Flying Pink Elephants

Avoiding motorways

2012-01-28T22:12:00.004Z

I never thought I’d live so far away from the town I grew up in. To be fair it’s not really that far away. It’s twenty five minutes on the M25 and M11, but I have a motorway phobia (even stronger than my prawn phobia) and so it seems I spend my whole life avoiding motorways. Therefore, I take the long route, via Woodford, Grange Hill, Chigwell, Hainault, A12 and A127, until I finally reach my home town some forty five minutes to an hour later.
If only I could drive on motorways. My life would be easier, my journeys would be shorter, my petrol bills would be less, but I can’t do it. I find them a terrifying, frightening, fast, confusing, real-life nightmare.
I don’t have a very good sense of direction or quick reflexes, which is a recipe for disaster on such big roads. I have driven on a motorway once, and nearly twice but luckily my future father in law came to my rescue on the nearly second time. It was also the second time he has come to my rescue, the other time being when I was locked out of my flat, but that’s another post.
During my first motorway adventure/nightmare my friend met me at a meeting point and I followed her blue car, with sweaty palms and a racing heart. I pleaded with her to promise me she would not drive too fast, she would always check her mirror to confirm I was right behind her, and she would provide plenty of warning and signalling when changing lanes and directions. It was unfortunately impossible to visit her new home without driving on a motorway, and I decided that at the age of 33 I could no longer avoid travelling on the M25.
“I can do it, I can do it,” I continually repeated to myself and tried to reassure my anxious self during the whole scary experience. We stopped at the toll both to chuck our pound coins in the bucket and she shouted (proudly?) at the toll assistant, “It’s her first time on the M25!” He must have seen my panic stricken, ashen white face, because he shouted at me, “Good luck!” and it was all I could manage to stick my thumb up at him, through my gritted teeth, not trusting my voice to work without concealing just how petrified I was.
But I did it. We were only on the M25 for about ten minutes but it was one of the longest ten minutes of my life.
When we reached my friends house I was so relived and pleased with myself that I could have wept with joy. Until I realised I would have to complete the return journey home ALL ON MY OWN! I spent the entire time at my friend’s house worrying about this.
“It's easy,” friend assured me, explaining very carefully and slowly, as if talking to a small child, which turning to take and which junction to come off at. Guess what? It wasn't easy, I went the wrong way. I panicked, questioned which lane to take for too long, took the wrong lane and the wrong turning and then practically screamed with pure horror that I was driving on the M25 and I had no idea where I was heading. Cars zoomed past me in their confident, cocky, we know where we’re going kind of way. I drove as slow as I dared, holding the steering wheel with trembling hands, peering out of the window and willing a huge flashing neon sign to appear with an arrow and the words: NIKKI! THIS IS THE WAY HOME.
Alas this sign did not appear. But I managed to calm myself, concentrate on the road signs and eventually found the correct way home, with my stomach in knots and my head pounding with fear. I vowed never to drive on the M25 ever again. And I have kept solemnly to my word.
So I gladly take the long way to my parent’s house, to the town I grew up in. I don’t mind that it takes twice as long, sometimes longer. I don’t mind that I drive through many towns, past many parks and buildings and join A roads.
I can do A roads, they’re a welcome pleasure after my M25 disaster, A roads are a dream compared to a motorway. Besides, it’s a great excuse to listen to a whole Wham! or George Michael CD. As if I really need one. But it means I can confidently return to the familiar streets and houses, past the school I grew up in and the park I used to play in, and the pub I used to drink in. Memories always come flooding back, the scenes are always comforting, and I always feel relaxed, even if my throat is sometimes a little sore from singing very loudly. And I’m always happy to see my parents, checking their cupboards and fridge for food in the process, and feeling mighty grateful that I’ve avoided a motorway once again.

What have I been doing?

2012-01-05T14:02:00.006Z

I've been absent from blogger for a little while.
Life has turned a trifle hectic, packed with birthdays, Christmas and celebrating. But I've managed to take a few pictures along the way.

My home made cakes for my 38th birthday and my parents ruby wedding anniversary.

I ventured to France to celebrate a friend's birthday.

Here we are in France, wrapped up in our cosy coats for the winter weather.

We bumped into Minnie Mouse.

Admired the stalls in the market place.

Said hello to the Penguins!

We drooled over the exquisite chocolates.

And lusted over the ornate cakes.

I've also relished in the Christmas festivities in our polka dot home. And this year I decided a ginger bread man would make a suitable fairy.

Happy new year bloggers, I hope you've had a joyful and restful Christmas. Here's to a cracker of a year.
Only nine months until I marry my knight in shining armour. I love a happy ending.

Our Cornish holiday part 5 - The Minack Theatre

2011-11-15T20:07:00.024Z

From 1931 until she died in 1983, The Minack Theatre was planned, built and financed by one determined woman - Rowena Cade. (Click on date tag for more pics!)
It's one of the most amazing places I have ever feasted my eyes on. And it's still a fully functioning, well preserved stage for actors and actresses, in a spectacular setting (weather permitting).

Our Cornish holiday part 4 - Padstow

2011-11-08T21:24:00.003Z

Padstow, a place where you can enjoy a cornish ice-cream perched on the harbour, explore the winding streets, and order fish and chips from a famous chefs highly recommended restaurant.

Our Cornish holiday part 3 - Port Isaac

2011-10-31T17:50:00.011Z

There is popular television program in the UK, Doc Martin, set and recorded in Port Isaac. We visited Port Isaac on our travels, and here are my pictures.

Our Cornish holiday part 2 - things we did

2011-10-19T20:58:00.005+01:00

There was plenty of shopping, in cobbled streets and unusual shops.

A farmers market, to sample local produce and buy cheese and jam and other such delights.

We visited Truro Cathedral.

And the famous author, Daphne Du Maurier's house, she often stayed here whilst writing her best sellers.

And we dined out in restaurants and enjoyed expensive steaks and fresh fish.

Coming soon, a zoo, a cider farm, ports and views and Land End.

Our Cornish holiday - St Ives

2011-10-15T23:00:00.022+01:00

St Ives is a picturesque coast line town, surrounded by stunning Cornish scenes. I recently spent a week in this charming location, in a beach style holiday cottage, with lovely boyfriend and his lovely family.
For your viewing, and my reminiscing, I have decided to upload our holiday pictures over a period of posts.
It was a photographer's haven, picture post card at every corner. Stay tuned for a variety of pictures from our Cornish holiday, and it all began in St Ives.

First post - St Ives.

Our holiday cottage.

Situated near Tee Total Street. Ironically, that's Mark sitting on the wall underneath the street name.

The kitchen. Only sat in once, on our last night, for the biggest Chinese take away in the world. We were too busy eating to take picture of the food, this is the before take away photograph.

One of the three bedrooms, the largest and one of the nicest.

The lounge. Many a night spent in here, relaxing after a hard day's shopping and exploring, drinking wine, reading magazines, watching television, and playing scramble.

The trail to lovely boyfriend's sadly departed mother's memorial bench, the holiday cottage was carefully chosen with the bench in mind.

Sitting on the bench.

On route to the beach, a stone's throw away from our cottage.

Deck chairs on the beach.

Sandcastles.

Pimms o'clock.

Admiring the beach.

Rock climbing.

On the rocks.

Anyone fancy an ice-cream?

Sky is looking moody now, time to head back to the holiday cottage.

Our polka dot home

2011-10-12T20:27:00.004+01:00

Welcome to our home

Home is where the heart is

And where you keep the wine

Time for tea

Dinner time

There must always be flowers in the lounge

Baking cakes

Our engagement cards display

Two heads and Bert

2011-09-15T21:49:00.015+01:00

I’ve changed.
This does not mean I have unexpectedly grown another head on these weary shoulders.
Or I have decided to talk in a deep and gruff voice and call myself Bert.
The changes are smaller, not so noticeable and less significant, than those mentioned above.
The changes, dearest readers, have taken place since the beginning of this blog.
And I would like to take full responsibility of reading and reflecting, and reporting back about this period of time, thereafter named the beginning of this blog.
I have looked back and read in awe, and wondered how on God's earth I summoned the energy and enthusiasm to socialise practically every night.
On regular occasions, to participate in this socialising, I used to board three trains or drive long distances to visit friends, relations and pubs. Spending my hard earned cash on travel cards, petrol and bottles of wine. Often lacking in sleep and energy for my working day ahead.
(Although I must confess, it was also tremendous fun.)
Now, at a time called the present day of this blog, I must admit, I can’t think of anything worse than nearly going out every night.
Okay, sight exaggeration, there are worse things than this, such as, growing another head and talking in a deep and gruff voice and calling myself Bert.
These days, dear Flying Pink Elephants readers, I like to spend my money and time in the local supermarket, buying fresh ingredients and special offers for meals in our red and white polka dot home.
I find myself frequently surfing the web and spending my hard earned cash on items for our red and white home. Heart shaped cake stands and retro cup cake tins (yep, I'm a keen baker now, things have really changed), pretty objects to display, useful gadgets to use. As opposed to my bank balance paying for and causing the dreaded curse of hangovers and tiredness.
Rather than rushing out the door of my office environment, a regular action from my past life, I am usually the person quoting, "Have a nice evening," whilst still frantically typing away at my desk and achieving deadlines and accomplishing projects I once deemed virtually impossible.
My work, my lovely boyfriend, and our little home, are top priorities in my life. But not necessarily in that order.
My pace of life is slower, my to do list is longer, and I would like to point out my life is far more rewarding as a result.
I've realised friends will still talk to me, the world will not stop revolving, if I do not constantly go out and my find my hand attached to a wine glass.
Baking, nesting, relaxing, trying new recipes and entertaining. Oh I love to entertain in our home. I love to dress the oak table and feed friends. I love to stay in! Wow, did you think you'd ever hear me say this, and with such glee?
"Or you could come over, we can watch the X Factor and I can cook," I have found myself repeating recently. The going out verses staying in scenario, three prizes for guessing my preferred option.
Last Saturday my friend agreed to my offer, and I rushed to the local supermarket to purchase sunflowers and food. We had a nice evening, chilling and chatting, surrounded by scented candles and retro tins. Then lovely boyfriend texted me, "We're at the football club, fancy joining us for a drink?"
Lovely friend and I decided after one minute that we would accept lovely boyfriend's request. We swapped make up and complimented each other on our outfits (I immediately changed from lounging gear to going out mode) and we jumped in a cab to join boyfriend and his pals.
We arrived at the football club to discover they had been left in charge, the bar staff had called it a night, and trusted them with the keys to lock the establishment, and not drink all the profits. So we helped ourselves to apple shots and beer, turned the music to a very loud volume, and danced in an animated fashion.
I then found a piece of left over pizza and thought it would be a good idea to pretend the snooker cue was an ice hockey stick, and proceeded to challenge boyfriend to play ice hockey with a pizza slice.
We became rather competitive, smashing snooker cues with cheese and tomato pizza. We cheered loudly and sang rather out of tune to the sounds of the loud radio.
Well, what did you expect readers? Apparently they say, old habits die hard. Maybe I haven't really changed as much as I thought I had?
(I still like to have tremendous fun.)
As the booming X Factor voice often says (love that show, so pleased it's back on our screens), you decide.
Perhaps I've changed in some areas of my life, and not so much in others?
But at least I can safely say, with my hand on my heart, I have not grown two heads and will only answer to the name Bert.
That would be just plain weird.

Coming soon...inside our red and white polka dot home.

Riots

2011-09-06T20:43:00.012+01:00

The London sky was heavy with black smoke. The helicopter circulating above our little flat had interrupted my restless sleep. My sleepy, cautious head, poked itself out of our slash style window, to witness the dark, destructive, world outside.
It's been a month since the London riots, and still the frightening memories are etched in my mind.
The night which shocked London, Britain, and the rest of the world.
I watched the events unfold through the media, the newspapers and television, and from the (I feared, not so safe) environment of our east London home.
With sickening horror I watched youths, the children of our future, many covered in masks and hoodies, but also many loud and proud of the crimes they were committing. Laughing, looting, setting fire to homes and property. How did it all go so wrong?
Revenge, some people said, revenge and resentment for the authorities. And in their young not so innocent minds, the privileged residents of Britain, who had no idea what it was like to live on a council estate, with nothing to look forward to but debt, unemployment, and gang violence.
Through tears in my eyes I followed the story of the young boy from Malaysia. Far away from his family for the grand total of one week, assaulted and then mugged by the very same lad he thought was helping him. How could that lad stoop so low? I was ashamed of my country, deeply disturbed by teenagers who walked our streets.
Arrests were made, court appearances and jail custody reached a record high. Mothers were turning in their sons, a father who lost his own son pleaded on national television for this mindless nightmare to stop.
A Facebook page was set up to help the young Malaysian boy. Decent strangers donated money and posted kind words to aid his recovery, to restore his faith in human nature. Communities took to the street, cleaning and clearing their neighbourhood, bonding and reminding London, Britain, and the rest of the world, that we will not let the minorities win.
Where there is bad, there is also good.
Where there is hopelessness, we must remember there is always hope.
Where there are lives ruined, there are also harsh lessons to be learnt.
I pray I will never see such ghastly events occur again.
Broken Britain is slowly piecing itself back together.

My day off

2011-08-15T22:10:00.006+01:00

The W word

2011-08-08T21:22:00.022+01:00

I am trying my utter hardest not to drive everyone insane (myself included), and I am hoping that I have not failed miserably with my (perhaps feeble) attempts. But it’s just so darn hard not to discuss, plan and fantasise!
I am, dearest readers, referring to my forthcoming wedding. My, or rather our, September 2012 wedding.
I ordered a wedding planner on line, a pretty heart decorated folder with tips and plastic wallets and the all important calendar count down. The girls in the office are brilliant (and patient), they felt my enormous proud pleasure when I unravelled the planner at my desk, and made suitable excited sounds when I showed them my purchase. “It has compartments to keep cut outs from magazines!” Oh yes it does. “Wow, you can store all your phone numbers for all your contacts!” Oh yes I can. Aren’t they great, my work colleagues, relishing in my wedding fever. And this was all before we dined at an Italian restaurant near the office, and a bottle of bubbly was bought with which we toasted my happy announcement.
The next day, after wedding planner arrival and champagne clinking, one of my brilliant work colleagues, and I, joined thousands of others at Wembley stadium for the Take That reunion concert. We were lucky enough to be given free, yep you did hear that correctly, free, tickets from a supplier. (A very, very, rare thing occurred - a perk for our commitment and hard work!)
We had an hour to kill before the famous five were due on stage, so we perched ourselves at the nearest bar, ordered the cheapest wine (the prices were shocking) and began to chat. “Tell me how all the wedding plans are going, have you decided on your colour scheme?” Well, she did ask! Antique pink and country garden roses and romantic candles were discussed, before we danced and sang our hearts out to the sound of Never Forget (maybe work colleague was desperate to forget my wedding chatter), and other huge Take That hits. These were all sang on the entertaining stage with bunnies on roller skates and dragons in carnival costumes. I tried to concentrate on the singing and the outfits, but at the same time I couldn't help imagining a live band, with my father blowing his saxophone, playing to our wedding guests and the reaction it would cause from our wedding audience.
The next weekend, after traipsing around potential wedding venues with my fiancee and parents, and debating budgets over salmon sandwiches and sausage rolls, my cousins held a surprise party for my aunts 50th birthday.
“Show me your ring!” my family cried. “How did he propose?” they enquired. Of course this was all said after my aunts very surprised face entered the private party at her local pub, one must have etiquette at these surprise 50th birthday parties. I was more than delighted to oblige to answering their questions and describing a 16th century manor house and a beamed barn on a farmyard, possible contenders for our big day.
And this was all after my girlie night at our red and white polka dot home, where I provided a selection of cheese, pates and cup cakes, accompanied with ornately decorated serviettes and plastic square plates (trying to be practical and prevent endless washing up). We sat around the oak table delving into wedding magazines and shouting, “Cheers! Congratulations!” to a variety of wines, and then Tia Maria with coffee when we realised we were finding it hard to focus on the magazines and each other.

For my next post, I promise not to mention the W word. Well, ahem, I’ll certainly try folks...

Guess what happened on our holiday?

2011-07-07T11:12:00.012+01:00

We explored the old town in Albufeira, Portugal...

We sunbathed and read books on the beach...

We dined out in restuarants and enjoyed Portugal by night...

And he asked me to marry him! I said yes!

That's what happened on our holiday. And we are now engaged.
I am currently over the moon and on cloud nine.

