This week has seen a huge and life altering change occur. Not my birthday, although I am now wondering at what age official spinsterhood commences as I am plummeting towards a future where I live alone with cats and save all my bodily waste in jars, only stirring to frighten small children and swear at social services. But no, there are many other days on which I can ponder on this halcyon future, for now I am preoccupied with a much more pressing issue: Neighbours has moved to Channel Five.
I have always been a Neighbours fan. Like most I started watching it in 1986, unlike most, I carried on watching it. This was due in part to a sizeable crush on Dr Karl Kennedy. How wonderful he is, with his jet black hair untouched by age, his slightly randy nature and his light hearted jokey side – who else but Karl would sing in a band called “The Right Prescription”? He is also some kind of medical wonder – Pregnant? Karl can deliver your babies. Need Heart Surgery? Karl’s your man. Councelling? Why not talk to Karl?
But it is not just this crush that has kept me watching. Even a crush on Peter Sallis couldn’t keep me watching “Last of the Summer Wine”. I have stuck with Neighbours through the good times – Scott and Charlene’s wedding, Plain Jane Superbrain, Daphne giving birth through her tights – and the bad times: The Lims, Helen’s potential move to the Bungle Bungles, Julie’s death. I, alone, cared whether Paul and Gayle would be able to convince Mr Udugawa that they were really married.
Sadly I must confess that I have been to both a “Neighbours night” and to Ramsey Street. The Neighbours night was very exciting. I got to meet Darcy, Toadie and the legend himself Karl “The God” Kennedy. I got a hug. I meant to put the photo in a frame, along with his autograph, but sadly they got lost. I suspect sabotage on the side of Mrs Susan Kennedy. It wasn’t long since she’d slipped on some milk and lost 30 years worth of memory, so I am willing to forgive.
The trip to Ramsey Street was also very exciting. I wandered around the hallowed turf and then bumped in to the crappest family ever to grace Erinsborough – The Hancocks. Woop de doo. Still I got my photo taken with them. I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Perhaps Karl could do that in his capacity of super doctor using his enumerable skills to moonlight as a horse dentist.
But yeah it’s moved. I’ll learn to adjust, I’ll get over it. I’ll learn to love Karl on a different channel. I’ve gone off him a bit since Soap Star Superstar anyway. He took it all a wee bit too seriously. And wore some extremely tight trousers. Which weren’t as arousing as you’d think.
My friend is opening her own beauty business. She is now trying to decide on a name. So far most of my suggestions have been rejected but she may take me up on using “Metamorface”, she outright refused my favourite suggestion of “Gorge Bush”. I think she is missing a trick.
About Me
- Angel of Harlow
- Book out now on amazon! Buy, read, enjoy, tell your friends, buy a spare copy.
Friday, 7 March 2008
I will never be a pop star
Two things have happened of late that have led me to a devastating personal enlightenment. One was this email from Annie “Hey hun. How is your column coming along? Xx. I replied ‘In the words of Natasha Beddingfield “it is unwritten”.’ The second incident involved Ayesha and myself going to the O2 to see the Spice Girls (which was brilliant, I wasn’t quite as moved as the stranger next to me dressed from head to toe in Spice Girls memorabilia and BAWLING it, but it really was good). There I was singing along, dancing as best I could in a near vertical seating arrangement (still knew all the moves to Stop) when it hit me… I am too old to be a popstar.
Now ignoring the fact that I also have limited musical abilities (unless the recorder comes back in fashion), I can’t dance and look like a pig in a frock- there is also no outlet for my “talents” now that Top of the Pops has been cancelled. Which is rubbish. Who didn’t stand in front of the telly copying dance routines and putting subtitles up so they could sing along? I can clearly remember watching Kylie on Top of the Pops and not just wanting to be a pop star but wanting to be her. I wanted to lean out the back of a moving car and belt out “I Should Be So Lucky”, but I was stopped by selfish parents when I attempted it on the M25. I had to make do with wearing the strange hat by little brother had to keep shampoo out of his eyes when he had his hair washed and attempt to recreate the front cover of her album.
