Whatever happened to that confident wee scruffbag...

My brother-in-law, Dr. Karl, although one of the campest men you'll ever meet (the man bought 'The Phantom of the Opera' with his first army wages), because of his time in the army is one of the most anally organised men in existence. When he's on form, it's almost scary.

Sister and I take great pleasure in finding something 'highly important' to complete at the exact moment we are due to leave the house. He nearly always implodes. Suddenly this camp giant turns into Sergeant Major and if you look hard enough you can just about make out the steam that is shooting from his ears as he paces back and forth.We are too cruel, I know, but if you saw the look on his wee face, you'd most certainly join us. We have decided it's good for him as he needs to relax on such matters now that my niece has been born. Ok, this is just what we say to others when they tell us we are being mean, but really, with a tiny baby, is he ever going to be on time again? I think not. See, we're doing him a favour really.  

However, I am digressing, as I often do. Dr. Karl's new project before the birth of his daughter was to organise my parents home one step at a time. For starters he has been transferring all our old videos onto DVD's. Well, whatever makes him happy and all that jazz. Every time I go home there is yet another home video to watch, and frankly, I'm loving it. I am about to sound incredibly egotistical here and honestly, I'm not sure I care. I was a damn cute child! There, I said it. And getting to see myself and Sister (not to mention Mum's wonderful eighties hair dos - a permed mullet, I kid you not -and outfits. What I adore the most is her excuse for such a choice of hairstyle "Well, Kevin Keegan had one!" There are no words) as wee ones is just a little bit too much fun. I know what you're thinking...someone has a high opinion of themselves! Believe me, I no longer think this way. Stepping back and taking a look at myself nowadays, I am not filled with even half the confidence I had then, but looking at my childhood self on our ginormous television (the chavy telly, as my mum likes to call it) all that confidence comes flooding back. I remember myself then and how I felt as if no time has past at all. So what happened to this almost overly confident child? Where on God's green earth did she fuck off to?

I was fearless as a tiny tot, utterly fearless, to the point where my mum wondered how on earth she was ever going to scare me away from all the dangers that I may come across. The first time I ever remember being remotely scared of anything whatsoever was watching Jurassic Park with Sister and my dad on our floral two seater sofa, and that was not until I was 9. For years afterwards I refused to sleep with my legs outside of the covers (because a duvet is really going to protect my from a dinosaur...and yes, I did realise that dinosaur's were extinct). However, before then I really struggle to think of one thing that frightened me. I asked my mum but she too struggled to come up with anything. She also struggles to remember first words come to think of it but then again she's not all that sentimental. Or at least, that's what she tells me (worrying!).

I looked at that little fearless thing on the screen in front of me and became fascinated and frustrated by her. How could that strong willed girl have let go of such a beautiful belief in herself? I can't help but wonder where she went and what it was that made her hide away? I would like to have even a snippet of her back again. She is so much cooler than I am now (cow!). I always assumed it was a gradual process that befalls every overly confident child at one point, but I can't help but think I have lost more than a normal amount of confidence.

In one of the said videos I can't get over how different I seem. I had always thought of myself as a major tomboy, and although I clearly was (refusing to wear a dress or a skirt, a hatred of all things barbie and pink related as well as a love of getting dirty kind of says it all), watching this video showed me a side to myself I never knew existed. I was as a child, and this surprises me more than anything else, almost elegant. How is this possible, I was a child for crying out loud. I can't tell you how I was almost elegant, but that's the only way to describe it. I seem so at home on the stage that it's hard to recognise my-now-self in that little girl. I'd hate to think what she'd say if she saw me/herself now. Sorry, little one.

