Lessons in parenthood

I have the pleasure of Mini Adult’s company again today and tomorrow. She is asleep now, preparing for our big day out tomorrow!

I picked her up after work and we went to the cinema. After some debate we ended up seeing The Simpsons (she wanted to see Bratz – I refused as the dolls scare me, have you seen the size of their eyes!?) – turned out to be a good choice, though Mini Adult was not impressed with seeing a naked Bart! I was put off my pick and mix by the teenage couple in front of us trying to remove each others tonsils with their tongues (I have no problem with this, but that’s what the back row is for!), however a few subtle kicks to the backs of their seats soon resolved matters! I have to say that having the residue of a raging hangover didn’t endear me to their slurps at all.

Tomorrow, we are going to something called the Eco Park with Best Friend and The Cool Kid. I’m not entirely sure what it’s all about, but I have been told I will learn about dinosaurs and ‘the world’ (which seems like a very broad subject to me). Mini Adult and The Cool Kid are very excited, Best Friend has assured me she has all the parental type stuff under control and all I have to do is turn up with money and obey instructions!

Best Friend and I have done a few trips out with the kids. As much as I am perfectly capable of making sure Mini Adult is safe, fed and watered, I am not a natural parent. Best Friend is. She’s the one that has the plasters, spare drinks and tissues to hand. My role on these trips is to generally act the idiot, make them laugh and tire them out! Best Friend normally informs me before hand if anything further will be required of me, so I have time to prepare myself. I have had no such instructions for tomorrow, so I am assuming that I’m safe. However, I am going to have to pay attention to what Best Friend does; I have promised Mini Adult that I will take her to London for the day in a few weeks. Maybe I should take notes…

An open letter to all diet whores and bores

Dear Diet Whore or Bore (delete as appropriate)

I am writing to you as I feel that there are some things I need to point out. This is for your own good; it will mean that I do not have to beat you around the head with your latest ‘miracle’ and force feed you cream cakes.

The first thing I need to make you aware of is that buying the book and looking at the pretty pictures is NOT enough! If you are going to follow this diet then I’m afraid it means that you have to actually cook the suggested meals and then eat them. By that, I mean eat the recommended portion and not the whole thing plus the contents of your freezer!

I also need to make you aware that following a diet for one week will not have an effect. Have some willpower and at least give it a go if you want to. If you give up, please do not issue us with a list of excuses. Do not tell me that it didn’t fit into your lifestyle but the new one will – I don’t believe you.

Also, please realise that I do not care which one you are flirting with this week. I do not need to know that you are following the Weight Watchers plan and exactly how many points your meal has consisted of. When I wake up in the night reciting point values for everything in my fridge (salad is 0 points, but an egg has 2!) then things have gone too far! When you are on the Atkins, I do not need to know where the dreaded ‘hidden carbs’ are hiding, it does not interest me at all.

When you are following Gillian Whats-her-face I do not need to be made aware of the fact that eating fruit and seeds has done wonders for your bowels, or that you can do amazing things with tofu. I have no interest in which seeds you are going to buy wholesale, as I know that in a couple of weeks you will have moved on to something else.

I do not wish to be informed about what I should swap for what. I do not care if what I am eating contains 500 calories, whereas if I made a slight adjustment I could save…Ooo, all of about 5 calories. I have no desire to discuss whether counting calories, fat or carbs is better or how far I would have to walk to burn off the doughnut I have just eaten. I enjoyed the doughnut, why would you want to ruin it for me?

I hope you understand the intentions behind this letter. I do not mean to cause you pain (yet!) but I am worried that, in time, I will be unable to stop myself. For your own sake I am going to issue you with the following advice…

Put the diet book down and eat some bloody chocolate!

Yours

Alcoment

Where everybody knows your name...

Or at least knows what you buy!

It appears that my life is now based on Cheers.

Either that or I am much more of a creature of habit than I thought I was.

I have a terrible Starbucks addiction and go in for my vat of coffee everyday. Recently, there have been the same couple of women on shift when I go in in the morning. I walked in today, still half asleep and on automatic pilot.

I was greeted with “Good morning! Grande, skinny latte as usual, love?” I stood there for a few seconds, initially feeling slightly assaulted by such cheeriness at that time of the morning and also somewhat amazed that she knew what my order was. Having received my coffee, I trundled off to pick up some cigarettes.

I arrived at the kiosk where I end up most mornings. The bloke who normally serves me was there and asked “Do you need all of it, or just some of it today?” (I roll my own, so can have quite a list some mornings). I confirmed that I needed all of it, plus some chewing gum (one of my many other addictions) and a lighter. He commented that I seem to go through a lot of lighters and then waved me on my way.

By this stage, I was beginning to feel I was being monitored by some form of caffeine and nicotine police force.

I probably wouldn’t have thought any more about it if I hadn’t had gone up to the local shop on my lunch break to pick up a sandwich.

As I wandered in, the shopkeeper informed me that they had “those sandwiches that you like”, but had “sold out of your newspaper”.

I live in a relatively small city, but this was ridiculous. I’m all for knowing lots of people, but I’m not great with routine. I didn’t realise how many small bits of my life I repeated day after day.

It’s time to shake things up a bit.

I may go into Starbucks tomorrow and order an espresso!

