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...
Tuesday 26 July 2011
Monday 25 July 2011
Not Tonight...Little Tomato
Ok, I am feeling increasingly bad for my ridiculously poor timing on starting a weekly feature and not being able to see it through until I return from my graduation holiday with my darling parents in mid August. Note to self; Work on timing. So, here, and this really is the last one, is another song that has been my motivational song for years now.
Whenever someone is feeling blue I send them these marvellous lyrics and just typing them out plants a smile between my chubby cheeks (my cheeks were so chubby as a child that my doctor - and Sister's Godmother - told my mother she couldn't be a hundred per cent sure whether I had Mumps or not as the usual test was to see if the child looked like a hamster, and apparently I always looked like a hamster. Why then in the knowledge that I constantly resembled a hamster did my mother feel it necessary to have my auburn locks styled into the classic bowl cut? A wonky bowl cut at that. Did she want to draw attention to the chubbiness of my cheeks!? This is surely child cruelty!) where it remains for the whole day.
My mother's brother and wife introduced me to the Pink Martinis years ago and I have been obsessed with them ever since. I love how through one album you can be transported from a Parisian cafe to the hill tops of Spain and then over to Brazil. It's like a world cruise in the comfort of your living room. Bazinga!
The Pink Martinis hail from America - Portland, Oregon to be precise - but have ancestry from all over the world and are very much inspired by this. Their songs are sung in English, French, Spanish, Japanese and even Arabic. Some songs have words and some don't. Most of the songs (or the first three albums that I own) I love with the exception of only a small handful.
The song for this post is, as I said, one that really motivates me whatever my heart aches. Loss, love, work or just the sadness that has made up the news of late I find myself turning to this song at some point. When my Nanny, my Grandpa, my Little Dragon passed away I turned to this song. When my university refused, point blank, to let my teaching practice take place in a special needs school; when my female flatmate slapped our friendship in my face; when any boy took the piss, this song was there. My close friends will know it as it is my classic go-to song whenever grey skies threaten to ruin my day. I text the lyrics to Dynasty only yesterday. So here is one of my favourite all time songs to help motivate you if you ever feel blue...
P.S. The introduction is over a minute long, but please wait around for the words because China Forbes' mellow and relaxing voice is worth it. As ever, just click the title...
Pink Matinis 'Hang On Little Tomato'
I am not going to lie, I just had a sneaky listen and sang that out for all to hear. Literally. My bay window is open and I live on the ground floor. Thank goodness I am moving out tomorrow then. Right, I am off to pack for my holiday but promise to return with photos of Europe at its best, songs enough to fill this blog for the next year and a tan to justify my Grandmothers description of me as a 'You know, White person with a tan'. It's pronouced Italian Grandma, but thanks.
Whenever someone is feeling blue I send them these marvellous lyrics and just typing them out plants a smile between my chubby cheeks (my cheeks were so chubby as a child that my doctor - and Sister's Godmother - told my mother she couldn't be a hundred per cent sure whether I had Mumps or not as the usual test was to see if the child looked like a hamster, and apparently I always looked like a hamster. Why then in the knowledge that I constantly resembled a hamster did my mother feel it necessary to have my auburn locks styled into the classic bowl cut? A wonky bowl cut at that. Did she want to draw attention to the chubbiness of my cheeks!? This is surely child cruelty!) where it remains for the whole day.
My mother's brother and wife introduced me to the Pink Martinis years ago and I have been obsessed with them ever since. I love how through one album you can be transported from a Parisian cafe to the hill tops of Spain and then over to Brazil. It's like a world cruise in the comfort of your living room. Bazinga!
The Pink Martinis hail from America - Portland, Oregon to be precise - but have ancestry from all over the world and are very much inspired by this. Their songs are sung in English, French, Spanish, Japanese and even Arabic. Some songs have words and some don't. Most of the songs (or the first three albums that I own) I love with the exception of only a small handful.
The song for this post is, as I said, one that really motivates me whatever my heart aches. Loss, love, work or just the sadness that has made up the news of late I find myself turning to this song at some point. When my Nanny, my Grandpa, my Little Dragon passed away I turned to this song. When my university refused, point blank, to let my teaching practice take place in a special needs school; when my female flatmate slapped our friendship in my face; when any boy took the piss, this song was there. My close friends will know it as it is my classic go-to song whenever grey skies threaten to ruin my day. I text the lyrics to Dynasty only yesterday. So here is one of my favourite all time songs to help motivate you if you ever feel blue...
P.S. The introduction is over a minute long, but please wait around for the words because China Forbes' mellow and relaxing voice is worth it. As ever, just click the title...
Pink Matinis 'Hang On Little Tomato'
The sun has left and forgotten me, it's dark I cannot see,(Please note that I don't own this song or its lyrics. All rights go to Pink Martinis...)
Why does this rain pour down I'm gonna drown in a sea of deep confusion,
Somebody told me I don't know who,
whenever you are sad and blue,
and you're feeling all alone and left behind,
just take a look inside you and you'll find,
You gotta hold on, hold on through the night,
Hang on, things will be all right,
even when it's dark and not a bit of sparkly
sing song sunshine from above spreading rays of sunny love,
Just hang on, hang on to the vine,
Stay on, soon you'll be divine,
If you start to cry, look up to the sky,
Somethings coming up ahead to turn your tears to dew instead,
And so I hold on to this advice,
when change it hard and not so nice,
if you listen to your heart the whole night through,
your sunny someday will come one day soon to you!
I am not going to lie, I just had a sneaky listen and sang that out for all to hear. Literally. My bay window is open and I live on the ground floor. Thank goodness I am moving out tomorrow then. Right, I am off to pack for my holiday but promise to return with photos of Europe at its best, songs enough to fill this blog for the next year and a tan to justify my Grandmothers description of me as a 'You know, White person with a tan'. It's pronouced Italian Grandma, but thanks.
Not Tonight...you, Wild Horses
I have just had a thought; as I am off on holiday in a few days time I will probably not be able to post a motivational song for next week. This does not bode well seeing as I have only just begun this wee song post marlakey. They do say timing is everything. So, I have decided to post another (yes, another...it's just all too exciting!) song this week and hopefully you won't begrudge me taking a holiday.
The next song I have chosen is completely different from my song for Dynasty. There is not a massive story with this song, I just really like it. I have been raping the repeat button on it for well over two months now and I am not bored of it in the slightest. In fact, I think it gets more beautiful which each listen. It most definitely helped me from killing my flatmates during my final assignments at university as well as distracting me when waiting for my wee niece to be born. I remember listening to the original Rolling Stone's version as a child but Charlotte Martin's cover is so beautifully haunting that every time I hear it I imagine I am sitting on my sofa on a winter's night with a handsome (by handsome I, of course, mean a 6ft, chubby-ish, built like a rugby player type with a very geeky glint in his eye. Standard) chap who only has to look at me to send shivers running up and down my spine as fast as a particularly speedy rocket. I find it that haunting. And don't look so perplexed, I can have a romantic thought from time to time you know. It's only a small commitment issue I have, don't blow it out of the water. Sheesh!
So here, one week ahead of schedule is my chosen song;
Charlotte Martin's cover of Wild Horses ...lyrics and all (simply press the title...)
I always, always thought when I was a kid listening to The Rolling Stones that the lyric read 'no sweeping exes, on or off stage lines'. It has proved very difficult to sing the correct words now. If you see a chubby brunette singing about 'sweeping exes' please don't laugh (perhaps ask me to stop, but don't laugh), I have sung the wrong lyrics for too long to start changing them now. Join in with me instead, I do like a song and dance number after all.
(Please note that I don't own this song ot its lyrics...)
The next song I have chosen is completely different from my song for Dynasty. There is not a massive story with this song, I just really like it. I have been raping the repeat button on it for well over two months now and I am not bored of it in the slightest. In fact, I think it gets more beautiful which each listen. It most definitely helped me from killing my flatmates during my final assignments at university as well as distracting me when waiting for my wee niece to be born. I remember listening to the original Rolling Stone's version as a child but Charlotte Martin's cover is so beautifully haunting that every time I hear it I imagine I am sitting on my sofa on a winter's night with a handsome (by handsome I, of course, mean a 6ft, chubby-ish, built like a rugby player type with a very geeky glint in his eye. Standard) chap who only has to look at me to send shivers running up and down my spine as fast as a particularly speedy rocket. I find it that haunting. And don't look so perplexed, I can have a romantic thought from time to time you know. It's only a small commitment issue I have, don't blow it out of the water. Sheesh!
So here, one week ahead of schedule is my chosen song;
Charlotte Martin's cover of Wild Horses ...lyrics and all (simply press the title...)
Childhood living is easy to do
Things that you wanted, well I bought them for you
Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can't let you slide through my hands
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
I watched you suffer a dull aching pain
Now you decided to show me the same
No sweeping exits or offstage lines
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind
And wld horses couldn't drag me away
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
And I have my freedom but I don't have much time
Faith has been broken, and tears must be cried
So let's do some living, after we'll die
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
And wild horses couldn't drag day
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
And wild horses couldn't drag me away
No, couldn't drag me away
I always, always thought when I was a kid listening to The Rolling Stones that the lyric read 'no sweeping exes, on or off stage lines'. It has proved very difficult to sing the correct words now. If you see a chubby brunette singing about 'sweeping exes' please don't laugh (perhaps ask me to stop, but don't laugh), I have sung the wrong lyrics for too long to start changing them now. Join in with me instead, I do like a song and dance number after all.
