I am thinking of a holiday in France. Well more than thinking, planning a holiday in France. God, I am so proactive. Well actually I am not. I have given my input and someone else is planning it. I originally put a plan together but given that my Geography skills are non-existent (I gave it up at 13, didn’t really want a life of wearing wellies and going on strange field trips. We went on one once where a man ate mud. I don’t need that in my life), my plan would have involved a good three days worth of driving and shares in Esso. So I was removed (therefore my actual plan, worked perfectly).
So I am off to France. I have been there before. I went on a school French exchange when I was 15. I think I can safely say that it was one of the more horrific experiences of my life. My exchange partner was a fat voluntary mute who stayed with us for two weeks without changing her clothes once. As you can imagine I was longing to get to France and stay with her and her family. I arrived and was told to sleep in a room full of dolls. Admittedly they weren’t to know of my terrible fear and my French didn’t stretch to “excuse me I am scared the dolls will come to life in the night and kill me” so I waited till everyone was asleep and slept on the sofa every night. Mute remained a mute. To be fair I didn’t help her much. I was always reasonable at French but actually being in France demonstrated to me that I had been cruelly failed by the education system. I was completely unable to talk to anyone. If Mute had been willing to have an animated conversation about sandwich fillings or directions we would have got on like a house on fire. I could have even sung her a song about things I could see (voici le port, voici le camping, voici le chateau, et le sandicat d’incinative). But sadly she wasn’t interested. So instead we sat in silence. Her mother seemed to watch insane porn on the tv, it could have been a French soap opera as it was on telly at reasonable hours of the day and her father amused himself by walking in on me having a shower. Occasionally we were summoned to the table to eat some under cooked horse and then we resumed our silence.
Thankfully I was away with the school so was able to escape now and again. This also enabled me to hear stories of other people’s exchange families which made me think I was quite well off. One girl was kicked out by her family when she refused to let her exchange partner sleep with her boyfriend in her bed. Another was taken to an all night rave where she was abandoned. Another girl’s exchange partner went on holiday for the last week so she came to stay with us. She was made to share a bed with me. Which was nice given that we hadn’t ever spoken to each other at school. Also meant I couldn’t escape the dolls. On our trips out we pooled together knowledge for survival. My friend was given no food. I was sent off everyday with 2 french sticks filled with sweaty ham, a family sized bag of crisps, a WHOLE BAG of fun sized Mars bars and 4 litres of water. All I needed was a pack horse to carry it around on. I practically fed everyone on the coach. We must have been the only people in town longing for traffic jams so we didn’t have to go home.
Part way in to this delightful trip the mute broke her silence to tell me “we are going to my grandmothers today”. How lovely I thought. I collected my book and my purse and was good to go. I was wearing a light summers dress; it was a lovely day, no need for a jumper. Mute and Mother gave me some odd looks but I ignored them as I settled myself in to their Citroen ready to enjoy some delightful French pop music (sadly not by the group Téléphone, made popular by the Tricoloure books – Fifi LeFolle was a massive fan). 6 hours of driving later I realised the meaning of those looks. We stayed with her grandmother for four days. Not only did I spend my days in that dress, I also had to sleep in that dress as I had to share a bed with the mute. It was also about 90 degrees for most of the time I was there. No one commented. The grandmothers flat was decorated with posters of the tour de france, so I was able to use my vocabulary of transport words. In many ways these were the halcyon days of the exchange.
This trip to France will not be like that. I shall take a variety of outfits, I shall speak about topics other than the Tour de France and I shall put a lock on the bathroom door. Bon Vacance.
About Me
- Angel of Harlow
- Book out now on amazon! Buy, read, enjoy, tell your friends, buy a spare copy.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
Drunk
I don’t behave badly when I am drunk. It usually follows three stages and then it’s all over. Stage one: drink a lot less than everyone else but get a lot drunker due to being a lightweight. Stage two: Invite everyone back to mine for a party. Stage three: realise I don’t actually want to hold a party and so run away and go home to bed. Stage three usually occurs around 8pm. However it is not so much the nights out that are doing me in but the hangovers, which aren’t getting worse as I get older but are getting more bizarre.
Back in January I decided to meet with some friends for a couple of lovely drinks after work on a Friday. The night ended with me waking up at 5am wearing my bra, pants and a cardigan (not one I had gone out in) on my bathroom floor (due to drunkenness, Beth hadn’t interfered with me or anything). I had bruised my cheekbone from falling asleep with my head down the toilet and was not feeling very well at all. So I thought the best thing to do would be to go to a small child’s birthday party. A small child’s birthday party which involved me making two large salads and picking my Nan up on route. The ingredients of the salad were residing in Sainsbury’s and her birthday present was as yet unbought. After retching my way round the supermarket I admitted defeat and called my Dad and was chauffeured to the party. Where I slumped in the corner. Briefly rousing myself to drink 18 pints of water.