Macho men

One thing that always makes me smile is when I see groups of lads trying to look ‘hard’.

I’m not talking about the ones that are serious, but the ones who look like they should be at home, having their tea cooked by Mummy Dearest and bartering to be allowed to go out to the local youth club.

You can usually spot them a mile off. They tend to be wearing the uniform of baggy jeans (nicely ironed with a crease down the front – thanks Mum!) that show off their boxers (buy a belt – I will lend you the money if you need it) and sporting a hat that’s kind of perched on the top of their head. The big giveaway is the fake ‘street speak’; they have all the right phrases but unfortunately can’t hide the fact that they were raised to ‘talk properly’ and are making a deliberate effort to drop their T’s and H’s.

I encountered such a group today. I was walking along, when I looked up to see 3 lads swaggering towards me (please stop doing this, I either assume you have a problem with your hips, or that you’ve bought those weird trainers with springs in the soles) taking up the whole path. I carried on, knowing full well that their training would mean they would stand aside to let me pass.

I had to suppress a giggle when all of a sudden I heard “Ow, that hedge got me”.

I glanced round to see one of them rubbing his arm, before giving the aforementioned hedge a very cross glare and checking that he wasn’t bleeding. It was all I could do not to offer to get him a hanky and a plaster.

Sorry boys, it kind of spoilt the effect…

My tabloid education

I have spent a lazy Sunday morning surrounded by the papers. Part of my Sunday ritual, along with watching the Hollyoaks omnibus, is to take a trip through the wonderful world of tabloid trash and update my knowledge of useless information and celebrity trivia.

I have some admiration for those who manage to wade through the broadsheets and receive their Sunday schooling in literature, culture, the Arts and where to go on holiday now that the plebs have discovered those ‘hidden gems’. However as, under health and safety legislation, I do not have the appropriate equipment to get them home safely I’m afraid I have to give them a miss. Considering that an entire rainforest has been felled to print one copy – I would fear for my poor back if I was foolish enough to try and handle them manually!

So, I thought I would share today’s lessons with you, so we can all feel the benefit.

* Viagra is now being used to help treat certain lung diseases. I can only marvel at a drug that can have two uses with complete opposite effects – one to leave you breathless and one to ease your breathing, this is modern medicine at its finest!

* Splashing vinegar on a jellyfish sting stops the pain almost immediately. I have to say that I am now slightly confused. I heard a seminar on this a few years ago courtesy of Friends – it was recommended on there that you persuade a close friend to urinate on the affected area. Now I’m not sure which I should choose, but as I rarely take a bottle of vinegar to the beach, I think I only have one option.

* The growing trend in plastic surgery is women requesting that their nipples are made permanently erect. I can’t help thinking that it would be just as effective, and a lot cheaper, if these women simply made sure they had a permanent supply of portable ice cubes with them!

* A massage parlour (read brothel) in Brighton has spent £3,000 on improving its disabled access for customers. If they are serious about trying to improve their business and attract new customers, maybe they should consider a range of special offers. They could start a loyalty scheme with a fancy card and points you could redeem for treats and maybe a Buy One, Get One Free promotion – it may do wonders. On the other hand, if they are trying to be seen as the equality brothel, maybe they should propose a tempting offer to social workers to move over to them, they could then cover a whole new clientele.

* A popular use of myspace is to test a partner’s loyalty and fidelity. Ooo, a honeytrap with a geeky side. Gone are the days when women (and men!) had to rely on their inbuilt detective skills, we now have technology to aid us. Is it just me, or is anyone else quite scared about this? A bunny to boil anyone?

* Jordan and Peter Andre’s sex life is better than ever since the birth of their daughter. I am so happy now I know this. I have to admit this has caused me some concern, but now that I have been reassured I can sleep easily again.

So there we have the main lessons for today. Please take note and try to remember them, there may be a test later.

Oh, and for anyone who’s interested, my horoscopes have assured me that both love and luck are just round the corner. I am so happy, but considering they’ve been telling me this for the last 27 years, I’m not going to hold my breath…

What did you say?

Have you ever been in the situation where someone has said something that has sounded so plausible, that you haven’t realised what they’ve actually said until it’s too late? Agnes Mildew’s post on Hex My Ex reminded me of a situation that happened with Mr Playmate.

This was when we used to work together. We had been off training for the day and were on the long journey home. It was much further way from where we usually train, so Mr Playmate had driven.

The sun was beginning to set and as we were driving along, Mr Playmate suddenly said to me “Look, it’s a full sun”.

Dutifully looking at the sun, I saw that it was and agreed with him.

Silence.

Cue me, five minutes later, suddenly sitting up straight and saying “But it’s always a full sun”.

Mr Playmate looked me in the eye (very dangerous when driving – don’t do it) and said “I know”.

And began to laugh.

A lot.

I can be a bit stupid sometimes about really basic things. It’s like my brain just doesn’t kick into gear. As he had said it in such a plausible manner, I didn’t pick up on what he had actually said. I should have known and been paying attention. Mr Playmate will happily trip me up where he can.

Normal service will resume shortly

I only have a few words to say.

Sponsored walk today.

Slightly sunburnt.

Blisters on blisters.

Very tired, but enjoyed it and, though I didn't do the 15 miles, I'm proud of myself.

