After a fabulous week in Portugal (note to self: week is never long enough, three years should just about cover it next time), with The Fisherman, my mum, dad, sister, her husband and my niece, in a fabulous villa, I am back on The Rock again and realising how much I miss living elsewhere. To distract myself from thinking that I perhaps made a mistake by moving back from a city I adored to an island where I feel stifled appoximately four times a week, I will list some stuff instead and think about shoes.
Number of times I compared my tan to The Fisherman's and found mine to be lacking: 8
Number of times I fell out of the rubber ring in the pool: 4
Number of dinners out: 6
Number of BBQs: 1
Number of times I said to The Fisherman, 'But you fish every day, why do you want to go big game fishing/look in a fish market/do something else fish-related': 200
Number of times I have complained about 'post-holiday blues': 2 million
Numbers of surfs: 2
Number of times I thought a Portugese driver was going to deliberately murder me with his scooter in my heap-of-shit hire car: 9
Number of times I crazy-danced to Foo Fighters with my 2 year old niece: 8
Number of times my parents forgot I was 21 and not 8: 15
Number of times I reverted back to my role as 'youngest child': 7
Number of hours I stayed out partying on the night I returned in an attempt to distract myself from the fact that I was back: 24
Number of times I have considered moving back to Brighton and/or going travelling on a prolonged holiday: 86 billion
More cheerful post tomorrow!
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Friday, 10 October 2008
Thursday, 9 October 2008
These are a few of my favourite things...
I have borrowed a meme from Just Me (http://justme-randomramblings.blogspot.com) for today, as I'm feeling uninspired by my own life (the llama/bear hybrid incident has not happened...yet)
Favourite Things in the following Catagories....
CLOTHES SHOP I love, love LOVE all the little shops in the Laines in Brighton...if I had to pick a favourite it would probably be Pink. Or Fashion Temple. Or Smooth Criminal, or JuJu...arghhh too hard!
FURNITURE SHOP I'm not really grown up enough yet for this question, as I still tend to base my furniture choices on what costs the less or can be found in my parent's attic. I do enjoy pressing my nose against the window of Habitat and making wistful keening noises though.
SWEET Has to be the brown and white Guylian shells. I used to live with someone who was Belgian in my first year at Uni and she told me these were 'an abomination against Belgian chocolate'. Fortuneatly for me, I strongly disliked this girl, so her negative opinion only served to reinforce my love for them.
CITY BRIGHTON!! Saw that one coming, didn't you?
DRINK Cider and black (I'm still a student in my head), vodka and redbull and, more embarrassingly, I must confess a secret love of sherry. Every Sunday, my mum has one of those tiny glasses of it, and, despite kicking and screaming against all things parentlike, over the last few years, I have done the same. (Once, when The Fisherman caught me, I had to pretend I was taking it through to my mum, because I was so embarrassed about my old-lady tastes).
When I was a child, my mum used to let me have a sip out of her glass, until one day, when I bit through the glass and a shard went between my teeth and turned my gum yellow. My mum, understandably, said there was no way we were going to A&E because it would involve explaining why I had been allowed to drink sherry at roughly three years of age, and luckily enough for all of us, it turned out fine. I don't remember anything of the incident, but that could be because I was in a toddler-sherry-induced haze.
MUSIC Too much to list! I love the new Razorlight track at the moment though.
TV SERIES Oooh again, a bit too much to list...Desperate Housewives, Teachers, Hustle, Friends...the list goes on. (You can see my tastes are very highbrow)
FILM True Romance, Wayne's World, Football Factory, Rise of the Footsoldier, Pulp Fiction, Love Actually. My tastes range from the extremely violent to the extremely slushy...but I am terrified of horror films and even found Hot Fuzz too scary, pathetic creature that I am.
WORKOUT Ha ha ha ha! Oh, you were serious?!
PASTRIES I'm rather wary of pastries because the flakiness tends to get stuck in my throat and then make me cough involunarily, spluttering little crumbly flakes over everything in sight. This is not, however, anywhere near as impressive as when my dad involuntarily coughed during a sip of espresso in a resturant and splattered the table, wall, and, oh yes, prospective client with hot coffee. So now you know where I get it from.
COFFEE Ah, I didn't even see that coming! Not such a fan (see above) but wouldn't say no to a mocha...I'm more of an Earl Grey tea kind of girl though.
I may come back and update this later...possibly with my review of the steak and ale pie crisps. I know you're on the edge of your seat...
UPDATE:
In a wonderfully serendipitious moment of blogging psychic-ness, the lovely Leonie (sorry if that sounds like some kind of letchy uncle type phrase, I just used it because I have a bizarre need to alliterate as much as possible) (http://www.leoniekate.blogspot.com) has tagged me in the same meme that I borrowed from Justme, but I don't know how to tag or link people - can anyone help me please?!
Favourite Things in the following Catagories....
CLOTHES SHOP I love, love LOVE all the little shops in the Laines in Brighton...if I had to pick a favourite it would probably be Pink. Or Fashion Temple. Or Smooth Criminal, or JuJu...arghhh too hard!
FURNITURE SHOP I'm not really grown up enough yet for this question, as I still tend to base my furniture choices on what costs the less or can be found in my parent's attic. I do enjoy pressing my nose against the window of Habitat and making wistful keening noises though.
SWEET Has to be the brown and white Guylian shells. I used to live with someone who was Belgian in my first year at Uni and she told me these were 'an abomination against Belgian chocolate'. Fortuneatly for me, I strongly disliked this girl, so her negative opinion only served to reinforce my love for them.
CITY BRIGHTON!! Saw that one coming, didn't you?
DRINK Cider and black (I'm still a student in my head), vodka and redbull and, more embarrassingly, I must confess a secret love of sherry. Every Sunday, my mum has one of those tiny glasses of it, and, despite kicking and screaming against all things parentlike, over the last few years, I have done the same. (Once, when The Fisherman caught me, I had to pretend I was taking it through to my mum, because I was so embarrassed about my old-lady tastes).
