Inside my head

Psstt...

2008-09-08T18:35:00.002+01:00

I'm not really back. Not proper like. Not for more than about five minutes.

Just thought you might be interested to know I'm getting married on Friday. As in, four days time.

Life is all good, all happy currant buns and cups of tea. This is not a proper update, but I did think it would be terribly rude to go off and get married without telling anyone....

Anyway, hope everyone is fine and dandy.

Some Tobago views....

2007-10-18T23:29:00.001+01:00

So...liming

"Ray" the stingray...

Paradise...

Sunset in paradise...

And yes...that is me in a bikini. Don't expect to see it again any time soon...

So long.

NB if anyone could explain to me why one of my pictures is the size of Jupiter I'd be ever so grateful.

Of armadillos and pythons and rotis

2007-10-16T19:34:00.000+01:00

I'm back from Tobago.

This in itself is quite a tragedy. I will save the purple passages for the travel feature I'm writing on it (it wasn't a freebie like Malaysia but I want to store up some credit with the travel ed for when I pitch him my plan to blag a honeymoon and do a feature on it) so I will give you the expurgated version.

Tobago rocks. You know you go on holiday to relax? But with having to worry about catching transport, getting to places, making sure no-one nicks your stuff and all that kerfuffle you have to think about you hardly ever end up actually relaxing? Well, in Tobago I rested. And relaxed. And chilled out. And slept through the night, waking up refreshed, at a reasonable hour and not tired EVERY day.

In Tobago, chilling out and doing nothing is so much a way of life, they even have a word for it - liming (begs the question, where does the word come from - are you supposed to be standing around doing nothing like a lime?)

I've never before been somewhere I have been so much in the ethnic minority - off season, and away from the resorts, there were times when we were the only white faces in a crowd. And you get a LOT of attention being a white woman - but not once did I feel threatened. They just wanted you to come lime with them. And maybe, if you're lucky, do a bit of wining too (err, erotic hip swinging dancing - also a Tobagonian way of life).

It's not like Thailand, or Egypt, or Greece, or any of the myriad destinations I've been where people are constantly trying to sell you stuff. No, when people stop to chat, or try and hitch with you (when you've got two white women at the wheel, a common occurence) it's purely friendly. We got invited to have some chicken at some guy's grandma's birthday. When the roti shop we got to had run out of food, the owner called up her sister who promptly appeared with some roti - then drove off towards the waterfall we were seeking with us following.

There were so many bizarre events I'm not going to describe them all, but here's a flavour: coming round a corner to find an entire section of road missing; screeching to a halt for a log in the road - which turned out to be a two metre python slithering lazily across the road in the rain; catching our boat driver having a not at all sneaky ENORMOUS spliff to add to the many bottles of beer he had consumed, before getting back behind the wheel; abandoning a car at a petrol station because it, and the filling station, were out of gas and there would be no delivery until the next day; being silently presented with two pieces of tissue when we walked into a restaurant dripping with monsoon rain; driving up an incredibly hairy cliff path with a sheer drop on one side in search of a beach only to have to reverse half the way back down again to a passing point and execute an 103 point turn because there was nowhere to park at the top; running into a group of men and hounds in the middle of the rainforest - when we asked what they were hunting, being told "armadillos".

I want to go back. After my ridiculous health issues before I went (I was sent home from work several times the two weeks before we left for being dizzy, light-headed and on one occasion, inappropriately tearful) it was exactly what I needed. I never imagined the Carribbean could be that good.

And now, in Oxford, it's raining and I've got a council meeting tomorrow eve. Whoop.

Pix to come (picking them up tomorrow).

So long.

A more imaginative way of getting out of work

2007-09-26T21:15:00.001+01:00

So I've been having these headrushes. Nothing hugely to worry about, but as the dizziness appeared to be getting a bit more frequent, I figured it would be sensible to just have it checked out.

The doctor didn't seem overly concerned, but suggested I get some blood tests done, just to check if there was anything wrong. She also urged me to make sure I was eating regularly and drinking enough non-tea liquids (hence a mass onslaught of pie-eating).

I went for the blood tests yesterday morning. Now I may have mentioned I'm not a big fan of needles. I told the nurse this as she set about finding an appropriate vein, but blithely assured her that "I don't faint or anything, I just feel a bit funny".

Ha!

Anyway, after she accidentally went all the way through the vein on my left arm (oopsy) she turned over to my right arm. At this point I may have glimpsed a few glistening vials of my blood. Big mistake. As she was searching again for those beautiful blues, I had that strange white-wash thing going on I had bene getting with the headrushes.

Next thing I know, my glasses and sandals are falling off, I'm shaking and twitching all over the place in the nurses arms and the room is full of doctor types and my ears with a weird ringing.

It turns out I am one of those people who faint. First time for everything I suppose.

It was the single-most terrifying experience of my life, not helped by the fact that when everyone was fussing over me, I was crying like a big baby.

It's hard to describe what it felt like - but I now have a lot of sympathy for people who faint at the sight of blood. It is not at all fun. Even more embarassingly, I had to call my boss to say I couldn't come in any earlier and in fact, I might not be coming in at all. That's not embarassing in itself, the fact that I was openly weeping throughout the conversation is a little more humiliating.

On the plus side, I now have trackmarks on both arms that would make a junky proud.

And some inexplicable bloodstains on the furthest possible side of my favourite, floor-length skirt to the place where the nurse was sticking me. Ace

More on that story later.

Just plain rude

2007-09-24T12:06:00.000+01:00

Err, that's me. It has been a dreadfully long time since I last blogged. You (that's you, Mum, and Dave, who appear to be the only people still logging in) will be pleased to know that work and life seem to have picked up somewhat.

It was my birthday yesterday (woohoo) but I overcelebrated on Friday night (and have a purple knee to show for it - don't ask) so had a rather subdued weekend - although still very nice and consisting of lots of very yummy food.

I have decided that seeing as I can no longer claim to be in my early 20s, I am going to start acting grown up. Okay, maybe not that, but I am going to wear suits to work this week, just for the hell of it. This will probably make people think I am having interviews for other jobs. Ha!

Anyway, more on that story later.

Things that depress me

2007-09-06T21:35:00.000+01:00

I have been on a bit of a prolonged downer at the moment. So I think it would be highly productive (read self-indulgent) to list why I am feeling generally depressed.

1. After a high of loads of shit-hot stories at work, I now seem to be writing a lot of err, shit stories. See this week for stories about post boxes and cricket teams that might have to move pitch. no really. All this after a three-page exclusive on prostitution is a bit of a come-down.
2. I keep failing to answer obvious things about my stories. So I keep getting asked questions by my various bosses.
3. I'm not sleeping very well and I keep having weird work and/or pregnancy related dreams. I can reassure anyone that is reading this that I most emphatically am NOT pregnant.
4. I keep ending up going to quite cool events on my own. Inevitably this makes me feel like a sad loner.
5. One of my best mates keeps inviting one of my other best mates to far cooler events.And then saying, oh, sorry, I thought you were working. You didn't want to go anyway, did you?
6. I am skint. And I can't afford to get my haircut.
7. It's my birthday in three weeks. But all of my Oxford friends are going to a festival that I can't go to because a)I don't have a ticket and b)I can't afford it so I won't be seeing any of them. I was going to go to a Supergrass concert (by the power of blag) but it got cancelled cos stupid Mickey Quinn went and broke his back. How selfish.
8. The front tyre on my bike really needs to be pumped up. But I keep on getting up too late to do this so end up working twice as hard to cycle to work.
9. I am still yet to start planning my wedding. There are freakin loads of decisions to be made and I have no answers.
10. My new next door neighbours appear to be having a party. It sounds a lot more fun than what I'm doing.

Okay, enough of all that nonsense. I have decided the thing to do, rather than retreat into gloom and doom, is concentrate on the good things. So. A week in Tobago in just a month's time. Here.

Mmm. That makes me feel a bit better.

More on that story later.

Bankruptcy

2007-09-04T21:17:00.000+01:00

This may be the answer. I received a call from the bank today. I don't know why (it may be because they wanted me to see a man at the bank 'just to catch up' and I didn't go, having sent an e-mail a couple of hours previously) but I hedged that it was a bad time. I mean, when is it a good time to go?

Then, I got an email telling me that Tobago is going to be rather more expensive than I had bargained for.

I'm freaking broke. I mean, I can afford to live and all that - just - but like, buying stuff that isn't 100 per cent essential for food etc? Forget that.

AAArrrgh. I'm pretty sure that in the grander scheme of things, I'm actually not that badly off. Maybe I can manage to just live off cardboard for a while. And use vegetable oil to fuel the car... and feed the cat grass and bugs from the garden...

More on that story later.

Bike Envy

2007-08-19T17:27:00.000+01:00

I am suffering from a severe and prolonged case of bike envy. Actually, it would be probably more accurate to call it cyclist envy.

As I may have mentioned before, I am a bit rubbish on my bike. I am no longer the slowest cyclist on Oxford - just, I can overtake old ladies now - but it seems that there are an awful lot of on-bike skills that I am yet to get the hang of.

For example, that neat trick where you are cycling along and swing one leg over so they are both on the same side, coast along for a little while then come to an elegant stop. Hmm, I tried that once and I fell over.

Then there is the whole cycling with no hands thing. I'm sure I used to be able to do this, but when I try it now even for a few seconds I swerve dangerously.

Also, carrying bewildering large items while cycling. I have seen, variously, planks of wood, ladders, tools, large musical instruments and full-scale trekking backpacks on people's err, backs. I carry a medium handbag and every now and again it grinds dangerously close to the wheels and I get a trifle wobbly. The same with two full shopping bags on your handles - I bravely gave this a go the other day and very nearly had a wine-bottle related accident. Which would have been very sad.
Phoning and texting on the go would also be a useful skill to acquire. It's probably not the best plan, but I have seen people who are really good at it. I answered a text message while cycling along the towpath once and promptly dropped my phone and nearly cycled into the river. Ooops.

There is also the question of cycling attire. I cycle to work and generally wear my work clothes (I don't often cycle so fast I work up tooo much of a sweat. But sometimes I wear my sandals or a skirt. The skirt thing is a bit hilarious. Best way I can think of to flash your knickers at an unsuspecting public, so I have taken to wearing cycling shorts under my skirt then whipping them off when I get to work. Only problem is, I invariably forget to put them on when I leave, so have to ride the gauntlet in a rather revealing fashion. And the number of times my sandals have made a bid for freedom - it's a miracle none of them have ended up in the river yet. That would be a good one to explain when I got to work.

Then, the Oxford cyclists holy grail - cycling when pissed. I generally steer clear of this one, preferring my drinking establishments within walking distance, but there have been a couple of times when I have been coaxed into town with bike, or when a post-work drink has become eight post-work drinks. Let's just say I didn't quite fall off, hit anything, or lose my shoes, but it's probably as well I didn't bump into any cop-cars. It's quite hilarious though. I know people who regularly cycle home absolutely plastered - and they only occasionally hit imaginary cats.

Anyway, these are things I hope to master during my time in Oxford. Any advice would be greatly appreciated. Particularly the silly kind. Or any suggestions on other bike-related skills I should try to acquire.

More on that story later.

Dress

2007-08-16T10:59:00.000+01:00

A little assistance if you please. My mum, over at Quiet Pictures, has taken a number of pictures of me in the dress. If you could hop over there and tell me what you think I would be much obliged. The reason I haven't put it up on mine is because the other half does occasionally log in and might inadvertantly catch a glimpse - which would be bad.

Post any thoughts, comments or suggestions either here or at my mum's post.

Thank you!

Developments

2007-08-15T16:45:00.000+01:00

I spent a good portion of Monday evening looking for prostitutes with one of my colleagues. It's a funny thing to do. For one thing, I'm not sure either of us looked like typical punters. And you just look at everyone with a different eye. We didn't approach anyone because the ones we thought were probably on the game were moving at great speed (we thought towards the nearest crackhouse) and everyone else we were a bit worried they might just be someone's girlfriend. The things they ask me to do for work! And no, I'm not going to elaborate on why, but it was certainly a different way to spend a Monday evening.

In other news, I may have bought a wedding dress. I say may, because, while I have indeed bought a dress, it was kind of an impulse thing and I may yet return it. However, as it was on sale in Monsoon for just £40.50 (yes, you read that correctly), and the person I was with thought it was gorgeous, I decided to go for it. I have a week to return it so I'm going to try and get the opinions of as many people as possible before I make a decision, starting with my mum tonight. I won't go into great detail because my fiancee occasionally reads this, but it is really pretty and a little bit different. I really like it...

Work has been quite ridiculous lately (hence the lack of posting) due to a general lack of staff so I have been working my arse out. One of my colleagues remarked to me that I left no stones unturned in my patch. I immediately considered whether I might be able to find any stories if I went out after work and looked under stones. This may be a little bit tragic.

Anyway, I've been getting my reviewing hat on a bit recently but was disappointed to see that a line I put in about some band being pretentious was removed. Apparently we don't criticise local bands. Well, I do! The whole music scene here is a bit up its own arse, self-referential, slightly arrogant and with airs of pretention. Not to say I don't love it, though. It's just I'm a bit scruffy for all that nonsense.

Anyway, I'm off to my parents tonight to have a talk about the wedding. Gulp. I think the fact that I've booked a holiday to the Carribbean in October is not going to go down immensely well, given the complete lack of saving we have done so far.

But that's another story.

And now the sun shines

2007-08-01T10:21:00.000+01:00

I'm not generally speaking one to complain about the weather. It's one of those things in life over which I have absolutely no control so as far as I'm concerned, it's a bit of a like it or lump it situation.

But I have to say I am a little peeved that now, finally, we appear to be seeing a smidgeon of sunshine. Could we have had a bit of sun during Glastonbury when I was spending all week in a field? No. Or when I had a week off to do nothing in particular? No. Instead, now it decides it is the best time to be beautiful, warm and lovely. And I can't even enjoy these oh so pleasant evenings because I'm working late shifts all week. I could get a bit of morning sun I suppose, but that requires getting up early which I kind of resent when I'm working until 10pm. On the plus side, I had to spend about two hours in an airfield waiting for a record-breaking pilot to touch down yesterday evening and I'm pretty damn glad it wasn't pissing it down with rain then.

I'll just say one thing - I've got one more festival to go to this summer. It bloody better not be raining then.

More on that story later.

Flooding

2007-07-24T21:38:00.000+01:00

I'm a bit flummoxed by all this flooding. I spent pretty much all day on Friday writing furiously about the catastrophic flooding of a biblical nature which was about to bring impending doom to Oxford. Or at least general wetness.

Then, following a shamefully but deliciously drunken ball on Friday (knee-length black dress with sparkly diamante bits and a black silk sash, if you wanted to know), I spent the weekend wondering absent-mindedly where all this water was - it's completely dry in east Oxford. Even wandered along the towpath alongside the river (which was admittedly rather fuller than usual) in search of floods, but didn't see anything up to much - other than lots and lots of people with cameras taking pictures of swollen waters.

So, then on Sunday night I got a sequence of text messages from my boss warning me that I needed an alternate transport plan (his words, not mine) to get to work - then saying that it might in fact be flooded - then saying to get in as close as was safe, then walk the rest of the way. Then Monday morning, I got a call at 7.30am asking me to park in the town centre and walk - and bring wellies and be prepared to wade.

Then all Monday was spent furiously writing about flooding - with our deadlines moved forwards several hours in case the actual building flooded, we ended up with approximately three hours to finish the paper. And, thanks to the Environment Agency, we were facing dire predictions that the river right near where our offices are had not yet peaked and could well burst its banks, flooding the island.

But that didn't happen again, and we kind of stood down a little bit of the flooding front. Except just as we were leaving, the water suddenly started rising and coming over the banks. And now the late shift has been advised to leave the building (naturally, the electrics are in the floor so if it comes inside, we're all screwed). I have no idea what's actually going to happen tomorrow, I am told that I may be working from home and filing copy via e-mail, or they may be sending some of us to the district offices. It's all a trifle confusing - don't know whether I'm supposed to be worried or not because there have been a lot of predictions which haven't been fulfilled.

Oh, and the best news yet. My funky, trusty, Glastonbury-veteran wellies appear to have started leaking. Slightly. This is not good news.

More on that story later.

I am an idiot

2007-07-19T20:34:00.000+01:00

I must be. Why else would I have volunteered to cover an inquest on a day when I had to go to an evening meeting - therefore meaning I had to work a 12 hour shift?

Soooo tired. And, I suspect, not very comprehensible. Oh well.

I'm back in Oxford again, hurrah! And seem to be making up for it by working far too hard. I'm yet to leave work at a sensible hour. And yet, feeling much happier about life and work in general. Plus, today a top cop apparently told my boss I was doing a sterling job. Although unfortunately said cop just happens to be leaving his position in approximately two weeks.

There have been a few bike-related incidents recently that I should really catch the world up on. I was nearly flung into the path of a bus by two pedestrians the other day who failed to look and see if I was coming. They walked straight into me on my bike, I just about managed to keep my balance but if I had fallen, I would have been crushed by a bus. And then a few nights later, Curtains appeared at work having apparently been in a horrific fight. Turned out he had swerved to avoid a cat on his bike - and fallen off. I believe there may have been a certain amount of alcohol involved...

Am off to a ball tomorrow night. It's all very exciting - E came round and we had a girly dress trying on session. I still haven't entirely made up my mind what I'm going to go for. The theme is ratpack with a twist. Suggestions....?

Anyway, I may or may not be going for a drink with the increasingly unreliable Curtains tonight so I'd best go.

More on that story later.

An eternity

2007-07-10T20:42:00.000+01:00

I'm still in the districts. And still not happy. So far three different bosses have told me slightly apologetically (some more so than others) that I have to go to various district offices. Ironically not by the district news editor.

Looks like I'm going to be stuck in the current one for the rest of this week. It's not good. And I ended up staying extremely late last night because right at the end I was asked to book lots of pictures at very short notice - and I was nearly asked to stay for a meeting which started at 7.30pm but I threw a bit of a wobbly on that one as my mother had come to Oxford to see me (well, partly) and they had already pissed all over my plans to spend some mornings sightseeing as the district thing meant I wasn't doing late shifts anymore (around which the visit had been carefully planned).

This is getting a bit stream of consciousness here. I'm feeling a bit dopey and zoned out. North Ox district was extremely boring - South Ox is busy but unproductive and the company is lousy. Not a fan. But, so they remember I can actually do real stories, I tracked down a blinder on prostitution last week so it's not all bad.

More on that story later.

Sulks and grumps

2007-07-04T20:04:00.000+01:00

I am not by nature a grumpy person. I would say I have a fairly sunny, easy-going disposition (although I do get perhaps a little confrontational after a few too many glasses of wine).

But today Frangelita is not a happy bunny. Oh no. I had a week's holiday after Glastonbury (much needed recuperation, did absolutely nothing apart from a little bit of random cycling, some reading, some sleeping, and a lot of cleaning mud out of inexplicable places).

Last Wednesday I got a message from one of my bosses telling me I would be covering for a district reporter at one of our weekly papers in North Oxfordshire for three days this week. I wasn't too happy, but hey, what you going to do.

So I've spent three mind-numbingly dull days in the town which is only famous for being in a quite frankly rubbish nurseryy rhyme, I've done my time, I've churned out a wide selection of not very inspiring stories and put up with the weirdest office in the world (it's got a computer on one desk then the phone is on a completely different desk on the other side of the room, what's that about?). I even guilt-tripped all the newsdesk into calling me, in tandem, this afternoon as I had muttered briefly to Curtains that I had spoken to no-one all week.

Got home and was instantly plunged into a good mood as HF had cooked me a delicious meal - a rare occurence indeed.