(Please note that I don't own this song ot its lyrics...)
Not Tonight...Dynasty
I don't know about you but Monday mornings are something that do not put a smile on my face. Far from it. My weekends are always filled with too many wonderful things that by the time Sunday evening rolls around I get that all too familiar Sunday evening knot in the pit of my stomach. I have always been the same (which is a phrase I seem to be using a lot in this blog. Perhaps I have not changed one iota since I was 10? That is a rather worrying thought), I remember when I was in year 6 and was so thoroughly engrossed in 'Pride and Prejudice' that when each of Sunday's episodes was over a double blow to the stomach would take place; a whole week until the next installment of Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley (I had such a crush on Crispin Bonham-Carter back in the day. Wait, I still do *sighs*) and all the Miss Bennett's AND school in the morning. To top it all, not one person at my school seemed to be watching this amazing adaptation, so I couldn't even converse about how dishy Mr Bingley was and how wicked Mr Wickham had turned out to be (who, as it happens, lives not too far from my humble abode and always smiles at me whenever I walk passed him. It's a day maker, every time. Mr Wickham - ok, ok, Adrian Lukis - has become rather dashing with age). Come to think of it, there was one other at school who was glued to the goings on at Longbourn but that happened to be the other year 6 class teacher and I was hardly going to rock up to her and say 'Hey, Mrs. B. Soooo, what did you think of Colin Firth diving into the lake? Hot stuff or what!?' I feel boundaries would have been crossed there. Inappropriate boundaries. Although I do remember her asking if I was excited for the final episode and almost deafening the poor woman with my 'OH MY GOD!! TOTALLY!! YES!!' response. What can I say, when I like something, I get excited about it.
Anyway, I seem to be going off on a tangent which my English lecturer warns me that "I must try my very best not to". My reason for this post is that I'm thinking of trying something new. Well, not new exactly, adapted slightly would be better. During my final teaching practice I tried to email The Darling One, The Blonde One's Twin (not The Blonde One's actual twin, one of her is quite enough, but a friend who has taken on this persona and I simply can't remember why) and The Feline One a song everyday if I could to motivate us all through the hardship of our teaching practice. It's not that we didn't love our placements, but they are bloody hard work. You are on show At. All. Times, and if something goes awry it seems like the whole world may crash and burn at your feet. When you get into your stride, however, and you're teaching on your own there is nothing better. That's definitely a new teacher talking, isn't it. Get back to me in 20 years and I'll probably be rocking in a corner muttering 'Don't make me teach'. I paint a picture, don't I!?
So here is my idea; because I loved these wee motivational songs such a huge amount and because I find Monday mornings can be so distressing I have decided to post a wee song on my blog once a week to help motivate us all. It could be any song from the latest song I am raping the repeat button on to a beautiful piece of classical music that will keep me calm during the week ahead. There will always be a little story to tell you lucky lot why I have chosen that particular song and I will try, as much as humanly possible, to write out the lyrics. I don't know about you but I LOVE to sing along with all songs. Even songs I'm not a fan of. That's just how I roll.
Songs have always had a way of changing my mood and evoke feelings of pure elation through memory, atmosphere or just because they are damn catchy, so I'm hoping you feel the same.
Today's pick is going to be dedicated to Dynasty. Not only is she the bees bloody knees but she has also had some crappy news this week and if my little song can lift her spirits then so help me Zeus I will do it. It is so hard to choose though, from dirty hip hop tunes (Dynasty has a penchant for them I'm afraid, but some of the lyrics are just too naughty for this blog. And this from the girl that uses the C word) to cheesy musical extravaganzas, I have so many songs that I associate with this girl.
In the end, I plucked this song from a list of her favourites. I don't know it all that well, but here for Dynasty is a song I hope will lift her spirits for the rest of the week;
Nobody move, nobody get hurt
(please note that I do not own these lyrics, they belong to We Are Scientists...)
All you have to do is press the title of the song (it's in orange) and hey presto! you will be listening to this ditty through the magic of YouTube. So, let's all just say a quick 'Fuck you, Monday' and have a dance...I dare you!
Anyway, I seem to be going off on a tangent which my English lecturer warns me that "I must try my very best not to". My reason for this post is that I'm thinking of trying something new. Well, not new exactly, adapted slightly would be better. During my final teaching practice I tried to email The Darling One, The Blonde One's Twin (not The Blonde One's actual twin, one of her is quite enough, but a friend who has taken on this persona and I simply can't remember why) and The Feline One a song everyday if I could to motivate us all through the hardship of our teaching practice. It's not that we didn't love our placements, but they are bloody hard work. You are on show At. All. Times, and if something goes awry it seems like the whole world may crash and burn at your feet. When you get into your stride, however, and you're teaching on your own there is nothing better. That's definitely a new teacher talking, isn't it. Get back to me in 20 years and I'll probably be rocking in a corner muttering 'Don't make me teach'. I paint a picture, don't I!?
So here is my idea; because I loved these wee motivational songs such a huge amount and because I find Monday mornings can be so distressing I have decided to post a wee song on my blog once a week to help motivate us all. It could be any song from the latest song I am raping the repeat button on to a beautiful piece of classical music that will keep me calm during the week ahead. There will always be a little story to tell you lucky lot why I have chosen that particular song and I will try, as much as humanly possible, to write out the lyrics. I don't know about you but I LOVE to sing along with all songs. Even songs I'm not a fan of. That's just how I roll.
Songs have always had a way of changing my mood and evoke feelings of pure elation through memory, atmosphere or just because they are damn catchy, so I'm hoping you feel the same.
Today's pick is going to be dedicated to Dynasty. Not only is she the bees bloody knees but she has also had some crappy news this week and if my little song can lift her spirits then so help me Zeus I will do it. It is so hard to choose though, from dirty hip hop tunes (Dynasty has a penchant for them I'm afraid, but some of the lyrics are just too naughty for this blog. And this from the girl that uses the C word) to cheesy musical extravaganzas, I have so many songs that I associate with this girl.
In the end, I plucked this song from a list of her favourites. I don't know it all that well, but here for Dynasty is a song I hope will lift her spirits for the rest of the week;
Nobody move, nobody get hurt
(please note that I do not own these lyrics, they belong to We Are Scientists...)
The day, you move, I'm probably gonna explode
It's true, I'm probably gonna explo-oh-oh-oh-oooh
Woah-oh-oh-oh-ooh
You'll pray, for proof, I'm probably makin' this up
It's true, I'm probably makin' this u-uh-uh-uh-ooh
Woah-oh-oh-oh-ooh
Because...
My body is your body
I won't tell anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
My body is your body
I won't tell anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
Go for it, yeah
If no-one moves, then nobody's gonna get hurt
Don't move, 'cause nobody wants to get hu-uh-uh-uh-ooh
Woah-oh-oh-oh-ooh
We'll pray, for proof, I'm probably makin' this up
It's true, I'm probably makin' this u-uh-uh-uh-ooh
Woah-oh-oh-oh-ooh
Because...
My body is your body
I won't tell anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
My body is your body
I won't tell anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
Go for it, yeah
Because...
My body is your body
I won't tell anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
My body is your body
I'm not just anybody
If you wanna use my body
Go for it, yeah
Go for it, yeah
All you have to do is press the title of the song (it's in orange) and hey presto! you will be listening to this ditty through the magic of YouTube. So, let's all just say a quick 'Fuck you, Monday' and have a dance...I dare you!
Sunday 24 July 2011
If you're going to mess up, do it royally...
I don't know about you but if I do something I put my whole self into it, none of this half hearted crap. This is the same with everything in my life, even fucking up. When I do it I do properly. So recently when I fucked up, I fucked up royally. Naturally it sucks, it sucks giant donkey testicles. Why must I listen to others and aggravate a situation? This would not have happened to my six year self I am telling you. She would have put her foot down and said 'no, no, I do actually know what I'm doing, hush your noise now other people'. However, me, today at the supposedly wiser 26 years needs all the help she can get. Or at least sometimes I do. Other times I look back on a situation and think, hang on a tick tock, I did know what I was doing and if I had simply listened to myself and not others I'd be flying right now. Damn! But this 'knowing-what-I'm-doing' malarkey is such a rarity when it comes to love that I tend to shy away from my own opinions and religiously rely on the advice of others. Recently though it has resulted in that royal fucking up I was telling you about. Did I mention it sucked!? Giant donkey testicles!? Oh, I did.