When I was a child, my mum used to let me have a sip out of her glass, until one day, when I bit through the glass and a shard went between my teeth and turned my gum yellow. My mum, understandably, said there was no way we were going to A&E because it would involve explaining why I had been allowed to drink sherry at roughly three years of age, and luckily enough for all of us, it turned out fine. I don't remember anything of the incident, but that could be because I was in a toddler-sherry-induced haze.
MUSIC Too much to list! I love the new Razorlight track at the moment though.
TV SERIES Oooh again, a bit too much to list...Desperate Housewives, Teachers, Hustle, Friends...the list goes on. (You can see my tastes are very highbrow)
FILM True Romance, Wayne's World, Football Factory, Rise of the Footsoldier, Pulp Fiction, Love Actually. My tastes range from the extremely violent to the extremely slushy...but I am terrified of horror films and even found Hot Fuzz too scary, pathetic creature that I am.
WORKOUT Ha ha ha ha! Oh, you were serious?!
PASTRIES I'm rather wary of pastries because the flakiness tends to get stuck in my throat and then make me cough involunarily, spluttering little crumbly flakes over everything in sight. This is not, however, anywhere near as impressive as when my dad involuntarily coughed during a sip of espresso in a resturant and splattered the table, wall, and, oh yes, prospective client with hot coffee. So now you know where I get it from.
COFFEE Ah, I didn't even see that coming! Not such a fan (see above) but wouldn't say no to a mocha...I'm more of an Earl Grey tea kind of girl though.
I may come back and update this later...possibly with my review of the steak and ale pie crisps. I know you're on the edge of your seat...
UPDATE:
In a wonderfully serendipitious moment of blogging psychic-ness, the lovely Leonie (sorry if that sounds like some kind of letchy uncle type phrase, I just used it because I have a bizarre need to alliterate as much as possible) (http://www.leoniekate.blogspot.com) has tagged me in the same meme that I borrowed from Justme, but I don't know how to tag or link people - can anyone help me please?!
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Missing the Brighton Nights
I am feeling rather sad today because all my friends who are still at uni are posting their photos on Facebook of what looked like a fantastic Freshers Ball. At Sussex Uni, the actual ball is simply a precursor to the amazing, my-favourite-ever-annual-event (excluding Christmas) 'rave in the woods' behind Sussex Uni.
Run by travelling pikeys (may not be politically correct, but that's how one described himself to me when I was nearly savaged by his three-legged dog, an experience I felt was deeply lacking in originality and conforming to the pikey/gypsy stereotype in a rather dull way), it begins at 11pm and goes on until about 11am the next day, with a huge sound system, bonfires, fire poi, mad dancing and a trek across the field to reach the event that is lit only by the faint light of hundreds of people's phones as they attempt to climb a 3 bar gate and stile in complete darkness, aided and abetted by an interesting combination of drugs and alcohol.
This is exactly my kind of event, involving, as it does, dancing, loud music, outdoor drinking, dancing on a small hillock as the sun comes up, meeting enourmous amounts of people under trees in various states of inebriation and not being entirely sure where you know them from when you see them again and the propensity to 'accidentally' stumble into someone you quite fancy. Of course, there is the downside of not ever being able to find the person you fancy because of the amount of people there/complete lack of light/conviction that there are giant luminous rabbits in the trees and also the large amount of mud and bruises from falling over, but these downsides can be easily overlooked. In the years that I attended the rave, I made several lifelong friendships and perfected the art of accidental stumbling.
Now, I am no longer in Brighton, and the rave still continues (obviously I didn't expect it to stop just because I was no longer there to fall off the top of the three bar gate with an embarrassingly loud scream that was instantly muffled by an equally audible squelching noise as the mud claimed another victim) (you'd think after the first time, I'd learn. Pigeons learn faster than me). I am in Guernsey, which is sorely lacking in outdoor events. I am in a serious relationship, and while I am very happy, I feel nostalgic for some accidental stumbling in the dark. While I have a life I am happy with, on days like these I seem to get ambushed by a feeling, which I can only describe as, 'Is this all there is?'
While there are many things I don't miss about being a student (begging the bank for an overdraft extension, the constant ache of missing my boyfriend, buying tins without labels when my money ran out and realising that the tin of tomatoes I had hoped for was actually a tin of stewed pears, which doesn't go so well with pasta and plastic cheese), there are many more that I do. While I don't particularly miss modelling, it seems sad that I don't have the opportunity to do it over here if I wanted to. I miss the live music and gigs, the pier, Concorde II, The Volks, the Laines, the shops, the pubs (especially The Mash Tun, World's End, The Gladstone, The Fishbowl and The Fortune of War), the wide range of people and the random events that constantly used to happen to me. There, anything could - and did - happen. There, my life was ungoverned by anything, here I feel like my path is mapped out ahead of me.
I'm sorry to be melancholy, especially as I have a huge amount to be thankful for, and I'm also a little afraid that now I've said my life is mapped out, I am going to be hit by a huge and hideous surprise. Feel free to share experiences of leaving uni, and cross your fingers that the next time I blog, I won't be describing the experience of being attacked by a huge bear/llama hybrid as punishment for moaning about my life.
In other news, I am loving listopia.co.uk. I have also been musing on buttering the back of one, or both, of my kittens, to see if the rule about toast always landing butter side down and cats always landing on their feet holds true when combined.
Yours, with gratuitous melancholy and nostalgia,
Fishwife
Update: I have just tried the new McCoys Winter Warmer flavour of Lamb and Mint. It is quite nice, but has a tad more mintiness than I would normally consider ideal in a crisp. Tomorrow: steak and ale pie flavour.
Run by travelling pikeys (may not be politically correct, but that's how one described himself to me when I was nearly savaged by his three-legged dog, an experience I felt was deeply lacking in originality and conforming to the pikey/gypsy stereotype in a rather dull way), it begins at 11pm and goes on until about 11am the next day, with a huge sound system, bonfires, fire poi, mad dancing and a trek across the field to reach the event that is lit only by the faint light of hundreds of people's phones as they attempt to climb a 3 bar gate and stile in complete darkness, aided and abetted by an interesting combination of drugs and alcohol.