Last Saturday I went out for St Patrick’s Day. Knowing my limitations I didn’t start until 4 and paced myself very well throughout the evening. I got the last train home and was tucked up in bed by 2. What a good girl I am. Until I woke up the next morning (at 8:30- brilliant) with a strong desire for a hash brown. Now I am used to weird hangover cravings. I normally find that a pint of diet coke and a bag of chipsticks sorts me out right nice but the heart wants what it wants and in this case it wanted a hash brown. And so I found myself sitting with some very strange people in McDonalds at 9am on Sunday morning. Do people really breakfast in McDonalds? There were whole families sitting there eating their breakfast out of paper bags. A friend of mine went to McDonalds for the first time when she was 96, she felt she should. She rang me when she got back to confide “well it was quite tasty, I had a fillet o fish. But they gave it to me in an egg box!”. As has previously been established I am a bit of a snob but if someone was going to make me get up to breakfast with them I would like it if I actually got cutlery.
But one hash brown later I felt much better and decided to round off my Sunday chav party with a trip to Primark. I had heard a rumour that they had Cath Kidson esq bedwear. That is debatable. Perhaps the person who designed it had once heard of Cath Kidson or sat next to her on a bus but it was more in the style of “horrid”. But as I was wandering round something caught my eye. Now I am used to insane hungover shopping, coming home from the supermarket with your week’s shopping to find that you have to create meals out of 50 pre-cooked cocktail sausages and a tub of chocolate nesquik but never before has this infliction strayed in to the world of clothes. As a result I am now the proud owner of a navy velour “leisure suit”. Words can not express how foul this is. It comes complete with a little anchor on the zip and an enormous elastic waist band. Luckily it was only £8. I spent the afternoon amusing myself by wearing it around the house. Now I know I live on my own so am very good at amusing myself but surely 3 hours laughing at myself in a tracksuit borders on needing to be hospitalised? In my defence I had decided to wear it J-Lo style so had done it up round my boobs. As I was pottering around there was a knock on the door and I was forced to fling myself to the ground. I simply could not have been seen in this thing. Put it this way, if there was a fire I would stop to change. But it’s now 4-30 on a Tuesday and I am looking forward to going home to my velour suit. Perhaps the people in Maccas were in on something. Buy your breakfasts in McDonalds and your clothes in Primark. Not only will they stretch to fit but you won’t want to be seen in public anyway, leaving you free to eat as much as you like.
Back in January I decided to meet with some friends for a couple of lovely drinks after work on a Friday. The night ended with me waking up at 5am wearing my bra, pants and a cardigan (not one I had gone out in) on my bathroom floor (due to drunkenness, Beth hadn’t interfered with me or anything). I had bruised my cheekbone from falling asleep with my head down the toilet and was not feeling very well at all. So I thought the best thing to do would be to go to a small child’s birthday party. A small child’s birthday party which involved me making two large salads and picking my Nan up on route. The ingredients of the salad were residing in Sainsbury’s and her birthday present was as yet unbought. After retching my way round the supermarket I admitted defeat and called my Dad and was chauffeured to the party. Where I slumped in the corner. Briefly rousing myself to drink 18 pints of water.
Last Saturday I went out for St Patrick’s Day. Knowing my limitations I didn’t start until 4 and paced myself very well throughout the evening. I got the last train home and was tucked up in bed by 2. What a good girl I am. Until I woke up the next morning (at 8:30- brilliant) with a strong desire for a hash brown. Now I am used to weird hangover cravings. I normally find that a pint of diet coke and a bag of chipsticks sorts me out right nice but the heart wants what it wants and in this case it wanted a hash brown. And so I found myself sitting with some very strange people in McDonalds at 9am on Sunday morning. Do people really breakfast in McDonalds? There were whole families sitting there eating their breakfast out of paper bags. A friend of mine went to McDonalds for the first time when she was 96, she felt she should. She rang me when she got back to confide “well it was quite tasty, I had a fillet o fish. But they gave it to me in an egg box!”. As has previously been established I am a bit of a snob but if someone was going to make me get up to breakfast with them I would like it if I actually got cutlery.