But I have truly missed the boat. Britney’s had her career, 2 kids and a breakdown and she’s still younger than me. Even the oldest Spice Girl is only 32 and they are on a reunion tour! Incidentally I saw them at Party in Park when they had yet to release “Wannabe”, if I remember rightly the whole park stood there with a “what the hell is this?” expression on their faces. Oh didn’t they prove us wrong. We also saw Peter Andre (pre-Jordan) and Robbie Williams (post Take That pre Oddness). Rock n flipping roll. I think to embark on a pop star career at this stage in my life would be foolhardy and ultimately unsuccessful. I would be the new Michelle McManus, and I really don’t think there’s room for both of us.
However, I do have one item on my CV that proves I have what it takes to storm the charts. I have performed at Wembley. Oh yes. Say it loud and proud. Myself and my school choir provided backing vocals for Bonnie Tyler, we were even on Grandstand – fame indeed. It was at some Rugby Final – rather than a strange deal to show concerts on Sports Programmes. We did the doo doo doo doos on ‘I need a Hero’ and looked mournful during ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. We even got to run on waving flags and sing ‘Abide with Me’.
And yet even reaching these dizzying heights, I still want more, I am a fame junkie. I am sick. Which would make me PERFECT to be a pop star.
Now ignoring the fact that I also have limited musical abilities (unless the recorder comes back in fashion), I can’t dance and look like a pig in a frock- there is also no outlet for my “talents” now that Top of the Pops has been cancelled. Which is rubbish. Who didn’t stand in front of the telly copying dance routines and putting subtitles up so they could sing along? I can clearly remember watching Kylie on Top of the Pops and not just wanting to be a pop star but wanting to be her. I wanted to lean out the back of a moving car and belt out “I Should Be So Lucky”, but I was stopped by selfish parents when I attempted it on the M25. I had to make do with wearing the strange hat by little brother had to keep shampoo out of his eyes when he had his hair washed and attempt to recreate the front cover of her album.
But I have truly missed the boat. Britney’s had her career, 2 kids and a breakdown and she’s still younger than me. Even the oldest Spice Girl is only 32 and they are on a reunion tour! Incidentally I saw them at Party in Park when they had yet to release “Wannabe”, if I remember rightly the whole park stood there with a “what the hell is this?” expression on their faces. Oh didn’t they prove us wrong. We also saw Peter Andre (pre-Jordan) and Robbie Williams (post Take That pre Oddness). Rock n flipping roll. I think to embark on a pop star career at this stage in my life would be foolhardy and ultimately unsuccessful. I would be the new Michelle McManus, and I really don’t think there’s room for both of us.
However, I do have one item on my CV that proves I have what it takes to storm the charts. I have performed at Wembley. Oh yes. Say it loud and proud. Myself and my school choir provided backing vocals for Bonnie Tyler, we were even on Grandstand – fame indeed. It was at some Rugby Final – rather than a strange deal to show concerts on Sports Programmes. We did the doo doo doo doos on ‘I need a Hero’ and looked mournful during ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. We even got to run on waving flags and sing ‘Abide with Me’.
And yet even reaching these dizzying heights, I still want more, I am a fame junkie. I am sick. Which would make me PERFECT to be a pop star.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Christmas
Well what a lovely Christmas. Christmas celebrations always go on forever in my family as my mum selfishly has her birthday on the 27th. Therefore I had a four day stretch of joy and then was rudely back in the real world on the 28th when apparently it was unacceptable to eat miniature heroes for breakfast (not that I was up for breakfast –I nearly had a heart attack when the alarm went off on Monday morning, especially as I was given an alarm clock that plays your ipod. I have it on random and so was woken up to Joy Division playing very loudly. May need to change my sheets when I get home). But it was lovely. Went to see my Dad’s nativity. Sadly it was one of those hip and groovy ones and I couldn’t follow it. Was more amused on Christmas morning when someone set their High School Musical Singing Doll off in the middle of communion. Vicar: “And so we break the bread” High School Musical Singing Doll “We’re breaking Free!!”. I laughed, the Vicar didn’t, but I think all were agreed it was excellent timing.