So I was sitting, reading the Radio Times (I am the only person I know that does this, but so what, I like the articles), when my phone rang. It was one of my bosses.

He started by thanking me effusively for my work this week, which to begin with was why I thought he called (he did after all phone me for absolutely no reason this afternoon other than to offer "pastoral support"). Then he said: "And because you've done such a good job, would you mind going to this other district office in South Oxfordshire for Thursday and Friday?"

Well, yes, actually. Three days in the most boring market town in Britain and I'm already losing my edge - I feel like if I have to deal with anything more challenging than a lost cat I just won't know what to do (joking, obviously). So the last thing I want is two more days in a bloody district office. And this one has the bonus of being full of old dirty men (the kind of reporters that they don't really make anymore who vanish for three hour liquid lunches).

But you can't really say no to your boss. And he promised me I'd be back in Oxford on Monday.

Well, I'd better be *mutters darkly to self, furrowing eyebrows in an attempt to look evil*

More on that story later

Back from the mud

2007-06-27T12:49:00.001+01:00

Well, we did Glastonbury. As some of you may be aware, it was rather muddy. In fact, it looked rather like this...

But don't worry, we didn't look like this...

No, we looked like this!

Saw a bit of this sort of shenanigans...

Then ended up looking a bit like this...

Plus, it being Glastonbury, there was a certain amount of random pole stroking.

I don't think I was even particularly drunk at that point. In a nutshell - totally awesome and totally surreal and random Glastonbury. The muddiest I've ever seen. The most drunken I've ever been. It was, for me, the year of giving complete strangers high fives and hugs, and for finding amazing gypsy folk bands playing in tents in the middle of nowhere. Also, a year for completely uncharacteristic and unexpected behaviour from all quarters, and for complete strangers asking for invitations to my wedding.

I can't wait to do it all again next year.

More on that story later.

Off to Glastonbury

2007-06-19T19:56:00.000+01:00

Today Frangelita is a happy bunny. After a seriously hellish week last week (not going to go into the details, but suffice to say I was almost reduced to tears on one day after spending two and a half hours driving backwards and forwards between Blackbird Leys and Cutteslowe and still failing to get what I had gone there for), things are looking up.

Cos not only am I heading to the mystical land of pear cider, rivers of mud and mysterious solstice occurences, I don't have to work for the next 12 days. Whoop! Although as I often say, I love my job, we've got a bit tight in terms of staff of late, expressions have been grim, shouting and swearing more frequent and inappropriate tears ever closer. So this is going to be a well-deserved break.

As to cider land, I managed to get myself in the festival spirit by visiting some small free music festival in Oxfordshire at the weekend, which was very laid back and rather nice, if a bit disconcerting that some of the acts looked not dissimilar to those you might see at a rather good school talent show. Course, the ambience was slightly spoilt when something (I think it must have been a nettle or ants rather than a snake in retrospect) got into my knickers, stung or bit me several times around my lower back area and left me in an extraordinary amount of seemingly inexplicable pain, which did not budge for the best part of an hour. I still don't really know what happened there. But I hope it does not happen again, it was HORRIBLE. And I felt like a bit of a drama queen as there appeared to be nothing to see, but I was at one point literally stooped over in pain.

Anyway, Glastonbury it is this weekend. Heading down tomorrow to get a good camping spot, suck up the vibe, and of course get started on a few pitchers of pear cider - not to mention the two boxes of wine we're carting down there.

It's going to be my third Glastonbury, but different from all the others because this time a whole gang of us are going from Oxford - including Curtains, who I asked a few weeks ago who he was going to the festival with and he said "you guys" . I said I assumed he would be going with someone cool, and he said he was. Bless.

Anyway, my first Glasto I went with a small group, only one of whom I knew very well.

Last time it was just me and HF, even though we knew loads of people there we didn't meet up with any of them. It was memorable for any number of reasons, not least of which watching the sun rise while queuing for the cash machine, or the time me and HF woke up to find a complete stranger in the middle of our tent trying to snuggle down in between us. It took a long and involved discussion to convince her to LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.

So I shan't be back in the world of blogging until next Tues at the earliest (quel surprise). Expect a few brain cells to have been decimated by then.

More on that story later.

Daddy Cool

2007-06-11T20:03:00.000+01:00

Apparently, I'm cool.

This was news to me. Despite my attempts to become part of the upper echelons of the super-cool Oxford music scene (ahem) I am fairly realistic about my general coolness status. As in, not so much.

But I was chatting with someone who IS very cool (a certain person who is sort of my boss and may be referred to as Curtains) and knows, like, everybody (parties at the after-show party with Arcade Fire and everything) said he thought I was cool.

He didn't just look at me, sigh, and say "Frangelita, you are just so cool, why can't everybody be as fantastically awesome as you?", sadly enough.

In fact, through a number of incidents mostly relating to the fact that we usually hang out at gigs where certain vast quantities of alcohol may or may not be consumed, I seem to have spent most of my time pretty much making a tit of myself. As Curtains is now permanently stationed in my office, I felt perhaps it was time to call it a day on all those heady days vomiting behind the Zodiac (yes mum, I am joking, I haven't drunk myself sick since I was about 16).

When I suggested this to him, he reacted with a surprising amount of anger and demanded to take me out for a drink on Friday night at a certain bizarre Jamaican nightspot well-known to all lovers of the Cowley Road. And when I asked him, doubtfully, why he actually liked me seeing as I generally make an appreciable idiot of myself pretty much every time we go out, he looked at me like I was a bit daft (again slightly symptomatic of our relationship to date) and said: "Why shouldn't I? I just think you're pretty cool."

I didn't really know what to say to that. So I bought him a drink instead. And, for a change, I don't think I made a tit of myself once that night. Maybe I am cool after all...

More on that story later.

Malaysia

2007-06-03T12:34:00.000+01:00

Okay, I'm bad, it's been a month nearly which is a loooong time. Not that too many of you seem to have missed me. Along with Malaysia, I've been tied up with a very dangerous internet programme called Facebook and, you know, work and stuff.

Suffice to say Malaysia was pretty cool, and going travelling with a bunch of journalists is probably a fairly singular experience. Here are some happy pix to keep you going

.
And just a couple more...

Ups and downs

2007-05-05T11:51:00.000+01:00

It's been a weird couple of days. It started off with me feeling a touch despondent as I applied for a better job where I work about a month ago and I found out I didn't get it. I hadn't really expected to, but when I was told I had been unsuccessful I was actually a lot more disappointed than I thought I would be. The following day they announced who the successful candidate was - along with a major reshuffle of my department where everyone seemed to get a cool new job - except me. So, despite the fact that my editor was telling me I have a "future" it was all a bit depressing.

Then, later that same day, the ever-so-slightly slimey entertainment editor (that may or may not be his actual title) asked if he could have a word with me. Usually this means he wants you to do something. And he did.

To go to Malaysia for a week. On my own. For free. And go in tree canopies in the jungle and visit Kuala Lumpur, take pictures and generally have a blast.

Oh yeah, and that's going to be two weeks today. WTF??? I had already put my name down for the trip, as I do with all free trips going but I've never actually had one before. Very exciting! It does mean I am letting my mates down a touch as they're all spending the weekend I leave in a sh!t caravan in Newquay. But when I hesitated on that front, ents ed looked at me like I was completely bonkers. And I realised, fairly quickly, that it would indeed be fairly bonkers to turn it down.

So that improved my mood somewhat. Unsurprisingly. Then, I had been planning to go to some gig thing which was being filmed for a Channel 4 programme, had tickets but they were massively overbooked so it wasn't 100 per cent for sure.

Then Curtains gave me a phone number and told me to get myself on the list so I could make sure I was in and could write a wee story on it for the paper. While I was on the phone, he told me to tell the guy I would be taking his interview slot with one of the Oxford bands playing.

Okay...! So last night we went to this thing, got VIP passes which meant booze on tap (which I did not drink until after my interview, obviously, I'm a professional) got to wander around and see the bands from really bizarre angles and, obviously, interviewed the band. And got the lead singers mobile number. Just, you know, because. When I called Curtains asking what he needed copywise I sort of mentioned that we ended up in a bar on the Cowley Road, with the Foals, one of whom I was talking to at length about music (he seemed a trifle despondent, think I was trying to cheer him up, not sure if it was worked), and Curtains seemed a wee bit cheesed off to miss out on this whole thing that he had set up while he was working until very, very late. Hey, I was working, too. Sort of.

Anyway, the PR guy who got me on the list was schmoozing me quite a bit (think he fancied E, who was my plus one) and he asked if I was going along to this secret gig involving Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. getting on a train, singing in a mellow fashion before performing in a "secret" (I think everyone actually knows) location. Invite only, natch. I said I didn't have tickets. I am now on the list. Oh yeah! I was also offered an interview slot with the singer, Sam Duckworth at 3pm today but I'm not doing it cos we don't have the space. Apparently. Also, I've met Sam before and we had a very detailed, very drunk conversation about his band name which possibly made me sound like an idiot. Not that he would remember or anything.

So much for a quiet weekend. Although GCWCF should be fairly chilled and not very late. Then church tomorrow morning for mass and a meeting with the priest who is hopefully going to marry me and HF, then another gig in the evening, followed by a club night as it's Bank Holiday Monday.

I think that stuff has made up for not getting the job. A bit. The person who got the job I wanted had the cheek to come up to me and say he couldn't believe I got the Malaysia trip, he really wanted it. Ha!

Mayday madness

2007-05-01T20:23:00.000+01:00

A year ago, me, E and Andy set off on a mission to find the legendary big May Day party down on Port Meadow in Oxford with very little success, as documented here.

Not at all fazed by our lack of success, we decided to do it again this year. There were more incentives this year, in that the weather was much, much better, and we had figured out there was at least one more route to Port Meadow that we had not tried.

There were, of course, obstacles. They shut the bridge which divides our half of town with the half in which Port Meadow lies between 3am and 9am. We intended to stay up all night at the party, catch the May morning choristers, then go to a gig at the Port Mahon (confusingly enough not on the same side as Port Meadow but on the East Oxford side where we live) for 6am before falling into bed for many hours. This posed certain problems in that we would have to get across the bridge before they closed it at 3am.

The evening all started well with me cooking dinner for us as a belated birthday dinner for E, with a bit of champagne to go with and some wine because she brought it with us and it would have been rude not to. The next step was to go and purchase alcohol for the night that we would be able to open and drink in the middle of a field. So screwtop wine, then. No problems there.

Obviously, by this point we were all a bit tiddly so the best way to get to Port Meadow, we felt, would be to walk.

It's a bloody long way.

All the way walking there, over the bridge, through the city centre, down a few back alleys that E swore were shortcuts, through to Jericho and then Port Meadow, the only people we saw were walking in the OPPOSITE direction. Many of whom seemed like they were quite drunk and having a lot of fun, we considered gatecrashing at least one house party on the way.

Anyway, we arrived at Port Meadow to find - nothing. Again. Silence. But we did see a few people none of whom appeared to be going our way. Someone shouted at us from the river and we shouted back and walked towards them, thinking it could be the party. It wasn't. Then we thought we heard the distant sound of bongo drums.

We tried to follow the noise (which kept being drowned out by the nearby trainline) but got stuck in a very muddy area as the whole meadow floods every year. It transpired we had to walk a very long round. But ever hopeful, we followed a path, spurred on by the distant drum beats, into an area of the meadow none of us had visited before that was in complete darkness.

And then, there it was. A bonfire, surrounded by lots of people (E thought 250, HF thought 80, I reckon it was somewhere in the middle). Bongos. Guitars. Weird dancing. Result!

However, it had taken us the best part of an hour to walk there, and we still had to get back over the bridge so we were only actually at the legendary party for about an hour before we had to return. During which time we were asked if we wanted to buy beer for £2 a can (as if) and also asked if we would sell a swig of our wine for 60p. He looked a bit skanky so we said no.

Then we hotfooted it back through the meadow and through town making it across the bridge with just ten minutes to spare before it closed. We must literally have walked about 10 miles, including walking round and round in circles.

No dogs on strings though.

Did we make it back for the singing and the gig? Err, no, we went back to Es for cheese and cider and then I fell asleep in the kitchen and started talking in my sleep about Rowan Atkinson. Weird. I woke up 20 minutes before the gig (having retired to bed fully dressed in the meantime) but couldn't rouse anyone to go.

It was one of the most surreal experiences I've ever had. We're definitely doing it every year.
More on that story later.

Hiatus

2007-04-30T11:32:00.000+01:00

I've been having a few "issues" with our broadband. Involving a number of really quite heated conversations with BT, three attempts for them to come out and fix it and eventually, a result this morning when it turned out that somehow damp had got into our phone socket and corroded the connecters. We are now the proud owners of a brand new socket. Woohoo.

This means I've been unable to blog about so many things - being forced to go and see "extreme metal" act Cradle of Filth to write a review (they were really, really tame, no blood or urine or goat sacrifices or anything), huge, huge party on Saturday night to which I went dressed as a farmer (no joke, that was the theme), various wanderings around town so that my mate could film me and E talking about how wonderful Oxford is and why people should come and visit the Cowley Road (I really, hate being on camera).

I'm off work today and tomorrow as the big weekend continues and am planning to partake in that very Oxfordy set of traditions associated with May morning. That is, I'm going to stay up all night drinking, attempt, again, to find this massive party which apparently happens in Port Meadow and go down to Magdalen Bridge to hear the choristers. Although I will have the added complication that my parents are also keen to hear the choristers so will be sleeping here. Really not keen on them seeing me after all night on the razz, so think we may divert to E's house instead.

More on that story later.

Sartorial dilemma

2007-04-22T19:39:00.000+01:00

So I'm going to a gig tonight. It's pretty mild out, so I want to wear a short skirt. But I've got a whopping great big bruise on my calf after walking into a coffee table last week when I hadn't got my contact lenses in.

This would be clearly visible in daylight, and indeed possibly on my way to the gig. But inside, it's pretty dark and will also be pretty hot (all those bodies, see) so I really don't want to wear tights.

Flaunt the bruise shamelessly? Or wuss out and pop some tights on (man I hate tights). Tricky.

In other news, I have been endeavouring to give myself super cool big rock chick hair by tying it in some twisty bun on the top of my head. When I let it down, the results were, err, interesting, to say the least. But now that I've started on this "big hair" endeavour, it's going to take an awful lot more effort to persuade it to lay flat. I think I'm going to have to go big. Really big. Didn't I just say it would be dark in there...?

More on that story later

More on that story later.

Reporting from racism central

2007-04-20T19:14:00.000+01:00

Today has been a rather weird day. In that I have been professionally disparaged in a national newspaper, called a racist and a bigot and generally insulted.

About a month ago, I wrote an article which was of a slightly sensitive nature racially. It was, I believe, a fair and balanced story although for various reasons it was not possible to gain a response from one of the people involved - who was not, by the way, named, as I did not know this person's name nor had any way of finding it out except by using underhand and possibly illegal methods.

Today, a national newspaper printed a response from this woman. In which, although I am not named, my newspaper is named, and it is very easy from that point to identify me as the initial story is still on our website. In this response, the woman basically refutes everything said in the article to give her view of events, claims I made no attempt to contact her and that she had attempted to contact me following the initial publication of the article, through our website, and no-one had come back to her.

I'm not going to go into the details, but suffice to say there were attempts made to identify her but it was not possible, and there is no record on our website of her trying to make contact whatsoever - maybe it got lost in the ether, but we never received it.

As a result of this article, my original story - with my byline on it - has been besieged with comments (more than 80 at last count) vilifying my newspaper and me. I've been told I should be sacked if I don't apologise. I've been called a racist and a bigot; narrow-minded; a pathetic and lazy journalist; shockingly shoddy and irresponsible; a "journalist" in inverted quotes; the story described as the most pathetic article one reader had ever read and an appalling piece of bandwagon jumping. And worst of all one said that the very tone in which my article was written was racist.

This has been rather unpleasant. To say the least. I'm not a racist. I moved to Oxford because I wanted to live in a vibrant city where people of lots of different cultures and background live together. I'm not a bigot either. Nor am I a lazy journalist - but I'm not prepared to break data protection laws or harass people for a story. There's a code of conduct for journalists, believe it or not, and people who work on local papers can't afford not to follow it. I got so angry reading some of the personal, and ill-informed, comments made I had to go outside and get some air.

I hate intolerance and I hate ignorance. I mentioned earlier that there were edges of unPC comments going on in my newsroom, ironically enough. But I don't just let them go - I tell my colleagues if I think they're being out of line. So it makes me frustrated to be judged by people who don't even know me - and most of whom, it would seem, have not even bothered to properly read my story.

The ironic part of the whole thing is that this response criticised us for not showing both sides of the story. Did they contact my newspaper (which can be easily found online, in the phone book as evidenced by the fact that all of the people who read the story ended up on our website) to find out if her version of events, as to how the article was written and got printed, tallied with her own? Err, no.

Anyway, rant over.

Blimey, I've got to be at E's house in 45 minutes for a commisatory "I'm not a racist" drink and I'm still in my work clothes. Must go.

More on that story later.

Sensible shoes

2007-04-16T21:28:00.000+01:00

My parents' barn dance band is called Sensible Shoes. Because you need to wear sensible shoes at a barn dance.

Barn dances are not the only place where it pays to be sensible when deciding what to wear. Another example is cycling (I never, ever used to blog about cycling, I don't know what's happened to me, I'm doing it all the time now).

Some of you may have noticed it was a trifle hot this weekend. I was supposed to meet E at church halfway across the city yesterday morning. I was going to cycle, as I have got in the habit of doing, but I also wanted to wear a skirt. It felt summery, and I like wearing skirts, it makes me feel like a girl.

However, cycling in a skirt is something of a challenge. I figured if I wore my sort of big circular skirt, I could tuck it up on both sides. This did not prove to be true. You kind of cycle along clutching between your legs so you don't give passersby a bit more than they bargained for. I'm told the thing to do is peg your skirt together. I'm unconvinced. Also, I have no pegs.

I cycled to work today in a different skirt. This one just rode right up in a rather alarming fashion. I arrived at work this morning on my bike wearing my skirt before dismounting rather inelegantly. One of the sub-editors was arriving at the same time, fully kitted up in some kind of special thermal cycling trousers, one of those sweat reducing jackets and a charming helmet. There was a definite disparity in our appearances. I saw him later and he looked far more normal, so I assume he must have changed. Not sure which is worse - potentially flashing your knickers at the world, or turning up in something akin to cycling shorts and having people at work seeing me like that.

Hmmm. Well, I'm driving to work tomorrow ( have to be at work obscenely early and I don't trust myself not to cycle into the river by mistake) so I don't need to worry about it then. Suggestions?

In other news, I may have chosen a church and reception venue for my wedding. I have no idea if either of these places will allow me to have the wedding there, but I have actually made initial inquiries. And met another priest.

More on that story later.

Probation

2007-04-15T21:23:00.000+01:00

Today is exactly three months since I started my job at the Daily Planet. Which means, as of tomorrow, I should theoretically be a proper member of staff.

That is, of course, if I have "successfully" completed my probation, according to my contract. It doesn't actually look like there is any real difference from now on, in that notice terms appear to be exactly the same whether you're on probation or not. I do know of reporters whose probation was extended. That would be pretty scary. It does also say in my contract that after completing the probation, my employment will be confirmed in writing. I haven't had that yet (well, it is Sunday), wonder if that will turn up on my desk...?

At my last paper, I did actually have a little "one-on-one" chat with the big boss man after completing the probation confirming that they did want me. They're just - rather busier at my new job. It would be nice, though, to speak to our great leader again - as I have only spoken to him about twice, once when he welcomed me to the paper, then once when I was having that hacking cough and he was expressing concern about my wellbeing. Oh, and he asked me if my press card was up to date, once.

