What if...

I tend to use the time I'm in the car to think. It's a good a place as any. It's warm, it's comfortable and more often than not, I'm on my own. Just recently, I've noticed that the things I think about aren't exactly... normal.

I think about the best things that could happen, I think about the worst things that could happen. I think about myself and about other people. I have scenarios planned out. I have dialogue. Am I going mad?!

What would happen if I got sacked?
Where would I live?
Would N stay with me?
What would I do if we broke up?
How would it feel if my parents died?
Would I know who to turn to?
Would they know what to do?
Am I doing the right thing with my life?
Should I jack it all in, move and do something else?
Do my friends really like me?
Am I good at my job or do I just think I am?
When I look at someone on the street and think to myself, oh my god, I'm glad I'm not as fat as her... am I actually as fat as her and I just don't realise it?
How do other people see me?
Will I age gracefully?
Will I ever have the life I want?
What would my ideal house be like?
Can you imagine living with N for the rest of your life?
What would you do if you suddenly came into money?
What are you doing with your life?

I think I need to stop thinking and start doing!

As old as the woman you feel

A wise man once said "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" And, as it's coming up to my birthday (gosh, I'm going to be so old), I got thinking.

How old would I like to be?

0 - 2 years - No stress. Sit. Lie down a little. Cry a bit. Play. Eat. All your needs are dealt with, no responsibility. Now that's a life I could get used to. Much like a cat I would be ruler of my own universe, know I was right in all circumstances and would be able to turn my affection on and off at whim.

6-7 years - I have few memories from this period but I do remember endless summers. I always seemed to be playing, even when at school. Friends could be made and dropped in an instant. There was no pressure to look good or to wear the right things. If you were teased you were safe in the knowledge that your mother had dressed you so therefore, it wasn't your fault. Food seemed nicer at this age. Maybe because everything was new.

Teen years - Surprisingly idyllic. Is this because I was living in a hot country with few distractions apart from horses and sport? Could it be that I just didn't care what people thought? Still?

30 - 40 years - For some reason I think this will be the best time of my life. I should have my own home. I should be married. I should have children. I should have enough money to see me through. Should.

90+ years - I would have great fun pretending I were slightly mad. I'd put irons in the fridge. I'd make my 10 cats wear different hats and seat them round the table at dinner parties. I would delight in squeezing the cheeks of people younger than me. I would attempt to grow plants in people's shoes and I would make everyone refer to me as "Your Majesty".

What about you?

Never respect a man who can salsa

I've never really been one for hen nights. The prospect of being forced to wear sparkly willies on my head and the "you must have fun" attitude makes me go cold.

Groups of them stream out of clubs in the early hours, cackling manically, acting like harrassing strangers is ok, just because they're wearing a white veil and L plates (aside: why L plates... they're not learners. If they were going on their first date, then maybe. But hell, they're getting married, you'd think they'd know what they were doing by that stage in the relationship!)

The hen "day and night" I went to on Saturday was an amalgamation of the best and worst. The good. Twenty intrepid explorers went on a treasure hunt of sorts. Things we had to find included the bride, a man in uniform (hoorah!) and the other teams. We then trooped to the pub and watched the rugby* and drink a lot of beer. And cider. And other things.

And the bad? We made our way to Charing Cross (not the most salubrious of surroundings you might say, and you'd be right) to a nightclub/bar where we were to learn Salsa. 13 hungry hens (not including ours) had already descended into this pit of despair. Around the dancefloor, swarthy, sweaty, Spanish types peered through the gloom, picking out their victims. The air was heavy with the smell of Lynx (probably). The words "meat market" sprang to mind.

I bumped into a friend with her new boyfriend, I idly watched them (as all around me scoffed the worst tapas known to man - think a tortilla chip and a spare rib followed by overcooked chicken).

The couple were dancing on the edge of the dance-floor. Not your normal shuffle-your-feet-and-windmill-your-arms dancing. No, salsa dancing. They looked like they were having fun. He span her around. She dipped. They did that whole swaying thing with their bums as they did the forward and back footstep jobbies. I almost envied her. But then the thought struck me... could you ever find a man who could salsa, sexy? To me, it's just a bit too... desperate.

