I’m still off sick today, still with viscous and alarmingly-fluorescent-coloured fluids coming from all my facial orifices and pain from the offensive that said fluids are mounting on my sinuses. Wonderful. However I managed to sleep in a bit this morning which has helped a little I think, along with all the drugs. Legal drugs, I hasten to add.
So this afternoon has mainly been spent watching American sitcoms on Comedy Central. I turned the TV on yesterday and some frighteningly upbeat American chat show host called Rachel Rae was enthusing loudly about secret weddings so I switched it straight off again, my ears ringing. But today has reminded me of back a few years ago when we were living in England.
Yawksha Boy was still a student and was working part time in retail a few nights a week and on Sunday afternoons. I was working full time during the week and spent the time he was out of the house on Sundays tidying up our cheap housing association flat, vacuuming, doing dishes, etc, and then finally relaxing in front of ABC1 , watching repeats of American sitcoms while drinking a nice cup of tea and munching on freshly baked chocolate chip cookies from the supermarket down the road that we’d bought that morning. I loved those afternoons, just watching mindless fluff, giggling every now and then and just truly relaxing for what was probably the only time of the week.
Today I’m watching different repeats of different sitcoms, on a different channel, in a different house, in a different country, sitting on a different sofa, drinking from a different mug and today there are no cookies. However the TV is still the same one (as we’re perpetually broke and can’t afford a new one), the tea is the same brand and the vibe is the same... well except for the congealed snot aspect... My afternoon has been divided up into half-hour slots, my mind temporarily transported from my sore head and the tissue box into various mixed-up families, misunderstandings and one-liners. Bliss.
It just struck me that some of the simple things in life stay the same no matter where you are or what you’re doing. And that’s kind of nice.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
To all the men I’ve loved before – Part 2
It’s been a while since I wrote part 1 but life has been crazy. I’m off work today, sick with a bad cold mixed with chronic sinus problems and coughing up things that should not come from human beings, so I took the opportunity to reread one of my favourite feel-good books, Where Rainbows End, by Cecilia Ahern. It’s not written in the traditional novel narrative format, but instead takes the form of written correspondence (notes, emails, letters, text messages etc) between two best friends, a boy and a girl, and their friends and family. It follows them from seven years old until they are fifty, divorced and with children of their own. It’s a lovely story but today and every time I’ve read it in the past, it has reminded me of my own male best friend in parts. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not secretly in undying love with him (as you’ll come to read) but we have always had a strange, almost-psychic, connection like the best friends in book, and we too have had our own near misses with romance.
We first met when we were 11 years old. I was the year above him in high school but, as I’ve mentioned before in part 1 of this blog, I was pretty awkward through most of my first years at high school and so any friend, regardless of age, was more than welcome. Near the start of my second year (his first year) we each decided to join the school junior drama club. We hadn’t met at this point. The drama club took place after school once a week and, although the main purpose was to practice and put on plays, the first few classes of the year were all about building self-confidence and encouraging our acting ability. Being so shy, I was far from a natural. However one day we had to get into groups, make up an advertisement for something and then be filmed performing it.
What we were advertising I have no idea but two things about that day have stuck with me; firstly, my part involved spinning round in circles from the back of the scene, round in a circle right up in front of the camera and then off to the side, yelling “weeeeeeeeeee!” (what the HELL were we advertising, LSD?!), and secondly that one of the younger boys in the group was really nice and made me laugh, even though I was massively embarrassed about everyone in the group watching our ad back with the chubby, awkward girl spinning wildly yelling “weeeeeeeeeeee!”. The next day I noticed he actually got on the school bus at my bus stop in the mornings. I can’t remember which of us started speaking to the other first but at some point we started meeting at the bus stop every morning and chattering and laughing away.
Somehow, even though we were in different years, we saw a lot of each other. We were in the school choir together that year as well as drama class and seeing each other at the bus stop. I still have a photograph of the junior choir from that year – we both look so innocent, these two little pale baby faces with dark hair, looking oh-so-proud to be in a big important photo of a group we both loved being in. If only they knew that most of our conversations included him calling me a ho. Innocent indeed! You know, I’ve been trying to think of a name for him but my nicknames for him over the years have been deeply uncomplimentary (that’s how we roll!) and it’s hard to sum him up into one name. I think I shall call him Drama Dude, both because of how we met and because of the melodramatics that seem to follow him to this very day. Grand so. On with the show!
My memories of the first couple of years at school are quite fuzzy, but one incident I could never forget (for reasons that will become apparent) relates specifically to my darling best friend, Drama Dude. In school, as is still the case today, I made friends with males more easily than with girls. I thought (and actually still do to be honest!) that girls are bitchy and two-faced and complicated, whereas boys are funny, straight-talking and downright honest, whether you want them to be or not! I’m a lazy girl at heart and couldn’t be bothered spending time analysing what every remark anyone said really truly meant when I could just be having a laugh. If my male friends were annoyed with me they told me straight away and directly what I’d done to annoy them – I could then apologise, fix it and everything could go back to normal. Brilliant.
The only problem with having so many male friends and not thinking or acting like a typical girl was that I was a bit of a tomboy. This was fine with me most of the time – I preferred to have a dirty chuckle about the latest sex term we had discovered with the boys rather than discussing glittery nail polish and who fancies who in the class (OMG!) with the girls. The only problem was that the more the boys got to know me, the more they confided in me and the more affectionate they were with me, and that while to them, I was just their chubby, friendly mate, I systematically developed a crush on each and every one of them throughout high school.
I first developed a crush on Drama Dude around Christmas of our first year together in school. It wasn’t anything serious and, since I had decided no boys would ever be interested in me, I never planned to do anything about it. I just spent my daydreams doodling our initials and little hearts on my books, like all the Sweet Valley High books told me I should be doing. And then, magically, at the start of February, he invited me to go with him to the school Valentines Day disco!
Well! I was flabbergasted but very excited. I remember spending ages thinking what I should wear to look less fat and also kinda cool. Like I said, I was a tomboy, so skirts were out, and I was chubby, so anything tight was out too. I ended up wearing some dark jeans and some kind of ugly, peach, white and blue checked shirt underneath a black sweatshirt. I remember thinking I looked awful compared to the other girls but I didn’t really mind. At this point I wasn’t expecting anything to happen with Drama Dude, just that we would have a laugh. I think I was just hoping he would ask me to dance at one point so I wouldn’t look like a complete loser. You have to remember that we were both 11 – I was due to be 12 the next month, but still we were very young.
And do you know, he did ask me to dance. We had a laugh and chatted as predicted but we danced to the Macarena with everyone else and to a few songs with a girl from my year and her boyfriend from Drama Dude’s class as a four. Then at one point we danced, just the two of us, to One and One by Robert Miles. It was the first time I had ever danced with a non family member and I remember thinking it was so romantic because of the song title (I know but I was 11!). Shortly after, we were both supposed to be picked up by our parents, so we left the main hall and started walking down to the car park. As we left the school building, he took my hand and smiled at me in this really shy way. I remember thinking he was so sweet and really very cute.
We stood, hanging off the metal bars in the car park, like you do when you’re 12 (the world is a playground) and chatted and laughed. Then he went quiet, came over and stood in front of me and said thank you for coming with him. And, as the song goes, then he kissed me. He put his arms around me to hug me, and then kissed me on the cheek, just near my mouth, I reciprocated and then he kissed me again in around the same place – 3 little pecks in total. It was entirely innocent and cute – perfect first date behaviour for two 11 year olds! Shortly after his mum drove in and we waved goodbye. Then my mum came, picked me up and I went home smiling and floating on air, thinking it was the most romantic night of my life.
I rang him the next day because we’d made some half-assed plans about going swimming, but suddenly he couldn’t make it and from the tone of his voice I just knew that the night before had been a one-off – he wasn’t going to be my boyfriend. But that was ok – I could go back to being the friend with the unrequited crush again and have the memory of his soft lips on my cheek and his hair brushing my forehead.
That would have been that too, but what we didn’t know was that the fella from his class (you know, the one we’d been dancing with whose girlfriend was in my year) had been coming down the path just as we had our innocent little romantic encounter. Somehow, whether it be from exaggeration on his part, Chinese whispers or just a bad view of what happened, by the time we went back to school on Monday it was all around our classes that we had snogged in the car park after the disco. At first we denied – after all, a couple of innocent little pecks on the cheek and a hug is NOT a snog – but when people interrogate you and ask if you kissed, and you say yes, they make up their own stories anyway.
I was a bit wary of our friendship going south because of all these rumours – after all how would this shy, sweet little boy take to everyone teasing him about snogging the fat, nerdy girl from the year above? But for the first time in our friendship (but not the last), he pleasantly surprised me with his strength of character. He laughed away the rumours and told people to mind their own business and resumed his post as my friend. I was relieved let me tell you, although I’ll admit, a bit disappointed at the time that he didn’t ask me out or try to kiss me again.
Shortly after, I realised quite how strong my feelings were getting for Musical Guy so my crush on Drama Dude faded away. At the same time our friendship grew. We had even more in common now, having joined the school orchestra playing the same instrument at around the same level (he was slightly more advanced than me) and we hung around together a lot during school. As time went on, we became even closer and more flirty with each other (I would say teenage hormones but we never did outgrow it!). He had other girlfriends outside school and crushes on girls in school, meanwhile I had been falling more and more head over heels for Musical Guy, but yet we continued to flirt and be affectionate with each other.
In around February of 1999 (we would have been 14), the flirting had reached frenzy point. I had gotten used to just being Musical Guy’s right-hand-gal rather than anything more and figured I deserved a little interest from somebody. Besides, Drama Dude had been going through that whole overnight growing up thing that boys do at around 13 or 14 where they suddenly go from being little boys to big, tall, lanky teenagers with more defined features and raging hormones, and to be honest I did quite fancy him. He was taller than me now, which was always a plus to a 5’ 6” 14-year-old girl.
I can’t quite remember how it happened but I think it went that some female friends of mine figured out I fancied him and asked him if he wanted to go out with me. I was fully expecting the answer to be no and prepared myself for the embarrassment and fallout of him knowing I liked him and not liking me back. I nearly fell over with joy when the answer came back that, yes, he would. And so, we started “going out”.
The problem was that we had been friends for so long that, apart from the flirting, we didn’t quite know what to do with ourselves. I was still very self-conscious and not entirely convinced he actually fancied me back so I was reluctant to make the first move. However I did spend my days wondering if he was ever going to kiss me, or at least hold my hand. I know we were only 14 but bear in mind that the school corridors were full of couples from our years draped all over each other, swapping saliva with the best of them. Unfortunately it was one of those situations where, the longer it went on, the harder it was going to be for either of to make the first move.
Eventually it was a third party, a mutual friend, who called us on it when we were on our way to see a musical on a school trip. She practically ordered us to hold hands. I don’t know which of us was more afraid, and whether we were more afraid of taking this first step towards getting physical or of the barking Sergeant-Major behind us, egging us on. Well, first of all we held hands like you do when you’re little and you’re holding hands to cross the road. It wasn’t very romantic anyway but then our bossy friend said we were “doing it wrong” and that we should link our fingers instead because it was more romantic that way. I’m not sure which of us wanted to punch her more but we obliged her. That day we held hands on the bus, on the stairs in the theatre and during the musical. I kept waiting for the spark to come but it felt more comfortable than anything else. We smiled sheepishly at each other throughout the day but no matter how much I willed him to kiss me, it never happened.
In fact, during the whole 3 weeks or so we “went out”, we never did more than hold hands. For one thing, we were never alone! We had too many friends around us all the time and then, on the bus home, where we were usually at our flirtiest and most affectionate, we now had to put up with people yelling down the bus, “Have you snogged her yet?” and snickering. I should mention that this included my little sister! I was a romantic at heart though and I still really did fancy him, so I kept my hopes up every morning – maybe that would be the day he would suggest we take a walk when we got to school, he would take my hand, pull me into some dark corner and take my breath away with the softest, most passionate kiss. But it never happened.
Then one day, at the bus stop, he said those magic words that started on the TV show Friends and must have been used as a get-out clause by millions worldwide ever since: “I think we should go on a break... you know, like in Friends, like Ross and Rachel, hahaha!”. We were both fans of the show at the time and it seemed like a terribly adult way to back out of something that was going nowhere with both of our dignities intact, and so I readily agreed. I remember it was nearly my birthday and I wasn’t too amused to have been dumped just beforehand but I soon realised that it made absolutely no difference to our relationship. Actually it may well have improved without the strain of trying to make it physical when really all we were was flirtatious close friends. Besides, I knew deep down that he couldn’t hold a candle to Musical Guy who I was still pining after, worse than ever.