As we went on watching these videos an old 'news' clip came on with me and my year three class digging for fossils on our local beach. Growing up on the coast this is pretty standard. However, watching this specific clip I suddenly had a slight insight into where and when that little girl began to hide. My year three teacher came up on the news clip and out of nowhere I was momentarily filled with so much anger I couldn't keep any of it in. All of sudden my family had to witness me spit out 'Get off my fucking television you vile piece of shit excuse for a person! Bitch!'. Let me assure you that I have never, ever been the type of person to use language in that manner. Ok, yes, my friends will tell you I swear like a trooper, and I do - I'm Catholic and Italian, it's just part of my DNA - but I almost never swear when I am truly angry. Mainly because I just don't seem to get all that angry very often but also because I am not a very confrontational person, so on the rare occasion that I do become angry it's usually kept well hidden. However, I spat this out with such venom that not only were my family taken aback but I was too. My hand went shooting across my mouth before anything else could come tumbling from my lips. All I could do was turn to my family and meekly apologise for my sudden rage, simply saying 'I don't where that came from. I didn't know I hated her that much! I am so sorry.' My darling mum, who never once at the time told me how much she too disliked my year three teacher simple said 'Oh, piss it Josephine. Don't worry about it, she was a silly bitch after all!' God love my mother.  

Let me explain a little, just one of my memories of this teacher was having her pick up a piece of my work, which I had been working on for the entire lesson, look at it, laugh, no, more like cackle, tear it up and throw it away before telling the whole class that that piece of work was not acceptable from anyone. Not in her class anyway (As I said, Bitch!). If I had been messing around during the lesson and torn my work or drawn all over it I would say fair enough to be honest, but the truth is that I was (and still am) severely dyslexic and was trying my very hardest. When I had to suffer this teacher my reading age barely reached four years. Even the most heartless of you will agree that perhaps she was a little on the harsh side!? I would call her a twunt at this point but she does not deserve to be called such a cool word. No, it was not only this teacher that turned me from the head strong girl I was into who I am today but I think she was most definitely the person that started it all off.

If any of you reading this ever feel as if some insufficient bully is shrinking your confidence and you are beginning to lose yourself, then I urge you to take a moment to think why it is exactly that you care what this vile person thinks of you. I bet you come up with nothing. If this is true, then please just take this time to yell 'FUCK YOU!' with all your might and think no more about that persons opinion. I cannot tell how disconcerting it is to look back at your past self with utter envy. Especially when that past self is six. I can tell you now that that bully isn't half the person you are.

I will probably never see that cretinous waste that was my year three teacher again, but I'd like to think that if I did, I would have the tiniest morsel of my childhood self still to say to her "Mrs T*******, Carlsburg don't make superfluous shits, but if they did...!!"

Even just writing that down for all to read I can suddenly feel that boldness come back. Just a little, anyway. And I feel so much better for it. And I believe I feel that confident grin coming back already. You know, it's at times like these when I resent the fact that The Nice One lives so far away; I would like to put my new bold self into ACTION!! Huzzah!  

When all hope is gone...

As if I couldn't become more of a geek than I already am, I must confess to being a huge Jane Austen lover. I, of course, don't see this as geeky in the slightest but my far cooler friends would probably disagree (Note to self; find new cool Jane-Austen-fan friends). I have read all the Austen novels on more than one occasion and I am in love with each and every one of them and very much idealise the many female characters of Austen's extraordinary novels, and no, I don't even care if this is a cliche. Oh, wait, though. All of them with the exception of Fanny Price. I'm sorry but her superior know-it-all nature and excellent decision making at all times has always grated on my scruffy-mistake-ridden self. One can not be that perfect all of the time. It's not possible. Pipe down, Fanny. Just pipe-the-fuck-down. 


It is thought that Austen herself thought, although she loved her heroine, Emma, it would be Emma that wouldn't translate or bring as much warmth as her other characters had done. I personally adore Emma, even if she is the equivalent modern day 'it' girl (Cher from Clueless, step forward), she makes mistakes (and pretty big ones at that) and does not take criticism well. A fairly human trait found in all of us, and one I can identify with. Fanny, on the other hand, sees Frank Crawford for what he is almost straightaway and never lets go of her love for her cousin, Edmund (I know it was acceptable back then but still, first cousins...eek! Someone is going to have six-toed children). I don't hate Fanny, far from it. Austen writes so poetically and comically that it is hard to hate any one of her creations, however, if I had to ignore just one of Austen's heroines, then Emma Woodhouse it would not be. Fanny on the other hand, I can take or leave. Even if it is just because she marries her cousin. Wrong.