Don't forget to read the small print.

There seems to be a lot of stuff around about having a disclaimer on your blog. I guess it’s just another sign of the society in which we live; all terrified of offending someone or getting sued. I think for most personal blogs it’s a bit over the top but I’ve decided I want one! It’s lengthy, as all good legal stuff should be, and please don’t forget to read the small print.

So, here follows the disclaimer for Alcohol, condiments and cigarettes:

All opinions expressed belong to the author. They do not necessarily represent those of their employer, friends, family, random strangers or God, unless otherwise stated.

This blog is not intended to cause offence to anyone apart from those the author intends to offend. It will be clear when something is meant to cause offence. (The author reserves the right to mildly annoy)

Published comments from third parties do not necessarily represent the views of the author. However, if comments are funny or show great skill, insight or general wisdom, then the author reserves the right to use those comments as they see fit. (Though they will provide a link to the original author – blogging etiquette and all that)

Despite any claims to the contrary, the author is not an expert on any subject. This includes, but is not limited to, health, love, life, fun, writing, music, TV, literature, safe consumption of alcohol, diet, exercise or any emergency situations. If you require expert advice in anything, then please leave the blog immediately and consult someone with either letters after their name, a nice certificate or a big office.

The author reserves the right to claim that any illegal activities (perceived or otherwise) committed in the past, present or future, were in fact committed by a friend of a friend of a friend’s dog’s vet’s sister’s hairdresser’s mother-in-law (Keep up!). Who has now moved to a remote part of the world. Where contact from outsiders is actually illegal in itself.

Additionally, the author will not take responsibility for any of the following (though this list is not exhaustive):
* Any blogs posted whilst under the influence (BUI).
* Any negative consequences from following the author’s example. You do this at your own risk. Please remember that the author is highly experienced in fucking up. (However, if you do follow the author’s example and something fantastic happens, then the author would appreciate full credit)
* Any offence caused by the author’s language, spelling or grammar.
* The reader not finding the contents humorous. If this is the case then please consult your doctor as soon as possible, a virus may have entered your sense of humour.
* Any illnesses, defects or physical/emotional changes caused by reading this blog. This includes, but is not limited to, eye strain, weird stuff caused by spending too much time near the odd technology rays emitting from the screen or increased arse size from reading the blog rather than doing something more useful and/or active.

Finally, the author reserves the right to claim that every word written is a lie. Especially if this disclaimer is not legally binding and the author suddenly finds themselves in court.

(Disclaimer for disclaimer: please take all of the above with a pinch of salt. It is meant to be a tongue in cheek piece and is not to be taken seriously.)

Who's meant to be the grown up?

A while ago I went to the cinema with Mini Adult, only to find we had apparently had our own Freaky Friday moment.

We had decided to go off and have a girlie day. Part of the trip was to go and see Charlottes Web. Before it started, we dutifully chose our sweets (pick n mix – always exciting!) which turned out to be quite a complicated process with lots of debate about the merits of each sweet.

I had started to eat mine whilst we were waiting for the film to start (what can I say, I had jazzies in there!) when all of a sudden I was aware of Mini Adult looking at me in disbelief. “If you eat them all now, you won’t have any left for the film” she informed me.

I couldn’t believe it, I was meant to be the adult and the one saying things like that. I really didn’t know how to respond and before I knew it, I had apologised and was sitting there feeling a five year old, just been told off my mum! I’m sure that’s the wrong way round!

It wasn’t the only incident of role reversal that day. I had been a bit worried about Mini Adult seeing Charlottes Web and had prepared myself for a crying person and having the whole life and death conversation. That also didn’t work out – I was the one sat there crying my eyes out. Mini Adult wasn’t fazed in the slightest; as she said to me afterwards, whilst patting my hand, “It’s only a story, she didn’t really die”…

I'm sorry, but size does matter.

I have tried to kid myself that size doesn’t matter for a while now. I thought I’d be satisfied with something smaller but I’m not. I thought a taste would be enough, it’s not.

Manufacturers should not be allowed to make the mini versions of their products whether its ice creams or chocolate bars. This is a terrible thing and puts me in a position where I think I will be satisfied with one portion, when I know realistically I won’t be.

I will have one of these unsatisfying things and at first I will feel all virtuous. I sit there thinking “Look at my self control. I am a living example of restraint and will power.”. Ten minutes later I am normally surrounded by more wrappers, having given in to the feeling that I have not had enough and as they are so small anyway, that one more (ok, three more) wouldn’t hurt.

I know that by then I have consumed far more than any reasonable person should, but I refuse to feel guilty. I know that I have just eaten more than a standard size portion, but I refuse to take responsibility. I blame this solely on the fool that thought this concept up. They were obviously some sadistic person who enjoys thinking of ways to attempt to torture other people as well as instil guilt. Well, I refuse to play their game any more. From now on, I will only choose the biggest version of chocolately goodness (even if it does make me feel a little bit sick!).

Supermarket hell

One thing that I really hate and only do when completely necessary is supermarket shopping. I know some people love supermarkets and treat them as places to worship the Gods of Consumerism and Gluttony but, to me, they are a circle of hell, depicted by strip lighting, crowded aisles and tinny music.