Strange things began to happen when I started sixth year. Musical Guy started treating me badly and Drama Dude gallantly filled his place, supporting me when my heart was broken. And then when I was filled with anger and hate, he calmed me down and made me laugh. There wasn’t much competition for the position of my best friend when Musical Guy vacated it, but regardless, Drama Dude had sneaked up on the inside lane so gradually that I can’t quite remember the first time I called him my best friend. All I know is that by sixth year he definitely held the title and told me in no uncertain terms that I was his best friend too. It was nice to hear.
We had a strange relationship though and I don’t think anyone quite understood it. In some ways we were so flirtatious with each other that people frequently told us to get a room. Yet in others, we were more like brother and sister. To be honest I didn’t care about defining our relationship, all I knew was that when I was with him, I felt safe and, for lack of a better word, cherished. He made me feel interesting and funny when I spent the rest of my life feeling awkward and fat. He let me snuggle into his shoulder to doze or for a cuddle on the bus on the way home from school when I was exhausted from studying for my A-levels, only occasionally pretending to push my head down towards his crotch and sniggering in a dirty way.
Admittedly, I think at one point in our last year at school together I may have also put a letter in his pocket telling him I fancied him again but didn’t expect it to be reciprocated – I was sure I couldn’t be imagining the chemistry when we flirted and that it would be different if we went out again now we were older. He told me he didn’t see me that way and I laughed it off and said I thought as much. Again, just when I thought I’d done or said something that would push us apart, it brought us closer together. Perhaps he was just used to my quirky ways or perhaps there’s truth in that old quote from the Sound of Music, "There's nothing more irresistible to a man than a woman who's in love with him." (or fancies him at least). In retrospect I’m glad nothing happened because at the very end of high school I met Yawksha Boy and soon learned what true love really was. I know I sound like the lyrics from a power ballad but I’m just being honest.
When it was time for me to leave school, I felt emotional about not seeing Drama Dude every day any more, but I thought it was just me overreacting until one day he asked what he was going to do without me and looked genuinely upset.
So what happened between us since we say our emotional goodbyes after my last day of school?
Well, the short version is that after a year apart (during which he became very angsty!) he came to the same university as I did, we were delighted to be together again, I introduced him to my new friends there who quickly adopted him as one of the gang, I left him to move to England with Yawksha Boy, he became closer to one of my new best friends, I returned a couple of years later, they welcomed me back into the fold, we quickly became a three and then a five when we adopted my sister and another old school friend into our little gang, he moved away for work for a year, came back for a year and then moved away again, which brings us to now!
We stay in touch via email while we’re apart but we’re both kind of rubbish at remembering. The weird part is that when we meet up, after a couple of minutes, it’s just the same as it always was. Oh, well, with 2 main differences: firstly, Yawksha Boy does not like him, which makes things very awkward; and secondly, a couple of years ago he came out as being bisexual and has been exclusively in relationships with other men since then!
For anyone interested in the romance aspect, we eventually did kiss on the lips, very briefly after drink was taken one night, years after I spent those days at school daydreaming about those dark corners. It was a strange experience, mainly because I'd spent yearly idly wondering what it might be like to kiss him. However when it finally happened it was purely as (very drunk) friends and neither of us wanted to go down that road – he’s just an almighty scoundrel when he’s had one too many red wines and he loves the drama, hence the nickname!
The conclusion of this merry tale is that Drama Dude is not so much a man I loved before, as one I still so dearly care for now. He’s my very best friend in the world (partners excluded) and I only hope he knows how grateful I am for all the support he has shown me over the years, for the confidence and laughter he gave me and just for being my best friend. One of the only major fights I have had with Yawksha Boy has been about my friendship with Drama Dude but I would never give him up, for the love of my life or anyone else. He means too much to me; I hope we’re still finishing each other’s sentences and sharing the gossip about his dramas when we’re 60 years old. I’m taking it from the amount of times he told me he loved me and that I’m his “bessfren” when he was drunk recently that he feels the same. However until we start meeting up for the early bird special, we should probably keep in touch more. So, my darling best friend, if you ever read this and you’re not horrified beyond words at my thoughts, past or present, drop me a line and let me know how you are. Love you always x
Saturday, 18 April 2009
To my darling other half...
I haven’t written you a letter in about 7 years but I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.
At this moment you’re on the phone, struggling between sympathising with your sister’s problems and giving her tough love, and even though she’s so upset and you don’t want to hurt her, your advice is just right. I don’t think it’s just because I made you sit through the entire box set of Sex and the City (twice) but instead it’s because you’re an amazing person. You hate to see anyone you care about hurt and if getting through to them means telling it like it is then so be it. I love you for that.
I also love you for cuddling me and joking around with me at the football when the other guys are ignoring their girlfriends and concentrating on the match, and for jumping around like an eejit and screaming with me when our team score a goal. I love you for not even considering letting me pay to go to the match when you know I’m constantly broke. I love you for cooking me dinner every other night and washing the dishes when other men expect their female other half to take care of all that stuff. I love you for going along with my whacky ideas like moving to a house the same as our current one in exactly the same street, just because you know it will make me happy. I love you for really listening to me when I explain why I’m annoyed and actually taking what I say on board. I love you for rubbing my back when it’s “that time of the month” and I feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside. I love you for offering me the computer when you really want to be on it yourself. I love you for trying to keep me on track with all the important things like packing for the move, eating healthily, not drinking too much and not spending too much, even when you know I’ll shout at you for it. And these are all just examples of things you have done for me today. Some women are lucky to feel like their other halves even notice them, let alone value them or care about them, once a week never mind a zillion times a day.
But it’s not just the things you do for me that make me love you. I love you just for who you are. You’re clever, witty, funny, a little bit weird, very cute with those big bambi eyes of yours and just so very kind and lovely. I could start to look up a thesaurus but I would be here all night and really all I want to say is thank you – thank you for being you and for loving me, and for loving your family so much. You are so wonderful and I genuinely don’t know what we would do without you... so don’t be going anywhere!
You’re an angel and I must have been REALLY good in a past life to deserve even knowing you never mind being loved by you. I can’t wait to be your wife and one day (not too soon though!) to hopefully have your beautiful babies. I can’t wait for us to go on adventures, to see new places (and take lots of photos!) and to experience new things together (nothing too kinky though!). I love you so much and just wanted you to know that.
Goodnight my husband to be – love you always xxxxxxx
At this moment you’re on the phone, struggling between sympathising with your sister’s problems and giving her tough love, and even though she’s so upset and you don’t want to hurt her, your advice is just right. I don’t think it’s just because I made you sit through the entire box set of Sex and the City (twice) but instead it’s because you’re an amazing person. You hate to see anyone you care about hurt and if getting through to them means telling it like it is then so be it. I love you for that.
I also love you for cuddling me and joking around with me at the football when the other guys are ignoring their girlfriends and concentrating on the match, and for jumping around like an eejit and screaming with me when our team score a goal. I love you for not even considering letting me pay to go to the match when you know I’m constantly broke. I love you for cooking me dinner every other night and washing the dishes when other men expect their female other half to take care of all that stuff. I love you for going along with my whacky ideas like moving to a house the same as our current one in exactly the same street, just because you know it will make me happy. I love you for really listening to me when I explain why I’m annoyed and actually taking what I say on board. I love you for rubbing my back when it’s “that time of the month” and I feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside. I love you for offering me the computer when you really want to be on it yourself. I love you for trying to keep me on track with all the important things like packing for the move, eating healthily, not drinking too much and not spending too much, even when you know I’ll shout at you for it. And these are all just examples of things you have done for me today. Some women are lucky to feel like their other halves even notice them, let alone value them or care about them, once a week never mind a zillion times a day.
But it’s not just the things you do for me that make me love you. I love you just for who you are. You’re clever, witty, funny, a little bit weird, very cute with those big bambi eyes of yours and just so very kind and lovely. I could start to look up a thesaurus but I would be here all night and really all I want to say is thank you – thank you for being you and for loving me, and for loving your family so much. You are so wonderful and I genuinely don’t know what we would do without you... so don’t be going anywhere!
You’re an angel and I must have been REALLY good in a past life to deserve even knowing you never mind being loved by you. I can’t wait to be your wife and one day (not too soon though!) to hopefully have your beautiful babies. I can’t wait for us to go on adventures, to see new places (and take lots of photos!) and to experience new things together (nothing too kinky though!). I love you so much and just wanted you to know that.
Goodnight my husband to be – love you always xxxxxxx
Friday, 17 April 2009
Here comes the bride, 40 inches wide...
So in around 30 weeks time I will be facing one of the biggest challenges of my life so far. If it’s going to end up happy ever after, it will take commitment and sacrifices on my part. Sure, people can offer support and encouragement from the sidelines but at the end of the day it’s down to me to make it work. It’s a scary thought but it will be worth it.
I am, of course, talking about being stared at and photographed in my wedding dress. Oh you thought I meant entering the holy state of matrimony and abiding by all the vows I’m going to make? Nah – compared to getting me looking even vaguely attractive on the big day, the actual marriage will be wee buns; in fact I am very much looking forward to being Mrs Yawksha Boy! It’s the day itself I fear…
I was looking through some old family photos last night and one thing struck me… I am possibly the least photogenic person, like, ever. Ok maybe not when I was a cute wee 3 year old with pigtails, but since I was a bit older all the photos of me are just awful! And what didn’t help? Yawksha Boy not only agreeing to this but then adding “but it’s only because you look like a boy in them…”. Thanks, darling one, that makes me feel a whole lot better. Although it was useful in that I now know not to surprise him with a bowl cut on our wedding day. You see the sacrifices I make?
Anyways, the whole point is that I am a bit weird-looking and also very incredibly chunky (not helped much by my recent post-lent-celebratory alcohol consumption and Easter sweeties!). I can’t do much about the weird-looking side of things but that’s what we’re paying a make-up artist for (yuck, make-up… hate the stuff). However the chunky thing I can try.
I’ve written before (I think – or was that just in my head?) about how I lost over 5 stone doing Weight Watchers and then lost all my motivation and have since put about 2 stone back on again. Well, I’m still not going back to the classes but yesterday I started doing their Core Plan again from my old books to try and turn this thing around. Even if I lost 1lb per week for 30 weeks, that’s only the 2 stone I’ve gained back gone, so I need to get my ass in gear. I need to be planning my meals, making healthy choices and resisting all the bad treats (except alcohol – a girl’s gotta live!). I also, when we’ve finished moving all our belongings and furniture about 20 metres across the road, need to get back to the gym before what little muscle tone I have disappears on me again.
But what doesn’t help? People trying to help. I think once upon a time I asked for Yawksha Boy’s assistance in trying to keep me on the dieting straight and narrow and I’m sure at the time I meant it, but ever since he and my mother have started trying to help me by shouting at me when I want something unhealthy and banning me from certain things, the rebel in me has been all, like, “Woah, just who do you think you are? I’m a grown woman and I’ll have what I damn well please!”
But the thing is, I know now that I don’t react well to this sort of pressure. I joined Weight Watchers and started trying to lose weight before I was even engaged, so there was no pressure on me to slim down for a wedding. And since Yawksha Boy and my mother had seen my harebrained schemes to lose weight fail a million times before, they were watching me mainly with interest rather than judging me to start with. That worked for me – no pressure, no timescales, just a gentle meander down the path of weight loss, getting gradually healthier as I went about my daily business. I even enjoyed the challenge at times. But whenever everyone is all, “no you can’t have that” or “you shouldn’t be eating that” or “ah now don’t be bold”, where’s the fun? Surely it’s up to me what I eat or don’t eat and how quickly or slowly I want to lose weight? Enuff wit da pressure peeps! Let me just do my thing. By all means commiserate with me if I gain weight or cheer for me when I lose it, but let it just be my own little thing, ‘kay?
Anyway that was a bit of a tangent from my original topic of the wedding day photos and people staring at me. I am genuinely bricking it about that side of thing. Everyone in my family keeps saying they can’t wait for the wedding and it’ll be brilliant, etc. Like, eek! There’s that pressure again. I really don’t want to turn up looking like your stereotypical plus size bride, all pink, flushed-looking, chubby cheeks, fat arms squeezed really tight by sleeves that are too narrow and the dress straining across a big sticky-out belly. There’s only so much that control underwear can hold in! I know that even if I do lose some weight (or even a good bit of weight) before the big day, I’ll still be a plus size bride, but there are variations on a theme and all I really want is for people to look at me or the photos of the day and think “nice dress!” or “good hair!” and for my size not to even occur to them. Some chance but there’s there dream anyway.
