by the by, is there any better word than 'slash'. Endlessly fun. Just me!?) and went to visit my Grandma today. This meant a four and half hour round trip driving my mothers revolting 4x4. That baby certainly doesn't corner like it's on rails. Once there my Grandmother took me on a trip to the local town which made my sleepy home town look like St. Tropez, so you can imagine the fun we had. We visited Poundland on three separate occasions. There simply aren't enough words. Although that being said, it was actually a mighty fine Poundland. But that's beside the point, no one needs to enter a shop three times in two hours and that's the end of it. 

Visiting ones Grandmother may not seem like such a mammoth task to you, but then you have never had the pleasure of meeting my Grandmother. If she takes a dislike to you, well, you had best stand clear. She's ruthless. I recently discovered that she told the other half of the family that I had special needs when I was a child. We have still not discovered whether this is because I was deaf until I was six, dyslexic, or my personal belief, because I was Italian. Yes, Sister is as Italian as I am but I had the audacity to look it. Have you ever heard of anything so inconsiderate in all your life? 

I have, however, become accustomed to the little snipes that my Grandmother enjoys handing my way, but today, today I did not receive one. The only thing that came remotely close to an insult was a disapproving slash (sorry, still loving the word 'slash' something rotten!) slightly embarrassed glance towards our fellows diners when the subject at my Italian heritage came up. The cafe we were dining in looked older than my Grandmother herself and had gone with that grubby, smokers heaven 1970's living room feel with matching maroon carpet. The faux chandeliers were the icing on top of the Angel Delight (I have it on very good authority that Angel Delight is terribly seventies. Unless, of course, you are calling Sue Perkins, Giles Coren and the team of Supersizers liars? Thought not). Her niceties even stretched as far as to say that I look 'lovely' in a certain photograph she has. This is such an alien form of communication between the two of us that I didn't really know how to respond. So instead I panicked, nervously laughed and then chocked on my own fake laughter. 

I have come away from the day almost disappointed with my lack of insults. How did I get the day so wrong? What could I do better next time? There was no 'You're not much a 'West', are you?' nor a fit of 'You're a, ya know, white person with a tan' (it's pronounced Italian Grandma, but whatevs!) and I missed it. However, I visited my Grandmother and made both her and my darling dad happy all in one swoop. Score. It was genuinely nice to feel as if I had finally managed to put a smile of my Grandmothers face. 

The real bonus was that when driving to see my dear old Gran, because driving solo, I was able to play the radio as loud as I wanted. And boy did I. The Kings of Leon were my chosen partners in noise pollution (before I get arrested, it wasn't noise-pollution-loud, merely drown-out-my-singing-voice-loud) and this really was the highlight of my day. For this reason, I have decided to share with you, as I often do, the song I did the most damage to. And yes, I loved every bum note minute of it!

Knocked Up by Kings of Leon

I am going out on a limb here and not posting the original (shock face). This version is the 'Lykke Li Vs Rodeo Remix' and it's the Llama's Pyjamas in my humble opinion. Lykke Li's voice is incredibly haunting and brings a new dimension to this fabulous song. I simply adore it. So here are the lyrics, which don't belong to me, note that they belong to the Kings of Leon. Don't want to break any copy right laws and what not.

I don't care what nobody says, We're gonna have a baby,Taking off in a Coup de Ville,I'm buckled up on Navy,

I/she don't care what my/her momma says,No, I'm/she's gonna have his/my bay,Taking all I have to take,This taking's gonna shape me,

People call us renegades,'Cause we like living crazy,We like taking on the town,'Cause people getting lazy,

I don't care what nobody says, no,I'm gonna be his/her lover,Always mad and usually drunk, But I love him like no other,

And the doctor says he don't know,Where you gonna go?I'm a ghost and I don't think I quite know, Where we gonna go?(x8)

People call us renegades,'Cause we like living crazy,We like taking on the town,'Cause people getting lazy,

I don't care what nobody says, no,I'm gonna be his/her lover,Always mad and usually drunk, But I love him/her like no other,

And her daddy seems to say he don't know,Where you gonna go?I'm a ghost and I don't think I quite know, Where we gonna go?(x9)

And before you ask just how bad my singing along was, whilst driving to my Grandma's, a white van driving looked over, laughed out load and then felt it appropriate to wink at me. Note to self; ensure windows are fully closed before singing in car in future. Tsk!

Boobs or back...?

My back has given way, yet again, and I am pain. Not the agonising pain that shot through my entire body the first two times my back fell apart, but I'm in pain nonetheless.

My mother's back has more issues than a single episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show, so it was no surprise when we discovered that my back too, had weakness but with some mundane exercises the weakness didn't seem to pose much of a problem. That was until a delightful young (ahem) man decided that driving a coach full of special needs children, when less than a mile from our final destination I might add, was the perfect opportunity to display his formula 1 racing ability (none, as it turned out. Shocking, quite shocking). Though we were stuck in God awful traffic, our driver decided that revving the engine and slamming the breaks was an appropriate driving style. I was oblivious to all of this, as I was trying to prevent one of the children from having a panic attack, it was not until I found myself being flung forward faster than Usain Bolt only stopping when the oldest boy on the coach caught (rescued!!) me that I became aware of what was going on. I had been launched forward more than five seats and as a results, was left with bruises the size of South Jerusalem on each thigh and lower back. Oh, who am I kidding, it wasn't my lower back, it was my bottom. I had a ruddy great bruise on my bottom, and it was painful.  

My boss made me visit the doctor and was not surprised when he told me that I had whiplash. No one was surprised it seems, no one except me. Why had no one thought to tell me that I had whiplash? My doctor mentioned it as if it was common knowledge,'Oh, the pain is obviously due to the whiplash and will settle down in a couple of weeks or so'. No, not obviously, as it happens. Unobviously! Completely out of the bloody blue, actually. I didn't voice any of this at the time, naturally, I merely tittered, the sort you might do on a first date when the date in question attempts a lame joke but you still rather fancy him so you titter for good measure.   