The sound track of my life

2011-06-09T13:02:00.007+01:00

Can you keep a secret?
If I tell you something, do you promise not to shout it from the rooftop, or, even worse, laugh at me in a foolish manner?
Is your mind now racing ahead, dear readers? Perhaps you’re imagining the weird and wonderful things I could be harping on about today.
Okay, let me put you out of your misery, and also admit, it’s not very interesting, or perhaps not that secretive, come to mention it.
Are you still there?
I hope you haven’t turned on the television set, or made yourself a cup of tea, muttering under your breath, “Par, I’ve got worthwhile things to do with my time, and that doesn’t include the not very interesting or secretive secret from a blog titled Flying Pink Elephants.’
My news, dearest readers, involves a little obsession. Just a teeny, tiny, weeny one. Obsession may even be too dramatic a label. Let’s face it, obsession (other than a perfume by Calvin Klein) is not always a very nice thing.
Don’t fret. I am not obsessed with horrid activities, such as pulling the legs off frogs, or spying on my neighbours and meddling with their lives. Oh no, it’s quite a pleasant one as obsessions go.
My point? My name for this indulgence? Well, it has two names to be precise: George Michael.
You see, I did try to warn you, and I expect by now you are looking at that remote control, or reaching for the kettle switch.
But before you do that, there is a little story regarding this obsession, and it’s called…the sound track of my life.
George once reported in an interview (I have eagerly read and listened to many) that he writes the sound track of many peoples lives.
Including mine.
Especially mine.
I was thinking about this the other day, when I was driving to see my parents from my not so new home. Every Saturday I make myself comfortable in my silver bubble car, and I drive to see my parents. Due to heavy traffic this journey can take up to an hour. Therefore, before I visit my mum and dad for a banana sandwich and a light hearted chat around the kitchen table (whilst flicking through home interior magazines), or a trip to the garden centre to purchase plants for my outside tubs, I stack CDs on the passenger seat to sing along to at my hearts content.
My musical taste? My preferential songs? It’s all about George. And Wham! And for a whole hour I loose myself in lyrics about father figures and careless whispers.
It’s not only a trip to my parents, it’s a trip down memory lane. It’s the sound track of my life.
During certain songs I am immediately transported to a time when I was thirteen. These are the early days from his career and my life. When I was thirteen my parents held a party for me. In a hall, with a DJ. But I was mortified when the DJ’s equipment broke. Never fear, my dear, late brother was there. He rushed home for my record/cassette player and my Wham! tapes. The rest of the party was saved, and about fifty twelve and thirteen year olds boogied the night away to Wham! Rap and other such delights. Oh and we played post mans knock (much to my parents displeasure), after the songs become rather repetitive.
When I hear the guitar strumming away to Faith, I remember discos I danced at in a time when I had no idea what wine tasted like. My biggest interest in life was how high my (very curly, this was the era of the perm) hair could be piled on my head, and how outrageous my earrings could be. I was so excited when my mother finally succumbed to the pressure of holes appearing in my ears, and big gold gaudy earrings could be displayed, or huge glow in the dark hoops. I have four holes in my ears now, and guess what? I never wear earrings. I have no interest in them whatsoever. How times change.
Monkey is one of my favourite songs, for a special reason. I can replay the first time I saw George in concert, with my dear late brother, and he arrived on stage in a cage, to the opening line regarding a monkey on someone’s back.
You can probably understand now, there is another reason why I love George so much. He was my brother’s idol too. I recall vividly the day my bruv picked me up from school, in a green and battered Ford Cortina, and he said in a casual way, “Would you and Tracey like to come to Earls Court?” He then whisked my friend and I to London, trying to calm us down, and spent a long time and probably a lot of cash (which at that tender age did not enter my youthful financially unaware mind) buying us tickets from a greedy, fairly fat, ticket tout. It was one of the best nights of my life.
There have been many other great nights listening to George. At the house by the pylon, whether it was background music to Greek nights or dancing in the loft, everyone would request their favourite George song and I would happily oblige. Cowboys and Angels and Wake Me Up Before You Go Go springs to my mind when I remember those nights on my journey to my parents.
And as a result of these memories, during the journeys to my parents house, I have received rather odd and worrying looks from other drivers at traffic lights. I have then realized I am singing, loudly and hopelessly out of tune, to these familiar words.
I love Saturdays and my journeys back to my parents.
I am also in no doubt that in years to come, I will reminisce of a time when I lived at my first home with my lovely boyfriend. A cosy loving home, surrounded by red and white polka dots, and the most expensive toaster in the world. A time when I travelled for an hour, every Saturday, contently lost in lyrics and memories.
Record players, perms, tacky earrings, hummus and pita bread in pretty china dishes, and dancing in a loft with fabulous, slightly crazy, friends.
And now a home filled with red and white, and heaps of love, hope, and grand plans for the future.
The sound track of my life continues…

Leopards and lions and eagles...and human babies

2011-05-07T23:43:00.008+01:00

Can a leopard change its spots?
Could a lion prevent itself from roaring?
Or an eagle learn to swim?
These are the questions I am asking from within.
In other words, can I hang up my ‘I do not have another (new and innocent) life to be responsible for, and I can go out whenever I choose (within reason) and have a glass of wine or two and stay in bed until late (if I so desire)’ hat?
Other people have accomplished this, why can’t I?
A lot of people managed to do so a long time ago.
And the reason? For worthwhile and fulfilling things, such as having babies and becoming a responsible mother.
There. I have said it. Out loud. I have written the words for all the world to see. Well, maybe not the whole wide world, just the people who care to read the latest developments on Flying Pink Elephants.
Boyfriend and I are discussing becoming parents. Frequently. We have our favourite names, thankfully the same ones, and we fantasise about the parenting skills we will hopefully gain.
He/she/they must have a happy, cherished childhood. They must not be spoilt. But we want to give them everything. Especially love, security, morals, manners, football boots or pretty frocks.
I sometimes gaze at magazines with childrens toys and furnishing. I try to imagine what it would be like to be purchasing them.
I am sometimes lost in my make believe world of childrens parties and baking colourful cup cakes with my future heirs.
Then reality overtakes me.
Am I able to bear children? Can we afford to feed children? Where will we live with children?
Is a one bedroom rented flat, a forty five minute journey from my parents house (let's face it we will need baby sitters and important input from pros) too small and too far? We are supposed to be saving for a mortgage. Can we afford a mortgage and one income?
Maybe it’s time to let nature take its course? Perhaps you can’t plan everything and on some occasions you have to throw caution to the bitter wind and see where this crazy life leads you?
I am terrified about fertility issues. I am petrified about labour pains (I make a big fuss when burning myself on the roast potato tin, which I do far too often). I am full of anguish about a new born life looking up to me and counting on me.
Crikey, not buying a bottle of Pinot Grigio and saying goodbye to self indulgent mornings in bed, are nothing compared to the above.
But the joys and the rewards must surely over take the worries and the concerns.
Or would it be correct to say, the worries and concerns never leave you when you become a parent, just as the joys and rewards must always be there. And phenomenal.
Interesting and life changing times are ahead (fingers and eyes crossed, touch large planks of wood with cautious fingers to not tempt fate) dearest readers.
Plus, I shall be 38 on my next birthday!
Time to grow up and reproduce?
Let's hope so.

Scenes from the bank holiday weekend

2011-04-29T23:08:00.025+01:00

The press pass and the big hole

2011-04-21T12:13:00.005+01:00

I am beginning to think I am a tad accident prone/careless/daft/unfortunate, feel free to choose which one you think best describes my personality.
I have been heavily involved with finding a new printer and mailing house, for the six magazines I am responsible for in my working environment. It would be true to report, I have been rather absorbed and a little obsessed with my recent work load. In my defence, it has been quite a task and a load of pressure, therefore in this case, absorbing and obsessing were permitted. Although I think it’s only fair to inform you, I enjoyed the challenge.
For the past six months I have telephoned, written letters to, and visited new printing factories. I have compared structures and costings and compiled useful spreadsheets. I have arranged internal meetings with colleagues and head’s of departments, and after all this hard work and procedures and evaluations, a new printer and mailing house have been awarded the six magazines I am responsible for.
Here’s where the responsible bit finishes and Nikki’s latest dilemma begins.
But first, let me describe my press pass and visit to Cornwall.
Chief designer and I arranged to press pass the first magazine the new printer would be printing. I know that I am definitely in the middle of the correct career path, because I was a teeny bit excited about this prospect, and more than satisfied with the chosen printer (they print Vogue, amongst other respected and perhaps difficult to please clients).
We reached the executive decision that a four and a half hour train journey was not sensible against a one hour and ten minute flight. We flew. Kind of felt like a mini holiday too. Yeah, kind of. Overnight bag packed, lap top with vital documents to accompany me, we set off.
So far so good.
The flight was officially the quickest flight I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. We arrived at our destination, grabbed a local taxi and checked into our hotel. The hotel was fairly basic but when the company are fitting the bill I do not want to take the pee. We had a pleasant meal, paid for courtesy of the company, and went to bed a reasonable hour for our imperative day ahead, press passing.
The next day began with a greasy English breakfast and a strong cup of coffee. Then lots of hand shaking at the printers and the grand tour of the factory. It still impresses me when I see the vast and expensive machinery (ten million pounds for their latest investment) and all the effort required to print one magazine.
“Goodness, after I design the magazine and send it to you, there are still fifteen hours of plate making and ink changing, and UV varnishing,” the chief designer send in awe.
We saw our front cover and first section in the midst of printing, we colour checked and signed off proofs. Oh the important things I surrender too!
It was a success, the feed back from the office regarding print quality and attention to colour has been well received.
If only I had not lost my keys.
If only I had realised a hole had developed in my bag.
I returned home from my trip, happy, tired, and content.
Until I discovered my two door keys and car key were missing, not to mention my Wham! key ring and my elephant from Thailand. I am sorry to say, I did not realise that a gaping hole had developed in the side compartment of my over night bag.
I have called the hotel, Newquay airport and London Gatwick airport. No joy. No keys. The house keys have been easy and cheap enough to replace. Unfortunately the car key, and the special locking/security function, is not so easy and cheap to replace. Boyfriend has given me another one of his looks. I know, I know, I feel his pain, and it’s worse when you know you have no one else to blame but yourself.
And the unknown and unexpected hole.
So that’s one camera and three keys lost as a result of my printer's visits.
I give up.
However, I must end on a high note, a very, very, exceedingly high note - the insurance company have finally coughed up and in my sight I have…a new Canon EOS camera.
Crikey, I have missed being the owner of a camera.
Dear readers, guess what I shall be doing this weekend?
Expect pictures very soon.

The evening the television did not work

2011-04-12T20:38:00.033+01:00

Arg. The television does not work. You would think normally simple electronic equipment could not cause such stress and concern, wouldn't you?
Alas it is.
I have the flat to myself tonight, boyfriend is football training and girlfriend (that's me folks, in case you had not realised) was looking forward to watching her favourite waste of time, the television. It's the perfect opportunity to loose myself in rubbish reality programmes and wistfully witness cookery shows with the hope of picking up top tips, without fearing I am boring the boyfriend with my choice of viewing.
I hasten to add I have worked late, again. Then walked to Tescos to stare at the Pansies, in the hope of purchasing a few to replace the deflated objects in my tubs. The pesky neighbourhood cat has apparently sat on them and deflated them. I have inside knowledge from the landlord, so I also need pesky pet control things to discourage the culprit. Unfortunately the Pansies in Tescos looked half dead already so I treated myself to a bottle of wine, trudged home, indulged in a bubble bath and put a white wash in the washing machine. And still it's a fairly decent hour to waste time in flat.
Which is why I collapsed on the sofa, in pink luxurious dressing gown and glass of vino in hand, to see what the 42 inch screen was offering me in a way of entertainment.
But I pressed the red power button and nothing but the words 'no signal' could be seen.
Typical.
I decided to press unknown buttons on the remote control, buttons I have never dared press before but have always been curious of their functions.
Sill nothing.
I turned the television on and off again. Well, if it's good enough advice from the IT department in office regarding PC monitor problems, it's good enough for the Samsung screen fixed to my wall.
This did not work.
Nothing left to do but surf the internet and stalk George Michael.
Before you reach for the restraining order and fret about my sanity and George's well being, I must mention we are twitter friends. Along with approximately 90,000 other friends. Hey, what's a number between fan and superstar?
I learnt George is up to his old tricks and teasing us with the title of his new song, dedicated to Prince William and his future bride. As long as I have not missed any other updates. On Sunday he posted a video of himself talking to and playing with his dogs. We got to hear his voice and see his left leg in his checked jim jams. Sunday was a good day.
Next I googled 'door bells.' The door bell is not working again. I have realised dropping the speaker noise thing from a great height is not a wise idea. It's now a silent speaker noise thing. I compared the cheap replacements and made a mental note to discuss with boyfriend upon his return. If I can not be trusted to work the television my own, I fear for my choice in other gadgets for the home.
I have also googled 'cats on your plants' and discovered I am not alone with this problem. I need to spray perfume on plant apparently. Excellent idea, a rather cheap and easy option, therefore I shall use part of my Benefit perfume (gorgeous bottles, it's all about the packaging) or maybe a squirt of Ghost should do the trick?
What next I pondered?
Arr yes, I know the perfect distraction. Last but never least, I have actually saved the best until last.
Blogging. How are you all my long time internet pals? My cyber chums from across the seas. It feels like the old days when I read and wrote regularly.
Blur, Nick, Amel, Kate, Eryl, Mary and Seagrape. I have dipped into your lives with keen interest and now it's back to mine to type the latest extract from my life.
But what's that familiar noise I can hear?
Boyfriend is back.
I interrupted this blog to watch boyfriend try to operate television and I am happy to report, the television is now in full working order.
Guess what technical process was his solution?
He turned it off and on again, as suggested by important IT geeks on various occasions in relation to technology not working, and it, erm, worked.
I am flabbergasted.
"But I tried that," I protested.
He is looking at me with that funny look on his face. The look that reeks, I do worry about you sometimes Nikki.
It's okay I'm used to it. It's quite a frequent look I see from friends, family and boyfriend.
To be honest, I can not blame him for looking at me like that.
I worry about myself sometimes.
Still, I got to blog. So all is not lost.
Now it's time to make an omelet.
Oh and hang the washing out.
What a life.
Until next time.
And any other mini disasters from the world according to me.

Things I am grateful for at this precise moment in time...

2011-03-30T16:27:00.006+01:00

I now live three minutes from the train station. This is a good thing. This means I can spend longer in bed. I am now useless (again) at getting up in the morning. Maybe this is because I now know it only takes three minutes to reach the train station, as opposed to walking seven minutes and waiting for a bus which is a ten/ fifteen minute journey to the station, which is how long it took at my old flat. And that would be if the buses were running to schedule, more often than not they were not.
By the way, these three minutes can be accomplished walking at top speed, wearing flat boots/shoes. In high heels and by a half asleep Nikki, it takes slightly longer. But three to five minutes aint bad!

The pretty pink rose plant on my window sill, which a drunk man at the train station bought me. I was minding my own business and inspecting the flowers at the flower shop one evening, which is attached to the train station, when I spied the pretty pink rose plant. “How much is that?” I asked. “£2.50,” the flower lady replied. I was then very disappointed to learn I did not have any money in my purse. The drunk man, who was buying his wife lilies and at the same time moaning about her, must have seen my disappointed face as he said to the flower lady (in a drunken slurred kind of manner), “Stick those roses on my bill for the young lady over there!” Thank you drunk man at the train station. I've never been bought a plant by a stranger, even if he was under the influence of, and he probably can't remember a darn thing about it. The roses look fine on my window sill.

My new journey to work from the train station has now halved due to my new location. I have therefore gained two extra hours a day, which is ten hours a week, which is the grand total of forty hours a month. This is a very good thing. Half of this time is spent sleeping, and half of this time is spent participating in constructive things, such as moving my body up and down on my cross trainer, or cooking culinary delights in the kitchen.
Twenty extra hours of sleep is marvelous. I am no longer permanently tired. I was tired for two years. I just didn't realise how lethargic/shattered (it ranged from day to day) I was until rewarded with twenty extra hours of sleep per month. Hmmm, funny how I am now worse at getting out of bed, compared to when I existed on such little sleep.

The canteen at work is still free. There was a huge debate about this. We liked our free canteen, we liked the fact we did not have to bring a packed lunch into the office, or remove ourselves from the building to buy unsatisfactory and expensive sandwiches in the town. Oh how we complained on the staff forum. You have taken away many of our benefits, please don't take away our free food! We need the canteen to socialise in, to familiarise ourselves with colleagues, to eat healthy and varied food, so we can work to the best of our abilities and become recognised professionals for a worthy company! Besides, I've seen the budgets and expenditure and I know (luckily) as an Institution they can afford to feed us jacket potatoes and tuna salads. Of course I realise free food is a rarity these days, so I wanted to add it to my grateful list.

The two holidays I have booked for this year. The first one is with lovely boyfriend and we'll be venturing to Portugal. I've never been to Portugal and I am calorie counting (again, I'm now the fattest I've ever been in my life, it must be love), so I will not moan about the size of my thighs when I am lazing on the beach. I refuse to spoil our holiday because I discovered my love for fat chips from the kebab house near our new flat. (But they are heavenly, especially when dipped in burger sauce. Arrg, must stop fantasising about them...!)
The second holiday is with lovely boyfriend's family. We are renting a cottage in Cornwall, one of the prettiest places in England. And the insurance company will hopefully hurry themselves with my camera claim because I am expecting to take breath taking pictures and post them on my blog. This blog is crying out for pictures again. It's far too text heavy these days and full of my woffling drivel.

And for the record, if boyfriend's family were flowers - maybe flowers at the flower shop attached to the train station, where the drunk man bought me a rose plant, and which is now only three minutes from my new house, which takes me less time to travel to the office for my free food - they would be a sunflowers, pink tiger lillies, and tulips.
These are my favourite chosen flowers and are always the ones which grab my attention and I admire grandly.
In other words, I think his family are great, and I could not have chosen nicer people to spend my time with and have fun with, than if I had personally and carefully handpicked them myself.