In the past three months, without wishing to cause any undue alarm, my immediate boss has threatened to beat me up if I failed to ring someone at a certain time and then demanded 12 reasons why he shouldn't (I could only think of about three, surely there's something wrong there), I've been told to "clear my desk" by the assistant ed. after a story fell through which they had been counting on, I've been referred to as "drone 1", the news ed. warned me I was still on probation and could be fired instantly after I made some smart remark, and all manner of other things.

Sounds pretty bad? Actually, all these things were done in a fairly tongue in cheek fashion. I have worked under a boss who was a real, nasty bully - and I can tell the difference. If you have a sensitive disposition, are super-sensitive to quips from a very male-dominated atmosphere with the occasional sexist/xenophobic/homophobic edge then a newsroom is no place for you. It's about giving as good as you get. And I suspect if I were a more obviously fragile person, I wouldn't have got quite the same treatment. Sparks fly in a newsroom. And I love it. After so long feeling professionally under-challenged and bored, I like a bit of edge. Plus, free entry to gigs and all that jazz!

Although I do notice, re-reading my contract, that apparently during the period of my employment I will be "required" to devote the whole of my "time, attention and abilities" in the proper fulfilment of my duties. All of my abilities? I'm a pretty good cook, not a bad recreational gymnast and I can seriously bust a move on the dance floor. Am I expected to bring all those abilities into the daily grind? Could make things interesting...

More on that story later.

*obviously it's not really called the Daily Planet, but I'm hardly about to tell you where I really work, am I?

Walking on the wild side

2007-04-10T23:13:00.000+01:00

I have recently been writing (in my work capacity) about crime rates in the area of Oxford in which I live. Which have dropped. And as part of that I was talking to various people about their experiences of and fear of crime living here.

And while most of them didn't seem that worried, every single one of them said they wouldn't walk down the Cowley Road, the social and economic hub of this part of town which is home to some quite frankly rather weird characters, on their own at night.

I do. All the time. For one, when I go out of an evening, quite often HF stays in or leaves before me, so I end up walking home on my own. It's only ten minutes, if that, and it's well lit and there's always people about. I'm not about to fork out for a taxi for such a short distance. And in fact that would probably be counter-productive as I would be standing around waiting for a while.

Make no mistake, it's an, err, interesting area. A large number of houses have been raided round here recently for growing vast quantities of cannabis. My friend, who lives round the corner, was asked one evening on her way home if she was "looking for business" - she was wearing jeans, a big coat and a bobble hat at the time. And, my personal favourite one, when I was staying with E for a few weeks, a large number of cars had 'Pimp my ride' written on the side with orange spray paint. Not, sadly, mine - would probably have been an improvement.

But I never feel threatened walking along the road, even when it's 2am and I'm half-cut after a night out. I've been approached by homeless people who've broken off from having blazing arguments with each other to politely ask me for change, but you know, it's not that daunting.

Perhaps I have a skewed idea of my own personal safety. But every cop I've ever spoken to (and in my job, it's more than two) always bangs on about how the fear of crime is much higher than the risk of being a victim. I used to walk home, a much further distance, on my own in Bournemouth when I was a student there. And lord knows I've frequented a few pubs which other people sort of went quiet about when you ask about them. I always used to say that I didn't think I would make a particularly easy target, and for the most part I think that's true - although I now realise how much my defences are diminished after a couple of JD and cokes.

Should I stop walking about in dodgy areas at night on my own? I think not. I'm not about to go to the really interesting areas of Oxford (ever heard of Blackbird Leys?) and wander around on my own, but honestly, I'm far more likely to be hit by a car.

Or, in Oxford, a bus.

Which reminds me, I really need to get a cycle helmet.

Nicknames

2007-04-07T19:12:00.000+01:00

I've always wanted a wicked-cool nickname. Sadly, throughout my life I've never really had a good one (apart from frangelita, which is obviously ace).

My fellow schoolkids came up with nothing more imaginative than the most insulting variant of my first name (think the lead character in Mansfield Park) or, alternatively, some people seemed to think it was funny to call me after a large northern city which apparently rhymes with my full name. Then there was a brief period at college where I was known at Frank when we were doing that introduction thing and somebody got a bit confused. Everybody thought it was hilarious.

But nothing much else. Until now.

I've had a bit of a hacking cough recently - so dramatic, in fact, that my editor, with whom I have exchanged approximately eight words, twice asked solicitously after my well-being. Anyway, last week I was working late shifts and after a certain time the office goes into some weird twilight zone and any noise, particularly the coughing up of one's guts, echoes sinisterly throughout the empty press hall.

One of the reporters left on Thursday and I joined a bunch of hardened drinkers (come on, we're journos) to bid her farewell. When I arrived I was greeted by two men I had never seen before me who addressed me by name (I still find this disconcerting).

Apparently they're on sports desk. Anyway, they commented on my cough. Said they were thinking about bringing me in some cough syrup. Then, bizarrely, told me they liked my hair.

Yeah, said one of them, we call you Coppertop with a Cough.

It's got a ring to it. I kind of like it.

Anyway, that ended up being a long late night followed by approximately four and a half hours sleep before I went off to work on Good Friday. I seem to have signed myself up forEaster Monday too. After going out last night as well and somehow inviting Curtains and E back for another couple of drinks, I am feeling quite badly sleep-deprived. I'm sure it will pass. Nice, easy day today.

More on that story later.

Pleasant surprises

2007-04-05T09:22:00.000+01:00

I was shopping yesterday (as one does) and I noticed at the end of the checkouts there was a weighing machine identical to the one I used to weigh myself at at work when I was doing the old Paul McKenna and shedding the pounds like a crazy woman.

I hadn't actually weighed myself in ages and also haven't been to the gym/spinning/gymnastics since I moved to Oxford. On the other hand, I have been cycling somewhere between six and eight miles virtually every day to work. And my Dad asked me on Sunday if I'd lost weight, and he NEVER notices subtle shifts, so I figured I must be doing something right.

Anyway, about the time I stopped obsessively weighing myself, I had lost around 26lbs and then fluctuated around that figure a little bit. According to the little machine, I have lost an additional six pounds. Result!

Then, this morning, I went to sign up to the doctors and they decided to weigh me too. And on her scales, it was about another four pounds (in fairness, I hadn't eaten yet and you always weigh less in the morning, but still).

It's funny how these things creep up on you. I hadn't really expected such a significant loss (although I guess we are talking about over the course of at least a couple of months) but I did notice that all the new smart trousers I had bought for my new job were looking a tad on the loose side. The best part is, yes, I've been eating healthily for the most part, but I've also had takeaway pizza, more than a couple of JD and coke binges (no, not binges mum, just a few quiet drinks) and lots of other naughty foods. I suppose I really have learnt to stop eating when I'm full.

In other news, I am royally pissed off with Thames Water at the moment as they were supposed to come and fit a meter this morning and promised me it would be between 9am and noon. When I came downstairs at 8.20am, there was already a message on the doorstep saying they had called and been unable to get in. Did they phone the contact number to check? Err, no. Did they come at the time they had been instructed? No. I'm going to call them now and give them hell.

More on that story later.

Pointless arguments

2007-04-03T22:29:00.000+01:00

I had a quietly heated argument with HF about broadband while at work today, quiet because I was within metres of all my colleagues and my superiors, heated mostly because I really needed not to be having that conversation then.

Anyway, I'm on late shifts this week. This morning, I couldn't get the broadband to work. This was somewhat annoying, but after a couple of failed reboots, I figured I'd just leave it to fume to itself and then decide to work a bit later.

Apparently, this had not happened by the time HF came home and he rang me very angry about it, saying that the connection was all f*cked and I had locked his tools in the shed so he couldn't get them (really glad about that in retrospect, he might have blown himself and the house up) and we would have to get an engineer and I would need to sort it all in the morning.

The broadband and phone are both in his name so I pointed out this was unlikely to work. He got angry and hung up on me.

He's at a gig now. I got home at approximately 10pm and the broadband, as you can tell from the fact I am posting, is now working perfectly. Maybe he did as I suggested and called BT. Or maybe it wasn't f*cked at all, just having a minor tummy complaint.

Men really need to learn patience - and how to live without an internet connection for an evening (okay, I suspect that may sound slightly hypocritical coming from me).

In other news, the AA man changed my tyre (existing tyre absolutely shot to pieces, not sure how that wasn't picked up at my MOT last month) and I spent half an hour on the phone to 02 sorting out moving onto pay monthly. Except at the very last minute I failed the credit check.

So I'm too much of a risk for a contract phone? Life sucks. Think I will go and join in with some post-gig revelling.

More on that story later.

Ticket to ride

2007-04-02T11:26:00.000+01:00

At this time of year it is customary to see a certain kind of person looking harrassed and a tad bleary-eyed.

Because for some reason Glastonbury festival tickets go on sale at 9am on a Sunday morning. And there're about four people after each single ticket available.

Now, we have the broadband now, so you would think the odds of being one of those lucky few were increased. But any way you look at it, we're talking a fairly anxious few hours of phone and internet bashing.

Perhaps in retrospect going out clubbing on Saturday night and not getting in until 2.30am was not the best course of action. But despite this, I was up and poised well before the 9 o'clock kick-off.

So I sat at my desk, vaguely hungover and possibly still a bit tiddly, constantly refreshing a webpage my computer seemed completely unwilling to accept, calling E, who was trying from a different source, with rising panic in my voice.

There's no way I would have got them through this bloody machine. But fortunately, E's housemate's sister (yes, this is how it apparently works) managed to get a connection at her friend's work and bought them all for us.

So I'm one of the people floating around happily safe in the knowledge that I'm going to Glastonbury baby!

On the downside, when I got home at 2.30am on Sunday morning I discovered my tyre was completely flat. I pumped it up last night, removed the pump to admire my handiwork and listened to the hissing rush of air gently coming out of my tyre.

Poo. As I am completely unable to change a tyre (how are you supposed to know how to do this if no-one's ever showed you?) and HF is even more inept when it comes to such things, I'm going to have to get the AA to come out and put my spare tyre on or at least tow me to the nearest tyre shop. Damn it. Should really have done it this morning (I'm working late shifts all this week) but for the first time in days last night I had the opportunity to have more than four hours sleep and at the time this seemed rather more important. So tomorrow, then.

In other news, I am considering getting a contract mobile phone. I have resisted this for some time (seemed entirely unnecessary) but as I am now using my phone quite a lot for work I think it's just going to make things rather easier. I bloody hate phone companies, though.

Oh, and by the way, the chef called at about 7.30pm last night. Ironically enough, I was cutting up chicken ready to cook a delicious pie at the time.

More on that story later.

Highs and lows

2007-03-31T15:07:00.000+01:00

I didn't become a journalist because I thought it would be glam. In fact, what I most wanted to do when I decided to sign my life away to a barely above minimum wage existence, was go and risk my life reporting on wars and such like. I suspect that's unlikely to happen now, but you never know.

Anyway, in the course of my last job, I think there was only one slightly showbiz encounter, which was when I met and interviewed Atomic Kitten. I also interviewed various mid-league horse-racing celebrities, but seeing as I didn't know who most of them were, it doesn't really count.

My new job has much more showbiz potential. Without even talking about the whole super-cool gig reviewing stuff (note to self - must write that review before I go out tonight), I've already interviewed a Hollywood actor and a really rather famous children's author. And today, I'm waiting for a call from a rather well-known chef.

Thing is, I suspect he's only going to call me once. And I have been instructed to eek as much information out of him as possible - even though he's not actually from Oxford and the only reason I'm speaking to him is because his niece, who does live in Oxford, is running the marathon and he will be cheering her on and contributing to the Oxford charity she's running for. So I need to be on the ball. But I need to go and have a shower. And do various other things. And I was going to have another attempt at getting a wicked cool rock chick top. What if he calls then? Very difficult. Still not sure what I'm going to ask him. Maybe some advice on what I should cook for dinner tonight?

Anyway, that should be at least a bit cool. Less cool, having to be at work at 8am this morning and working like a blue-arsed fly because for some reason all the computer systems were going down at noon. And just to reassure you I'm not getting too big for my boots, I spent an hour hanging around outside a homeless shelter the other day. And this afternoon I went on a much-hyped protest - to which approximately 12 people turned up to. Thrilling stuff.

More on that story later.

Reinvention

2007-03-26T22:57:00.000+01:00

When you move to a new place and start a new job, to a certain extent you can be someone completely different, reinvent yourself. Provided, of course, that you don't go too far from the mark because that's impossible to keep up.

At the moment, I'm trying to recreate myself as a super-cool music journalist.

This wasn't my initial intention, oh no. It all started when I innocently asked Curtains, who has power in the world of our music section, if he might possibly be able to get me into a Just Jack concert, cos I quite fancied that song that was in the charts but it was all sold out. I was a little taken aback when afterwards he asked me to write a few words for the Guide, but we managed to forget about that one.

But less than a week later, there was another gig on I wanted to see, so I very nicely asked if it might be possible to do that one too. And Curtains happily obliged - only this time I had to write a bit about it.

Thing is, I've never done a music review before. Seeing as I own both a Lighthouse Family cd and a Celine Dion album, I feel singularly unqualified to pass off my opinions as worth listening to. Yes, I love music, and some of it might even be cool in some people's views, but would anyone really care what I thought?

Anyway, I managed to bash out a few words, but this has led to other things. Like I was supposed to go and review Travis last week but that fell through so I ended up reviewing John Cale of Velvet Underground fame. Tip - never go and see this man. I felt like a fraud, I had to look up all this stuff so I sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

Anyway, if I'm going to be doing all these gigs - and I have a sneaking feeling Curtains is going to continue quietly signing me up to blander, more commercial gigs that he's not really interested in doing - I feel I need to work on my rock chick, wicked-cool music hack image. So I went shopping and looked at some funky rock chick t-shirts.

Tried one on. But it was backless. Bit much. And remember, Curtains is the one who told me I looked like I was on the game. So no funky new look. And tonight, watching the amazing Tiny Dancers (find them on myspace, I guarantee they will make you smile), I was dithering about because I was too nervous to go and get the set list from the sound guy. I got it in the end, of course. Maybe I need to do what Curtains does and have lots of dutch courage first. But I'm not sure I would be able to remember anything - let alone write authoritatively, incisively and concisively about the gig.

Hmmm. This reinvention thing may be harder than initially thought. I've got to say though, I'm loving being on the guest-list for gigs and not having to queue. That I could get used to.

More on that story later.

How to spend a lazy Sunday

2007-03-25T19:27:00.000+01:00

There's this thing my work sponsors called the OX5 run. It involves lots of crazy people running five miles around Blenheim Palace while grinning inanely and raising money for charity. All very worthy, obviously. Anyway, because we sponsor it, lots of people from my work were running it - they even asked me, which shows how much they know about me. Obviously I politely declined. But seeing as many of my colleagues, and also my best friend who has an unfortunate tendency to throw up after extreme physical exertion, were going to be making fools of themselves on the course, and Jason Donovan was going to be there, I debated going along to laugh and point.

However, at the same time, there was a wedding fair (also, as it happens, sponsored by my work - where do they find all the money?) and it occurred to me that at some point I ought to make at least one plan for the wedding.

As it turned out, the decision ended up being made for me as I neglected to pay any attention to the fact that the clocks were going forward and got up far too late to do OX5. Probably best.

So, the wedding fair. I mostly went in the hope of getting some awesome freebies (one can hope) but I've got to say, I felt like a bit of a fraud. At every single stand, they asked me my wedding date, if I had a location, or numbers of guests. Hmmmm. I really need to make some decisions. I knew when I went to the fair that I had no intention of using any of the services (way out of my price range) but I thought it might give me some ideas (not to mention free sweeties). When the cheesy disco man was telling me about how we could present him with a list so we knew every song they played, I contemplated telling him my fiance was really into Norwegian death metal. Wish I had, really.

But despite this slightly depressing experience, I ended up with a couple of ideas. After the fair, my friend E, who had accompanied me, told me about this little RC church she had seen while jogging and we decided to go check it out. And it's really sweet, good location, Oxford but not too Oxford. And it has a garden. There is also a church hall I keep seeing that I really like the look of as a possible reception venue (I told you the £3.50 budget, right?) so we went to look at that as well, and it has definite potential along with a sign on the door saying it can be hired and has kitchens etc. Maybe now is the time to approach the parents and find out exactly what my budget is going to be....

More on that story later.

An unexpected turn of events

2007-03-24T18:19:00.000Z

I decided it was about time to get my hair sorted this week. So on Tuesday I bought me some lovely red hair dye and dyed the hair, all good. Although no-one at work noticed.

Then, on advice from a colleague, I booked in an appointment for this afternoon to get my hair cut. I went in, told the woman what I wanted done, got my hair shampooed, still all good. So Michelle sat me down and started combing through my hair. I'd been out last night, and was thinking how nice it was to get a bit of pampering. Michelle was fairly quiet, which I was reasonably pleased about as I've never been good at that hair salon small talk.

Then she asked me if I worked with children. I was intrigued - once a hairdresser ascertained that I did a lot of swimming because there was chlorine damage in my hair - what was it about me that suggested, incorrectly I worked with kids?

Unfortunately, there's only one hair-related thing that suggests children - nits.

She was silent for a while, then told me discreetly I had headlice.

What? How on earth did I get headlice? I just sat there, not quite sure how to take this news. Speculating how I caught the bloody things. I wasn't even itchy. Fortunately, it turned out I didn't have any actual lice, just dead eggs. Urrggh.

Michelle very politely told me that there were very strict rules which meant she couldn't blow dry my hair as she would have to use the brushes, and she shouldn't really cut it but she was going to anyway.

So now I've got a slightly tingly scalp after vigorously Full Marks-ing it - but no signs of any leftover eggs. It's just so unbelievably gross. It also means that I've ended up washing my hair a rather illogical three times today (it stank of fags from last night so I washed it quickly before I went to the hairdressers). On the plus side, the haircut looks quite nice.

I suspect I may have picked it up after borrowing someone's hat last week (someone with long hair and a girlfriend who has dreadlocks). I know it doesn't make me dirty or anything but it still kind of freaks me out.

Oh well. Have washed all my cushion covers and bedding now. And am reluctant to put on any of my many hats.

More on that story later.

If you lie it will make your nose grow

2007-03-20T20:54:00.000Z

So, hypothetically speaking. If you were a 12-year-old girl and you had told your parents a little white lie to cover up for something you shouldn't have been doing, at what point would you fess up?

At the point where you're fibbing to the doctors? When your parents decided to complain to the council about the accident they caused? When they contact the local newspaper because they are so concerned about this hazard you have uncovered? When the newspaper photographer comes to take a picture of your injuries "at the scene of the crime"? When you actually come on the phone and talk to a reporter about how much it hurt and how dangerous you think it is?

Or would you instead wait until your brother hears the truth through the grapevine, then admit you were telling porkies all along? An hour before the paper goes to print.

Grrrr.

I hate liars. And, at the moment, 12-year-old girls.

Anyway, I have the broadband. Despite initial concerns from HF, ever the pessimist, it all seems to be going well - that said someone may have stolen all our bandwidth in a cunning wireless fashion, and also robbed our identities and committed crimes in our name. Well, probably not all of the above. So I am going to endeavour to BE A BETTER BLOGGER - starting with some catch-up, and maybe even some commenting.

In the meantime, I had an absolutely ridiculous weekend involving some kind of surreal party/club night in an old bingo hall which included bicycle jousting. Then I was supposed to go to a Travis gig and write a review but tickets didn't turn up so I ended up going to see John Cale play. I do not recommend that you do the same. As a result of the above, I seem to be developing a shocker of a sore throat.