This is exactly my kind of event, involving, as it does, dancing, loud music, outdoor drinking, dancing on a small hillock as the sun comes up, meeting enourmous amounts of people under trees in various states of inebriation and not being entirely sure where you know them from when you see them again and the propensity to 'accidentally' stumble into someone you quite fancy. Of course, there is the downside of not ever being able to find the person you fancy because of the amount of people there/complete lack of light/conviction that there are giant luminous rabbits in the trees and also the large amount of mud and bruises from falling over, but these downsides can be easily overlooked. In the years that I attended the rave, I made several lifelong friendships and perfected the art of accidental stumbling.
Now, I am no longer in Brighton, and the rave still continues (obviously I didn't expect it to stop just because I was no longer there to fall off the top of the three bar gate with an embarrassingly loud scream that was instantly muffled by an equally audible squelching noise as the mud claimed another victim) (you'd think after the first time, I'd learn. Pigeons learn faster than me). I am in Guernsey, which is sorely lacking in outdoor events. I am in a serious relationship, and while I am very happy, I feel nostalgic for some accidental stumbling in the dark. While I have a life I am happy with, on days like these I seem to get ambushed by a feeling, which I can only describe as, 'Is this all there is?'
While there are many things I don't miss about being a student (begging the bank for an overdraft extension, the constant ache of missing my boyfriend, buying tins without labels when my money ran out and realising that the tin of tomatoes I had hoped for was actually a tin of stewed pears, which doesn't go so well with pasta and plastic cheese), there are many more that I do. While I don't particularly miss modelling, it seems sad that I don't have the opportunity to do it over here if I wanted to. I miss the live music and gigs, the pier, Concorde II, The Volks, the Laines, the shops, the pubs (especially The Mash Tun, World's End, The Gladstone, The Fishbowl and The Fortune of War), the wide range of people and the random events that constantly used to happen to me. There, anything could - and did - happen. There, my life was ungoverned by anything, here I feel like my path is mapped out ahead of me.
I'm sorry to be melancholy, especially as I have a huge amount to be thankful for, and I'm also a little afraid that now I've said my life is mapped out, I am going to be hit by a huge and hideous surprise. Feel free to share experiences of leaving uni, and cross your fingers that the next time I blog, I won't be describing the experience of being attacked by a huge bear/llama hybrid as punishment for moaning about my life.
In other news, I am loving listopia.co.uk. I have also been musing on buttering the back of one, or both, of my kittens, to see if the rule about toast always landing butter side down and cats always landing on their feet holds true when combined.
Yours, with gratuitous melancholy and nostalgia,
Fishwife
Update: I have just tried the new McCoys Winter Warmer flavour of Lamb and Mint. It is quite nice, but has a tad more mintiness than I would normally consider ideal in a crisp. Tomorrow: steak and ale pie flavour.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Lost and found
Today I have so far:
- Slept through my alarm and awoken at 8:55am, meaning that I had all of five minutes to get up, get dressed, moan for at least ten minutes about something (ranges from the weather to my own inability to develop Cheryl Cole's hair overnight), feed the Illegal Kittens and walk to work. Suffice to say, I managed to get the getting up and dressing done, all while moaning about how late I was, which shows time efficiency, I think.
- Realised, at about 11am when my brain was finally kicking into gear, that I have no idea of the whereabouts of my passport and it might be handy to locate it since I'm going to Portugal on Saturday. I contacted my friend, who works at the Passport Office, via the ever-handy medium of Facebook, who cheerfully told me it would cost me £107 to get an emergency one and reminded me to pay with a debit card, to avoid the credit card surcharge. I in turn cheerfully reminded her that there is not a bank in the land stupid enough to give me a credit card, so that shouldn't pose too much of a problem.
- Eaten a bag of Oriental Rib McCoys, absentmindly, while panicking about said passport
- Followed these with some beef flavoured Monster Munch (they're back! *punches air in crisp-related jubilation*) and a chocolate orange bar.
- Driven like a bat out of hell (who's lost it's passport) to my parents house, where I bizarrely found said passport in a bag deep in my old wardrobe that I haven't used for about three years. Since I've definitely used my passport more recently than that, it will remain a mystery, albeit a satisfying one because I got my passport back in the end. I could have made the finding more dramatic (even if it was just to use capital letters, so that it looked like The Finding, but I couldn't be arsed)
- Eaten a slice of homemade chocolate cake pensively, while reflecting on the state of the world in general and the state of my wardobe in particular
- Typed up the cheesiest radio script in the world
- Had a mild argument with The Fisherman, as it transpires he will not be in from Fisherman Land (aka, the sea) until Friday morning, negating his promise to take me out for a pre-holiday dinner on Thursday, with even my threat of kicking the kittens not changing his mind (joke) (I think they would come and kick me back in the night after fashioning eight kitten-sized steel-toe capped boots, because that's the kind of kittens they are).
- Tripped over absolutely nothing on the pavement and staggered embarrassingly, before grinning sheepishly and trying to look dignified at the same time. A dignified sheep...rarely happens, let me tell you.
Things I will do this evening;
- Spend a couple of hours with the Brownie pack I volunteer with (sadly nothing to do with delicious chocolate cake squares) learning about Food and Currencies From Around The World, while fending off requests to go to the toilet every two minutes (from the children, I hasten to add) and minor fights about who is better at plaiting hair
- Make some variety of pasta and eat while watching my DVD of Teachers and musing over the merits of Andrew Lincoln versus Navin Chowdhry
- Try and think of a more interesting blog for tomorrow
Happy Tuesday!
- Slept through my alarm and awoken at 8:55am, meaning that I had all of five minutes to get up, get dressed, moan for at least ten minutes about something (ranges from the weather to my own inability to develop Cheryl Cole's hair overnight), feed the Illegal Kittens and walk to work. Suffice to say, I managed to get the getting up and dressing done, all while moaning about how late I was, which shows time efficiency, I think.
- Realised, at about 11am when my brain was finally kicking into gear, that I have no idea of the whereabouts of my passport and it might be handy to locate it since I'm going to Portugal on Saturday. I contacted my friend, who works at the Passport Office, via the ever-handy medium of Facebook, who cheerfully told me it would cost me £107 to get an emergency one and reminded me to pay with a debit card, to avoid the credit card surcharge. I in turn cheerfully reminded her that there is not a bank in the land stupid enough to give me a credit card, so that shouldn't pose too much of a problem.