We’ve always played games at Christmas in our family. I generally spend most of the year growing back hair that’s been lost in a particularly vicious game of musical hats. However for the last couple of years we’ve played a game that my brother has picked up from somewhere. People get in to two teams and each person has to write down, on separate bits of paper, 8 names. Names are folded and go in to a hat and then people take it in turns to describe who is on the bit of paper to their teams, each person has a minute and you keep going till all the names are gone. Make a note of how many each team got. All the names go back in the hat. Next round, same names, same format but you have to mime what is on the bit of paper. Make a note of the scores. Next round, same names, same format but you have to describe the person in one word. End of game. Quite a lot of fun. You need to be careful who you put down though, one year a lot of people were traumatized after my dad mimed Monica Lewinski. We also wasted a lot of time trying to guess the person my sister in law was describing. Apparently he was a Freedom Fighter in the Second World War, possibly French, either way he flew a plane and was some sort of national hero. Turns out she meant Liberace. Which was not as bad as playing with my nan, who come the one word round decided to describe people by saying “woman”, “man”, “old”. She attempted to redeem herself by suggesting a game where people have to name different types of fuel. I think we were allowed the telly on then.
New year was also super. I went on a boat down the Thames. I held off mentioning my plans until I was back on dry land as every person I spoke to about it (thank you Mother) said “oooh like the Marchioness”. Well, hopefully not. It was great. And as we got off the boat me and my mate got all smug and said how clever we were to pre-book a taxi. Yes, very clever. Until all the roads are closed, you haven’t got a coat and are wearing high heels and have to walk for 2 hours to find said taxi. I suffered from excruciatingly sore feet, someone else suffered from cold and someone else was about to wet themselves. Some girls cried, some boys became smug about wearing flat shoes. I merely became incredibly British and marched around saying things like “well crying about it isn’t going to get us home is it” and “well stopping isn’t going to get us there any faster”, whilst secretly thinking we were going to have to sleep in a doorway. 2 metres away from the cab I threw myself down a hole and became convinced I had broken my ankle. Not due to the way I fell, merely that intense cold had caused it to snap. Luckily, big fat leg to the rescue, it was just bruised and I lived to fight another day.
Next new year I shall be at home in my pyjamas.
We’ve always played games at Christmas in our family. I generally spend most of the year growing back hair that’s been lost in a particularly vicious game of musical hats. However for the last couple of years we’ve played a game that my brother has picked up from somewhere. People get in to two teams and each person has to write down, on separate bits of paper, 8 names. Names are folded and go in to a hat and then people take it in turns to describe who is on the bit of paper to their teams, each person has a minute and you keep going till all the names are gone. Make a note of how many each team got. All the names go back in the hat. Next round, same names, same format but you have to mime what is on the bit of paper. Make a note of the scores. Next round, same names, same format but you have to describe the person in one word. End of game. Quite a lot of fun. You need to be careful who you put down though, one year a lot of people were traumatized after my dad mimed Monica Lewinski. We also wasted a lot of time trying to guess the person my sister in law was describing. Apparently he was a Freedom Fighter in the Second World War, possibly French, either way he flew a plane and was some sort of national hero. Turns out she meant Liberace. Which was not as bad as playing with my nan, who come the one word round decided to describe people by saying “woman”, “man”, “old”. She attempted to redeem herself by suggesting a game where people have to name different types of fuel. I think we were allowed the telly on then.
New year was also super. I went on a boat down the Thames. I held off mentioning my plans until I was back on dry land as every person I spoke to about it (thank you Mother) said “oooh like the Marchioness”. Well, hopefully not. It was great. And as we got off the boat me and my mate got all smug and said how clever we were to pre-book a taxi. Yes, very clever. Until all the roads are closed, you haven’t got a coat and are wearing high heels and have to walk for 2 hours to find said taxi. I suffered from excruciatingly sore feet, someone else suffered from cold and someone else was about to wet themselves. Some girls cried, some boys became smug about wearing flat shoes. I merely became incredibly British and marched around saying things like “well crying about it isn’t going to get us home is it” and “well stopping isn’t going to get us there any faster”, whilst secretly thinking we were going to have to sleep in a doorway. 2 metres away from the cab I threw myself down a hole and became convinced I had broken my ankle. Not due to the way I fell, merely that intense cold had caused it to snap. Luckily, big fat leg to the rescue, it was just bruised and I lived to fight another day.