More on that story later.

Shoe heaven

2007-03-14T20:27:00.000Z

I went on a bit of a shoe blitz this weekend. There was a good reason. I needed some smart, but comfy black shoes which I could wear while cycling to work. And also, I like shoes.

I bought two pairs, one which was just impossible not to buy - we're talking ballet pump style flats, which sparkled alternatively ruby red, gold or purple depending where the light was coming from. I'm still asking myself how I managed without them before.

I tried on a number of flat back numbers before deciding which ones to go for. They are black, with lovely rounded toes, canvas upper with a funky black rubber bit at the front for protection. They also have a slightly weird bondage strap around the ankle, which is okay because you can't see them under my trousers and they are also quite handy for stopping my trouser legs getting caught up in my bike chain.

I was looking at them, admiring the rounded tip and thinking they looked almost familiar.

Then I remembered.

They are almost identical to the black plimsolls I was forced to wear for PE at school. They even have a sort of beige, non-marking sole.

Sometimes my fashion choices just astound me.

It's been a weird old week. I arrived late for the work for the first time (20 minutes) after deciding I couldn't be bothered to cycle so I would drive. It took me 50 minutes to travel about four miles. It's not fricking London, it shouldn't take that long! Also, the people who I have befriended are being shipped out to various places (one has the dubious pleasure of taking over a district office, another is leaving for a new job) and after starting to establish the principle of taking lunch breaks, I think I might be scared into just sitting there again.

And also the week started with one of my sort-of bosses telling me I looked like I was on the game - and then trying to make it all better by saying it was a compliment.

This wasn't at work or anything and there obviously is more of a story to it than that, but I think that's all you need to know for now. I wasn't wearing crotchless panties or white stilettos, in any case. I feel this sort of boss of mine (who mostly works in an office 15 miles away and is only in charge of me about twice a month) will definitely yield more material for the blog, let's call him Curtains for now.

More on that story later.

List time

2007-03-10T12:04:00.000Z

Okay, so it's another week since my last post. Poor form. But the good news is, I have now ordered broadband so hopefully when it gets set up I will be all about the blogging. We'll see.

Anyway, for a while I've been thinking about my new home Oxford, so I thought I would share with you a few thoughts.

Things I am loving about Oxford and my new job
*Cycling downhill
*Cycling past stationary traffic and buses
*Following cyclists carrying large musical instruments on their backs
*Getting into gigs for free
*Actually getting praise at work
*Dress down Fridays
*Owls in shopping centres
*The cool asian man in the shop round the corner from my house
*Vegetables on sale on the Cowley Road which I don't even know what they are
*However rough/peculiar I look, there's someone much, much weirder just round the corner.

Things I am not loving
*Cycling uphill
*Cycling into the wind
*Almost being squashed by buses when they pull out without checking for bikes
*Always looking just a touch dishevelled at work after half an hour's cycle ride to get there
*Receiving work calls on Sunday afternoons/half an hour before I get to work
*Roadworks
*The River Thames towpath (don't even go there, I'm not talking about it ANYMORE)
*Being about five or more years older than the average age of people in gigs/clubs/shops/the street
*Large numbers of homeless people on the streets
*Bloody hell, it's not cheap here.

Right, signing off for today. I hope to be a bit more regular but we'll have to see. I now have to join the library, blow up my exercise ball (using a pump rather than explosive device), visit the bike shop round the corner to stop it squeaking all the time and probably, have a shower.

More on that story later.

I'm still here

2007-03-02T11:13:00.000Z

Honest, I am.

Despite promising to be better at the blogging, I have been just as lax. HF and I moved into our new house last weekend and I have been working late shifts all this week. That's my main excuse for not blogging and I have actually had lots of thoughts about things I would like to blog about - just no time. Also, we are currently working with pay per minute dial-up which is proving to be VERY slow and to be honest, I don't really have the patience.

However, I have now I think sorted out all the various things I wanted to and am quite snugly ensconced in our new home and t'internet seems to be working, roughly speaking, so here I am.

I could post about an amazing acoustic gig I went to in an ancient concert hall in Oxford (look up Danny George Wilson and The Epstein on myspace). Or more amusing trivia about starting a new job. Or about being reunited with my little moggie after a month apart when she was looked after by my sister (during which time she apparently pooed on the carpet twice, and bit and scratched the children). Or about how a couple of seemingly innocuous encounters have really put me off drinking to excess.

But instead, I'm going to blow my own trumpet.

Back in October, I posted about how a short story I had written was going to be published in a book. Well, it's out now! I went out bookshopping with my mum yesterday and there it was, proudly displayed alongside the other World Book Day books in WHSmiths and Waterstones (couldn't find it in Borders, the uncultured yobs). HF keeps telling me I am not allowed to call it "my book" as I only wrote one of 16 of the stories therein. But I don't care, it's there for all to see with my name on the contents page and everything! And my mum bought a copy so I know there's been at least one sale...

HF also keeps telling me that it's all very well getting one story published, I have to write lots more. So this is what I'm going to do. I know I've said this many times before, but seeing the book on the shelf (it's not really as big a deal as it sounds, the story is only about five or six pages long and I only made the princely sum of £50 from its publication) has given me a real buzz. You might think that as I seem completely incapable of blogging on a regular basis, it's unlikely it will happen. So I think my challenge for this year has to be to set myself specific writing targets. I also picked up a leaflet for a creative writing course at the Oxford University. It will probably be prohibitively expensive, but if it's not, I think this would be a really good way of pushing me to write on a regular basis. It can be difficult if you sit in front of a computer and write all day at work to go home and start writing more. But when I get down to it, I absolutely love it.

Right, now I'm going to try and catch up with everyone. This could take some time...

More on that story later.

Freeze frame

2007-02-23T11:21:00.001Z

There's this really cool moment in some films where you freeze frame on
someone's face the first time you see them and you get a little voiceover
telling you a bit about them. I wish they had that in real life.
On my first day, one of the senior management came up to me to show me
round and I asked him if he was one of the reporters. That was probably
excusable. But I've been here 6 weeks now, and, because I am a hack and
other people need to know my name for bylines and such-like, quite a lot of
people are on first name terms with me.

Unfortunately, the same thing cannot be said about me. Of the people who
smile, nod, and say "Hi Frangelita" in the corridor while I'm walking the
seven miles to the nearest loo, I only recognise a fraction of them. Then
some of them I sort of know who they are - because they've come and asked me
about my stories - but as for their names, I have no clue. I've never worked
anywhere with so many employees before - except for one leading supermarket,
where I was the fruit and veg girl (no jokes please), but they got around
that difficulty by handily wearing little name badges with job descriptions
and everything.

I think felt-tip pen on foreheads would work just as well, though, maybe I
should suggest it.

It's a bit of a wee minefield, though, I could very easily say the wrong
thing to the wrong person. I'm not equipped for office politics, as I said
before, I'm not good at the lying.

I am rubbish

2007-02-15T21:17:00.000Z

I realise I haven't been publishing much. It's partly because I am living with friends and it's a bit rude to be constantly using their computers. And partly because I'm a bit poorly-sick and very tired with it.

But mostly cos I'm out having a wicked cool time in Oxford. It's bloody ace. Managed to blag me guestlist for a Just Jack concert which was very cool. Although no-one I tell that seems to know who they are - trust me they're ace. Also there were birthdays and Valentine's Days and an ill-advised dance move which ended up with me spinning around on my back on the floor in an almost elegant but mostly silly fashion. I did also have to go to a six and a half hour council meeting which yielded all of 250 words.

Anyhoo, I'm mid-watching ER which is bitchin' as always. Peace-out.

A little history

2007-02-08T23:12:00.000Z

I feel I should explain a little bit about my history with bicycles. I learnt to ride a bike, as most children do. I think my dad probably taught me. I remember my first bike, it was blue and had stabilisers.

When me and my brother were at school, we were taught how to ride bikes and all about the Highway Code. My brother, who is two years older than me and one year ahead in school, failed his cycling proficiency test the first time he took it. I took the mickey out of him for ages. When my turn came for the lessons and the tests, I refused to take part. I was too terrified of cycling downhill. This may have something to do with going biking in the woods near my house and seeing my brother nearly mangling himself on many occasions.

Despite not being officially proficient, I still took my bike out. My parents, obviously, insisted on me wearing a helmet, but the one I initially insisted on was really, really rubbish so I deliberately lost it. My mum made me wear her old horse-riding helmet. It didn't fit very well and I looked like an idiot.

Time passed, and I stopped riding my bike. Then, many years later, I thought I should get a bike to ride seven miles to work in Suffolk. As it took me about 45 minutes (like I said, slowest cyclist in the UK), I only did it once. Me and HF did go out for a long bike ride one crisp winter day. But misjudged all manner of things and ended up riding back in the near dark with no lights into a freezing wind without anything warmer than a hoodie. We only went out for a couple more rides, the experience cycling back that day was so hellish it still brings me out in goosebumps.

Because I grew up in such a tiny village (there was a row of houses and two farms, and a bus stopped there once a week), I had virtually no experience of riding in towns. This scared the bejesus out of me when I first got to Oxford. Still does, to be honest. I have managed to collide with two cyclists, although not, as yet, any pedestrians or buses.

Just as I live in constant fear of my wheels falling off while driving a car, I have a fear of my brakes failing and the bike falling in half when I'm cycling. To be honest, I'm a bit of a shit cyclist.

I'm sure there was a point in there somewhere, but I think I've lost it.

Oh yeah - I laughed at E when she removed all the lights from her bike before coming into our house. Then last night, someone nicked my bike lights.

Toerag.

The slowest thing on two wheels

2007-02-01T21:07:00.000Z

It's official, I'm an Oxford-type now. Not once, but twice I have cycled to work and back. Oh yes! And it's quite far, too (takes me about 50 minutes to walk).

I am, however, having to reconcile myself to being by far the slowest cyclist in the whole of Oxford. As I cycle along, puffing heavily and wondering how bright red I am turning, I watch the world go by. As in, overtake me. I'm not just talking about the scary fit types with bulging thighs and worryingly tight shorts. Oh no, I'm talking people whose bikes look like they were taken from the ocean floor from the Titanic. Fat people. Thin people. People carrying huge rucksacks. People with little baskets full of text books. People with two bags of shopping attached to their handlebars. And they're all going faster than me, goddamnit!

I've been trying to convince myself that it's because I did something a bit peculiar when I removed and replaced my back wheel so that it's constantly breaking a bit and making me work harder. But secretly, I think I'm just a bit of a rubbish cyclist. It doesn't help that I was so paranoid about it being nicked that I bought the biggest lock I could imagine. Which seems to have seized up slightly so I have to worry it out every time I use it (rather time-consuming). It's also rather cumbersome when not in use, and I am yet to find a satisfactory way of attaching it to the bike in motion without it interfering with the wheels, the pedals, my legs, or even, on occasion, my arse. So I'm mostly carrying it in my backpack.

This evening, after work, I stopped at a shop to buy something and locked it to a lamppost. I returned and got back on the bike (after about 15 minutes fumbling with the lock) and it was about another 10 minutes before I realised I'd forgotten to switch my bike lights back on.

Honestly, it's amazing I manage to get my shoes on the right foot. It's only a matter of time before I go outside with a pair of knickers on my head.

More on that story later.

Houses galore

2007-01-30T16:24:00.000Z

I had today off work. Skiving already? Not exactly. I have, so far, looked round what seems like 8,000 houses. Actually, I think it was only eight. And I'm going to see another one tonight. And two more on Saturday.

As HF is working in Reading and only started his job yesterday (which is a whole nother story) I've been going round on my own, and it's bloody knackering. The first estate agent was half an hour late. I had made up my mind not to do anything with him, then he showed me round the flat (which is currently being built, bit worryin) and I had to grudgingly admit it was quite nice. The next one was council estate block of flats hell with spew yellow walls. Then I had ten minutes to go home for a cup of tea. Then it was the next bloke, who was on time (I was meeting him at his office, after all) and the first place was okay, but not available until March 15, the next two places were teeny tiny and the fourth one he showed me had a lot of potential but needed quite a bit of work. And the bathroom was a bit grim. And it was also probably a bit out of my price range.

I then had a two-hour break, so I decided to fix my bike or possibly take it to a man with nuts and spanners who could do it for me. Turns out I had a screw loose. No jokes, please. So I cycled into town to see how long it would take and pay in a cheque but sort of forgot to eat first so I felt a bit funny. And sort of fell off my bike through sheer ineptitude. It seems to be working fine, though.

Then I met a rather attractive black man in another area of Oxford and saw a flat that I have decided I really want and can afford - but someone has already put an offer in. It may fall through...the pretty man is going to call me later on and tell me what's going down. He showed me another flat, too, which was nice but a bit, well, green. And also probably a bit too pricey.

I do feel better for having seen what's out there, though, cos now I know there are some places in our budget that are feasible. I suspect I'm not going to get the really nice one. I might cry.

Between each viewing I felt I needed a cup of tea, now I feel a bit tea-ed out. Maybe I should start drinking wine.

Anyway, E has come in and I must give her the lowdown. She's offered me tea, I don't know whether I should go for it or not...

Onward and upward?

2007-01-24T20:23:00.000Z

I've now been living and working in Oxford for a week and a half and it's getting better, I think. I still haven't figured out what people do about lunch, although everyone keeps telling me to take a lunch hour. Then asks me to do eight things which I strongly suspect need doing IMMEDIATELY. So I'm too scared to actually bugger off for an hour when I know there's masses to do.

At least twice I think I have genuinely impressed my bosses. But I suspect I may have irritated them beyond belief through not knowing what they were talking about a few more times. I have interviewed a movie star (no, you probably haven't heard of him, google Toby Jones) and his mum, a really quite famous Oxford author and been shown around a £500 a night suite which has previously housed Michael Douglas, Bill Clinton and Pierce Brosnan. I have also been issued with a company bike (with the name of my employer emblazoned on the side) and been asked to cycle up and down the canal towpath. Twice. The fact that I haven't had a chance to sign up to a gym yet is more than made up for by me walking 45 minutes to and from work most days. Plus, obviously, the towpath cycling.

So yeah, the work is getting less scary and confusing (helped by the fact that the bods in the canteen are well nice and bacon sarnies are only £1). But the other big change is that, for now, I'm living in a houseshare for the first time since uni. I've lived either on my own or with my fiance (still not used to that phrase) for about 4 1/2 years.

I have had..mixed... experiences of houseshares. On the one hand, I met HF through a house share when we were at uni together (another story and one I probably shouldn't tell under the watchful eyes of me mum). But the last time I shared a house with a bunch of girls, I ended up getting ketchup in my bed. It's true - girls are very bitchy. And often strangely protective about selected crockery.

This time, I'm staying with my friend E, her two girl housemates and an often absent archaeologist, whose room I sleep in when he's not there. And actually, so far it's been really good fun. There are no protests when I want to watch Desperate Housewives. Me and E are sharing cooking and shopping together (which me and HF do ostensibly, but really, he's more of a helper than an actual cook). There are often nice smells when I come home - I returned home one day to find E cooking a delicious pie. And so far, very little overlap in the bathroom, which was my biggest fear. They have the broadband, so I can use their laptops for the interweb. There are more tampons in the house than you can shake a stick at. E makes cakes. And I can live wild crazy lives with new men vicariously through them and suck up the salacious gossip. Actually, there's not been too much of that yet, I'm trying to find some hot men at work for them but the hottest man so far was very obviously married. Pity.

It's more like I always used to think living in a big house together would be before I experienced it at university. Even if K says I have whore-pants.

Maybe going back to coupledom is going to be the difficult thing? Mind you, with prices round here what they are, there's no immediate danger of that.

Good advice I've been given this week - don't cycle into the river.

Damn, that was my plan!

An Oxford story

2007-01-19T21:06:00.000Z

Work is getting on apace. While I'm still not feeling exactly part of the team, I'm sort of getting to know people. Although when I called to tell them some hot news from home (roof blew off a building, employees evacuated - storm related), the person I spoke to thought I was called Sam and didn't knwo who the hell I was. Oh well.

No-one saw fit to tell me that Friday was "cazh" so I turned up all smart (well, as smart as I get) and felt like a sore thumb. More than normal.

Also, I decided to get all Oxfordy and ride my bike in to work. I'm fairly inexperienced at cycling in cities so I was going to cycle in to the cinema with E first. Except my back wheel fell off. Turns out when I took the bike apart I didn't quite successfully put it together again. Had to take the bus. In fact, had to run for the bus. Then caused the driver much hilarity, when after running for the bus, I forgot to take my change. And on the way back, I was talking to HF on the phone when I ran for the bus again. I missed it, so I kept on walking briskly. I had been walking for nearly 10 minutes before I realised I was walking in the wrong direction.

It's quite funny, I was walking past roadworks and at the front of the queue was about 20 people on bikes.

Oxford is going to take a little getting used to. Soon I'll start wearing stripey scarves and fashionably cazh jeans tucked into suedy boots.

First impressions

2007-01-15T21:20:00.001Z

So today was the first day at the Big House*. I timed my starting of a new job really well - the same day two major sets of roadworks start in the area. Didn't sleep much last night - nerves and the like - and woke up with a bit of a headache and confusion. Not too different from usual, then.

Anyway, this place is REALLY different from my old job. Instead of a staff of 15, there is a staff of around 300. I work in a giant "press hall" with a strange ceiling and a strong scent of bad man's aftershave. There is a canteen, for which a weekly menu is published on the intranet. The toilets smell faintly of fish and while one side is really smart, the other has a massive hole in the wall (no, you couldn't peer through at the men's, I did check) with a big wrench at the side of the hole. And the drinking fountain has a message on it warning against trying to flush pot noodles down the drain.

And most reassuringly of all, the one person at the company I had met, the one who actually hired me, no longer works there.

Right.

So for everyone else, taking me on is like a huge gamble. I expect they're going to flick bogeys at me, just to see how I react and check I'm normal enough for the hack trade. My direct boss sounds disconcertingly like Zane Lowe, but talks at 150mph. Seems nice enough, though. They all do, but seriously, 300 people? It's all open plan, too. So everyone can see and hear everyone else. Which I discovered early on, before they actually gave me anything to do, when the people at the other side of the hall (approximately 5 miles away) were having some kind of presentation and every now and again there was a gentle, slightly muffled round of applause. Which Zane appeared to find entertaining. Didn't give me a round of applause, though, did he.

Anyway, after a rather uncomfortable morning not being able to do anything because systems hadn't got round to me yet, I was too nervous to take a proper lunch break (even though I was assured that everyone did) because I couldn't really figure out what anyone else was doing. I did eventually get logged on and shown how to use my machine and even did some work.

Bonus.

Then the boss told me I could go home. At which point, the woman I had called five times in the past hour actually answered her phone and kept me talking for about another half hour. Bum.

I had planned to go out for a drink with my girlie friends to celebrate my first day (I quite like living with girls again, it's fun) but the headache was lingering so instead I came home and E made me a pie. It was a damn good pie.

Thanks to everyone who wished me luck, I think there's still a bit of acclimatization to be dealt with. I don't think I've spelt that right.

I think I'll go to bed now.

*No, I don't know what that means either but I quite liked the sound of it.

Ha!

2007-01-12T00:13:00.000Z

Turns out they were there after all.

Check out the devil eyes...

Another farewell

2007-01-11T20:08:00.000Z

It was my last day at my job yesterday. I didn't cry. Neither did anyone else (bastards, I thought they were supposed to be bereft and confused without me). They made a pretend front page with pictures of me looking, variously, fat, gormless, idiotic and like a stripper (the pole I was swinging around may have had something to do with that). They gave me a wedding album and some quite acceptable jewellery (a little girly, but hey, it's purple which is good enough for me). Then we went out for a nice meal and some debauched drinking.