But one hash brown later I felt much better and decided to round off my Sunday chav party with a trip to Primark. I had heard a rumour that they had Cath Kidson esq bedwear. That is debatable. Perhaps the person who designed it had once heard of Cath Kidson or sat next to her on a bus but it was more in the style of “horrid”. But as I was wandering round something caught my eye. Now I am used to insane hungover shopping, coming home from the supermarket with your week’s shopping to find that you have to create meals out of 50 pre-cooked cocktail sausages and a tub of chocolate nesquik but never before has this infliction strayed in to the world of clothes. As a result I am now the proud owner of a navy velour “leisure suit”. Words can not express how foul this is. It comes complete with a little anchor on the zip and an enormous elastic waist band. Luckily it was only £8. I spent the afternoon amusing myself by wearing it around the house. Now I know I live on my own so am very good at amusing myself but surely 3 hours laughing at myself in a tracksuit borders on needing to be hospitalised? In my defence I had decided to wear it J-Lo style so had done it up round my boobs. As I was pottering around there was a knock on the door and I was forced to fling myself to the ground. I simply could not have been seen in this thing. Put it this way, if there was a fire I would stop to change. But it’s now 4-30 on a Tuesday and I am looking forward to going home to my velour suit. Perhaps the people in Maccas were in on something. Buy your breakfasts in McDonalds and your clothes in Primark. Not only will they stretch to fit but you won’t want to be seen in public anyway, leaving you free to eat as much as you like.
Dresses
The looming future of being a bridesmaid has pushed me in to a punishing exercise routine. So far I have leapt around to Jennifer Ellison’s West End Workout (surprisingly enjoyable), Davina McCall’s Power of 3 (very hard work but ultimately satisfying) and Pilates for Dummies (insanely hard, sweated like a racehorse and walked like I had soiled myself for about a week). I have also restarted swimming every morning before work. At a swimming pool filled with people with absolutely no body issues at all.
Yesterday I was forced to shower with a completely naked woman in a VERY small shower cubicle. She was scrubbing away, baps to the wind, whilst I was rammed in to a corner trying not to look anywhere. Then as I was getting changed I nipped across to a dry cubicle to put my socks on and a woman took that as a cue to pull back her curtain and have a lovely chat to me whilst she was completely naked. Why? Why? Why? The curtain is there for a reason. Use it. None of this however is as bad as the guy at my brother’s gym who regularly puts his foot up on the bench and blow dries his bits with the communal hairdryer. My brother is considering changing gyms.
Perhaps it’s me. I could well be too uptight. Looking for both bridesmaid dresses and Soap Award dresses has meant that I have spent a lot of time seeing myself in unflattering changing room mirrors. I seem to have modelled my look on the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. Hey! There’s a thought, maybe I don’t need a dress for the Awards. I could just find a sailor’s cap, go nudey rudey and pretend I am a guest presenter! But it wasn’t till I’ve spent this time with a mirror that I’ve realised just how many scars I have, and how many I have utterly no idea how I got them.
Some I obviously have total recall of. I can remember my finger being cut off in a door (surprisingly). Seeing your own blood hit the ceiling and then fishing your finger top out of a hinge is something that stays with you. I also have the reminder through having no feeling in that finger. Which is actually incredibly useful for helping you know your left from your right. 5 fingers= right hand. 4 finger= left hand. I can remember getting the scar on my knee (falling over on to broken glass), the scar on my arm (dropping the grill pan on to my arm when I was waitressing – the skin actually sizzled then shrivelled up, like when you chuck a crisp packet on a fire), the scar on my hip (It was claimed – by my brothers – that they were able to jump me on their bikes. All I had to do was lie there whilst they rode off the ramp they had set up and they would land safely on the other side. Sadly we became a bit over confident and I moved further and further back. The co-ordinated one on the lighter bike was successful, the less co-ordinated one on the heavier bike imbedded his pedal in to my side. I believe parental sympathy went along the lines of “well why on earth did you let them do it?”).
But I have absolutely no idea at all how I got the scar on my face. It’s not huge, about an inch long, right by my mouth and it’s not in photos of me when I am younger, so at some point I was hit in the face. Now I know it not huge so it’s not like I was mauled by a dog or was knifed or anything but you’d think I’d remember being smacked in the face by an anvil or something. My parents don’t remember either but given that our childhood incidents involve: one of us falling off a cliff (they held on and were pulled back up), 2 of us cutting our fingers off (different doors), one of us nailing a flip flop to their foot and a fish-hook going through a finger, I guess the lesser incidents are forgotten. My mum only really looks pale when she recalls looking up one day whilst she was on the phone and seeing me coming towards her. I was being carefully lowered from 4 floors above. I was wearing a pair of reins and was tied to a skipping rope.
Actually looking back it’s no wonder I have so many battle scars. But they have done me good. If nothing else I keep my clothes on in public changing rooms.
Yesterday I was forced to shower with a completely naked woman in a VERY small shower cubicle. She was scrubbing away, baps to the wind, whilst I was rammed in to a corner trying not to look anywhere. Then as I was getting changed I nipped across to a dry cubicle to put my socks on and a woman took that as a cue to pull back her curtain and have a lovely chat to me whilst she was completely naked. Why? Why? Why? The curtain is there for a reason. Use it. None of this however is as bad as the guy at my brother’s gym who regularly puts his foot up on the bench and blow dries his bits with the communal hairdryer. My brother is considering changing gyms.
