Not Tonight...Cinderella

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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




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




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

When all fails...

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


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


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


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

Not Tonight...Juicy Lucy

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


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


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

Not Tonight...Nicest Thing

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


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


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


Nicest Thing by Kate Nash 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Is honesty always the best policy...?

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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Vomiting Veronica...

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

To Leeds or not to Leeds...

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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Not Tonight...Yann

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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


La Valse D'Amelie by Yann Tiersen

If The Nice One is no longer nice...

What has happened since I left the country? 


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


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


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


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