Grilling mobile phones

2011-03-23T16:46:00.014Z

It could have been worse!
Does this sound familiar to you? Do these particular words form a phrase which you find yourself repeating or agreeing to? No matter what story someone is relaying to you, whether their skin turned a frightening shade of green, or perhaps their dream holiday ended when the aeroplane landed in the middle of the ocean, you sympathise but then repeat or agree, “It could have been worse!”
But in reality, what could be worse than your skin resembling the Incredible Green Hulk, or landing on unknown and unexpected water, en route to your destination? Unless of course, your new green coloured skin contained acid which burnt and decayed your flesh, until all your bones were horrifically protruding and your features were completely destroyed. Or the aeroplane which landed on water burst into flames just as you escaped and remembered that you could not swim. So yes, I guess in this case things could be far, far worse.
What defence mechanisms us humans must have. No matter what life or nature throws at us, we count our blessings and declare we could have been faced with our most disturbing nightmare on earth.
I suppose thinking the worse makes us feel better, grateful even, for small mercies sent from heaven above.
But sometimes maybe it’s a teeny bit annoying? What about those of us who want to feel sorry for ourselves regarding the tale we are telling? We want pity and tea and sympathy. We want someone to throw their arms around us and agree, “That’s terrible, you poor thing!” Yes it may not have been a living nightmare, but hey it was bad enough!
I was thinking about this scenario the other day, and how easy it is for us to imagine worse predicaments than the predicament we find ourselves in. That defence mechanism. And to be honest, personally speaking, when I was in the middle of a rather troublesome time, this rather helped me from going mad. Although afterwards, I must confess, I wasn’t adverse to my audience feeling my anguish and feeling a tiny bit sorry for me. (Okay, I admit it, I wanted them to feel my pain whilst they had merrily spent the day in their happy, safe environment.)
I shall start from the beginning, dear readers. I have a little story to tell you regarding myself, a faulty lock, a mobile phone, and a grill. And last but certainly not least, my boyfriend’s father.
It began as a normal Saturday morning. Boyfriend was due to play football for his local team, and I was cooking him a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and tomatoes, to provide him with protein and energy to run around a football pitch. After eating, I grabbed my mobile. Huh, at least I remembered that, the story of my Saturday could have been a lot worse if I had forgotten my mobile!(See what I mean about this could have been worse dilemma.)I placed my keys in my hands, plonked a hat on my unkempt hair, and my coat tried to disguise the tracksuit which boyfriend always mistakes for my pyjamas, and I drove my boyfriend to meet his football friends.
I then drove home, ready for my Saturday to begin. I had tasks to complete. I needed to clean the flat from top to bottom in preparation for our dinner guests, walk to the shops to purchase the food and drink for the evening, pop into the bank to sort a little financial matter, and then make myself look beautiful (ahem) for our guests, and finally, I had candles to light and chilled music to choose for the CD player. And then nothing else to do but await for the fun to begin.
Yeah, right!
I parked the car, ran up the steps to our home, turned the key in the lock, but nothing. The door would not budge. I tried again. And again. I shook the door. I pushed myself against the door. I took the key out of the lock and tried again. And again.
I began to panic.
I rang the doorbell to the landlords flat, the flat above us. I rang it again. But no answer. I tried the key in the lock again.
Nothing. I was panicking big style now. I had no make up on, what may seem to a passer by as pyjamas, no money, a million things to do, and I could not get into the house.
I called boyfriend.
“I’m locked out!” I screamed. And then guess what happened? My battery ran out. So, I now had no make up on, what may seem to a passer by as pyjamas, no money, a million things to do, I could not get into our house, and to top things off, the battery on my mobile was dead.
Despite screaming at my boyfriend I knew he was probably miles away at this point, stuck on a motorway, trying to reach his football match. Even if he did come back, how could we enter the house? I had reached the conclusion the top lock, which the landlord had never given us a key for, must have locked from the inside.
What else could I do but sit on the steps and panic again?
I had landlords number on my mobile, but the battery was dead, the charger was in the flat, and I could not get into our house!
I then realised how stupid it was that I was the only person who had the landlords number. Not that boyfriend could call me with the number, if he did have it, as my battery was dead, and the charger was in the flat, and I could not get into our house!
I was really panicking.
I could not even walk to the shops to buy tonights food and drink, or sit in one of the many coffee houses sipping a cafe latte and reading a book, as I had no money with me (or a book)! Not to mention no make up, what would seem to a passer by as pyjamas, oh and how could I forget the fact that I had not even brushed my hair that morning, just placed a wholly hat on it to disguise the mess.
Things were bad.
I didn’t even know a neighbour, or have a friend around the corner, whose warm house I could sit in and watch television and eat biscuits until boyfriend came home with money and good ideas. Or the landlord returned from wherever he was.
Things were really bad.
Then, like a knight in shining armour, boyfriend's dad arrived in his car, with a can of oil and a big smile.
“Mark called me and told me what happened!” he said, whilst pouring oil into the lock, convinced that was all was needed.
It didn’t work.
Boyfriend called his dads mobile. “Have you got in yet? Is Nikki okay?”
No.
And no.
I needed the landlords number. I needed that key to the top lock. I needed my mobile phone charger but the charger was in the flat, and I could not get into our house!
Boyfriend then suggested something which could be the solution to the problem. Next, I suggested something which could have been viewed as crazy, but anything was worth a shot.
We decided to grill my mobile phone. Not because we were hungry and thought plastic would taste nice on a piece of toast. We needed a power surge, as suggested by boyfriend, we needed the battery to produce enough energy to display landlords number. We needed to grill my phone, as suggested by yours truly.
Off to boyfriends dads house I went. Shaking my head in disbelief in how my Saturday was turning out.
But guess what? It worked. We felt pretty stupid in the process, but we grilled it (not for too long, a melted mobile would have been useless to the plan) but we managed to turn the phone on and display and write landlord AND landladies numbers.
I called the landlord, apologising profusely for disturbing him at work on a Saturday, and explained I needed a key that I had never been given.
He didn’t have the key that I had never been given. And he was out of the area and would not be back until very late. Horrible images flashed through my mind of hosting my dinner party at boyfriends dads with no make up on, what may seem to a passer by as pyjamas, a wholly hat to disguise my hair, owing boyfriends dad money, and a long wait until landlord came home and then decided we would need to take the front door off because he didn’t have a key either!
I was beginning to suspect everything was hopeless.
Until another suggestion was made. The best suggestion of the day. Landlord told me to knock on the door of the guy who lives in the flat downstairs, because he has spare keys, including the key I was never given!
We got back in the car, this time shaking our heads in relief, and knocked on the door of the guy who lives in the flat downstairs.
He had a key! But you will never guess what happened next. I learnt the guy who lives downstairs is a miserable, rude, and very suspicious man.
Despite telling him my misfortune, and that the landlord had informed me he had a key, and despite offering to call the landlord again whilst we stood on his doorstep, to confirm who I was and that I had permission to use the key, the guy downstairs waved the key around and declared with a red face that he was not giving it to a stranger! (We had never met before.)
I was now feeling very desperate.
I called the landlord again, on boyfriend's dad's mobile, thrust the handset into rude neighbours hand, and pleaded with the guy to speak to him to confirm identification and authority.
Reluctantly he took the mobile, spoke to landlord, tried to trick the landlord with trick questions about my name and address, and then reluctantly shoved the key in my hand.
Thank you Lord! At last.
But then guess what happened?
The key did not work.
I tried not to cry.
I decided to call landlady (on boyfriend's dad's mobile) to see if she had an answer to my problem. In other words, the correct key!
Fifteen minutes later she walked up to the house with a big bag of keys.
“Hopefully one of them will fit!” she nervously said.
Boyfriends dad and I watched with baited breath, hardly daring to move or believe that soon I may be able to walk into my own house!
The door opened on the fifth key.
The landlady explained the inside lock must be faulty and she must remove it.
You're telling me!
Four hours later, four hours behind schedule, my Saturday could finally begin.
I’ve never been so happy to enter our house, to charge my mobile, to put my make up on, and to wash and brush my hair. Not to mention the very quick cleaning I had to do, and running to the shops to hastily buy food and drink, so I could return home to light candles and choose music, and entertain our guests with my story.
Oh how they gasped and giggled when I explained my adventure. But I praised boyfriend for calling his dad, for boyfriends dad driving to assist me, and providing his grill to kick start my mobile telephone.
What would I have done without these actions? I would probably have wandered the lonely streets for tweleve hours, after I was physically removed from a shop after being mistaken for a tramp by an erratic sales assistant. The soles of my shoes would have worn out, exposing my bare skin to the dirty streets, where I would have caught a nasty infection from a diseased dog who decafated on the pavement which I had collapsed on due to no food or water for twelve solid, exhausting, awful, hours.
So yes, in theory, now I come to mention it, I guess you could agree, it could have been worse.

Ode to Blaze

2011-03-03T22:23:00.008Z

I can not remember the first time I saw her. I wish I could.
I wish I could say:
It was an enchanting summer’s evening, the sun was setting the sky on fire, pink blazing colours provided the back drop to her velvety coco eyes and her brindle speckled hair.
But I can not say that, because I would be misleading you, dear readers. And that would not be politically correct. I would like to think that we are friends now, we have known each other for quite a while. And friends should never lie to each other.
So, I have to be truthful, the first time I met her I can not remember. But it probably wasn’t an enchanting evening. In reality it was likely to be as follows:
It was a grey, wet evening, she leapt towards me, damp and smelly, her muddy paws discoloured my attire. And she proceeded to lick me with her death breath.
Yes, that is probably a reasonably accurate encounter of the first time I met her.
Have I mentioned her death breath? Oh no, silly me, I am getting ahead of myself. Of course you are not aware of her hygienically challenged breath. I loved Blaze, I loved her faithful and adoring nature. Alas, with every cloud there is a sliver lining. If I could compare Blaze to a silver lining, her cloud would be her death breath.
I should stop here. I should not make the immediate thing to spring to mind when I mention the name Blaze to be swamp infected breathing.
No, there were so many other wonderful, endearing parts to her nature.
For example, the way she would proudly perch herself on your lap. She would sit, contently panting, absorbing the affection you could not help but feel towards her. Her calming, peaceful aura was guaranteed to put a smile on your face. It did not matter what kind of day you had experienced, whether it was problems at work, despondent relationships, anxiety with financial matters, Blaze would be your guaranteed 'get out' clause. A reason to be cheerful, to feel thankful for small mercies. A friendly lick, a special gaze. One stroke on her prickly perfect hair, and you would know everything would be alright.
There was a time when I thought I had lost her. During one animated evening we were too busy guzzling wine and discussing the meaning of life, that we did not see her slip away.
Panicked, like a crazy woman, I screamed, “Where’s Blaze?!” I ran into the dark night, her name echoing the silent streets, my footsteps pounding on the pavements. My terrified self entered the spooky out of bounds woodlands opposite the house by the pylon. Normally I would never have entered such a place after twilight, I would be too scared of the erie trees and the menacing bushes. But that night I did not care, I had to find Blaze. Had a wicked, monster captured her? Had she fallen, and trapped herself in the evil brambles and the disgusting mud path? I ran, shrieking around the woodland and then back into the house by the pylon, sobbing, desperate, feeling like a mother who had no idea where her child was, or what horrible fate was ahead.
It was okay. One telephone call to our friend Scaggs confirmed she was safe and sound and we had not heard him inform us he would be taking her back to his house.
After that evening I hugged her a little tighter. On top of her head I kissed her in a slightly more passionate fashion. I did not want to ever experience the fear of loosing her again.
However, dearest readers, we all know this is not a perfect world. Loosing loved ones is unfortunately part of life. It’s inevitable. As much as it hurts we must be realistic. Nothing, and nobody, lasts forever.
Not even Blaze.
Sadly she has passed away. To the big doggy heaven in the sky. And heaven is a lucky place to have her.
I can remember the last time I saw her. I'm glad I can.
The last time I saw her may not have been an enchanting summer’s evening, the sun may not have been setting the sky on fire with pink blazing colours. It was new years eve 2010 at my dear friend Sarah's house. I remember her velvety coco eyes and her brindle speckled hair. And I told her I loved her.
And I always will.
This is an ode to Blaze.
And her wonderful death breath.

We've come a long way, baby!

2011-02-13T20:18:00.010Z

It was raining. I was late. I was nervous. A text message beeped on my mobile. I wrestled with my umbrella and bag to read it.
I am at the bar. Glass of wine?
I smiled. He remembered. He remembered my favourite tipple is wine.
Yes please, be there in five.
I hurried along the rain drenched street. I was flustered. I was still nervous. But now I was a little excited too. I could feel the butterflies arriving in my stomach. Hello butterflies, how nice of you to accompany me on my first date.
We met two weeks earlier. He immediately caught my eye when I walked into the room. He had dark blue eyes and a friendly, attractive face. I could not stop myself from staring at him. We smiled at each other and he introduced himself, and he did not leave my side all night. At the end of the night he walked my friend and I to the train station and asked if he could see me again. We exchanged mobile numbers and the following days we texted each other regularly. We discussed our homes, and jobs, our lives. We arranged to meet again.
And two weeks later, I was drizzled with English rain and accompanied with dancing, curious, butterflies.
I opened the door to the bar. My memory had turned hazy. Would I recognise him? I searched the faces at the bar. He later confessed that he too was worried he would not instantly recall me. Two weeks can play devious tricks with one's recognition.
But then I saw him at the bar. He was looking straight at me, and we were both relieved that we remembered!
We greeted each other. He scooped up my wine glass and followed me to a table. Our conversation began. It was as if we’d never been apart. I was relaxed. I was charmed. I was grinning. After five minutes I knew I would not want the night to end.
Within ten minutes I suspected there was something very special about him.
The butterflies had banished. They had stopped dancing and flown away. They knew they didn't need to stick around any longer than necessary. They knew I was confident now. Bye, bye, pretty butterflies.
Next I heard an almighty crash. I realised immediately what it was. Barriers. The barriers I'd carefully built, to protect my battered heart and my frayed sanity, had fallen to the ground. Huge, significant barriers which I'd needed and carried around for so long. They had triumphantly left me too.
And maybe it was my over active imagination but, was that clapping and cheering I could hear, from above his grey flat cap and my carefully retouched blond roots? Was the almighty heaven above applauding us, relieved and satisfied that we had finally met? Two people who were meant to be together.
After fours hours our first date reluctantly ended.
Within ten months we moved into our first home together.
It’s our first year anniversary on Wednesday. We’re going to meet in the same bar we spent our first date in. This time I won’t be bringing any dancing butterflies or gigantic barriers. I will only bring myself, and lots of happy, positive thoughts.
It’s nearly one year on and I find it impossible to imagine a world without him. A time when I didn’t even know he existed.
But maybe I did. Maybe I always knew he existed.
I just had to walk into a room one night and find him.

Missing you

2011-02-06T14:47:00.005Z

I can’t believe I will never see you again.
After everything we have been through together, suddenly it’s over.
So many happy times, so many cherished experiences we have shared.
I thought we’d be together forever.
How naive of me.
I let you slip through my fingers.
How careless of me.
I’m sorry.
I took you for granted.
And now you’re not here and I miss you.
We have watched friends marry.
We walked along the beach together, in the blazing sunshine, engulfed in laughter and pink confetti.
You have been by my side on summer holidays.
We embraced foreign cultures and I indulged in green sparkling cocktails.
We have visited temples and travelled on boats.
I held on to you when my shoe floated away in the dark, murky sea.
I laughed at my misfortune, my habit of loosing things.
But I’m not laughing now I have lost you.
We stood on top of a cliff, watching waves crash against the rocks and the seagulls circulating the moody sky above.
If only I had known it was our last morning together.
Now I am mourning you.
I left you on a train.
In my haste for life I forgot about you.
With the million things swirling around in my head, deadlines and meetings and the promise of chips, I abandoned you.
I hope one day you will learn to forgive me.
I pray you are being cared for with the respect you deserve.
If I could travel back in time I would never make the same mistake again.
If I could do it all again, I promise I would never let you go.
Or leave you under my chair on the 16.02 from Exeter St Davids to London Paddington.
My dear Canon EOS camera, I miss you.