- Eaten a bag of Oriental Rib McCoys, absentmindly, while panicking about said passport
- Followed these with some beef flavoured Monster Munch (they're back! *punches air in crisp-related jubilation*) and a chocolate orange bar.
- Driven like a bat out of hell (who's lost it's passport) to my parents house, where I bizarrely found said passport in a bag deep in my old wardrobe that I haven't used for about three years. Since I've definitely used my passport more recently than that, it will remain a mystery, albeit a satisfying one because I got my passport back in the end. I could have made the finding more dramatic (even if it was just to use capital letters, so that it looked like The Finding, but I couldn't be arsed)
- Eaten a slice of homemade chocolate cake pensively, while reflecting on the state of the world in general and the state of my wardobe in particular
- Typed up the cheesiest radio script in the world
- Had a mild argument with The Fisherman, as it transpires he will not be in from Fisherman Land (aka, the sea) until Friday morning, negating his promise to take me out for a pre-holiday dinner on Thursday, with even my threat of kicking the kittens not changing his mind (joke) (I think they would come and kick me back in the night after fashioning eight kitten-sized steel-toe capped boots, because that's the kind of kittens they are).
- Tripped over absolutely nothing on the pavement and staggered embarrassingly, before grinning sheepishly and trying to look dignified at the same time. A dignified sheep...rarely happens, let me tell you.
Things I will do this evening;
- Spend a couple of hours with the Brownie pack I volunteer with (sadly nothing to do with delicious chocolate cake squares) learning about Food and Currencies From Around The World, while fending off requests to go to the toilet every two minutes (from the children, I hasten to add) and minor fights about who is better at plaiting hair
- Make some variety of pasta and eat while watching my DVD of Teachers and musing over the merits of Andrew Lincoln versus Navin Chowdhry
- Try and think of a more interesting blog for tomorrow
Happy Tuesday!
Friday, 3 October 2008
Accidental KitKat Thief?
I think I may (and I stress, 'may') have stolen a Kit Kat. I popped out to get a sandwich at lunch today (warm lamb roll with mint sauce - it was delicious, even somebody baa-ing at me in manner of a small fuzzy lamb didn't in any way diminish my enjoyment, because that's the kind of carnivorous bitch I am) and then stopped off in the corner shop to get some crisps to go with it (Oriental Rib McCoys, since you ask). I got back to my office, devoured my sandwich and, with mint sauce dripping attractively down my chin, reached for my crisps...whereupon, to my suprise, I pulled out a shiny, red, four-fingered Kit Kat.
I have absolutely zero recollection of buying any form of chocolate-based snack and now the rest of my afternoon has been taken up with wondering if I am an accidental snack thief. I can be absent-minded, in a way that I try to think of as endearing but is actually bloody annoying, for me and anyone affected by my lack of short term memory, and it is possible that I could have put it into my bag without really noticing. Not on purpose, obviously, because I've never really been into stealing things, not even when I was a professional Teenager and petty theft went with the territory.
However, it is equally as possible that I paid for the Kit Kat and the mundanity of the act (and also of this post, I'm beginning to realise) escaped me, in the way that I always have to go back and check my hair straighteners/oven/wind-up llama is switched off, because I do it so often, my mind actually blanks the act out. I really hope I did, because otherwise it's just a short step to menopausal kleptomania/forgetfulness that sees women called Doris being publicly shamed for slipping a tin of beans into their handbags, and at 21, I feel a bit young for this yet.
In other news, Guernsey has just scored a point in the living stakes because when I realised I couldn't pay for the aforementioned baa-lamb sandwich because I only had my card and the shop didn't take cards, the guy behind the counter (who said "How-do" to me when I entered the shop, the exoticness of which charmed me greatly, as Guernsey, being as far South as you can get in the UK, never gets Northerners here, because they are too sensible and Northern to be bothered with our fancy Southern ways. And fair play to them), told me that I could come in and pay for my sandwich on Monday instead.
This could have been because I had a red-faced, hiccuping tantrum and rolled around on his shop floor when the sandwich was nearly withheld, but it's hard to tell. (Joke)
So that restored my faith in humanity and the trust of people in others...which is now making me feel even worse about possibly stealing the Kit Kat. Bollocks.
I have absolutely zero recollection of buying any form of chocolate-based snack and now the rest of my afternoon has been taken up with wondering if I am an accidental snack thief. I can be absent-minded, in a way that I try to think of as endearing but is actually bloody annoying, for me and anyone affected by my lack of short term memory, and it is possible that I could have put it into my bag without really noticing. Not on purpose, obviously, because I've never really been into stealing things, not even when I was a professional Teenager and petty theft went with the territory.
However, it is equally as possible that I paid for the Kit Kat and the mundanity of the act (and also of this post, I'm beginning to realise) escaped me, in the way that I always have to go back and check my hair straighteners/oven/wind-up llama is switched off, because I do it so often, my mind actually blanks the act out. I really hope I did, because otherwise it's just a short step to menopausal kleptomania/forgetfulness that sees women called Doris being publicly shamed for slipping a tin of beans into their handbags, and at 21, I feel a bit young for this yet.
In other news, Guernsey has just scored a point in the living stakes because when I realised I couldn't pay for the aforementioned baa-lamb sandwich because I only had my card and the shop didn't take cards, the guy behind the counter (who said "How-do" to me when I entered the shop, the exoticness of which charmed me greatly, as Guernsey, being as far South as you can get in the UK, never gets Northerners here, because they are too sensible and Northern to be bothered with our fancy Southern ways. And fair play to them), told me that I could come in and pay for my sandwich on Monday instead.
This could have been because I had a red-faced, hiccuping tantrum and rolled around on his shop floor when the sandwich was nearly withheld, but it's hard to tell. (Joke)
So that restored my faith in humanity and the trust of people in others...which is now making me feel even worse about possibly stealing the Kit Kat. Bollocks.
Friday Feast again
Appetizer
What was your favorite cartoon when you were a child?