So, today for breakfast I had porridge (that exploded all over the office microwave – oops) and for lunch I had a packet of microwave brown rice – the thrills! No sauce, no accompaniment, just plain ol’ rice. For dessert I may have some tinned peach slices. Well, it may not be exciting but if I can walk down the aisle and just concentrate on marrying the gorgeous man (hopefully!) waiting for me at the end of it rather than worrying how big my bum looks to the congregation, it will all be worth it. Must remember that next time Asda have a sale on Hagen-Daaz!
I am, of course, talking about being stared at and photographed in my wedding dress. Oh you thought I meant entering the holy state of matrimony and abiding by all the vows I’m going to make? Nah – compared to getting me looking even vaguely attractive on the big day, the actual marriage will be wee buns; in fact I am very much looking forward to being Mrs Yawksha Boy! It’s the day itself I fear…
I was looking through some old family photos last night and one thing struck me… I am possibly the least photogenic person, like, ever. Ok maybe not when I was a cute wee 3 year old with pigtails, but since I was a bit older all the photos of me are just awful! And what didn’t help? Yawksha Boy not only agreeing to this but then adding “but it’s only because you look like a boy in them…”. Thanks, darling one, that makes me feel a whole lot better. Although it was useful in that I now know not to surprise him with a bowl cut on our wedding day. You see the sacrifices I make?
Anyways, the whole point is that I am a bit weird-looking and also very incredibly chunky (not helped much by my recent post-lent-celebratory alcohol consumption and Easter sweeties!). I can’t do much about the weird-looking side of things but that’s what we’re paying a make-up artist for (yuck, make-up… hate the stuff). However the chunky thing I can try.
I’ve written before (I think – or was that just in my head?) about how I lost over 5 stone doing Weight Watchers and then lost all my motivation and have since put about 2 stone back on again. Well, I’m still not going back to the classes but yesterday I started doing their Core Plan again from my old books to try and turn this thing around. Even if I lost 1lb per week for 30 weeks, that’s only the 2 stone I’ve gained back gone, so I need to get my ass in gear. I need to be planning my meals, making healthy choices and resisting all the bad treats (except alcohol – a girl’s gotta live!). I also, when we’ve finished moving all our belongings and furniture about 20 metres across the road, need to get back to the gym before what little muscle tone I have disappears on me again.
But what doesn’t help? People trying to help. I think once upon a time I asked for Yawksha Boy’s assistance in trying to keep me on the dieting straight and narrow and I’m sure at the time I meant it, but ever since he and my mother have started trying to help me by shouting at me when I want something unhealthy and banning me from certain things, the rebel in me has been all, like, “Woah, just who do you think you are? I’m a grown woman and I’ll have what I damn well please!”
But the thing is, I know now that I don’t react well to this sort of pressure. I joined Weight Watchers and started trying to lose weight before I was even engaged, so there was no pressure on me to slim down for a wedding. And since Yawksha Boy and my mother had seen my harebrained schemes to lose weight fail a million times before, they were watching me mainly with interest rather than judging me to start with. That worked for me – no pressure, no timescales, just a gentle meander down the path of weight loss, getting gradually healthier as I went about my daily business. I even enjoyed the challenge at times. But whenever everyone is all, “no you can’t have that” or “you shouldn’t be eating that” or “ah now don’t be bold”, where’s the fun? Surely it’s up to me what I eat or don’t eat and how quickly or slowly I want to lose weight? Enuff wit da pressure peeps! Let me just do my thing. By all means commiserate with me if I gain weight or cheer for me when I lose it, but let it just be my own little thing, ‘kay?
Anyway that was a bit of a tangent from my original topic of the wedding day photos and people staring at me. I am genuinely bricking it about that side of thing. Everyone in my family keeps saying they can’t wait for the wedding and it’ll be brilliant, etc. Like, eek! There’s that pressure again. I really don’t want to turn up looking like your stereotypical plus size bride, all pink, flushed-looking, chubby cheeks, fat arms squeezed really tight by sleeves that are too narrow and the dress straining across a big sticky-out belly. There’s only so much that control underwear can hold in! I know that even if I do lose some weight (or even a good bit of weight) before the big day, I’ll still be a plus size bride, but there are variations on a theme and all I really want is for people to look at me or the photos of the day and think “nice dress!” or “good hair!” and for my size not to even occur to them. Some chance but there’s there dream anyway.
So, today for breakfast I had porridge (that exploded all over the office microwave – oops) and for lunch I had a packet of microwave brown rice – the thrills! No sauce, no accompaniment, just plain ol’ rice. For dessert I may have some tinned peach slices. Well, it may not be exciting but if I can walk down the aisle and just concentrate on marrying the gorgeous man (hopefully!) waiting for me at the end of it rather than worrying how big my bum looks to the congregation, it will all be worth it. Must remember that next time Asda have a sale on Hagen-Daaz!
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Happy Easter
Well, another Easter has officially dawned and millions will be tucking into their chocolate eggs with great glee as we speak. I have a food intolerance to chocolate so instead Yawksha Boy thoughtfully bought me a box of Thorntons fudge (nom!) and some marshmallows and 2 little sponge cakes from Marks and Spencers (more nom!). My mother also managed to track down a plastic egg full of Haribo for me (even more nom!) so I can enjoy the holiday even without an easter egg. Saying that I’ve only been up for half an hour and am already feeling more than slightly sickly. Best put the fudge and mallows away for a little while I think!
For me Easter is a bitter-sweet kind of holiday, much like Christmas or any other festivity associated with Christianity. On the one hand, I get to drink and eat more lovely things than usual and I get to not go to work for a couple of days – bliss! But on the other hand there is always a kind of shadow hanging over the celebrations for me – I think it’s called guilt.
You see, since I was no age at all I was sent to Sunday School to learn how to be a good little Christian girl. Once I even went to Bible Camp! When I got a bit older I went to a scary kind of church (very evangelical with an over-zealous preacher who the entire congregation worshipped as if he was Christ himself – freaky man!), which was far too over the top for the beliefs that I have developed but it was my weekly chance to think about my faith and thank The Man Upstairs.
While I was at school, if anyone had asked me if I was a Christian, I would have said yes, definitely. Don’t get me wrong, I was far from a religious goody-two-shoes: I often forgot to pray before I fell asleep at night, I never read the bible except in Sunday School/Church and my conversations with my friends were, well, less than stereotypically Christian (I don’t think all the goody-two-shoes little Christian children would have asked their maths teacher if she ate the placenta when she had her baby or would have allowed their best friends to jokingly call them a “ho” every day).
But I had always been taught that although a “Good” Christian tries to live like Christ and be pure in thought and deed, to be a Christian, all you had to do was believe in the Holy Trinity – that God sent his son Jesus as the Jewish Messiah to live the perfect Jewish life and then to die in awful unspeakably painful ways on the cross to save the souls of future generations, so that all we had to do was believe and hey presto we’ll end up in heaven. Well, great, I do believe that – I am a Christian!
However (and isn’t there always some kind of “But...”?) if you are brought up in the Christian Church, you are encouraged to be a goody-two-shoes type of Christian. You are told to live your life according to the advice in the bible – you know, your body is a temple so don’t be gluttonous, get tattoos or piercings and don’t have sex before marriage, etc, etc. These two ideas seem to contradict each other to me and this is what leads to confusion – not only for me but for a lot of the other 20-somethings I’ve spoken to about this who were brought up as Christians.
So, let me get this straight? I get to go to heaven even though I live with Yawksha Boy before we’re married, I have a tattoo and I binge eat and drink, just because I believe that Jesus died for our sins? Well then why did my friend feel it was so important, if not essential, to remain tattooless and skinny, not to drink alcohol and to live celibately with her mum and dad until the day she got married? Is there a sliding scale of Christianity? Is she up there with the saints at the top as a “Good Christian”? Are people who believe in Jesus but go out on the piss and sleep around “Bad Christians”. And where does that leave me?
Or is it more of an on/off switch kind of idea? If you do everything you’re supposed to according to the bible are you a “Good Christian” or if you do even one thing “wrong”, are you a “Bad Christian”? And what does that all mean? We “Bad Christians” don’t get to go to heaven after all? Or do we live in a sort of heavenly shanty town for people who weren’t quite so wonderful instead of the “mansion” Jesus promised?
Having spoken to some friends who feel the same as I do about this, we were all a bit confused about this. We concluded that if you have been a “Bad Christian”, the way to become a “Good Christian” again is to apologise (repent!) for our sins... but what if you’re not really sorry? Don’t get me wrong, I never wanted to live with my future husband before I married him but it was the only practical way our relationship was going to work and we’re happy together. So I’m not sorry. I feel guilty to a certain extent but not enough to apologise sincerely and say “I’ll never do it again God!”, because we’re not getting married until November and yet we’re about to move into another house together – and I’m happy about that. So if I died tomorrow, would I go to hell because I knew what I had been doing was wrong and wasn’t sorry? But then what about the whole “all you have to do is believe” thing? It’s a minefield!
So now, if someone asks me if I am a Christian, I never know what to say. I don’t feel worthy enough to say yes because I do “sinful” things and I’m not sorry about it. But on the other hand I do believe. I would ask someone who knows the bible inside and out, like a minister or some such, but I don’t go to Church either – not because I don’t want to but because I can’t find one that fits with my beliefs. Although to be honest I haven’t made much of an effort, having been happy just to “believe”. Does this make me a semi-Christian? Answers on a postcard...
So this morning I said a little prayer, thanking Jesus for dying for us and thanking God for sacrificing his son to those horrible vicious people for a pile of modern-day ingrates like me. Despite Yawksha Boy thinking that religion is entirely stupid, I still do have my own faith and I am genuinely grateful. I just wish I knew if being grateful is enough...
But enough religious ponderings for now. I hope everyone has a lovely Easter, whatever their beliefs.
For me Easter is a bitter-sweet kind of holiday, much like Christmas or any other festivity associated with Christianity. On the one hand, I get to drink and eat more lovely things than usual and I get to not go to work for a couple of days – bliss! But on the other hand there is always a kind of shadow hanging over the celebrations for me – I think it’s called guilt.
You see, since I was no age at all I was sent to Sunday School to learn how to be a good little Christian girl. Once I even went to Bible Camp! When I got a bit older I went to a scary kind of church (very evangelical with an over-zealous preacher who the entire congregation worshipped as if he was Christ himself – freaky man!), which was far too over the top for the beliefs that I have developed but it was my weekly chance to think about my faith and thank The Man Upstairs.
While I was at school, if anyone had asked me if I was a Christian, I would have said yes, definitely. Don’t get me wrong, I was far from a religious goody-two-shoes: I often forgot to pray before I fell asleep at night, I never read the bible except in Sunday School/Church and my conversations with my friends were, well, less than stereotypically Christian (I don’t think all the goody-two-shoes little Christian children would have asked their maths teacher if she ate the placenta when she had her baby or would have allowed their best friends to jokingly call them a “ho” every day).
But I had always been taught that although a “Good” Christian tries to live like Christ and be pure in thought and deed, to be a Christian, all you had to do was believe in the Holy Trinity – that God sent his son Jesus as the Jewish Messiah to live the perfect Jewish life and then to die in awful unspeakably painful ways on the cross to save the souls of future generations, so that all we had to do was believe and hey presto we’ll end up in heaven. Well, great, I do believe that – I am a Christian!
However (and isn’t there always some kind of “But...”?) if you are brought up in the Christian Church, you are encouraged to be a goody-two-shoes type of Christian. You are told to live your life according to the advice in the bible – you know, your body is a temple so don’t be gluttonous, get tattoos or piercings and don’t have sex before marriage, etc, etc. These two ideas seem to contradict each other to me and this is what leads to confusion – not only for me but for a lot of the other 20-somethings I’ve spoken to about this who were brought up as Christians.
So, let me get this straight? I get to go to heaven even though I live with Yawksha Boy before we’re married, I have a tattoo and I binge eat and drink, just because I believe that Jesus died for our sins? Well then why did my friend feel it was so important, if not essential, to remain tattooless and skinny, not to drink alcohol and to live celibately with her mum and dad until the day she got married? Is there a sliding scale of Christianity? Is she up there with the saints at the top as a “Good Christian”? Are people who believe in Jesus but go out on the piss and sleep around “Bad Christians”. And where does that leave me?
Or is it more of an on/off switch kind of idea? If you do everything you’re supposed to according to the bible are you a “Good Christian” or if you do even one thing “wrong”, are you a “Bad Christian”? And what does that all mean? We “Bad Christians” don’t get to go to heaven after all? Or do we live in a sort of heavenly shanty town for people who weren’t quite so wonderful instead of the “mansion” Jesus promised?