My paper world

2011-01-13T16:27:00.010Z

I am often stroking pieces of paper. I do not have a paper fetish or psychological paper dependency, but I have worked in the publishing industry for more years than I care to count, and you certainly learn a thing or two regarding paper.
Not to mention finding yourself caressing paper and guessing the gsm. I have become quite an expert at this. (Sad but true.)Particularly when an existing paper contract is due to expire, which has been the case in my current position.
At present I deal with the production side of six magazines. That’s six different pagination sizes, five different paper weights, three different publication sizes, and six different schedules. That’s a lot of paper. (I would like to point out we are environmentally friendly too, we have standards and regulations and we frequently recycle.)
And who would have thought you could have so many conversations about paper? Paper Mills, paper prices, paper delivery times, paper service level agreements and paper contracts.
My life recently has been overtaken by paper!
I am organising and attending meetings with paper suppliers. I am comparing costs and colour and weight of paper. I am discussing reels and tonnage and storage. I am compiling spreadsheets with paper deadlines and usage. I am opening packages containing different paper samples.
Now, call me old fashioned but I would rather read and flick through a magazine than turn on a computer and gaze at something on the screen. I still love walking into a newsagents and choosing which magazine to purchase. I like to sit on the train and loose myself in light hearted celebrity gossip and the latest fashion. I like to curl up on the brown leather sofa, with a mug of hot chocolate, and read creative ideas for the home. I like to sit at the oak dining table, eating cheese and biscuits, with the knowledge of a photography inspired magazine.
I want to step away from the computer and step into brightly coloured pages with text and images!
Of course I am aware it's a changing world. Something my company is also keen to address. Our newly designed, flag ship magazine title, is now available on line. With the touch of a button you can zoom into an article or advertisement, or with the touch of another button you can skip an article, and turn the page to the next informative read. That's progress for you!
But personally speaking, I would rather choose hard copy than digital. I want to turn pages with my hands. I want to pop a magazine in my bag or on my brown leather stool to continue reading later.
I guess you could say, I want to continue stroking paper and guessing gsms.
I arranged a paper tender meeting the other day, with a possible potential new paper supplier, and our interim production manager. We had tea and biscuits and important matters to discuss.
Half way through the meeting, after note taking and biscuit crunching, I looked around and suppressed a giggle (I was supposed to be acting professional after all). I tried not to giggle as I realised I was not alone with my paper appreciation and concerns. For there were three grown adults sitting around a table, and each and everyone of us were stroking pieces of paper, with intense and focused looks.
And long may it continue, in my little paper world.

My favourite year...almost

2010-12-29T22:31:00.003Z

Oh life.
You are funny.
You are weird.
Sometimes you are amazing.
Often you are unexpected and unpredictable.
Most days you are beautiful.
Other days you are destructive and devastating.
One day you are my best friend.
And the very next day you are my enemy.
I think I understand you, then you go out of your way to prove me wrong.
How complicated and contradicting you can be.
You have blessed me with the best days of my life.
You have made me feel I can accomplish anything.
I have felt fortunate and lucky and truly privileged.
Then you have the almighty power to crush me.
You have broken me.
Nearly destroyed me.
I have despaired of you and your tragic actions.
How could you have done that to me and those who I love?
What a love and hate relationship we have.
I'm sorry, it's hard to forget sometimes.
In my heart I want to forgive.
I honestly do.
This year you have been kind and generous and thoughtful.
You have answered my prayers.
Finally I have met him.
The one I have always wanted to meet.
I am overjoyed.
I am appreciative.
Grateful.
Blissful.
Happy.
Estactic.
And then, just when I wasn't looking...
You snatched.
You stole.
You took.
You interrupted.
How could you?
Oh life you are bitter sweet.
You introduced me to him.
The one I have always wanted to meet.
For that I want to thank you.
He rocks my world.
But I met him and then you took her.
My nan.
My dear, sweet, kind little nan.
It would have been my favourite year.
Now it has almost been.

The big move

2010-12-22T12:10:00.009Z

Despite my meticulous planning, ever expanding lists, significant deadlines, important time frames and organised manner, things have not, dear readers, gone to plan.
The big move has not been the move I envisioned. One could say, sometimes you can’t plan life. Sometimes life interrupts plans. Or on this occasion, I am pointing my blame finger at the snow.
The snow has rudely interrupted and disrupted. Pretty white stuff which falls from the sky has put me behind schedule. I’m afraid it has to take full responsibility for its selfish actions. It may look nice, apart from when it turns brown, slushy and mushy, it may have the ability to make small children run around throwing it and building things with it, but the UK roads and train timetables can not cope with it.
It has been recorded as the coldest UK December in 100 years, with the heaviest snow fall to match. I did not count on this happening when I arranged the date to collect our new six keys. (One for the front door to the large Edwardian period house, two for the front door to our first floor flat, one extra set for individual purposes.) I did not expect this to happen when I was compiling my lists and planning how many journeys the car would enable us to stack our belongings.
The car had to be abandoned on a friends drive way (it’s still there) due to the unbelievably heavy snow fall in a short space of time, and my wheels slipping and sliding as a result. My bedroom furniture and flat screen television should have moved in by now, but they are still at my old flat. I am alternating between two dresses and one top and one pair of trousers. It’s not ideal.
The first night we spent in our new home should have been organised, settled, domesticated and romantic.
It should have been all these wonderful adjectives rolled into one evening!
In my mind I imagined our new brown leather sofas and zebra print cushions, next to the solid oak dining table, with the red cherry candle lighting the new red place mats, and a delicious and fancy meal cooked by yours truly, accompanied by the forty two inch flat screen television mounted on the wall, showing our favourite comedy programme, adding to our laughter and calm mood. Not forgetting the bottle of champagne we would be sipping, the delicate happy bubbles absorbing the atmosphere.
Damn my mind and its perfections.
Reality was not nearly so.
The first night we spent in our new home began with yours truly dropping the champagne bottle in the street, cutting my lip on the bouncing glass in the process, startled by the sight of my own blood and annoyed at my familiar clumsy trait. Lovely boyfriend was not as concerned as I with regards to the smashed and spilt alcohol. He was suffering from the hangover from hell, the consequence of his office Christmas party the night before, and he was feeling rather vacant and shockingly awful.
We had no saucepans or cooking equipment, or solid oak table to place the new red place mats on, so we ordered an Indian takeaway.
The Indian takeaway which we waited, and waited for, then realised the door bell did not work after the restaurant finally telephoned us with a cold chicken korma and mushroom rice. This was eaten, on our laps, in front of the, very small, portable television which was refusing to show us BBC1.
Tired, and boyfriends hangover wickedly punishing him for drinking cider in a dodgem car, we retired to our air bed.
The air bed which took us half an hour to pump, convincing ourselves it wasn't working and that our new neighbours would hate us for making strange noises the wrong side of midnight. We didn't sleep very well when we finally collapsed onto the air bed, after discovering we should have read the instructions because we were not correctly pumping. It was surprisingly comfortable, although very difficult to remove ourselves from. It was the smoke alarm which kept us awake.
The smoke alarm in the hallway which menacingly beeped every five minutes to announce the battery needed replacing. We couldn't dismantle it as the hallway ceiling is far too high and we were far too small, with nothing to stand on to reach the offending object. So we had to suffer in silence. Or should I say, we had to lay on the air bed, taking it in turns to shout, "That stupid smoke alarm!"
However, dear readers, despite all of this - despite the drama, the complications, the terrible weather conditions, the noisy smoke alarm and the fat lip - on our first night in our new home, I can honestly say, I have never felt happier in my whole entire life.

He finally knows I exist...and he doesn't want me to loose my shoes.

2010-12-03T00:58:00.010Z

He finally knows I exist.
Sort of.
Kind of.
Maybe?
I'd like to think so anyway.
I like to think, for a few, precious moments in his life, he knew my name.
He knew I was a huge fan.
He knew my birthday was just around the corner.
And he...asked me not to loose my shoes.
For all of this, I have to thank my fabulous friend Jamie. Credit where credit is due. If it wasn't for the paper towels around our heads one night, and the dramatic screeching and sliding, to the lyrics of Different Corner, I may have received my little birthday message on a yellow post it note.
I may not have received my birthday message at all!
Heaven forbid.
How different my life could have been.
I will always be eternally grateful to Jamie, paper towels, a Different Corner record cover and a message from Him.
He who now knows I exist.
He whose dulcet tones I have listened to a thousand times.
He who I have bored everyone rigid with a million times.
Yes, Him!
Have you guessed who it is yet?
It's George Michael!
My friend works with someone whose dad is his minder.
He told his colleague how nutty I am about George.
He wrote a message on a yellow post it note and it was passed on to George.
I now have a one hundred percent, genuine, signed birthday message.
From George Michael!
It's written in a blue marker pen, on a Different Corner record cover (without a paper towel in sight).
He finally knows I exist.
Sort of.
Kind of.
Maybe?
I'd definitely like to think so.

Another Royal wedding

2010-11-24T14:21:00.013Z

"Can you remember watching Lady Di and Prince Charles's Wedding?" I asked my work colleague.
"I wasn't even born then," said my work colleague.
Oh.
I laughed.
I sighed.
I must remember how old I am these days. I am no longer considered to be the youngster in the office.
There was a time, when I worked at my first London based publishing house, when I was continually called the youngster and continually bribed with chocolate.
"Oy youngster," the sales manager would cry, "if you go to the shops I'll buy you a Kit Kat." Being too young and greedy to say no, I would often traipse to the shops to purchase my free Kit Kat, and for food supplies for the sales manager and the rest of the office.
If anyone was to say that to me now, I would point out that I am not a youngster and I am far too busy and important to do shop runs. In other words, buzz off and do it yourself you lazy so and so! I'm allowed to say that now I am a curvy, cynical, 37 year old and no longer a skinny, naive, 20 year old. (Although I am not sure how I remained skinny with all those Kit Kats I used to eat.)
But back to the point. And the 1981 Royal Wedding.
"Was the dress really awful then, or was it the awful 80's fashion?" work colleague asked.
"Hmm," I pondered. "The 80's was the decade that fashion forgot, but I don't remember thinking it was terrible. I do remember my mother commenting for all the money the wedding cost, and for all the money the Royal family had access to, she could have chosen a dress where the fabric didn't crease."
Yes, Lady Diana Spencer, soon to be the Princess of Wales, wore a very, very long dress and when she stepped away from her carriage, it was very, very creased. That's what I remember from this 1981 Royal wedding, the most important day of one particular young ladies life.
And to celebrate this wedding my local neighbourhood held a street party. There is a photograph of myself in the family photo album, running excitedly in a blue and white ruffled dress (remember, it was the 80's and blue and white ruffled dresses were all the rage!). It was a good day. There were games, and red, white and blue flags, and cake, and a strong sense of patriotism. Traffic was not allowed to enter the small side street. And it seemed Great Britain was obsessed with the Royal Family and collecting the memorabilia coins and mugs, with the happy faces and names of the happy couple.
They were happy days. Until everyone realised, Diana especially, that her husband was in love with someone else and there were 3 people in their marriage. Even unhappier days were ahead when she tragically lost her life in a car crash in Paris, after being chased and hounded by the paparazzi.
My mother once remarked that people will always remember where they were when they heard Elvis Presley was dead. Incidentally I am not that old (ha, ha), I don't remember hearing Elvis was dead, but there is another picture of me in the family photo album, smiling, and wearing a white hat, and sitting in a caravan site on this fateful day. So that's where I was when it was announced the King of Rock 'n' Roll had died on the toilet.
I do, however (and this is said to be another poingant time in history), recall exactly where I was when I heard Princess Diana was dead. I was in bed, it had been a late night the night before, talking rubbish and drinking wine at a friend's house (I know, this could be any night!). I turned on the television set next to my bed and heard the words, "Diana's body will be flown back from Paris."
I then ran down the stairs screaming,"Princess Di has been killed!"
I'm sure on her wedding day she couldn't possibly have imagined how her life, and what once seemed a fairy tale, would end. Who could have predicted that?
I sincerely wish and hope her son's marriage to be be far happier and successful. And longer.
Her son, the future King of England, has proposed to his girlfriend of nine years. Naturally comparisons have been made with regards to his parent's marriage and this forthcoming occasion. Particularly as Kate, the future Queen of England, is wearing the late Princess Diana's Sapphire and Diamond engagement ring.
Of course life and marriage do not come with guarantees, but it does seem they are happier and more comfortable with each other. And perhaps, in my opinion, far better suited to each other and without the presence of a third party to interrupt, confuse and shatter two people's commitment to each other.
So Royal Wedding fever is sweeping the nation once again.
The newspapers and the television are full of constant wedding speculation and predictions. What will her dress be like? Which V.I.P's will be invited?
And, perhaps more importantly to certain individuals, will it be a public holiday?
The answer to the last question is yes, an official public holiday has been confirmed.
"Brilliant, we get a day off!" I have heard from various reactions.
Congratulation William and Kate.
And thank you for the bank holiday.
I'm looking forward to it already.
I think it's going to another good day.

Guilty as charged

2010-11-12T15:32:00.018Z

Do you suffer from a frequent guilty conscience? Do you often think, “Oh what the heck, I’ll do it!” and promptly feel guilty for doing so?
If you are admitting to feeling this way - welcome to my world!
Actually, apparently, we are not alone in our guilt ridden world. There are others. I was reading about them in Stylist magazine during my long journey home from the office, and trying to ignore the guilty voice reminding me I should be concentrating on my photography course work, not lusting over red sparkly party dresses which I couldn't afford.
According to Stylist, and very much according to my brain, we now live in a guilt zone community, and we have no one to blame but our guilty selves.
There are victims of spending too much time in the office, women who have more career opportunities than ever before, men trying to provide for their family or produce the work of ten men in these difficult financial times. We want to prove ourselves and prevent our businesses from crumbling, but we also feel guilty for not being at home with our loved ones.
We have created a cyber world where we love to Blog, Twitter, Facebook, shop on line and bid on eBay, but feel guilty in the process for not spending enough time in the real world.
Our mobile phones, our Blackberries and iPhones, are glued to our hands and ears, not wanting to miss that important client telephone call or the important friendly text from a friend. If we were to miss the important client telephone call or the important friendly text, how guilty we would feel for not being available twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Even if the permanently-glued-to-our-hands-and ears mobile meant it was interrupting and sacrificing the time we should be doing other things, maybe more constructive things.
Even food is creeping into our guilty calorie counting lives. We have the knowledge of super foods and the fright of diabetes and heart disease. Yet still we indulge in chocolate cake and escape in reality cooking programmes, packed full of sugar and laden with fat.
So thank you Stylist and thank you memory for reminding me of all the guilty pleasures and pains in my life. I was already trying my hardest to ignore my guilty pangs. It's not easy sometimes. I must confess to struggling with this issue.
When I first met lovely boyfriend he couldn't believe what little time I had to myself. "You're never at home, you're always rushing everywhere and seeing everyone, no wonder you're always tired and running out of money."
He had a valid point. But if I didn't constantly arrange and agree to meet friends I would feel guilty for not seeing them or being there for them. On the other hand, arranging and agreeing to constantly go out was exhausting, physically and mentally, not to mention avoiding checking my bank balance to see how much my socialising was costing.
I'm not saying I don't thoroughly enjoy myself amongst friends, that's what makes it so tough, I love being with them. But I knew he was right, I should be going out less, so the next day would not be one big yawn, and I could spend time doing things that needed doing, such as housework and washing and card making and exercising on my cross trainer. The cross trainer I invested in when I cancelled my gym membership. The gym membership I always had good intentions to use but would feel guilty for not using.
Can you see the guilty mine field I am faced with? The guilty battles I torture myself with?
And guess what, all this time I spend with guilt is making me feel guilty for worrying so much and not focusing all this energy towards something else. Something perhaps more positive and worthwhile.
Oh I'm hopeless, aren't I.
I'm guilty as charged.
And don't even get me started on the chips I am about to tuck into, the chips I couldn't resist agreeing to but know I shouldn't be eating as I finally weighed myself today.
In my next life, please can I not feel so guilty.
Or at least make me thin.

'Tis a pity she's a whoare verses a day in the death of Joe Egg

2010-11-10T16:06:00.003Z

Vile creatures and incestuous monsters.
Blood stained, guilty hands.
Tragically stolen and ripped heart.
Mother’s desperation, father’s abandonment.
Dysfunctional body and a childhood lost.
Love sick fool with a poisoned mind.
Trauma swallows laughter.
The bitter sweet taste of life.
Harsh words and destructible emotions.
The final act, the curtain falls.