I must confess a special fondness for Top Cat and Road Runner. Recently, the Illegal Kittens have been doing some pretty damn accurate impersonations of the latter when they fall off the edge of the surface by simply refusing to accept that they have reached the end and continuing to walk, cue wide, comedy scared-kitten eyes, bristling fur and a loud thump, followed by two confused expressions on furry faces. Perhaps I should change their moniker from Illegal Kittens to Incredibly Thick Kittens.
Soup
Pretend you are about to get a new pet. Which animal would you pick, and what would you name it?
I would probably get a llama, because I am enamoured with the pointlessness of them, and the way they spit when annoyed, which I wish I could emmulate, but manners stop me. I would probably name it Bert, or Nigel, and get it a lovely shiny lead, which I could lead it around on. If I got another cat, I would definitely name it Chairman Miaow, which I wish I could have done with the previous kittens. I would actually have another cat, just to call it by that name.
Salad
On a scale of 1-10 with 10 being highest, how much do you enjoy getting all dressed up for a special occasion?
10, 10 10! If there was an Olympic sport made out of getting ready, I would bring home the gold medal. A glimmering gold medal that has been getting ready all day, polishing its shiny bits, buffing up its not-so-shiny bits, putting in its chicken fillets, applying the exfoliator and smoothing down its ribbon.
Main Course
What kind of music do you listen to while you drive?
Anything and everything. At the moment, I am particularly favouring 'Waking Up' by Elastica in the mornings. I also LOVE Foreign Beggars, The Beatles, Gabriella Cilmi, Dizzee Rascal, Lethal Bizzle, Feist, Morcheeba and Foo Fighters. My music taste is diverse, to say the least.
Dessert
Do you have any piercings?Piercings I have: Two bars in my tongue, one through the back of my neck.
Piercings I had before work made me take them out: One through my lip. I mean literally, you could see the top of the bar in the top of my bottom lip, and the bottom half through my lower lip line. I LOVED it, because it was quite unusual. Then I sold my soul to the advertising industry and had to remove it.
Piercings I had before I realised they were way too much hassle: Two flesh tunnels, one in each ear, which I used to hang hoops through, in a rather punk-chav way. One scaffold through my ear, which, whenever anyone came within an inch of my ear, caused me to duck away, emitting small, high pitched, bat-like squeaks, such was the pain of it for six months. I spent these six months sleeping only on one side and waking with a cricked neck and aching ear, before I saw sense and removed it. In retrosepect, I think I may be a bit dim for not removing it earlier.
So that's my Feast - happy Friday!
Monday, 29 September 2008
Room 101...
I happened to come across an old episode of Room 101 (the one with Phil Collins on it, who, by the way, looks completely different to how I had him in my head, to the point where I actually thought Paul Merton might have introduced him wrongly. Then I slapped myself mentally across the face and told myself in no uncertain terms to stop being so stupid) and this got me thinking of what I would put into Room 101. This is something I think every time I watch Room 101, and it always makes me want to be famous, just so I could go on it. (And also Secret Millionaire). So, here is my list...
1. Air conditioning. I absolutely loathe and detest air conditioning, to an almost insane level. I'm totally for it in hot countries which necessitate having a force 10 freezing cold blast of air in your face when it's 40 degrees (centigrade) outside but there's just NO NEED for it in Britain. Especially in offices, which is my pet hate. I hate it when you sit at your desk in artificially icy, fridge-like conditions, casually waving hello to that passing polar bear, who's loving his natural habitat recreation, while the sun splits the stones outside. In my local Specsavers, they have it up to such a level that I have to put my coat on when I go in, and if it's winter, I actually start to form icicles. My contact lenses dry out hugely in air conditioning, causing me to blink like a myopic rabbit every two seconds (perhaps that's why they have it in Specsavers? So you buy a pair of expensive designer glasses?) and I think it should be BANNED.
(Paul and the crowd are unanimously with me on this one and it clunks satisfyingly into Room 101, to the accompaniment of cheers from the audience).
2. Baby On Board signs. These are one of my pet hates, closely followed by car stickers (more on that in a minute). I don't understand why you need to tell the world that you are travelling with a baby. It certainly doesn't make me more likely to think, "Hmm, I was going to viciously ram the back of their Range Rover a moment ago, but now I've seen that they're carrying young life, I think I'll hold back, be a bit more careful with the brakes and not try to deliberately concertina my front bonnet into their back bumper. So lucky they've got that sign."
Whenever I bring this up in the pub, someone (usually playing devil's advocate) says, "But I thought it was for the firemen, in case there was an accident?" To this, I put to them that usually firemen (or, indeed, anyone) probably don't need a sign to direct them to the fact that there is a child seat and/or crying child in the car that may need to be rescued. I may be wrong, but I doubt anyone's ever not tried to rescue every passenger in a car because there wasn't an idividual sign-post pointing to their existence.
(Paul puts this one in too. I'm on a roll and try not to look too smug).
3. Bumper stickers. I genuinely don't care if you've been to Disneyland/Majorca/Hell, I don't care if the Sun Says Shit Happens, I don't care if you support the Women's Right To Choose, global warming, recycling or your right to own a pet llama, if your other car is an Bugatti Veyron, if you are a Christian, have a Baby On Board, Can Go From Nought To Bitch In 60 Seconds or have your very own tame squirrel named Dave. I don't need to read your opinions while I am driving, and I DON'T CARE. Also, anyone who has the 'If you can read this, you're driving too close' may have been on the receiving end of me driving incredibly close behind them in order to be deliberately contrary, while scowling viciously and training my tame squirrel to bite your ankles.
(There is a crowd vote on this one and it doesn't go into Room 101. I take it well, but secretly resolve to cover the studio, including audience, in superglue bumper stickers later)
4. The pronounciation of 'H' as 'H-aitch'. I don't know why, but this drives me up the wall, for no discernible reason. It's not like anyone ever mugged me while yelling 'H-aitch! H-aitch!' and I can't think of any other reason why I'd hate it. It does, however, make my skin crawl. This is a subset of my hatred of all bad grammar and spelling, but it would take too long to go into that, and I'd probably spell something wrong, therefore stepping all over my own point.
(Paul says yes because I've hypnotised him by this point with the boredom of my own chatter and the crowd goes wild).