Next new year I shall be at home in my pyjamas.
Friday, 14 December 2007
A Christmas Letter
Dear Friends,
At this time of year I like to include a “round robin” letter in our Christmas cards. I find it a good way to boast to friends and acquaintances that I don’t deem important enough to talk to the rest of the year.
It’s been a mixed year for the family. Geoff’s dad has become slightly frail so rather than take any risks we are looking in to transferring all his savings directly to us. He’s well in himself though, although he does feel his cold. To help him with this we have his heating allowance paid directly to us as he does spend every other Sunday with us.
Lynne and Tony are well. Tony has changed jobs and seems to relish his new role as P.E. specialist at an all girls college. Lynne is still very active in am dram and recently undertook the gruelling role of Mimi le Bonk in the Great Munsdon production of “Allo Allo” the musical. They are looking in to adoption. It was hoped that Louise would grow out of the “terrible twos” but she’s still very trying so they hope she’ll fare better with another family.
Will and Fifi are doing very well. Will’s recently floated his company and Fifi is terribly busy redecorating their dining room. Their three children; Horatia, Domenica and Florentina are excelling at school and Florentina is thinking of a part time job in pizza express.
Annabelle is still single and childless.
Pippy, our youngest, has just finished his gap year. He travelled to Thailand where he found a very good job in transportation. He was in the supply end of the chain. He was unclear on the details but I think it involved animals. He certainly mentioned mules. He really is terribly enterprising. Apparently he has earned enough in his gap year to fund him through all three years of university and the people in Thailand are willing to keep his job open for him and are happy for him to work his summers there.
Geoff and I trundle on. We will have been together 30 years this year. To celebrate we are going to have a holiday. Geoff is going to France and I am going to Spain with the girls. Geoff is still very in to his wood work. He has turned the shed in to a workshop and spends many happy hours out there bashing away. Sometimes Sue from next door pops round to give him a hand and they merrily spend the afternoon together.
I do find these letters are an excellent way to keep in touch with people. I find them a great leveller. Everyone from the woman who was my bridesmaid to the people we met on a coach trip to Hastings gets the same – it’s an excellent way of maintaining friendships. However, although addressed to “friends” I shall personalise yours slightly by scrawling in biro at the bottom that we must meet up in the New Year.
Best Wishes
Sandra and Geoff.
At this time of year I like to include a “round robin” letter in our Christmas cards. I find it a good way to boast to friends and acquaintances that I don’t deem important enough to talk to the rest of the year.
It’s been a mixed year for the family. Geoff’s dad has become slightly frail so rather than take any risks we are looking in to transferring all his savings directly to us. He’s well in himself though, although he does feel his cold. To help him with this we have his heating allowance paid directly to us as he does spend every other Sunday with us.
Lynne and Tony are well. Tony has changed jobs and seems to relish his new role as P.E. specialist at an all girls college. Lynne is still very active in am dram and recently undertook the gruelling role of Mimi le Bonk in the Great Munsdon production of “Allo Allo” the musical. They are looking in to adoption. It was hoped that Louise would grow out of the “terrible twos” but she’s still very trying so they hope she’ll fare better with another family.
Will and Fifi are doing very well. Will’s recently floated his company and Fifi is terribly busy redecorating their dining room. Their three children; Horatia, Domenica and Florentina are excelling at school and Florentina is thinking of a part time job in pizza express.
Annabelle is still single and childless.
Pippy, our youngest, has just finished his gap year. He travelled to Thailand where he found a very good job in transportation. He was in the supply end of the chain. He was unclear on the details but I think it involved animals. He certainly mentioned mules. He really is terribly enterprising. Apparently he has earned enough in his gap year to fund him through all three years of university and the people in Thailand are willing to keep his job open for him and are happy for him to work his summers there.