As a consequence of all this my back is now, for want of a better phrase, fucked. About a year and a half after my gymnastic display on that horrendous coach, my upper back began to twinge. This began at about 11am one morning and by the time the children, at the special needs school I worked at, had eaten their lunch I could barely move my left arm. My boss demanded I go home and by night fall I couldn't walk unaided. My beyond wonderful chiropractor signed me off work for a week and I was left in the worst pain I have ever felt (until my chiropractor knocked me about as if I were an old ragdoll. The pain relief was so exquisite that it has always amazed me that I didn't jump him right there and beg that we marry at the local church that very second). The only time I have felt more physical pain was a month later when my back decided to go on holiday once again and I was left with minimal movement for over two weeks. Again, my chiropractor saved my life. How he has not been knighted is sheer madness. The pain was put down to the whiplash and nobody said too much about it. Well, it's not the most interesting of subjects to be honest. However, recently more and more people have decided to share their opinion on my failing back and seeing as I have not mastered a polite way of saying 'Fuck off, I don't really care', I have had to listen to them.  

The problem is that the majority of these people seem to think my large breasts are the route to all my issues. My mother, the woman with only three quarters of her back still in tacked and the woman whom I have inherited my large assists from, has jumped on this annoying band wagon. If one more person tells me to consider a breast reduction, I may cry. And sulk. And I really despise sulking. It's not that I'm irrevocably in love with having ginormous boobs, far from it. The number of dresses I have had to put back on the shelve because I cannot even squeeze one breast into their allotted 'boobie' space is astronomical. I have even suffered many an insult which I mentioned in 'My Boobies and me...' . I don't wear Jordan-esk outfits to thrust my breasts upon the world, as I have frequently stated, 'I have cleavage in a polo neck', so why would I want to spend my entire evening on 'boob watch' ensuring my large breasts are not popping out of my top to say hello? I find covering up to be far sexier than having all on show anyway. So if I don't display them for all to see, why am I so opposed to a breast reduction? 

I, of course, don't really believe that my boobs are my problem, otherwise perhaps I would consider this drastic operation. Or would I? Have I let myself become defined by my breasts? Are my breasts bigger than me, so to speak? Do I really value my boobs more highly than my back? It's hard to be sure. 

I find it difficult to explain. My aunt, whose parents hail from Nigeria, although married to my uncle has kept her maiden name. Why? Because, she says, that she has been through such a lot with it that she doesn't want to be without it. It's quite a tongue twister to say when you first hear it and she often recalls how she has spent the majority of her life trying to teach people how to pronounce it properly. As well as all the torment she has had to face from being 'different'. Her name by no way defines her but she wouldn't be the person she is now without it. This reflects my views exactly. My breasts are, in no way who I am as a person, but I wouldn't be who I am without them. I have been 'big breasted' for sixteen years of my life and I'm not sure I would know how to be me if they weren't there. They are so much a part of who I am that my best friends at Secondary School changed my name from 'Josephine' to 'Jugsaphine'. This was shortened to 'Jugsy' and Jugsy I was for many years. I am still in The Jolly One's phone as Jugsaphine and she tells me it makes her smile every time she sees it. The Jolly One aside though, Thank the Lord above the name has died out, however, I still look back and smile. No one used the nickname in malice and perhaps my innocence at that age rendered the name even funnier, who knows. 

Having large breasts can be fun, it can be aggravating, it can be scary (when the wrong man takes an interest) and it is most definitely expensive (you look through the Bravissimo catalogue and tell me my bras cost the same as a wee A cup bra from M&S. As well as the fact that my bras last on average 6 months to a year, where as a friend recently showed me her 'lucky' bra that she's had since she was 18. I hate her), however, my breasts are part of me and until I'm told conclusively that my breasts are damaging my back, I will not put myself through unnecessary surgery and my boobs are staying exactly the way they are. If they are the reason my back sometimes plays dead then I will face up to the fact that they are to be no more, but until that day comes I will continue to defend the comments that come flying my way with witty rebuttals and sarcastic reply's and I will enjoy every minute of it. It's who I am and that is that. 

Not Tonight...Cinderella

I do apologise for not posting a song on here yesterday, but in my defence I have been acting as Nurse Josephine to a sister with a bad back and her poorly daughter. Today, to act as my sisters arms I accompanied them both to a 'New Mothers and Baby' group. This turned out to be a horrendous mistake. There is a reason why people without children do not attend such groups as they will leave you in a cold sweat within the first ten minutes. It's a terrifying place for the non-mother. Women, clever headstrong women who have no doubt had men eating from the palm of their hands stroll into the group and feel it appropriate to utter the phrase 'Does someone want boobie?' to their small infant. And this was all before I even had the chance to introduce myself. It's all fun and games until the child's (a boy, no less) first word is boobie. One has the feeling that no woman will ever be good enough for that particular rugrat.


If that wasn't enough to freak me out sufficiently then the constant use of the word 'teat' for over two hours most definitely was. I have never been a member of the 'tit' fanclub; boobies, breasts, chest are all words that fill me with joy but tit, tit has always left me cold, and for me, the 'teat' word is just too closely related. I can't help but imagine that some perverse man somewhere invented this word to make 'tit' sound foreign and exotic. It didn't work and has no place in a Mother and Baby's group no matter how many times Sister tells me they are simply referring to the section of the bottle the baby sucks. The word is wrong and I shall be a happy lady indeed if I never hear that dreaded word again. EVER.


I can say with the same seriousness that I would take into a meeting with Her Majesty The Queen, herself that that Mother and Baby group may turn out to be the best contraception I ever stumble across. Of course there were some lovely and even normal mothers in this group (Sister being one of them, Thank God), but the chorus of deep voice 'cooing' (why must your voice drop seventeen octaves!? Why!) will forever be a reminder of what I could turn into. And frankly, I don't want to sound like a man two millimetres short of my child's face, thank you very much. I'm not saying I don't want the happiness that motherhood can bring, but I think I will leave the whole situation alone until I find a man with great teeth (always had a thing about good teeth!) that will ensure I have a child as cute as my niece. 