However, I am digressing, as I so often do. As I have mentioned, I have not been all that well lately and so as I had already spent a day dedicated to 'The Slipper and The Rose', I needed to turn my attention this time to my favourite female author. Of course, I would usually read the books rather than watch an adaption, but being rather fatigued, a film had to make do. But what to choose? The 1995 version of Pride and Prejudice has little to halt it (pure telly perfection, Colin Firth aside) however, suffering with extreme fatigue a five hour period drama fest was not on the cards. Not this time anyway. I could go through the pros and cons of each of my favourite adaptation but I fear we would be here all day (yes, I could talk ALL day about them...am I sounding like that geek I mentioned at the beginning of the post yet?)


I settled on ITV's 2007 adaption of Persuasion, and what an inspired choice. Of all the lessons in love and life that Austen teaches us, the one that I identify with the most of any of the books has to be when Anne Elliot of Persuasion utters "all the privilege I claim for my own sex, and it is not a very enviable one - you need not covet it, is that of loving longest when all hope is gone." I cannot agree with this statement more. Of all my failings when it comes to the opposite sex, I feel The Blonde One and Dynasty find my utter inability to move on the most annoying. I have always been the same. And I think I always will be. I find it impossible to completely let go of someone when there is even the smallest morsel of...of...well, not quite hope...the smallest morsel of 'maybe'. Before you write me off as some clingy stalker, I should make it clear that I do not in any way make it obvious that I still feel this way (well, apart from this post here that anyone and everyone can read, naturally!). But in the back of my mind, behind those naughty memories, behind the food shopping list and that latest assignment that I just can't complete, there is that tiny voice that just doesn't let me forget how I feel about that certain someone. And the possibility of what could be if I just wait a little longer.

Surely I can't be the only one who silently holds hope that one day that idiot that you can't stop thinking about will one day turn around and say 'Shitting hell, you're perfect. Give me some sugar!' Ok, ok, if anyone and I mean anyone (even Nadal) came up to me and seriously asked me to 'give them some sugar!' I would have to get the divorce lawyers in faster than one of Nadal's serves, but you get my point. I am not so hopeless that I stay in night after night just waiting for The Nice One to text me. Good Lord, no. For even Anne Elliot gave thought to other men while Wentworth was off at sea making his fortune, no, she merely kept an eye on her true love from afar and never gave up hope that one day he would forgive her. And really, is there anything wrong with that? I think not. After all, she got her man in the end.


So as I sit here talking to The Country One, I can't help but compare every new man she suggests to The Nice One. I think she may strangle me. Perhaps I just won't tell her I am doing it anymore. Shhhh! I think I have fooled her. However, if you don't hear anything from me for a while, know that The Country One gave up all hope on me and threw me into The Thames. Either that or I have finally moved on and have run off with my very own Captain Wentworth. I'm guessing the former...

Come Si Chiama...

I am pleased to announce that I am finally an aunt. Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

It happened! Sister gave birth on Wednesday evening after one of the most traumatic births going. Four weeks worth of contractions (I kid you not), hours of pushing and several complications later, my little niece (little, ahem, 8 pounds 10...and Sister is only 5 ft) was finally born and Thank Fook, they are both doing well. And if I am perfectly honest, my niece is possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. What's more exciting; I am her Godmother too. I may implode. 

Sister, Dr. Karl (brother - in - law) and Mum went racing off to the hospital at 6am in the morning and I was left all day to sit and wait as my niece decided to fall asleep just before the last hurdle and so wasn't born until 9.25 in the evening. I have never been so restless in all my life. I had so much nervous energy throughout the day that I ended up teaching myself 'O Mio Babbino Caro' along with the translation. And this from someone who is dyslexic and tone-deaf. It was no easy task, but boy did it take my mind off things. Well, to be truthful with you, that's a lie on a massive scale, but it did make the time spent waiting feel like just half an eternity as opposed to a whole one. 