Well, that was the plan but they all had to go to work the next day so it was more like two drinks in the pub afterwards. I was up for dancing but where do you go to dance in Newmarket on a Wednesday night? Oh yes - the strip club. We decided that was probably too expensive.

Anyway, I took lots of nice pictures on my new video/still camera - including several of me which were instantly deleted because it looked like I had a double chin, and some absolutely hilarious ones of my friend W who, although reasonably hot in the flesh, looks like a goit in every single picture I've ever seen of him.

Then I went home and put in a new memory card and formatted it (this was the following day) and mistakenly deleted every single one of the lovely pictures I'd taken,

Bugger.

Anyway, it was the end of a four-year stint at my first proper job. Or hob, as I just typed. Blimey, that would be some serious cooking. And in some ways, I was sad to go - after time you get comfortable in somewhere like that, I know the names of all the important people and some of their phone numbers off by heart, I know all the big stories past, current, and potentially future (well, obviously I can't predict the future but I know they're, for example, building a new swimming pool). At my new job, I know diddly squat. I don't know anybody there, I have only spoken to my immediate boss-to-be on the phone and I only really know Oxford as a visitor - a frequent visitor, but still a visitor.

That said, there will be a lot of things I won't miss. But this isn't the place for a bitter diatribe, cos really, I'm not bitter, just ready to move on. I am pretty excited about starting my new job because, actually, that crap you spout in interviews is really true for me. I want to be more challenged - I'm looking forward to more pressing deadlines because I do genuinely do my best work under pressure. And I'm pretty sure it's not going to be boring. Not for a while at least.

It's all going to be a bit weird though. Like being the new girl at school half way through term, because it's not like when I started as a trainee - then you're not expected to know anything, not really. I'm going in as a "senior" reporter. And I bet they don't let you wear jeans when it's cold and the heating's not working.

Wish me luck people - I just hope I don't end the day hiding in the toilets. Not that I ever did that at my old job, or anything

More on that story later.

End of an era

2007-01-07T20:40:00.000Z

I may have mentioned a few times about the gymnastics club I coach at every week. As I'm leaving for Oxford, sadly I have to leave the club as well - two and a half hours being a little too long a commute for three hours coaching.

Anyway, as it happens, the other qualified coach has just had a baby and she had to have a caesarian which means she can't coach for six weeks so they've actually had to shut down the club for a few weeks. Which makes me feel very guilty but there's not a lot I can do about it.

My last coaching session was on Saturday, and despite the mild hangover following my first of two leaving dos at work (details to follow perhaps) it was a bit emotional. When the first lot left at 11am they all came up and gave me a big hug, and then I got lots more hugs at the end.

There's one girl Zoe, who I will particularly miss. She had more potential than any of the other kids I had worked at at 7 and we sent her up to an elite gym club with purpose-built facilities, but she didn't like the discipline so she still trains with us. She's a mouthy little thing and she shouted at me telling me I shouldn't leave. I said jokily "why, are you going to miss me". She said grumpily "maybe" and stormed off. She came up to me at the end and I said "You're not going to hug me, are you?"

"No," said eight-year-old Zoe, "I'm going to shake your hand."

I shall miss them all. Hopefully I will be able to find a gymnastics club where I can help out in Oxford but it won't be the same.

Another shot

2007-01-04T18:07:00.000Z


I'm just giving this another go. If it doesn't work, I may give up vlogging altogether (I'm told that's the official term)

New Year's Eve Fireworks 2007

2007-01-04T09:30:00.000Z

Bardsfest NYE, 2007, Marlston.

See, I knew I'd learn how to do it eventually!
Oh crap, just realised I forgot to take the sound off. Okay, I would recommend you watch this with the sound turned OFF because the, err, commentary is highly embarrassing. Please? I only sound like that when I've had a few drinks...

Update: Ok as per comments, the ruddy thing no longer appears to be working. But you can find it here

Doing exactly the opposite of what I'm told

2007-01-03T23:11:00.000Z

So a few months ago HF took a first aid course for work. He's been rather...irritating... about safety issues ever since and keeps importantly announcing things about elevating things and suchlike. He hasn't had an accident to deal with yet.

Until this afternoon.

We were talking about corned beef at work today (I have no idea why, I suspect I brought it up) and I said "The thing I hate about corned beef is that I am incapable of opening the tin without cutting myself."

(I know you can already see where this is going, but bear with me)

So when I went home tonight, I thought it might be quite nice to crack open the tin of corned beef I had at the back of the cupboard and tuck in to all that alleged horsemeat goodness. The tin had, as they inexplicably do for corned beef but no other tin that I can think of, a key which unwrapped the top of the tin. This never works. I tried it a few times, then the key fell off, so I got out the tin opener. Of course, the tin isn't round like normal tins. So once I had forced the opener all the way round the edge I had to wedge something under the partially opened lid to break the remaining seal.

As I did this, HF remarked, " You'd better not cut yourself".

I turned to him and said "Don't be ridiculous" and promptly nearly cut the top of my thumb off.

When I say nearly cut, I did slice it nastily, just not all the way through.

Calm first aider HF's first reaction, naturally, was to shout at me and tell me I was a prat. As I rushed to the sink his training switched in and he kept telling me to "elevate the wound" and warning me that a plaster wouldn't do - interspersing all these instructions with the words "you prat" (I think this was the most offensive thing he could bring himself to call me).

Anyway, I now have my thumb wrapped in, variously, a small piece of old t-shirt, clingfilm to hold it in place and a couple of plasters to put pressure on it. I don't know if this was recognised procedure, but hey, it was 10pm and I don't have much more in the house. I'm now sitting on the sofa feeling slightly guilty for having eaten all the biscuits in the house (loss of blood, potential faintness and all that). And my thumb still hurts. A lot. I'm seriously going to get the piss ripped out of me at work tomorrow.

It occurs to me that I haven't described my New Year's celebrations or detailed any resolutions for this year. If you want a rundown of the New Year's bardsfest, try Thursday or my mum.
I actually filmed the annual firework show (which lasted about 40 minutes this year, it gets longer and more dangerous every year) but after several attempts to upload the video on dial-up I gave up. Suffice to say, it was a good event - we ate, we drank, we openly cheated at the quiz (google on the mobile) and won but felt guilty and undeserving so returned the prize, we all put Sadam Hussein in for the hat game (again, see my mum's description).

Here's a picture of the bonfire, which only apparently took after one of the many men (possibly my sister's new fella) attacked it with an axe. I have no idea how this helped, but soon afterwards we were surrounded by a swirling dervish of polyester-fleece melting sparks, so it must have done something. That and all the flammable liquids I suspect were poured over it.

As for resolutions - not much this time. But I'd like to lose another two stone and make at least one definite decision about the wedding. And, of course, write more fiction as always.

Incidentally, I found the e-mail I sent my mum about my idea for the story which was just like Night At The Museum. Maybe they somehow hacked into it...in which case also look out for a story about an ancient murder on an archaeological dig and something about an asian girl going back on the tube after the London bombings.

More on that story later.

2007-01-01T21:37:00.000Z

Here comes another one

2006-12-31T13:06:00.001Z

I'm sitting on my couch deliberating whether or not to go to the dump. Wow, NYE is going to be thrilling this year. I still haven't decided whether or not to drive the 100+ miles to my parents' bichin' new year's eve party (which would have been a nice surprise for them if HF hadn't told them last week that we might be coming) or to stay here and drink champagne. In fairness, both courses of action probably involve champagne.

But before I make any such decisions, I think it's time to take stock. Last year I wrote this re: New Year's Resolutions: -

I'm going to reiterate my intentions to lose weight (Yes! nearly two stones worth at last count) and find some job satisfaction...either where I am now or elsewhere (Oxford job starts on January 15, I'm so not prepared) and add a couple.

I will make my gym membership worth paying £28 a month for (which means I only need to go twice a week and I already do yoga once a week so it can't be that hard). I've been going spinning up to three times a week so yes, I think this was money well spent.
I will start learning to speak Arabic (an invaluable skill, I feel, for journalists today) I can say thank you and be quiet but I could do that before so, no, not really.
I will start taking dance classes so I actually look those bods of Strictly Come Dancing instead of imagining that I do. Err, not so much, but I did do that one pole-dancing class. Hmm, less said about that the better.

And some hopes for the new year...

Go to Thailand (Yes, we went, we swam, we snorkelled. Oh yeah, and I got slightly proposed to.)
That some of the people in my life who have had a very bad year for one reason or another have good times ahead. (My friend who I asked people to pray for last Christmas has found a new job, love and happiness and is getting married next year. I couldn't be more happy for him).
I finally have the courage to start writing one of the many books I have stored not very safely up in my head. (Alright I didn't start the book. But I've written several short stories, one of which will be published in an anthology in March, so I think that deseves a big WOOHOO.)

I also printed some of the highlights of 2005.

Here are some of mine...

Winning a writing award (no fear, it wasn't for blogging)
Spending two weeks travelling in Israel with my best friend
Getting wet, loud and joyful at Glastonbury festival
A night spent with my two gay best friends at Heaven, the biggest gay nightclub in the world (apparently)

I suppose I should follow with some highlights of 2006. I think the simplest way of describing the highlights is to say finding happiness being myself. And the proposal. And also, probably, when I saw my best friend's mum for the first time in nearly a year and she said she almost wouldn't have recognised me, I'd lost so much weight. Also, my masked ball was pretty bitchin' as parties go.

Anyway, enough of all this taking stock, I think it's about time to decide what needs to go to the dump. And about the rest of the plans for the evening.

Refreshing, though, to have to think just about plans for the evening when plans for, well, the rest of my life, seem to be getting along so well.

Have a Happy New Year folks.

Pictures from my new tiny camera

2006-12-30T21:54:00.000Z

This gift from HF (which I'm v excited about) is technically a video camera but as it only has enough internal memory to record 44 seconds and I am yet to buy one of them SD card things so at the moment I've mostly used it for pictures. Here are some...

See, now that shows the redness of the hair much better.

There was a lot of good hair going on at my parents' house on Christmas Day. Theirs isn't even dyed.

More on that story later.

Ho ho ho

2006-12-28T18:10:00.000Z

Blimey I'm still tired. I seem to have gone through Christmas in a bit of a daze. But managed to somehow pick up the smallest digital video camera in the world (ha, if you keep saying you want the same thing over and over again, eventually it starts to sink in), some excellent purple pyjamas (not sure if I mentioned it but I have a bit of a thing about purple), a couple of books, a couple of cds, and some wicked cool black weather gloves which bring me a lot closer to looking like a ninja.

Teamed with my brother's girlfriend's new balaclava (I think it's for snowboarding rather than robbing banks) I could commit all manner of heinous crimes and no-one know *insert image of frangelita putting evilly gloved hands together*

I do have a more sombre thing to add. As some of you may be aware, I work for a local newspaper in Suffolk - close enough to Ipswich that I hear much more than I want to about the "Suffolk Strangler" but not so close that I have to actually write about it.

Anyway, fairly frequently we get press releases through from various police forces telling us about various people who have gone missing. Most of the time, they have just gone off without telling anyone and they're found fairly quickly - sometimes even between when we go to press and when the paper comes out. So when a press release came in the Friday before Christmas about a woman who had gone missing, I didn't think too much of it. There were contact details for the woman's sister so I called her up and chatted to her about her sister.

Unfortunately, this story was never going to have a happy ending. The woman was an insulin dependent diabetic who was being treated for depression. All pharmacies and doctor's surgeries had been informed and not seen her so she had been most likely off her medication for over a week. Her sister confided in me that there was really no chance of finding her alive at this point.

Christmas was good for me this year - I was surrounded by people I loved in a warm, loving atmosphere, fed lots of good food and showered with material things. But all through Christmas I could feel the shadow of this woman's tragic story hanging over me.

However much anyone's holidays sucked this year, think about her and her family. And about those poor girls in Ipswich whose lives took off in a downward spiral they could never get out of. And all the other girls out there who need our help and our pity more than our disgust or mistrust, however bad some of their decisions may have been.

No-one deserves such terrible things to happen to them. Spare a thought for those whose Christmases were indescribably awful and who cannot hope for a better new year.

It must be Christmas

2006-12-24T16:03:00.000Z

Season's greetings one and all. I am home for Christmas, having successfully managed to fill my not-really-new car up with what seemed like dozens of boxes of belongings, negotiate the holiday traffic including the lovely M25 and M4, and, more to the point, successfully pacify my father and grandfather with ample hugs, tea, gin and tonic to finally be left alone for five minutes.

Christmas at home is all very well - lots of presents and festive foods that you don't have to pay for, but it's all a bit stressful. The house, rather than echoing with merry laughter and the joyous cries of people opening presents, tends to ring to the sound of my dad swearing at the giant rib of beef he has inexplicably ordered to feed five because the meat thermometer says it's still not warm after eight hours of cooking. Then there's the fact that there are (currently) three rather tender male egos to be massaged and not rubbed up against each other in the wrong way. Then there was the fact that my second Christmas do was on Friday night and three glasses of wine seemed to cause a pretty much permanent headache the following day.

On the plus side, I get to show off my ring to all my parents friends so they can all go "ooh" and "aah" ( actually, no-one's really done that) and there is as much booze and chocolate as I could possibly consume. And it has been a pretty fab year so there's a lot to talk about.

It's just...I'm really tired and I think what I actually want to do is spend the next couple of days in bed. But I don't think anyone is going to bring me turkey and baileys in bed. It's worth a try, mind you...

More on that story later.

Things people said to me at our work do

2006-12-20T21:27:00.000Z

1) My wife refers to you as "that woman in the office who fancies you".

2) Yes, well, you would like doing blogs because you are a bit me, me, me.

3) No, you'd better not take the cheque for the driver Frangelita because you will be far too drunk (this turned out to be true).

4) You're so sweet! (read 'oh my god you're so drunk why are you telling me this')

Hmm. These people are supposed to be my friends. I think they were probably just jealous of my righteous dance moves (someone else's words, not mine. I don't think I would know a righteous move if it hit me in the face with flailing arm).

I bought a car today. Ha! Not that kind of car. The ten years old second-hand kind. It's still the newest vehicle I've ever had - apart, of course, from the brand new bicycle I bought with the plan of cycling seven miles to work (never happened, not once). It's also kinda whizzy. It has all kinds of things I've never had before - like electric windows, electric mirrors, power steering, ABS - hell, the radio even works. And, the guy who I bought it from who tells me he's selling it cos he now has a company car so doesn't need it (bastard) threw in the tape/mp3 player converter which actually seems to work. Woo hoo.

It's a bit, err, bigger than my previous car. And our street requires parallel parking in small spaces. Which I did. I'm usually ace at the parking (as with so much in life) but it took me rather more attempts than it normally does. With HF standing laughing at me.

He can laugh all he wants, I'm still a better driver than he is.

More on that story later.

And here it is!

2006-12-14T19:57:00.000Z

No laughing.

Focal point

2006-12-14T19:28:00.000Z

My hair isn't quite as ridiculously red as I originally thought. It's actually much the colour I wanted it to be. I was almost disappointed that I wasn't going to stop traffic anytime soon (unless, of course, I went for a major job change involving lollipop in the job title).

But, as always, it made me think. Anyone who was hoping for something amusing, witty and incisive had better switch off now.

When I first dyed it, I thought "oh my God, it's so bright everybody is going to be staring at me". But when I thought about it some more, I realised that wasn't actually the case. If you do something dramatic to your appearance, for example to your hair, it doesn't really make people look at YOU any closer - they are in fact drawn to that one thing. If I think about the comments/compliments I've had about my scarlet locks, they are all along the lines of "your hair looks great" or if I ask what they think they say "it looks really nice" (come on, I work in journalism, everybody is great at lying so nobody's going to tell me if I look like a dog with one notable exception*).

Notice they are not saying "you look good", they are only commenting on that one thing. In fact, by making something stand out, you are drawing attention away from yourself. And I think it applies to other extremes too, like slutty clothes (of which I am a big fan, naturally) . So all those goths you see with eye-catching outfits and unusual-looking hair are actually hiding behind these accoutrements.

I started dying my hair when I was in my teens and yes, I was kind of keen for people not to notice me. When I got my nose pierced, however, it was a pure act of rebellion and - oh, yes, I think that I wanted people to be looking at that, not me. And when I became more confident, happy in love, I took out my nose ring (no, I never wore a nose ring, I'm not a cow, it was a tasteful diamante stud or something) and stopped dying my hair.

Although if I continue along these lines, why did I decide now that I wanted to hide? Actually, this time I don't think I did want to hide. Which is probably why I was a bit taken aback when it came out quite so bright. I would like to think this is just enhancing my natural assets (along with a well-fitting wonderbra), not drawing attention away from the things I am less impressed with. Oh, and there are still plenty of those.

Give me a minute and I might manage to sort out a picture.

*One of my colleagues has a thing about hair cuts. She feels strongly it is inadvisible to do your own hair. She didn't say anything when I came in glowing like the hot end of a poker. When pressed, she said she said she preferred me as "a rich brunette" rather than with actual red hair. I put salt in her tea later.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

2006-12-10T21:41:00.000Z

With all this exciting action going on in my life, I decided it was time to dye my hair again and as it seemed to work fairly well last time I did it, I bought the permanent stuff instead of the semi-permanent.

I think dying your hair must be like child-birth in that immediately after having done it, the benefits make you forget how hellish the experience was. Let's just say that this particular brand of hair dye was supposed to be applied to dry hair which you then pile on top of your head and leave. Any mixture on the skin has to be wiped off with a damp towel. But what with my hair not being wet, it wouldn't just pile neatly, it kept falling over my face and smearing great big rusty brown marks all over my nose. And little strands wiping bloody looking stripes on my shoulders. The pack said don't dye your hair while wearing contact lenses so I took them out - meaning I couldn't see a bloody thing. I ended up getting red on HFs favourite trousers (at which point he stormed off and refused to help me anymore) and getting so annoyed with not being able to touch anything (dyed gloves, you see) that I ripped off the gloves meaning my hands are now rather pinker than they ought to be. Well, oranger, actually. And it took me bloody ages to get all the dye out of my hair and by the time it did, I was convinved I had knotted up my hair so nicely half of it would fall off before I could get a comb through it.

Ha! It's a miracle that conditioner stuff. I wish I knew how it worked - does it just make your hair super slippy so that it just falls out of knots? If anyone knows, do tell.

The dye is rather, err, redder than I expected. In that it's actually the colour on the box and HF will not only be able to pick me out of a crowd but also spot me from space, should he happen to go there. I think it's festive.

The worst of it is that because it's permanent, it won't slowly fade, I'll get roots and I'll have to do clever touch up stuff. Maybe I should just shave it off. It would save on shampoo.

More on that story later.

Someone up there likes me

2006-12-08T22:23:00.000Z

It seems like only yesterday I was writing with the exciting engagement and book publishing deal announcement (okay, I'm aware that that is a bit of an exaggeration, it being just one short story in a book of 16 although I did get a really posh contract for it and everything). It was in fact only a few weeks ago.

What with the proposal, the fact I've lost about 2 stones in weight this year, and the fact I'm going to be published, I had achieved pretty much all last year's New Year's resolutions.

Except one.

I have been looking for a new job for some time and have had a frustrating time of it (was beginning to think that I just give off "Don't employ me, I'm weird and inadequate" vibes in interviews).

I think, since I passed my professional exams at the end of 2004, I have had about six job interviews - all unsuccessful.

Until, and now we get to the point of the post, I got a phone call from the news editor of an undisclosed publication based in Oxfordshire, on Wednesday.

The upshot is, I have been offered a senior reporter job starting in January which I have accepted.