However, the past few days have, Baby group aside, been rather fun. With a poorly niece whose salty tears leave my heart breaking whenever she is fighting her sleep (why do babies do this!? I'm sure if they could talk they would only be yelling "I'M JUST SOOOOOOOO TIRED!!". I dream of the day my tiny niece understands that by going to sleep, she'll no longer feel fatigued. She's 12 weeks tomorrow, I think my wait will be a long one) has shown me just how stressful parenting can be - mothers of the world, you are all amazing. Unless you over use the word teat - however, luckily, in my eyes my niece is the cutest bundle of awesomeness that ever existed and I have loved being a hands-on helper. I don't even mind changing her nappy. There is no greater sign of love than that. Apart from Nutella, of course. 


I have recently discovered that not only is my niece cuteness personified but she also has incredible taste. I now find that singing her one of my favourite 'Slipper and the Rose' songs is a sure fire way to settle those moments when her ear piecing screams reach alarming volumes. This is why my song for the week is the beautiful 'Once I was Loved' sung by the best Cinderella of all time, Gemma Craven. 


The song has been a favourite since before I can remember and will continue to be long after I have lost my marbles in Neverneverland. Its simple melody never fails to raise a smile from ear to ear. I secretly hope this will be enough to entice you all into watching this spectacular film. 


Once I was Loved from The Slipper and The Rose, performed by Gemma Craven, written by Sherman and Sherman. 


Once I was loved,
I knew I was loved,
I flew through my days,
in fanciful ways, 
Secure and sure there'd always be,
Endless love for me,


Gone is that love,
My fanciful Dove,
has tears in her eyes,
She no longer flies,
And yet my heart will not despair, 
For it's there,
just a memory away,


Once I was loved,
So always, come what may,
Loves happy memory,
Ever will be loving me




(Note that I don't own these lyrics...)




As I said, this has become my go-to song/lullaby every time Niece is crying and more often than not, even with the atrocious sound of my singing voice, my niece will settle and all seems right with the world again. The Slipper and The Rose, is there anything you can't do?

When all fails...

We all have those 'go-to' items that we depend upon when all else fails. That dress that you wear and end up loving when nothing else looks right (mine is a beaut of a Zara number and only cost me twenty of your English pounds. Possibly the best buy of my life. And it happens to be in a twenties style which fits in very nicely with lasting 'Boardwalk Empire' obsession). When I need to cry but can't let go of my emotions for long enough to allow myself to, I put on the beautifully heartfelt 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' staring Juliet Stevenson and Alan Rickamn and those built up tears come pouring from my eyes. When I have scared myself something rotten and simply can't face sleeping alone, I put on the British classic that is 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' (I can very nearly quote to whole film, and yes, I am terribly proud of that fact) or possibly 'Overbored', the film where Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell met and fell in love (and yes, I am down with that script too!). And when I am sad, nervous or anxious I always turn to Yann Tiersen, or more accurately, to his music. His simple melodies always calm my frantically over-active mind and help me relax. In times of grief when I cannot bring myself to speak, I put on the music I own by Tiersen and I drown in my own thoughts. He fills my silence and helps me feel alone and surrounded all at once.


When My Little Dragon died it was Tiersen's music that allowed me to be on my own and not lose myself to my silent and constant tears. When I had to change my second year placement school (due to the first schools annoyance at my audacity to attend a funeral. How could I be so selfish!? I mean, a funeral. What fun!) it was Tiersen that I programmed my iPod to to see me through the long bus journey on my first truly nerve racking day. This does work in reverse, of course, and I also rape the repeat button on my favourite Tiersen pieces when sublimely happy. Last week when walking along the sea front a man asked what I was on to make me look so happy. My inner judge could not allow such a wanky reply as 'Just Yann' to pass my lips, so I simply smiled and shrugged. I know, I'm a cowardly whimp.


Tomorrow I must attend a funeral and I am dreading it for so many reasons, so it's Tiersen that I turn to now to stop me from being consumed with emotion. I know Tiersen will see me through the day and help me when it is all over no matter how I am feeling, and I deeply recommend this to everyone. My 'go-to' items have saved me time, effort and unnecessary emotion, when emotion feels as if it may consume me whole without so much as a single chew. Being able to grab that specific item or play that specific song without thinking can be the difference between making it on time to a party or not or the difference between getting out of bed in the morning ready for the day ahead and spending all day alone with only your tears for company.We all need help to get through pain, Tiersen just happens to be there for me when I can't find my way to my very favourite people. 


I share with you HERE just one piece of Tiersen's music that helps pull me through and if it helps you then my work here is done... 

Not Tonight...Juicy Lucy

P.S. I completely forgot to mention...how much do you love the video in the last post 'Not Tonight...Nicest Thing'  ? Or am I on my lonesome on this one? 


I love the wee animation and words (you know I love words to feed my love of singing along to all songs). It reminds me of the rather fun cards by Juicy Lucy (http://www.juicylucydesigns.com/) which I admit can be a little mushy, but any card that says 'I like you so much I think I might show you my knickers' gets a big thumbs up from me. Or my absolute person favourite being 'I fancy you so much you make my fanny feel funny'. Funny, to the point and flirty to boot. What is not to love?


I would definitely recommend their 'magic messages' for an extra bit of fun, too. I have left messages for my previous flatmate on them (none with flirty messages on the front, I hasten to add!) and he kept them all. I have also left them in friends wallets to find at a later date. It's the little things in life that make it special and receiving a silly wee card is without doubt one of those little things that will put a full blown toothy smile all over my face for several hours. Score! 

Not Tonight...Nicest Thing

Although when teaching I almost ban the word 'nice' from the classroom in an attempt to expand the children's vocabulary, I genuinely think the word nice describes so many things that I love. I like nice (and pretty) things, like floral bunting. I like nice places. I like nice wines. I like nice food. I like nice restaurants. I like nice clothes...I think you get the gist. But above all, I like nice people. After all, I did name The Nice One, The Nice One. Nice is good. Nice is underrated. Nice is, well nice. Nice is my new favourite adjective. I will endeavour to use this fabulous word in at least one sentence every day for the next month. Now that is dedication for you. 


So, how could my song for the week be anything other than the 'Nicest Thing' by Kate Nash. Having recently moved home (temporarily, dear God, it's only temporarily!!) I recently stumbled across my Kate Nash CD and was surprised by how much I still really enjoyed it. I pulled back the roof on my mum's (revolting) 4x4, turned the music up loud and killed each and every song with my singing as I drove along the open road (what does that even mean 'open road'? What would constitute a closed road? A road that you weren't allowed to drive down? Surely that's just a pavement. I find this is most odd).   