And with this Italian theme (seeing as the song is written in Italian) it seemed fitting that my niece be given the Italian name of 'Livia'. My Italian Nanny would have been so very proud. I even, and rather dorkily said to her 'Piacere di conoscerla, Livia!' (rough translation; pleased to meet you, Livia!) whilst giving her a wee hug. I wish I was kidding you here, but I am that much of a dork. What can I say, I am a rather proud Italian who wishes her Nanny had taught her the language from birth. Instead, I am teaching myself, and probably doing a bad job of it, especially when you consider that I just can't roll my R's unless situated behind a T or P. Those of you that can, consider yourselves very lucky. I am jealous beyond belief. As you can see, my Italian may take me until I'm 95 to become fluent, but by Jove I shall. However, as I now know all the words to 'O Mio Babbino Caro' and their meanings, I am well on my way. Huzzah, I tell you. 

So thank you little Livia, not only are you the cutest thing in the world bar absolutely nothing, I can now also sing along (if not very badly) to one of my all time favourite aria's ever written. It really was a win win day all around. 

Now forgive me, I must go and stalk my niece for a little while longer. Three days just hasn't been enough so far...

And my new obsession goes to...

My family have been laughing at me lately, well that's not true, they have been laughing at me my whole life but lately their laughs have been slightly harder. Have I become uncommonly witty? Alas, I have not. The only person who thinks I am some comedic Goddess is The Blonde One, hence the friendship. Well, that and her ability with a cocktail shaker (I jest, of course, I couldn't love the girl more if I tried. I have tried, I just look as if I am constipated). No, the reason for my families laughter (and when I say laughter I of course mean rolled eyes and smirks. Naturally) is because since they forced me to watch Britain's Got Talent on Saturday night I have been ever so slightly obsessed with 11 year old Jackie Evancho. Did you really think I was going to say any of the British lot? Give me a little originality please. Psst! 


No, it was the tiny American with the angelic voice that had me speechless. For those of you that know me, this is a rare treat. I don't know if you've noticed, but I like to talk. If you didn't see Jackie, then you simply  must (see I even put in a clever wee link for you there of her performance from Saturday). If you have not just been blown away after watching that then you are either deaf, idiotic, have recently had your ears removed, have no taste or stupidly clicked on the wrong link. Because otherwise you would have seen a tiny little blonde thing sing with all the grace, beauty and maturity of the likes of Maria Callas or Kiri Te Kanawa and she's only 11, for crying out loud. It's flipping ridonkulous. And so is she. 


When discussing this new talent with one of mother's friends she chirped up with the notion that Jackie was like a 'mini Katherine Jenkins'. I politely replied 'Oh, I think she has a little more talent than Katherine, personally.' rather than the 'You have to be fricking kidding me? Katherine sounds as if she suffers hearing loss and has no diction. This girl has more talent in her little finger. Be gone from my sight you utter buffoon.' which I had to say in the privacy of my own head instead. I don't actually mind Katherine Jenkins all that much, I just think she's a light classics singer (and that's all) and not of the talent of Callas, Te Kanawa whom I grew up listening to, thanks to my mother. Oh, and now this little American, of course. Give this girl until her twenties and I'm sure she'll be singing any Opera she likes in any Royal Opera House the world over. 


I really could listen to her all day...and thanks to YouTube, I have. Hurrah! This video of her rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro is my favourite so far (although, the ending sentence of 'an angel sang on earth' never fails to freak me out. I agree she's amazing, but there's no need to become mushy. In fact, there is never a need to become that mushy. Or Creepy! 


Right, I'm off to bug someone until they buy me one of her CD's...do you think it would be an acceptable graduation present!? 


(P.S. Here's the website if any of you have fallen in love her voice... http://www.jackieevancho.com/uk/home )

Running for Rob...