Perhaps it’s me. I could well be too uptight. Looking for both bridesmaid dresses and Soap Award dresses has meant that I have spent a lot of time seeing myself in unflattering changing room mirrors. I seem to have modelled my look on the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. Hey! There’s a thought, maybe I don’t need a dress for the Awards. I could just find a sailor’s cap, go nudey rudey and pretend I am a guest presenter! But it wasn’t till I’ve spent this time with a mirror that I’ve realised just how many scars I have, and how many I have utterly no idea how I got them.
Some I obviously have total recall of. I can remember my finger being cut off in a door (surprisingly). Seeing your own blood hit the ceiling and then fishing your finger top out of a hinge is something that stays with you. I also have the reminder through having no feeling in that finger. Which is actually incredibly useful for helping you know your left from your right. 5 fingers= right hand. 4 finger= left hand. I can remember getting the scar on my knee (falling over on to broken glass), the scar on my arm (dropping the grill pan on to my arm when I was waitressing – the skin actually sizzled then shrivelled up, like when you chuck a crisp packet on a fire), the scar on my hip (It was claimed – by my brothers – that they were able to jump me on their bikes. All I had to do was lie there whilst they rode off the ramp they had set up and they would land safely on the other side. Sadly we became a bit over confident and I moved further and further back. The co-ordinated one on the lighter bike was successful, the less co-ordinated one on the heavier bike imbedded his pedal in to my side. I believe parental sympathy went along the lines of “well why on earth did you let them do it?”).
But I have absolutely no idea at all how I got the scar on my face. It’s not huge, about an inch long, right by my mouth and it’s not in photos of me when I am younger, so at some point I was hit in the face. Now I know it not huge so it’s not like I was mauled by a dog or was knifed or anything but you’d think I’d remember being smacked in the face by an anvil or something. My parents don’t remember either but given that our childhood incidents involve: one of us falling off a cliff (they held on and were pulled back up), 2 of us cutting our fingers off (different doors), one of us nailing a flip flop to their foot and a fish-hook going through a finger, I guess the lesser incidents are forgotten. My mum only really looks pale when she recalls looking up one day whilst she was on the phone and seeing me coming towards her. I was being carefully lowered from 4 floors above. I was wearing a pair of reins and was tied to a skipping rope.
Actually looking back it’s no wonder I have so many battle scars. But they have done me good. If nothing else I keep my clothes on in public changing rooms.
Friday, 7 March 2008
Innocence
Do you ever get the feeling that everyone else was given a handbook to life and you were missed out? Or that you ever stepped out of the room at the exact moment all the important information was given out and it completely passed you by. I used to get it a lot at school. Our chemistry lessons were conducted by a woman with a very strong Chinese accent (she was Chinese – it wasn’t too surprising), she used to read from the text book in a flat, droning monotone pausing occasionally to look up and say “Do you understand?”. Pause. “Laura, do you understand?”. I didn’t but I didn’t like to submit anyone to anymore droning about catalysts (hey, I did learn something!) so I generally said I did and the lesson moved on. I was moved nearly to tears by maths lessons sometimes. When we did graphs our teacher used to say “So if x is 3 and y is minus 1 what does the graph look like” and everyone would draw huge bendy lines all over the place and I would have a neatly placed cross where the axi met. In the end I was advised to just miss that bit out in the exams as I was clearly never going to get it. I never have and I’ve never used it. So I think we can ultimately conclude that I am the winner.
But it’s not just school, I could live with that, it’s day to day things. I was astonished one day in to university that everyone seemed to know exactly what they had to do and their way everywhere. I followed them. I prefer to think of it as a sweet innocence rather than shades of autism (which a previous boss once suggested – I could name the day a date fell on rather too quickly and he asked if I’d ever been tested). This innocence led me to not realising that “Papa Don’t Preach” was about teenage pregnancy until Kelly Osbourne released it in 2002 (I was 22). I simply thought it was a tragic tale of someone’s dad not liking their boyfriend. “Hey Papa, don’t preach, I’ve made up my mind, I’m keeping my baby”. Easily misconstrued.