Having spoken to some friends who feel the same as I do about this, we were all a bit confused about this. We concluded that if you have been a “Bad Christian”, the way to become a “Good Christian” again is to apologise (repent!) for our sins... but what if you’re not really sorry? Don’t get me wrong, I never wanted to live with my future husband before I married him but it was the only practical way our relationship was going to work and we’re happy together. So I’m not sorry. I feel guilty to a certain extent but not enough to apologise sincerely and say “I’ll never do it again God!”, because we’re not getting married until November and yet we’re about to move into another house together – and I’m happy about that. So if I died tomorrow, would I go to hell because I knew what I had been doing was wrong and wasn’t sorry? But then what about the whole “all you have to do is believe” thing? It’s a minefield!
So now, if someone asks me if I am a Christian, I never know what to say. I don’t feel worthy enough to say yes because I do “sinful” things and I’m not sorry about it. But on the other hand I do believe. I would ask someone who knows the bible inside and out, like a minister or some such, but I don’t go to Church either – not because I don’t want to but because I can’t find one that fits with my beliefs. Although to be honest I haven’t made much of an effort, having been happy just to “believe”. Does this make me a semi-Christian? Answers on a postcard...
So this morning I said a little prayer, thanking Jesus for dying for us and thanking God for sacrificing his son to those horrible vicious people for a pile of modern-day ingrates like me. Despite Yawksha Boy thinking that religion is entirely stupid, I still do have my own faith and I am genuinely grateful. I just wish I knew if being grateful is enough...
But enough religious ponderings for now. I hope everyone has a lovely Easter, whatever their beliefs.
Friday, 10 April 2009
Stressorama
Do you ever have times in your life where you do the same things day in, day out, and you end up a little bored, thinking "I wish there was some excitement in my life - nothing bad, just something to DO other than watch Star Trek DVDs and the Apprentice..."? And then suddenly wish you'd bitten your tongue because all of a sudden there are TWELVITY MILLION things to do and you're mentally standing in the wasteground of your thoughts surrounded by all this STUFF and you're all helpless and don't know where to start and are all "meep!"? Or is it just me?
You may have gathered from this that I'm a tad stressed out at the minute. I still don't quite understand my job for one thing - it's one of those jobs that's so varied that to even start to understand it will take about a year so you've experienced everything at least once; I've been here 3 months. 'Nuff said. Also? Any other non-public-facing civil service places I've worked have let their staff leave early on the last day at work before things like Easter or Christmas, just as a sort of unofficial thank you for being bothered to show up unlike 90% of the workforce. And yet here I am at 3.30pm still at my desk. Bah. At least now I have da powa to let my staff go early, which is great except it means I'm definitely stuck here til 5pm. Bah again.
My second rant of the day is that we've decided to move house (which is a good, nice thing that I feel very positive about) but my other half has decide that WOE AND DOOM WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEEEEE because it involves packing stuff, cleaning and touching up some scuffs on the wall, etc. Seriously man, chill the f00k out! You see, to understand his dilema you must understand two things. Firstly, that we live in (and are moving to) a teeny weeny wee tiny house. Secondly, we have a whole lotta loadsa stuff. Getting it all to fit in (never mind looking tidy) is like playing Tetris and as you gather more stuff, suddenly you start to lose control and all the oddly shaped and sized guff is piling up on your metaphorical screen and it takes a massive, concentrated effort to get it all back in check again. Unfortunately we've been neglecting the controls of late and we're just waiting for the line of doom to come down and declare that is GAME OVER. But (BUT!) the (very significant) thing is that we've done this all before. This will be my 5th house move in my life and 2 of those were across the frickin' sea, so excuse me if I don't get all stressed out about moving to a house we can literally throw a stone at from where we are now!
Besides (and this is another point of contention), with our impending marriage (another source of stress!) and consequent gifts, we NEED to move into this new place with NO EXTRANEOUS GUFF. This is now my motto. Step one of this process was to go round and collect random unused guff we could sell on eBay and to shove some bigger but valueless things on Freecycle. Except now the former is opening a big oul' can of worms because Yawksha Boy is SO FREAKING COMPETITIVE about EVERYTHING that he wants us to sit down and word every item's description perfectly and post it at exactly the right time of day, etc to attract more bids. My thoughts on this? BIG WHOOP DUDE! I just want to get rid of all our guff - so what if it goes for 50p less than it could have because some potentially more generous bidder is asleep at 11pm? At this point my dreams of a clutter-free house are so vivid and within grasp that I would gladly just put it all out on the lawn with a sign saying "free stuff". So because of this we still have like 1/3 of the items still to list, which we'll probably get round to this weekend some time. But after this there are still some heavy or bulky or fragile things we want to get some money for rather than giving them away... so I suggested going to a car boot sale. But Yawksha Boy's stance on this? Ha! "We have so much to do alreadyyyyyyyyy - why don't we do it after we move insteaaaaaaad?". BECAUSE THAT DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF GETTING RID OF EVERYTHING BEFORE WE MOVE - DUH!
I don't think he understand how much I am craving a lovely, clean, uncluttered house. You know, the sort where you come in at night and you put the post on the coffee table, rather than on top of a pile of junk, which is sitting on top of some more junk, which is hiding something very important that will probably end up going missing or being thrown away by accident, which is on top of another pile of junk, which is on top of the coffee table (which has some more junk underneath of course). How I would love to be able to fill my wardrobe with duvet covers and sheets and towels without having to jam them in around the bulkiest computer monitor ever made! And wouldn't it be brilliant to be able to put fruit in a fruit bowl, rather than look perplexed as to why we have 3 fruit bowls of varying types, all stacked up, with lightbulbs and pens in the top one and, rather importantly, no room for fruit? *Sigh*
I have the image in my head and I am determined that it shall be done. This is our CHANCE! We have to literally pick up everything in our house anyway to move it to the new one, so if we don't actually need it and aren't ever going to use it, why not just chuck it in the bin instead? Or, as I want to do, but it in a bin bag and sell it to some other schmuck who will take it home to clutter up THEIR house with? I am even prepared to get rid of about half my chick lit books and half my shoes, which doesn't sound like a lot unless you know me and then you'd be like "but that will free up about a quarter of the house anyway!". Cheeky head voices… why I oughta! But Yawksha man, he say no! I even offered to do it by myself - he can stay and "pack" in that boy way (where they look at everything one by one for about 10 agonising seconds and say "oh I forgot I had that!" before placing it carefully in a box, unless it's fragile or clothing in which case it just gets chucked in whichever way it lands) but he was having none of it. Which now leaves me with 2 alternatives:
A) My way, i.e. do it anyway and ignore him. This approach caused a fight yesterday when I dared list 2 of the same cuddly toy within 12 hours of each other on eBay in spite of his pernickerty advice that this would "half our money on each" (see "BIG WHOOP DUDE!" paragraphs for my feelings on this). In the end I got tired of the nagging and took it off.
B) His way, i.e. move EVERYTHING (even all the stupid useless guff I can't wait to get rid of) and sort it out once we move in. I have several issues with this approach. Firstly - why bother to schlep half a tonne of stuff across roads and upstairs and into cupboards or under beds if we're just going to have to drag them all out again, schlep them downstairs and to some form of car boot sale when we do have the time (according to Yawksha Boy) to sell them? Secondly, there is less storage in the new house - where is all the guff going to go? I refuse to have one of "those" back bedrooms which is just full of guff stacked in precarious piles against the wall. I HAVE one of "those" at the minute and I want to scream every time I venture in there. Thirdly, we could get shiny pennies if we sell this stuff - it is just going to get older, dustier and worth less the longer we leave it sitting. Fourthly, THE MOTTO THE MOTTO THE MOTTO! Tidy! Calming! No clutter! GAH!
However, as the Carlsberg ad says, there's probably an option C. I suppose the halfway point would be to put everything we want to get rid of in bin bags, then leave them so they're the last thing in the old house. Then if we have time to take them to a car boot sale, great - just load 'em in the car and off we go. If we run out of time, well then we just need to schlep the bags across the road where they will be stored BRIEFLY until we have more time. Hmmm… intriguing this compromise malarky! Apparently we should get used to it; one of my favourite books (Diary of a Mad Mother To Be by Laura Wolf) says, "in marriage you compromise five times more than you get your way and three times more than you have sex". See, apparently marriage is a collective state of mind rather than a piece of paper - we're well ahead of the game!
But anyways, with only 20 minutes to go until hometime and the promise of a lift home from one of my colleagues, the Easter holidays are imminent. Hopefully we'll have some time over the weekend to make a start on all the packing, cleaning and painting that is stressing him the f00k out and upon my return to work on Wednesday, Yawksha Boy and I shall have started compromising rather than quarrelling! Have a good weekend all and don't eat too much chocolate or ye shall be sickly!
PS: Big boss just rang (from outside the building, having left already!) to say that I could go on if I wanted. It's 4.37pm. Gee, thanks boss. You're so freaking generous!
You may have gathered from this that I'm a tad stressed out at the minute. I still don't quite understand my job for one thing - it's one of those jobs that's so varied that to even start to understand it will take about a year so you've experienced everything at least once; I've been here 3 months. 'Nuff said. Also? Any other non-public-facing civil service places I've worked have let their staff leave early on the last day at work before things like Easter or Christmas, just as a sort of unofficial thank you for being bothered to show up unlike 90% of the workforce. And yet here I am at 3.30pm still at my desk. Bah. At least now I have da powa to let my staff go early, which is great except it means I'm definitely stuck here til 5pm. Bah again.
My second rant of the day is that we've decided to move house (which is a good, nice thing that I feel very positive about) but my other half has decide that WOE AND DOOM WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEEEEE because it involves packing stuff, cleaning and touching up some scuffs on the wall, etc. Seriously man, chill the f00k out! You see, to understand his dilema you must understand two things. Firstly, that we live in (and are moving to) a teeny weeny wee tiny house. Secondly, we have a whole lotta loadsa stuff. Getting it all to fit in (never mind looking tidy) is like playing Tetris and as you gather more stuff, suddenly you start to lose control and all the oddly shaped and sized guff is piling up on your metaphorical screen and it takes a massive, concentrated effort to get it all back in check again. Unfortunately we've been neglecting the controls of late and we're just waiting for the line of doom to come down and declare that is GAME OVER. But (BUT!) the (very significant) thing is that we've done this all before. This will be my 5th house move in my life and 2 of those were across the frickin' sea, so excuse me if I don't get all stressed out about moving to a house we can literally throw a stone at from where we are now!
Besides (and this is another point of contention), with our impending marriage (another source of stress!) and consequent gifts, we NEED to move into this new place with NO EXTRANEOUS GUFF. This is now my motto. Step one of this process was to go round and collect random unused guff we could sell on eBay and to shove some bigger but valueless things on Freecycle. Except now the former is opening a big oul' can of worms because Yawksha Boy is SO FREAKING COMPETITIVE about EVERYTHING that he wants us to sit down and word every item's description perfectly and post it at exactly the right time of day, etc to attract more bids. My thoughts on this? BIG WHOOP DUDE! I just want to get rid of all our guff - so what if it goes for 50p less than it could have because some potentially more generous bidder is asleep at 11pm? At this point my dreams of a clutter-free house are so vivid and within grasp that I would gladly just put it all out on the lawn with a sign saying "free stuff". So because of this we still have like 1/3 of the items still to list, which we'll probably get round to this weekend some time. But after this there are still some heavy or bulky or fragile things we want to get some money for rather than giving them away... so I suggested going to a car boot sale. But Yawksha Boy's stance on this? Ha! "We have so much to do alreadyyyyyyyyy - why don't we do it after we move insteaaaaaaad?". BECAUSE THAT DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF GETTING RID OF EVERYTHING BEFORE WE MOVE - DUH!