I am forever missing the opposite sexes 'signs' when it comes to relationships, misreading them or my personal favourite, realising exactly what the sign meant a year too late. I remember a time when conversing with the first boy I ever loved about four months after our break up at the tender age of 17 and missing a fairly big sign. A massive sign in fact. The sign in question was flashing in neon colours and was less of a sign and more of a 'I still fucking like you' but I still missed it. Let me elaborate; my ex and I were having one of our usual hour long phone conversations of which I was apparently on top form, 'Jo, you make me laugh. You just always make me smile. All the time!' was uttered. What a prat for missing that sign, I hear you say! We had dated after all. It gets worse. Oh, does it get worse. Yep, I missed that sign and just thought he was being nice, he was a nice guy after all, but there is more. Later on the conversation moved onto 'if we liked anyone' (we were only 17 after all) and my first love said 'Oh, there's just one girl I like, I guess. She just always makes me smile. All the time!'...yes, I missed that one too. As I was sitting on my lilac bedspread (I confess, I owned a lilac bedspread. I can hear Dynasty and The Blonde One mocking me now) on the phone to my lovely ex, the boy I still loved, I remember thinking 'I wish I was that girl'. It was only after a few months when recalling the phone call to The Blonde One that I suddenly realised he was talking about me. Or perhaps The Blonde One had to point it out to me, I forget now. What a clueless idiot I was. How The Blonde One remaind my friend after that I will never know. She clearly thought I would need all the help my chubby little hands could get. I still do. In fact, I think I'm getting worse.
Although I can now tell when a guy likes me (yes, I have completed the first course of 'dating for moron's' as you can see. Excellent), I still find it hard to know when 'like' turns into 'relationship'. I'm telling you I've not a flipping clue. Not one. I'm thinking of hiring a PA to 'read between the lines' of those naughty text messages or someone's 'hidden meaning'. I hate hidden meanings. It was so much simpler in year 6 when two boys would present themselves to you after break and say 'we both like you, so who is going to be your boyfriend?' At the time I thought this was the hardest decision I had ever made. I took a whole day to decide, practically a lifetime when you're 11. I must say though, the one I chose did end up being my boyfriend for a Whole Month. That's marriage in year 6 terms, right!?
So as I sit here in my wee flat I can't help but think that I need a new plan. I don't think they'll let me complete the next level of 'dating for moron's' once they've read this so...I'm all ears. It's either that or my dying-alone-with-no-one-noticing-until-I-am-half-eaten-by-rabbits-and-can-only-be-identyfied-by-my-dental-records (I don't even own a rabbit) fantasy is going to start rearing its ugly head again.
I am forever missing the opposite sexes 'signs' when it comes to relationships, misreading them or my personal favourite, realising exactly what the sign meant a year too late. I remember a time when conversing with the first boy I ever loved about four months after our break up at the tender age of 17 and missing a fairly big sign. A massive sign in fact. The sign in question was flashing in neon colours and was less of a sign and more of a 'I still fucking like you' but I still missed it. Let me elaborate; my ex and I were having one of our usual hour long phone conversations of which I was apparently on top form, 'Jo, you make me laugh. You just always make me smile. All the time!' was uttered. What a prat for missing that sign, I hear you say! We had dated after all. It gets worse. Oh, does it get worse. Yep, I missed that sign and just thought he was being nice, he was a nice guy after all, but there is more. Later on the conversation moved onto 'if we liked anyone' (we were only 17 after all) and my first love said 'Oh, there's just one girl I like, I guess. She just always makes me smile. All the time!'...yes, I missed that one too. As I was sitting on my lilac bedspread (I confess, I owned a lilac bedspread. I can hear Dynasty and The Blonde One mocking me now) on the phone to my lovely ex, the boy I still loved, I remember thinking 'I wish I was that girl'. It was only after a few months when recalling the phone call to The Blonde One that I suddenly realised he was talking about me. Or perhaps The Blonde One had to point it out to me, I forget now. What a clueless idiot I was. How The Blonde One remaind my friend after that I will never know. She clearly thought I would need all the help my chubby little hands could get. I still do. In fact, I think I'm getting worse.
Although I can now tell when a guy likes me (yes, I have completed the first course of 'dating for moron's' as you can see. Excellent), I still find it hard to know when 'like' turns into 'relationship'. I'm telling you I've not a flipping clue. Not one. I'm thinking of hiring a PA to 'read between the lines' of those naughty text messages or someone's 'hidden meaning'. I hate hidden meanings. It was so much simpler in year 6 when two boys would present themselves to you after break and say 'we both like you, so who is going to be your boyfriend?' At the time I thought this was the hardest decision I had ever made. I took a whole day to decide, practically a lifetime when you're 11. I must say though, the one I chose did end up being my boyfriend for a Whole Month. That's marriage in year 6 terms, right!?
So as I sit here in my wee flat I can't help but think that I need a new plan. I don't think they'll let me complete the next level of 'dating for moron's' once they've read this so...I'm all ears. It's either that or my dying-alone-with-no-one-noticing-until-I-am-half-eaten-by-rabbits-and-can-only-be-identyfied-by-my-dental-records (I don't even own a rabbit) fantasy is going to start rearing its ugly head again.
Nerves, do your worst...!
Confrontation is not my strong suit and why should it be? I don't like creating tension for tensions sake and I find it all highly unnecessary. Is it really a big deal if your opinion differs slightly from your friends? No, no it isn't. Is it so wrong to like the world when everyone just gets along!? Dynasty and I disagree on so many aspects of life, the most important obviously being that she does not love Harry Potter. Not even the books. I mean come on!! In all honesty we don't have the same opinions on many more pressing subjects than Harry Potter (although, clearly that's up there) but we respect each others opinions and we move on. Of all the heated debates Dynasty and I have had we have never, not once in our 7 year (or is it 8 now!? Exciting!) friendship fought or had anything remotely resembling an argument.
All this being said, as I sit on this rather vile Southern Rail train (whenever I travel anyway else in the country, coming back to Southern Rail is always a huge disappointment) back to my flat south of the Thames I am feeling feisty. Beyond feisty. I'm so full of nerves about the day ahead that I may, at any moment, break into a full song and dance act (I'm favouring a Liza Minnelli number at the moment...a bit of cabaret with your Sunday travel. No?). I'm hoping it'll be just enough to rid me of all this nervous energy. This day shouldn't leave me feeling nervous, far from it. It should be so mundane that it barely even registers in my mind, and yet here I am with a stomach full of butterflies that just won't sit still. I'll put you out your misery here and tell you that my day is going to be spent cleaning my flat so that we can get our deposit back. That's all. So why all the fuss? Because this means I have to spend the day with my female flatmate. And there is no doubt in my mind that with my female flatmate will be the ever judging parental units and possibly a sister or two.
I was once very close to this girl but as time has moved on she has pushed herself further and further away. And I can honestly say I have no idea why. She has done this to nearly everyone I know so I am trying not to take it personally but when someone is a friend that task proves rather difficult. She was always so petrified that she would be walked all over that she has ended up royally screwing me over instead. It hurts. A lot. Perhaps she is not quite so naive as I once thought. Perhaps I am the naive one. Either way, the rude text message I received yesterday prompting me to help clean the flat was all it took to create these nerves. Especially the added 'if you can't make it, I'll make sure I leave some cleaning for you' was just special. What a gem to the human race she is. She has barely shown her face in the flat since December and has not spoken to me since I wished her a happy birthday in March, and what's worse is that she plays the victim so well that I'm sure half of Essex is cursing mine and my male flatmates very name. So the thought of spending the whole day with her and those parents in tow is more than I can bare without a few nerves. I'm betting only a samurai sword is going to cut this tension. And I simply despise tension.
I have decided to take a bet with myself on what disapproving thing I have done this time; the fact that you can see my cleavage perhaps (this is unfair, of course. My breasts are naturally large and I even have cleavage in a polo neck. They're cheating if they take that one); perhaps I will be too tanned; the fact that I am going abroad on holiday instead of camping; the fact that I am middle class (why someone still thinks about the unimportance of class is beyond me); if I say one word against our university, but I think the one I am going to go for is if I dare to use sarcasm. This is as frowned upon as murder itself it would seem. So forgive me if this once I end up being something other than politeness itself. My mother who drummed these manners into me said that today, if I am crossed she thinks a sarcastic comment may be acceptable. And if she said so it must be ok. Although, I think sickeningly polite manners may go along way also...
...however, if you do see a large breasted, short brunette in tanned shorts and white shirt running around south of the river Thames with a crazed look on her face, please come and rescue me. I always reward kindness with Nutella!
All this being said, as I sit on this rather vile Southern Rail train (whenever I travel anyway else in the country, coming back to Southern Rail is always a huge disappointment) back to my flat south of the Thames I am feeling feisty. Beyond feisty. I'm so full of nerves about the day ahead that I may, at any moment, break into a full song and dance act (I'm favouring a Liza Minnelli number at the moment...a bit of cabaret with your Sunday travel. No?). I'm hoping it'll be just enough to rid me of all this nervous energy. This day shouldn't leave me feeling nervous, far from it. It should be so mundane that it barely even registers in my mind, and yet here I am with a stomach full of butterflies that just won't sit still. I'll put you out your misery here and tell you that my day is going to be spent cleaning my flat so that we can get our deposit back. That's all. So why all the fuss? Because this means I have to spend the day with my female flatmate. And there is no doubt in my mind that with my female flatmate will be the ever judging parental units and possibly a sister or two.