Occasionally this innocence and belief in the goodness of people (or having issues) has got me in to trouble and led to public, you could say national, embarrassment. Many years ago I was talked in to doing a fashion shoot for More magazine (I worked at Just 17 on the same floor and they were a person short, I was also a lot thinner and more willing to be photographed). The concept was “What I wear on a night out”. We wore what we would wear on a night out and then fashion experts would tell us what they thought. I took along a pair of black trousers and a black top. They asked if I would mind wearing one of their tops as too many people were in black. I agreed and was put in a lurex pink vest top with a feather boa. My hair was scragged in to a croydon facelift ponytail and my face was covered in pink eyeshadow and glitter. When it appeared in the magazine (and I had told people when it was coming out) it was accompanied by “me” (them) saying “oooh yeah, in this top I really tickle boys fancies and shake my tail feather”. I also looked insane. To add insult to injury I was given 1/10 by the fashion experts and told “Laura needs to tone it down a bit”. I was even beaten in the fashion stakes by a girl in a tracksuit. It was on the shelves for a fortnight. I seriously considered fire-bombing the news agents. All because I was nice!
If I ever do have kids (don’t worry I understand how that happens, I’m not that innocent) I shall equip them with plenty of knowledge for facing the world. Don’t worry about graphs, no one uses them. Chemistry is pointless. Never, ever get talked in to wearing feathers and pink eye shadow and remember that ultimately no one knows what they’re doing in life, some just hide it better than others.
But it’s not just school, I could live with that, it’s day to day things. I was astonished one day in to university that everyone seemed to know exactly what they had to do and their way everywhere. I followed them. I prefer to think of it as a sweet innocence rather than shades of autism (which a previous boss once suggested – I could name the day a date fell on rather too quickly and he asked if I’d ever been tested). This innocence led me to not realising that “Papa Don’t Preach” was about teenage pregnancy until Kelly Osbourne released it in 2002 (I was 22). I simply thought it was a tragic tale of someone’s dad not liking their boyfriend. “Hey Papa, don’t preach, I’ve made up my mind, I’m keeping my baby”. Easily misconstrued.
Occasionally this innocence and belief in the goodness of people (or having issues) has got me in to trouble and led to public, you could say national, embarrassment. Many years ago I was talked in to doing a fashion shoot for More magazine (I worked at Just 17 on the same floor and they were a person short, I was also a lot thinner and more willing to be photographed). The concept was “What I wear on a night out”. We wore what we would wear on a night out and then fashion experts would tell us what they thought. I took along a pair of black trousers and a black top. They asked if I would mind wearing one of their tops as too many people were in black. I agreed and was put in a lurex pink vest top with a feather boa. My hair was scragged in to a croydon facelift ponytail and my face was covered in pink eyeshadow and glitter. When it appeared in the magazine (and I had told people when it was coming out) it was accompanied by “me” (them) saying “oooh yeah, in this top I really tickle boys fancies and shake my tail feather”. I also looked insane. To add insult to injury I was given 1/10 by the fashion experts and told “Laura needs to tone it down a bit”. I was even beaten in the fashion stakes by a girl in a tracksuit. It was on the shelves for a fortnight. I seriously considered fire-bombing the news agents. All because I was nice!
If I ever do have kids (don’t worry I understand how that happens, I’m not that innocent) I shall equip them with plenty of knowledge for facing the world. Don’t worry about graphs, no one uses them. Chemistry is pointless. Never, ever get talked in to wearing feathers and pink eye shadow and remember that ultimately no one knows what they’re doing in life, some just hide it better than others.
Dreams
“Dreams can come true, look at me Babe, I’m with you”. Thus spake Gabrielle, who was lucky enough to have her dreams come true. We can only assume that “Babe”’s dream was to wake up next to a grown woman voluntarily dressed as a pirate.
Now I know there is nothing more boring than hearing about people’s dreams. Slowly slipping in to a coma as they talk about how they rode a pantomime horse round Sainsbury’s and then bumped in to their primary school teacher. But occasionally you do wonder what the hell is going on. I personally experience the joy of recurring dreams. I have never bothered to find out what they mean as I don’t really want to know. The one I get the most (every couple of months- every one a treat) involves me jilting people. The people and the locations change but the end result is the same, I am sitting in the car going to the church when I realise I really don’t want to get married, sometimes I go in to the church and call it off, other times I simply do a runner. Either way it makes me feel evil and has given me the fear about getting married (admittedly not a pressing concern). The weirdest one was when I was about to get married to a girl who I once did a handover with (odd enough, I’d only met her once and although she was a nice girl she was not nice enough for me to change my sexual orientation) but I wasn’t just marrying her, I was also marrying her fiancé. It wasn’t until I was trotting down the aisle – in quite a nice dress, normally they’re foul- that I realised I didn’t want to enter in to some bizarre three way marriage. So I jilted them both. They were actually alright about it and went ahead with it without me. We all danced together at the reception and it all ended quite happily for a change. I’ve jilted some pretty famous people in my time; Chris Martin, Lou from Neighbours and Rolf Harris. I was quite surprised I turned Rolf down actually.