For a start they are never laid out well. Why on earth are the things such as fruit and veg at the beginning, where they will only be squashed by the heavy stuff you put in your trolley later on? This just makes no sense to me. I know all about the psychology behind supermarkets, the way they change the layout, pump in the smell of freshly baked bread and put the BOGOF offers on things you don’t really need, but oh god, I end up so confused and frustrated!

Is it also by design that each and every trolley is wonky or has a stuck wheel? Or is it that we were all supposed to go on trolley driving lessons when we were younger, but none of us got the memo? I always feel that I need L plates and the aid of mirrors and indicator lights when I’m trying to control one of these things. I often end up in the position of experiencing trolley rage, usually when yet another person had bashed me in the ankle and not apologised.

In my local supermarket they also seem to recruit highly trained, specific cashiers. They seem to have two specialities – the surly ‘what are you doing at my till? Can’t you see I’m trying to have a chat to my mate’ sort, or the over enthusiastic ‘let me tell you my life story and you can tell me yours’ type. I will chat to most people but when I’m trying to escape unharmed from the warehouse of horror, the most I want to deal with is basic, idle British chit chat about the weather.

It will be a while until I venture in again; I’m still traumatised from my last experience. The shopping part had gone well but as I was loading up the conveyor belt, I dropped a six pack of beer. I then had to deal with the fizzing bottles, spraying beer all over the floor, me and anyone who happened to be near, whilst I was watched by the entire world. Thinking it was over, I started on my escape, as I went through the front doors, the alarms went off. I stood frozen, though my instincts were screaming at me to run (even though I hadn’t taken anything – habits die hard!), as the security guards came over to inspect me. It turned out that a bottle of amaretto hadn’t been swiped properly, so it wasn’t even my fault.

So, no, it will be a while before I go back. Long live the corner shop!

Adventures in the City

I spent yesterday in London with Mr Flirt; we were both off work so went for an adventure. There was no real plan about where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do, so we spent the day following the ‘Which way looks more exciting’ trail, with the occasional ‘flip the coin, that will tell us’ when all ways looked good. I have to admit that the day was also punctuated with quite a few pub pit stops for refreshments!

We walked for miles and covered a lot of places. Neither of us felt like doing the culture thing (the extent of that was a very good classical group playing in Covent Garden and then walking past Buckingham Palace, good old Liz was there but didn’t invite us in for a cup of tea!) so we roamed around a lot, looking at the people and generally mucking about. We did go on a carousel though, you know, the old fashioned ones with the horses that go up and down. We were the only adults on there that didn’t have a kid as an excuse, but that’s never been a problem in my book.

One of the themes for the day was all things ‘Shameless’ (look here for an explanation if you have no idea what I’m talking about). Mr Flirt specialises in a fine range of accents, including a bloody good Manqunian one. We were walking through a park, deciding that we should be lager louts, when Mr Flirt realised we had neither cans of Stella or a dog. There was little we could do about the larger, but I decided that I could act like a dog and did some random barking and growling as necessary (this is always fun, I love seeing people’s faces as they try to decide whether to laugh or start worrying).

There was also the interesting moment where we realised that my bra can double up as a bungee rope. We were about to cross a road and as I stepped out, I found myself being hauled back onto the pavement with a definite bounce. I hadn’t seen a motor bike coming round the corner, Mr Flirt had grabbed the first part of me he could, which happened to be my bra. I was most impressed by the fact that he had been able to do this and make sure that it stayed done up!

Our final adventure for the day was causing a bit of mayhem on the train home. I have to admit that by this stage I was really quite drunk (Mr Flirt not so much, having sobered a bit on the long walk to the train station) and in the mood for mischief. The late trains back have always got some interesting passengers on, first we met Drunk Bloke Being Sick, his girlfriend was not amused, though we were. Luckily, Mr Flirt and I are well prepared for these situations (not based on our own experiences obviously!) and found an empty cup for him to be sick in to and then provided him with a soft drink and chewing gum. Next came Drunk Girl With The Green Mac, she was funny and provided a bit of girlie talk. As we approached home, Mr Flirt decided to treat the carriage to his special Gay Icon rendition of The Pussycat Doll’s “Don’t cha…”, complete with t-shirt knotted up to show off his midriff. I have to say, that image will stay with me for a long time to come…

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I would just like to clarify that though some of what Mr Flirt and I got up to could be classed as non-PC, it was all completely harmless, no one was hurt or offended and no manqunians, chavs or lager louts were harmed in the course of the day.

I can see you...

One of my favourite ways to pass the time is to people watch, it can be done anywhere, it’s free and you’re pretty much guaranteed to see something or someone amusing. One of my favourite people to do this with is Mr Flirt, he really gets into it. Because we eat out a fair bit, we’re often in good places to do it and end up making stories about the people we see.

One night we went to a local restaurant that puts on live music and spent most of the night people watching. We saw many people, including Woman Waiting for Blind Date, who had obviously arrived, seen her and left (I felt sorry for her, Mr Flirt just found it amusing). We also witnessed the group of ‘I may be 60, but I can still par-tay!’ blokes and the wannabe John Travolta, who was unfortunately more porn star than film star!.