The ulcer in my eye

2010-10-21T16:04:00.008+01:00

I would not recommend or encourage developing an ulcer in your eye. I will also not pretend that an eye ulcer is anything but an excruciatingly painful experience.
Horse fly reactions are not very pleasant either, not to mention inconvenient when your foot impersonates the size of an elephant on steroids and a basic function, such as walking, is virtually impossible.
In fact, the common cold is sounding more appealing than ever. You sneeze, your bedroom resembles an advertising set for Kleenex, and your nose feels a delicate shade of sensitive red. But at least you can walk. And you can see.
I suffered from an allergic reaction to horse fly (again) a little while ago. My foot blew up like a bruised balloon and I had to sit in bed for two days, eating cheese and watching television, until the swelling subsided and walking became bearable.
Looking back at my two day cheese sit in, this seems a far friendlier alternative to an eye ulcer. At least I could watch Come Dine With Me and read Heat magazine. When one has an ulcer in one’s eye, a bright television set and trashy reading material are practically as painful as placing pins in ones eyeballs.
Last week was a very dark week. Literally. One day my right eye was a little sore, the next day it was horrendously sore. Wincing at sunlight, wearing sunglasses to protect my eye, and feeling very sorry for myself, I visited a London eye hospital.
“How long have you been like this?” was the horrified doctor's reaction when she examined my eye and diagnosed the ulcer.
I was horrified to see her horrified reaction. It was only a little sore the previous day. How terribly and painfully your life can change in a matter of 24 hours.
I was prescribed eye drops by the hour, even through the night, for the next two days and two nights, then every hour for three days and every three hours for three nights, then at intervals throughout the day for the next nine days.
“You’re in for a rough five days and nights,” the slightly annoying and smug doctor warned me.
I bought myself a tuna sandwich to cheer myself up, and went home with my shocking shade of red, swollen, half closed, extremely vunerable, sore eye.
At home I sat in my bedroom, in the dark, wearing my shades, and contemplated what to do for the next fourteen days.
Oh when would the pain stop?
I couldn’t use the Internet because it hurt my eye.
I couldn’t watch the television screen because it hurt my eye.
I couldn’t read a book or a magazine because it hurt my eye.
I couldn’t continue with my photography course work because it hurt my eye.
I couldn’t even sleep because my eye hurt. Not to mention having to attend to it with eye drops every hour to relieve the pain for about a second.
Lovely boyfriend then texted me.
I couldn’t read his text because it hurt my eye.
Lovely boyfriend telephoned.
Lovely boyfriend arrived at my flat with chocolate and sympathy.
At last, something which didn’t hurt my eye! A hug and a packet of minstrels.
Lovely boyfriend had to place the drops in my eye, every hour, on the hour. My disastrous attempts meant wet cheeks and soggy pillows, I couldn’t prise my eye open and squeeze drops in at the same time.
Every single hour, for the next 48 hours, my alarm rang, to remind me it was medication time. Like zombies working the night shift, boyfriend and I turned the alarm off, opened eye, injected into eye, went back to sleep, until the next hour, and so forth and so forth.
By the third night it was every three hours. But this was still too much! I began to pretend I hadn’t heard the alarm and I was sound asleep.
Lovely boyfriend did not fall for my pretend sleep. He also ignored my pitiful pleads of, “Please let me sleep! I can’t do it anymore! I just want to be left alone!”
Lovely boyfriend was looking out for my best interests, but my sleep deprived body was not appreciative at the time.
What a trooper hey. He certainly came to my rescue and aided my recovery.
That was last week and I can laugh at the ordeal now. Time is a great healer, and the bucket loads of liquid which entered my eye. I have firmly placed those dark sinister days, from the dark depths of last week, into my murky past.
So I’m back in the office. It's nice to be somewhere other than my dark bedroom. My eye is still a little sensitive but I’ve booked an eye test for tomorrow and I’m hoping the horrible ulcer has vanished. Gone. Departed from my life and this universe. Never to be seen again. Ever. Amen.
I’m also going to splash out on a pair of trendy frames and allow my eyes a break from my contact lenses.
Take my advise, for I am the voice of eye ulcer knowledge - don’t ever get an ulcer in your eye.
And by the way, why didn't the slightly annoying and smug doctor place an eye patch over the offending problem?
Surely that would have slightly helped the situation?
Just an after thought.

Six impossible things before breakfast

2010-09-22T17:04:00.007+01:00

I’ve never really been one to plan my life. Life, until now, has just kind of happened to me.
I’m brilliant at making plans to see friends, to experience old and new bars and restaurants, to visit places of interest where I can wrap myself in history and record the adventure on my SLR screen.
But as for all the other bits, the important bits you could say, I’ve been a firm believer of living in the moment and I've not thought or planned too far ahead.
I’ve always known there were countries I wanted to visit, and I’m lucky enough to have ventured to my wish list – Mauritius, Maldives, Singapore, Las Vegas, California, San Fransisco, Thailand. My curiosity was killed (no I’m not a cat, merely an expression) and I’ve had some amazing times.
I’ve always known I’ve wanted to work hard and do well in the publishing industry. Again I’ve been fortunate enough to have been employed by some very powerful and interesting companies.
And I’ve always known I’ve wanted to find true love and start a family of my own one day.
Other than that, well, ahem, I’ve just enjoyed myself and tried not to stress too much about life and its outcomes.
Then suddenly I’m 36. (Nearly 37.)
How the heck did that occur?
What happened to my teens, twenties and my early thirties?
Oh hang on, it’s all coming back to me, I was too busy having fun!
Not a bad thing, I know, there are worse things you could be doing with your life.
But where has it got me? A bunch of hilarious memories, a stack of amusing photographs, and a few outrageous stories to tell the grandchildren. That’s where it’s got me. Is that enough? For the first time in my life, I’m worrying. I’m conscious of my age and my place in society.
It's time to plan ahead!
It's time to make plans for the future!
It's time to become ruler of my own destiny!
It’s rather alien to me but I’m rather warming to the idea.
Lovely boyfriend and I are going to live together. I’ve issued my notice to my flat mate. Boyfriend and I have registered with estate agents and together we are stepping onto the property ladder. Farewell renting, it was nice for a while, but I am a grown up now and I am embracing this owning your own property lark. Okay I admit, I'm a tiny bit scared about this commitment thing. Not with lovely boyfriend, he doesn’t scare me at all, far from it, he makes me feel the happiest girl alive and I have no doubts about our relationship and our future. It’s the mortgage I find a tad frightening. But hey, welcome to the real world Nikki. It’s only a small scary percentage, the rest of me can’t wait to own my own home.
So we are planning the area we want to live in, the size house we would be comfortable with, and the amount we can afford to spend on our home. I am also writing lists of items we will need for our home and each month purchases are made.
I don’t think it would surprise you to learn (pink vintage) wine glasses were my first order. I hope my clumsy side does not smash them before we move, they were delicately expensive. I now have boxes in my present loft conversion filled with black and white coffee cups and tea cups, chunky glass pasta jars and retro storage tins. I’ve even bought a vacuum cleaner (it’s pink too, I am so girly sometimes) and a silver gravy boat. And next pay day more items from our list will be crossed off.
We’re also planning our future together. As a couple. A sapphire engagement ring has been discussed, anniversary nights have been planned, a wedding venue has been admired (the castle was not cost effective, you have to be practical too), and children’s names have been chosen.
Websites have been researched and I've enrolled in a course at The Photography Institute, to earn a diploma and hopefully branch out into a hobby turned career, one I could possibly manage around a family.
Phew, who would have predicted that I could make so many plans!
I am making things happen.
I feel like a fully fledged adult.
I know where I’m going and who it’s with.
There’s so much to think about and time spans to be aware of.
But I am relishing in it.
The seemingly impossible has become magnificently possible.
And maybe I'm more prone to planning than I realised?

Dear George (Part two)

2010-09-16T11:18:00.007+01:00

My significant other thinks I am grafting away at my photography course work. He’s watching Arsenal (they’re winning, so he’s happy) but I’m easily distracted (one day I’ll be a professional photographer, so I’ll be happy too) and spherical aberration isn’t doing it for me tonight.
And why the distraction, you may well ask? Well to put it bluntly, the words ‘8 weeks sentence’ are bouncing around in that brain of mine. Lord only knows what it must be like for you.
Allow me to introduce myself, sorry where are my manners? My name is Nikki. I am 36 years old (37 in 6 weeks and 2 days, but who’s counting) and I am a cheese and George Michael fan. No don’t worry, I am not Heather from Eastenders, although my friends love to point out the similarities with the cheese adoration and the musical passion.
Erm, are you still there? I hope you don’t think ‘oh here we go again, another nutter who watches Eastenders and thinks she knows me.’
You would be right though (not about the nutter bit, I hasten to add) I don’t know you. I know that I love listening to Freedom, Everything She Wants, Waiting For The Day, I Knew You Were Waiting For Me, Amazing, etc (just a few of my favourites). I know my house is a happy house when George is singing on my CD player. I know one of my most cherished memories is when my dear late brother took me to my first George Michael concert. And I know that I have watched and read interviews where I have praised your sense of humour and admired your intelligent views and ideas.
I must confess, I have been mocked and congratulated for my George loyalty, and yes I was at your latest (electrifying, if I do say so myself) concert where you thanked your loyal fans (hey, it’s always nice to be appreciated!). I do hope now at a time like this you are taking some kind of comfort from your fans. Although I am sure Kenny and your family and friends support and love would be top of your list right now.
We aren’t given a rule book, are we? We are not born into this world and handed a leather bound book and told, ‘here you are, just consult this book every time you are not sure which path to take or how to behave and cope with certain situations.’ We muddle along, making decisions, sometimes thinking we know best only to find out that perhaps we know diddly squat.
They say it’s all a lesson, a learning curb, it will all make sense one day. I hope it does anyway! I would love it to all fall into place one day.
They say our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall (Confucius) and I am inclined to agree with that one.
We all have the power within us to turn our life around, to fight our demons and become a better person. Of course I realise this is harder for some people than others.
I am not here to judge anyone, to look down on anyone or take the moral high ground and scorn anyone. How could I? I’ve pulled some corkers in my time but I like to think I’ve learnt from them. And I would like to think I could comfort and put a smile on someone’s face if they needed it. Particularly yours. At a time like this.
Take care of yourself George. Be kind to yourself and those who care about you.

PS If you ever feel the urge to write back, my address is at the top of this page. I promise not to be one of these seedy people who contact those dirty newspapers. I would be enormously honoured and you would make this girl immensely happy. Oh well, you can’t blame a girl for trying!

Riding the roller coaster

2010-09-01T12:49:00.009+01:00

Do you ever feel as if you’re riding a roller coaster? A real life, life sized, roller coaster. A journey of thrill seeking highs, deep plunging lows, and twists which have the ability to turn your world upside down.
Sometimes you trundle along nicely but you know it can’t last, you’re questioning what waits ahead of you. You could be faced with something to make you laugh and scream with excitement, you could witness something which makes you shake and gasp in fear.
And you’re painfully aware of the situation, while you're riding high and having the time of your life, someone else could be experiencing an all time low.
Yes it’s the roller coaster of life. It’s full of twists and turns, quiet passengers and loud passengers, tears and laughter.
You may be thinking at one point that you’ve had enough and you want to get off, or you could be thinking you never want it to end.
It’s a life sized roller coaster. And you don’t have to visit the fairground to witness the unpredictable route, the dizzy highs and the unexpected lows.
I’ve been lucky recently, I’ve been high as a kite and enjoying every second. Of course I’ve watched my friends around me and realised some of them have not been so happy, they’ve had a few abrupt stops to deal with. I hope their journey is moving upwards now.
As for me, I’m sorry to say, I’ve been brought down to earth with an enormous, ungracious, bump. I knew it was around the corner, I knew it would happen soon, but it still hurt. Really, really hurt.
My dear nan passed away last Monday. My dear, sweet, kind, frail little nan. Her journey is over.
I will miss her so much but I think she’s in a better and pain free place. It would be selfish to want her to hold on when I know how much she was suffering. She needed her journey to end.
I hope she’s now riding high on that roller coaster in the sky. I hope she's on a far nicer and brighter and comfortable ride. Maybe she’s watching over us? Maybe she's shining brightly over me?
Well if she is, she will surely know how very much she was loved and how sorely she will be missed.
God bless you, my dear sweet little nan.

With love from Greece

2010-08-25T11:02:00.004+01:00

We didn't just play with kittens on our holiday.

We ate in restaurants

and cafes

and we sunbathed on the beach

and admired the windsurfers

and flowers too.

We strolled around Rhodes Town

shopping and stopping to take photographs

and we ate lots of Greek food

and drank lots of cocktails

to finish off the evening.

Ronnie and Roxy

2010-08-18T23:36:00.017+01:00

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when we met them. They were sprawled on the sun loungers, shading themselves from the intense Greek sunshine and yawning from the heat.
We were escaping to the beach, to feel the sea breeze on our pale English skin. Gold bag brimming with sun hats, beach towels and sun tan lotion. We stopped to say hello. They looked so content, underneath the faded yellow umbrella, watching the children splashing around in the pool. We hoped to see them again, when the sun was setting and we were ready to return to our apartment.
We saw them every day after our first encounter by the swimming pool. They were timid at first, unsure of us and our enthusiastic introductions. But as each day passed their inhibitions melted away and they became friendly and playful, reacting to our happy sun kissed faces.
They watched us drinking pink cocktails on our balcony, and they ran around the stained wooden table while we danced to the sounds from our portable CD player. We invented ball games to keep them entertained, and each night we waved good night to them before we retired to our air conditioned bedroom. We would collapse on the cool white linen sheets, exhausted from our days spent gazing at the sun and running into the sea, and our evenings spent eating platefuls of feta cheese and bowls of moussaka.
We were sad when seven days later we had to say good bye to them. Our summer holiday was nearly over.
During our last evening we drank tall glasses of tomato juice and took photographs for our memories. Memories to cherish, happy memories of the friends we met in Rhodes.
We named them Ronnie and Roxy. We were not sure of their real names, but we wanted to affectionately call them something. I think they liked the names we gave them.
If you ever visit the Solemar Hotel in Ixia you will probably find them by the swimming pool, sheltering from the heat. They have bright green eyes and ginger speckled hair. And they will probably be eating cockroaches.
If you do see them, could you tell them Nikki and Mark said hello?

Roxy

Ronnie

Ronnie

Roxy

Roxy

Ronnie and Roxie

Breaking legs and flying areoplanes

2010-07-29T12:08:00.009+01:00

Today I wished a broken leg upon my best friend. I actually recited the words, "I hope you break a leg."
Are you appalled by my cruel behaviour? Perhaps you are questioning the circumstances behind the statement which has caused such a dramatic response from myself?
Or, dear readers, you may be wise in your show biz knowledge and realise I am wishing her good luck.
It is considered bad luck in the performing arts to wish someone good luck. It is safer, superstitiously, to wish them a broken leg.
So that’s what I have done. I have not argued with my best friend, she has not carried out a despicable act and so I wished her bones to break as a consequence. She is an actress and I repeated a theatrical quote.
Tonight is the opening night for her theatre groups adaptation of Shakespeares Midsummer's Night Dream. I shall be spectating with my mother and my friends son and parents, and I’m rather looking forward to it.
However, I have seen this play once before, Tuesday evening to be exact. I watched the dress rehearsal at a local school, clicking away on my camera to capture expressions and scenes for the theatre foyer. I tried not to listen too attentively to the words, but concentrated on facial expressions and poignant positions.
Last night lovely boyfriend and I arranged and stuck the photographs in the foyer, for all visitors and performers to see. I was too small to reach the boards so reinforcement was needed. What a team! We then drove home to open a bottle of Pinot Grigio and discuss our forthcoming holiday.
We’re flying to the Greek island of Rhodes on Saturday. To say I am excited would be describing my emotions mildly. I can’t wait! Two more days to go!
I shall leave you with my theatre photographs, and next time I post I shall be showing off my holiday snaps.
Until we meet again, dearers readers.
Bon Voyage, if you too are holidaying soon.
Or, to any actors or actresses out there, break a leg! As they say in show biz!

Actress

Actor

Wake up! There's supposed to be a dress rehearsal

Why is everyone looking at me?

I wish you'd stop shining that torch in my eyes

Scrambled Fridays

2010-07-22T15:20:00.008+01:00

I breezed into the office, humming a tune to myself, dressed in my long summer dress, with over sized sunglasses perched on top of my head.
“You’re always so happy,” said colleague, as I placed my big gold bag on my desk.
“Well it’s Friday and it’s scrambled eggs day,” said I.
For me that was two very good reasons to be happy. I love Fridays and I love scrambled eggs.
On Friday the staff canteen offers scrambled eggs with the breakfast menu. Monday to Thursday it’s fried eggs. I adore scrambled eggs, on toast, with splashes of tomato ketchup. So how could I not be happy on this particular day?
But it’s not just Fridays eggs which make me happy. Lots of things put a smile on my face. It doesn’t have to be anything huge or life changing, sometimes it really is the small stuff that counts.
I’m not saying I’m super human and I walk around with a permanent beam attached to my face, thanking and praising every little thing I see or do. That would be slightly annoying to do and watch. I have my moments when I may moan about the unreliable circle line (I seem to waste most of my time waiting for this train!) or an unsightly spot on my chin (I’m 36, why do I still get spots?!). But generally, I think I have a pretty healthy attitude towards life, and I appreciate and enjoy many things in my life.
I have a wonderful, caring, and supportive family, the best friends ever to laugh with and talk to, and I have finally met a man who is everything I could have wished for. I like my job, my finances have improved vastly, I receive enormous pleasure from my hobbies - photography, reading, card making and blogging. Plus I am flying to Rhodes next week with lovely boyfriend, and I know we’ll have a blast. So how could I not feel blessed?
But it’s also the small stuff which makes me grin.
It’s watching my new orchid plant blossom.
It’s admiring the blue sky above that us Brits are finally witnessing.
It's an early night with freshly washed bed linen.
It’s walking into a shop and hearing a George Michael song.
It’s hearing those precious three words, "I love you."
It’s a slab of very strong cheese and a glass of chilled wine.
It’s also Fridays and scrambled eggs.

The physic octopus

2010-07-15T13:13:00.005+01:00

His eight arms trawl the seabed, feeling their way through the particles that stand around him.
His defence mechanism is ready to eject black ink, should he need to escape or protect himself from predators.
His camouflage is aided by specialised skin cells which are able to change colour and reflectiveness.
His keen eye sight and his excellently equipped suction cups make him alert and acutely aware of his surroundings.
But he is not an ordinary octopus.
He is special.
This octopus has special powers.
Powers which are above the limit of other, normal, octopuses.
His name is Paul and he is a physic octopus.
He predicts the future, or more to the point, the results for football matches.
He is tempted and tantalised by mussels.
He chooses his mussels wisely, for they hold the future and the fortune for the 2010 World Cup players.
He predicts outcomes and he is mocked and he is envied for his predictions.
He has correctly chosen his mussels and their consequences.
His success rate is one hundred per cent.
He is now ready to conquer the world.
He will predict great and wonderful things ahead.
What would you like Paul the physic octopus to predict for you?