So as I am on a mission to promote all things nice, here are the lyrics to 'Nicest Thing' for my weekly cheer up/motivational song. 


Nicest Thing by Kate Nash 

All I know is that you're so nice,
You're the nicest thing I've seen,
I wish that we could give it a go,
See if we could be something,

I wish I was your favourite girl
I wish you thought I was the reason you were in the world,
I wish my smile was your favourite kind of smile,
I wish the way that I dressed was your favourite kind of style,
I wish you couldn't figure me out, but you'd always wanna know what I was about,

I wish you'd hold my hand when I was upset,
I wish you'd never forget the look on my face when we first met,

I wish you had a favourite beauty spot that you loved secretly 'cause it was on a hidden bit that nobody else could see,
Basically, I wish that you loved me,
I wish that you needed me,
I wish that you knew when I said two sugars, actually I meant three,
I wish that without me your heart would break,
Yeah, I wish that without me you'd be spending the rest of your nights awake, 

I wish the without me you couldn't eat, Yeah, I wish I was the last thing on your mind before you went to...sleep 

Look, all I know is that you're the nicest thing, I've ever seen, And I wish that we could see if we could be something, Yeah, I wish that we could see if we could be something 

Note that I do not own these lyrics, they belong to Kate Nash. 


I think everyone would like to be described as 'the nicest thing' someone has ever seen, and although, I don't think I have ever wished that someone couldn't eat without me in their lives I have definitely wished that I was the last thing on someone's mind before they went to sleep. And I'm scared of all that relationship mumbo jumbo, so I am sure that you'll be able to find at least one line in this lovely song that you have wished for. 


By the way, I have always wanted to add the line 'I wish that you loved me more than Nutella', because to me that is true love. Nutella is the most brilliant thing the world has ever seen, after all. No!? Just me!? Oh, well, what would your added line be...? 

Is honesty always the best policy...?

The Country One tweeted last week that honesty is not always the best policy, and this started me thinking; do I agree with this statement or not? I have always preached the importance of honesty to the children I have taught and know that I will badger this idea home to my own wee niece when she is old enough to be told, however, when it comes to real life, is honesty always the best policy? A friend of mine recently told a boy that she had strong feelings for him, even though the male friend in question had a long term girlfriend that he is very happy with. She's now miserable, he's embarrassed and I'm told the girlfriend is pissed off and convinced that every pretty girl with a pulse that has the audacity to smile at her boyfriend is in love with him. What a royal mess. In that instance I feel honesty may not have been wise. So perhaps The Country One may have been right.


Goodness knows that I wish men would come clean and simply be honest with us all when it comes to matters of the heart, or the pants in most of their cases (yep, still that transparent men). I previously stated this in my post 'he's just not that into you...' and I stand by the views I shared then. If men were slightly more up front about their feelings, grew some bollocks - big, bloody manly ones - and become less cowardly (OK, yes, I am talking to myself, the commitment phobe, as well when I say this. But I am improving and have even voiced some of my feelings lately. I hope you are all suitably impressed!?) then I think the world would be a much happier place. If men cut out the whole 'Babe,-you-are-like-the-prettiest-girl-I-have-ever-met' shite and started speaking openly and honestly with woman, even if that honesty involved an awkward conversation that may lead to a few girly tears, in the long run it would be far kinder. Closure is a big thing for women. Especially the single ones. How can you expect us to move on if you don't make it crystal clear how you feel about us!? No, seriously, how, I've been trying to work it out for years to no avail. It's harder than trigonometry. But before you throw all your toys out of the pram men, I do agree that women can be nuts (sorry, women, but it's true. Own up!) when it comes to relationships but you men don't help. I think honesty, in this case, is probably a good thing. Although, with all that being said, I do feel that sometimes honesty needs to be filtered. Hearing someone announce that they could 'really see themselves growing old with you' after date number two is enough to have me running for the hilltops of Peru. A simply, I like you so much I'd buy you Nutella is far more effective. Just me!?


However, there are times when honesty needs to be put away in a draw, locked up and immediately thrown into the river Arno. I feel good old Alan Partridge said it far more poetically than I ever could when he said one of my favourite quotes of all time... "I know the ten commandments says 'thou shall not lie' but if the elephant man came in here now with some lip stick on and a nice dress, and said 'how do I look?' Would you say, bearing in mind that he's depressed and has got respiratory problems, would you say 'take that blusher off you ugly, mis-shapened headed elephant tranny'? No. Exactly, you'd say 'You look nice... John'" And I quite agree... Alan. 


If a distant family member strolled over to me looking meek and unsure of herself on her wedding day and asked if her meringue style lime green bridal dress that clashed with her ginger frizz looked OK, I would smile my warmest smile, hug her tightly and tell her she looks absolutely radiant. Why hurt someone's feelings, especially on their wedding day? Honesty would not be worth it.


But here is where my real issue with honesty arises; people using 'honesty' as an opportunity to unleash their inner bitch. Telling a 'friend' that they need to try and control the volume of their laugh because it scares small children and stops others from hanging out with her, is bitchy not honest, however, suggesting that low vee neck tops may suit a large breasted friend and hinting that a polo neck does nothing for her is honest. There may be a subtle difference between the two but if you can't see the difference then you need to go back to your Brownie group leader and ask to retake your 'friendship' badge.


Honesty, like everything in life depends on the situation. Nothing is ever black and white and therefore we need to reflect upon the scene in front of us and decide whether honesty really is the way forward. I, for one, think that the little white lie can be a positive thing and should be used to spare peoples feelings, however, if a white lie is told and then joked about behind that persons back in a cruel, childish, primary school bully way then you should know that you have turned that white lie into ugly gossiping. Shame. On. You. 


Honesty is not always the best policy and can definitely lead to hurt feelings, but wherever humanly possible I find that honesty, in the long run, is far easier. I have a family member who tells so many white lies that I am forever putting my foot in it trying to keep up with them all, retracing my words, badly, and end up sounding slightly drunk in my confusion. So for someone who likes the simple life, I am choosing honesty. Unless, that is you ask me what I think of your newly decorated lilac bathroom; I will say I love it, but deep down, I am throwing up in my mouth. 