Geoff and I trundle on. We will have been together 30 years this year. To celebrate we are going to have a holiday. Geoff is going to France and I am going to Spain with the girls. Geoff is still very in to his wood work. He has turned the shed in to a workshop and spends many happy hours out there bashing away. Sometimes Sue from next door pops round to give him a hand and they merrily spend the afternoon together.
I do find these letters are an excellent way to keep in touch with people. I find them a great leveller. Everyone from the woman who was my bridesmaid to the people we met on a coach trip to Hastings gets the same – it’s an excellent way of maintaining friendships. However, although addressed to “friends” I shall personalise yours slightly by scrawling in biro at the bottom that we must meet up in the New Year.
Best Wishes
Sandra and Geoff.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Banks
I am at war with my bank. Here follows a week in emails:
Wednesday
“Quite a few times of late I have tried to purchase good s over the internet. Always from secure sites, however every single time my card is rejected as my bank has refused the transaction. Whilst I appreciate the extra security, this is beginning to drive me mad and is incredibly frustrating. It has also introduced the element of danger in to all shopping. "Oooh I've just filled my car up and I know I have money in my account but will my bank refuse the transaction for reasons best know to itself". I can't say I am looking forward to Christmas shopping this weekend knowing that every single transaction could be refused. Or as in July this year you could just cancel my card and not tell me for 3 days. I have banked with you for 14 years and have been generally happy until this year. I am now considering changing banks which I am reluctant to do but the lack of customer service (and lack of access to my own money) may leave me no choice.”
Thursday
“Just to keep you updated this has happened again. When I tried to use my switch card for my lunch. For £5-20. Which was not only intensely annoying but also highly embarrassing. This is getting ridiculous. Would you like me to ring you everytime I am going to use my card so you can tell me whether it's going to work or not? I would quite like to buy petrol at around 6pm tonight. It should cost £30, I only have £475 in my current account. Is this OK? Please try and let me know. It'll save you the bother of cancelling it and issuing me with another switch card (which you'll cancel) and save me having to do a runner from the petrol station when I am not allowed to access my own money.”
Friday
“As I still haven’t heard from you I think it’s best to tell you that I don’t intend to spend any money today. I’ve bought my lunch from home (it was bought from Sainsbury’s at the weekend – I can provide you with a receipt if needs be) and tonight I have friends coming round. Therefore if any money is removed from my account today then please block my card immediately, that is if it’s actually working at the moment.
Saturday
“Out for lunch today and then out again in the evening! What a busy life. I would invite you but I don’t think you’d be able to get the money together for the flight – unless of course you would like to use the money from my account. It seems a shame that it’s just sitting there when someone could be using it – even if it’s not me.
Sunday
My aunt went to market and she bought an apple, a banana, a cup, a dog, an elephant, a fire engine, a goat, a herbaceous border, an igloo, a jumper, a kite, a llama, a marigold glove (singular), a nectarine, an orangutang, a purse, a quirkafleet (which we must perform), a rusk, a semaphore kit, a tea set, some umbongo, a vivisection kit, a weeble, a xylophone, a yoghurt and a zulu.
All on my switch card! Please block it immediately.
Monday
Dear ,
Thank you for your correspondence. We understand that having your card blocked and cancelled is frustrating and can cause problems for you. However we are acting in your best interests and are stopping your money falling in to the wrong hands. Please be assured that we are looking in to this situation and will hopefully be able to find a solution to it soon.
In the meantime, it is an excellent idea to keep track of what you have spent so that it can be compared to your statements. However, it is unnecessary to keep up abreast of these transactions.
Please do not hesitate to contact us if we can be of any further help.
Yours Sincerely.