And now for something completely different

2010-07-02T10:54:00.004+01:00

Food.
It’s something we all have to eat!
Some people eat more food than other people.
There are lots of different types of food.
I love food.
Food plays a major part in my life.
To me, it’s not just energy and vitamins, it’s enjoyment.
I love cooking food.
I love dining out and choosing food.
I love eating food.
It’s nice to have someone to cook for.
When I was living the single life and flat mate and I were eating at different time slots, it seemed an unnecessary and time consuming hassle to use pots and pans and cook elaborate ingredients just for one person. So I ate a lot of soup, and ready made salads and pasta dishes.
But I missed cooking for other people.
Now I have lovely boyfriend to cook for.
I’m experimenting with food again.
I am loving using pots and pans and cooking elaborate ingredients for him, for us.
It’s nice to dine out together too.
It can work out a little pricey to visit restaurants, but with the help of downloading vouchers from the Internet and going easy on expensive wine, it doesn’t have to cost a fortune.
Last night we ate in a local Greek restaurant. We chose a meze and the food was delicious (no vouchers but only one glass of house wine). Taramosalata, hummus, tzatziki, pita bread, white bait, calamari, halloumi, stuffed vine leaves, Greek sausage, Greek salad, rice, and a fine selection of meat. Are you salivating? I am, just remembering it!
And the night before last I cooked for lovely boyfriend. Scallops in a white wine sauce, with creamy mash and herbs, Mediterranean vegetables and a succulent corn on the cob. With a smoothie for dessert and a glass of Pinot Grigio.
Food.
Isn’t it great.
Aren’t we lucky to be surrounded by it.
To enjoy it.
To learn about it.
To feature it in our lives.
I’m thinking about tonight’s dinner already.
Bon Appetit!

Tulips were bought for me whilst purchasing ingredients at the supermarket.

Dinner time!

Now where did I put my glass of wine?

What a difference 100 years makes

2010-06-22T15:21:00.004+01:00

I was travelling on the train, reading my newspaper, when I nearly choked on my cereal bar.
The words:'The finest exposition of scientific football ever witnessed here’ were the culprits who caused this choking sensation.
I was confused. Was I still dreaming? Perhaps I was in the midst of a deep sleep underneath my purple and cream duvet?
But I was sure I’d begrudgingly left my bed this morning and made my way to work.
No, I was positive I was awake.
The unfortunate choking moment and the gentle snores from the man to my left were only too apparent. Perhaps the man to my left was dreaming, but I was very much in the real world, sitting on the train and reading my newspaper.
So why was I so dumbfounded to read these words? Why had they caused such a dramatic reaction?
Because they were referring to the England football team!
Yes dear readers, it’s the 2010 World Cup. Whether you are a football fan or not, there is no escape from the commentary, the headlines, and the complaints about the noise level created from the Vuvuzelas.
England are two games down, with everything to play for in their third.
And it’s with a heavy heart I have to admit the English football team are playing disappointingly rubbish.
Oh how the fans have turned on them! After their shockingly weak game last Friday, I regret to inform you, the team were booed off the pitch. Oh how the fans take it all very seriously! And some might say, rightly so. It costs a lot of money for an English fan to fly to and stay in South Africa. No doubt lots of savings and sacrifices have been made. Which is why tempers are up and morale is down. The fans can’t understand how talented men, earning enormous amounts of money and living lifestyles which most people could not imagine in a million years, with their country backing them and rooting for them, could play with such lack of interest.
Therefore the words I read in my newspaper, and I quote: 'The finest exposition of scientific football ever witnessed here’ hit a very raw nerve. Not to mention the pieces of nuts and raisins which spluttered out of my mouth and hit the seat in front of me.
I was feeling slightly embarrassed about my cereal bar spillage. And very confused about the words I had read.
Until reality suddenly dawned on me.
The words were now making perfect sense.
The newspaper article was written regarding the 1910 English football team. Apparently they won every game they played and notched up 143 goals in just 23 games.
Wow, that is something to be proud of. Wayne Rooney and John Terry take note! Maybe all that bling and the celebrity lifestyle are now distractions from the game? I won’t pretend to know everything about football, but it would be nice to see a team effort, with goals being scored, and to feel England’s spirits rise, like Phoenix from the ashes, or a rainbow after a thunder storm.
Or rather like I imagine it felt in 1910.
Come on England!

No more horror!

2010-06-18T16:31:00.009+01:00

When I was a little girl, a long time ago, (actually I am still little in height, or some might say vertically challenged), after pigtails but before perms, I used to love watching horror films.
Horrible, gruesome, scary, frightening, sick, horror films. It’s not that I was a horrible, gruesome, scary, frightening, sick, little girl. At least I don’t think I was? No, I am sure I wasn’t. I used to love Barbie and Sindy too, and then my pink bike and my yellow and blue roller boots. I like to think I was a well balanced, normal kid, with interests and hobbies and friends.
But I also loved horror films.
I think the first one I ever watched, through my shocked little eyes, at a friend's house when we should have been tucked up in bed, was Halloween. Michael Myers, now he was a horrible, gruesome, scary, frightening, sick, little boy who turned into a horrible, gruesome, scary, frightening, sick, man. Michal Myers, who haunted and terrorised and killed on Halloween.
After watching this film I was hooked. Nightmare on Elm Street, Night of the Living Dead, Poltergeist etc, etc. I had a kind of morbid fascination with the strange and unusual.
Video Vision was the name of the local video shop (way back before DVDs) where my best friend at the time, Tracey, and I, rented these strange and unusual and sometimes warped films. Being under the age of 18, the video owner would accept my grubby video membership card and our latest chosen horror film with gratitude and a letter from my friend's mother. The letter was authorising her permission for us to watch such films. She didn’t mind, and neither did my mother actually, as long as we weren’t hanging around street corners with the wrong crowd.
I often suspected the shop owner didn’t believe anyone's mother would write such a letter, and I'm not even sure if the letter writing qualified for making it legal, but I don’t think he really cared. As long as he received his £1.50 or however much renting films in those days was.
So we’d rush home, with our letter and sick video, and a whole load of chocolate to gorge whilst viewing. That was our ritual, lots and lots of chocolate to scoff whilst pretending we weren’t really scared, or jumping out of out skins everytime loud music or monstrous looking creatures appeared on the screen. And we’d turn out the lights and pull the curtains so we could view in the dark, it added to the atmosphere. My parents green velvet curtains were great for blocking out light.
That was how many an afternoon and evening was spent.
Until something else happened.
I began to grow up. Childhood started slipping through my fingers. I stopped thinking the world was a safe place and only bad things happened on TV. I realised bad things happened in real life too. I learnt there was good in this world but alas there was also evil. Therefore these horror films started to affect me. I wondered if the creepy man at the park could turn into the creepy man I watched the night before. I started to suffer from vivid and disturbing nightmares. I dreaded the dark and the childhood monster that lurked on the dark stairs as I retired to my bedroom every evening.
I had to stop watching horror films for my own sanity. And so I could use the bathroom in the middle of the night, without a pounding heart and the fear of being stabbed or eaten or chased along the hallway.
I am now very, very, cautious when disturbing films are shown on TV or a friend suggests their viewing. Which is why I was so surprised that I so nonchalantly agreed to watch Paramormal Activity with boyfriend (yes, I still have a lovely boyfriend!) the other evening. Cookies and cream ice-cream was chosen (watching and eating still go hand in hand), and the lights were turned off, it added to the atmosphere.
Then reality stepped in and I started to fret. The memories came flooding back to me. Was my childhood monster lurking on the stairs again, eagerly awaiting to pounce? Had I stupidly recreated him?
"I'm not sure if this is a good idea," I said to boyfriend.
"It's only a film, remember all the camera men in the room," said boyfriend, trying to reassure me, but failing miserably.
I still watched the film. Jumping and holding my breath, cowering behind my hands, and uttering, "Oh no!" quite a few times.
I was glad when it was over. I was glad when the lights were turned back on.
But then I realised I needed to visit the bathroom, and I was scared.
I was ten years old again.
"Will you come down the stairs with me?" I timidly asked boyfriend.
Next time we decide to watch a film I think I might stick to a romantic comedy. Far nicer than those horrible, gruesome, scary, frightening, sick, horror films.
No more horror!
Please.

Conversations over lunch - everyone’s talking about it.

2010-05-23T23:15:00.006+01:00

“I wonder if he left any milk in the fridge?”
“Do you think he had to run the hoover around the house before he left? Maybe he was embarrassed about the state of the place?”
“Do you think his wife and himself will sleep in his old bed? Do you think that’s a bit weird?”
“Maybe he ordered a new bed from the Argos catalogue, and his wife choose new fancy bed linen? Let's face it, I'm sure they can afford a new bed.”
“I wonder how big the house is? I’d love to have a nose around, check out the rooms and the décor.”
“What if they prefer their old house? It’s not like they have any choice about their new residence.”
“I wouldn’t mind living there! Think how central it would be to all the shops, bars and restaurants.”
“And everyone would know your address, you could stumble in a cab and declare: ‘Take me home!’”

Number 10 Downing Street has a new family.
Britain has a new Prime Minister.
Labour has been kicked out after thirteen years and we have the youngest Prime Minister in nearly two hundred years; Conservative leader, Nick Cameron. Not forgetting the new Deputy Prime Minister; Liberal Democrat leader, Nick Clegg.
The British public couldn't quite decide if we wanted Conservatives or Liberal Democrats to run the country. So with permission from Her Majesty The Queen we have both. Despite Nick Cameron mocking that his favourite political joke was Nick Clegg. Words he has lived to regret.
Let's hope they can play nicely together and get down to the job in hand they have promised us - to fix broken Britain.
Yes, everyone's talking about it. Even little old me has been eating, breathing and living politics.
Especially over lunch.

Hi Diddly-Dee, an actor’s life for me!

2010-05-12T12:25:00.009+01:00

It’s not really an actor’s life for me, it’s more of a photographer’s life, but I can’t seem to remove that tune from my head (remember the scene from Pinocchio?) and I have been spending my time recently with actors and actresses, therefore I thought this title post rather apt.
One of my dear friends is a member of two local theatre groups. Sometimes she acts in the plays and sometimes she provides the scenery and props for the plays. And the other day she suggested to her theatre group that I take the photographs of the plays.
I have found these photo sessions rather exciting, but a little nerve wracking at the same time. I definitely need to raise my confidence issues and become less shy and more vocal whilst photographing real life people. Oh, I think I failed to mention during the Fish and chips post (too busy focusing on lurve) that I was the official photographer at my cousins wedding.
It was an honour to be classed as the official photographer at my cousin’s wedding, and I felt slightly important, but I was also pretty scared. It was a huge responsibility. I wanted the weather, scenery and atmosphere to be perfect. Plus I was worried my small voice, and sometimes timid amongst strangers personality, would not be able to cope with the demands of photographing 100 plus wedding guests.
However, I managed it, with a little help from my other cousin whose voice boomed above the wedding chatter, ordering family and friends about and telling them where to stand in the photography line-up. I decided there and then, if ever I wanted to take wedding photography seriously, a very loud assistant would be a great idea.
So you see, recently it’s been a photographer’s life for me. This acting lark is all very well, and I am looking forward to watching my friend perform and dance in Roxy Krasner and the case of the Dancing German Aviator this weekend, but I much prefer the quieter life behind the camera lens.
And before I leave you with pictures of the theatre group, I would like to inform you that my photographs should be appearing in a local newspaper one Friday very soon!

Scene from Bloody Poetry

Another scene from Bloody Poetry

Fish and chips

2010-05-05T13:53:00.005+01:00

They met in a fish and chip shop.
Everyone has to meet somewhere.
“Can I have one of your chips?” was the first sentence she spoke to him.
Everyone has to begin a conversation somewhere.
Apparently he was attracted to her cheeky personality and her friendly smile.
Apparently she was attracted to his big bag of chips.
But then she noticed the colour of his eyes and his mild mannered nature.
Their conversation flowed over a can of diet coke.
They discovered she attended the same college as his brother.
They decided to swap telephone numbers and meet for a drink.
He called her, nervously, the very next day.
She was pleased to hear from him, and arranged to meet him again.
Their first date proceeded in a local pub.
The night flew by at an alarming rate.
They were sad when the first date was over and they had to say goodbye.
They couldn’t wait to see each other again.
There was a second date.
And a third.
A fourth and fifth too.
Weeks turned into months and they were still enjoying each others company.
He told her he loved her.
She said she loved him too.
They bought a small house together.
He bought fish and chips for the first meal in their new house.
“Can I have one of your chips?” was the first sentence she spoke to him.
He asked her to marry him.

And the pictures below are from their wedding day.
My little cousin Sam and his new wife.

Cutting the cake.

First dance.

Life's a beach

2010-04-30T11:27:00.005+01:00

Playing on the beach.

Rocky love.

When the boat comes in.

Buckets on the beach.

Waiting for sun rise.

Time to go to bed.

I have interrupted this blog with some very important news

2010-04-22T15:12:00.007+01:00

I am forever touching wood.
This is not because I have aspirations to become a world class carpenter. And it is not because I have been diagnosed with objectum-sexuality (where people fall in love with inanimate objects, like buildings, cars, fences, weird I know and I watched a documentary on this once and found it even weirder). It is because I suffer from not wishing to tempt fate. In other words, I am fairly superstitious.
For your benefit, and my curiosity, I googled (aint the Internet great) ‘touching wood’ and this was the information I was given:

The custom is thought to originate from Pagan times when trees were held in high esteem. People believed that 'wood spirits' inhabited the trees and woodlands. To touch a tree with respect is thought to indicate that the person was in search of protection from the particular wood spirit.
It is thought also that the action may be a result of the Christian belief in The Crucifixion. Christ was crucified on a cross made of wood and hence touching wood may now be a sign of this belief, and a sign of deep compassion and reverence for Christ's resurrection. This would of course have no connection with the Pagan reasoning, but perhaps the action may be seen as result of two distinctive belief systems.

So there is some kind of explanation as to why I feel the need to caress wooden objects, when discussing something of minor or major importance, but either way when I do not wish bad luck or the hand of fate to alter the conversation.
And it always seems when I fail to find a piece of wood to prod, strange things occur.
For example:

One evening I was at my cousins house, scoffing chillie con carne and boasting that I am always at the bus stop at 6.40am and never late for the 6.48am bus. Then guess what happened? The very next day I left my house minus my mobile telephone, rushed home to collect it, and missed the 6.48am bus.
Another time I was sitting at my desk informing my boss that I had not suffered with a cold for over a year and therefore I must be relatively healthy these days. Then guess what happened? Two days later I started sniffing and sneezing. I went down like a pack of cards with a very nasty cold.

Can you now see why I have decided to break earth shattering news to you, whilst furiously poking wood with my index finger? Okay here is my announcement:

I have a boyfriend.
A real life, real boyfriend.
Have you fallen off your chair?
Did you faint with the sheer shock of my confession?
Are you laughing wildly and shaking your head in dis-belief?
Maybe you are muttering to yourself, “Here we go again, another mysterious man from a night club who will blank her in ten days, or a phantom boyfriend from on line dating who is dating a million other girls and is merely humouring her..”?
I wouldn’t blame you for doing/saying all of the above. However, it is true. It has been two months now. We have dined in restaurants, walked in forests, drank in cocktail bars, and met each others friends and relations.
And tonight I am cooking my boyfriend a Thai curry. The ingredients were purchased at Sainsburys last night, the cook book has been prestigiously placed by the cooker, and the wine and cider are chilling in the fridge. I've even bought new red bowls and plates for the occasion.

I am a happy girl and I feel privileged to have met a special someone – touch wood!

Pictures of Thailand beaches coming very soon!

Food and drink and temples

2010-04-11T19:07:00.013+01:00

Thailand is becoming a distant memory.
I've soon settled back into reality. Early morning alarm calls, commuting to and from work, staring at my computer screen, cooking and cleaning, and singing Karaoke songs with friends in a very undignified manner.
The first week back has been hard. I've been trying to motivate myself but I can't help wishing I was still lazing around the pool and eating Thai currys and drinking Thai beer.
At least I still have my pictures to stare at and remind me of the amazing time I spent at Koh Samui.

Coming soon: Life's a beach!

Lunch on the sea front.

Cocktails and card games.

The barbeque.

The VW bar.

Temple in Koh Samui.

The temple near the big buddha.

It all began with a telephone call one snowy evening

2010-04-05T16:29:00.011+01:00

It all began with a telephone call one snowy evening. I remember it clearly. I was slipping and sliding on the pavement, trying not to loose my balance and drop my carrier bag of wine, when my mobile phone rang.
For the record, it was the second bottle of wine I had purchased that evening. The first one I managed to smash in the cold meats aisle in Marks and Spencers, so I was adamant I would not be purchasing a third bottle.
It had been a rather accident prone kind of day. I managed to skid in my car, Grand Prix style, and miss colliding with another vehicle by about 1mm. I then somehow boarded the wrong train after my day of shopping, swore rather loudly when I realised my error, rushed to the train door, tripped in the process, and spilt my orange juice over a rather startled stranger. Then I smashed my wine bottle in M & S. You should have seen the mess it made, and the embarrassed look on my face.
But anyway, back to the telephone call. It was my friend Claire informing me she would be meeting friends (who had taken a year out to travel the world) in Thailand at the end of March. She wanted to know if I would like to join her. "Claire, I would love to honey, but I don't have the money for that kind of holiday."
My brilliant friend then offered to lend me the cash, and it took me about five seconds to thank her and accept her kind and generous loan.
I was going to Thailand! I was so excited I squealed and very nearly slipped, again, and smashed my wine bottle, again, on the hazardous pavement.
So on the 22nd March 2010 we began our long journey to Thailand. After missing a nights sleep, and sitting on two aeroplanes, we arrived at our destination: Baan Luxmoor villas in Koh Samui.