I'm going to stop now, partly because I'm in danger of turning into a grumpy old cow, and partly because I can't stop having imaginary conversations with Paul Merton in my head.
1. Air conditioning. I absolutely loathe and detest air conditioning, to an almost insane level. I'm totally for it in hot countries which necessitate having a force 10 freezing cold blast of air in your face when it's 40 degrees (centigrade) outside but there's just NO NEED for it in Britain. Especially in offices, which is my pet hate. I hate it when you sit at your desk in artificially icy, fridge-like conditions, casually waving hello to that passing polar bear, who's loving his natural habitat recreation, while the sun splits the stones outside. In my local Specsavers, they have it up to such a level that I have to put my coat on when I go in, and if it's winter, I actually start to form icicles. My contact lenses dry out hugely in air conditioning, causing me to blink like a myopic rabbit every two seconds (perhaps that's why they have it in Specsavers? So you buy a pair of expensive designer glasses?) and I think it should be BANNED.
(Paul and the crowd are unanimously with me on this one and it clunks satisfyingly into Room 101, to the accompaniment of cheers from the audience).
2. Baby On Board signs. These are one of my pet hates, closely followed by car stickers (more on that in a minute). I don't understand why you need to tell the world that you are travelling with a baby. It certainly doesn't make me more likely to think, "Hmm, I was going to viciously ram the back of their Range Rover a moment ago, but now I've seen that they're carrying young life, I think I'll hold back, be a bit more careful with the brakes and not try to deliberately concertina my front bonnet into their back bumper. So lucky they've got that sign."
Whenever I bring this up in the pub, someone (usually playing devil's advocate) says, "But I thought it was for the firemen, in case there was an accident?" To this, I put to them that usually firemen (or, indeed, anyone) probably don't need a sign to direct them to the fact that there is a child seat and/or crying child in the car that may need to be rescued. I may be wrong, but I doubt anyone's ever not tried to rescue every passenger in a car because there wasn't an idividual sign-post pointing to their existence.
(Paul puts this one in too. I'm on a roll and try not to look too smug).
3. Bumper stickers. I genuinely don't care if you've been to Disneyland/Majorca/Hell, I don't care if the Sun Says Shit Happens, I don't care if you support the Women's Right To Choose, global warming, recycling or your right to own a pet llama, if your other car is an Bugatti Veyron, if you are a Christian, have a Baby On Board, Can Go From Nought To Bitch In 60 Seconds or have your very own tame squirrel named Dave. I don't need to read your opinions while I am driving, and I DON'T CARE. Also, anyone who has the 'If you can read this, you're driving too close' may have been on the receiving end of me driving incredibly close behind them in order to be deliberately contrary, while scowling viciously and training my tame squirrel to bite your ankles.
(There is a crowd vote on this one and it doesn't go into Room 101. I take it well, but secretly resolve to cover the studio, including audience, in superglue bumper stickers later)
4. The pronounciation of 'H' as 'H-aitch'. I don't know why, but this drives me up the wall, for no discernible reason. It's not like anyone ever mugged me while yelling 'H-aitch! H-aitch!' and I can't think of any other reason why I'd hate it. It does, however, make my skin crawl. This is a subset of my hatred of all bad grammar and spelling, but it would take too long to go into that, and I'd probably spell something wrong, therefore stepping all over my own point.
(Paul says yes because I've hypnotised him by this point with the boredom of my own chatter and the crowd goes wild).
I'm going to stop now, partly because I'm in danger of turning into a grumpy old cow, and partly because I can't stop having imaginary conversations with Paul Merton in my head.
Full scale kitten alert
Yesterday I had a rather lovely day, going on my parent's boat round to Fermain, a small bay, with an amazing gourmet cafe that is frequented by an awful lot of posh people. It was a lovely sunny day, the sea was calm, the views spectacular and my steak sandwich was nothing short of amazing. (It was also a wonderful hangover cure after going out for a 'quiet' drink in my local old-man pub the previous night with two friends and, after numerous pints of cider and black, dodgy shots and even dodgier cocktails, ending up dancing on stage in one of the local dives of a nightclub, but I digress).
I thought to myself as we were on the way back to the harbour, that although having a boyfriend who spends days on end at sea is a complete pain in the arse sometimes, at times like this it was quite handy, as it allows me to have so much more time with my family and and friends. This thought continued through tea with my parents, and then stopped, abruptly on my arrival home.
I walked up the hill to my house, called the Illegal Kittens for their dinner...and only one came. I called again, with some more volume (causing my neighbours in their conservatory to turn up the television, I noticed) and eventually went out onto the terrace to look for her. It was a mild, balmy, Indian summer-type evening and I gazed at the fantastic view of the floodlit castle, the moon dancing on the waves and the lights twinkling on the smaller islands of Herm and Sark. I was just thinking how lucky I was to live in such an idyllic island when it was all interrupted by an incredibly-loud-for-size-of-kitten caterwauling from the roofs below. It was the kind of miaow that said, "I am but a poor kitten, abandoned by my wilful and negligent owner to go on a boat for the whole day and not give me my supper until 9pm. I have now slipped down a crevice due to my reduced size from not being fed and will slowly starve to death unless someone comes to save me NOW."
Overcome with embarrassment at the articulacy of my kitten's miaow, I shouted for her a bit longer, with no results, bar the increased volume of the miaowing, and I realised that my worst fear since living in this house may have been realised. There is a large gap between the rails of our balcony and the roof below, which has roughly a 10-foot drop. The Fisherman and I had reassured ourselves, and each other, that there was no way the kittens could fall down this, partly because I feed them generously and they are becoming distincly barrel-shaped, and partly because, we told ourselves, they're not that stupid. Conveniently overlooking the fact that these were the kittens that, in the previous flat, had both fallen off the work surfaces by simply reaching the end and continuing to walk, before frantically scrabbling in mid-air and dropping to the ground, in a similar way to the Road Runner.