Wednesday
“Quite a few times of late I have tried to purchase good s over the internet. Always from secure sites, however every single time my card is rejected as my bank has refused the transaction. Whilst I appreciate the extra security, this is beginning to drive me mad and is incredibly frustrating. It has also introduced the element of danger in to all shopping. "Oooh I've just filled my car up and I know I have money in my account but will my bank refuse the transaction for reasons best know to itself". I can't say I am looking forward to Christmas shopping this weekend knowing that every single transaction could be refused. Or as in July this year you could just cancel my card and not tell me for 3 days. I have banked with you for 14 years and have been generally happy until this year. I am now considering changing banks which I am reluctant to do but the lack of customer service (and lack of access to my own money) may leave me no choice.”
Thursday
“Just to keep you updated this has happened again. When I tried to use my switch card for my lunch. For £5-20. Which was not only intensely annoying but also highly embarrassing. This is getting ridiculous. Would you like me to ring you everytime I am going to use my card so you can tell me whether it's going to work or not? I would quite like to buy petrol at around 6pm tonight. It should cost £30, I only have £475 in my current account. Is this OK? Please try and let me know. It'll save you the bother of cancelling it and issuing me with another switch card (which you'll cancel) and save me having to do a runner from the petrol station when I am not allowed to access my own money.”
Friday
“As I still haven’t heard from you I think it’s best to tell you that I don’t intend to spend any money today. I’ve bought my lunch from home (it was bought from Sainsbury’s at the weekend – I can provide you with a receipt if needs be) and tonight I have friends coming round. Therefore if any money is removed from my account today then please block my card immediately, that is if it’s actually working at the moment.
Saturday
“Out for lunch today and then out again in the evening! What a busy life. I would invite you but I don’t think you’d be able to get the money together for the flight – unless of course you would like to use the money from my account. It seems a shame that it’s just sitting there when someone could be using it – even if it’s not me.
Sunday
My aunt went to market and she bought an apple, a banana, a cup, a dog, an elephant, a fire engine, a goat, a herbaceous border, an igloo, a jumper, a kite, a llama, a marigold glove (singular), a nectarine, an orangutang, a purse, a quirkafleet (which we must perform), a rusk, a semaphore kit, a tea set, some umbongo, a vivisection kit, a weeble, a xylophone, a yoghurt and a zulu.
All on my switch card! Please block it immediately.
Monday
Dear ,
Thank you for your correspondence. We understand that having your card blocked and cancelled is frustrating and can cause problems for you. However we are acting in your best interests and are stopping your money falling in to the wrong hands. Please be assured that we are looking in to this situation and will hopefully be able to find a solution to it soon.
In the meantime, it is an excellent idea to keep track of what you have spent so that it can be compared to your statements. However, it is unnecessary to keep up abreast of these transactions.
Please do not hesitate to contact us if we can be of any further help.
Yours Sincerely.
Trains
Of all the things I heartily dislike about myself (and there are many) by propensity to buy rail tickets for insane times just because they are cheap is one of the things I dislike the most. Actually I blame GNER for ridiculous pricing but they’ve had enough abusive letters off me over the years and all they ever say in return is “two singles may be cheaper than a return ticket”, which is pretty much telling me to sell one kidney instead of two to be able to afford to get past Milton Keynes. Anyway; at 7am last Saturday morning I was on a train bound to Edinburgh, going out the night before wasn’t a good plan and it meant I was in absolutely no mood at all for the collection of morons and biffers I found myself forced to sit with. People who think they are funny and talk loudly, people who bought their dog on and expected other people to enjoy that (the dog was called Mitzy and apparently didn’t need a lead as the stupid owner could just bellow at it – all the time), over-priced food and drink and a toilet that smelt like it had been used by a terribly unwell egg. And the best thing about it was that in just over 24 hours time I’d be back on it heading home.