I was once very close to this girl but as time has moved on she has pushed herself further and further away. And I can honestly say I have no idea why. She has done this to nearly everyone I know so I am trying not to take it personally but when someone is a friend that task proves rather difficult. She was always so petrified that she would be walked all over that she has ended up royally screwing me over instead. It hurts. A lot. Perhaps she is not quite so naive as I once thought. Perhaps I am the naive one. Either way, the rude text message I received yesterday prompting me to help clean the flat was all it took to create these nerves. Especially the added 'if you can't make it, I'll make sure I leave some cleaning for you' was just special. What a gem to the human race she is. She has barely shown her face in the flat since December and has not spoken to me since I wished her a happy birthday in March, and what's worse is that she plays the victim so well that I'm sure half of Essex is cursing mine and my male flatmates very name. So the thought of spending the whole day with her and those parents in tow is more than I can bare without a few nerves. I'm betting only a samurai sword is going to cut this tension. And I simply despise tension.
I have decided to take a bet with myself on what disapproving thing I have done this time; the fact that you can see my cleavage perhaps (this is unfair, of course. My breasts are naturally large and I even have cleavage in a polo neck. They're cheating if they take that one); perhaps I will be too tanned; the fact that I am going abroad on holiday instead of camping; the fact that I am middle class (why someone still thinks about the unimportance of class is beyond me); if I say one word against our university, but I think the one I am going to go for is if I dare to use sarcasm. This is as frowned upon as murder itself it would seem. So forgive me if this once I end up being something other than politeness itself. My mother who drummed these manners into me said that today, if I am crossed she thinks a sarcastic comment may be acceptable. And if she said so it must be ok. Although, I think sickeningly polite manners may go along way also...
...however, if you do see a large breasted, short brunette in tanned shorts and white shirt running around south of the river Thames with a crazed look on her face, please come and rescue me. I always reward kindness with Nutella!
Friday 22 July 2011
Most odd...
I notice that in my previous post 'The llama's pyjama's...' the writing is bunched up together like a pair of star crossed lovers. I have no idea how this happened, it did not appear like this on the 'preview' and I have no clue how to change it. Not even half a clue. My knowledge on ICT (will always be IT in my heart. The 'C' is just not needed! There, I said it) is slim to none and so I'm afraid you will just have to don your best reading glasses and power through it.
I would like to promise that this will never happen again, but my mother taught me never to lie. Instead, I shall leave you with joke to keep you bloody lovely lot sweet so you won't get cross with me... (this joke was found on the wonderful world of twitter on the 20th July as part of the Phone Hacking scandal surrounding News International...) *clears throat* Ahem...
...Why did David Cameron cross the road?
He has no idea, it was not his fault and he's just as appalled as the rest of us!
I hope you enjoyed.
Josephine x
I would like to promise that this will never happen again, but my mother taught me never to lie. Instead, I shall leave you with joke to keep you bloody lovely lot sweet so you won't get cross with me... (this joke was found on the wonderful world of twitter on the 20th July as part of the Phone Hacking scandal surrounding News International...) *clears throat* Ahem...
...Why did David Cameron cross the road?
He has no idea, it was not his fault and he's just as appalled as the rest of us!
I hope you enjoyed.
Josephine x
The Llama's Pyjamas...
It's so silly how the simplest of things can affect you in such a positive way but it is delightful the way our mind works. Grand gestures are often lost on me. Someone once bought me a star for my birthday and although it was probably the sweetest gift I ever received hearing that it was 'the most generous gift I have ever heard of' and 'My God, what a thoughtful idea!' by the said friends father (and said friend come to think it) again, and again, and AGAIN just deemed the beautiful gesture too much. Little tokens with no fuss or mess is what I like.
I spent the weekend with The Blonde One and it was pure bliss. Even with her mocking of my tears during Harry Potter (it's frigging sad, ok!). At least I wasn't scared. Ha! Being joined on the Sunday by Dynasty was the Nutella icing on the chocolate-weekend cake. I don't know what it is about our mocking based conversations that leaves me so elated but those two little gems really are the cream of British friendship. And before you imagine us as the three bitchy Macbeth witches, we mock each other only not others. This mocking tickles me such a lot that during our Sunday lunch my nostrils were fizzing with Diet Coke (asked for a full fat coke but there you have it) and frozen yoghurt. I can only liken the feeling to when I spent too much time as a child diving in and out of the swimming pool on holiday. A truly bizarre feeling during lunch though that's for sure. From The Blonde One pointing out that 'these jeans would be nice if they weren't horrid' to my 'it's all wet now that's it raining. It was nice and dry before it rained' there was barely a moment that didn't involve one of us crying with laughter...maybe you had to be there. What can I say, we like to state the obvious but these statements need to be mocked before they slip into our everyday conversation. It's the way it's always been and long may it continue.
Before this lunch of laughter even took place though my day had been made when The Blonde One sneakily bought herself, me and Dynasty 'modern day adult friendship' bracelets. They are, quite simply, the llama's pyjamas. She bought two sets of three coloured string bracelets with attached charms and we separated them like so; The Blonde One's charms are a bird and a star; Dynasty's charms are a bird and a heart and mine are a heart and a star. See what we did there!? Our bracelets are from Topshop but I'm positive you could find a suitable similar from just about any shop if you were ever thinking of being THIS cool.
Although I really want to confess to you all that I feel juvenile for wearing my bracelets, I can't. They are the sort of bracelet I would wear anyway and I love that the girls have matching ones. They make me smile whenever I look down at my wrist and they remind me that with friends like mine everyone else shove their heads down a toilet. And flush.
... I may even colour co-ordinate my wedding to match the blue and brown string. Or is that too far!?
Tuesday 19 July 2011
Dyslexia and me...
As I have mentioned many times, I am dyslexic. Severely dyslexic in fact. Can I be honest with you, it fucking sucks. I am perfectly aware that of all the difficulties in life that I could have dyslexia is probably a fairly good one to be lumbered with (I'm very thankful that I'm only dyslexic), but please make no mistake, it fucking sucks.
I fully accept that not many will understand the magnitude of dyslexia and just how much it affects a person's every day life, but what has surprised me somewhat over the past few years is just how little the fellow teachers I have worked with know on the subject. I know that some people will think I am simply talking about 'reading and writing', well I'm not. Not even close. It affects everything. No matter what you want to do with your life it will affect you because it's there, it just sits there quietly causing you to become untangled with disorganisation or frustrated when you inevitably misread something pretty important, and so on and so forth. I cannot tell you the number of times I have walked into a door frame because my spacial awareness has decided to take a holiday. Yep, that is dyslexia too. It's a good thing I think bruises look good then. Ahem. Oh, and I can't ride a bike either. I have learnt more than once, but I always forget. A random thing that affects just a small handful of us dyslexics. Lucky us.
Dyslexia does not take into account the seriousness of your task or the importance of it. It does not care if you really want something or are putting in that bit more effort than anyone else. It does not care if you have done something nice for someone, helped a charity and simply need a lucky break. It will affect you wherever and whenever it feels like and frankly, if you are going to cry over it you won't get very far because it will be there each and everyday that you are alive. The best you can do is deal with it early on and accept it. Things could be far worse, and if you concentrate on what you can do you'll go far my son.
Before I go though, let me put dyslexia into some sort of context; about five years ago Dynasty and I both happened to be up sticks and moving at the same time (to different locations, unfortunately) and both stumbled across our year 4 reports when wading through our possessions. They made us chuckle and so we compared to see how different we were at the same age. Ha! I have never felt so inferior. Dynasty's reading age at the end of year 4 was around 14years old, for a 9 nine year old this is pretty good; mine, on the other hand, was that of a 4 and a half/5year old. No joke. Do not fear, I didn't care, I can now read just fine, thank you (if not slow, but I'll get onto that). Essentially though there was 10years difference between mine and my best friends reading ability before we'd even reached 10years old. How can someone whose reading is so significantly lower than that of her class mates possibly be expected to complete the same task in the same amount of time!? Seeing your classmates finishing something before you are even a quarter of the way through is a definite confidence knocker.
Another fairly Shitting-hell-dyslexia-really-is-pooey moment was having my dyslexia testing at university. This frustrates me come to think of it. Dyslexia is something you're born with and does not go away. We learn to cope with it, but it doesn't go anywhere, it hides until you think you have almost forgotten about it and then it launches an attack when you least expect it, but it doesn't go away. So why, if we know that it doesn't evaporate do we have to subject people with dyslexia to the utter humiliation of testing time and time again!? This makes no sense to me. Entering university I was told I had to be 'retested' as my last test was over 4years ago. Retested? Re-fucking-tested? Where did they think the dyslexia had gone to? A fortnights holiday in the French Riviera? A world cruise perhaps!? Anyway, that rant aside, when the uni kindly informed me that I was dyslexic (it was such a shock...who knew I was dyslexic? I. DID!!) they informed that I read 75% slower than someone of average intelligence and then proceeded to tell me that I was above average intelligence. So basically, if I wasn't dyslexic my reading would more than 80% faster than it is now. Somethings are better not knowing, I think. Think of what I could do with 80% more time though!? I was then told without dyslexia I would also be able to process a lot more information than I do now without it 'getting lost'. Isn't that just spiffy.