There’s also the added element of fun when we are in the same restaurant as someone with a loud voice, especially if their dinner partner is softly spoken. In this case you only get the one side of the conversation and can fill in the gaps yourself, which leads to some weird and wonderful conversations. Though half the restaurant is left wondering exactly why the two of us are hysterical with laughter.

The thing with people watching is that you can make up the most unbelievable scenario for them and part of you knows that it could actually be true. It’s also an opportunity for shamelessly passing judgement on other peoples taste in clothes, partners and lifestyle. I’m always amazed by the amount of people who seem to forget that other people can see them. I’ve seen so many people do things like pick their nose, or pull their knickers out of their bum, when they think no one is looking. But that’s the thing, there is always someone looking, and yes, it’s usually me!

Blondie, Elvis and The Clash - what a mix!

Ok, hats off to all you full time parents. I have no idea how you do what I did for less than 48 hours all the time! Mini Adult has gone home and I am now left sitting in a flat that resembles a building site and so tired that it’s hard to form words! I have had a lot of fun (sometimes aided by massive quantities of sugar in one form or another!), had my imagination stretched to the limit and learnt a thing or two.

Today we baked some more (brownies this time, with a fudge topping – more sugar, Mini Adult was seriously buzzing when she left, her Mum loves me!), went to spend her pocket money (weirdly, she bought a pig keyring that ‘poos’ sweets, like I said, her Mum loves me…) and then a visit to Mini Adult’s Gran.

Even without excess sugar, Mini Adult is a ball of energy and always moving, including in her sleep, which made it difficult last night. I’m also a restless sleeper, so I think we kicked each other about the same amount of times in bed! I woke up to find her sitting in bed looking at me, waiting to ask me all about Elvis. She was very concerned to find out how and when he had died and to discover if I had ever met him (the clearest sign I’ve had that it’s too late to start with the anti-wrinkle cream). I tried to answer the best I could, but without the aid of either caffeine or nicotine, she didn’t seem very impressed!

I have also discovered that Mini Adult has better taste than I previously knew. I asked her to go and put a CD on for whilst we were baking. Off she went and then all of a sudden I hear…Blondie! Into the kitchen comes Mini Adult, dancing and singing all the words as all I can do is look on with amazement. I knew she was one sorted kid, but she’s 8!! Upon questioning, it turns out that Blondie is cool, but not as cool as The Clash. What can I say?

So now she’s gone all there is for me to do is revel in the peace and tidy up tomorrow. It must be love though; I’ve got her for a whole weekend in two weeks!

I could be a Domestic Goddess!

What a day! Mini Adult is finally in bed and peace has descended. It’s been a great day but, god, I’m knackered. We started off by going into the shopping centre where they have all these activities for kids in the summer holidays. Mini Adult went on this contraption that is a trampoline with bungee ropes – she loved it, but I spent the whole time cringing, with nightmare visions of the ropes snapping and her flying across the city!!

Lunch was fun, there’s nothing like sitting in a crowded place, blowing bubbles into a glass of coke and making fangs from chips! (Mini Adult normally has a very healthy diet, so tends to go a bit mad when she’s with me). We then spent a very wholesome afternoon baking biscuits and brownies (yes, they were out of a packet, but hey, I had to add stuff and stir things, that’s cooking in my book!), followed by a DVD and general mucking about. I feel all domesticated (that will be the baking!) and kind of fuzzy inside (that’s either my own sugar rush, or from when Mini Adult told me I was the best aunt – I still haven’t figured out what she wanted!). And we’ve got to do it all again tomorrow…

In other news, my other niece, Little Person (Mini Adult’s sister), appears to have developed an obsession with other people’s feet and shoes – I can see a fetish in the making! Landlady came and as of Thursday I should have a fully functioning washing machine. During her visit she said that she was impressed with the way I had kept the flat and could see I led an orderly life – I had to stop myself from laughing and tried desperately not to look at the places where I had stashed things unsuitable for the eyes of either Landladies or Mini Adults! Operation Domestication can be declared a success.

Not so bonded after all.

How many of you have been on those team bonding days that involve maps, games and ‘building trust in each other’. Hell, aren’t they? I’ve never liked them and have usually been the one that has been desperately trying to find a way out of it all. However, there was one that was fantastic. I can’t say that it bonded the team, but I had a brilliant time.

This was back when Best Friend and I used to work together and our boss was Mr Playmate. The bigger boss, The Wee Bald Man, had decided that we should have a staff day out to ‘regroup’. There was much debate between the active (Mr Playmate was all for something to do with boats – I heard exercise and stopped listening) and the cultural (The Posh Chav was after the theatre or an art gallery – they have their place and I do enjoy them, but this wasn’t a school trip). All Best Friend and I wanted to do was to go to Cadbury World (for those that don’t know look here, all I can say is you won’t believe the amount of free chocolate involved!). Somehow, and I’m still not sure how, we got The Wee Bald Man on our side and it was decided; we were off to Cadbury World!