It’s always a bit disconcerting when people you know pop up in your dreams. I once enjoyed a night with Tom Jones. A friend of mine has had some of the least appealing sex dreams ever – she got busy with Dr Raj Persaud from This Morning in an aeroplane toilet and also had a night of bliss with Kinga from Big Brother. Where do these things come from? Jon Bon Jovi once saved me from a heroin overdose by cutting my arm open and removing the heroin (worth noting that heroin looks a lot like smarties). I went to see a Little Britain Concert with Chris Moyles unfortunately our seats weren't facing the stage so I read Heat instead. I got in a MASSIVE mood as Chris wasn't being affectionate enough and then I remembered he had a girlfriend called Sophie.
But they’re not all as exciting as going to the theatre with a DJ. When I was temping as a receptionist I had dreams about extension numbers. Oooh 6245, that’s so and so. 5436 that’s someone else. I woke myself up in the end as it was so monumentally boring. I also like those dreams when you’re in a really tense situation, what are you going to do? You could die! Oh hang on, it doesn’t matter, it’s only a dream. Silly me. And then you dream about something else.
However I have never been one of those people that interprets their dreams. Surely half the joy is that they are odd and keep you amused whilst you sleep. Learning that it actually means that you have issues with your paternal grandfather just ruins the fun. I don’t want to know that I have deep psychological issues because I dreamt that me and Bungle went on a road trip. Although I was upset that it was Bungle, surely that’s wrong. It should be George or at least Zippy. Then again they don’t have any legs. Being on a road trip with leg-less puppets could blow my mind. Still as long as it’s not Rod, Jane and Freddie I can rest easy.
Now I know there is nothing more boring than hearing about people’s dreams. Slowly slipping in to a coma as they talk about how they rode a pantomime horse round Sainsbury’s and then bumped in to their primary school teacher. But occasionally you do wonder what the hell is going on. I personally experience the joy of recurring dreams. I have never bothered to find out what they mean as I don’t really want to know. The one I get the most (every couple of months- every one a treat) involves me jilting people. The people and the locations change but the end result is the same, I am sitting in the car going to the church when I realise I really don’t want to get married, sometimes I go in to the church and call it off, other times I simply do a runner. Either way it makes me feel evil and has given me the fear about getting married (admittedly not a pressing concern). The weirdest one was when I was about to get married to a girl who I once did a handover with (odd enough, I’d only met her once and although she was a nice girl she was not nice enough for me to change my sexual orientation) but I wasn’t just marrying her, I was also marrying her fiancé. It wasn’t until I was trotting down the aisle – in quite a nice dress, normally they’re foul- that I realised I didn’t want to enter in to some bizarre three way marriage. So I jilted them both. They were actually alright about it and went ahead with it without me. We all danced together at the reception and it all ended quite happily for a change. I’ve jilted some pretty famous people in my time; Chris Martin, Lou from Neighbours and Rolf Harris. I was quite surprised I turned Rolf down actually.
It’s always a bit disconcerting when people you know pop up in your dreams. I once enjoyed a night with Tom Jones. A friend of mine has had some of the least appealing sex dreams ever – she got busy with Dr Raj Persaud from This Morning in an aeroplane toilet and also had a night of bliss with Kinga from Big Brother. Where do these things come from? Jon Bon Jovi once saved me from a heroin overdose by cutting my arm open and removing the heroin (worth noting that heroin looks a lot like smarties). I went to see a Little Britain Concert with Chris Moyles unfortunately our seats weren't facing the stage so I read Heat instead. I got in a MASSIVE mood as Chris wasn't being affectionate enough and then I remembered he had a girlfriend called Sophie.
But they’re not all as exciting as going to the theatre with a DJ. When I was temping as a receptionist I had dreams about extension numbers. Oooh 6245, that’s so and so. 5436 that’s someone else. I woke myself up in the end as it was so monumentally boring. I also like those dreams when you’re in a really tense situation, what are you going to do? You could die! Oh hang on, it doesn’t matter, it’s only a dream. Silly me. And then you dream about something else.
However I have never been one of those people that interprets their dreams. Surely half the joy is that they are odd and keep you amused whilst you sleep. Learning that it actually means that you have issues with your paternal grandfather just ruins the fun. I don’t want to know that I have deep psychological issues because I dreamt that me and Bungle went on a road trip. Although I was upset that it was Bungle, surely that’s wrong. It should be George or at least Zippy. Then again they don’t have any legs. Being on a road trip with leg-less puppets could blow my mind. Still as long as it’s not Rod, Jane and Freddie I can rest easy.
adult babygrows
Now admittedly I should have used slightly more commonsense and refined my google search slightly. I also should have been aware that the world is full of people who are not as pure of mind as I. I should also be careful how I phrase things – but I was amazed at the amount of filth and perverse material appeared on my screen when I googled “Adult baby grows”.