I cursed myself, for allowing this to happen and The Fisherman for not being here to deal with it as well, dragged on my jacket, grabbed a torch and went to look for her. I spent half an hour combing the surrounding area, blatantly trespassing on other people's property, climbing steps, standing on walls and yelling her name, much to the amusment/irritation/confusion of passers-by, guided only by her increasingly frantic miaows, which grew fainter, then eventually died away. Finally, I admitted defeat, headed back to the house and prepared myself to make an incredibly stupid call to the fire brigade.
Upon entering the house, I found both kittens curled up, fast asleep on the window seat. I have no idea why she continued to miaow when she could clearly get herself back up to the house, or where she was, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head that this was an elaborate punishment for not feeding them on time. I was incredibly cross, but couldn't really explain that to either of them, so I called The Fisherman, halfway to France to unload his fish and told him how it was all his fault and I would never forgive him, to which he replied "Oh dear, I have to go now because we have to get the net in." Feeling sufficiently vindicated, I went to bed, but not before giving the kittens a little extra food on the way, just in case the situation arose again. At least it would be easier to rescue them if they were stuck fast in the gap, in future.
I thought to myself as we were on the way back to the harbour, that although having a boyfriend who spends days on end at sea is a complete pain in the arse sometimes, at times like this it was quite handy, as it allows me to have so much more time with my family and and friends. This thought continued through tea with my parents, and then stopped, abruptly on my arrival home.
I walked up the hill to my house, called the Illegal Kittens for their dinner...and only one came. I called again, with some more volume (causing my neighbours in their conservatory to turn up the television, I noticed) and eventually went out onto the terrace to look for her. It was a mild, balmy, Indian summer-type evening and I gazed at the fantastic view of the floodlit castle, the moon dancing on the waves and the lights twinkling on the smaller islands of Herm and Sark. I was just thinking how lucky I was to live in such an idyllic island when it was all interrupted by an incredibly-loud-for-size-of-kitten caterwauling from the roofs below. It was the kind of miaow that said, "I am but a poor kitten, abandoned by my wilful and negligent owner to go on a boat for the whole day and not give me my supper until 9pm. I have now slipped down a crevice due to my reduced size from not being fed and will slowly starve to death unless someone comes to save me NOW."
Overcome with embarrassment at the articulacy of my kitten's miaow, I shouted for her a bit longer, with no results, bar the increased volume of the miaowing, and I realised that my worst fear since living in this house may have been realised. There is a large gap between the rails of our balcony and the roof below, which has roughly a 10-foot drop. The Fisherman and I had reassured ourselves, and each other, that there was no way the kittens could fall down this, partly because I feed them generously and they are becoming distincly barrel-shaped, and partly because, we told ourselves, they're not that stupid. Conveniently overlooking the fact that these were the kittens that, in the previous flat, had both fallen off the work surfaces by simply reaching the end and continuing to walk, before frantically scrabbling in mid-air and dropping to the ground, in a similar way to the Road Runner.
I cursed myself, for allowing this to happen and The Fisherman for not being here to deal with it as well, dragged on my jacket, grabbed a torch and went to look for her. I spent half an hour combing the surrounding area, blatantly trespassing on other people's property, climbing steps, standing on walls and yelling her name, much to the amusment/irritation/confusion of passers-by, guided only by her increasingly frantic miaows, which grew fainter, then eventually died away. Finally, I admitted defeat, headed back to the house and prepared myself to make an incredibly stupid call to the fire brigade.
Upon entering the house, I found both kittens curled up, fast asleep on the window seat. I have no idea why she continued to miaow when she could clearly get herself back up to the house, or where she was, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head that this was an elaborate punishment for not feeding them on time. I was incredibly cross, but couldn't really explain that to either of them, so I called The Fisherman, halfway to France to unload his fish and told him how it was all his fault and I would never forgive him, to which he replied "Oh dear, I have to go now because we have to get the net in." Feeling sufficiently vindicated, I went to bed, but not before giving the kittens a little extra food on the way, just in case the situation arose again. At least it would be easier to rescue them if they were stuck fast in the gap, in future.
Friday, 26 September 2008
Friday Feast
Appetizer
When was the last time you had your hair cut/trimmed?
Argh, waaay too long ago, when I lived in Brighton, City of Fun (I may have added City of Fun myself), when I had my hair cut for free because I was a hair model, and only occasionally had to put up with bizarre, Flock of Seagulls-style haircuts in the name of Art. Now my hair is way too long, an odd colour from being dyed too much and has a few stategically placed hot pink extensions growing out of it with about a foot of root. Mmm, sexy.
Soup
Name one thing you miss about being a child.
The complete lack of responsibility. Having recently moved into my own house, and had to deal with actual grown up things, like buying Hoover bags and looking after two highly illegal kittens, I really miss having everything taken care of for me. I also miss being able to legitimately eat rusks without people laughing at me in the street, and having a full blown, heel-drumming, red-in-the-face, hiccuping tantrum which people will ignore. Doesn't really fly when you're 21.
Salad
Pick one: butter, margarine, olive oil.
Butter, all the way. I hate all that I Can't Believe It's Not Fancy Margarine Dressed Up As Butter, Speadable Crap. I can easily believe it's not butter, because butter is nice and that is not. Wow, I never knew I felt so strongly about butter. Interesting.
Main Course
If you could learn another language, which one would you pick, and why?
I can already speak fairly basic French ("Hello, how are you?" "You look like a guinea pig" etc) but I would love to be able to speak Bengali, or something like that.
Dessert
Finish this sentence: In 5 years I expect to be...
...the size of a house if I continue to feel so strongly about eating butter.
Thursday, 25 September 2008
The first one...
My life so far:
1987 - 2006: Island dweller, teenager, non-fish wife.
2006 - 2008: Brightonite student, (very) part-time model, professional party goer and bad influence.
2008 - : (Unwilling) island dweller, (willing) fish wife.
I will explain.
Up until 2006, I lived in Guernsey, (this is in the Channel Islands. It is nice, if you like that sort of thing), went to school, worked for a (gap) year and generally annoyed the hell out of my parents by flouncing round, slamming doors, constantly protesting that life was 'so unfair' and other characteristics which meant that no one would have been unjustified in labelling me 'Kevin'.
Apart from that I am a girl.
Kevina, then.