Ok, I know I am making this sound a little dramatic but with all honesty, I am still phenomenally frustrated with how little people understand about it. Most of you have a delightfully organised system within your brain that sends all the information you need from one end to the other, similar to a one way system. Hurrah for you! Mine, on the other hand, like all dyslexics, has a system the lets all the information run around like headless chicken's trying to find where they are meant to be stored. I imagine it's something like the Parisian traffic around the Arc de Triomphe, with manic Frenchman driving information around my head not caring who or what they bump into, or at what speed for that matter. No wonder after an information overload my brain decides to throws items away. Be thankful for your simple one way system people!
So, if you are a teacher, new or old, please give that dyslexic child in your class a little leeway on time to complete their work. Imagine, just for a second, that your brain was the Arc de Triomphe and maybe you'll understand why they are taking longer than anyone else. They are just trying to pick out the correct vehicle of information among all those crazy Parisian drivers. It's a tricky job and so a little time consideration will make all the difference. I don't like dyslexics that make excuses, but I am telling you with the right teacher they won't need to. You, teacher friend of mine, can make all the difference. The right beginning is essential.
Thanks to my mum I had mine, but without her...strewth!
I fully accept that not many will understand the magnitude of dyslexia and just how much it affects a person's every day life, but what has surprised me somewhat over the past few years is just how little the fellow teachers I have worked with know on the subject. I know that some people will think I am simply talking about 'reading and writing', well I'm not. Not even close. It affects everything. No matter what you want to do with your life it will affect you because it's there, it just sits there quietly causing you to become untangled with disorganisation or frustrated when you inevitably misread something pretty important, and so on and so forth. I cannot tell you the number of times I have walked into a door frame because my spacial awareness has decided to take a holiday. Yep, that is dyslexia too. It's a good thing I think bruises look good then. Ahem. Oh, and I can't ride a bike either. I have learnt more than once, but I always forget. A random thing that affects just a small handful of us dyslexics. Lucky us.
Dyslexia does not take into account the seriousness of your task or the importance of it. It does not care if you really want something or are putting in that bit more effort than anyone else. It does not care if you have done something nice for someone, helped a charity and simply need a lucky break. It will affect you wherever and whenever it feels like and frankly, if you are going to cry over it you won't get very far because it will be there each and everyday that you are alive. The best you can do is deal with it early on and accept it. Things could be far worse, and if you concentrate on what you can do you'll go far my son.
Before I go though, let me put dyslexia into some sort of context; about five years ago Dynasty and I both happened to be up sticks and moving at the same time (to different locations, unfortunately) and both stumbled across our year 4 reports when wading through our possessions. They made us chuckle and so we compared to see how different we were at the same age. Ha! I have never felt so inferior. Dynasty's reading age at the end of year 4 was around 14years old, for a 9 nine year old this is pretty good; mine, on the other hand, was that of a 4 and a half/5year old. No joke. Do not fear, I didn't care, I can now read just fine, thank you (if not slow, but I'll get onto that). Essentially though there was 10years difference between mine and my best friends reading ability before we'd even reached 10years old. How can someone whose reading is so significantly lower than that of her class mates possibly be expected to complete the same task in the same amount of time!? Seeing your classmates finishing something before you are even a quarter of the way through is a definite confidence knocker.
Another fairly Shitting-hell-dyslexia-really-is-pooey moment was having my dyslexia testing at university. This frustrates me come to think of it. Dyslexia is something you're born with and does not go away. We learn to cope with it, but it doesn't go anywhere, it hides until you think you have almost forgotten about it and then it launches an attack when you least expect it, but it doesn't go away. So why, if we know that it doesn't evaporate do we have to subject people with dyslexia to the utter humiliation of testing time and time again!? This makes no sense to me. Entering university I was told I had to be 'retested' as my last test was over 4years ago. Retested? Re-fucking-tested? Where did they think the dyslexia had gone to? A fortnights holiday in the French Riviera? A world cruise perhaps!? Anyway, that rant aside, when the uni kindly informed me that I was dyslexic (it was such a shock...who knew I was dyslexic? I. DID!!) they informed that I read 75% slower than someone of average intelligence and then proceeded to tell me that I was above average intelligence. So basically, if I wasn't dyslexic my reading would more than 80% faster than it is now. Somethings are better not knowing, I think. Think of what I could do with 80% more time though!? I was then told without dyslexia I would also be able to process a lot more information than I do now without it 'getting lost'. Isn't that just spiffy.
Ok, I know I am making this sound a little dramatic but with all honesty, I am still phenomenally frustrated with how little people understand about it. Most of you have a delightfully organised system within your brain that sends all the information you need from one end to the other, similar to a one way system. Hurrah for you! Mine, on the other hand, like all dyslexics, has a system the lets all the information run around like headless chicken's trying to find where they are meant to be stored. I imagine it's something like the Parisian traffic around the Arc de Triomphe, with manic Frenchman driving information around my head not caring who or what they bump into, or at what speed for that matter. No wonder after an information overload my brain decides to throws items away. Be thankful for your simple one way system people!
So, if you are a teacher, new or old, please give that dyslexic child in your class a little leeway on time to complete their work. Imagine, just for a second, that your brain was the Arc de Triomphe and maybe you'll understand why they are taking longer than anyone else. They are just trying to pick out the correct vehicle of information among all those crazy Parisian drivers. It's a tricky job and so a little time consideration will make all the difference. I don't like dyslexics that make excuses, but I am telling you with the right teacher they won't need to. You, teacher friend of mine, can make all the difference. The right beginning is essential.
Thanks to my mum I had mine, but without her...strewth!
Monday 18 July 2011
Head or heart...?
I'm really not sure where to start with this one!? My life has come to a crossroads, a new chapter, a folk in the road or whatever you want to call it and the problem is I don't have the first idea what to do or where to go.
My issue with them both at the moment is that my heart has ideas above her station and my head is not helping me sufficiently. Twunts, both of them. My heart wants to go down a certain road which my head disagree with. Strongly. As do I. Every time my heart starts to get carried away my head begins screaming at me with more velocity than my five week old niece when she is suffering from a bad case of colic. My head goes into a complete and utter meltdown, one yelp short of a major panic attack before my hearts starts to realise that my head is actually making sense and momentarily backs down. I say monetarily because my heart becomes impatient as she waits to hear my heads big plans for the future and why we can't possibly go along with what she wants. Of course, my head has nothing. Less than nothing. Deafening silence from her is all we get. Which is just delightful as you can imagine. She's more bloody clueless than I am. She tries to distract my heart with pretty and exciting objects until she can think of her own plan to satisfy my heart. My head's most cunning trick (more cunning that a particularly cunning weasel during cunning season. Are weasel's cunning? They seem cunning to me), is to thrust my five week old niece onto me. This is very clever and always distracts me for hours on end. She's just so adorable (my niece that is, not my head. My head is rather dull). Even with the high-pitch never-ending screams of colic (niece again, obvs). However; my head cannot distract my heart for too long without actually thinking of a new plan of action, so until this happens I'm afraid my heart is winning out. And the longer my head ponders a new plan, the more momentum my heart has. Her desires for my future are becoming more and more outrageous. Silly flipping over-enthusiastic heart.
I should really be thrilled by this, of course, who doesn't want to follow their heart? Well, me for one thing. I have been listening to my head for too long now and I know, deep down, that my head's logic is actually faultless. There may be a riot going on in my heart but until someone offers to stop it (or cause it to quicken, depending on how you look at it...) then there really is nothing to done. Life is not a Romantic Comedy and flipping nora I'm bloody glad about it. Having some dashing gent declare his love for me in a public venue, or worse, surrounded by a dozen roses, after a less than a fortnight of acquaintance would be my idea of a living nightmare. It's been a few days, A FEW DAYS, calm the-bloody-hell down. I am not that lovable. Get back to me is a few months and then we'll talk love. Maybe. See how I feel. We have to be sensible sometimes and my heart's constant over zealous nagging is beginning to wear thin. But more worryingly, it's beginning to wear me and my head down and I fear that I may start listening to her. And soon. Oh. Good. Lord!!
If the next few posts are complete incoherent rambles with alarming amounts of profanity, you'll know my heart has won; I listened to her and all hell has broken loss. Or in other words, we went along with what my heart wanted and my head was correct. Once again. My heart will be sulking and I will be sad. For one thing, being silly enough to listen to my heart, two, because my head will be gloating (I hate it when she does that) and three, because I will feel like shite. Double shite. I think we may need some tissues here. A lot of them...
...Someone please talk some sense into me. QUICK!