Perhaps I should explain. I spend as much time as possible in my pyjamas. One would almost call them day wear as I don’t tend to wear certain pyjamas to bed –saving them for lounging around the house and greeting dignitaries. For sometime now I thought that some kind of romper suit would be incredibly comfortable. I should stress I live on my own. I was briefly diverted by a longing for a top of the range adults lion costume (an all in one professional job, I wasn’t planning on leaping around the house in some tan tights and leotard combo that my mum knocked up for a school play). I wasn’t planning on sitting there with the head on or a face full of drawn on whiskers but again it looked very comfortable. Sadly a brief bit of investigation after a friend said he would get me one for my birthday revealed that these too are very expensive. I have also toyed with the idea of making myself a kind of duvet suit. With a jumper and trousers fashioned out of a duvet but I thought I might get a bit hot. I could also look a bit like the marshmallow man out of ghostbusters and he’s never really been something I wish to aspire to. Besides I don’t have a sailor’s hat.
So yeah, I googled “adult baby grows”, and my god the filth. Even reading the description of some of the sites gave me the pre-vom spits and I wasn’t stupid enough to click on any of them. A few years ago I worked on a magazine that one month came with a sealed section. Now I should have been warned; sealed is usually code for filth. There was an article on bondage, one about someone who loved going to prossies, a couple more that escape my memory and then one about adult babies and one about plushing. Both still give me nightmares. I can not look at a cuddle toy with “loving eyes” without a cold shiver going the length of my spine. But the adult baby one was weird. This wasn’t for people that were looking for comfy house wear, this was for people who wanted to be bottle fed, burped, sleep in a giant cot and do things to their “mothers” that would make you call social services.
Which again I would like to stress – I do not want to do. I would merely like to upgrade my pyjamas to a classical all in one. We don’t enjoy pyjamas anymore. People used to dress for the occasion. I’ve seen the films. Men would wear silk pyjamas with a hanky in the top pocket, women would wear diaphanous night gowns and waft around before retiring. Further back and there were floor length night gowns, candle holders and hats. Hats! I would love to wear a night hat. We just don’t have style anymore. Where once there were hand-stitched leather slippers we now have slipper socks (which never come in normal shades, grown women have to walk around with novelty Winnie the Pooh socks on in an attempt to keep warm – and before you start I know slagging off Disney clothing is a bit rich coming from the girl who wants to spend her weekends dressed as a lion).
I shall learn to live with it. Perhaps I could wean myself on to daywear. Perhaps start with tracksuit bottoms and work my way up. I might even like it. I would imagine changing my expectations is easier than reversing time.
Perhaps I should explain. I spend as much time as possible in my pyjamas. One would almost call them day wear as I don’t tend to wear certain pyjamas to bed –saving them for lounging around the house and greeting dignitaries. For sometime now I thought that some kind of romper suit would be incredibly comfortable. I should stress I live on my own. I was briefly diverted by a longing for a top of the range adults lion costume (an all in one professional job, I wasn’t planning on leaping around the house in some tan tights and leotard combo that my mum knocked up for a school play). I wasn’t planning on sitting there with the head on or a face full of drawn on whiskers but again it looked very comfortable. Sadly a brief bit of investigation after a friend said he would get me one for my birthday revealed that these too are very expensive. I have also toyed with the idea of making myself a kind of duvet suit. With a jumper and trousers fashioned out of a duvet but I thought I might get a bit hot. I could also look a bit like the marshmallow man out of ghostbusters and he’s never really been something I wish to aspire to. Besides I don’t have a sailor’s hat.
So yeah, I googled “adult baby grows”, and my god the filth. Even reading the description of some of the sites gave me the pre-vom spits and I wasn’t stupid enough to click on any of them. A few years ago I worked on a magazine that one month came with a sealed section. Now I should have been warned; sealed is usually code for filth. There was an article on bondage, one about someone who loved going to prossies, a couple more that escape my memory and then one about adult babies and one about plushing. Both still give me nightmares. I can not look at a cuddle toy with “loving eyes” without a cold shiver going the length of my spine. But the adult baby one was weird. This wasn’t for people that were looking for comfy house wear, this was for people who wanted to be bottle fed, burped, sleep in a giant cot and do things to their “mothers” that would make you call social services.
Which again I would like to stress – I do not want to do. I would merely like to upgrade my pyjamas to a classical all in one. We don’t enjoy pyjamas anymore. People used to dress for the occasion. I’ve seen the films. Men would wear silk pyjamas with a hanky in the top pocket, women would wear diaphanous night gowns and waft around before retiring. Further back and there were floor length night gowns, candle holders and hats. Hats! I would love to wear a night hat. We just don’t have style anymore. Where once there were hand-stitched leather slippers we now have slipper socks (which never come in normal shades, grown women have to walk around with novelty Winnie the Pooh socks on in an attempt to keep warm – and before you start I know slagging off Disney clothing is a bit rich coming from the girl who wants to spend her weekends dressed as a lion).