Yes, I had a weekend away. I went to Edinburgh. It was extraordinarily pleasant. It was a sort of reunion. There were 8 of us who were terribly good friends at university (we had other friends as well) and so decided to meet up. We scattered slightly after university: Australia, Japan, Dafur, Malawi, Finland, Nottingham. So this was the first chance we’d had to all meet up again, so the 8 of us returned to Edinburgh. Well 9 of us really as I’ve pretty much doubled in size. But it was lovely. We abandoned all attempts to catch up on each others lives (I realised on the train back that I’d never actually asked about a mate’s kids – which is not very friendly but kind of a relief as I’m not actually very interested) and instead drank a lot and pretended we were 21 again. Which we blatantly are not. At university we drank a lot and we didn’t really care where we did it, this became clear when we were talking about a club we used to go to and I recalled it as a sort of garden shed/air raid shelter, turns out it actually had 3 floors but I had never been there sober. This time around we rejected any pub which didn’t have enough seating for all of us.
Some things never change though. I instantly disliked being the tallest girl. Although not exactly tall I am 5’7 in flats which is fine but in heels I look borderline transsexual. This would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that the other 3 girls I met up with are all 5’2 and under. Meaning I look like some sort of giant freak especially in photos where I look like I am eyeing up lunch. Or like some kind of supervisory lollipop lady. Would have helped if I wasn’t wearing a fluro jacket and carrying a giant stick.
But it was lovely. It was nice meeting up with people who have known you for ages and knew you when the height of your ambition was getting the money that had fallen down the back of the sofa so that you could afford to eat that night or who knew you when you slept through a fire alarm and had to be woken up by the terrifying night porter (called Tam, had 3 teeth and an impenetrable highlands accent – not the kind of man you dream of slipping in to your room at night). It was also nice to reminisce about those we left behind. Jacquiline who ate only cheese and used to grate it by rubbing it sideways against the grater (“you might get there a bit quicker if you pushed it up and down there Jacquiline”). Dave – the boy that never washed, you knew when he was coming your way as you could smell him. Ah the joys of communal living. Nice at the time but not something I am anxious to return to. Which is how I felt at returning to the train. The journey back was better, no dogs, no comedians, just an old woman who fed me polos. I still hated it though. I felt obliged to.
Yes, I had a weekend away. I went to Edinburgh. It was extraordinarily pleasant. It was a sort of reunion. There were 8 of us who were terribly good friends at university (we had other friends as well) and so decided to meet up. We scattered slightly after university: Australia, Japan, Dafur, Malawi, Finland, Nottingham. So this was the first chance we’d had to all meet up again, so the 8 of us returned to Edinburgh. Well 9 of us really as I’ve pretty much doubled in size. But it was lovely. We abandoned all attempts to catch up on each others lives (I realised on the train back that I’d never actually asked about a mate’s kids – which is not very friendly but kind of a relief as I’m not actually very interested) and instead drank a lot and pretended we were 21 again. Which we blatantly are not. At university we drank a lot and we didn’t really care where we did it, this became clear when we were talking about a club we used to go to and I recalled it as a sort of garden shed/air raid shelter, turns out it actually had 3 floors but I had never been there sober. This time around we rejected any pub which didn’t have enough seating for all of us.
Some things never change though. I instantly disliked being the tallest girl. Although not exactly tall I am 5’7 in flats which is fine but in heels I look borderline transsexual. This would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that the other 3 girls I met up with are all 5’2 and under. Meaning I look like some sort of giant freak especially in photos where I look like I am eyeing up lunch. Or like some kind of supervisory lollipop lady. Would have helped if I wasn’t wearing a fluro jacket and carrying a giant stick.
But it was lovely. It was nice meeting up with people who have known you for ages and knew you when the height of your ambition was getting the money that had fallen down the back of the sofa so that you could afford to eat that night or who knew you when you slept through a fire alarm and had to be woken up by the terrifying night porter (called Tam, had 3 teeth and an impenetrable highlands accent – not the kind of man you dream of slipping in to your room at night). It was also nice to reminisce about those we left behind. Jacquiline who ate only cheese and used to grate it by rubbing it sideways against the grater (“you might get there a bit quicker if you pushed it up and down there Jacquiline”). Dave – the boy that never washed, you knew when he was coming your way as you could smell him. Ah the joys of communal living. Nice at the time but not something I am anxious to return to. Which is how I felt at returning to the train. The journey back was better, no dogs, no comedians, just an old woman who fed me polos. I still hated it though. I felt obliged to.