My issue with them both at the moment is that my heart has ideas above her station and my head is not helping me sufficiently. Twunts, both of them. My heart wants to go down a certain road which my head disagree with. Strongly. As do I. Every time my heart starts to get carried away my head begins screaming at me with more velocity than my five week old niece when she is suffering from a bad case of colic. My head goes into a complete and utter meltdown, one yelp short of a major panic attack before my hearts starts to realise that my head is actually making sense and momentarily backs down. I say monetarily because my heart becomes impatient as she waits to hear my heads big plans for the future and why we can't possibly go along with what she wants. Of course, my head has nothing. Less than nothing. Deafening silence from her is all we get. Which is just delightful as you can imagine. She's more bloody clueless than I am. She tries to distract my heart with pretty and exciting objects until she can think of her own plan to satisfy my heart. My head's most cunning trick (more cunning that a particularly cunning weasel during cunning season. Are weasel's cunning? They seem cunning to me), is to thrust my five week old niece onto me. This is very clever and always distracts me for hours on end. She's just so adorable (my niece that is, not my head. My head is rather dull). Even with the high-pitch never-ending screams of colic (niece again, obvs). However; my head cannot distract my heart for too long without actually thinking of a new plan of action, so until this happens I'm afraid my heart is winning out. And the longer my head ponders a new plan, the more momentum my heart has. Her desires for my future are becoming more and more outrageous. Silly flipping over-enthusiastic heart.
I should really be thrilled by this, of course, who doesn't want to follow their heart? Well, me for one thing. I have been listening to my head for too long now and I know, deep down, that my head's logic is actually faultless. There may be a riot going on in my heart but until someone offers to stop it (or cause it to quicken, depending on how you look at it...) then there really is nothing to done. Life is not a Romantic Comedy and flipping nora I'm bloody glad about it. Having some dashing gent declare his love for me in a public venue, or worse, surrounded by a dozen roses, after a less than a fortnight of acquaintance would be my idea of a living nightmare. It's been a few days, A FEW DAYS, calm the-bloody-hell down. I am not that lovable. Get back to me is a few months and then we'll talk love. Maybe. See how I feel. We have to be sensible sometimes and my heart's constant over zealous nagging is beginning to wear thin. But more worryingly, it's beginning to wear me and my head down and I fear that I may start listening to her. And soon. Oh. Good. Lord!!
If the next few posts are complete incoherent rambles with alarming amounts of profanity, you'll know my heart has won; I listened to her and all hell has broken loss. Or in other words, we went along with what my heart wanted and my head was correct. Once again. My heart will be sulking and I will be sad. For one thing, being silly enough to listen to my heart, two, because my head will be gloating (I hate it when she does that) and three, because I will feel like shite. Double shite. I think we may need some tissues here. A lot of them...
...Someone please talk some sense into me. QUICK!
Monday 11 July 2011
It is a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people...
Having felt a little sorry for myself over the past few weeks, I have decided that this must stop. Ta Da! It just did. Why should I get to feel sorry for myself when there is plenty to feel ecstatic about, cue Louis Armstrong's 'What a Wonderful World'. Yes, I may be ill and have no job to go to after graduation but Louis is right, there are trees and my God they are green, and there are even some red roses too. Huzzah!
As you know I have just finished my teaching degree, but I don't know if I ever told you why I embarked on this crazy path. I decided to turn my hand to teaching because I wanted to help children with special needs. It's as simple as that. It's something I am very passionate about (my poor friends probably shudder every time they hear the words 'special' and 'needs' in a sentence, for they know I am about to launch into my classic rant/disgust at the lack of knowledge out there surrounding special needs children. It is taking every bit of the self control I have not to launch into it now). It's not that I don't love mainstream teaching but when you see a sea of hundreds just lining up to be mainstream teachers (and that's just one year group within one university) you can't help but want to be immersed back into the world of special needs. Mainstream schools have every Tom, Dick and Harry wanting to serve their children. If you mention special needs to that sea of hundreds I just mentioned, so many of their faces would drop faster than if you'd said 'SATS results'. However, this post is not about me today nor is it about the work I want to do. I may save that for another day, you bloody lucky lot you. When remembering why I, almost idiotically, became involved in teaching I remember that at the heart of it all I simply wanted to help where others didn't seem willing to go. And at this time when getting that all important job seems less likely than achieving a PHD, I have decided to spend my free time in helping others. I am fed up with trying to help myself and there are far more deserving souls out there. The End. Today, I was so beautifully reminded of that.
During a teaching degree you are thrust into schools to slowly build up your teaching practice. Some schools make you never want to leave and some make you question your decision to become a teacher altogether. The first school I nervously entered in my first year was the former. A dreamboat of a school (it was mainstream and I still loved it; it must have been good!) that's only downside was being located in the middle of nowhere (or the Surrey suburbs if you want me to be accurate) and having to get a cold and damp coach every morning at 7.15am. I taught (or tried to) a gorgeous, beyond gorgeous, reception class made up of 31 children you'd be proud to call your own. Looking back, I don't think I realised just how lucky I was to have had this delightful bunch for my first teaching practice. But why am I telling you this? Why should you care? Let me explain.
One of those darling children happens to be ill. Very ill, actually and it breaks my heart. As I said, all the children were delightful and Adam is no exception. On my Good Bye/Thank You card from that said reception class there is a photograph of the whole class on the front and the child with the biggest grin of all on their face just happens to be, Ta Da, you guessed it, Adam. It never fails to make me smile. A year or so after my said teaching practice had ended, I happened to be looking something up on the schools website and noticed a picture of Adam in the top corner with the words 'Adam's Appeal'. I, being the nosey sod I am, clicked on the square to see what this appeal was for and immediately felt the hot tears come running down my cheeks. Adam has advanced stage Neuroblastoma, an aggressive children's cancer. And for the past 20 months or so his father Nick has been blogging about his son progress as well as appealing for help to raise the vital funds that Adam needs to receive the very best treatment.
If you only do one thing this month that benefits others, let it be for Adam. Even if only because his smile on that Good Bye/Thank You card, which proudly sits on the mantle piece in my bedroom, makes me smile. It is a small charity and I'm sure EVERY bit of support would be received with a smile.
However, Nick writes so much better than I do, so if you wish to find out more (and I hope that just one of you does) then please click HERE to do so. See, I have even set up a fool proof link to make life easier for you (for those fools - and I think I love you best any who - that can't find the link, just message me and I'll send you a personal one. I am too good to you lot sometimes!). There is also an entire website set up to let you know exactly how you can help. Simply click http://adamsappeal.org/ and hey presto!
As the bizarrely brilliant musical, Avenue Q says, "when you help others, you can't helping yourself!", so really I am just helping you help yourself. It's win win! It really is.
For all of you who do take a goosey gander and help out, can I just say a very quick THANK YOU! You are now my very favourite person in all the world. Even more than Rafa, Father Christmas, The Blonde One or Dynasty. Put together. And that is saying something!
P.S. If anyone is thinking 'why on earth do I know the title to this post?' - it is a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people - ...it's because I stole, no, borrowed the line from Cher (character in the film Clueless and modern day Emma Woodhouse, not the diva extraordinaire that bought us such classics as The shoop, shoop song) who I get all my best lines from.
As you know I have just finished my teaching degree, but I don't know if I ever told you why I embarked on this crazy path. I decided to turn my hand to teaching because I wanted to help children with special needs. It's as simple as that. It's something I am very passionate about (my poor friends probably shudder every time they hear the words 'special' and 'needs' in a sentence, for they know I am about to launch into my classic rant/disgust at the lack of knowledge out there surrounding special needs children. It is taking every bit of the self control I have not to launch into it now). It's not that I don't love mainstream teaching but when you see a sea of hundreds just lining up to be mainstream teachers (and that's just one year group within one university) you can't help but want to be immersed back into the world of special needs. Mainstream schools have every Tom, Dick and Harry wanting to serve their children. If you mention special needs to that sea of hundreds I just mentioned, so many of their faces would drop faster than if you'd said 'SATS results'. However, this post is not about me today nor is it about the work I want to do. I may save that for another day, you bloody lucky lot you. When remembering why I, almost idiotically, became involved in teaching I remember that at the heart of it all I simply wanted to help where others didn't seem willing to go. And at this time when getting that all important job seems less likely than achieving a PHD, I have decided to spend my free time in helping others. I am fed up with trying to help myself and there are far more deserving souls out there. The End. Today, I was so beautifully reminded of that.
During a teaching degree you are thrust into schools to slowly build up your teaching practice. Some schools make you never want to leave and some make you question your decision to become a teacher altogether. The first school I nervously entered in my first year was the former. A dreamboat of a school (it was mainstream and I still loved it; it must have been good!) that's only downside was being located in the middle of nowhere (or the Surrey suburbs if you want me to be accurate) and having to get a cold and damp coach every morning at 7.15am. I taught (or tried to) a gorgeous, beyond gorgeous, reception class made up of 31 children you'd be proud to call your own. Looking back, I don't think I realised just how lucky I was to have had this delightful bunch for my first teaching practice. But why am I telling you this? Why should you care? Let me explain.
