Walk your way to health...

As I begin this post I have had to set my spotify to 'Walk of Life' by Dire Straits (my dad would be so proud!). I hope it will soon become clear why...

...On Saturday, the day after I finished my placement, drugged up with pain killers I travelled to North London to Dynasty's flat to meet her, The Blonde One and Dynasty's two younger sisters to embark on an 18 mile walk around London all in the name of Charity. The Walk of Life is seeming like an inspired song choice now isn't it!?

The Charity in question is F.R.O.G.S...friends of Gambian Schools, and one of Dynasty's sister's is travelling to Gambia to help set up a school and fill the school with enough resources so that all the children will be able to access a fair education. She speaks about the walk on her blog All About Abbie , so if you want to read more head on over.

And for pictures of our brilliant day just read and click on the post from Dynasty herself at The Style PA.

Although I was rather ill on the day itself and had to drug (legal painkillers I thank you) myself up several times throughout the day, and although I now have a delightful blister just under my big toe that is as beautiful to look at as it is painful, I have well and truly got the walking bug. Being outside in the blazing sunshine seeing so much of London and pondering how many other people had stood where I was walking or gazed out onto the same view I was gazing out at was a really nice feeling.

It was also a bloody fantastic way to spend a day with my two best friends and two of my honorary sisters. Just as The Blonde One and I do on road trips, as we embarked on our walk around the capital city we decided to play 'travel games'. Understandably walking around London it was not appropriate to spot 'Eddie Stobart' lorries (if you have not tried this game when travelling along the motorway you must. When I was introduced to it, The Blonde One and I were travelling to Manchester and I thought she had gone slightly mad. Well she had, but not for this reason. Spotting Eddie Stobart lorries? Why would I give a flying fuck? But by the time I had spotted 12 lorries I was hooked. London to Manchester on a cold Thursday morning in October The Blonde One and I spotted 57. It's exciting stuff, I tell thee. I recently got my cousin - the cool London girl about town one- into this game and will not stop introducing it until all my travel buddies are as obsessed as I...) so we decided to give ourselves wee items to try and spot as we walked. I know 'London Black Cab' was one item as was a 'clock face', but I think the more unusual spots such as 'a ginger child' or 'a jogger in need of a sports bra' were far more entertaining and amusing to spot.  

And here is where I must have a very quick and very out-of-character rant...anyone planning on keeping fit this summer by riding through Hyde Park on a Row Bike, don't. You look pretentious, you take up too much space and frankly, you make everyone around you want to trip you up, and that is before you pass a group of walking girls for the third time yelling 'Move out the way' or 'Coming through'... I have never wanted to put a stick through a bike wheel before, but I came pretty close on Saturday. However, as we were walking for Charity, I thought better of it and instead gave my most ferocious stare. It's terrifying.

As for the rest of you, I suggest you get on your good trainers (or only trainers as in my case) and get yourself walking...and if you need any inspiration, how about a little Dire Straits on the ipod....?

Where next? The Yorkshire Moors or the Scottish Highlands?

Rainbows raced...

Dear me, I have been naughty not posting on here for a while. I am sorry. I have already been told off from The Country One, so do not fear, I have not been able to escape my laziness without a little punishment.

In my defence, if at all I have one, it was the last week of placement and I had a surprise visit from an external examiner as well as being hit with yet another virus. I promise you now this sickness malarkey is simply not me, I am not such a sickly creature as Anne de Bourgh is in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, however, since my delightful visit from Glandular Fever during the summer one just has to utter the word 'flu' and I get knocked for six for at least a week. It is very unlike me and something I plan to put right as soon as I possibly can. Not that I like to over-exaggerate anything you understand.

With the flatmates away back at their respective homes, my darling mum and Sister told me to come home home (why is it that I call where I live 'home' and where I grew up 'home, home'?? Isn't it strange the sayings we adapt...?) to be looked after during the Easter period. I don't usually run home home at the first sign of trouble but I felt so rubbish and I had to travel down south anyway to organise Sisters baby shower, so I threw caution to the wind and went home to be looked after old school style.