I don't think he understand how much I am craving a lovely, clean, uncluttered house. You know, the sort where you come in at night and you put the post on the coffee table, rather than on top of a pile of junk, which is sitting on top of some more junk, which is hiding something very important that will probably end up going missing or being thrown away by accident, which is on top of another pile of junk, which is on top of the coffee table (which has some more junk underneath of course). How I would love to be able to fill my wardrobe with duvet covers and sheets and towels without having to jam them in around the bulkiest computer monitor ever made! And wouldn't it be brilliant to be able to put fruit in a fruit bowl, rather than look perplexed as to why we have 3 fruit bowls of varying types, all stacked up, with lightbulbs and pens in the top one and, rather importantly, no room for fruit? *Sigh*
I have the image in my head and I am determined that it shall be done. This is our CHANCE! We have to literally pick up everything in our house anyway to move it to the new one, so if we don't actually need it and aren't ever going to use it, why not just chuck it in the bin instead? Or, as I want to do, but it in a bin bag and sell it to some other schmuck who will take it home to clutter up THEIR house with? I am even prepared to get rid of about half my chick lit books and half my shoes, which doesn't sound like a lot unless you know me and then you'd be like "but that will free up about a quarter of the house anyway!". Cheeky head voices… why I oughta! But Yawksha man, he say no! I even offered to do it by myself - he can stay and "pack" in that boy way (where they look at everything one by one for about 10 agonising seconds and say "oh I forgot I had that!" before placing it carefully in a box, unless it's fragile or clothing in which case it just gets chucked in whichever way it lands) but he was having none of it. Which now leaves me with 2 alternatives:
A) My way, i.e. do it anyway and ignore him. This approach caused a fight yesterday when I dared list 2 of the same cuddly toy within 12 hours of each other on eBay in spite of his pernickerty advice that this would "half our money on each" (see "BIG WHOOP DUDE!" paragraphs for my feelings on this). In the end I got tired of the nagging and took it off.
B) His way, i.e. move EVERYTHING (even all the stupid useless guff I can't wait to get rid of) and sort it out once we move in. I have several issues with this approach. Firstly - why bother to schlep half a tonne of stuff across roads and upstairs and into cupboards or under beds if we're just going to have to drag them all out again, schlep them downstairs and to some form of car boot sale when we do have the time (according to Yawksha Boy) to sell them? Secondly, there is less storage in the new house - where is all the guff going to go? I refuse to have one of "those" back bedrooms which is just full of guff stacked in precarious piles against the wall. I HAVE one of "those" at the minute and I want to scream every time I venture in there. Thirdly, we could get shiny pennies if we sell this stuff - it is just going to get older, dustier and worth less the longer we leave it sitting. Fourthly, THE MOTTO THE MOTTO THE MOTTO! Tidy! Calming! No clutter! GAH!
However, as the Carlsberg ad says, there's probably an option C. I suppose the halfway point would be to put everything we want to get rid of in bin bags, then leave them so they're the last thing in the old house. Then if we have time to take them to a car boot sale, great - just load 'em in the car and off we go. If we run out of time, well then we just need to schlep the bags across the road where they will be stored BRIEFLY until we have more time. Hmmm… intriguing this compromise malarky! Apparently we should get used to it; one of my favourite books (Diary of a Mad Mother To Be by Laura Wolf) says, "in marriage you compromise five times more than you get your way and three times more than you have sex". See, apparently marriage is a collective state of mind rather than a piece of paper - we're well ahead of the game!
But anyways, with only 20 minutes to go until hometime and the promise of a lift home from one of my colleagues, the Easter holidays are imminent. Hopefully we'll have some time over the weekend to make a start on all the packing, cleaning and painting that is stressing him the f00k out and upon my return to work on Wednesday, Yawksha Boy and I shall have started compromising rather than quarrelling! Have a good weekend all and don't eat too much chocolate or ye shall be sickly!
PS: Big boss just rang (from outside the building, having left already!) to say that I could go on if I wanted. It's 4.37pm. Gee, thanks boss. You're so freaking generous!
Saturday, 4 April 2009
To all the men I’ve loved before – Part 1
I’m not sure what it is – possibly my upcoming marriage – but recently I’ve found myself thinking about love, and in particular about the boys I loved before the love of my life came along in the form of Yawksha Boy. Yep, all two of them!
The first began back at the tender age of 11 (aww bless!). When I started high school, none of my friends from primary school came with me – I was all alone and needed to make new friends or spend 7 years in solitude. But I was a shy little thing at that age so I tried to make life easy for myself and tried to befriend the girl who was next to me in the alphabet and therefore sat next to me in class. She had already befriended a girl who lived near me, so all the better. It didn’t turn out that way though. They found another girl (one of those giggly, bitchy types who was probably queen of her class in primary school) who took against me quite rapidly. When they started making plans to go to the cinema and each other’s houses without me I decided to cut my losses and leave them to it. To be honest I didn’t particularly like them anyway but it had been better than sitting in the library alone at break and lunchtimes.
So I was a bit of a loner for a little while. But then my knight in shining armour came along. A boy – let’s call him Musical Guy – decided out of the blue to be my friend. I can’t remember quite how it all began but soon enough we were spending every minute together. We were already in the same classes but we spent all those previously lonesome break times and lunchtimes together, meandering around the corridors chatting, joking and making fun of each other. Every day I would go home having laughed until my jaw hurt at least once – even the days with double science or PE in them. I genuinely didn’t understand why someone so friendly, kind, funny and, actually, really rather popular was bothering with me, but we were happy in our little world.
At some point we started chatting on the phone every night too. I’ve always had (and have until this very day!) a phobia of speaking on the phone – I hate those awkward silences when neither conversant can think of anything to say and I just want to hang up. However I soon realised that when he rang, any silences weren’t awkward. Sometimes we would just chat about everything and nothing, other times he would play me pieces of classical music that had particularly grabbed him recently and then other times he would be doing something as random as cooking a pizza and narrating to me its progress.
As we got older we started doing things outside school together too – sometimes we would go into town after school and I would watch on with disbelief as he worked his way through 20 McNuggets at McDonalds or we would go shopping; other times he would bring me along to things at his church or music things he was performing in; other times we took advantage of cheap school-goer tickets and go see an orchestra perform, or occasionally we went to the cinema. It was perfect... except for one thing.
Almost right from the first days we walked around the corridors laughing and chatting I had developed a bit of a crush on him and didn’t dare believe he felt the same in return. As time went on and we got closer my feelings grew stronger - after 5 years it had surpassed the “fancying” stage into full blown unrequited love. I didn’t want to love him because I knew he didn’t feel the same way and besides, he was my best friend and I didn’t want anything to compromise that – I was still so grateful he spent so much time on me when he had so many other friends out there who absolutely adored him. So I resolved, again almost immediately, that my feelings should remain on the backburner – I would never tell him (what would be the point?) and we would just stay best friends. I spent a lot of time on buses practicing in my head what I would say if I ever did tell him but I knew that it was pure fantasy – it simply wasn’t worth the risk. I read enough chick lit even at that age to know that we would either end up together at the age of 30 or else we would each find an all-powerful love elsewhere when we were older.
And so it remained. I’m sure he suspected how I felt but I tried to hide it as best I could. It was only after I waved goodbye to him that I allowed myself to analyse every time he had touched my arm or said something nice to me that day. I can’t remember the occasion (possibly because the rest of the world fell away at that moment) but there was one time he held my hand and squeezed it tight. I’m certain it was a friendly gesture but I remember my heart stopped beating and my breath caught in my throat for just a second. Unrequited love is painful but it’s also powerful – I (obviously!) no longer feel that way about him but I still remember how much love I felt for him at moments like that or when I watched him play the flute or the piano.
You see, he is a music genius – one of those people for whom that phrase about picking up any instrument and being able to play it was invented. But it wasn’t just how well he played the notes – it was that when he played it was like you could feel he was putting all his heart and soul into the music. He often played at school events and concerts and I know for a fact that most of the girls in the audience (and perhaps some of the boys!) were smitten when he played. In fact most people in the school thought we were a couple and didn’t believe us when we denied it so on more than one occasion I was on the end of some jealous girl’s evil eye.
Unfortunately when we got to around the age of 16, the girl with the jealousy was me. First of all he had a crush on a gorgeous blonde friend of ours. She was one of those perfect girls – white-blonde hair, pretty elfin features, smart, funny witty and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And, of course, a fellow musical genius (although she was a violinist). He denied his feelings about her on more than one occasion but they were written all over his face every time he spoke to her. Whether he genuinely loved her or it was only a crush on an unobtainable girl (she had a boyfriend) I’ll never know, but she was so nice that it was difficult to resent her. Besides, he was still spending as much time with me as he ever had. Little did I know that she would (unwittingly) be the start of the end for my friendship with him.
You see, she knew how I felt about him and, in her ever-optimistic spirit, decided he felt the same way. So one day, she told him how I felt! When she told me what she’s done it was the first time I had ever been annoyed at her. I begged her to call him when she got home to explain to him that I never expected us to become a couple, that I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way of our friendship and that I just wanted everything to remain how it was. She said she would ask him to call me when she’d spoken to him so I knew the deed was done. It was the first time I had ever dreaded the phone ringing and him being on the other end. Eventually, after what felt like 20 years, he did call. It was the most awkward conversation of my life. After the initial “Did she call you and explain? Are you ok? I’m really sorry” horror, we tried to speak normally but it was stilted and awful. I think I cried myself to sleep that night.
I remember being so nervous about seeing him in person the next day, dreading that our friendship was over, and then being so relieved when everything seemed normal (or as normal as it could be). Our blonde friend tried her best to joke around and make everything as normal as possible, bless her. I have no idea what she may have said to him but I think she did help matters a lot – I was grateful even though she had caused it in the first place. Part of me thought “well at least now he knows – he doesn’t feel the same but I never expected him to – but at least now I know for sure” while the other part was still horrified and was trying desperately to assure him through what I said and my actions that I was telling the truth when I said I only wanted to be his friend and that anything else I felt wouldn’t get in the way. Whereas before our conversations would have had an innocent, light flirtation about them sometimes, it was now missing from both of us – him because he didn’t want to lead me on and me because I was determined to show him I didn’t expect anything romantic.
Over time it was, well, not forgotten about, but it became less of a feature – we continued to laugh and joke and hang out with our friends and everything was ok. I even managed to move on now that I knew he wasn’t interested and I fell for my other male best friend (I know, it sounds like the plot of a bad rom com – more in Part 2!). I’m sure Musical Guy was relieved by my interest in someone else and so our friendship started to get back to normal. Or so I thought.
What I didn’t realise until a few months down the line was that the power dynamics in our relationship had changed. I found myself waiting around for ages or going to get him lunch or being left sitting alone in the study room while he went off to stalk the latest girl of his affections (our blonde friend had moved schools and his affections had moved on to another mutual friend, this one also musical and intelligent – although not scarily so – skinny, with brunette curly hair). I don’t know if he realised he was treating me badly at the time never mind that he was upsetting me so much, but he became very selfish. I was no longer in love with him but I still loved him as my best friend of 5 to 6 years and craved his attention in that respect. I didn’t understand why he changed so suddenly, why he had become so selfish and why suddenly I was his lapdog rather than his friend. I put it down to his frustrations at being in love with our brunette friend when she had a boyfriend outside school and wasn’t interested –after all I knew how that felt – but it still tore me up.
Around this time, mainly when he had deserted me and I had no-one else to talk to, I started hanging around more with a group of girls I became friends with, ironically through him. They found me funny and we became quite close, which built my confidence. Eventually, with exam stress adding to my worries, I told Musical Guy that his behaviour was upsetting me. He was less than understanding and I felt like I was a child being told off by their father for being too needy. So I snapped and told him that if that’s how he felt maybe we should just stop acting at the farce that our friendship had become – he could get on with chasing after our brunette friend and I could get on with my life without acting as his skivvy. He agreed.
I cried all night, staring out the window on to the empty street below, while all the songs that used to make me think of him played in the background. But while I was mourning for the loss of our friendship, he had hurt me so much that I was crying through embarrassment at being taken for a fool for so long. And so as the sun rose, I shook myself out of it, told myself he had made his decision, I had made mine and that I had wasted enough time and tears on him.
I had friends who did appreciate me now and when I told them what happened, they backed me all the way. They still remained his friend of course but they welcomed me into their group with open arms and we spent break times, lunchtimes and study periods together. It was strange at first to be part of a big group after it had been just me and Musical Guy a lot of the time for so long, but I really enjoyed being able to sit back and let the conversation wash around me when I didn’t want to talk. I also enjoyed not being used as some kind of unpaid butler.
Of course Musical Guy and I were in some of the same classes still and all the things we had previously done together (choir, orchestra, etc) so we still saw each other. At first the sight of him made me angry and I studiously ignored him, making sure I looked like I was having fun with my other friends and not missing him at all. As time went on it stopped becoming an act. I even managed to say hello in a civil way to him a few times. By the end of school, age 18, we had progressed to the point where we could converse and even joke a little in a group but we never spoke alone – I was still too hurt in a way but also my life was different now and he wasn’t a big part of it any more.
University beckoned and we went our separate ways. After a while I also split up with my group of female friends from school (that’s a whole other story but not worthy of telling really) but met some new friends at Uni and remained best friends with the aforementioned other “man I’ve loved before”. Occasionally I saw Musical Guy round and about (it’s a small world) and more recently than that we ended up seeing each other every other week at a pub quiz we both went to, but things are different now. When we went to uni and I didn’t have to see him (and be reminded of all that had passed) every day, the space allowed me to forgive him. Ain’t retrospect grand?