Yay!

That's the good news. The bad news is, now I have to uproot my life, let down my gymnastics club (the only other fully qualified coach, is due to give birth any minute) and accept that me and my fab fiance will have to live apart during the week for at least a short period of time. He too is hoping to make the move to the dreaming spires, but is still waiting to hear from the archaeology types (who pay almost as well as newspapers do) on one job.

It's a pretty scary thing, actually - we haven't lived apart for a long time. Plus due to money considerations, I'm probably going to be staying on floors and sofa beds with friends and back at home for a few weeks. It's a bit of a daunting prospect living with my parents again. I'm so used to living with HF, doing things my way. We're both pretty easy-going. My dad, much as I love him, is rather more hard-work. He might just drive me up the wall. But then, he has been pestering me to make a start on writing his memoires. I'm pretty sure I've spelt that wrongly.

More on that story later.

Plagiarism, deadly weapons, unexpected slippages

2006-12-05T11:18:00.000Z

A few months ago, I visited the Oxford Museum of Natural History. It was really cool, a mixture of dinosaur bones, stuffed animals and exhibits about extinct creatures.

These were the kind of creatures who would never have inhabited the earth together and the museum was a really stunning, open building - but small. Also, the real bones were mixed in with replicas of what the bones would have looked like.

Having the kind of mind that I do, I thought how it would make a really good short story about all these different creatures coming to life - exactly as they were displayed - and only the ones which had once been part of a living creature doing it. So there would be incomplete dinosaurs running around along with stuffed tigers and the like.

I built this up in my mind, imagining two students getting a bit tiddly and visiting the museum just before closing then stowing away in one of the offices when it got locked up. Then everything comes back to life and they try to hide and run etc before realising that actually, a heap of bones isn't very threatening.

They make it out and are arrested by police, who discover that the museum is wrecked. On closer examination of the CCTV, however, they see there was definitely something odd going on...

Anyway, that was as far as I got with my story. Until, yesterday, I saw a trailer for Night at the Museum which is apparently based on almost exactly the same premise.

How annoying. I bet mine would have been better. It definitely wouldn't have had Ben Stiller in it, anyway.

I had two fairly bizarre experiences yesterday - firstly, I was walking along a road in the centre of town when a man came round the corner carrying a large, unprotected axe.
The man was wearing a lumberjack shirt and sunglasses (in December) and looked a bit weathered.

He obviously saw me looking at his huge weapon and said: "Don't worry pet, I'm not dangerous," and went on his merry way.

Then, in the supermarket, a woman fell over on something which had been spilled on the floor. A group gathered round her, discussing what had happened. One woman frowned and said: "It looks like an egg."
Well, I found it funny, anyway.

Cerberus

2006-11-25T17:35:00.000Z

I was walking in Ely the other day and I saw a two-headed labrador from a distance.

This confused me slightly.

Sadly, when I got closer, it turned out to be two virtually identical dogs standing next to each other with nothing moving apart from their heads.

It's a pity, I bet there's money in a two-headed dog.

Anyway. I've been rather lax about posting recently but hopefully I will be a bit better soon.

I'm a bit knackered right now, having had a blinding night out followed by an 8am start for gymnastics coaching, plus I am being drawn into the world of the delectable Captain Jack Sparrow.

So I think I'll go.

More on that story later.

He was a scooter boy

2006-11-19T22:14:00.000Z

I was driving into Cambridge this afternoon and, it being a-number-of-days-before-Christmas-that-I'm-not prepared-to-work-out, the traffic was pretty heavy.

HF was driving, so I was staring mindlessly at what was going on outside the car.

A boy with a cardboard box over his head went past on a scooter.

I shook my head. Huh?

But HF had seen it too.

The kid then removed the box and attempted to put it on the scooter by his feet. It didn't really work. Then he put it over the handlebars and went off on his merry way.

Huh?

I mean, why would he be that desperate to bring this cardboard box wherever he was going. Or did he get the scooter out of the box and decided he couldn't manage without the box? Maybe his parents sent him off to go and find them a lovely box?

So here's a question. If you had a large cardboard box and your mode of transportation was a scooter, what method would you use to get both of them to your destination?

I'm thinking collapse the box and slot it between you and the handlebars. But maybe there's a better idea.

More on that story later.

Images of Thailand

2006-11-13T20:05:00.000Z

Okay, finally, some pictures of my wonderful trip to Thailand.

Firstly, an elephant.

Next, something Thai people love - shiny stuff. This was, I think, in Wat Phra Kaeo.

Thirdly, how about a perfect Koh Tao sunset?

Some dogs cooling off after a hot, sweaty day.

Oh, and one more - a shadow on the water.

Want more? They're all on my flickr account.

I am an ace photographer.

I should add that to the special skills section of my CV. That and my pole-dancing experience, I would be impossible not to hire.

In case anyone was wondering...

2006-11-11T16:56:00.000Z

I now have a ring.

This ring.

Do you like it?

I do.

A day in Oxford

2006-11-10T20:21:00.000Z

I spent approximately seven hours on a bus yesterday (in total, not seven each way, that would be silly) going to Oxford for various reasons.

One of the reasons was to meet my mum for lunch - always pleasant, particularly when she comes in generous mood, insisting she pays and bringing lots of gifts from Kenya. This included a wooden hippo and a pair of earrings in the shape of some strange little men on this occasion. Strange, but very cool.

Anyway, we went to some place called Zizzis - or possibly Zizzi - and a confused mum ordered two starters as the waitress didn't speak the best English ever and she said the starters were very small and the main courses were what sounded like enormous - but I think she actually said normal.

Gosh, that was a bit dull.

Anyway, somewhere near the middle of the meal, the very friendly waitress had a conversation with some kind of maintenance type man. She then came over to us and said in not quite broken English
"Hello, we have to change electricians now, so don't be too scary, okay"

I'm not entirely sure what it was they were changing. But we did our best not to be too scary and I think we got away with it.

In other Oxford related news, we saw the Beep at his market stall. It was quite funny. I've never seen the Beep or even a picture of him. Mum saw him briefly once but apparently his hair has grown since then. We had, however, seen a picture of a particular round mirror he had on his stall. So on this particular market, there were lots of fairly similar antique stalls and we spent some time surreptitiously wandering around the market, peering at the stall holders and saying things like "blogging" and "beep" quite loudly. Unsurprisingly, we got some funny looks.

But we found him! He had the best coat, I was really envious. I'm not good on sartorial matters but it was very stylish and also looked long and warm. He also had some really nice yellow patterned china (on his stall, rather than his person) which I wanted but could see was perhaps not the most appropriate thing to take back with me on the bus. Sadly, we didn't have too long to chat but he seemed very lovely. And also had a really nice, sort of plummy voice. I'm told he offers bloggers discount on the stall, too. As well as the funky mirror and the gorgeous china, there was a rather sweet-looking Paddington Bear, so if that's your thing, clearly the Beep is where it's at.

Anyway, it was a very pleasant day, helped by the fact that it was a gorgeous day. And I got presents, too.

More on that story later.

It's all about me, me, me

2006-11-05T22:23:00.000Z

Thanks everyone for the congratulations etc.

So my mum over at Pictures Speak Quietly has vaguely tagged me to say eight things about me. Clearly, inspiration is running dry, cos I decided to take on the challenge.

1. When I was at primary school, we were asked to design our gravestone. My epitaph read: "Here lies Frangelita, died aged 104, beloved mother of 13 children, died of exhaustion." Needless to say, my ambitions have changed somewhat since then.
2. I have a scar on the palm of my left hand where I grabbed some barb wire to climb underneath it. Highly sensible.
3. The only film which has ever given me nightmares was Childsplay.
4. The first album I ever bought was Parklife, by Blur.
5. The first film I saw at the cinema was either Masters of the Universe, or possibly Who Framed Roger Rabbit.
6. I had my first kiss at a New Year's Eve party at my parents' house when I was 15. It was rubbish.
7. I've had chicken pox twice - once I missed Father Christmas's visit to my playgroup and the other time I had to stay at home in bed on my birthday.
8. I've never been in a fight although I did slap a girl in the face once because she was irritating me so much. I immediately apologised.

More on that story later.

An announcement.

2006-11-02T23:00:00.000Z

Things seem to be rather looking up. I went into my spinning class today and my exceptionally enthusiastic America instructor told me I looked happy.

This is a good thing.

I have two things to report. I will start with the one I mentioned last week. Some months ago I entered a short story I had written in a competition run by a national newspaper. As I heard nothing, I assumed it had been unsuccessful. I wasn't too fussed, after all, there must have been thousands of entries. Last week, while I was in Thailand, I got an e-mail from a book publishing company asking me to call their senior publishing director in relation to my entry to the competition - but not until Tuesday.

I was extremely over-excited - this was a really big publishing company and this woman had read my story. Big deal (no sarcastic overtones). So I called her. It turns out that they have narrowed all the entries down to the last 16 - of which my story is one. And they were ringing to ask my permission to publish my story, with the other short-listed ones, in a book going on sale on World Book Day next year. An actual, real, paid for book that you can get in WHSmiths and other book sellers.

I'm going to be an actual published author! I mean, the story's only brief and apparently may have to be edited slightly because the book is aimed at people with a low literacy level (their words, not mine) but you will be able to find this book on a shelf and look inside and see my name. I know my name is read by 11,000 people in the newspaper I work for every week, but this is different. This is what I've been wanting probably ever since I read Emily of New Moon. Bloody good book. And maybe someone will read it and think "Oh look, this girl is better than sliced bread, she's like toasted bagels and everyone likes them" and ask me to write lots more stories for money. Well, maybe not, but still, I'll be in a book!

Plus, I still have a shot at winning the competition and accompanying £1,000 tower of books.

Woohoo!

The other news is more personal.

I am now engaged.

HF finally popped the question in Thailand (it was romantic but naturally not as straightforward as it ought to be - he has difficulties asking simple four word questions, he prefers the 83-word procrastination). So after six years together, we're going to get married. I sort of knew he was going to ask, but he kept letting perfect opportunities slide (perfect sunsets, moonlight walks, star watching etc) then he did it on our last night. Which was still romantic, as we were on a beachside restaurant and I had just eaten the best prawns ever. Unfortunately, I probably wasn't looking as ace as I normally do because we had checked out of our bungalow and I was wearing what I had been wearing when we went hiking up a VERY STEEP waterfall - a green bikini, a vest top of the non-sexy kind, and some shorts. Rather disconcertingly, the sweat had left a manky boob mark on my top. Clearly, HF saw beyond all that to the fabulous person inside.

Anyway, my fiance is waiting in bed for me (I mean that in an innocent sense, honest) and I am a trifle tired. Anyone got any good ideas for where we should get married? I currently have a budget of £3.50.

More on that story later.

Coming home

2006-10-27T11:37:00.000+01:00

It is our last day in Thailand. Sob. Koh Samui has turned out better than expected. We did a day trip to the famous Ang Thong Marine Park, a vast archipelago of extremely picturesque islands where we snorkelled, kayaked and I accidentally left my sunglasses at the top of Koh Mae Ko overlooking the inspiration for The Beach (allegedly, everything's connected to The Beach here, apparently.

We saw Thai dancing and Muay Thai, and when all the men were too wussy to take on the rather hardcore looking champion boxer I said I would have a go and nearly kicked him in the head. He was rather surprised I could get my foot that high (he was taller than me) but I can do the splits after all.

Today we went up a waterfall and I got just a bit whingy because it was so steep going up I was convinced we were going to die on the way down. We didn't, cos we followed a wiley Thai man who led us to the most amazing unexpected view. I think he wanted paying, but as he spoke no English and my Thai is very limited, all he actually got was thankyou.

I've filled up five films worth of pictures which will be posted very soon and I may have potentially got an e-mail with the best news I've had...possibly ever. But no counting chickens, so I won't detail it here until I know what the deal is.

Thailand is an amazing place, full of startling contrasts, beautiful beaches, smiley people and extremely stinky drains. It was more and less than what I expected in so many ways. And I only got the runs once and it was only one brief toilet visit. Yay me!

More on that story later.

Bruised, bitten, burnt and burgled

2006-10-24T08:57:00.000+01:00

You would never have thought it was such a dangerous undertaking, all this holidaying. And yet I somehow have found wounds on almost every part of my body. Despite incessant insect repellant application, I have bites on everywhere from both sides of my kneecap, to the knuckle of my little finger. I even seem to have one on my face.

Bastard mossies.

Thanks to a series of rather exciting and arduous treks across various islands (jungly and very hilly), I fell over twice and have scratches on my hands and one helluva lump on my shin which has gone a fetching shade of purple. To be fair, one of those happened when me and HF decided it would be a really good idea to go down the waterfall (trust me, it was).

We have now left Koh Tao, where some exceptionally good snorkelling left us both burnt on our backs and bums so we look like classic brits abroad, and Ko Phangan, where we had a lovely, isolated time until someone sneakily broke into our bungalow (right on the beach, ace views, poor lighting) without damaging a thing and removed all my money - 4000 baht or about 60 pounds (still haven't worked out these keyboards properly). And 15 pounds in english money that HF had. I actually cried - it was this morning and we had to catch the boat so I was walking along the beach, beladen with a rucksack almost twice my size, weeping. I told the men. They seemed shocked, but were not particularly helpful. It was probably one of them, the toerags.

Anyway, now we're in Ko Samui, our last island and have landed ourselves a rather nice room - not that I'm going to leave anything of value there now. So far, it looks a bit pants, but we'll see, things can change quite quickly. The beach is long but full of chavs from all nationalities. The best thing so far is these really cool silk throws these random men are touting on the beach. I might have to buy one to make me feel better.

More on that story later.

Island Paradise

2006-10-19T14:13:00.000+01:00

Ha ha ha you're all at work and I'm lying in the sun sipping cold beer by the beach.

Now I've got that little immature bit out of the way, I can report that Thailand is ACE. Wicked cool, in fact.

I am currently swaying slightly from side to side, not because I am drunk (not yet) but because I spent all day on a boat looking at little (and larger) fishes. It's a bit disconcerting, actually. Anyway, we've left Bangkok - I would say three days is the most you would want to spend there - and taken a mammoth night train journey to Chumphon, then a three-hour boat trip to Koh Tao, where we have been since Tuesday morning. It looks like the island from Lost, but with more bungalows and, disappointingly enough, no Sawyer lookalikes. Shame. We have snorkelled lots and after despairing of looking even slightly like we were on holiday in the smog of Bangkok, are picking up a bit of colour quite nicely. Don't worry, lots of sunscreen, hats and water are being consumed. If that makes sense.

We have wildly underestimated how long it would take us to walk everywhere, but done it anyway - seen a family of five riding a motorbike together - got nipped by a crab - seen a shark (small reef shark, not very threatening) and dined sumptuously for under two pounds. We sniffed our noses up at some place selling dinner for about four pounds a plate - disgracefully overpriced.

Anyway, I had better go as the swaying thing is getting really quite distracting - maybe if I drink some beer (chang, at 6.4 % will completely floor you) it will make me sway the other way and I will feel steady...

More on that story later.

Wizardly affairs

2006-10-14T15:39:00.000+01:00

I'm in (not so) sunny Bangkok and this is the second attempt I have made to post, the first inexplicably being lost to the gods of cyberspace, so I'll make it quick.

We made all of our connections, including the 40 minutes between flights at Doha and miraculously our luggage arrived intact too. I recommend Qatar Airways, they feed you constantly and give you all sorts of nice things.

So my first impressions of Bangkok are that it's not quite as horribly polluted or psychotic and frenzied as I expected - but then it's only 9.30pm... It is impossible to sit down and read a map without someone trying to sell you something...thai massage is painful but fun, if not slightly embarrassing and reminiscent of having a small, wiry monkey climbing all over you and pulling and pushing your various bits...the emerald buddha is VERY SMALL and far away...the reclining buddha is way better, if big, golden deities are your thing...

No runs yet;-) but then I've only eaten three things since we got here...

It's extremely moist and I am sweating constantly. So no big change there.

Anyway, I'm on a meter and am planning to do a bit of rooftop swimming (in a pool, not a puddle) and then plan my visit to the biggest market in the world tomorrow.

I may post again later, soon or not until I get back.

More on that story later.

We're off to see the wizard!

2006-10-12T20:55:00.000+01:00

My dad used to sing this when we were off on holiday. Or, occasionally, going into the garden or upstairs.

In this occasion the wizard in question is probably some smiley Thai person who provides you with a surprisingly innocuous dish which turns out to be liquid fire.

Yes indeed, Friday 13th is drawing near so naturally me and HF are getting on one of those big shiny things that flies. And going to Thailand. Yay! Where there has just been a severe weather warning due to an excessively heavy monsoon season. So a bit damp then.

I think I've packed everything - apart from my phone, which is currently charging in readiness, and my contact lenses which are gently resting in my eyes. The best place for them, if you ask me. Oh, and my alarm clock which is going to be slightly necessary in the morning.

HF is being characteristically grumpy about the slight risk of coup action, being washed away, having drugs stowed mysteriously and surprisingly up his bottom. Me, I think it's going to be fab.

Yay again!

I might blog, as there are internet cafes every five yards in Thailand, but then again, I might be too busy drinking cocktails and eating curries while showing off my newly wee tum in a fetching camouflage bikini (it's really a lot nicer than it sounds).

More on that story later.

Oh, and yay!

From Norfolk to Thailand

2006-10-09T21:08:00.000+01:00

Sort of.

HF has just asked me if he needs a woolly hat. For Thailand. Where we are going on Friday.

Yelp!

I think I may have got him slightly over-excited. We have just returned from a weekend in Norfolk where there were disappointingly few crabs but large quantities of land falling into the sea and have been plunged straight into planning for our big proper holiday.

The land of smiles.

Hmmm.

I'm a bit disjointed tonight. I have this list of things I have to do before I go and I don't seem to have done many of them. One of them was to call Qatar Airways to reconfirm our flights. This proved surprisingly difficult as they seem to have about 18,000 different phone numbers on the website, none of which actually seems to be the one I wanted. And when I did get through, the answer-machine shouted at me in arabic and I got scared and hung up. Oh well, they're open again tomorrow.

Then we wrote down all the train and boat times and pondered whether it would be okay to spend three hours in the wee hours in a town in the middle of nowhere waiting for a boat.

Then HF got up and said: "Right, I'm going to pack."
He went off, muttering "sandals". I think he might need slightly more than that, but come on, it's still only Monday.

He has now told me he's not actually packing but I can't see what he is doing and it sounds suspiciously like packing. He doesn't even have a list yet. You should never pack without a list.

I expect I'll have to write it though.

The list is in fact one of the things I still have to do. I also have on my list get haircut and consider having a bikini wax (I've never had one before and I'm a bit scared but also a bit hairy).

*HF just muttered in the background "I thought I had more pants than that. I've only got three pairs". Frankly, quite worrying.*

I suspect I may have left it late to do either now.

*He's just called out four. And then five. But that's still not enough for a clean person.*

This constant muttering about pants in the background is a trifle distracting. I hope I have enough pants. We're gone for 16 days (I think it's 16 but a lot of those nights are spent travelling in some fashion) and 16 pants is a lot of knickers.

I think people should now suggest to me all the things I am likely to forget. Then I'll forget other things instead. I am deeply paranoid about the fact that I'm not allowed to take contact lens solution on the flight. What if they lose my baggage? I can't wash my lenses in mangy Thai water. It would also be a big hassle to have to buy 16 new pairs of knickers, especially as they would all be designed for tiny Thai people with no bottoms.

This is probably enough waffle for now. Ooh, what I would do for a belgian waffle right now...

Okay. That's it, I'm going. Now.

Not to Thailand, just to the bedroom to write that list. If HF stops asking me silly questions.