But it isn't old school style, not even close. As a baby I put my parents through hell with Sleep Apnea, and this was before the discovery that I only had twenty per cent of my hearing until I was six, however, during my everyday-common-cold illness, because my mother was a teacher and my daddy worked away from our family home, my Nanny (my mothers mother), who moved into our family home just before I was born, used to look after me. And what a bloody good job she did. I am currently at home 'resting' but without my Nanny here to 'not fuss' around me and still manage to make me feel more loved than Princess Catherine's engagment ring, it just isn't quite the same.

My Nanny passed away a month shy of my 21st birthday five and a half years ago and without her, sickness days just aren't as fun. She was very much a no-nonsense well-to-do lady who was even more stubborn than Sister. Who knew that was even possible? But I guess Sister has to have inherited this from somewhere. There was absolutely no fussing when I was ill. Nor whem my Sister was ill or any other cousins who lived closed by that were dropped off to be looked after by our Nanny when they were lucky enough to have a day off school. There was no 'Oh my wee darling, snuggle up to your nanny and I'll make it all better'. No, no, it was much more 'bring your duvet down, lie on the sofa, watch the tv, don't get in my way and I'll bring you your tea when I'm ready'. For a laid back individual like myself, it was bloody heaven. Please don't get my wrong, my Nanny loved us with all her heart and would have done anything for us, but babying us was just not something she knew how to do. I always felt loved, but I also knew that when you were ill you must get on with it until your body recovered. Since living with a hypochondriac I am bloody glad she did. I cannot tell you the number of times I have had to bite on my tongue and stop myself from saying (or yelling at the top of my voice) "pipe down, man up and get out of sight you ridiculous human being. You. Have. A. Cold. A COLD!!" to one of my flatmates. Needless to say I never had to guts to actually utter these words. It's quite nice to pretend I did though...

My Nanny was Italian and a bloody marvellous cook, which I did not appreciate enough when she was alive. Whenever I was ill she would always cook me home made ravioli, which she would carry in on a tray and place on my lap, again, no fuss made. But what I am really missing, sitting here on my sofa writing this post, is the moment I always waited for all sick-day - or maybe I wasn't waiting for it, perhaps I only realise now how much I loved this wee moment between my Nanny and I- the moment when my Nanny would decide that she could take a break and would produce our very old video copy (filmed from the telly, where else?) of our favourite film 'The Slipper and The Rose'. 

Prince Edward and Cinderella

It is still one of my all time favourite films and a guaranteed way to left my spirits. For anyone who hasn't seen this film it is simply an adaptation of the classic Cinderella story, however, there mixed up with all the camp song and dance numbers and beyond cheesy lingering looks there are some wonderfully funny lines that never fail to raise a smile. I did not realise quite how funny they were, of course, until years later. As with most old filmed-from-the-telly videos, my 'Slipper and The Rose' video died and would no longer play and it was quite a few years until I found it on DVD and was able to watch it again. It was here that I came to love the script as well as the brilliant songs.

I think my favourite line has to come from the campiest man Cinderella has ever seen; Prince Edward's cousin, The Duke of Montague, when he once again Royally (please pardon the pun) puts his foot in it and utters "Have I made a little Faux pas? Oh, I was enjoying myself!" And there are just too many lines that the King of the wonderfully named Euphrania, played brilliantly by Michael Hordern, says that I simply can't choose just one. You will have to watch this spectacular film to find out.

I could watch The Slipper and The Rose on my own, of course, but there was something about my Nanny deciding when we could watch it that made it all the more of a treat. Now, having my duvet downstairs, making my own ravioli (usually store bought....if I'm ill, I can hardly be dancing around the kitchen making home made ravioli now can I?) and putting on The Slipper and The Rose just doesn't have the same effect. However, seeing Cinderella singing (but never joining in myself...ahem!) 'Rainbows raced around the room when he danced with me...!' I do feel that bit closer to my darling Nanny and I believe it's as good a painkiller as any aspirin.