A great day was not had by all. Whilst Best Friend, The Wee Bald Man and I ran around, completely hyped up on a sugar overdose, Mr Playmate traipsed around permanently attached to his mobile and The Posh Chav alternated between trying to control our manic attacks on the chocolate samples and engage our interest in the ‘very educational’ side of the history of chocolate. Near the end is a small train that takes you through a story land of chocolate heaven, there are even dancing cocoa beans. Halfway round a picture is taken automatically. We had to laugh when we saw it; in the front carriage was The Wee Bald Man, Best Friend and I, looking like we’d taken a serious amount of speed. In the carriage behind us were Mr Playmate and The Posh Chav, looking like they’d entered a new circle of Dante’s Hell (all of this was just before the train broke down and us sugar-hyped people started getting freaked out as the cocoa beans seemed to turn from happy, friendly things to something out of a horror film, but that’s another story).

The journey home was interesting, The Posh Chav was sulking as those of us full from chocolate had not been able to eat our lunch and were now crashed out from a sugar-rush comedown. The Wee Bald Man was driving, whilst fighting his and so was not in the best of moods. When we finally got back, there only seemed to be one solution – we hit the pub! Chocolate and alcohol, what a great day…

Operation Domestication

Today has been taken up with ‘Operation Domestication’, otherwise known as ‘Shit, The Landlady Is Coming’. To be fair, she’s a pretty decent. I don’t phone her every five minutes with stupid things and she generally leaves me alone; it suits us both. However, she’s coming round with a plumber on Tuesday, so I’ve had to swing into action to make sure the flat is up to Landlady standards. I have spent the day doing all those jobs that you mean to do, but never quite round to, often because it’s all really quite boring. Now, after a few hours of blood (when I scraped my arm on a nail), sweat and tears (again, with the nail), I have a shiny flat with sparkling woodwork, squeaky floors and glistening tiles. I however, am now a complete mess! I hope it’s enough for her to think it’s always like that. I can be a bit slapdash when it comes to cleaning, though it’s never dirty, just messy.

In other news, I have this week off work. I have arranged for my niece, Mini Adult, to come and stay with me for a couple of days. Mini Adult is one of the few kids who I actually enjoy spending time with, she cracks me up and is already showing signs of having inherited her aunts’ perspective on life. It is rare I take parental responsibility for more than a few hours, so two days and a night are going to be interesting!

Bloggers Against Abuse

Whilst I was looking around the web at all the different blogging communities, I came across this. Blogcatalog are running a 'Blogging for a Great Cause Challenge', on September 27th, they are hoping that 1000’s of bloggers will blog about stopping abuse. For full details look here, but basically they are asking people to blog about putting an end toany form of abuse. It is up to each person what they blog about, whatever you're most passionate about. I’ll be taking part; I think it’s a great way to get a message across.

That's one way to make an impression!

There are times when it is not safe to let me out in public, especially if you’re trying to make a good impression. A few weeks ago I was at Best Friend’s new house. She had only moved in a few days before so was trying to show the New Neighbours that they were a nice family. Best Friend should have known that there were dangers to having me over so soon.

Miss Nice As Pie and I had gone round to celebrate the new house over dinner and a few bottles. All was going well, the meal had been lovely (Best Friend’s Bloke had also joined us, which is rare but pleasurable when it happens – he makes me laugh!), the weather was nice and we were suitably celebrating Best Friends rise to House With a Garden status. We were sat in the kitchen, which leads straight out into the garden, so we were only a few feet away from the New Neighbours, who were out in their garden with their little boy – it was all very ‘suburbia’.

The evening had started quite early, I had come straight from work and we cracked open a bottle more or less as soon as we got in. Because of this, the conversation got round to sex sooner than normal. We had music on and were talking about various things when the CD ended. Unfortunately this happened just at the point to allow New Neighbours to hear the end of my sentence. All they would have heard from Best Friends house was “…anal sex”. Cue shocked silence from New Neighbours, Miss Nice As Pie rolling on the floor crying with laughter and Best Friend not sure whether to laugh or apologise.

It may have been ok until I was over there again a couple of days later. Best Friend and I had been sitting in the garden and were about to go out. As we stood up to get ready, I realised I had been sat on wet grass and now had an attractive damp patch on my jeans. As it was a nice sunny day I decided to let nature do its job and bent over, arse in the air, to let the sun work its magic. Unfortunately I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that my bum was now facing New Neighbours garden. As I glanced through my legs, all I could see was an upside down Mr New Neighbour, looking very red as he scurried back inside…

Best Friend is more than aware of this trait of mine, having been through many moments of public embarrassment with me. I’m not allowed to go to family events that include the straighter side of her family, for everyone’s safety and sanity. She normally finds it all very amusing (at my expense!), but it may have been a bit too soon to unleash me on new people!

Walk this way...

Ok, I have had yet a further sign that I am slowly losing my mind. I have agreed to take part in a 15 mile sponsored walk at the end of this month. It is for a local group that is raising money to enable people with either mental health issues or physical disabilities to access sporting facilities. As I work in mental health and are meant to advocate the benefits of things like this, I really should take part.

It’s not that I’m lazy, I’m just very specific about what kind of exercise I take part in and walking isn’t one of them, I’m more of a taxi girl. I used to belong to a gym, unfortunately that turned out to be the five most expensive gym sessions of my life until I finally got round to cancelling my membership. I love swimming and things such as rounders if I’m with friends, but walking 15 miles? I’m not sure how that’s going work out. I walk to work everyday and a few other places, but it is rarely more than a couple of miles at a time.