Then, in September 2006, to the accompaniment of huge sighs of relief from anyone who had been within the door-slamming vicinity, I took myself off to the University of Sussex, to study English Language, drink lots of cider and attend any party that was going, be it in a ballroom or a squat.
I had a fantastic time, perhaps over-indulged more than was strictly wise, put myself in some fairly idiotic situations (more on that another time), did some (very occasional) modelling, worked in a very dodgy nightclub to top up my meagre funds, met lots of boys and generally had a lovely time.
Then, in August 2007, I met another boy. Not just any boy, The Boy. I met him in Guernsey, where I was home on my summer holidays, giving my liver a chance to breathe between the constant bouts of vodka and cider that it usually experienced, interspersed with regular top ups of Monster Munch. I was not planning to enter into a relationship, or fall in love with a fisherman (hence the title of this blog, obviously), but it happened. I didn't realise I loved him then, but we embarked on a relationship, despite the fact that I don't even like fish, (something which is more of an issue than you'd think), despite the fact that fishermen go away a lot and I don't really like being alone all that much, (pathetic creature that I am), and despite the fact that I had another year at uni and was a confirmed Brightonite, and he had his whole life over here and was a confirmed island lover, and despite all this, all parties concerned were happy.
I returned to university and continued to assault my liver, but somehow it wasn't the same. The parties, clubs and bars seemed to have lost their sparkle, and at first I couldn't work out why. I didn't want to stay out until 6am, chatting up strange (and I mean this in both senses of the word) men, I wanted to be on the phone to The Fisherman. I didn't want to dance on bars, or down 10 (extremely dodgy, student-night specials) tequila shots, I wanted to...well, I still wanted to do that, but with The Fisherman. This seemed bizarre, so I did what I normally do with anything I don't want to confront (university assignments, things that go bump in the night and my irrational fear of midgets) and ignored it, until one day, I realised that I wanted to be with him all the time. One thing led to another, and to cut a long story short, I ended up leaving university and returning to Guernsey, (also known as Alcatraz) (to me, when I'm in a bad mood) to live with The Fisherman and work in a (very cool, actually slightly too cool for me) advertising agency, until one day I realised while I didn't miss many elements of uni (actually doing work, having to speak in lectures and the fact that I couldn't read any textbook without the aid of abut ten dictionaries), I did miss writing. And so this blog was born. (I'm actually a bit disappointed in myself that my boyfriend's profession defines me so much that I am prepared to name my blog after it, but feminism be damned. Also, diary of an advertising account executive would sound dull in the extreme.)
I'm not really expecting anyone to read it, but I think it will be a good outlet for any stresses I may have (like going out with a fisherman - trust me, the smell of fish is not the worst thing. More on this another time as well) and also might make me feel like I actually haven't forgotten how to string a grammatical sentence together. More, maybe later, if I haven't lost my nerve.
1987 - 2006: Island dweller, teenager, non-fish wife.
2006 - 2008: Brightonite student, (very) part-time model, professional party goer and bad influence.
2008 - : (Unwilling) island dweller, (willing) fish wife.
I will explain.
Up until 2006, I lived in Guernsey, (this is in the Channel Islands. It is nice, if you like that sort of thing), went to school, worked for a (gap) year and generally annoyed the hell out of my parents by flouncing round, slamming doors, constantly protesting that life was 'so unfair' and other characteristics which meant that no one would have been unjustified in labelling me 'Kevin'.
Apart from that I am a girl.
Kevina, then.
Then, in September 2006, to the accompaniment of huge sighs of relief from anyone who had been within the door-slamming vicinity, I took myself off to the University of Sussex, to study English Language, drink lots of cider and attend any party that was going, be it in a ballroom or a squat.
I had a fantastic time, perhaps over-indulged more than was strictly wise, put myself in some fairly idiotic situations (more on that another time), did some (very occasional) modelling, worked in a very dodgy nightclub to top up my meagre funds, met lots of boys and generally had a lovely time.
Then, in August 2007, I met another boy. Not just any boy, The Boy. I met him in Guernsey, where I was home on my summer holidays, giving my liver a chance to breathe between the constant bouts of vodka and cider that it usually experienced, interspersed with regular top ups of Monster Munch. I was not planning to enter into a relationship, or fall in love with a fisherman (hence the title of this blog, obviously), but it happened. I didn't realise I loved him then, but we embarked on a relationship, despite the fact that I don't even like fish, (something which is more of an issue than you'd think), despite the fact that fishermen go away a lot and I don't really like being alone all that much, (pathetic creature that I am), and despite the fact that I had another year at uni and was a confirmed Brightonite, and he had his whole life over here and was a confirmed island lover, and despite all this, all parties concerned were happy.
I returned to university and continued to assault my liver, but somehow it wasn't the same. The parties, clubs and bars seemed to have lost their sparkle, and at first I couldn't work out why. I didn't want to stay out until 6am, chatting up strange (and I mean this in both senses of the word) men, I wanted to be on the phone to The Fisherman. I didn't want to dance on bars, or down 10 (extremely dodgy, student-night specials) tequila shots, I wanted to...well, I still wanted to do that, but with The Fisherman. This seemed bizarre, so I did what I normally do with anything I don't want to confront (university assignments, things that go bump in the night and my irrational fear of midgets) and ignored it, until one day, I realised that I wanted to be with him all the time. One thing led to another, and to cut a long story short, I ended up leaving university and returning to Guernsey, (also known as Alcatraz) (to me, when I'm in a bad mood) to live with The Fisherman and work in a (very cool, actually slightly too cool for me) advertising agency, until one day I realised while I didn't miss many elements of uni (actually doing work, having to speak in lectures and the fact that I couldn't read any textbook without the aid of abut ten dictionaries), I did miss writing. And so this blog was born. (I'm actually a bit disappointed in myself that my boyfriend's profession defines me so much that I am prepared to name my blog after it, but feminism be damned. Also, diary of an advertising account executive would sound dull in the extreme.)
I'm not really expecting anyone to read it, but I think it will be a good outlet for any stresses I may have (like going out with a fisherman - trust me, the smell of fish is not the worst thing. More on this another time as well) and also might make me feel like I actually haven't forgotten how to string a grammatical sentence together. More, maybe later, if I haven't lost my nerve.
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