Inside the villa.

Villa bedroom.

The pool.

Where the streets are paved with gold

2010-03-13T21:37:00.007Z

I miss working in London. The sights, the shops, the bars, the restaurants, the atmosphere. I joined my old work friends for birthday drinks the other night (I miss them too but it was great to see them again), and I decided I should visit London more often.
So that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. A Chinese restaurant with a special someone, a Sunday stroll around Canary Wharf, cocktails and dancing for a friends birthday night out, and an unexpected film premier with Jennifer Aniston and Gerard Butler.
That’s what I’ve been doing recently, and it’s been so much fun.

Sunday afternoon

Which way?

Vue cinema

Photo opportunity

The stars of Bounty Hunter

Jen

Memories. Old and new.

2010-02-23T21:15:00.017Z

Memories. We create them, we reminisce about them, sometimes we visit them and they feel our hearts with joy.
Other times, the not so good memories, we’d rather not think about, we are glad they are in the past and we look forward to making new ones.
Memories. They can be in our heads or all around us.
My home is full of memories. I laugh at the happy ones, I dismiss the not so happy ones and I appreciate I'm in a better place. My home is a better place.
The avid reader will know my home is an old home, a house I lived in once before. I lived here with my partner and a whole list of others. The list of others is long and in parts unusual. Oh this house has witnessed some crazy people and some crazy times. It’s a calmer house now. And I like it that way.
Would you like to join me on a little tour? A little tour through memory lane. With some new memories thrown in for good measure.

This is the fireplace in my loft conversion. The fireplace which my ex nearly sold a million times. Practically every time a visitor came to the house he tried to sell it to them. As you can see, it was never sold. It now stands erect for all to see.
The picture above the fireplace, one of the few wedding presents I kept, from my cousin, I brought back to my parents house when I moved out. It's been on quite an emotional journey with me. And I honestly never thought for one moment I would ever bring it back to its original place.
The giraffes are the most recent purchase, a birthday present from my parents, a new addition to my new/old home. When I lived at my parents house, for the second time, I used to look enviously at items for the home whilst out shopping or flicking through catalogues, and wished I had a home of my own again. So I was pretty excited when I took the giraffes out of their boxes, and I knew where they would stand perfectly in a home to call my own again.

This is the desk where I make my cards and I begin my blogging on my lap top. I thought I should include my place of blogging! (Although it has been known to begin under the duvet on cold and grey days.)
Can you see the black and white boxes? I brought them years ago from Ikea, because I liked the look of them. Then I wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I piled the boxes in the back of a cupboard. When I moved back I rediscovered the boxes and I knew exactly what to do with them. They now contain my card making bits and pieces.
The red lamp is from my parents house, it sat by the side of my (single, often lonely) bed. I must confess that lamp has seen me shed a few tears. I like to think it’s happy to see a happier me in happier times.

The bottles made me smile when I saw them again. I used to have a thing about bottles. Still have I suppose. They used to sit on my dressing table at my parents house, many moons ago. Bottles I have collected over the years from craft fairs and boot sales, bottles I have been brought as presents. I like my bottles.

This picture was brought back from a holiday in Greece with my ex. It was a cheap purchase from a market stall on a very hot day. My ex was half Greek so he refused to holiday anywhere other than a Greek island. But as you know there are many Greek islands and I’ve holidayed on some beautiful ones, so I didn’t really mind.
I remember feeling quite grown up that I was buying an item for a bathroom. The first bathroom that was mine and not my parents.
Sometimes I lay in the bath staring at the dolphins. Dolphins I thought I would never see again, when I left the house by the pylon one very difficult Saturday afternoon.

The brown sofas have certainly seen a thing or two. They have seen many parties, many people happy and sad, they've also experienced numerous puppies crawl around (on a blanket of course, leather and puppies do not mix) from a Stafford Bull Terriers two litters. And they've witnessed many arguments when we brought them home in a white van and carried them up a flight of stairs.
They now have to put up with my flat mate and I sitting on them (with a large glass of wine) and setting the world to right after a stressful day in the office, or laughing about our Friday night shenanigans.
If brown sofas could speak, the stories and secrets they could tell.

And the dining room, which I have just realised still has a mini Christmas tree on the dining table from the last, very merry, Christmas. Erm, isn’t that meant to be bad luck?
The dining room used to be a green and yellow bedroom. It’s come a long way. The dining table isn’t the original one, it’s my flat mates. I sold the original to a gay couple, during hard times. I was glad to see the back of it, and make some much needed cash.

And finally the fridge magnets. Now that’s what you call memories! A conference in Barcelona, that’s the black one, the front has fallen off, it’s supposed to be a yellow flip flop featuring a map of Barcelona, I must super glue it back on one of these days. A conference in Singapore, where I'd like to admit I did not work very hard, most of the time I was too busy sight seeing. There’s a pint glass from my best friends 30th birthday celebration in Prague, a surfboard from a holiday in the Maldives, a pair of sunglasses from a wedding in Cyprus, and a fish from a girlie holiday in Ibiza. And a wine bottle which boasts I like to cook with wine, sometimes I even put it in the food.

Okay, that’s the end of my little tour. I’m looking forward to buying new things for my home and collecting new memories.
And talking of new memories, a comment left from a blogging friend may have come true! I have finished my subscription for Match Affinity. I decided (personally speaking) it was an unnatural environment. I wasn’t comfortable with it and I wanted to stop fixating on meeting someone and enjoy fun nights out with my friends instead. Then when I least expected it, when I wasn’t looking for it, or him, I met someone.
But I will have to tell you all about that another time.

Blue January

2010-02-02T21:54:00.015Z

Dear January, what a raw deal you have been given. Let’s face brutal facts shall we, any month that has to follow December has an awful lot to live up to.
December, the official Christmas month. A month of celebrating, spending time with ones family and friends, giving and receiving presents, indulging in Christmas food and spirits, and a welcome break from the classroom or office.
January, often a bitterly cold month. In the UK it has been recorded as the coldest month in over thirty years. January, a full thirty one days to feel flat from the season of good will, from over eating and over spending. A time where one could feel rather let down for not achieving those over ambitious new years resolutions.
January, what high expectations you come with. Too high in my humble experience. Every year I make the same old mistakes - discussing my new weight and fitness motivation, eagerly laid plans to become super organised and spending more time with my hobbies, and threatening everyone, myself included, with my new lease for life.
Is it any surprise, dare I say it, that January is often associated with the January blues. The blues which often make one feel disappointed and disillusioned that life has not changed one tiny bit.
Am I being too harsh? Perhaps the first month of the new year has brought you more success than it has for me? Maybe I shouldn’t really blame January. Perhaps I should admit to being the one to blame for failing my promises and desires.
For example:
Have I lost any weight?
No.
Have I turned into a fitness freak?
No.
Have I captured amazing and astonishing pictures on my Canon camera?
No.
Have I found the love of my life through Match Affinity?
Again a big, fat, ugly, no.
But it’s been so cold! On many days I have not been able to leave the house due to the heavy snow fall and my car refusing to start, making it virtually impossible to enjoy walks with my camera or car journeys to the gym.
As for on line dating, it has hindered, not helped, my nervousness and anxiousness with dating and finding a nice, reliable, companion and lover.
And I have been so broke! There have been zero fun packed days or evenings out for me. This has not helped my sanity and my (too high?) expectations.
Excuses, excuses, you may well be saying.
Well, all I can say is, blue January has left us for another twelve months.
It’s onwards and upwards with February! This month I promise to try harder. I have been paid, the snow has melted, and my car is in full working order once again.
Oh and I have booked a holiday to Thailand! Now that’s something to shout about and look forward to! March is the merry month I am vacating to this destination. I am so excited, and quite frankly I can’t wait. Thailand has been at the top of my ‘places I must visit’ list for a long time. Therefore I am over the moon that this place has been (nearly) crossed off my list and I shall be visiting it in a matter of weeks.
But first, I must tackle February. I have a date looming with Jonnygiant from Match Affinity (apparently he’s not really a giant, or a wolf, embarrassingly I read one of his sentences wrong regarding wanting to have a wolf/be a wolf). I've given up on The Other One from my other post - see The rule book of life. And I’m off to the gym tomorrow.
Let’s see if I can turn February into a sparkling, happier, friendlier, slimmer, brighter shade of yellow.
So long, blue January. I hate to be personal and rude, but I’m really glad you’ve gone.

The rule book of life

2010-01-15T21:20:00.005Z

Does anyone have a spare rule book I could borrow please?
I'm imagining it as a black leather bound, slightly tatty but much loved (and needed!) book of, and for, this crazy little thing called life.
I promise to look after it. I will read it cover to cover. I will absorb the words carefully. I will treasure the words. I will make note of the words. I will take drastic action and act in the appropriate manner to respect these words.
Okay, maybe this book does not exist. But imagine if it did? It could be the answer to all my prayers. It would be the precious, vital, piece of information that I require.
Especially now.
And wouldn't you be tempted to read it too?
First date from my on-line dating adventure has been accomplished. Mission one over and out!
Did it go well? I think it did.
We met outside McDonalds (not the most romantic location but that is where it all began). Luckily I have seen 85 pictures of the man in question. We are Facebook friends and Match Affinity friends. So therefore I recognised him instantly. I will honestly admit at this point, I have always been attracted to the picture behind the messages. Although I do realise dear readers, looks are superficial. However, there has to be a connection. Wouldn't you agree?
We walked to a near by wine bar. We instantly 'clicked' and conversation flowed and laughter was heard.
So far so good.
We entered the wine bar, ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and seated ourselves in a booth with soft lighting.
The perfect atmosphere for a first date.
The night flew by at a pleasant and comfortable rate. Spookily, or am I reading too much into this, we shared a great deal in common. Similar experiences, likes and dislikes, and outlook on life. I couldn't help smiling into my wine glass and his friendly (hazel colour? I really should remember) eyes.
We decided to eat as the wine was pouring a little too easily.
Pizza Express was our next location. We both ordered an americano and garlic bread. We had succumbed to the fact we would both stink (of garlic) and we didn't care.
We polished off our pizzas and garlic bread and stopped for a beer at pub close at hand. Before we had to depart and board our separate trains home.
"I'll have to come to your town next weekend to see you again," he said with a smile on his face.
Oh sweet music to my ears. He wants to see me again! Or was it the wine and beer talking?
He texted me on his journey home. He mentioned seeing me again. We both agreed and texted it was great/very nice to meet at last.
That night I snuggled under my purple and cream duvet with a huge grin on my face, and I confess (but only to you, don't tell him I said this) with my mind racing ahead of romantic and fun future liaisons.
Let's stop here shall we.
Now it's time to face reality. Now it's time for the paranoia and self doubts to begin.
We have been in touch since. He texted me 'Happy New Year!x' at fifteen minutes past midnight on new years day.
We have shared texts and instant messages on Facebook.
I haven't seen him since.
The weather has been appalling in the UK. As usual we are victims of severe weather conditions and lack of government funding. The roads turned into treacherous ice-rinks. The public transport system almost came to a disruptive and sudden halt. We are a nation complaining and mocking our abilities to cope when snow appears.
He also has an 8 year old daughter from a previous relationship. A little girl who has to come first. I can understand that. I would never expect or want him to take his parental responsibilities anything but seriously.
I am supposed to be seeing him 'soon'.
I have stared at my mobile telephone, willing him to contact me. To arrange an actual second date.
I have bored friends and colleagues rigid by enquiring how often I should contact him, without appearing too keen but to leave the impression I am interested and interesting. Is he seeing other girls? Has he been on his own for too long and grown accustomed to the single life? Is he letting me down gently? Is he true to his word?
How the heck should I know!
Should I contact other guys and not pin so many hopes on one man? There has been other interests through Match Affinity, other apparently single men looking for love and companionship.
Maybe I should trust my instincts, give him the benefit of my self doubt, keep myself busy and just see where, if anywhere at all, this will lead too?
Oh I'm rubbish at dating. I think I should stick to what I know best. Not expecting too much and carrying on regardless, seeing my friends and throwing myself into my work commitments.
Where's that rule book when I need it!

And so the search begins...

2009-12-29T22:33:00.005Z

I have done something which could potentially be the best thing I have ever done. On the other hand, it could disastrously be the worst thing I have ever done.
One thing I am sure of, it’s something I thought I would never do. If I recall my reaction to this suggestion last year, I was adamant I would never do such a thing. “It’s just not me,” I remember saying. But, as I’m sure you have heard before, it’s a girl’s prerogative to change her mind!
So I have changed my mind. I am now trying to convince myself, nothing ventured it nothing gained. Therefore, I am venturing into the unknown!
I can honestly say this year for me has been the year of unexpected changes. Including my latest change of heart.
I lost my job.
I found a new job.
I cleared my debts thanks to loosing my job.
I have learnt new skills.
I have made new friends.
I have moved into my old home.
I have embraced independent life again.
And finally...I have joined the world of on-line dating.
Why have I done this? Why have I decided to put myself through such an ordeal? Because I have reached the point in my life where I need to make things happen, rather than sitting back and waiting for them to happen. This includes finding my Mr Right.
I am the grand old age of 36 and I am still single. I have looked around and realised my friends are happily married and raising families and looking forward to their futures. And I am buying a microwave meal for one on Christmas Eve.
I have also reached the point in my life where it’s becoming increasingly harder to find Mr Right. My social life involves meals at friends houses, or nights out with friends where I wouldn’t dare approach a man for fear of them having a girlfriend or wife at home, or even worse, a girlfriend or wife sitting next to them. So where do you find single men? Single men looking for lurve? On-line dating.
It’s a strange environment. Even stranger for someone like me who likes familiarity. I’m not one for falling in love at the drop of a hat, or exposing my inner self to strangers - although strangely I do so on my blog!
But sometimes you have to look at the bigger picture. It would be nice to share my life with someone. To not be the only single person at the party, like my office Christmas party where I was mortified to find I was the only person who did not bring a partner. (The symapthy waves were almost too much to bare.) It would be nice to have someone to cuddle up to on these dark and cold winter evenings. Someone to care for and someone to care for me.
My biggest fear is becoming even more cynical in matters of the heart. To feel even more disillusioned by the men I meet. Yet I have taken this opportunity to find Him. The one I have been searching for.
I have my first date tomorrow night with someone I have been messaging for a little while. To say I am nervous would be an understatement. I’m wondering how I will sleep tonight. I’m worrying I’m too fat, too unattractive, too different for what He is looking for. But I’m doing it.
Wish me luck!
I’ll let you know the outcome.

The morning my hair froze

2009-12-11T22:23:00.006Z

“If you could gain extra time in your life, what would you do with it?” the nice smiley lady at the front of the room asked me.
“Sleep more,” was my immediate answer. My answer which was met with sniggers and raised eyebrows.
Oh, I thought to myself, feeling my cheeks flush a shade of red. Should I have replied with something which had more depth and character? Maybe the answer should have been saving the planet, or helping those less fortunate than myself by raising money climbing mountains and handing them all my worldly possessions?
I was merely being honest. I do need to sleep more. Sleep to me is a blessing. A novelty. A luxury.
We all need sleep, of course I am aware of this. Without sleep one would go insane. But at this present moment in time, I need more sleep. 8 hours would be nice. 8 hours would be heaven!
I have always been the type of person who needs sleep more than the average person. Left to my own devices, I could sleep, and sleep, and then sleep again. That’s once I’ve cleared my mind of all those niggling worries and doubts and stresses and I can actually fall asleep.
I love my (newish, it’s been nine months now) job, but I drink far too much caffeine as a consequence. My alarm bleeps far too early, the journey is long and tiring. But hey it’s a job, it’s a good job and I’m grateful to be employed again after my redundancy episode.
And I can sleep on the trains. I often doze on the trains, my head dangling unattractively in my book or my bag. The other day I awoke with my head in a bouquet of flowers, a beautiful bunch of flowers which my friend generously and kindly sent to my office. That was a little embarrassing, not to mention bewildering, when I awoke staring at sunflower petals.
It was a time and work management course where this gaining time question was raised, and made me ponder over my sleeping pattern. But how do you gain extra time to sleep more? My mind wondered for the remainder of the course.
Right on cue, the very next day my alarm rudely and loudly interrupted my sleep. I slammed the off button on my unpopular alarm clock and promptly fell back to sleep. I stirred again 45 minutes later (unfortunately there is no snooze button on my alarm clock and I lost another mobile phone with the capability to snooze, in my gold bag in a black taxi cab) and I felt sheer panic. I realised I had 15 minutes to wash myself and my hair, feed my stomach, dress myself, and catch my bus to the train station. Higher forces must have been working with me that morning, as somehow I managed it.
But I left my house with wet hair and the atmosphere was so chilly that my hair actually froze. I swear that’s what happened. Have you ever heard of such a thing? It turned into a stiff, uncomfortable layer. Life is just one big adventure in the mornings.
But I was right. My answer to the nice smiley lady was honest and heartfelt. I do need to sleep more.
This was made abundantly clear, it was proved a fact of my life, on the morning my hair froze.