I can’t remember the details of when and where but I remember that after we’d left school we spoke on MSN Messenger one evening and he apologised for how he had treated me. I can’t remember what I said but I hope I told him that he had hurt me deeply but that his apology was accepted and all was forgiven. We’ve actually been out a few times since then too, him with his new lady (who is just the sort of woman he needs to keep him in check!) and me with Yawksha Boy. And do you know, it was fun. The murky past was forgotten about and we just conversed like normal friends.
Actually we spoke briefly last night on Facebook too (perhaps another reason I’ve been thinking about this topic?) and it’s safe to say that things are fine now – we have a very different sort of friendship. It’s a little strange to be the sort of friends who catch up every now and then but otherwise don’t really think about each other very often when what we had when we were younger was so very different, but I’m just glad it’s all turned out ok in the end.
They say that you never forget your first love and I can say that it’s very true. However I know that those feelings are now just memories. What I have with Yawksha Boy is so much deeper and, most importantly, he actually loves me back for some reason, bless his wit! There really is no sense in dwelling in the past but, Musical Guy, you will always hold a special little place in my heart – you were one of the best friends I ever had and I’m so thankful for what time we did have together – the good times and the bad times we had made me into a better and stronger person and I have so many happy memories of my teenage years – so thank you.
Tune in for Part 2 when I can be bothered to write it! Have a good weekend all! xxx
The first began back at the tender age of 11 (aww bless!). When I started high school, none of my friends from primary school came with me – I was all alone and needed to make new friends or spend 7 years in solitude. But I was a shy little thing at that age so I tried to make life easy for myself and tried to befriend the girl who was next to me in the alphabet and therefore sat next to me in class. She had already befriended a girl who lived near me, so all the better. It didn’t turn out that way though. They found another girl (one of those giggly, bitchy types who was probably queen of her class in primary school) who took against me quite rapidly. When they started making plans to go to the cinema and each other’s houses without me I decided to cut my losses and leave them to it. To be honest I didn’t particularly like them anyway but it had been better than sitting in the library alone at break and lunchtimes.
So I was a bit of a loner for a little while. But then my knight in shining armour came along. A boy – let’s call him Musical Guy – decided out of the blue to be my friend. I can’t remember quite how it all began but soon enough we were spending every minute together. We were already in the same classes but we spent all those previously lonesome break times and lunchtimes together, meandering around the corridors chatting, joking and making fun of each other. Every day I would go home having laughed until my jaw hurt at least once – even the days with double science or PE in them. I genuinely didn’t understand why someone so friendly, kind, funny and, actually, really rather popular was bothering with me, but we were happy in our little world.
At some point we started chatting on the phone every night too. I’ve always had (and have until this very day!) a phobia of speaking on the phone – I hate those awkward silences when neither conversant can think of anything to say and I just want to hang up. However I soon realised that when he rang, any silences weren’t awkward. Sometimes we would just chat about everything and nothing, other times he would play me pieces of classical music that had particularly grabbed him recently and then other times he would be doing something as random as cooking a pizza and narrating to me its progress.
As we got older we started doing things outside school together too – sometimes we would go into town after school and I would watch on with disbelief as he worked his way through 20 McNuggets at McDonalds or we would go shopping; other times he would bring me along to things at his church or music things he was performing in; other times we took advantage of cheap school-goer tickets and go see an orchestra perform, or occasionally we went to the cinema. It was perfect... except for one thing.
Almost right from the first days we walked around the corridors laughing and chatting I had developed a bit of a crush on him and didn’t dare believe he felt the same in return. As time went on and we got closer my feelings grew stronger - after 5 years it had surpassed the “fancying” stage into full blown unrequited love. I didn’t want to love him because I knew he didn’t feel the same way and besides, he was my best friend and I didn’t want anything to compromise that – I was still so grateful he spent so much time on me when he had so many other friends out there who absolutely adored him. So I resolved, again almost immediately, that my feelings should remain on the backburner – I would never tell him (what would be the point?) and we would just stay best friends. I spent a lot of time on buses practicing in my head what I would say if I ever did tell him but I knew that it was pure fantasy – it simply wasn’t worth the risk. I read enough chick lit even at that age to know that we would either end up together at the age of 30 or else we would each find an all-powerful love elsewhere when we were older.
And so it remained. I’m sure he suspected how I felt but I tried to hide it as best I could. It was only after I waved goodbye to him that I allowed myself to analyse every time he had touched my arm or said something nice to me that day. I can’t remember the occasion (possibly because the rest of the world fell away at that moment) but there was one time he held my hand and squeezed it tight. I’m certain it was a friendly gesture but I remember my heart stopped beating and my breath caught in my throat for just a second. Unrequited love is painful but it’s also powerful – I (obviously!) no longer feel that way about him but I still remember how much love I felt for him at moments like that or when I watched him play the flute or the piano.
You see, he is a music genius – one of those people for whom that phrase about picking up any instrument and being able to play it was invented. But it wasn’t just how well he played the notes – it was that when he played it was like you could feel he was putting all his heart and soul into the music. He often played at school events and concerts and I know for a fact that most of the girls in the audience (and perhaps some of the boys!) were smitten when he played. In fact most people in the school thought we were a couple and didn’t believe us when we denied it so on more than one occasion I was on the end of some jealous girl’s evil eye.
Unfortunately when we got to around the age of 16, the girl with the jealousy was me. First of all he had a crush on a gorgeous blonde friend of ours. She was one of those perfect girls – white-blonde hair, pretty elfin features, smart, funny witty and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And, of course, a fellow musical genius (although she was a violinist). He denied his feelings about her on more than one occasion but they were written all over his face every time he spoke to her. Whether he genuinely loved her or it was only a crush on an unobtainable girl (she had a boyfriend) I’ll never know, but she was so nice that it was difficult to resent her. Besides, he was still spending as much time with me as he ever had. Little did I know that she would (unwittingly) be the start of the end for my friendship with him.
You see, she knew how I felt about him and, in her ever-optimistic spirit, decided he felt the same way. So one day, she told him how I felt! When she told me what she’s done it was the first time I had ever been annoyed at her. I begged her to call him when she got home to explain to him that I never expected us to become a couple, that I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way of our friendship and that I just wanted everything to remain how it was. She said she would ask him to call me when she’d spoken to him so I knew the deed was done. It was the first time I had ever dreaded the phone ringing and him being on the other end. Eventually, after what felt like 20 years, he did call. It was the most awkward conversation of my life. After the initial “Did she call you and explain? Are you ok? I’m really sorry” horror, we tried to speak normally but it was stilted and awful. I think I cried myself to sleep that night.
I remember being so nervous about seeing him in person the next day, dreading that our friendship was over, and then being so relieved when everything seemed normal (or as normal as it could be). Our blonde friend tried her best to joke around and make everything as normal as possible, bless her. I have no idea what she may have said to him but I think she did help matters a lot – I was grateful even though she had caused it in the first place. Part of me thought “well at least now he knows – he doesn’t feel the same but I never expected him to – but at least now I know for sure” while the other part was still horrified and was trying desperately to assure him through what I said and my actions that I was telling the truth when I said I only wanted to be his friend and that anything else I felt wouldn’t get in the way. Whereas before our conversations would have had an innocent, light flirtation about them sometimes, it was now missing from both of us – him because he didn’t want to lead me on and me because I was determined to show him I didn’t expect anything romantic.
Over time it was, well, not forgotten about, but it became less of a feature – we continued to laugh and joke and hang out with our friends and everything was ok. I even managed to move on now that I knew he wasn’t interested and I fell for my other male best friend (I know, it sounds like the plot of a bad rom com – more in Part 2!). I’m sure Musical Guy was relieved by my interest in someone else and so our friendship started to get back to normal. Or so I thought.
What I didn’t realise until a few months down the line was that the power dynamics in our relationship had changed. I found myself waiting around for ages or going to get him lunch or being left sitting alone in the study room while he went off to stalk the latest girl of his affections (our blonde friend had moved schools and his affections had moved on to another mutual friend, this one also musical and intelligent – although not scarily so – skinny, with brunette curly hair). I don’t know if he realised he was treating me badly at the time never mind that he was upsetting me so much, but he became very selfish. I was no longer in love with him but I still loved him as my best friend of 5 to 6 years and craved his attention in that respect. I didn’t understand why he changed so suddenly, why he had become so selfish and why suddenly I was his lapdog rather than his friend. I put it down to his frustrations at being in love with our brunette friend when she had a boyfriend outside school and wasn’t interested –after all I knew how that felt – but it still tore me up.
Around this time, mainly when he had deserted me and I had no-one else to talk to, I started hanging around more with a group of girls I became friends with, ironically through him. They found me funny and we became quite close, which built my confidence. Eventually, with exam stress adding to my worries, I told Musical Guy that his behaviour was upsetting me. He was less than understanding and I felt like I was a child being told off by their father for being too needy. So I snapped and told him that if that’s how he felt maybe we should just stop acting at the farce that our friendship had become – he could get on with chasing after our brunette friend and I could get on with my life without acting as his skivvy. He agreed.
I cried all night, staring out the window on to the empty street below, while all the songs that used to make me think of him played in the background. But while I was mourning for the loss of our friendship, he had hurt me so much that I was crying through embarrassment at being taken for a fool for so long. And so as the sun rose, I shook myself out of it, told myself he had made his decision, I had made mine and that I had wasted enough time and tears on him.
I had friends who did appreciate me now and when I told them what happened, they backed me all the way. They still remained his friend of course but they welcomed me into their group with open arms and we spent break times, lunchtimes and study periods together. It was strange at first to be part of a big group after it had been just me and Musical Guy a lot of the time for so long, but I really enjoyed being able to sit back and let the conversation wash around me when I didn’t want to talk. I also enjoyed not being used as some kind of unpaid butler.
Of course Musical Guy and I were in some of the same classes still and all the things we had previously done together (choir, orchestra, etc) so we still saw each other. At first the sight of him made me angry and I studiously ignored him, making sure I looked like I was having fun with my other friends and not missing him at all. As time went on it stopped becoming an act. I even managed to say hello in a civil way to him a few times. By the end of school, age 18, we had progressed to the point where we could converse and even joke a little in a group but we never spoke alone – I was still too hurt in a way but also my life was different now and he wasn’t a big part of it any more.
University beckoned and we went our separate ways. After a while I also split up with my group of female friends from school (that’s a whole other story but not worthy of telling really) but met some new friends at Uni and remained best friends with the aforementioned other “man I’ve loved before”. Occasionally I saw Musical Guy round and about (it’s a small world) and more recently than that we ended up seeing each other every other week at a pub quiz we both went to, but things are different now. When we went to uni and I didn’t have to see him (and be reminded of all that had passed) every day, the space allowed me to forgive him. Ain’t retrospect grand?
I can’t remember the details of when and where but I remember that after we’d left school we spoke on MSN Messenger one evening and he apologised for how he had treated me. I can’t remember what I said but I hope I told him that he had hurt me deeply but that his apology was accepted and all was forgiven. We’ve actually been out a few times since then too, him with his new lady (who is just the sort of woman he needs to keep him in check!) and me with Yawksha Boy. And do you know, it was fun. The murky past was forgotten about and we just conversed like normal friends.
Actually we spoke briefly last night on Facebook too (perhaps another reason I’ve been thinking about this topic?) and it’s safe to say that things are fine now – we have a very different sort of friendship. It’s a little strange to be the sort of friends who catch up every now and then but otherwise don’t really think about each other very often when what we had when we were younger was so very different, but I’m just glad it’s all turned out ok in the end.
They say that you never forget your first love and I can say that it’s very true. However I know that those feelings are now just memories. What I have with Yawksha Boy is so much deeper and, most importantly, he actually loves me back for some reason, bless his wit! There really is no sense in dwelling in the past but, Musical Guy, you will always hold a special little place in my heart – you were one of the best friends I ever had and I’m so thankful for what time we did have together – the good times and the bad times we had made me into a better and stronger person and I have so many happy memories of my teenage years – so thank you.
Tune in for Part 2 when I can be bothered to write it! Have a good weekend all! xxx
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin...
Well I've been a good little girl again today (up on time, worked hard at job, had proper healthy breakfast and lunch, went to gym, having a nice Core Plan dinner - which will complete my 5-a-day -, no booze consumed, etc, etc). It would be perfect if I hadn't totally nommed that blueberry muffin in the café at the leisure centre. In my defence I was hungry and tired and needed the boost before I went to be all active 'n' stuff, but also it just looked way yum. And it was! But alas I don't quite get to shine my halo today - blueberry muffins are not a Core food!