Vomiting Veronica...

I am suffering from complete and utter writers block. Every time I sit down to write something that I had thought would make a good post nothing comes out but wordy and dull drivel. In fact it is worse than drivel. Drivel I would take right now. Drivel would be Shakespeare compared with the crap I am writing. I have been having this issue for a few weeks now, since returning from my holiday. I enjoyed my holiday greatly, so it can't be that but I was slightly ill (a phrase I seem to be using with far too much frequency of late. Take note illness, Go The Fuck Away. You have been warned) and haven't completely gotten over it. However, I have a theory. It's a terrible theory but it's all I have, so I am running with it. I feel that by perhaps sharing with you the horrendous misfortune of my holiday I may free up my mind to be able to write again. So here goes nothing.


Two major incidences happened this holiday which have resulted in my mother, Sister and The Country One almost insisting on me going to the doctor; I shall start with the less embarrassing one. When finishing our holiday, my mother, father and I stayed in Sitges, just South of Barcelona where an annoying twunt of an insect poisoned me with its venom . I turned out to be allergic to this particular venom and the underside of my left arm decided that the end of my holiday would be the perfect time to swell up to the size of Russia. Well, we were in The Gay capital of Europe and I was with my parents, I was hardly going to enjoy a holiday romance so I guess it thought, why the hell not. I have only ever had one other allergic reaction to a bite before and that bite mark decided to stick around on my arm for about four years. It was a sexy time for me. Luckily, this bite has already almost vanished and it hasn't even been four weeks. "Get In!" is what I believe my Essex friends would say. 


Although my mother was urging me to see a Spanish doctor each time the swelling decided to edge its way closer towards my elbow, I was being stubborn. It was not that bad and after reading a horror story relating to a Spanish doctor hacking off a perfectly good limb because it looked 'iffy', I was having none of it. I was staying as far away from the doctor as I was from the nudest beach (why is it, by the by, that nudest beaches only ever attract the very elderly and seriously perverse!? I remember walking passed one along the French Riviera and being shell shocked after witnessing a man - who was no spring chicken - asleep on the beach with a full on erection, teamed with his wife's utter lack of shame at this public display as she waved me a 'Bonjour'. She looked positively proud. And people say I over share!?). However, three days after the insect had infected me with his poison, the swelling was still expanding and I was beginning to lose the feeling in my fingers. Dammit! My bite had won. I begrudgingly went off to the only place in Sitges that was always open; the pharmacy, and queued up nervous that with the smallest amount of Spanish I had I may have to explain my situation through mime. Luckily, the man in charge spoke pretty terrific English and there was no mime needed. Which now I think of it is a pity, as I had spent so long waiting that the prepare mime I had rustled up in my head would have blown the whole shop away. Oscar winning, I'm telling you.


The pharmacist explained that the allergic reaction had caused my fingers to numb because it was in a 'bad' place. The way he kept repeating the word 'bad' made me feel as if I were a naughty school girl and I couldn't work out if I should reply 'thank you' or 'sorry', and so 'sanks' came flooding from my mouth before I had had time to stop and think, and for some baffling reason would not stop coming out. What's worse is that I could tell as soon as I had said the word 'sanks' that this was not the correct response and so it also became slightly stuttered and turned into a sort of 's-saaanks-s-s-saaanks-sanks'. And so as I stood there looking half dazed, half perplexed, stuttering away, left arm swelling as the man drew - with semi permanent marker, I might add, which only faded after three days - a line on the underside of my left arm indicating where the swelling was allowed to go before I had to rush myself to hospital for an injection to stop the 'bad' reaction from infecting my immune system, I was suddenly overjoyed that I was holidaying with my parents and not The Nice One or anyone else remotely handsome. Several antihistamines later, the swelling was unnoticeable but the drowsiness was in full swing. I'm still not a hundred per cent sure how much of my alarming concern for The Nice One's safety when I heard the BBC World News reader inform me that the riots in England had reached The Nice One's Northern quarters, was due to this drug and my allergic reaction and how much was my rational self. The Nice One didn't seem too alarmed by my sudden concern so perhaps under my legal drug high I managed to play it cool. That would be a first. 


Sister, in the dramatic way she does, has now decided that I would be a simpleton if I were not to carry an epipen with me whenever I step out of the house in case such an incident should occur again (the allergic reaction, not the alarming concern for The Nice One's safety). I am risking life and limb with every step I take without carrying such a life saving device with me At. All. Times. OK, so she wasn't quite that dramatic, but two allergic bites does not an anaphlaxic sufferer make. Shit, actually, this would be the third allergic reaction but if I share that with Sister she may drag me to the doctor herself. She may be small but she's freakishly strong and I wouldn't put it past her. Let's talk no more about that then. 


So you have heard of my less embarrassing health related story and now to the one that leaves me shuddering with shame that I can't believe I am going to write it down for all to read. To break up the Spanish part of our holiday, my family and I boarded a cruise ship to take us across the Mediterranean. On the first night of this cruise, when dining with perfect strangers from Atlanta, I became rather ill. With a history of low blood pressure I have always had a tendency for fainting, it used to happen so frequently that I am now degree level at stopping myself from fainting before I ever actually do. If you ever come across me sitting (or if you're truly blessed, lying) on a kitchen or toilet floor (cold surfaces are the key) then fear not, I have not fallen in love with the toilet or new kitchen cabinets, I am merely keeping myself cool until the fainting spell passes. However, sitting on this table with a middle aged American couple, a sudden wave of warning hit me with such strength that there was no way I could escape in time. This particular on board restaurant was huge (it bloody would be, wouldn't it), I had no idea where the toilets (my beloved cold surface) were and frankly, I had barely enough time to inform my mum that I thought I may be about to faint before it was too late, so the chances of getting myself to the desired location in time were slim to none. With my head already on the table my arms apparently fell from my sides and tried desperately to reach for the floor and take me with them as I passed out right there at the table. By the time I came round I was struck with not only the embarrassment of fainting in public but also with the fact that I had managed to throw up whilst passed out as part of the show. What can I say, remember I have previously warned you all that when I do something I put my whole self into it. I have never been more mortified, relieved and confused leaving a restaurant in my life. What could possibly be worse!? Oh, have I yet to mention that when on a cruise ship you dine with the same people and have the same waiters throughout? I was personally happy to never eat again, but bizarrely my parents insisted we still attend the evening meals. Rude and selfishness personified.