My darling friend Charlotte (whom I have mentioned in this blog a few times) ran the Bupa 10k last week and I have never been so proud. Not only because she finished the race nor because she was training during our finale stretch of university but also because she must have ran the whole race with a heavy sadness as she was running in memory for her dear friend Rob. These are her words:

On the 22nd March 2010, my friend Rob Allan passed away in his sleep aged just 22. This was a huge shock and desperately unfair to all who knew him. 

Rob died from an undiagnosed heart condition, something which affects 12 young people in the UK every week. Cardiac Risk in the Young are a local charity that do an astonishing amount across the country in both raising awareness and promoting testing to avoid similar tragedies. I have been lucky to work for them as a volunteer and can say first hand what a vital and deserving charity they are. I know they have been a great support to Rob's family.

I feel very lucky to have known Rob and I hope to honour him in some small way by running in his memory on 30th May.
Anything you can spare at all will be greatly appreciated. Whilst he would almost certainly be laughing at my efforts, Rob really does deserve it. 

Thank you 

Charlotte x

I think this is such a worth while cause, so if any of you have the smallest bit of change then you would make Charlotte's day (and mine, consequently) by donating even the smallest amount. Thank you!! 


Here is her donation site; http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=CharlottePayne


Josephine x

I miss you lots and lots and lots...

They saying crying can be good for the soul, boy do I hope they are right. Before I embarked upon university I worked at a boarding school for children with special needs and I bloody loved it. I cannot tell you how many wonderful people I met whilst working there but what I can say is that working there completely changed my life and everything that I thought I wanted to do with it. For the best. 

I remember one time when supporting the one that is jibbily (a made up word that should most definitely be in the Oxford English Dictionary...jibbily is a word that has several meanings from water over flowing, to a broken machine to a wobbly tummy) run a bath and him suddenly turning to me with a rather perplexed expression, pointing to my belly and asking 'maybe...baby?'. Although I may be no Elle MacPherson, I was certainly no man mountain either. I laughed though and replied that there was no baby. The Jibbily One still needed further reassurance here and had to double check that although I had no baby, my stomach was 'just fat?'. 'Yes, darling, just fat.' The matter was not settled there, however. No, no, The Jibbily One felt the need to tell my team leader that there was 'No, baby. Just fat' whilst pointing at my belly. He clearly thought others may have been pondering this matter also. You may be picturing a cute wee boy of around four or five when thinking of my reaction to these rather ego destroying comments; you'd be wrong. The boy is question was in fact fifteen when he made these comments. So why was I not more embarrassed by them? The Jibbily One (also inventor of the word jibbily...) is autistic and he was merely pointing out that at a size 12 and barely making five foot four I could have done with a little toning. Autistic children have a marvellous habit of telling you EXACTLY what they find and nothing else. There is no skirting around any subject and there are few social niceties. It is wonderfully refreshing and if you can't admit to having a bit of chub when a child so beautifully points it out to you then get the hell out of the building and apply for a job at a bank quick smart. It really is your loss, not theirs. 

There have been many children from this school that mean the world to me (which is why I still regularly head back to see them), but none more than My Little Dragon. I worked with him for many years in and outside of the school and spent more than one evening chatting away until the early hours of the morning with his darling mum. He was special to me for so many reasons. His northern twang which opposed the rest of his families public school accents; his fear of microwaves; his Italian temper; his warmth; his utter denial at biting his finger nails whilst biting them; his 'Ay - Up!' and the way he started the trend of 'JoJo'. It's easy to see that I adored him and I don't mind telling you that I was his favourite too. So there.       

You can imagine then my utter devastation when he unexpectedly passed away a year and a half ago. He died and he took a little piece of me with him. I don't think I'll ever truly get over the loss I felt when My Little Dragon was taken and this evening proved that to me once again. 

I was watching a programme that my family and I always watch, but this evenings episode had the death of an adult with special needs and watching the grieving characters say goodbye to their friend, sister, all I could think of was My Little Dragon. From a single tear that would always befall me during a sad part in any film, I suddenly found myself uncontrollably sobbing, struggling to tell my perplexed family why I suddenly couldn't breathe. Silently sobbing into my mum's jumper all I could picture was his small wicker coffin in the middle of the Oxford University Chapel where we all said goodbye to him. And all I could hear were his brothers words at the end of his most touching eulogy 'I miss you lots...and lots...and lots'. My Little Dragon didn't like anything unless he liked it lots, and lots, and lots. 