In other news I somehow triple booked myself for Thursday evening. How come the rest of the year I have nothing to do on a Thursday night but go to the gym and then watch Star Trek DVDs and then suddenly I have 3 things to do at once? My choices were shopping, pampering or attending a meeting. It was a close-run thing but I've gone with the pampering. The mother-shaped-one very kindly bought me gift vouchers for a beauty salon for Christmas so I'm finally going to use them to get myself an Indian Head Massage and a facial. Let me stress at this point that I've never even been in a salon before - I'd be more at home in a saloon to be honest. However I've always fancied having someone else gently poke and prod the tense bits of me and not being able to complain because I'm paying them for it. So Thursday is my chance! I'll let you know how it goes.
In the meantime I'm off to have dinner (yes, at 9.10pm, wannafighdaboudit?) and, yes, you've guessed it, watch Star Trek. I just can't get enough of wee Data - he's so cute!
In other news I somehow triple booked myself for Thursday evening. How come the rest of the year I have nothing to do on a Thursday night but go to the gym and then watch Star Trek DVDs and then suddenly I have 3 things to do at once? My choices were shopping, pampering or attending a meeting. It was a close-run thing but I've gone with the pampering. The mother-shaped-one very kindly bought me gift vouchers for a beauty salon for Christmas so I'm finally going to use them to get myself an Indian Head Massage and a facial. Let me stress at this point that I've never even been in a salon before - I'd be more at home in a saloon to be honest. However I've always fancied having someone else gently poke and prod the tense bits of me and not being able to complain because I'm paying them for it. So Thursday is my chance! I'll let you know how it goes.
In the meantime I'm off to have dinner (yes, at 9.10pm, wannafighdaboudit?) and, yes, you've guessed it, watch Star Trek. I just can't get enough of wee Data - he's so cute!
Monday, 30 March 2009
Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee...
Seriously peeps, how much of a goody-two-shoes am I right now? Let’s look at the evidence:
- I spent Saturday morning on a sponsored walk for the hospice, rambling around the coast in the wind and rain, being all active and healthy while raising money for a good cause.
- I am currently (mostly successfully, for a change!) following ye olde Weight Watchers Core Plan, where you can only eat foods off a big list, which basically includes healthy nutritious and filling things like fruit, vegetables, lean meat, wholemeal pasta and rice, porridge, etc. Goodbye scones! I even had porridge when I went out for breakfast on Sunday morning instead of bacon and pancakes (which I know are delicious).
- I may have skipped the gym today (still recovering from Saturday’s walk) but tomorrow I plan to do a gym session AND go swimming.
- I have had one sip of Yawksha Boy’s Guinness but no other alcohol whatsoever for 21 days so far. I plan to stay off the booze til lent is over, so that’s another 2 weeks or so.
- Tonight I will be going to bed nice and early so as to be rested after a hard day’s work and in preparation for another one tomorrow.
Could I be more freaking boring? But still, all this clean living is good for me and, if previous experience has taught me anything, it won’t last too long. However I calculated today that there are only 33 weeks until my wedding. That’s 33 weeks to lose weight, get toned and improve my skin, which suddenly seems like quite a short time! Best keep up the Good Sandy act for a while yet then. Still, I am SO looking forward to a nice bottle of wine and bar of fudge at Easter. I am the worst healthy person, like, ever! However, I will sit here and sip my flavoured sparkling water (2 kcal per 100ml dontcha know!) like a good girl and imagine it's a lovely sauvignon blanc.
If only my imagination were any better than my willpower. I think my brain is broken.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Unknocked Up!
Dearest world,
I am writing to you regarding your recent concerns on the subject of my wellbeing. I appreciate your understanding that I am currently in a long-term relationship and am about to be married and thank you for your kind thoughts on this matter.
However I would take this opportunity to advise you that, despite popular belief, it IS possible for a female of child-bearing age to occasionally have a tummy bug or feel tired without being pregnant. Additionally, when said female denies such allegations, smug, "knowing" looks and remarks such as "are you suuuuureeee?" are certain to be met with disdain. And no, that does not make me "hormonal" either.
I would furthermore like to assure that, should I suddenly find myself in the bumpular way, I will be sure to advise you as soon as is appropriate. In the meantime please try to restrain your schadenfreudal tendancies or OH MY GOOD GOD I WILL END YOU! M'kay y'all?
No, still not hormonal.
Shut up!
Bah.
*mutter* *mutter* *big ol' hammer* *mutter* *hide the bodies*
I am writing to you regarding your recent concerns on the subject of my wellbeing. I appreciate your understanding that I am currently in a long-term relationship and am about to be married and thank you for your kind thoughts on this matter.
However I would take this opportunity to advise you that, despite popular belief, it IS possible for a female of child-bearing age to occasionally have a tummy bug or feel tired without being pregnant. Additionally, when said female denies such allegations, smug, "knowing" looks and remarks such as "are you suuuuureeee?" are certain to be met with disdain. And no, that does not make me "hormonal" either.
I would furthermore like to assure that, should I suddenly find myself in the bumpular way, I will be sure to advise you as soon as is appropriate. In the meantime please try to restrain your schadenfreudal tendancies or OH MY GOOD GOD I WILL END YOU! M'kay y'all?
No, still not hormonal.
Shut up!
Bah.
*mutter* *mutter* *big ol' hammer* *mutter* *hide the bodies*
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Paris in springtime
Recently I had the good fortune to go to Paris for a few days. Back in January a local airline was having a really good sale on cheap flights and we managed to locate a nice little cheap chain hotel in a decent location online, so we thought, why not? After all, we won't be having a summer holiday for the second year in a row because we're saving for our wedding, so we won't be getting a decent break until our honeymoon at the end of the year. Isn't it great how you can justify such things to yourself? But anyways, the first week of March came around and off we went to the airport.
I love airports! There's just something exciting about them I think. Planes taking off and landing, people going away or coming home, the shops, the cafés... the whole thing! I always fancied working in airport but both the ones near me are awkward and expensive to get to without a car so alas I shall remain a civil servant instead.
As we sat in the coffee shop (having lucked out on nabbing two of the comfy, squishy chairs instead of the hard wooden things) I started reading my latest book purchase, Petite Anglaise, a true story of an English woman who moved to Paris and then blogged about her life there. In the opening pages she talks about why she fell in love with France and describes what she did and saw when she went there.
Suddenly it all came rushing back. You see, I'd been to Paris once before, in December 2007. My mum, sister and I went for a long weekend of sightseeing and shopping and I completely fell head over heels for Paris. It even came in at a close second to my favourite city of all time, Barcelona. But even though we saw most of Paris (well, the bits around the bus tour routes and our hotel on the Rive Gauche anyway), we didn't quite do many of the "French" things I'd learned about in school or read about in books. You know, all the stereotypical things that makes you feel like you're really experiencing Paris - going up the Eiffel Tower, ordering a "café au lait" and a croissant in a little café... I didn't quite want to cycle around in a navy and white striped t-shirt with garlic and onions around my neck and a baguette sticking out of my backpack or anything, but there were certain little things I wanted to do and didn't get a chance to on my first visit. And then of course there were things I did do and then wanted to do again!
So while I was waiting to board the plane I came up with a mental list of 12 things I wanted to do in Paris. Some of them were bonus items that I didn't really expect to be able to do, but they were there in my mind anyway. My list was as follows:
Funny how so many of them involved food or drink. Hmmm. But do you know, I managed to do them all!!! I had my doubts about the probability of numbers 2 and 5 and I wasn't sure how readily available number 6 would be outside the pages of a French GCSE textbook, but every one them was fulfilled. I even managed to combine 6 and 7 by having a croque monsieur for breakfast at a café in the Louvre, and also 1 and 11 by warming up with an "expresso" at the café on the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. How perfect a trip! One I did forget that has just occurred to me is to eat smelly French cheese. Oh well, I suppose I'll just have to go back and do that another time... what a pity!
I also had a separate birthday wish, relating to number 1 on the list: I decided that it would be utterly romantic to have a lovely birthday kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Luckily, when my other half had exhausted photo-taking opportunities of "the city of lights" as night fell, he was happy to oblige. Aww, young love, eh? I may read too many chick lit books and watch too many rom coms... oh well!
Let me tell you though, mes amis, on the only full day we were there we decided to walk around all the sights, i.e. no Metro, no buses, no tour buses - just our own four feet. We walked from our hotel near Montmartre to the Madeleine, to the Place de Concorde, along the Seine to the Louvre, around the Louvre itself (which is MASSIVE), up to Notre Dam, over to, and along, the Boulevard St Michel, down loads of other LONG roads, to the Eiffel Tower, up to the Trocadero, down again to the Eiffel Tower, over the river, along the Seine, down another LONG road, up the Champs-Elysses to the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs-Elysses again all the way to the Place de Concorde, up past Madeleine again and, after a pit stop at the only restaurant that was open and we could afford, back to our hotel. We were KNACKERED. If we hadn't been frequently fuelled by sugary snacks and wine en route, I'm not sure I would have made it. Or there would have been at least a 100% increase in the amount of whining about sore feet, etc.
It was all worth it though. It was a beautiful day and we have some great photos to remember it all by. But now, alas, it's back to porridge as they say. Literally for me - I had a bowl a couple of hours ago for brunch! With limited funds and even more limited leave from work (because of that whole wedding malarky we're doing at the end of the year) there'll be no further exciting jaunts for us for a good while so we have already started to retreat back into our Star Trek DVD box-sets as a means of escape. But when it's cold outside, the dishes need washed and we're facing another week of work, at least we know that we'll always have Paris.
I love airports! There's just something exciting about them I think. Planes taking off and landing, people going away or coming home, the shops, the cafés... the whole thing! I always fancied working in airport but both the ones near me are awkward and expensive to get to without a car so alas I shall remain a civil servant instead.
As we sat in the coffee shop (having lucked out on nabbing two of the comfy, squishy chairs instead of the hard wooden things) I started reading my latest book purchase, Petite Anglaise, a true story of an English woman who moved to Paris and then blogged about her life there. In the opening pages she talks about why she fell in love with France and describes what she did and saw when she went there.
Suddenly it all came rushing back. You see, I'd been to Paris once before, in December 2007. My mum, sister and I went for a long weekend of sightseeing and shopping and I completely fell head over heels for Paris. It even came in at a close second to my favourite city of all time, Barcelona. But even though we saw most of Paris (well, the bits around the bus tour routes and our hotel on the Rive Gauche anyway), we didn't quite do many of the "French" things I'd learned about in school or read about in books. You know, all the stereotypical things that makes you feel like you're really experiencing Paris - going up the Eiffel Tower, ordering a "café au lait" and a croissant in a little café... I didn't quite want to cycle around in a navy and white striped t-shirt with garlic and onions around my neck and a baguette sticking out of my backpack or anything, but there were certain little things I wanted to do and didn't get a chance to on my first visit. And then of course there were things I did do and then wanted to do again!
So while I was waiting to board the plane I came up with a mental list of 12 things I wanted to do in Paris. Some of them were bonus items that I didn't really expect to be able to do, but they were there in my mind anyway. My list was as follows:
- Go to the top of the Eiffel Tower, preferably at sunset.
- Speak French to someone and be understood.
- Buy a pastry from a Patisserie.
- Drink wine at a table outside a café/bar/restaurant and watch the world go by.
- Eat a banana pizza at Del Arte on Boulevard St-Michel.
- Eat a croque monsieur.
- Visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa.
- Ogle the goods in the food hall at the Galleries Lafayette.
- Buy a crepe from a street-side stall.
- Walk along the Seine.
- Drink an espresso.
- See the Moulin Rouge.
Funny how so many of them involved food or drink. Hmmm. But do you know, I managed to do them all!!! I had my doubts about the probability of numbers 2 and 5 and I wasn't sure how readily available number 6 would be outside the pages of a French GCSE textbook, but every one them was fulfilled. I even managed to combine 6 and 7 by having a croque monsieur for breakfast at a café in the Louvre, and also 1 and 11 by warming up with an "expresso" at the café on the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. How perfect a trip! One I did forget that has just occurred to me is to eat smelly French cheese. Oh well, I suppose I'll just have to go back and do that another time... what a pity!
I also had a separate birthday wish, relating to number 1 on the list: I decided that it would be utterly romantic to have a lovely birthday kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Luckily, when my other half had exhausted photo-taking opportunities of "the city of lights" as night fell, he was happy to oblige. Aww, young love, eh? I may read too many chick lit books and watch too many rom coms... oh well!