The one saving grace of it all was that the other couple (beyond lovely couple) there on their honeymoon who were also dining with us had not made it to the restaurant on our first night and so missed my spectacular pyrotechnics. Thank Mickey Mouse himself. Although I mentioned the fainting to my new favourite Americans, the whole vomiting incident was swiftly forgotten. I don't know how that happen.    


And so, I hope the sharing of this humiliating story has now banished my writers block. If not, I'm definitely moving to Leeds. Where nobody knows my name and I will become oblivious to any such story. Vomiting!? At a table!? Whilst passed out!? Who!? Nope, never heard that story before. 

To Leeds or not to Leeds...

The Country One and I have been discussing our future. Leaving university and re-entering the big bad world is a scary, daunting but exciting time. It's a time when you could quite literally do anything you wish. Go anywhere and become anything you want, but before I sound like some prepy Valedictorian I am slowly realising that this is in fact utter shite. Yes, you can do all those things if you have money, or a job offer but without them the prospect of living free goes right out the window and straight onto some other poor sap. 


I know that many people will know of someone who moved to a city with barely enough cash for a Big Mac Meal and is now living a very comfortable life but those people probably had talent; real talent. Sister has completely sucked me into a new program on Sky Arts called 'Art of Survival' which sees two teams of two travelling from Athens to Edinburgh with only the money they make from their art. One is a classical singer, one a classic cellist, one a jazz cellist and one a bloody amazing artist (painter). We are three weeks in and both couples have already raised thousands of euros (euro, aren't we meant to simply say 'euro'? That seems so very northern. You know what I mean 'It be 30 mile away'. Miles, mileSSS. It's pural!). However, I am not an artist, I cannot play any instrument (unless three Sigur Ros songs and the beginning of the Harry Potter theme on the glockenspiel count!? No! Shesh. Picky), I sing very ill and my dancing was only ever average and that was seven years ago. You can hardly go around the streets of Europe offering 'a free phonic' lesson and hope to get the same response as someone playing a beautiful rendition of Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro. Telling strangers children to recite 'OO, Poo at the Zoo' to help them remember their 'oo' phoneme will probably just get me a smack in the mouth.  


I can't even stumble on a city and just 'pull pints' for a wee while to make some extra cash. As a teenager I danced and would help my dance teacher teach the younger pupils as well as teaching them privately. It was something I enjoyed, I didn't have to learn a new trade and I got paid almost double that of my friends who were measuring old ladies bust sizes on a Sunday in Debenhams. I know which one I would rather be doing, and I bloody love boobies. The only problem is that it has left me as a 26 year who has never worked a till. I am sure I would pick up this skill in a matter of seconds but in these hard financial times you cannot blame a shop for thinking 'hmmmm...train up a 16year for minimum wage who will do as I say and be grateful for their first job, or this 26 year old who will have her own mind (and know how to use it) and fuck off the first sign of a teaching job'. It's no rocket science. 


I have recently signed for a teaching agency that will help find teachers supply and permanent teaching positions, - hurrah - they also have many links with special needs school - double hurrah! - however, they will only be able to find me work once I have a permanent residence in London. I can't move to London until I have a job. Catch 22. The bastard. I could of course, stay in my family home but with no room for even half my things (I have been away for four years and I like to be reminded of my past. OK, fine, my name is Josephine and I am a serial clutterer) which I think is sending my mother to an early grave, it just doesn't seem to be a very long term option. This on top of the fact that Sister, Dr Karl (brother-in-law) and niece also now live at home. Bringing up a baby is stressful enough without my possessions cluttering up the hall. The place is just not big enough for all of us without one of us having a meltdown and blowing up the house. This may seem dramatic but we're a passionate family with very different personalities, blowing up the house is a very real danger. Being told off for drinking too much Vimto or frowned upon for my choice in television viewing does not make for a relaxed home. 


So, The Country One has proposed that we move to Leeds. Only for a short time. Her brother lives there and it would be cheap enough to save while we look for more permanent jobs. The only problem is I have never been there and neither my friends nor my family live in the immediate area. For the first time in my life the crossroads that stands before me feels more like the Spaghetti Junction than the simple country lane crossroads that I am used to. I am usually yelling at my heart and head to pipe the fuck down and give me a rest but I would give anything for them to rise up and tell me what to do. In their absence I am going to go with the first one of them that makes even the smallest of sound. Yes, this could turn out to be a mistake of royal proportion but at least it would mean that I am doing something other than sitting on my derriere waiting for some wise soul to tell me what to do. That actually sounds pretty great; any wise old souls out there I'd love for you to make some noise...I'm all ears.    


Come to think of it, I'm sure Leeds isn't a hundred miles away from Todmorden where the statue of the Lucky Dog lives. Perhaps a weekly visit to this lucky dog is just what is needed. 


All I know is that if I do end up moving T'up North then I should warn you that my posts will be filled with 'By  Hecks' and 'Ay. love'. Actually, I think a northern twang may suit me. 

Not Tonight...Yann

On Sunday I heard some sad news. Terribly sad. News that you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, so to hear that it had happen to someone who is very sweet made my heart sink even further down than my stomach.


Loss is something that we must all deal with however, I have noticed that the older we get the harder it becomes to deal with. Perhaps it is because as I get older I am realising how rare it is to find people that you can love unconditionally (and, if you're lucky, who love you back) and when they are taken from you it inevitably feels as if a small part of you has been taken with them. The people we love become so much a part of who we are that we don't realise that without them we are no longer whole.


Nothing anyone says makes loss OK, or easy to deal with or will make the world seem whole again. Sometimes just hearing 'You know what, this is utter shite. If you want to simply sit in silence with someone, I will be there' is more touching than all the "I'm so sorry's" in the world. Not that they don't mean anything, of course. It's just that loss is so utterly soul destroying that it can consume you like nothing else we face on this earth and people should be allowed to feel this way a little longer than we give them before they decide it's time to move on.