So now I must return to the land of Euphrania to where Prince Edward is 'twice amazed' and the king becomes easily distracted by the sight of a dainty slipper...

Pipe Down...

I think I may talk too much. For those of you that know me you will be forgiven for rolling around on the floor at this stage. I know I talk too much. My mother likes to tell all that I'm 'Olympic Level' at talking too much, but this morning when spending a delightful morning with one of the most delightful girls that ever graced this planet, I felt I talked excessively and did not give her the chance to have her fair share of ranting opportunity.

My friend, known henceforth as 'The Darling One', is just one of those people that is an absolute joy to be around. She is sweet and caring, funny and silly and with enough gumption to get really heated when something has annoyed her, making her, therefore, not in the least bit tedious or dull in her niceties. I could spend hours with the girl and not get bored in the slightest. She's a rare find and someone who I think I will be friends with for a long time to come. Or at least I very much hope I will.  

Today we met for breakfast where I had a slice of red wine and chocolate cake (heaven itself) and she a slice of the banana cake. Both incredible and a highly recommended way to spend ones Sunday morning. We did not brave the outside along the river front, however, as it was just that bit too nippy and the sun had yet to show its face. It was, as The Darling One would say, 'beyond perf'. But as I sit in my living with my flatmate completing a painful amount of paperwork for my placement, I can't help but think yet again I did not give The Darling One enough space or time to rant herself. She listened to me and of course I am not so selfish as to not give her any time to have a rant herself, but my question is, did I give her enough time? Did she feel as if she was able to get enough off her chest? (so to speak, you dirty minded individuals...tut tut!) She is such a sweetheart and I know what she needs more than anything right now is to be heard, and I just hope that in the course of our morning that she realises just how much she was. I agree with all the little irritations in her life and think she actually has the patience of a saint as well as being totally (sorry, The Darling One, I of course mean 'totes') justified in her frustrations.

So I guess this is just a wee post to let The Darling One know that my morning was the perfect blend of relaxation and release and that next time she is only to put on her teaching voice and tell me 'it's The Darling One's turn to talk now'. For her, I would gladly shut the hell up and do my very best 'active listening' for as long as she needed. I might even get a 'star' for such good listening. Oh wait, no! That 'star' will always belong to The Darling One.

It is a truth universally acknowledged...

My wonderfully dramatic sister is pregnant. I am going to be an aunt. An Aunt! This fills me with more excitement than all of the episodes of Boardwalk Empire put together. Yes, put together, it really is that exciting! So exciting in fact, I felt the need to put an exclamation mark.

My sister, who I do simply call 'Sister', is a petit 5ft with a tiny frame to match which meant she could get away with buying a child's ticket on any railway until she was 26. Her husband, my brother-in-law, who is for rather juvenile reasons known as 'Dr. Karl'. No, his name is not Karl, nor is he a doctor, he is however, a rather generous 6ft 4 and is built, for want of a nicer expression, like a brick-shit-house. My favourite outburst from my tiny sister was on an evening when little Bob, as we all call the bump, would not sit still and 'Sister' out of no where cried out "Sit. Still. Bob. Why did I have to marry someone with Giant! Man! Sperm!!" It was so unexpected that half a can of coke came torpedoing out of both my mouth or nostrils. It was a rather attractive look, I can tell you. I may try to recreate this look on my next date, it's a sure fire man magnet, for sure. 

My wee niece is due sometime in May (I can't be too accurate here as there is a debate over the due date between the hospital and the midwife), although Sister already looks ready to burst, and the time has come to think about 'Baby Showers'. In true Sister style, she has told everyone else that I am organising it without asking me first. I was told by way of a tweet from a mutual friend informing me we were organising a baby shower for my sister. On further investigation it turned out that I was in fact organising the blessed event and the mutual friend was only helping out here and there wherever needed. Wonderful. If the prospect of four assignments over the Easter period wasn't daunting enough, now I have a baby shower to organise. Have I mentioned that Sister is somewhat of a perfectionist?