More on that story later.

Okay

Shopping

2006-10-02T21:05:00.000+01:00

I was doing a bit of shopping on Saturday, what with HF away visiting his lovely mother and it being less than two weeks before we leave for Thailand (yay!).

I bought all the important stuff - anti-diarrhoea tablets, rehydration sachets (yes, I am indeed expecting at least one major case of the shits), "jungle fever" insect repellant, sun cream, ear plugs (for attempting to sleep on the Khao San Road - err, that is on a hotel on the strip rather than actually in the middle of the road) and I was vaguely thinking I might get some more nice, loose-fitting pretty clothes.

My eyes kept being drawn to a burgundy and silver kaftan in the window of a charity shop. It was only £3.50 so I thought I would try it on.

I tried it on - it was quite nice, although a bit baggy in places. I figured it was symptomatic of my shrinking form, and decided it was worth £3.50 (although I bargained it down to £2.25 as that was all I had in my wallet).

When I went home, and hung it up, I glanced at the label.

It was a maternity top.

I'm still gonna wear it though.

More on that story later.

Knowing when to sit down with your head between your legs.

2006-09-29T21:50:00.000+01:00

So I gave blood today. Despite the incessant photography (err, I did it for work), the difficulty finding a vein (mine are rubbish) and the fact that I almost threw up when I saw the size of the needle, it went really well, I gave the requisite amount of blood in 4 minutes and 4 seconds. I didn't feel faint or throw up or anything.

Buoyed by juice and biscuits, I went home and started preparing a delicious meal.

About an hour later, while chopping onions, I felt a bit funny and collapsed on the floor in a rather embarrassing fashion.

The moral of the story? Never give blood when you have to go home alone and cook dinner.

I did finish chopping the onions, by the way.

More on that story later.

Party pix!

2006-09-29T10:06:00.000+01:00

As promised...
I've decided to offer no explanations for any of these charming little pictures, just thought it might be nice to get a flavour of the evening. If you click on Flickr at the side and go to the Masked Ball set, you can see the rest of them.

So can you spot which one's me?

Coming down

2006-09-26T20:33:00.000+01:00

Please don't interpret this as me being depressed. I'm just recovering from my very mad party.

It was bloody brilliant.
There was pass the parcel.
There was a large quantity of fabulous presents.
There was an even larger quantity of amazing and bizarre masks (and some less so).
There was a still larger quantity of alcohol consumed.
There was a brief but quite bizarre moment when all the men took their tops off at my random request (I didn't think they would actually do it but I thought it was worth a go).
There was lasagne which I was reliably informed was quite delicious but didn't feel like eating until it was all eaten.
There was lots and lots of cheese. And cake. Mmmm.
There was dancing and some games which did not seem particularly popular - apart from pass the parcel, which was a major highlight of the evening.

Oh, and there was a rather memorable recreation of the video for Queen's I Want to Break Free.

I took numerous pictures but they are with Boots at the moment. I am afraid that one of my highly mature friends may have taken a photograph of their arse. Oh well, all my friends have brilliant arses any more.

Speaking of arses, I was wearing my black trousers the other day which I hadn't worm in ages 'cos it's been the wrong sort of weather and there were huge baggy areas where my bum and thighs used to be. Seriously, how big was my arse?! Alternatively, I suppose HF could have been kindly taking my clothes and stretching them in the night to make me feel a bit better. You never know.

One of my friends got me a giant teapot (well, not really giant, but far too big for just one cuppa) in the shape of a fairy cake. I think I shall go and fill it with tea. Then find something naughty like yummy birthday chocolates to go with it. Mmmmm.

More on that story later.

Just when everything was going so well...

2006-09-21T21:38:00.000+01:00

So Thailand has had a peaceful, democratic government for the past 15 years.

Naturally, three weeks before I decide to go there for the first time, having spent the best part of 500 smackeroonies on the flight, there is a military coup.

Woo.

My flights are, by the way, non-returnable. And no travel insurance will cover you for terrorism or acts of a warlike nature.

Wicked.

However, according to my friend and yours at the Foreign Office, there is no immediate threat - the coup happened without a single shot being fired and it all seems relatively calm. I am bloody well going to Thailand unless there are foreigners being shot in the street. And I'm going to enjoy myself, smile and flirt a little with any passing military rather than weeing my knickers at the sight of a tank (hey, I sat on a bus full of armed 18 year olds in Israel for six hours with no odds, I can do this).

Straight afterwards, we discover that Thailand is in the process of moving all its flights to its new airport - all of my travel info relates to the old airport. Ace.

And to make it worse, some toerags broke into HFs car when it was parked outside his work in an industrial estate and attempted to set light to it. For the record, they did a pretty shit job, leaving no trace of a blaze except a slightly melted pen, some singe marks on the seat and a burnt piece of paper. Well, and the smashed windows I suppose.

So what next? My left boob falls off unexpectedly in the shower, just when I'd bought a new bra? I turn up to my house for my 25th birthday party only to discover I've left the keys behind and no-one can get in?

Oh yeah, I'm 25 on Saturday and am planning to celebrate the occasion by getting horrendously drunk and dancing naked on my parents lawn while chanting loudly and tunelessly to the new Scissorsisters album (if no-one has got me this, I will be sad). Oh, okay, so I probably won't do all of the above. Probably.

More on that story later.

First impressions

2006-09-18T22:19:00.000+01:00

So I called Mum up on Thursday night while I was packing my bags.

"What are you wearing on Sunday? You know, to meet Thursday," I asked.

"Oh goodness me, Frangelita, I can't possibly decide that now," she answered impatiently.

Solemnly, I replied: "But I'm packing my bag for the weekend now and I have to decide. I can't bring my entire wardrobe, it would be too hevay."

A few moments of silence.

"Well, you can't really wear one of your floaty nonsense dresses."

More consideration.

"No."

More silence.

"How about a skirt and a top?"

I silently consider the fact that my legs are desperately in need of shaving. And opt for a selection of three different outfits. One of which is a floor-length skirt.

***
I have been basking in the very complimentary (and indeed complementary) reviews of Sunday's blogmeet on my mother's and Thursday's blogs. Before being struck by a sudden fear and paranoia. Well, duh, she knows I read the blog. So if she was secretly thinking "goodness, if this is what Frangelita looks like after she's lost 2 stones what on earth did she look like before" and "how vulgar, she said wanker", she's hardly going to say so.

(For the record, I only said wanker once, and I wasn't referring to any particular individual.)

Anyway, I've decided not to review said blogmeet in quite the same way.

So instead, here are some lists.

Things I did do:

Pace up and down the room while obsessively checking the clock and my mobile phone (before she arrived).
Stare enviously at Thursday's beads.
Make inane conversation and nod sagely when I didn't understand when they starte discussing Joe Brown again.
Try to decide how Thursday compared to pictures (much prettier, super-glamorous, and without an ounce of discernible unnecessary fat) while trying not to look like I was staring.
Suggest we eat cheesecake and then proceed to be the only one piggie enough to consume any.
Spill a small amount of houmous on my leg and surreptitiously wipe it up and eat it.
Banished HF for the duration of the visit.
Gratefully accept and drink the yummy wine brought as a gift.

Things I did not do:

Get round to washing my hair before Thursday arrived.
Warn her about the horrendous traffic related to the county show likely to make her journey almost unbearable.
Contribute in any way to the cleaning of the house or cooking of the food. Apart from putting the ciabatta in the oven for eight minutes. Woo.
Spill on my boobs (result! That almost never happens).

Anyway, she was very nice and very glamorous. Did I say that already? Oh, and quite tall. She said we weren't as small as she imagined.

In other news, I've decided to give blood for the first time in a couple of weeks to write a feature about it. I'm already getting the cold sweats about it.

More on that story later.

Lame half-assed excuse for a post

2006-09-12T23:49:00.000+01:00

I know no-one ever does these unless they have nothing better to blog about, but I was checking my search terms and these are some of the most amusing I've had.

If anyone can answer point four, I would be keen to know.

gymnast
james cracknell bodyfat
pictures of stallion shagging a mare
why is it bad to put deep heat on straight after a strain
what fuse plug smeg
jujitsu throwing dummy
inside my head
tesco pepperonata
your images are being uploaded to blogger.
women and martial arts and accidentally kicked
cooking substatutions
juggle scarves seniors
naughty air stewardess
facilities inside the ice cream vans pictures
pot kiln public house berkshire

In other news, I have a spot at the base of my hairline which is driving me mad. And is quite sore. Oh, and I'm having my first blogmeet on Sunday. Wish me luck.

More on that story later

Brothers and pictures

2006-09-09T22:13:00.000+01:00

A lot of people don't know I have a brother and when I happen to bring him up in conversation they say oh, I didn't know you had a brother.

He's not a secret or anything. I just don't mention him very often. They're funny things, siblings. My brother's been part of my life since I was born and has seen me through various stages of my life. In some ways he knows me better than most people. In others, not at all.

In books and films, big brothers are ace. They look out for you, they help you out, they have fit friends. Not my brother. Well, I did have a crush on a couple of his mates (what was I thinking), but aside from that, most of my childhood memories are less than pleasant.

Once, when I was quite small and innocent, he made me shout "CONDOMS" at the top of my voice in our back garden. I sort of knew it was a naughty word, but I didn't have a clue what it meant. On my first day of secondary school, he gave me some helpful brotherly advice. I was quite nervous, having read lots of school books of the type where you risk getting your head flushed down the toilet if you don't do the right thing. He told me that while all the boys wear their blazers undone, girls always did them up - it just wasn't cool the other way. After some careful observation on the school bus, I realised this was clearly a lie. More dangerously, he told me that you could wave your hand through the blue part of bunsen burners, it wasn't hot at all, but the red flame would scorch you. Sheer evilness if you ask me. We used to physically fight quite a lot too - we were quite matched, as while he was physically weaker in many ways back then, he had very bony arms and packed a mean punch.

My favourite memory of my big bro, who had quite a temper on him, was the time, shortly before we were due to go on holiday, that I refused to watch him play Mario on his NES. He was so angry, he punched through a window. My parents were not best pleased. Neither was I - it was my bedroom window.

He still knows how to get on my nerves like no-one else, talks for a maximum of ten seconds on the telephone, and constantly tries to turn me to his point of view. But actually, he's rather good company. I rarely see him upwards of two or three times a year, and it's usually a kind of fly-by night visit and on some of these occasions he deliberately winds me up. He's very funny, witty and his opinions, while sometimes rather forcefully stated are always...interesting.

Anyway, we had a wicked cool time together when I visited him a couple of weeks ago. We even had our picture taken together. I can't remember when that last happened.

And here's a lovely pic of me and HF at the top of St Paul's Cathedral being tourists in London (terribly good fun, I highly recommend it). It was very pretty, bit chilly mind.

More on that story later.

I don't like mushrooms

2006-09-05T22:46:00.000+01:00

This is surprisingly difficult for some people to comprehend or accept.

I'm not about to change my mind about this. I've never liked them, and throughout my life I have tried them in various forms to see if my opinions have changed. They haven't.

So why do some people keep trying to force me to eat them? Not in a tying me down stuffing down my face kind of way (socially unacceptable in almost all communities, except perhaps college frat parties), but in a much more subversive, difficult to avoid way.

My sister is on a mission to convince me that I actually like them. So she chops them up into the sauce of things, really small, and when I ask her suspiciously if there are any mushrooms in there, she outright lies about it. I don't understand her logic. Why would she be so eager to make me eat something which I clearly don't want to? I don't think it's punishment, although it's hard to be sure with siblings.

I think this dogmaticness runs in my family somewhat - my dad is equally convinced that if I just gave them a try, I would miraculously discover that I don't find them slimey, unpleasantly mushy and just generally unpalatable. Both my dad and my sister will argue their point to the death and seem to find it hard to accept that there is any other viewpoint. I mean, my sister doesn't like pancakes and my dad doesn't really like pasta, but I'm not going to try to convert them to the way of the egg or the spaghetti. What's the point?

There is no particular reason for this post, by the way, no-one has made me eat mushrooms recently (as far as I'm aware, I'm not discounting night-time forcefeeding while I'm asleep), but I did mention to my brother on our round the country road-trip how much I hated the dreaded funghi and he seemed to find that pretty hard to accept.

As for the round the country trip, it was pretty cool, lots of good views and good food. Mmmm. I won't bore you with it. I might put some pix up on flickr as soon as I can get round to it.

In other news, I'm watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs somewhat incessantly at the moment and have developed a huge crush on both Spike (despite the dodgy accent) and Seth Green. Mmmm. Not Angel though, except when he's evil.

More on that story later.

Shhh....

2006-08-30T00:11:00.000+01:00

Forgot to tell y'all I'm on holiday.

A whirlwind sausage-shaped tour of England staying with various people. We're about to leave stop number 2, my older brother A in Lancaster. All good so far.

Am not supposed to be blogging, hence the lack of full sentences, but realised I didn't quite warn my dedicated readers that I would be awol for a little bit. Back properly on Sunday but am at Mum's with probable blogging opportunity on Friday.

Oh yes, if there are any glaring errors in this brief update, put it down to the fact that I haven't gone for a day without wine yet this holiday.

Adam, the recipe for Flashroast Lamb is as follows:

Take one leg or half leg of lamb, butterflied.

Marinate in large, roughly equal quantities of soy sauce and honey.

Turn oven up to as hot as it will go.

Put marinated lamb, flat, in to roast for 30 minutes at full heat. It will blacken and smoke, this is a good thing.

DO NOT open oven or leave in for longer. Take out to rest for a sensible amount of tiem (10 minutes? I'm not a meat expert). Carve and eat.

Swoon over how yummy it is.

Of course, anyone who isn't Adam is also quite welcome to try this recipe. It's nicked off my dad, who was first served it by a friend in Cornwall several years ago when watching the solar eclipse.

It's bloody lovely.

More on that story later.

Ong-bak

2006-08-24T16:05:00.000+01:00

I watched this film last night. It made me laugh quite a lot.

I don't think this was intended by the film makers.

I like martial art films, especially the new, spectacular breed, because I love the gymnastic and acrobatic elements of the moves. Same reason I thought District 13, which is full of super-cool parkour moves, was the best thing since marmite toast.

But watching Ong-bak last night - the main storyline of which centres around the theft and recovery of the head of a buddha statue - I reflected on the usefulness of some of these moves in a real fight situation.

The chase sequence, for example. When jumping through a small space, surely it would be easier to go feet OR head first, rather than folding neatly into a pike position at some effort and risk of headbashing to slide through with feet and hands together.

Not according to this young gent.

I've never quite understood, either, the necessity of somersaulting your way onto someone's head/back/squashy parts. It requires considerably more bounce and effort and is less precise than simply walloping him one because you take your eyes off the target.

I can sort of understand why you might want to do split somersaults because they're quite unpredictable and you get to kick someone with first one leg then the other with the additional speed and momentum from the rotation of the somersault. But the same thing could be achieved with less effort and probably producing more power from a handspring walk out or a backflip walkout - plus it's a bit more stable.

It's also about time someone pointed out that somersaulting in a straight or split position dramatically slows the speed of the move, making tucked somersaults far quicker. Although I suppose a straight-back somersault looks more impressive.

And finally, why exactly, when confronted with a series of steps, would you somersault from one to the next - rather than just jumping? Can someone tell me what the advantage is there?

That said, I hope no-one sees the flawed logic behind all this dramatic choreography. It looks much cooler that way.

More on that story later.

Tags: ong-bak, gymnastics, cool shit, somersaults

Dating

2006-08-21T13:46:00.000+01:00

There has been a lot of comment recently about dating stock here and here and it made me feel sort of wistful.

You see, I've never really been on a date.

Okay, maybe one.

I was 16 and had a huge crush on this bloke in my class who was I think 20. I fancied the pants off him and used every possible opportunity to flirt with him.

One day, it paid off. I had recently started seeing a rugby player who was a foot taller than me and twice my weight (yes, really). I was off English one day and afterwards my friend T said this man, P, had asked her if I was going out with anybody. She had got confused and said no, then realised her mistake and said maybe.

At the next English lesson, he cornered me after class and, rather embarrassedly asked if I would go out with him. Despite his peculiar behaviour, this was quite a shock and in my flummoxed state I told him I was seeing someone else. He said something like oh, okay and that was that.

Except about two weeks later, my fat rugby player dumped me rather unceremoniously and I was suddenly on the market again. But how to let P know without sounding desperate?

Well, in a small town college, news travels fast. I accidentally told Jo R-M who immediately blabbed it to P. Then one happy day, he again cornered me after English and asked the same question. I said yes. He then asked me "Do you eat?" What a line. As it happened, I had a very busy weekend so I played slightly hard to get and we arranged to meet at the Harvester the following week.

Oh, the tension. It was straight after my gymnastics class so I changed into my tightest black trousers straight afterwards (this was when I was training 8 hours a week and had visible abs. Oh the days) and met him.

I didn't really know what to order or what to say, but it all passed fairly happily. Towards the end of the meal, he asked if he could hold my hand. I said yes. Then, walking home, it was as if he'd been trying to build up the courage all day, he turned me round and kissed me.

And that was pretty much it on the dating front. After that we were together for about 20 months so weren't dating. Then there was university where apart from one guy who I met in a nightclub then arranged to meet on the seafront for fish and chips (for which he did not offer to pay) in daylight hours I did not date.

In my second year at university, I moved in with a couple of blokes including a very nice young man, let's call him HF, who I had never met before. Let's just say we hit it off without any need for "dates". And, nearly six years later, he's still here.

So I don't really get dating. And I have no idea how you go about meeting men. This means I'm of absolutely no use when my girlfriend's are having dating quandries, but also makes me rather smug and happy. Sometimes I wonder what it's like out there. But then I think, well, it's warm and lovely in here with as much cuddling and affection as I could possibly need. And the other stuff. Besides, he empties the bins.

More on that story later.

Role reversal

2006-08-17T22:39:00.000+01:00

I'm at my parents house tonight because I have a dentist's appointment tomorrow and was looking forward to having a good chinwag with my lovely mother but sadly it was not to be.

When I arrived, the house was in darkness (well, downstairs anyway, my Dad waved at me from his upstairs office) and my Dad had to come down to let me in. Mum, I was told, was sick. An unusual occurence.

When I went upstairs to see her she was all sad and cold and poorly and wrapped up in a quilt. I had to keep getting her extra blankets because she was still cold. Poor mum. I hate being ill, I don't hold with it. Neither does she, so she must be feeling pretty bloody awful to retreat to her bedroom.

Mum is a bit like she is in the morning when she's poorly. My dad says we're both dreadful morning people. This is not true, we're just not really awake or in the mood for singing loudly and eating lots of fatty eggs and bacon just yet. I think she's rather sweet and fuzzy in the morning and nice to hug. But I'm not supposed to hug her too closely or I might get her ailment.

It's a shame though, I don't see her as much as I would like and we were going to have brunch tomorrow. I hate the expression brunch, but love the concept. It's not really breakfast, because I have the dentist at 9.15am and don't want to get bacon stuck between my teeth because he won't like that. And I have another appointment elsewhere at 2pm so I'm going to be driving at actual lunchtime. Maybe I'll just have a bagel.

In other news, I hired a car for the first time today. It was very exciting, I felt all grown-up. And a little scared about signing bits of paper promising to pay lots of money if I ended up smashing it into a brick wall. Not that I'm in the habit of doing that, you understand. It's just I've never driven a Kia before, it sounds more like a children's drink than a car.

Ooh, hot topic. Kia Ora or Five Alive? Haven't tasted either in years, but I remember Five Alive being the bomb (not sure if anyone actually says that, thought I would slip it in and see what response I get. If any).