When I have lost the people that were the most important to me I wanted to sit in silence and I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry silently until there were no more tears left within me to fall from my eyes. Until my cheeks could no longer soak up any more moisture. I wanted to be sad because frankly, I felt sad and I wanted my sadness to be OK with everyone else. But in this silence and tears, surprisingly I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to feel the presence of someone else next to me, close to me, even touching me, but I still wanted to be silent. I didn't want to feel any pressure in talking. I simply wanted the knowledge that someone was there and that was all. I have discovered that for most of us this is incredibly difficult. Silence can be awkward and even terrifying at times but being with someone when they are at their lowest point no matter how uncomfortable you may feel will create a bond that will be almost impossible to break. 


It is OK to be sad. It is OK to be angry. As Morrie Schwartz (Tuesdays with Morrie) said, let yourself become completely consumed by your emotions. If you want to be sad, if you want to grieve, if you want to cry, be sad, grieve, cry. And do it with Passion. But then move on from it and say, that was sadness, I felt that but now it is time to feel another emotion. I have been trying to do this since I read Tuesdays With Morrie a few weeks ago but I feel when a great sadness comes into my life I may find this concept harder to complete than I do at present.  



At a time when there is great sadness for people I know I could not bring myself to bring you all a song of great joy. No song seemed fitting, so I am turning to a great love of mine who helps when I want to be silent; Yann Tiersen. He is a French composer whose work you will have probably heard in the wondrous film 'Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain', or simply 'Amelie' as most of us know it. Which is where the piece of music I have chosen comes from. 


The piece in question has no lyrics, when a piece of music is this simple and this beautiful words become superfluous.  


And so I hope you will take the length of this piece of beautiful music to remember what is important to you in this world...I know what, or should I say who are important to me and I will make sure that this week they know it. 


La Valse D'Amelie by Yann Tiersen

If The Nice One is no longer nice...

What has happened since I left the country? 


The great thing with modern technology is that you never feel completely out of the loop. The three different hotels we stayed in on my holiday all had BBC world news (two of them even had Sky Sports News, which excited my mother a little too much) and we happily watched what was going on with the world without having to buy a five euro Daily Mail (I don't even like the free Daily Mail, but there you have it). But as the end of our holiday drew near the smugness that I had felt in being British (spending time with a load of Republican American's will do that to a person) was wiped away as ignorant rioters took to the streets of London. Having spent two days of my holiday sightseeing in Roma and Pompeii, I couldn't get over the wealth of history at our finger tips. Pompeii, the town destroyed by a volcanic eruption in 79 AD by Mount Vesuvius, is almost perfectly preserved how it was nearly two thousand years ago and it is completely astonishing. Central heating, brothels with sign posts (I kid you not), steam baths, houses beautifully painted, mini shopping malls, a voting system, I could go on. Remember that this town was destroyed nearly two thousand years ago. I believe we in Britain were living in mud huts at the time!? 


 Roma and Pomepii are the two most incredible places I have ever been to in my life time. If I was proud to be British surrounded by Republicans (yes, what a crazy idea it is to have hospitals and doctors that will treat you for free!? Utter madness... *raises eyebrow*) then I positively elated being an Italian Brit. I grew up in one of the best countries around and my ancestors came from greatness. You cannot walk around either Roma or Pompeii and not see the greatness. And then, sitting in my little hotel room in Sitges (which as it happens is the gay capital of Europe. Amazing. Did anyone else know this?) I looked on with utter dismay at what I saw. Having not worked out how to use the telly in our final hotel in Sitges (and not caring all that much to be honest) we were without news for just under 48 hours, so when my clever old Dad finally worked out how to get BBC world news up the sight of the riots was a complete shock. I had no clue what had been happening in my beautiful city. The city full of such wonderful history that the American's I spoke with would have given their right arm to own was ablaze. I was saddened and I felt angry. 


No one has the right to destroy someone else's home, memories and their feeling of safety but to do so under the pretence of 'what was owed' made my blood boil. I don't get angry very often, but this has angered me. When working in a beyond brilliant hospital in Oxford I was lucky enough to help a lovely old man from Czechoslovakia, we shared a birthday and this meant, for some reason, that he loved me and would spend hours opening up. I loved to listen to his stories as we had our therapy sessions together and I'll remember them always. I am betting that he didn't risk everything during The Second World War to flea to our country with several of his friends (only three, including himself, survived) to see it be taken over by mindless thugs. Protesting and taking a stand for what you believe in is what makes us human; burning down people's properties and taking away people's right to feel safe is what takes your human rights away. 


I could talk about this for a long time as you can tell, God knows I already have but today, for me, the rioting became personal. I was talking with The Nice One and was telling him he had become mean (not my finest flirty banter I grant you but let's move on, shall we) and he told me that he was a changed man. It seems that nice doesn't lead to anything good in the long run. The Nice One not nice...this is beyond madness. Even if I don't end up with The Nice One the world would not seem crazy (mean, perhaps, but not crazy) however, some things should always remain paramount; The Blonde One and Dynasty will always be my closest friends; I will always be part Italian, part British; I will always love children with autism; people will always die; Nutella will always be the best chocolate and The Nice One must always be nice. The Nice One is by definition nice and so if these rioters have made him decide that nice is no longer the way forward then they have made this personal. The Nice One has often restored my faith in humanity through his niceness and is forever raising a smile when his nice nature is in full swing. It is one of the best things about him, his overtly nice nature, and I am telling you that if he stands by his word and is a changed man I will seek out each and every rioter and show them what I think of them. They say Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned...They. Were. Right.

My boobies and me...

I have naturally large boobs (now there's an opening sentence for you!). They're bloody huge actually. I sometimes forget just how big they are and it still shocks me when I catch sight of them at a funny angle in the mirror, or see a photograph of myself where it looks as if my breasts are trying to escape from my body to take over the world. It is definitely one of the first things people notice about me however much they try to tell me 'Oh no, fair maiden, t'was your dazzling eyes that first mine eye did catch.' Right, yes, and the fact that your eyes didn't in fact make contact with mine is beside the point I imagine!? Shuffle along now. 