I am now having constant permonitions that if this baby shower is not the perfect image Sister has built up in her head then this whole episode will be brought up during every argument and every cross word we ever have from now until we're 90. Sister brought up some irrelevant matter that happened when I was 7 and she was 10 not two months ago; she'll be 30 in November.

And so I am left to wrack my brains to create the perfect baby shower during one of the busiest times of my life. Am I allowed to panic yet? Just a little. However, although Sister is dramatic beyond the realms of normal human behaviour, and although, she may fly off the handle at the flip of a switch, she is my sister, my only sister and I love her dearly. She can always cheer me up when I am down just by uttering the word 'a-wibble' or even 'Bob'. She deserves a wonderful baby shower for my first wee niece and for herself, and so I take on this fairly mammoth task and I take it on almost as excited as I take on being an aunt.

'Baby tasting food' be gone (yes, that's really what was being suggested...), Jane Austen style tea party commense.

I'll keep you all posted...literally.

It's the little things that can be utter shite too...

I might have mentioned that it is the little things in life that lift your spirits and put a smile on your face, such as the sun shinning, but as with most things in life the same can be true in reverse. Meaning of course, it's also the little things that turn your day into one of doom and gloom. I am not one to be dramatic though, clearly. Ahem.

I love the world of social networking but in the same breath, I hate them rather profoundly. They are a great way for lazy people to share information and news with the ones they love, as they are great for finding details you wouldn't ordinarily ask someone. The polite girl inside me performs a wee dance whenever a piece of gossip I would naturally feel too rude to ask is shared for all the world (or 400 or so friends) to read. I don't know about you, but some days when procrastination is in full swing I find myself on photo 365 of not even a friend, but a friend of a friend. At that point alarm bells usually come out in great force screaming 'Shitting Hell, You Don't Even Know This Person! STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER!' I always obey. The screaming then stops and a snide wee 'Weirdo' usually ends my social networking procrastination once and for all. For that day at least. I hasten to add though, that I am no where near needing 'social network rehab' as some poor folk have in Italy. Can you imagine requesting leave from work to attend rehab for your social networking addiction? Oh, the shame can surely get no greater.

However, although I'm far from an addict of such networks, I do like to have a good old stalk now and again, as I have found out do most of my friends. Hurrah for them all, I say (if only to reassure me that I'm not quite so odd). But as my profoundly wise mother has always said to me 'if you eavesdrop or snoop around, you may not always like what you hear or find.' How true those words are, and the really annoying thing is, for me, the majority of what I stumble across that 'upsets/confuses' me is harmless but at that point in time I am not aware its harmless nature and spend hours or even days, depending on the person whose page I have opened, going over what could be meant by a 'like' of a box or a third parties message plastered on a page for all to see. 

During placement, I am all too aware of my emotions and just how many of them I seem to have. This cocktailed with a baffling find or conversation on a social network results in an altogether frustrating evening and frankly, makes me realise how very much I am missing my slumber during this time of placement. And this from a girl who 'doesn't pay enough attention' or 'care enough' in relationships. Fuck me, how do the rest of you cope if I am one who usually shies away from relationships?

Where the bloody hell is Dynasty when you need her with a bottle full of Coke Gold and inappropriate comments?

It's the little things in life...

I know it's an old cliche (still haven't worked out how to put that blasted 'accent' over the damn 'e' yet...bloody thing), but it really rung true last week.  

I don't know about you, but I am not a fan of Monday mornings. Even typing the words produces a snarl on my face. My weekend always rushes past me faster than the Delorean at full speed, and the two short days I have to myself never feel long enough. I have always been atrocious at getting up in the morning, my mum often likes to retell the story, to anyone who will listen, about the time at the age of four I burst into tears and struggled through my sobs to ask if I had 'been naughty' after she informed me that we had to leave the house at 5am to be able to board our ferry (to go on holiday) on time. She still finds this story as funny as the day I broke down in tears all those years ago. She's a woman of simple pleasure, as you can see. I have always been a complete Night Owl and find it far easier to remain awake for hours on end rather than drag myself away from my slumber in the early hours of the morning.