Anyway, my father has fallen asleep in front of a very bizarre programme called Time Truck (I think) and my mother is all curled up in about eight different blankets. I'd best see if they're okay.

More on that story later.

How to make a mild strain feel like you are being stabbed with hot pokers and not in a good way

2006-08-14T21:53:00.000+01:00

I coach gymnastics for three hours pretty much every Saturday morning. As part of my general aim to be fit and the fact that I did eventually sell my car for a whopping £30 (yeah baby, I think I should invest it in blue chip stocks - if I knew what they were), I walk to and from the sports centre which takes approximately 20 minutes.

Anyway, this weekend, when I left, the sky was a bit grey but it looked alright and seemed reasonably warm, so I popped on the t-shirt I'm supposed to wear to gym (it's a horrific turqoise colour but it's an airtex so is really comfy and it says COACH on it which makes me feel important) and wandered off. I don't have an umbrella and decided against a coat as it looked okay.

A few minutes into the walk, it started drizzling, which was annoying but I didn't mind too much because it was still quite mild. Then it started raining properlty. My hair, washed and dried that very morning, started clumping together in a highly attractive fashion. Then, halfway up the great big hill I have to walk up it started absolutely pizzing it down. I was in a quandry - I was wearing a new pair of trainers (I seem to be developing a worrying habit of buying lots of shoes at the moment) which didn't seem to me to have the best grips so I didn't want to start running up the hill and fall on my face. Which I probably would do just when someone I work with walked past. But I was also getting seriously, seriously drenched.

So I just kept walking until I reached the driveway then I ran the rest of the way and amazingly didn't fall over which is just as well as there were loads of builders doing things with machines (the gym has been a building site for the best part of a year and this was the first time I saw a single builder). When I walked through the door, dripping, the man at the desk laughed at me. Nice.

Anyway, I went in and did my coaching thing. Due to various issues (pregnancy, injuries etc) only myself and one other coach were able to actually do much in the way of physical supporting and we both joked we were going to be aching the following day. Particularly when demonstrating something with one of the kids I misjudged how much they weighed and held them up for quite some time. They weren't fat or anything, just a little bigger than the ones I normally demonstrate with. I immediately knew this was a mistake.

By the end of three hours, I was finally dry and we had seen some sun through the windows so I was optimistic about my walk home. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. It pissed down the whole way home. I stopped at the shoe shop on the way home cos there was a sale on sandals. Pah, call that a sale, it was only about a fiver off £45 shoes. I got some funny looks from the shopkeepers clearly thinking I hope that wet person doesn't come in here she'll leave marks on our carpets. So I obliged and went home, grumpy and wet.

I decided what I needed most was a nice hot bath. But I wanted it right now, so I switched the water heater on and started running the water. Unfortunately, my impatience meant that I ended up bathing in lukewarm water. Probably not the best idea.

Anyway, I woke up the following morning with the worst aches in my shoulders. I decided to forego my usual spinning class in favour of whinging while shopping - I had HF massaging my shoulders at every available opportunity, to the sound of anguished yelps.

When I got home, I had an actual hot bath which was just what the doctor ordered. I still ached a bit.

It wasn't until I woke up this morning and HF had already left for work that I remembered I still had most of a tube of Deep Heat I bought when that w$%£^r ran into the back of my car back in February giving me whiplash.

I'm such a big, hairy salmon.

More on that story later.

It's true what they say...

2006-08-12T18:38:00.000+01:00

I think I might be turning into my mother.

This isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. My mum is pretty cool and I would count her as one of my best friends (I realise how lucky I am with this and how unusual it is). We always have something to talk about and we are completely easy in each other's company.

But still, it has come as something of a surprise. After all, she's 50something and I'm 24.

It was the other day, at about 12.30am that it struck me. I was sitting in the lounge, blogging furiously about nothing in particular. HF had gone to bed about an hour previously. I always found it sad that my parents didn't tend to go up to bed at the same time. There was one fairly good reason for this - my dad would reliably fall asleep in front of the television at about 9pm, wake briefly, have a cup of tea, then retire to bed properly at 11ish ready to get up at 7am sharp and do hard manual labour all day. My mum, however, rarely goes to bed before 1am and has been known to continue wandering round doing various bits and pieces until 3ish. As she didn't work for most of my childhood, or worked in jobs which started in the late morning or afternoon, there was never any real rush to get up bright and early. Certainly not once we were all old enough to get our lunches and get on the school bus without assistance.

So basically, my parents operate in slightly different time zones. And it seems it might be the same with me and HF. I mean, I have to be at work at 8.30am to 9am weekdays and due to various gym-related commitments am usually up reasonably early at weekends too. But HF, who is an archaeologist, pretty much always gets up before me, gives me a sleepy kiss goodbye and then I get up a bit later.

I also tend, if I get into a good book, just to keep reading it until either I finish it or I can't see properly anymore. Much like my mum. We've both taken to blogging in a pretty big way, and also, more recently, Flickr. Stupid spelling. When I read my mum's blog, I hear my voice echoed in hers, and I suspect it works both ways. And without disrespecting either HF or my Dad, we both run our respective households. Don't get me wrong, I'm not particularly houseproud - but it's me who knows how much money we've got in our joint account, me who pays the bills, me who takes the food out of the freezer for dinner and makes sure (well, most of the time) that we don't run out of milk or bread. If I let HF put all the food away, half of it goes in the wrong place. I know my Dad does this too. Out of curiosity, I asked HF if he knew where our joint cheque book was. He thought he did. He was wrong. In fact, having just conferred with him, I don't think he's ever written a cheque from it.

Tnis makes perfect sense in my mum's case, as she is at home far more than he is. But considering both me and Andy work full-time, plus I'm out at the gym up to five times a week, does it make so much sense for us? Have I just gravitated towards that role?

I keep the peace when HF goes mad (these days, mostly when he sees anything connected with Nikki off Big Brother) - my mum was the house peacekeeper too. We're both fairly amiable types who don't lose out tempers easily - but can get waspish if we're tired or grumpy, and if we do lose our tempers, you don't really want to be around.

I suppose the one main aspect of our characters that differs is ambition. Quite simply, my mum is, as far as I can tell, satisfied with her place in the world. She doesn't have any huge drive to succeed at anything (apart from maybe with music but that's slightly different) whereas I am very ambitious - not in a cut-throat couldn't care less about anyone else way, but I am determined to be the very best that I can, and I'm just about arrogant enough to believe that could be pretty damn good. In CV speak, I am always looking for the next challenge, but it's true, I hate being stuck in a rut.

If I'm going to turn into anyone, my mum's not such a bad person to become. But I'm certainly not going to give up on all that naked ambition, oh no. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. But maybe not quite satisfied. Yet.

More on that story later.

So it's just me then...

2006-08-08T21:12:00.000+01:00

I've been demonstrating an admirable lack of finesse over the past few days.

Last night, when I came back from my pole-dancing class*, I decided to make some bread (v simple recipe I nicked off Chaucer's Bitch which takes no time at all). It being quite late I went up to bed and got undressed while it was baking. When the pinger went, I came downstairs and got the bread out. I had neglected to grease the tin so had to turn it upside down and shake it around to get it out. Being a bit sleepy (worn out from all the pole-dancing**) and exceptionally clumsy I somehow managed to push the burning hot bakinng tin against my naked boob. Today, I have a bright red triangular mark on my left boob.

okay, somehow I just deleted everything I had just written. How irritating.

Anyway, today, I was walking up the stairs to the library in a long skirt. Somehow, I managed to trip on the edge of the skirt, simultaneously losing my sandal and falling flat on my face. There were also two people on the stairs behind me, waiting patiently for me to get my fat arse out of the way. So elegant.

Not to mention the fact that we had to buy another cat food bowl the other day because I accidentally kicked into the wall one morning when I was going in search of food. It broke in half.

For a former gymnast I'm really bloody clumsy. I like to explain this by pointing out I'm very short-sighted before I put my lenses in in the morning, but at least one of these demonstrations of graceful deportment was when I had full vision availability. Oh well.

*It was for work, okay, fully clad and women only, pole-dancing for fitness. I have nothing more to say on the matter. Well, for now anyway.
**Actually, my biceps did ache a bit today.

More on that story later.

Tags: clumsiness, poledancing, baking, burns

Guilty pleasures

2006-08-06T16:49:00.000+01:00

I am sitting on my sofa watching Clueless. I realise this is not the coolest film - nor, I suspect, the wittiest dialogue, or best acting and direction. But it's one of those films that I can just watch again and again. Preferably with a large tub of Ben and Jerrys. Although, these days, it's more likely to be a carrot.

Add to that list of embarrassing but ace films Dirty Dancing, Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion, Bring it On, Save the Last Dance, Bridget Jones, Wimbledon and other such nonsense.

I don't really think of myself as a girlie girl but the above would seem to suggest otherwise. I can explain some of those because I love all that dancing and gymnastics, but I should have put some more cool films on that list. Is the Lost boys more cool? No? It's got Kiefer Sutherland in it, surely that gets some brownie points...

Anyway, I need to get back to Clueless, it's freakin' hilarious. I probably shouldn't say freakin' either. Oh well, who wants to be cool. I'm going in search of the Ben and Jerrys...

More on that story later.

Floaty nonsense dress

2006-08-02T22:36:00.000+01:00

I may have mentioned something about a certain floaty nonsense dress that arrived in my wardrobe courtesy of TK Maxx. Anyway, this is me wearing it before my friend's engagement party. I think it looks pretty cool.

Here are the whole gang of us all dolled up ready for said party, I think we all looked very respectable - but check out John who doesn't possess any trousers apart from jeans. I mean, come on. He still looks quite smart though, although I think HF is distinctly uncomfortable with his wandering hand on his back.

Oh, and here's a pic of a firework I took at a posh garden party thing with opera other music, fireworks and rather sadly, Land of Hope and Glory which makes me want to take a stick to all music making material to just SHUT IT UP. I took about eight pictures, this was the only one which came out. But it is quite pretty.

More on that story later.

Tags: nonsense, dresses, fireworks

Musings on weather

2006-08-02T15:34:00.000+01:00

I've been looking up Thailand weather somewhat obsessively and have been somewhat frustrated by the fact that no-one seems to be able to agree when exactly the wet season is and how much of an effect it will have.

It made me think about the sort of weather expectations a visitor to the UK might have. A guidebook entry might read something like this:

Weather in the UK is divided into roughly four seasons, winter from December to February, spring from March to May, summer from June to August and autumn from September to November, although these dates change widely from year to year and are a subject of dispute.

August tends to be the hottest part of the year, with temperatures reaching usually up to the late 20s. However temperatures as high as 38 have been recorded. Sunshine generally only lasts for a few days at a time, at which point all overweight, middle-aged men start wandering around topless with their guts hanging out and ice cream vans appear on street corners. Many public buildings have no or inadequate air-conditioning and are ill-equipped to deal with the heat.

Spring and autumn tend to be mild but often suffer from heavy downpours, oppressive cloud cover and sometimes quite strong wind. Winter can get pretty cold but apart from in the north, snow is fairly infrequent although families cling on to the illusion of a "white Christmas". When it does snow, you can rest assured that trains will run irregularly, motorways and thoroughfares become clogged and accidents are frequent.

The weather in Britain is most distinctive in it's changeability - a day which starts with a steady downpour can end in sunshine and random rainstorms can be expected at any time of the year. You will be lucky indeed if your trip does not involve at least one day of solid rain and cloud, particularly if you decide to visit Wales. It is advisable to bring an umbrella whenever your trip is.

People in the UK like to talk about the weather and it is an accepted way to start a conversation with a complete stranger. Expect people who are complaining that the sun never shines to moan that it's too hot the following week.

I should point out this is all meant to be light-hearted and I do not intend to insult any particular area or group. I've never been on a trip to Wales when it hasn't rained, mind you.

Anyway, there may be some pictures up later (un-weather related). But there might not.

More on that story later.

Tags: weather, moaning, national obsession

Drunken debauchery

2006-07-31T16:24:00.000+01:00

People react to the imbibing of excessive amounts of alcohol in different ways. With some people it's quite hard to tell if they are drunk.

Some people get a bit quiet and sleepy. Others begin to slur their words and demonstrate a distinct lack of co-ordination. Some get slightly aggressive. Some are just themselves - but more so. It tends to be very hard, for example, to tell if HF is drunk. Because if he thinks he's drunk, he just goes to bed (actually bed to sleep, rather than curling up on the table of a nightclub. That would be pretty obvious).

With me, it's very, very easy to tell if I'm drunk. I have distinct memories of schemes I hatched when half-cut and about 16 to fool my parents. Eating a large bowl of cereal was one - taking a shower (at 12.30am) was another. I'm not sure I fooled anyone. Neither of these, however, was as spectacular as the time when my sister came back from the pub and threw up over the staircase. Which was wooden and had slats between it, through which the vomit began to spill.

So, Frangelita drunk... I become considerably louder, filled with self-confidence, will talk earnestly about the most random of subjects to people I really don't know who I then declare to be the best of friends and ensure that I hug and kiss goodbye at the end of the night, I find it impossible to resist a challenge of any description (eg do a backflip/down that pint/tell that woman you can see her knickers), dance and/or sing with gay abandon (and while I'm convinced my dancing ability improves in this state, I have no such illusions about my singing skills) and generally have a whale of a time. A side effect of the self-confidence is that I am liable to expound loudly and perhaps somewhat dogmatically about things on which I have strong and quite possibly not universally acceptable opinions. For example, I'm quite pro-immigration and feel asylum seekers for the most part get a pretty rough deal. I may also conjure up wild plans for things which will probably never happen.

When I was out with my friends a few weeks ago at a very bad nightclub with some very bad music, one of them asked me if I was on speed. No, no uppers needed, alcohol and good company just seems to trigger a euphoric rush which gives me the energy to keep on dancing long after everyone else is drinking tea and eating toast.

As visitors to my mum's blog may be aware, there was some kind of family party going on at the weekend. I arrived after spending three and a half long, hot hours in traffic and immediately started imbibing Pimms. That ran out before long, so then there was wine. When that became in short supply (many, many hours later), I somehow ended up with a can of stella artois in my hand.

I suspect all the members of my extended family could now corroborate the above description of a merry Frangelita. Strangely enough, they still all seemed quite happy to talk to me the next morning.

Having taken numerous painkillers and endured another three and a half hour drive (really, horrible traffic this weekend), I went to bed on Sunday with a very bad headache. And lots of new family blogs to look up.

More on that story later.

Daydreaming

2006-07-28T11:08:00.000+01:00

Ever since I booked my flights to Thailand my mind is busy processing all the things we should be doing. I keep googling various beauty spots and picking up fabulous images that just make me want to go now!

These are all from Koh Tao, where I think we're going to stay for most of the time. How gorgeous is it? I can't believe I have to wait until October. Want to go now.

Instead, this weekend I get to go to a big family barbecue which could be interesting if the crazy unbearable heat/shocking electrical storms dance continues. I am also expected to sleep in a tent, so am just hoping that it's not pissing it down when we arrive to put it up. I am fairly convinced it won't leak, as I took it to Glastonbury last year where everything flooded - there were people carrying their tents away from newly created flowing rivers - and our little tent stayed water tight.

At least I will be allowed to use indoor washing facilities on this occasion. Well, I think I will, anyway, but who knows.

Things that make me happy

2006-07-24T21:00:00.000+01:00

I'm a pretty happy person, me, so there are quite a few things that make me feel happy and warm inside. Aww. Sickening,no? Anyway, I thought I would list some of them. Being as it's been a while since I did a list.

1.Hugs. You can't beat 'em. I am quite a touchy feely person (not to strangers, though, unless I'm really quite drunk) and there's nothing quite like a hug for a bit of a pick me up. This person gives hugs really rather well...

2. Being an aunty. I love being an aunty, it's ace. Much less messy than being a mum (in more ways than one), plus you get to be the favourite. And no punishing, not your job. My niece is Summer is the most gorgeous, lovely little girl, and she tells me she loves me all the time. Well, I don't see her that often, after all. She can be quite speedy when she spots something she likes the look of, mind you...

3. Friends. I don't think I have to explain this one. I have an ace bunch of friends, some I've known since I was at school, some from university, some picked up along the way. Rather like herpes (no, I never had that). Here are some of the best...

4. Gymnastics. I don't do too much of this these days, being rather larger and older than your average gymnast, but I still love it. Coaching it, watching it, and occasionally *looks away, slightly embarrassed* doing it in inappropriate venues such as nightclubs. I'm no Olga Korbut, but I can still do the splits and the odd flic-flac. If you ask me nicely. This is me back in the day when I was training about eight hours a week - and loving it.

5. Family. This doesn't always make me happy. Sometimes, it makes me really quite mad. But more often than not, good times spent with my family do bring a smile to my face. Plus they're all quite good at hugs too.

Okay there were going to be more pix there, but apparently blogger isn't playing anymore.

6. Finishing stuff. I don't run marathons or anything silly like that, but finishing something off, anything, be it cleaning the bath or writing a story, an exercise class or a book, gives me enormous satisfaction. It's a good feeling.

7. HF. Yep, I'm that soppy. But if he didn't make me happy, why would I want to stay with him? All those people out there with other halves that don't make them happy, maybe you should ask this question.

8. Cooking. I love cooking, it's something about making something from a bunch of things that are okay on their own but when they come together they're amazing.

9. Great music, great books and great films. Without them, life would be a lot less rich and I would probably have a lot less interesting thoughts.

10. Writing. Well, obviously.

A cry for help

2006-07-19T11:14:00.000+01:00

I am calling on all my readers (all three of you) for your assistance in a difficult dilemma.

Okay, I may have slightly overegged that, but the situation is this. I have booked flights to Thailand for the second half of October, where I will be staying with my boyfriend for two weeks. We are planning, for the most part, to sort out our accommodation while we're out there but would quite like to book our first night in Bangkok.

Where should we stay? We are decidedly not rich (I'll play the journalist/archaeologist card one more time here) and I at least am not massively fussy. HF is slightly more so. What I'm after is suggestions for somewhere to stay for approximately three nights, as I anticipate this will be the longest I can take the most polluted city in the world for.

Our requirements are as follows - somewhere reasonably central so that we can get to all the sights without too much difficulty, I'm thinking either Banglamphu or Chinatown or somewhere slightly further from the sites but well linked with the sky trains or what have you. I can stomach a little shabby, but secure, clean and with a separate bathroom which is not home to cockroaches are a minimum of what I need. I also feel a mattress which is sleepable would also be quite vital. I am also keen to be in a location where the famous night markets are within easy access. And the clincher - seeing as it is Bangkok, cheap as chips, I don't want to spend more than £25 per night tops.

I have been reading reviews of a place called Buddy Lodge (was nearly put off by the name) in Khao San Road which sounds pretty good as it's right in the thick of things but a nice "boutique" style place. Any thoughts?

Anyway, leaving Bangkok aside, we are then planning to head south to the Islands for sun, sand and snorkelling. I am reading very mixed reports of what the weather will be like in various places in the second half of October. Is anyone out there familiar enough with all the monsoons to make an educated suggestion? I've got my eye on Koh Tao in the Gulf of Thailand but don't want to go there if it will be too rainy/stormy to enjoy the idyllic, deserted snorkelling.

I realise I am going to get rained on at some point and that's fine, I just want to know that I will be able to get some sun and beach-lying and be able to make boat crossings without fearing for my safety and swimming without risk of drowning. The appeal of Koh Tao is that it's a little bit off the beaten track so you still get quite deserted beaches, views of big lumps of rock in the ocean, and nice foresty mountains to climb.

Any help much appreciated.

More on that story later.

Tags: thailand, holidays, lucky bitch, snorkelling, bangkok, koh tao