So far I’ve got quite a bit of sponsorship; though I have a feeling many people are sponsoring me for the entertainment value alone!! Best Friend isn’t sponsoring me but is paying me £15 for vodka and cigarettes at the end – they will definitely be needed. She is also going to be my cheerleader, having already made up a chant and will be texting me encouragement throughout the day.

Maybe I should consider doing some training. Do you think increasing the amount of times I walk to Starbucks or the off licence counts…

You dancin' ?

Dancing. You’re either a natural or not, you either have rhythm or not. I am not a natural dancer, nor do I have rhythm! The only times since I was 14 that I have danced in public have been when I have been very drunk or, when I was younger, under the influence of something more chemical based! Now, the extent of my dancing in public is a chair wiggle or, if I’m feeling adventurous, I will attempt a sort of shuffling feet, shaking hips, jiggle thing – believe me when I say it’s worse than watching your Dad dance.

When I was a kid I was sent to ballet. I didn’t do well at all and my teacher was despairing. Not only could I not get the moves but I was quite a tubby kid and, in my little pink tutu, I resembled a miniature hippo stomping round the studio! When I was about 12, the school I went to then had ‘dance’ as part of the P.E curriculum. My ballet days came back to haunt me. Though I was now much slimmer, I still couldn’t dance and could only watch those blessed with talent strutting their stuff whilst I still stomped round the room, even if I was now more giraffe like than hippo.

So there’s a large part of me that can’t believe what I am about to tell you. Best Friend and I are going to do this course. It’s one of four workshops, increasing in difficulty, run by the Ministry of Burlesque. I’ve been fascinated with Burlesque for ages now and would love to learn how to do it properly, it’s really sexy but without being sleazy at all. Also, the women are stunning. I never thought I’d be able to get anyone to go with me, but a few days after mentioning it to Best Friend, she said she’d like to come too. We both know that there will be a lot of both dancing and rhythm needed so we have been trying to get me up to a bearable standard by dancing in the privacy of her kitchen. I’m now at the stage where as long as I’m only moving either my feet or my arms then I can get by, both together and I’m back to stomping! At least it’s providing Best Friend with some entertainment…

I’m really looking forward to this, but have to admit, the thought of me learning the art of Burlesque and showing off my ‘moves’ makes me giggle. But what the hell – bring on the nipple tassels!

Please give a warm welcome to...

I was thinking the other day that I should really introduce you to some of the main people in my life. The ones that appear here the most are the ones I tag ‘the important people’, so they deserve a decent introduction as you’ll be seeing more of them.

First up is Best Friend. Obviously this is one is pretty self explanatory. She is my best friend, my drinking buddy, partner in crime and one of the people closest to me. We’ve known each other for about four years now, originally met at work and have been together ever since. I wouldn’t be without her. Best Friend is pretty, sexy and clever with a love of sex, reading, music and physics. She is also the owner of Best Friend’s Bloke and The Cool Kid.

Next we have Mr Flirt. He is probably my closest male friend. We’re food buddies and eat out every couple of weeks. We swap porn links and generally misbehave. He used to be my boss but then we became friends. I’ve also known him for about four years and our friendship revolves around two of the F’s – food and flirting. He’s a family man with a naughty streak which he likes to indulge every now and again.

Then we have Miss Nice As Pie. She was originally friends with Best Friend, which is how we met. We go about as a threesome and get up to some mischief. She is a lovely person to know, always kind and good hearted but a lot of fun too. She is a single parent and the owner of The Great Ball Of Energy. Miss Nice As Pie is funny and clever, with a penchant for films, scrabble and Harry Potter.

Another person who is important in my life, but is in and out like a yo-yo is Mr Playmate. He was my boss after Mr Flirt, but we became good friends. Our friendship is based on being quite rude to each other and often results in us fighting, but neither of us takes it seriously. He is someone that even if we don’t speak in weeks, we just pick up again from where we left off the next time we meet. He is a 30 year old, middle class, public school boy who is not even trying to fight off an early middle age, giving in to his desire for dog shows, caravans and writing to Points of View!

There are many other people in my life, some more important than others, but the above are my family of friends, the people I know I can rely on, have fun with and will be around for a while yet, the ones you will hear about the most.

Rite of passage?

God, you can tell it’s the school summer holidays. Not only is the shopping centre full of roaming packs of goth wannabes and scarily young girls dressed in clothes that I would blush to wear, there is a young invasion in the pubs. The other night I was out with Mr Flirt. We went for a drink before dinner and found ourselves next to a table of 15 year olds.

Two girls and a lad, obviously trying so hard to act older, they were signing a birthday card and ordering food. They then went on to look at the cocktail menu, finally deciding on some strange combination involving WKD (some kind of weird alco-pop thing I think) and port – what’s that all about? I know trying to get served in pubs is a tradition (hell, I started drinking in pubs at 14) but, please, at least order something decent and not so full of sugary shit that you have just confirmed your appointment with the God of the Toilet Bowl.