During my time on my teaching practice I have been rising at 6.30am each and every day, which for me is hell. I know it's pitiful to hate mornings as much as I do and I really don't have anything to begrudge or wail about; it's just a morning after all. I do try not to moan; whether I succeed or not is another matter entirely. Ever since I was little I get a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach if I have to wake too early which remains with me for the majority of the day. I am improving though and even prefer it when I have risen early, as I have a far more productive day...what progress! With all this being said, my heart can't help but sink ever so slightly when that alarm goes off at 6.30am on yet another day of pretending to be a teacher.

You can imagine then the great surprise to me last Monday morning when I found myself ready for the school week almost half an hour early. I was even able to have a leisurely breakfast in my kitchen, an entirely alien concept to me, and I still managed to stroll into the school early (I hate to think how smug my smile was...). Not only this, but as I walked the short distance from the arrival spot of my bus to the school itself, I found myself smiling contently. What!? Did I not realise it was way before 8am and I was heading to a mainstream class and not a special needs one?? Who on earth had I turned into? There was only one thing that had changed from all those other tedious mornings heading into school, and that was that the sun was out in full force and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was bloody magnificent! Could that really be the only reason for my good mood though? Yes, in short. It really was as simple as that; the sun was out and everything looked just marvellous, even if it was more than a wee bit nippy. Who knew that such a simple thing could change my morning mood so completely. If you knew me and my general mood during the wee small hours, then you will realise what a one-eighty this was. 

I have in previous posts mentioned my best friend, The Blonde One, but I haven't mentioned that I am lucky enough to have two best friends. Believe me, I know how very 'primary school' that sounds, but it is true. There's not a day go past when I don't smile about how lucky I am to have not one but two girls that I love so completely I couldn't live without them. The more people I meet in my life the more I realise how rare it is to have one friend that you can share your entire world with and I am lucky enough to have two. To rub it in just that bit more, the three of us are as close as I am to each of them separately. I very often get to spend the evening with two of my very favourite people at the same time and it never ceases to amaze me how much fun we have, especially when we are doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.

On Friday night I spent the evening with 'The One That Isn't The Blone One'; ok, that's far too much of a mouth full, so let's just call her 'Dynasty'. I had one of the most enjoyable evenings I have had in a long time. We weren't drinking, we didn't go out anywhere special nor did we have a majorly exciting night-in planned. No, we simply sat on her bed in her Studio apartment in North London drinking far too much Diet Coke Gold and watching Comic Relief. But that's the beauty of a best friend isn't it. I often become far more high and altogether ridiculous when drinking Diet Coke Gold with Dynasty than on an evening out with others I know. I really don't mean this an insult to my other friends, far from it, but there is something about spending time with Dynasty doing very little that always regenerates me so entirely that I leave her feeling as if I have had a long weekend at a spa resort. I know which one my bank balance prefers, and frankly, I bloody well agree. 

This has lead me to the conclusion that it really is the simplest things in life that turn my week around; the sun shinning; getting high on Diet Coke Gold, pondering through the 'buyagift' catalogue to see what delights could await us when we choose to spend Dynasty's gift voucher (our favourite was a Llama experience in Devon...but it's all the way in Devon. Damn you, Devon. Damn you!) and getting mocked for my very dyslexic ways. Oh and *blushes with pride* receiving a hand made card from the most enthusiastic pupil on placement decorated with hearts and the most darling drawing of me as a 'princess'. If I asked his mum nicely, can I keep him??

And now, as I sit here, the sun is shinning once again and I am awaiting the arrival of two of my favourite girls from the University of Shiteland that are guaranteed to help me rant my frustration out as they did all those weeks ago when I first started this blog. Bliss, I tell thee, utter bliss. Sunglasses at the ready...I think so!