So as I sit here, eyes still numb and swollen from my sudden transportation to the worst day of my life, I will remember what The Nice One told me on the anniversary of My Little Dragon's death, that it is ok to feel sad when remembering the ones we have lost and I will feel sad for the rest of the evening, for tomorrow I will concentrate on becoming a special needs teacher and the person that My Little Dragon saw in me.

But I will always miss My Little Dragon lots, and lots, and lots...  

And I feel so broken...

I have recently been introduced to the artist Leddra Chapman and have become rather obsessed with her new song 'broken'. It's absolutely beautiful and its message is something I think everyone has felt at one point in their life. The song describes how broken you can feel after a partner decides they don't love you enough to spend their life with you. I simply adore it, especially the line 'See I was told time breaks the fall, I think time's forgotten me!' Goodness me, how I relate to that line. I was most definitely raping the repeat button listening to this YouTube clip during my final week of assignment. 

However, something happened last week which made me realise that it is not only boyfriends or girlfriends that can leave us feeling broken, but any loved one. Especially a friend. I have mentioned my male flatmate before, but have yet to mention that I actually have (had) a female flatmate too. During my first year of university I thought she was the sweetest thing. Just a darling person who I was lucky to have met. We would spend hours laughing over the most mundane things, eat absolute crap and dance the uni nights away after drinking some indescribable concoctions. Standard, really. 

Over the last year though, everything changed and she really has left me feeling utterly broken. And what did she do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But that is exactly the problem. When she told me that she would have difficulty paying rent, I persuaded our other flatmate to reduce hers, and yet when the same was asked of by our flatmate on my behalf (something he did without me realising) her response was 'I can't think of others when I have myself to consider'. That was more than a little gutting. There have been a hundred different things that have upset me since, but I'm not going to waste my time even thinking about them, let alone writing them down. 

Last week, though, that is what hurt. Recently she decided to move out earlier than planned (which really isn't a bad thing, as my male flatmate and I have another friend who is moving in for our last two months of residency and is more fun in one day than our previous flatmate has ever been in the (almost) two years I have lived with her.) However, it was when she actually packed up her bags and left without even a goodbye. That hurt. Our male flatmate, who she once upon a time thought of as rude, sarcastic and smug received a hand made card with 'oh so touching' words written inside and what did I receive, her 'best friend' from uni? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn't even receive a text informing me of the actual day she was moving out. First of all, I was slightly cheesed off (to say the least) but then I simply felt hurt. Although we have clearly drifted apart, I have always remained polite and even tried to remain interested in her general life (even after her response to my Grandfathers death - 'aw, that's sad :( '- followed by the continuation of her telling me about her dissertation. I kid you not) and yet, I received nothing. 


I don't think I have ever felt so hurt by a friend in my life. Not even when at the age of 16, my best friend (at the time) hooked up with my first love, my ex boyfriend (ex, of just a week) whom I loved and still very much loved at the time. My flatmate leaving without so much as a goodbye hurt more. Far more. I clearly meant nothing to her, and this from a girl I stuck up for and almost lost friends over. 


I have always been somewhat of a push over, but having this girl walk all over me and not even care enough to say Ciao! hurts more than any of those broken hearts. I was going to send her an email asking why she felt the need to ignore me so completely, but then I thought, why. Why the hell should I give her the satisfaction of knowing how much she hurt me, so instead I write this post to release my frustration and let the world (or the readers of this blog at least) know how much she hurt me and how very thoughtless I now think she is. I'm telling you, it feels so much better. 


So, for all of us that have been or felt broken by any loved one, friend or partner, I suggest we spend the length of Leddra's song feeling sad and then say a rather loud 'FUCK YOU' and never, not once, give that shitty person another thought...


...where was I? Oh, yes, raping the repeat button of Leddra's fabulous song. Back to it, I think.