One of those darling children happens to be ill. Very ill, actually and it breaks my heart. As I said, all the children were delightful and Adam is no exception. On my Good Bye/Thank You card from that said reception class there is a photograph of the whole class on the front and the child with the biggest grin of all on their face just happens to be, Ta Da, you guessed it, Adam. It never fails to make me smile. A year or so after my said teaching practice had ended, I happened to be looking something up on the schools website and noticed a picture of Adam in the top corner with the words 'Adam's Appeal'. I, being the nosey sod I am, clicked on the square to see what this appeal was for and immediately felt the hot tears come running down my cheeks. Adam has advanced stage Neuroblastoma, an aggressive children's cancer. And for the past 20 months or so his father Nick has been blogging about his son progress as well as appealing for help to raise the vital funds that Adam needs to receive the very best treatment.
If you only do one thing this month that benefits others, let it be for Adam. Even if only because his smile on that Good Bye/Thank You card, which proudly sits on the mantle piece in my bedroom, makes me smile. It is a small charity and I'm sure EVERY bit of support would be received with a smile.
However, Nick writes so much better than I do, so if you wish to find out more (and I hope that just one of you does) then please click HERE to do so. See, I have even set up a fool proof link to make life easier for you (for those fools - and I think I love you best any who - that can't find the link, just message me and I'll send you a personal one. I am too good to you lot sometimes!). There is also an entire website set up to let you know exactly how you can help. Simply click http://adamsappeal.org/ and hey presto!
As the bizarrely brilliant musical, Avenue Q says, "when you help others, you can't helping yourself!", so really I am just helping you help yourself. It's win win! It really is.
For all of you who do take a goosey gander and help out, can I just say a very quick THANK YOU! You are now my very favourite person in all the world. Even more than Rafa, Father Christmas, The Blonde One or Dynasty. Put together. And that is saying something!
P.S. If anyone is thinking 'why on earth do I know the title to this post?' - it is a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people - ...it's because I stole, no, borrowed the line from Cher (character in the film Clueless and modern day Emma Woodhouse, not the diva extraordinaire that bought us such classics as The shoop, shoop song) who I get all my best lines from.
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements...
Now is the time where all new graduates are trying to find a job, career, life, future, etc. And for someone who thought they knew exactly where their life was heading I find myself at a massive crossroads in mine with absolutely no road signs around to help me along my way. Or they are road signs, but not in a language I can speak. Which is so very unhelpful.
Many of my friends are findinng themselves tavelling on the same road as I to nowhere specificaly just hoping that this road we have chosen just happens to be the right one. But really, what are the chances of this? Slim to none I am beginning to fear. And it is not just my university friends that have found themselves in this boat (boat, boat!? I thought is was a road!? ...stay with me) Because of the recession, I see that so many of my friends are being forced on this road of uncertainity (goodness, I am full of the old cliche's today aren't I!?).
Having each and every person I know with a delightfully certain job telling me that 'something will come up, I just know it' is very sweet but sometimes, just sometimes, when my mood has taken a turn for the worse, I want to yell 'Go Do One! Of course YOU think something is going to come up. It bloody well did for YOU. So well done, YOU! Now piss off and let me sulk. At least for the length of an advert break anyway. You're too, too kind!' Of course I never do. I love my friends too much and they are only trying to be supportive and I don't want to alienate every one I know just because I can't seem to get a career sorted.
The Darling One and I are feeling incredibly lost at the moment and so I spent just a small section of my morning typing out the words to Baz Luhrmann's wonderfully uplifting song 'Wear Sunscreen' for her and sending them to her in small snippets. The Darling One said it made her day and I can say that typing out the words did put things into perceptive a little. Ok, so I don't have a teaching job (as of yet...see, I can remain positive, hahaa!) for September. So I have to put my NQT year on hold for a couple of months or even a year or so. Big frigging whoop! Will it make a massive difference to my life in the long run? No. It bloody won't.
So, for all of you out there that are feeling utterly lost and feeling complete despair at what your future may bring, have heart. You're not even remotely close to being alone. And here are the words that have kept me fighting today...
(note that I do not own these words. All rights are to the original owners and not me...)
Now if you don't mind I'm off to dance around the living room. I have the direction, but I'm not following them. That's just the way I role. My niece is looking at me somewhat terrified. She has no idea *sniggers at the thought* ....
(Oh here you go, you lot...here's a link to the song via the marvellous YouTube... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwVVpwBKUp0&feature=related ..but don't say I never give you anything)
Many of my friends are findinng themselves tavelling on the same road as I to nowhere specificaly just hoping that this road we have chosen just happens to be the right one. But really, what are the chances of this? Slim to none I am beginning to fear. And it is not just my university friends that have found themselves in this boat (boat, boat!? I thought is was a road!? ...stay with me) Because of the recession, I see that so many of my friends are being forced on this road of uncertainity (goodness, I am full of the old cliche's today aren't I!?).
Having each and every person I know with a delightfully certain job telling me that 'something will come up, I just know it' is very sweet but sometimes, just sometimes, when my mood has taken a turn for the worse, I want to yell 'Go Do One! Of course YOU think something is going to come up. It bloody well did for YOU. So well done, YOU! Now piss off and let me sulk. At least for the length of an advert break anyway. You're too, too kind!' Of course I never do. I love my friends too much and they are only trying to be supportive and I don't want to alienate every one I know just because I can't seem to get a career sorted.
The Darling One and I are feeling incredibly lost at the moment and so I spent just a small section of my morning typing out the words to Baz Luhrmann's wonderfully uplifting song 'Wear Sunscreen' for her and sending them to her in small snippets. The Darling One said it made her day and I can say that typing out the words did put things into perceptive a little. Ok, so I don't have a teaching job (as of yet...see, I can remain positive, hahaa!) for September. So I have to put my NQT year on hold for a couple of months or even a year or so. Big frigging whoop! Will it make a massive difference to my life in the long run? No. It bloody won't.
So, for all of you out there that are feeling utterly lost and feeling complete despair at what your future may bring, have heart. You're not even remotely close to being alone. And here are the words that have kept me fighting today...
Ladies and Gentleman and the class of '99, wear sunscreen! If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience…I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine.
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing everyday that scares you. Sing. Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss. Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind…the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.
Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements. Stretch. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children,maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.
Enjoy your body, use it every way you can, don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings; they're the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you'll need the people you knew when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel. Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders. Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.
Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40 it will look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth. But trust me on the sunscreen…
(note that I do not own these words. All rights are to the original owners and not me...)
Now if you don't mind I'm off to dance around the living room. I have the direction, but I'm not following them. That's just the way I role. My niece is looking at me somewhat terrified. She has no idea *sniggers at the thought* ....
(Oh here you go, you lot...here's a link to the song via the marvellous YouTube... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwVVpwBKUp0&feature=related ..but don't say I never give you anything)
Monday 4 July 2011
A million love songs and Take That...
Last week I met up with an old friend of mine, The Keen One, from back home and for the whole evening I was transported back to my 10 year old self. Although, I don't think I ever swore quite so much when I was 10.
Had I spent my childhood growing up with The Keen One and therefore spent a lovely evening on a trip down memory lane? No. I didn't even meet The Keen One until I was 22. Confused as to why I would be transported back then!? Let me explain. On the evening we met up we spent one marvellous night, sun set and all in the company of Take That. Take-bloody-That. Well, them and around 85 thousands others, but you get my point.
There may be many of you out there that are far too cool to be excited by Take That, but I, for sure, am not one of them. Although, on the whole I am in no way a fan of teeny bopping boy bands, my childhood self was. Actually, she wasn't; I just bloody loved Take That, but the sentence seemed to fit and I went with it. As a child I definitely did not have a Take That pencil case and stationary set nor did I own any of their videos. Nope, not one (just in case any of you are unsure, I am of course lying here...I had the lot. Huzzah).
I was actually apprehensive to go the concert at first as The Keen One and I have a history. It's only a very brief history containing a few dates, the odd kiss and nothing more, but the very sweet Keen One has a tendency to ask me out (a lot!!) whenever he finds himself single (hence the name). It's heartbreaking. He is far too lovely to simply say 'piss off, love, I'm just not interested' no matter how many times he continues to ask. He's far more sensitive than I am and even I think that's a little harsh. Just because I'm (can be...) emotionally unavailable doesn't mean others should suffer. But as luck would have it, our darling boy has gone and got himself a girlfriend. Score. A evening with a nice friend, Take That and not an uncomfortable conversation once. Double score, in fact.
No, I can honestly say that the whole evening was utterly brilliant. Even Robbie, whom I'm not the biggest fan of had me up on my feet screaming like some possessed lone. Actually, he was bloody brilliant. The man knows how to work a crowd, especially his naughty ad-lib ditty to the tune of 'That's Entertainment'. With the added genius of a sentence about 'super-injunctions'. Tres bien, sir. The cutest wee (just) teenager in front of me giggling with shock every time Robbie swore (and boy did he swear) was the icing on the cake.
But back to the music. Their new songs were just fabulous and in true Take That style, very spectacular. As was (surprisingly) Robbie's wee solo section. I even sang along to Angel's. And I really don't like that song. Really don't like it. But my absolute favourite section, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was the five of them rocking out the old classics. Just a small melody including (eek, eek, eek!) Everything Changes and Babe!! but it really stood out to me. As it would to any old school fan. When the crowd sang out 'Come on, come on, come on Take That and party...' the boys (man band, sorry Gary, man bad) delighted us all with the old dance moves. By Jove they've still got it.