Monday, 26 November 2007
Shopping
I went Christmas shopping last night. Thought I'd knock a few off the list in this months pay packet. Some people have some very strange gifts as I was anxious to make use of the 3 for 2's in Marks and Spencers. However I couldn't buy three things that I actually wanted: an advent candle (now I've disconnected my smoke alarms it's fires a go go), an advent calendar with some form of link to Christianity (although obviously still filled with chocolate, nothing says Peace on earth like breaking open a wise man's face to get to some second rate chocolate) and some Christmas cards that were vaguely religious but not vile. So many Christmas cards that sell themselves as portraying "the real meaning of Christmas" are horrific and you would never give them to people for fear of them being physically sick on you at the sight of such hideousness. All I'm looking for is something Christian yet enjoyable. Jesus in a santa hat maybe, Mary pulling a cracker with Herod or something.
Occasionally I think I would like to be a Nun. A proper one in black and white, not a plain clothed one in a grey cardy. It looks like a very peaceful way of life and would mean I actually had a valid reason for being constantly single. Of course it would be difficult as I am not a Catholic. I was raised a Methodist, so perhaps I could be a nun that sings stirring Weslian songs, and I now go to a Church of England church – for the main reason that it's next door to my house – I am praising the Lord by reducing my carbon footprint.
Of course the kind of nun I would like to be would be one that sings a lot and eventually marries Christopher Plummer. I wouldn't bother with the children, especially not the two rather disturbing boys. But I am willing to learn traditional Austrian folk dances and if needs be even sing Eildleweiss. I do think it would be rather nice to live life in a musical, bursting in to song whenever it takes your fancy. And if I wore a nuns habit I wouldn't have to do my hair and all that running around mountains would kick start the keep fit routine so I am ready for Christopher Plummer. I would draw the line at having nuns at my wedding to Christopher though. I have enough self confidence issues without a load of them standing there singing "How do you solve a Problem like Laura" at me whilst I trot down the ailse. Vicious old cows.
But I can't really be bothered to create my own protestant order of nuns. Although I have the hair (and let's face it the beard) I am no Henry VIII and simple don't have the time to action a schism with Rome, or in this case London? Or Canterbury? It would also involve a minor act of treason as I turn against the Queen and being beheaded would set back my plans considerably – although I would become the first martyr of Lauranism. What I need is a good second who is prepared to be slaughtered for the cause and then I can step in and establish my order. I shall get busy designing the uniform.
Occasionally I think I would like to be a Nun. A proper one in black and white, not a plain clothed one in a grey cardy. It looks like a very peaceful way of life and would mean I actually had a valid reason for being constantly single. Of course it would be difficult as I am not a Catholic. I was raised a Methodist, so perhaps I could be a nun that sings stirring Weslian songs, and I now go to a Church of England church – for the main reason that it's next door to my house – I am praising the Lord by reducing my carbon footprint.
Of course the kind of nun I would like to be would be one that sings a lot and eventually marries Christopher Plummer. I wouldn't bother with the children, especially not the two rather disturbing boys. But I am willing to learn traditional Austrian folk dances and if needs be even sing Eildleweiss. I do think it would be rather nice to live life in a musical, bursting in to song whenever it takes your fancy. And if I wore a nuns habit I wouldn't have to do my hair and all that running around mountains would kick start the keep fit routine so I am ready for Christopher Plummer. I would draw the line at having nuns at my wedding to Christopher though. I have enough self confidence issues without a load of them standing there singing "How do you solve a Problem like Laura" at me whilst I trot down the ailse. Vicious old cows.
But I can't really be bothered to create my own protestant order of nuns. Although I have the hair (and let's face it the beard) I am no Henry VIII and simple don't have the time to action a schism with Rome, or in this case London? Or Canterbury? It would also involve a minor act of treason as I turn against the Queen and being beheaded would set back my plans considerably – although I would become the first martyr of Lauranism. What I need is a good second who is prepared to be slaughtered for the cause and then I can step in and establish my order. I shall get busy designing the uniform.
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