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.
Monday, 29 September 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