Aren't they trying a bit too hard? Throwing away their natural man-dance lack of talent and bucking the trend? Shouldn't they be stood round the dancefloor scoffing at the girls dancing with each other while their mate (the "mad" one) attempts to chat up a whale on the other side of the room?

Give me a man who can down a pint, sing rugby songs very loud and doesn't mind the fact that I tend to get beaten up over the weekend (while playing rugby, not by him) and I'm a happy bunny. Which is just as well really since that's exactly what I've got.

Never respect a man who can salsa.



* on which I am not commenting. If anyone talks to me about the rugby, I will disown them, delete their bookmark and jump up and down on the spot in protest. Although, for what it's worth, I don't think BA should be sacked. Yes, he made some hideous decisions with selection (Iain Balshaw, really?) but it's the players who have to perform on the day. And they didn't. At all.

Pah! Kids today...don't know they're born

"In my day we used to walk to school, 15 miles in the snow, barefoot and with an anvil strapped to our back."

We've been suffering from server problems at work for the last couple of days. No email. No internet. No nothing. (No email days are obviously not a new thing but I don't think I've heard of many companies that have them here in the UK? On purpose at least.)

As I'm sitting on the edge of my desk thinking about getting something done which doesn't involve technology the age-old question popped into my head "how did we manage without computers?".

I started blogging (and therefore was first really aware of the wonderful world of the world wide web) when I was...er... maybe 18 and I remember that I got my first computer (Commodore 64 if you must know) when I must have been about 6. That means that for nearly 20 years, people have have easy access to some form of computer. That scares me.

Do you think life BC (before computers) was less frantic, less stressful, more interactive? It's so easy nowadays to ping off a quick email to someone you've never met and work on a project together without even talking to each other. Blackberries and mobiles mean my boss has access to me all day, every day (that is if I didn't turn the damn thing off).

Just for one day I'd like to spend the time without a computer, without a phone, without the television and just have a bit of peace and quiet. I could actually... talk to someone... finish reading that damn book I started ages ago...

Of course, knowing my luck, the day I choose to be incommunicado will be the day that Rupert Penry-Jones dumps his exceptionally beautiful and lovely wife and puts out an all-broadcast plea for me to whisk him away into the sunset.

Pimp yourself out (in more ways than one)

It's not that I'm anti-Valentine's Day (and in fact N did cook me a lovely supper last night because he knew he wouldn't be around tonight) but I still love these cards

Also... Peach is putting together a book of different bloggers' writing in aid of WARCHILD. I'm not going to submit anything (unless someone can suggest a suitable topic) but you should. Yes, you... standing over there. Go and have a look.

Nowt so queer as folk

It's amazing the things you see, sitting in the bubble-like atmosphere of your car, watching the world overtake you.

Look, there's that man, carrying a woman's handbag looking all for the world like he's about to commit some cardinal sin. Furtively, he looks around, hoping no-one will notice the white leather holdall he carries, clutched underneath a fragrant armpit.

And there, the yummy mummy, with her equally beautiful progeny prancing along the road heading towards the local school for beautiful people. No ugly kids near me please, they seem to say. The not-so-yummy-mummy hangs her head and drags her overweight child past the gate, wondering what might have been had she not shacked up with Dave from the local pub.

You have a giggle at the lollipop lady, bedecked in resplendent yellow. Leaning against the wall she looks vacantly at the passing traffic. She sighs. When will the kids come to school so I have something to do?

The woman in the car behind you exercises. Hand under chin, opening and closing her mouth. "I'm sure this is how they said whatsherface did it - and just look at her... not a wrinkle to be seen."

I wonder what people think when they see me as I sit there, singing to myself, playing the drums on the steering wheel and staring out the window.

More Kenya bits 'n' bobs

A short one today, and not even written by me.

Came across this article. I think it succinctly sums up the problems in Kenya at the moment with its last line "It is ripping the country apart."