The most random yet surprisingly good moment was Mark (Aw, my childhood love) insisting we all sing 'God Save Our Queen' as we were in the national stadium. Bizarre, yes, but still I found myself singing my heart out.
I'd promised a friend of mine that I'd keep her updated via twitter. I'm so sorry The Darling One, at a time like that, tweeting on my phone ran straight out of mind and straight onto the nearest train. There was a spectacular to behold, I couldn't remember to look down at my phone. But fear not, I took photo's.
And finally, I don't think it takes a hard core fan to work out what their closing song was. Pure cheese perfection. So much so that I had to phone my best friend, The Blonde One (Dynasty is way too cool to be seen with anything Take That related. She's missing out) and managed to leave her a 2 minute voicemail. Verse and Chorus! She'll Never Forget it (sorry, I was not strong enough to resist that pun). I think she liked the voicemail, for this was her reply 'Hahahahahahahahaaa.....I FUCKING LOVE YOU xx'
Which I believe sums my trip to Wembley completely; Take That, I still FUCKING LOVE YOU. That is all.
Had I spent my childhood growing up with The Keen One and therefore spent a lovely evening on a trip down memory lane? No. I didn't even meet The Keen One until I was 22. Confused as to why I would be transported back then!? Let me explain. On the evening we met up we spent one marvellous night, sun set and all in the company of Take That. Take-bloody-That. Well, them and around 85 thousands others, but you get my point.
There may be many of you out there that are far too cool to be excited by Take That, but I, for sure, am not one of them. Although, on the whole I am in no way a fan of teeny bopping boy bands, my childhood self was. Actually, she wasn't; I just bloody loved Take That, but the sentence seemed to fit and I went with it. As a child I definitely did not have a Take That pencil case and stationary set nor did I own any of their videos. Nope, not one (just in case any of you are unsure, I am of course lying here...I had the lot. Huzzah).
I was actually apprehensive to go the concert at first as The Keen One and I have a history. It's only a very brief history containing a few dates, the odd kiss and nothing more, but the very sweet Keen One has a tendency to ask me out (a lot!!) whenever he finds himself single (hence the name). It's heartbreaking. He is far too lovely to simply say 'piss off, love, I'm just not interested' no matter how many times he continues to ask. He's far more sensitive than I am and even I think that's a little harsh. Just because I'm (can be...) emotionally unavailable doesn't mean others should suffer. But as luck would have it, our darling boy has gone and got himself a girlfriend. Score. A evening with a nice friend, Take That and not an uncomfortable conversation once. Double score, in fact.
No, I can honestly say that the whole evening was utterly brilliant. Even Robbie, whom I'm not the biggest fan of had me up on my feet screaming like some possessed lone. Actually, he was bloody brilliant. The man knows how to work a crowd, especially his naughty ad-lib ditty to the tune of 'That's Entertainment'. With the added genius of a sentence about 'super-injunctions'. Tres bien, sir. The cutest wee (just) teenager in front of me giggling with shock every time Robbie swore (and boy did he swear) was the icing on the cake.
But back to the music. Their new songs were just fabulous and in true Take That style, very spectacular. As was (surprisingly) Robbie's wee solo section. I even sang along to Angel's. And I really don't like that song. Really don't like it. But my absolute favourite section, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was the five of them rocking out the old classics. Just a small melody including (eek, eek, eek!) Everything Changes and Babe!! but it really stood out to me. As it would to any old school fan. When the crowd sang out 'Come on, come on, come on Take That and party...' the boys (man band, sorry Gary, man bad) delighted us all with the old dance moves. By Jove they've still got it.
The most random yet surprisingly good moment was Mark (Aw, my childhood love) insisting we all sing 'God Save Our Queen' as we were in the national stadium. Bizarre, yes, but still I found myself singing my heart out.
I'd promised a friend of mine that I'd keep her updated via twitter. I'm so sorry The Darling One, at a time like that, tweeting on my phone ran straight out of mind and straight onto the nearest train. There was a spectacular to behold, I couldn't remember to look down at my phone. But fear not, I took photo's.
And finally, I don't think it takes a hard core fan to work out what their closing song was. Pure cheese perfection. So much so that I had to phone my best friend, The Blonde One (Dynasty is way too cool to be seen with anything Take That related. She's missing out) and managed to leave her a 2 minute voicemail. Verse and Chorus! She'll Never Forget it (sorry, I was not strong enough to resist that pun). I think she liked the voicemail, for this was her reply 'Hahahahahahahahaaa.....I FUCKING LOVE YOU xx'
Which I believe sums my trip to Wembley completely; Take That, I still FUCKING LOVE YOU. That is all.
Friday 1 July 2011
Worrying can take a long walk off a short platform...
I have always been a really positive person, to the point where one colleague described me as 'annoyingly optismtic'. He meant it as an insult, however, the man has all the personality of a stone. And a dull stone at that. So the insult rolled off my back and I now wear that label with pride. Insult aside, however, I think I proved my point that overall I am pretty positive. So why am I finding it more and more of a struggle to remain in a positive mindset about my up and coming degree results? It's more depressing than the day I found out Father Christmas wasn't real (I still live in hope).
I have only ever failed one assignment, as you may already know if you've read my previous post 'Cool, Calm and Distracted', and that was more than a little ridiculous. So why now, if I have only ever (dubiously) failed one assignment in the three years I have attended university, do I feel so utterly sure that I am not going to pass? It's very unlike me, and frankly, I don't like it.
Could it be the fact that I really don't want to attend my graduation, my mother didn't attend hers and I went to my flatmates last year, those gowns they provide would not pass a Hogwarts inspection I can tell you. Or maybe it's because nearly every other university has already given their students their results and this waiting around is all too much. Patience may be a virtue, but it's a pain in the bloody behind. Perhaps I am finally taking Dynasty's advice and planning for the worst so that if I do indeed receive the best it'll feel like some wonderful treat? Or maybe, just maybe I have suddenly awoken to Phoebe Halliwell's (from 'Charmed', Obvs!) power of premonition? I do hope it is the latter. That would just be all kinds of special. Whatever it is, it doesn't make me feel any more assured of my degree result.
But this negativity is just rubbish. Beyond rubbish, in fact. I have decided that I no longer like this attitude of mine and am going to look on the bright side of things. Silver linings and all that (cliched) jazz. So, if I fail an assignment and have to re-submit I will be awarded my degree a few weeks after everyone else. Is this really a big deal? I won't get to graduate with my friends which is shitty, but frankly, I am fine with not having to wear a 'darling' polyester gown that will no doubt be itchier than a bad case of lice and bring me out in sweats worse than a Zumba class in the mid Egyptian sun. Oh, what a shame that would be.
No, sonny Jim, worrying can piss off, I am not spending the weekend fretting my degree results and yelling at any poor sap that happens to cross my path. I will enjoy the wedding The Jolly One (oh, I miss our Ward 5B days) and get utterly gazeboed with her fabulous friends that I got to spend a delightful hen weekend in Bath with. And I won't think of about my degree ONCE.
As of............now.
(If you are in the same boat, I suggest you do the same. It's so much more enjoyable. Double promise!)
I have only ever failed one assignment, as you may already know if you've read my previous post 'Cool, Calm and Distracted', and that was more than a little ridiculous. So why now, if I have only ever (dubiously) failed one assignment in the three years I have attended university, do I feel so utterly sure that I am not going to pass? It's very unlike me, and frankly, I don't like it.
Could it be the fact that I really don't want to attend my graduation, my mother didn't attend hers and I went to my flatmates last year, those gowns they provide would not pass a Hogwarts inspection I can tell you. Or maybe it's because nearly every other university has already given their students their results and this waiting around is all too much. Patience may be a virtue, but it's a pain in the bloody behind. Perhaps I am finally taking Dynasty's advice and planning for the worst so that if I do indeed receive the best it'll feel like some wonderful treat? Or maybe, just maybe I have suddenly awoken to Phoebe Halliwell's (from 'Charmed', Obvs!) power of premonition? I do hope it is the latter. That would just be all kinds of special. Whatever it is, it doesn't make me feel any more assured of my degree result.
But this negativity is just rubbish. Beyond rubbish, in fact. I have decided that I no longer like this attitude of mine and am going to look on the bright side of things. Silver linings and all that (cliched) jazz. So, if I fail an assignment and have to re-submit I will be awarded my degree a few weeks after everyone else. Is this really a big deal? I won't get to graduate with my friends which is shitty, but frankly, I am fine with not having to wear a 'darling' polyester gown that will no doubt be itchier than a bad case of lice and bring me out in sweats worse than a Zumba class in the mid Egyptian sun. Oh, what a shame that would be.
No, sonny Jim, worrying can piss off, I am not spending the weekend fretting my degree results and yelling at any poor sap that happens to cross my path. I will enjoy the wedding The Jolly One (oh, I miss our Ward 5B days) and get utterly gazeboed with her fabulous friends that I got to spend a delightful hen weekend in Bath with. And I won't think of about my degree ONCE.
As of............now.
(If you are in the same boat, I suggest you do the same. It's so much more enjoyable. Double promise!)
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