I look on with envy at all those women who seem to gloatingly float passed me (hiss to you all!) with no bra on in a floral number in the summer breeze. If I even attempt to do anything minus a bra (and a bravissimo bra at that, none of this La Senza crap - Sorry, La Senza, I want to love you but your bras are just not big enough. Fact) I end up having to hold my boobs with one hand (and arm) while the other hand takes on the roll of two. In short, they simply get in the way. Sexy it is not, no matter how hard I try to hold them in a dainty and delicate manner. Big breasts and delicacy do not go hand in hand. Literally. Saying all this, I wouldn't change my boobies for anything. Not love nor money. They are part of who I am and have been with me for so long now that I can't even begin to imagine myself without them. You'd notice my chubby belly a lot sooner for one thing and then I would have to start working out and that will never do. No, I have grown to love my assets for better, for worse and in spite of all those perverse looks I get because of them. And this brings me to the reason for this post in the first place; all those perverse comments that befall any girl with a larger than your average cup size. I'm not sure why they seem to come as a partnership but they do (Do you think God sits up there and says 'Right, so that's the pair of massive boobs with the inappropriate comments for....er...Josephine. Lunch now, yes.' ...hmmmm?). 


I have had large breasts for over 16 years now, they came to me at the age of 11 and they simply refused to stop growing. Ever! They did not get bigger or smaller depending on my weight, they simply got bigger. Full stop. The End. I still, on occasion, wake up and think 'Hang on a tick tock, were they really this big when I went to bed?' However, I do love them and have even come to love the comments they receive. Not because I adore the dirty glances they attract, the kind that linger that bit too long and cease the moment just before that first morsel of saliva escapes that dirty mouth, from men old enough to be my Grandfather (Dr Karl's Stepfather come on down). Nor do the "LOOOVE, Your Boobs Are Like Well Big!" turn me on. No, I love the comments because they make such magnificent stories for my friends (my flatmate has even discussed the remarks my boobs receive at the dinner table with his family - perplexed, so was I) and surely that is what this life is all about, amusing your friends by any means possible. My stories have kept my friends chuckling for years now. Well done, girls. 


However, I once overheard a girl on a train telling her friend of the utter devastation she felt after receiving a gem of a comment from some guy and how with every new comment/insult she received her confidence was steadily being demolished. It was heart breaking. I wanted to reach out to this girl, hug her and tell her that she would be OK, that the only reason people make such comments are because they either wish they had her wonderful boobs or they wish they could touch (lick/kiss/nibble/suck...yes men of the world, you are that transparent) them, but the girl in question couldn't have been more than 15 and I thought she may press charges if I tried to hug her. When you're 15 someone who is 26 is like, so totally ancient, riiiiight! Instead I have decided to share with you some of my favourite shitting-hell-you-have-large-boobs stories that the people of Britain (and beyond) have thrown mine way, so you that can laugh, gasp at the audacity of others and know that you are most definitely not alone. 


The first I will share with you happened about a month ago when The Blonde One and I were home and went for a meal on the sunny south coast. As I was reaching my final destination with The Blonde One strolling toward me, I walk passed what I thought was a harmless bunch of lads. One of these said lads eyed me up and down (mainly the girls, naturally), nodded furiously and then as casually as ordering a sneaky McDonalds informed me that 'Yeah, I'd do you'. I was so perplexed I apparently began to blink uncontrollably. In hindsight I should have called his bluff and said 'As luck would have it, I'd do you too. Let's drop these losers as I hear there's the most darling alley way at the top of this hill where we can hop on the good foot and do the bad thing'. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, don't you think? That same evening, when crossing a group of teenage party goers on the steps of an unnameable pub, a girl as bold as brass pointed to my chest with her thumb, turned around to face her friends and said 'Take A Look At Those'. Again, all I could do was blink in astonishment where I could have said 'Oh yes, please do take a look. It's my life's ambition to set the world record in 'strangers staring at my chest' you know. Perhaps you'd like a photo with them for the Grandkids?'. Honestly, had the girl never heard of subtlety? 


However, there have been those rare occasions when a witty and brilliant comeback has hit me at the perfect time and believe me, it felt good! A chap in a club once did a 'comedy' (minus the comedy element, alas) double take before telling me that 'I like big boobs but I wouldn't even know where to start with those', at which point I crooked my head, sighed and simply said 'Aww, and that doesn't surprise me you wee scamp! One day you'll figure it out. Have faith!' and strolled away with a smile that reached from here to the coast of overseas. I still remember his friends howls of laughter. Bazinga! And I was only 19. Gutsy! And of course there was the classic 'You don't see boobs that size everyday'. My reply being 'Well, I do. Obviously'. 


But before you think 'oh, you don't know what it's like to have truly horrid comments thrust upon you' let me tell you I do. I remember so clearly a time when some nasty waste of a human existence would not stop following me around a club, inappropriately touching me although I asked him several times to stop, before practically spitting in my face that 'You shouldn't have big tits if you aint going to be a slut, you fucking prick tease bitch!' and no, I wasn't the type of girl to wear ridiculously low tops that stopped just short of my nipples. It was a scary experience, it felt horrid, it truly upset me and it made me want to hide away. But then I thought how dare he, how dare one lousy excuse for a man stop me from stepping out of my house in anything other than a baggy hoody. Shame on you, you utter Twunt (I always thought he'd make a wonderful addition to The Jeremy Kyle Show). However, he has to live with himself where as I have never had to look at that face again. I believe that's what you call 'win win'. 


I could go on (and on, and on, AND on) but I think you get my point. This is just my way of telling all big breasted women out there that you are The Shit, I love you all and everyone wants a Bravissimo bra anyway, we're just the lucky few who actually get to wear them. For any young girl who is thinking that no man will ever look past your breasts and onto your personality, they will. It may take them a few minutes, but they will get there. And who cares if your breasts were the first thing that caught their eye, a nice pair of legs will do the same to a leg man and no one ever worriedly thought 'Oh, I think he just likes me for my legs'. You may in time even meet with a bum man that thinks you are The Shizzle and your marvellous boobs are just a delightfully squeezey bonus. It's a shame my bum man turned out to be slightly racist, he was doing so well before then...


Now I think I need to buy myself a new well fitting, beautifully laced bra to dance around my room in and I suggest you do the same. And never be ashamed of those wonderful boobs of yours again...