Now I'm not one to normally read the Guardian. In fact, I'm probably as far removed from a typical Guardian reader as you've ever likely to get.

However. Kenyan Pundit (a great source of information regarding the recent elections) has pointed me towards this very interesting article written a couple of weeks ago. Any thoughts?

My new find, Norm, has been asking his readers who their favourite English language authors are. For me, it depends who I'm talking to. With some people I could probably be completely honest, with others, I'd make something up, just to please them.

Anyway, it got me thinking about writing and writers and then about Jane Austen (I was actually thinking about Sense and Sensibility - oh Edward - although I got there from writers, I don't know) and anyway... then I wondered... is there anyone living today with the same way with words as she had? Don't worry, this isn't my cue to turn into one of those scary Americans who dress up in funny clothes and quote endlessly. Although...

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, talent. There are very few modern authors that I read who have the easy style with words like Austen (or Dickens or Trollope or ... cont pg 84). I'm not saying that modern books are bad or in any way worse than their predecessors but I just wonder whether the modern day has affected the quality of literature we're offered. It seems that anyone can now become a published author, just because they have some form of notoriety - and, I would imagine, more often than not, the writing is not a fiction with characters and plots and themes, but a literary regurgitation of self-indulgence.

With the writing standards of our children continuing to fall and more and more "celebrities" wanting to push their stories out to the impressionable youth, will England ever have any standard of writing to be proud about again?

Nick Wadhams makes a very interesting point here about the situation in Kenya. It always bemuses me at how fickle the media can be. One minute Kenya is the big news story of the hour, the next, an (admittedly cute) octopus is headline news.

Why is that? Is it because there's not enough death and gore for the picture editors to drool over? People are still dying. People are still hungry. People still have nowhere to live. In order to highlight the issue, a number of Kenyan bloggers have pulled together to create Ushahidi - a website dedicated in reporting the unseen troubles which are still going on at home.

Personally, I don't know what the solution is. I'm not there and I don't have a vote so I don't really feel in any way qualified to make a comment. I don't think anyone is in any doubt that the elections were rigged however I can't see any way to make it all better. Surely if Odinga forcibly takes over then he is no better than Kibaki?

This story left me with a really weird feeling.

I know there are examples of brothers and sisters throughout history having those kind of relationships but it really makes me shudder to think it might happen in this day and age (and yes, I am aware I sound like my mother!)

Apart from the whole "marrying your sister/brother" weirdness I wonder whether the two of them always somehow knew something was wrong.

The story brings up a number of questions for me:

1. why wouldn't the adoptive parents a) tell their child that they were adopted or, if they did b) that they had a brother/sister?
2. How did the pair of them find out that they were related?
3. Can they ever be brother and sister again, having done what (I assume) has been done?

At the end of the day, I do feel sorry for them, whoever they are. Having gone through 30-40 years of not knowing and then only to find out in the worst possible way.

Has anything caught your eye today?

Normally quite a bit would have been drunk by the time we got round to it.

My mother and father would glance at each other, a twinkle in their eyes, small grin showing a slightly red tongue, tinged with red wine.

Out would come the cards and the cutlery. Space would be made on the table, all the unimportant things pushed to one side or taken to the kitchen. The spoons would be laid out reverently in the middle of the table. The cards would be dealt. All would be calm. And then...

... mayhem. Cards flying to the left, being picked up from the right. Watching, watching, waiting for a slight movement from the other players. Then suddenly everyone dives for the middle of the table, grabbing and grasping. Triumphantly you would brandish your spoon. A winner!

Until, at last, there was only one.

One of the things I remember about Christmas Eve in our house.

It's raining outside, the heating's finally fixed and for once, I have nothing to do.

A perfect for lying on the sofa, watching bad old films, cup of tea and duvet. I love days like these.

The trouble with rented accommodation
Part one: furniture






These beauties currently reside in our sitting room. Note the tasteful cushions. Marvel at the way in which the fabric matches the tatty rug. Oh yes, a sight to behold.

I can't wait until I can afford my own place.

The times they are a changin'

But I can't say too much about it though yet, so I won't.