I shall learn to live with it. Perhaps I could wean myself on to daywear. Perhaps start with tracksuit bottoms and work my way up. I might even like it. I would imagine changing my expectations is easier than reversing time.
Powergen
Thank you for calling Powergen. Your call is important to us, one of our service operators will be with you soon. Now please enjoy the Phantom of the Opera played on a stylophone by a five year old.
Thank you for holding. Your call is important to us. One of our service operators will be with you soon. We shall now make a few ominous clicks on the line to raise your hopes and make you think you’re being connected before returning to the Phantom of the Opera. Do you like the way we play it so loudly that your ears bleed? Bet you’re too scared to put the phone down and hear the music play from a distance (at a level that would be acceptable for a stadium tour) in case we answer the phone and you don’t answer quick enough. So let’s change songs. Here is “Land Down Under” interpreted on a lute.
Thank you for holding. You have been holding for a good twenty minutes now. You must really want to talk to us. Is it because we’ve sent you a bill for £9000 for three months electricity and are now sending you final demands? Well we’d love to talk to you too to discuss a payment plan. Did we tell you that these calls aren’t free from a mobile? You really have been patient. I’d better cut you off.
Oh you’ve called back. Thank you for calling Powergen. Your call is important to us. Press 1 if you are moving home. Press 2 if you wish to make a payment. Press 3 if you wish to scream abuse at some poor sod who works in a call centre and can’t be rude back as their calls are being monitored.
3.
You have chosen option 3. Please help us manage your call by choosing from the 2 following options. Press 1 if you wish to question the parentage of our call centre operative. Press 2 if you would like to abuse them in a more general way whilst biting back tears of frustration.
2.
You have chosen option 2. To help you successfully achieve your goal we will fuel your rage by cutting you off. Thank you for calling Powergen. Click. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Oh you’ve called back again, clearly you are very angry. To help this we will put you through to someone immediately making you wonder why you’ve spent the last hour on hold. By now you should be incomprehensible with rage and so be completely incapable of communicating your reasonable and sensible argument. Ready, here goes….
“Hello Powergen, Kevin speaking, can I take your account number?”
“No, no you can’t, first of all I want to know why I’ve spent the last hour on hold, been cut of twice and been deafened by listening to Opera favourites played on a kazoo. And…
“I’m sorry it seems that you’ve come through to the wrong department. Bear with me, I’m just going to pop you on hold”.
Thank you for holding. Your call is important to us. One of our service operators will be with you soon. We shall now make a few ominous clicks on the line to raise your hopes and make you think you’re being connected before returning to the Phantom of the Opera. Do you like the way we play it so loudly that your ears bleed? Bet you’re too scared to put the phone down and hear the music play from a distance (at a level that would be acceptable for a stadium tour) in case we answer the phone and you don’t answer quick enough. So let’s change songs. Here is “Land Down Under” interpreted on a lute.
Thank you for holding. You have been holding for a good twenty minutes now. You must really want to talk to us. Is it because we’ve sent you a bill for £9000 for three months electricity and are now sending you final demands? Well we’d love to talk to you too to discuss a payment plan. Did we tell you that these calls aren’t free from a mobile? You really have been patient. I’d better cut you off.
Oh you’ve called back. Thank you for calling Powergen. Your call is important to us. Press 1 if you are moving home. Press 2 if you wish to make a payment. Press 3 if you wish to scream abuse at some poor sod who works in a call centre and can’t be rude back as their calls are being monitored.
3.
You have chosen option 3. Please help us manage your call by choosing from the 2 following options. Press 1 if you wish to question the parentage of our call centre operative. Press 2 if you would like to abuse them in a more general way whilst biting back tears of frustration.
2.
You have chosen option 2. To help you successfully achieve your goal we will fuel your rage by cutting you off. Thank you for calling Powergen. Click. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Oh you’ve called back again, clearly you are very angry. To help this we will put you through to someone immediately making you wonder why you’ve spent the last hour on hold. By now you should be incomprehensible with rage and so be completely incapable of communicating your reasonable and sensible argument. Ready, here goes….
“Hello Powergen, Kevin speaking, can I take your account number?”
“No, no you can’t, first of all I want to know why I’ve spent the last hour on hold, been cut of twice and been deafened by listening to Opera favourites played on a kazoo. And…
“I’m sorry it seems that you’ve come through to the wrong department. Bear with me, I’m just going to pop you on hold”.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)