P.S. What could I possibly have to moan about after reading that post, I hear you ask? There is always something; as I mentioned once before...ranting is just good for the soul!

Open up my eager eyes...

Recently, after a hard day, I went to the uni pub with several girlfriends and one male friend. As always happens when females and alcohol are mixed together, the conversation turned to relationships. Females drunkenly talking about relationships inevitably turns into 'sex talk' and before too long you are sitting around discussing 'your first time' as openly as if you were discussing your latest Zara purchase. I don't know how this happens, but somehow it does.  

Fear not, this is not going to be a weird sex post, I'm far too catholic for that. I may not mind discussing it with my friends, but physically writing it down and posting it into the world of cyber space for all to read is just a step too far for me.

As the evening went on in the pub it became clear that for most, their first time was either a horrendous experience they would rather not discuss, something they regretted immediately afterwards or just something that was a bit 'bleugh', I think was the word used. I felt a mixture of pride, glee and guilt that my first time was none of those things. Not only do I have no regrets over my first time but I actually just really enjoyed mine, to be honest. The boy is question (hmmm...I think I'll call him 'F1'. If you knew him, the name would make sense) was not a long term boyfriend I had been with for years nor was he an old childhood friend that I had made a pact with (it scares me the number of old school friends of mine that forged such pacts AND followed through with them. What can I say, I attended a secondary school where the majority of pupils, in my year at least, would have been well suited as a cast member of 'Dawson's Creek'), no, F1 was a close friend of The Blonde One who I had a soft spot for for a little while. When we got to know each other properly and started seeing each other, everything just happened very naturally. For those of you that have read previous posts you will be well aware that anything to do with romance must be not be forced and must come as a matter of course. I do realise how very silly I sound, yes, you've no need to worry.

The night in question was all my decision, although he did seem more than a little pleased by it. It was everything a girl could have hoped for in the circumstances, if you'll mind the cliche (how do you get the acute accent on that 'e' on this blog??). I always knew that I was in the minority, so many of my friends can hardly bring themselves to think about their first time, but hearing my young uni friends speaking and ranting about their first time it became all the more clear that I really am tremendously lucky and owe a lot to F1.

I spent some time after this drunken evening trying to work out why my experience seems so different from many of my friends. Why am I lucky enough to look back on the whole experience with fondness? Once again, I'm really not sure. F1 and I weren't 'together' for long as the distance between us (roughly a hundred and forty miles away...I know, I know, when will I find a boy that doesn't reside over a hundred miles from me? I don't make it easy for myself do I?) was too much for a male university student to handle, and frankly, that hurt, but it doesn't take away from anything that happened on that memorable evening. So it clearly wasn't the situation as a whole, I felt almost heart broken afterwards (goodness me, can't girls be dramatic). So what was it? I have racked my brains and the only thing I have come up with is that I waited. That is all. I was not all that young, I was no '40 year old virgin' either, I thank you, but I hadn't just come of age either. I didn't wait for true love, no, I am not that patient, but nor did I jump into bed with the first young whipper snapper that asked me. With a larger than average cup size, men do seem to 'offer' their services rather quickly regardless of whether or not they find you attractive.

I always knew I wanted to wait a while but when I was sixteen my first love broke my heart so whole heartedly that I had no intention of rushing anything. At the time, I felt that if it wasn't with my first love, I just didn't want to bother. The older I got, the more nerve wracking it became, but I still wasn't willing to ruin the fact that I had waited on just 'some guy'. So when F1 and I became closer, I finally felt as if I had waited long enough.

I'm not saying that waiting is the only way to ensure a favourable first time, a friend of mine lost her virginity at a fairly young age and has no regrets whatsoever, but for me, waiting until I had found someone I felt was worthy of being my first has meant that I am lucky enough to look back on my time with F1 and smile, and that will always mean the world to me.

And who says a drunken conversation has to end badly. How little you know.