Hope you don't mind too much :)

I've had a headache now for three days.

I'm also re-writing my CV.

Does this tell you how the promotion is going?

me: I have no odd quirks whatsoever
her: yes, dear, you go on believing that. We'll just point and laugh
me: you're metaphorically patting me on the head, aren't you?
her: maybe...

I might have been lying. I am sure that somewhere underneath this very complex (yet stunningly beautiful) being that there are elements of weirdness. I just can't think of any.

I mean, come on, I had a happy childhood, my parents are still together, I don't have an axe murderer for a boyfriend (although this is yet to be proved. Another day with me might turn him, you never know).

I am moderately intelligent (despite the bad spelling) I got a solid drinking degree. I am of average height, average (ish) weight, brown hair, brown eyes. The only distinguishing feature is a scar on my arm where I had an injection.

When people met me, what do they think? Do they remember me or am I instantly forgettable? I think it's probably the latter. This is a very odd position to find myself in.

I have friends who, no matter what the subject, they can have something amusing and witty to say or write about it. Me? I struggle to pull a sentence together. (and yet I'm the one who insists on blogging. Oh the irony)

Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if someone else lived it for you?

Gosh, this has turned into a hate-fest that I never expected it to...

I committed the cardinal sin. I went back to the past.

By use of the Internet Archive

I went back and looked at my history. It's a bit weird re-reading it all.

I read the day that I first met N when I was pissed off that I hadn't met anyone. I was in the midst of a dating phase bought on my a mad Australian friend of mine.

I read a couple of days later when I was a smitten kitten, skipping around in the first haze of lust.

I remembered the time when I caught him playing Jenga with my housemate and she took off all her clothes. I remember how much I hated her for it.

I remember the time we both first realised we loved each other.

I don't know if this reminiscing is a good thing? If I read further back, before I met N, I read about the hideous love life I used to have. How I was a complete idiot and let men walk all over me. I read that I used to fall heavily for men, for no particular reason. Somehow believing that if I gave them everything they asked for, they would want me, too.

Thankfully, you can never go back and change the past. And, in a deeply philosophical ending sentence, you can only learn from it.

(you have my permission to throw up now)

I am not dead. You may all breathe a sigh of relief.

Dead tired? Yes.

Dead on my feet? Yes.

Dead annoyed? Yes.

Dead overworked and underpaid? Yes.

But not dead. And my leg's still attached. Yay. Macca is safe.

Although nutty is not an old cow, sometimes I think I'm older in mind than I am in body. I think I plan things too much. N proposed a proposal to me the other day. Not actually, but theoretically, along the lines of "if I asked you to… what would you say?". I answered "I'd say yes, but not yet."

So why? If you think about it, that's a silly thing to say. I love him, he loves me. I can see myself saying yes. I can see myself with him. So why don't I say yes.

Because I have a plan.

26 - engaged
27 - marry
30 - child
30 - move out of London
31 - move to bigger house
33 - child 2

Where it goes from there is anyone's guess. I suppose it's tempting fate in a way. I don't know if any of these stages will ever happen but it's just the way I've always thought about it. I think that any younger that 26 is too young to be engaged. Similarly, I think that men shouldn't get married before 30.

Who knows. Anyway, N knows he has to wait. At the same time, it is really rather nice knowing that I've got someone who loves me that much.

(of course, now I've said that, it'll all go to rack and ruin and fall apart. He'll have an affair with a leggy blond and I'll turn into a toad or similar.)

P.S. Got a promotion on Friday. Of sorts.

Housemates are strange people. I should know, I've lived with a couple.

One who sticks in my head is a girl, S. S was nice enough - she wasn't my friend, she belonged to another member of the house. She did have one disturbing obsession though.

In a fit of girly giggles we had stuck attractive, half naked men up the stairs (posters of, not real, worse luck) just to brighten up what was, essentially, a dossy student flat. Imagine our suprise when returning home one day (in time for Countdown, naturally) when we saw a new picture on the stairs.

A picture of S's dad.

A signed picture of S's dad.

Does anyone else think that's a little bit odd?