Let me tell you though, mes amis, on the only full day we were there we decided to walk around all the sights, i.e. no Metro, no buses, no tour buses - just our own four feet. We walked from our hotel near Montmartre to the Madeleine, to the Place de Concorde, along the Seine to the Louvre, around the Louvre itself (which is MASSIVE), up to Notre Dam, over to, and along, the Boulevard St Michel, down loads of other LONG roads, to the Eiffel Tower, up to the Trocadero, down again to the Eiffel Tower, over the river, along the Seine, down another LONG road, up the Champs-Elysses to the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs-Elysses again all the way to the Place de Concorde, up past Madeleine again and, after a pit stop at the only restaurant that was open and we could afford, back to our hotel. We were KNACKERED. If we hadn't been frequently fuelled by sugary snacks and wine en route, I'm not sure I would have made it. Or there would have been at least a 100% increase in the amount of whining about sore feet, etc.
It was all worth it though. It was a beautiful day and we have some great photos to remember it all by. But now, alas, it's back to porridge as they say. Literally for me - I had a bowl a couple of hours ago for brunch! With limited funds and even more limited leave from work (because of that whole wedding malarky we're doing at the end of the year) there'll be no further exciting jaunts for us for a good while so we have already started to retreat back into our Star Trek DVD box-sets as a means of escape. But when it's cold outside, the dishes need washed and we're facing another week of work, at least we know that we'll always have Paris.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Lookin' fine in 2009
Gah! This blogging thing is hard. I've so far written one blog post on paper and about a dozen in my head when I've had nothing to do on the bus but daydream, but then discounted them all because, well, they were BORING! However, on the basis that something is better than nothing at all, I've decided just to let my (not very) creative juices flow directly via the keyboard and actually post something. Well, that and I have a (suspiciously!) quiet day at work and keep losing at Spider Solitaire, dagnammit!
Hang on a tick… this blog is called coffee and scones for a reason. I happily nommed my way through a scone for breakfast but I'm going all slow-mo' and am realising that it's now time for my eleventieth cup of coffee of the day.
*kettle boilage*
Aaaaah that's better. Not quite as strong as I would like but I'm trying my best not to work my way through this jar of coffee quite so fervently as I did with the last one, especially since it's technically to be shared with all the other minions in my office. Still, caffiney bliss - mmmmmm.
Another good reason for loading up on the coffee is that I'm off to the gym after work. I used to associate gyms with those lycra-thong-wearing skinny-minnies from the Call On Me music video or, more likely down our way, big muscle-bound, tattooed meatheads who grunt instead of talking, and so I stayed well clear. Last October though I was getting bored of the same old kicking and punching routine on my Davina McCall exercise DVD and decided something a little more intense was required… and so I took the plunge and went along for an induction. And do you know, I surprised myself by enjoying the experience!
Yes there were skinny-minnies in tight gym clothes and there were definitely a lot of muscley men "pumping iron" in the corner, but there were also older men with nobbly knees eagerly (if shakily) elliptically training, chunkier girls like myself plodding along on the treadmills and even some puny-looking young teenage boys desperately trying to add a little muscle to their frames on the weights machines. So even though I was still very intimidated, I didn't feel too out of place. Besides, one thing I quickly learned about the gym is that everyone is too busy pushing themselves to even notice the fat chick's ass and thighs wibbling like jelly as she tries to walk at 4mph on the treadmill.
And so from October until January I went along around 3 times a week to pump, walk, jog and cycle my way to fitness, concentration often etched on to my face and my tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth as willed myself to finish my third "rep" of 15 on the pain machine (I think it's real name is the shoulder press). Then in January my monthly fee ran out and I didn't have enough money to renew it - poor me. Literally. Also, increasingly fat and unfit me. There's nothing more dissatisfying than to have lost loads of weight and reached a certain level of fitness only to have all your hard work undone in a month of lethargy. Although to be honest there's nothing more satisfying than a large meaty pizza, cheesey garlic bread and a bottle of wine or two, but such contradictions are the way of life, are they not?
Yesterday though, me and my darling fiancé, henceforth known as Yawksha Boy (as he hails from Oop Nawth, land of the silent 'R'), slunk back into the gym to sign up once again for a gym membership, this time with direct debit so we have no "I can't afford it this month" type get-out clause. And so in we went for our first session of our new (good) habit. Ooo it was hard, let me tell you! I was never exactly pounding along happily at 10mph on the treadmill for half an hour at a time or anything but before Christmas when I was going regularly, I'd built up my strength and fitness little by little to a level I thought was decent for a chunky chick like myself. But yesterday? Oy vey, man! The weights I was lifting were lighter but (I'm certain) even more painful and there was no way I was going to add elevation to my 4mph power-walk on the treadmill like I used to. Also, I put the upright cycle at the level I used to cycle on and turned bright red within around 30 seconds!
Flip me, mes amis, I was exhausted! But on the plus side, my hard work probably worked off the traybake I had while I was waiting for Yawksha Boy in the café beside the gym (never leave a chunky chick unattended near baked goods) and got rid of my craving for Dominos pizza for dinner. Instead I made a lovely wholewheat pasta dish with lots of vegetables and chicken. I felt quite self-righteous actually, until bedtime when I just felt plain knackered - hehe!
So my aim today has been to have a scone for breakfast (a girl needs her kicks people), irish stew and a bagel for lunch, some porridge for a snack this afternoon and then the gym. As for dinner, I'm not sure but it will not be a pizza :-) I've also sworn off the booze now for a month until lent ends. For random medical reasons I cannot eat chocolate so I will need some wine to survive the injustice of this at Easter, while others around me are munching on the sweet cocoa goodness. Let's hope this good behaviour lasts!
In the meantime, I only have 45 minutes to go until tea break time (don't you just love public service offices?) and about 2 mouthfuls of coffee left in my giant mug. Will I make it? Only time will tell. But two things are for sure this afternoon: I will be braving the gym once again, and I am not leaving this office until I beaten that sodding Spider Solitaire! Laters y'all! xxx
Hang on a tick… this blog is called coffee and scones for a reason. I happily nommed my way through a scone for breakfast but I'm going all slow-mo' and am realising that it's now time for my eleventieth cup of coffee of the day.
*kettle boilage*
Aaaaah that's better. Not quite as strong as I would like but I'm trying my best not to work my way through this jar of coffee quite so fervently as I did with the last one, especially since it's technically to be shared with all the other minions in my office. Still, caffiney bliss - mmmmmm.
Another good reason for loading up on the coffee is that I'm off to the gym after work. I used to associate gyms with those lycra-thong-wearing skinny-minnies from the Call On Me music video or, more likely down our way, big muscle-bound, tattooed meatheads who grunt instead of talking, and so I stayed well clear. Last October though I was getting bored of the same old kicking and punching routine on my Davina McCall exercise DVD and decided something a little more intense was required… and so I took the plunge and went along for an induction. And do you know, I surprised myself by enjoying the experience!
Yes there were skinny-minnies in tight gym clothes and there were definitely a lot of muscley men "pumping iron" in the corner, but there were also older men with nobbly knees eagerly (if shakily) elliptically training, chunkier girls like myself plodding along on the treadmills and even some puny-looking young teenage boys desperately trying to add a little muscle to their frames on the weights machines. So even though I was still very intimidated, I didn't feel too out of place. Besides, one thing I quickly learned about the gym is that everyone is too busy pushing themselves to even notice the fat chick's ass and thighs wibbling like jelly as she tries to walk at 4mph on the treadmill.
And so from October until January I went along around 3 times a week to pump, walk, jog and cycle my way to fitness, concentration often etched on to my face and my tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth as willed myself to finish my third "rep" of 15 on the pain machine (I think it's real name is the shoulder press). Then in January my monthly fee ran out and I didn't have enough money to renew it - poor me. Literally. Also, increasingly fat and unfit me. There's nothing more dissatisfying than to have lost loads of weight and reached a certain level of fitness only to have all your hard work undone in a month of lethargy. Although to be honest there's nothing more satisfying than a large meaty pizza, cheesey garlic bread and a bottle of wine or two, but such contradictions are the way of life, are they not?
Yesterday though, me and my darling fiancé, henceforth known as Yawksha Boy (as he hails from Oop Nawth, land of the silent 'R'), slunk back into the gym to sign up once again for a gym membership, this time with direct debit so we have no "I can't afford it this month" type get-out clause. And so in we went for our first session of our new (good) habit. Ooo it was hard, let me tell you! I was never exactly pounding along happily at 10mph on the treadmill for half an hour at a time or anything but before Christmas when I was going regularly, I'd built up my strength and fitness little by little to a level I thought was decent for a chunky chick like myself. But yesterday? Oy vey, man! The weights I was lifting were lighter but (I'm certain) even more painful and there was no way I was going to add elevation to my 4mph power-walk on the treadmill like I used to. Also, I put the upright cycle at the level I used to cycle on and turned bright red within around 30 seconds!
Flip me, mes amis, I was exhausted! But on the plus side, my hard work probably worked off the traybake I had while I was waiting for Yawksha Boy in the café beside the gym (never leave a chunky chick unattended near baked goods) and got rid of my craving for Dominos pizza for dinner. Instead I made a lovely wholewheat pasta dish with lots of vegetables and chicken. I felt quite self-righteous actually, until bedtime when I just felt plain knackered - hehe!
So my aim today has been to have a scone for breakfast (a girl needs her kicks people), irish stew and a bagel for lunch, some porridge for a snack this afternoon and then the gym. As for dinner, I'm not sure but it will not be a pizza :-) I've also sworn off the booze now for a month until lent ends. For random medical reasons I cannot eat chocolate so I will need some wine to survive the injustice of this at Easter, while others around me are munching on the sweet cocoa goodness. Let's hope this good behaviour lasts!
In the meantime, I only have 45 minutes to go until tea break time (don't you just love public service offices?) and about 2 mouthfuls of coffee left in my giant mug. Will I make it? Only time will tell. But two things are for sure this afternoon: I will be braving the gym once again, and I am not leaving this office until I beaten that sodding Spider Solitaire! Laters y'all! xxx
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Newbie to the Blogosphere
Yes blogosphere, another newbie infringing on your virtual world. I must apologise.
You see, I got into the way of reading blogs a good year or two ago when I was in a job with unmonitored Internet access and not a lot else to do. Some were British, some were American, some were extraordinary and some were hilarious; all were well-written, entertaining and, frankly, bloody addictive! More than once I've discovered a new blog and gone back to read the blogger's whole archive. It's strange and wonderful to watch as people and their circumstances change over the years because of all the little things they write about.
The more I read, the more I feel like I know these people. Every morning at tea break time at work I check my Google Reader for new blog posts and when a new entry pops up from one of my favourite bloggers, it's almost like getting an email from a friend, or watching a new episode of one of my favourite TV shows. In short: it's nice!
I'll admit right up front that not much particularly exciting happens in my lil' ol' life, so I can't guarantee that this will be well-written or entertaining and it will almost definitely not be bloody addictive, but I figure if everyone else is blogging, why shouldn't I? You never know when life will take a turn for the more exciting (hopefully in a good way and not a scary, traumatic way!) ; maybe some day someone out there might be all like "Oh another entry from Coffee and Scones - I wonder what she's been up to..." and that would be kinda cool.
So there we go - my first post about, well, posting. Hmmm. I'll try to make the next one more exciting! Until then, take care y'all! xxx
You see, I got into the way of reading blogs a good year or two ago when I was in a job with unmonitored Internet access and not a lot else to do. Some were British, some were American, some were extraordinary and some were hilarious; all were well-written, entertaining and, frankly, bloody addictive! More than once I've discovered a new blog and gone back to read the blogger's whole archive. It's strange and wonderful to watch as people and their circumstances change over the years because of all the little things they write about.
The more I read, the more I feel like I know these people. Every morning at tea break time at work I check my Google Reader for new blog posts and when a new entry pops up from one of my favourite bloggers, it's almost like getting an email from a friend, or watching a new episode of one of my favourite TV shows. In short: it's nice!
I'll admit right up front that not much particularly exciting happens in my lil' ol' life, so I can't guarantee that this will be well-written or entertaining and it will almost definitely not be bloody addictive, but I figure if everyone else is blogging, why shouldn't I? You never know when life will take a turn for the more exciting (hopefully in a good way and not a scary, traumatic way!) ; maybe some day someone out there might be all like "Oh another entry from Coffee and Scones - I wonder what she's been up to..." and that would be kinda cool.
So there we go - my first post about, well, posting. Hmmm. I'll try to make the next one more exciting! Until then, take care y'all! xxx
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