I’m one of those people that have always looked older than they actually are (great when I was a teenager, something I’m not overly happy with now!) and have been served cigarettes and in pubs since I was 14 and then alcohol in shops and getting into nightclubs since 15, not once have I been asked for id. Best Friend was asked only a couple of weeks ago; she was embarrassed, I told her to be happy as she obviously has several years before she needs to start worrying about her looks. Mr Flirt told me that when he was younger (I guess about 15) he had two fake id’s – one to say he was 14, so could get half price bus fares and one to say he was 18, so he could get served alcohol. In his words, the best of both worlds, he could go out, get pissed, then get the bus home cheaply!

I guess none of us are happy with our ages, when we’re younger we spend the whole time wanting to be older and vice versa. I’m 27, but spend most of my time feeling (and most people will say, acting) about 17 – but it works for me!

It's a mistake to eat before dinner!

To me, Sundays are sort of non-days. They have an odd, empty feeling about them, I’m sure this stems from when I was a kid and shops weren’t open on Sundays (yes anyone under 20, shock!, horror!, shops never used to be open 24/7 and they shut for a whole day!), leaving my hometown with a sort of tumbleweed feeling. Even now, when I know I can do anything that I want to exactly the same as in the week, Sundays feel slow and empty. I know I should find them relaxing but I end up itching to do something exciting. However, today I am glad of it. Having had two hideously busy weeks at work, seeing various friends in the week and then being more or less permanently drunk since Friday night, I’m enjoying a day with nothing more taxing than reading the papers and watching Hollyoaks.

Last night was dinner at Miss Nice As Pie’s house. Best Friend and I set off with her daughter, The Cool Kid, stopping on the way to pick up some ice, as requested by Miss Nice As Pie. As we were in the shop, we spotted some sausage rolls and decided to buy them to eat before dinner (The Cool Kid suitably bribed to keep quiet!), this turned out to be a mistake. We were greeted with appetizers of mini duck spring rolls, followed by tacos and stuffed peppers, followed by homemade chocolate cake! Dinner was nice and suddenly the secret sausage rolls, eaten quietly round the corner, seemed to take up a vast amount of room, but I continued to eat as I would not want to hurt Miss Nice As Pie’s feelings. This, combined with more of the same wine consumed in vast quantities on Friday night, made for an uncomfortable, noisy night for my stomach!

On another note, Best Friend and Mr Flirt now know about this blog. Best Friend has the address but Mr Flirt doesn’t at the moment. I’m nervously awaiting their reactions…

Waxing lyrical

For some completely unknown reason I have yet again subjected myself to the nightmare that is The Home Wax. I don’t what it is about this, I know it’s going to hurt, I know that it’s not going to work as well as in a salon and I know that it’s going to get messy, but every few months I think I’ll wax instead of shave.

There’s so much choice out there and who really knows the difference. I could pick the pot of wax to melt in the microwave but this scares me and I have visions of having to go to A+E with third degree burns! So I end up with the strips. These things are strange, two strips of waxy paper that I have to ‘warm gently between my hands’ to melt it enough to rip the hair out by the roots. How the hell is this going to work? But each time I forget about the trauma from last time and take myself off to the bathroom to prepare for the torture. I follow the instructions carefully, check the ‘direction of the hair growth’ and prepare the first strip. It appears I have wiped out the rest from my memory. The next thing I know I’m sporting a rather patchy bikini line, with very attractive red blotches, somehow I have a strip attached to my foot and when I glance in the mirror I have the look a woman who has just done serious battle. I have been having flashbacks about what happened during the actual waxing, but it is too traumatic for me to write about…

Tonight is the night of the dinner courtesy of Miss Nice As Pie. Various texts have been flying back and forth and she is very excited about treating us to her culinary experimentation. Apparently she has decided what we will be eating, but she won’t let us know; she wants to surprise us! I will be picking up a couple of bottles of wine on the way. Obviously there is no ulterior motive here, its good manners to bring something to a dinner party!

Food, glorious food

I had a new culinary experience last night. Best Friend was feeling down and had had a stressful day at work, so we decided to meet up for a bit of tea and sympathy. After a few drinks and a bit of a crisis debrief, it was time for dinner. Off we went, neither really sure what we wanted, so Pizza Express seemed like a good option. Looking though the menu, I found a pizza with asparagus and egg!! I’ll try anything food wise but couldn’t quite get my head around this.

I like pizza, I like asparagus and I like eggs, but all three on one thing? It seemed like a bit of an odd and random concept. Spinach and eggs yes, but this was a new one on me. When it arrived I was a little disconcerted because the asparagus spears were just kind of strewn across the top and the egg looked like it was making its escape off the side. I was pleasantly surprised because it tasted great, certainly something I’ll order again.

Unfortunately (I think) I’ll be having another new culinary experience on Saturday night. Best Friend and I are going to dinner at another friend’s, Miss Nice As Pie, house. Now, she has never cooked for me, but has for Best Friend. Slightly worryingly I have been advised to eat before hand, or at least bring plenty of alcohol – this certainly doesn’t sound good! But, she’s trying. I fear what Best Friend is more concerned about is that Miss Nice As Pie has promised us she will be trying something new and we will be the first to taste it!

Food seems to be featuring a lot in my week. I’m also going to dinner with Mr Flirt tomorrow night, which I’m looking forward to. We always have fun and eat at some pretty decent places. All of which beat what I had for dinner tonight – 3 minute noodles and a chocolate bar, nothing like a balanced diet! Thank god for restaurants and friends…