The night I met Santa Claus

2009-12-10T21:19:00.005Z

It was the indoor shoot at my photography club.

Anyone would think it's Christmas soon.

Festive flower arrangements.

And a very special guest.

Anyone would think he was famous.

Apologies for the delay dear readers, I hope you're all well and I'll pop over and see you soon.
Coming next, the morning my hair froze. It may explain the delay.

Snaps

2009-11-17T22:01:00.005Z

Okay, it's not quite a photography heaven in blog land, but just a few pictures of what I've been up to recently.

I've started my Christmas shopping. Selfridges was my first stop.

Then admiring the Christmas lights at Oxford Street.

Making cards for the December birthdays.

And meeting my friends daughter. She's adorable.

A little piece of history

2009-10-29T15:21:00.007Z

I belong to a local photography club. A local photography club which has existed for 75 years.
We meet in a local hall every Monday evening. Sometimes we compete in competitions with each other, sometimes we compete with other photography clubs, and sometimes a visitor will join us to inspire and entertain.
Last Monday I was definitely inspired and entertained by our visitor. Last Monday's visitor was the widow of the club chairman, who sadly passed away earlier this year. She also brought along her grandson, and photographs and slides from the chairman's vast collection.
I did not have the pleasure of meeting the chairman as he was ill for a long time and unable to join the club meetings. But I have now had the pleasure of viewing some of his outstanding and historical photography.
Apparently the couple met at the photography club, many years ago. Their first date was an outing to Southend-On-Sea, where it rained and they took photographs of reflections in puddles. The couple later married, had two children, who later had children of their own. Their story is quite a love story, and I couldn’t help feeling sentimental when I heard the pride in his widows voice whilst she displayed her late husband's work.
It was fascinating pouring over pictures taken of local churches, buildings and streets, some which have changed immensely and some which have not changed at all. There were shots of a building which was then a cinema, and is now a bingo hall. There were shots of a church, before it was vandalised, and shots of old fashioned streets with only a couple of old fashioned cars on the road and pedestrians wearing very dated clothing.
There were also pictures of other club members, dating back to the 1950’s. How smartly dressed they were. The men wore three piece suits and the women wore hats and fur coats. We were also told most of the members smoked back then, and there would be evenings where the photographs would be difficult to see through the haze of cigarette smoke.
How different things are now. I looked around the club at the members jeans and trainers, in a smoke free environment, where most of the members have digital cameras and are experts in digitally enhancing their work. Back in those days, as we were reminded on numerous occasions, everyone used a camera with film and spent hours in a dark room processing their master pieces.
But the one thing which hasn’t changed is the love of photography which the room still holds. I for one went home, buzzing with enthusiasm, and discussing my night, the history and the pictures, with my friend/new flat mate.
“Tomorrow I am going to start taking lots of pictures again,” said I, as I made my way to bed, head swimming with ideas and excitement.
I’m going to create a photography heaven in blog land.
I’m going to be observing, focusing and capturing.
And I thought it was only fair to warn you.

Behind the scenes at the museum

2009-10-25T00:26:00.009+01:00

Imagine a world without books.
No paper backs.
No hard backs.
No authors.
No editors.
No publishing houses.
No printers.
(We’ll pretend at this point that magazines and newspapers haven’t been invented either.)
There would be no Borders book shops, isles packed with the top ten best selling fiction, autobiographies of celebrities with too much to say about themselves, and colourful cook books illustrating one hundred things to do with pasta.
There would be no second hand books shops to browse in, hickeldy pickeldy rows of dusty books for antique collectors, Agatha Christie mysteries and Jane Austen novels.
There would be no school libraries and no public libraries. No librarians seated behind stacks of new and old books and no children renting books for school projects or for their own personal reading pleasure. And no book club meetings for keen readers to discuss and dissect their favourite literature.
There would be no children’s books to buy for birthday presents and Christmas presents. No books for children to learn and recite the alphabet, colours, shapes, and farm yard animals. There would be no Beatrice Potter tales to tell at bedtime, tales of hedgehogs and foxes wearing clothes and leading interesting lives. No Winnie The Pooh adventures and a world where a tiger, a donkey and a piglet are friends.
No Famous Five and The Secret Seven detective stories, where girls and boys drink ginger pop and see the world through inquisitive eyes, and solve murders and uncover hidden treasure.
No teen romances featuring a school called Sweet Valley High and teenagers learning about crushes and heart ache through the experiences and knowledge of the author.
There would be no Stephen King dark and sinister thrillers to loose yourself in during long train journeys and aeroplane flights. Resulting in evil thoughts creeping into your peaceful dreams, turning them into weird and warped nightmares.
And there would be no films to interpret the ideas and scenes from the writers imagination. (Two of my favourite films began their journey as a book, Mary Poppins by P. L. Travellers and The Shining by Stephen King.)
And there would be no theatre plays to act out the words from books.
Are you imagining it?
Can you imagine it?
What a gaping black hole a world without books would leave.
Personally I can’t imagine my life without them. No paper backs and hard backs proudly perched on my book shelves in my loft conversion. No stories to escape in during my two hour commute to work. No excited conversations with my friends regarding a vampire named Edward and a werewolf called Jacob.
I thank the lord for allowing us mortals the intelligence and skills to invent books.
I'm glad there are authors to write books.
I'm glad there are editors to edit books.
I'm glad there are publishing houses to publish books.
I'm glad there are printers to print books.
I am also glad there are film studios and theatre companies to tell the stories of books.
And I'm especially glad my local theatre recently directed and presented a play of a book I read a couple of years ago, Behind the scenes at the museum.
It's the story of a family living above a pet shop. It's about relationships and secrets in a changing world.
And it starred one of my best friends, in a northern accent.
And she was brilliant.

Domesticated bliss

2009-10-09T09:27:00.003+01:00

I am swimming in a sea of domesticated bliss.
I am floating in a bubble of washing detergents and fabric softeners.
I am clinging to a cloud of air fresheners and Mr polish.
I am drifting along supermarket aisles, lost in the world of calorie counting and price comparing.
I am chopping, I am stirring, I am engulfed in an aroma of herbs and spices.
I am planning, I am organising, I am entertaining.
I am listening to the merry sound of laugher and huge wine glasses clinking.
I am lighting scented candles and creating atmospheres.
I am gazing lovingly at Argos catalogues and Ikea web pages.
I am dreaming of colour schemes and fantasising with fancy fabrics.
I am submerged in happiness, I am covered in a blanket of contentedness.
I am embracing my independence, my freedom, my new life.
I am back in the house by the pylon, and the house by the pylon has welcomed me back.

Because of the wonderful things he does

2009-10-03T18:06:00.007+01:00

If I was to mention the words yellow brick road, and if I was to talk about a lion without any courage, and if I was to discuss lollipop kids, would you understand my point?
I would not be remembering a dream, or flipping random words into the air, I would be referring to one of my favourite films in the whole wide world – The Wizard of Oz.
In my eyes, it’s a classic. Hollywood at it’s best. A technicolour fantasy with a nice little moral - there’s no place like home.
I have watched this film about a million times. I’ve lost track of the amount of Christmas days I have sat in the family lounge, wearing new Christmas slippers, surrounded by new Christmas toys, and found myself mesmerised by a lion, a scarecrow and a tin man.
And to my delight one of my Christmas presents one year was The Wizard of Oz on video. My own copy! My own copy to watch whenever I so desired. And believe me, I did. Sprawled out on the sofa, chomping my way through chocolate bars, or lounging on my bed, desperate to escape the real world and visit familiar characters on a mission to ask a wizard to make their dreams come true.
So it would not surprise you to hear when I was offered the opportunity to view this film again, I jumped at the chance. Although this time it was viewing with a difference. The difference being it was shown at an open air cinema. An open air cinema in London, situated next to the River Thames.
Oh what fun we had! My friend (also my new flat mate) and I. Front row seats, with crisps, dips and white wine, and watching my favourite film in the whole wide world. Again.

The open air cinema was situated past Tower Bridge, along The River Thames.

Rain clouds, please go away!

It's nearly time for the film to begin.

I recognise that lion.

The familiar, well loved, film title.

The return of the house by the pylon

2009-09-27T20:21:00.006+01:00

If someone had told me last year where I would be living this year, I would have thought they were completely and utterly bonkers. I would have laughed loudly, wiped the tears of amusement from my eyes, and violently shook my head in disbelief.
I would then have politely suggested we continued with a sensible, realistic, conversation.
However, I would have been completely and utterly wrong.
Dear readers, it actually gives me great pleasure to announce I have moved. I have moved out of my parents house, again, and moved into the house by the pylon, again.
That's right, my old flat. The flat I moved out of four years ago. I'm back!
This time I am living with my friend Carley. This time I am living in the loft conversion, with my own lounge, my old furniture, and my new bedroom.
It's the same flat, with a difference. A calmer, cheerful difference.
And guess what? I am loving it, and I am completely and utterly happy about it.
Aint life strange sometimes.

My new/old home.

Crazy little thing called love

2009-09-20T22:28:00.006+01:00

Isn’t it funny how something as innocent as a power cut can drive one's mind to madness, pondering over that crazy little thing called love. Well that’s what happened to me last Tuesday.
It began as a normal day. An average Tuesday morning. I was sitting on the train, during my journey to work, engrossed in my book. My mobile telephone rang in my big brown bag, rudely interrupted me from my far away world.
It was my boss. “There’s been a power cut Nikki. The office will be closed all day.”
An unexpected day off! How nice. However, it would have been nicer if I’d known the night before, or even earlier that morning, so I did not have to stumble out of my bed at an ungodly hour and ride three trains to reach my destination.
The next telephone call I received was from my colleague.“Nikki!” she said. “Have you heard the news? No work today! Where are you? Fancy coming over for coffee, bagels and a DVD?”
What a great idea! I disembarked at the next stop, my final destination, and made my way to my colleague's house. It wasn’t such a wasted journey after all. Luckily there were no magazines due to be sent to press. It was going to be a day of relaxation with my colleague.
“Sex and the City?” my colleague enquired when I reached her house. Another great idea.
I have never been an avid follower of SATC but I’ve seen snippets of the series and I’d have to be living on Mars not to know the character of Carrie Bradshaw and friends. So we sat on the sofa, with coffee and bagels, to indulge in the life of four fictional friends. As the story unravelled we couldn’t help commenting on the ups and downs of four young women searching for love, falling in love, avoiding love and trying to stay in love.
That four lettered word called love.
The power of love.
The thing which apparently makes the world go round.
That crazy little thing called love.
Our conversation moved on to real love, love that we have personally experienced, not the love found on the television screen between four girls from New York. We exchanged stories, we laughed, we sighed. I envied her true love. I despaired of my disastrous attempts of love. We decided to drink wine (it was noon by this time which we thought was an acceptable time to escape in a bottle of wine). We bonded over tales of love and loss of love.
We wore ourselves out talking about love. And then we realised the sun was shining in the real world. We decided to venture outside and stop thinking about love.
Once outside, in the sunshine, we headed to the local pub’s garden. Well it was our day off.
We sat in the beer garden watching the world whizz past. Okay, maybe not the entire world, just a small town called Stevenage where my colleague lives and our office is based.
Our next plan was to stop drinking wine and visit the pictures to watch 500 days of summer. Another story of love!
I began to feel uneasy. Is everyone obsessed with love? Has everyone found love accept me? It was enough to make a girl paranoid.
I sat in the pictures with my nachos and cheese sauce (it’s another habit of mine which is hard to break) and watched a man falling in love with a woman, and a woman resisting falling in love with a man. Was she insane, I couldn’t help thinking, why doesn’t she love him? He’s hopelessly in love with her, he’s honest, he’s cute, he’s faithful. Where do you find a man like him?! Oh that’s right, it’s the movies, it’s not real. Call me cynical dear readers, but at the grand old age of 35 I am very disappointed with love. The film was not helping matters.
After the film I looked at my watch and regrettably thought it was time I began my three train journeys home.
I sat on my first train, and I tried to shake off the memories of the days viewing and conversations, the memories of love. I opened my book to continue my latest novel. Twilight is the title of my present reading material. The story revolves around a vampire called Edward. This vampire called Edward has been searching for his true love for over one hundred years. Arrg, I painfully thought, what hope does a mere mortal like me have, if Edward has been searching for over one hundred years? I very much doubt I shall live for one hundred years, and if I do, I may have forgotten who I am, let alone the meaning of love.
Therefore, I was glad to return to work the next day. I buried my head in PDF problems, paper queries and invoices, glad of the distractions and the work load. I was trying desperately not to think about that crazy little thing called love. I refused to waste any further time or effort thinking about the subject.
(Please, no more power cuts!)
And then something very strange happened.
Stranger than me finding love!
It was an out of the blue, sudden, dramatic change.
Something that I would not have thought ever possible.
Yet it happened.
And it certainly stopped me thinking about love.
But you'll have to read my next post to discover exactly what it was.

Put your posh frock on (and join the party!)

2009-09-09T13:49:00.008+01:00

One day I was watching a film with my best friend. I can’t remember the name of the film, but I do recall it starred Anthony Hopkins. We were only halfhearted watching the television screen, until Mr Hopkins uttered the words, “Why don’t you put your posh frock on and join the party?”
This may sound peculiar to you, dear readers, but my friend and I found the above line hilarious. We quoted and re quoted the line, until we were laughing so much that we could no longer quote. It definitely tickled our funny bones. We found this sentence very amusing to say the least.
Over the years, at every opportunity and occasion possible, my friend and I have used this phrase. These words never failed to entertain or bore us.
For example, if one of us was feeling down and in need of cheering up, the other one would repeat, “Why don’t you put your posh frock on and join the party!”
If there was a wedding or a birthday forthcoming, one of us would quote, “Why don’t you put your posh frock on and join the party!”
Or if we spotted a pretty dress in each others company, it would be a race to see who would be the first to say, “Why don’t you put your posh frock on and join the party!”
Therefore, I think you can imagine my squeals of delight, many years later, when I received my bridesmaid gift from my friend. It was during her hen evening, and my friend thought it would be appropriate to present me with a sparkling silver bracelet. A sparkling silver bracelet to wear on her wedding day. And on this silver bracelet the following words were engraved, Put your posh frock on. After these words was the date of her wedding.
It was the perfect, special, gift between two special friends!
I wore my bracelet with pride when I stepped out of a car on the 15th August 2009, in my bridesmaid dress, outside my friend’s wedding venue. I grinned at the flashing cameras, my bracelet shining on my right wrist, as I held my bouquet of flowers and posed for photographs.
Then my bracelet and I glided into the registry office, to await the arrival of the bride and her father.
The moment my best friend entered the ceremony room, on her fathers arm, I fiddled nervously with my bracelet and fought back tears when I saw her radiant and beautiful face, and her stunning posh frock.
The service was an intimate affair with a reading, The Owl and the Pussy Cat, from the groom’s sister. This reading did not pass without a few raised eyebrows and chuckles, especially when the grooms sister misinterpreted a few of the words. I remember looking around the ceremony and watching the tears of tenderness, in the wedding parties eyes, turn into tears of amusement. My friend has some brilliant pictures of this part of the day, where everyone is laughing and happily enjoying a poignant moment in time.
The ceremony flowed into the next part of the day. The reception was held in green and glorious natural surroundings, with a brightly decorated yurt, champagne, canapes, and a delicious hog roast. The sun broke through the clouds, not wishing to miss out on the fun.
It was a fantastic day and evening. A day and evening of celebrating the love and commitment of two fantastic people who'd found each other.
At the end of the night a camp fire was lit and lanterns were released into the sky, much to the spectators delight. And it wouldn’t be a wedding without dancing, would it dear readers.
I don’t think it would surprise you either, if I told you I was one of the last guests to be enthusiastically dancing around the room. I twirled around in my bridesmaid dress showing off my bracelet, jumping in the air in my eagerness.
Then finally, exhausted from laughing and enjoying myself, I collapsed on a sofa in the yurt. In my enjoyment I’d forgotten to erect my tent for the night, so my posh frock and I spent a somewhat uncomfortable and cold night on a sofa. But it was worth it.
And I embraced every single second, of the day I put my posh frock on and joined the party.

Friends.

Cake.

The yurt and my bed for the night.

Garlic sweets and pretend teeth

2009-09-01T22:08:00.019+01:00

Have you ever eaten garlic sweets at a picnic? Or worn pretend rotten teeth, just for a laugh? Was that a no? Oh dear readers, you’ve never lived!
Actually, neither have I, but my friend Caron has. Well it was her hen day, it wasn’t any old ordinary day. During one's hen day, one is entitled to eat garlic sweets and wear pretend rotten teeth, it’s all part of the process.
Henfold Lakes was the chosen location. Twelve giggling girls met at the nearest train station, with food and drink, and all intentions to have a ruddy good day.
We arrived at the venue a little apprehensive when we heard the gun shots, noted the muddy pathway, and spied men running around in army type clothing. Arr, we were next to the paint balling, apparently popular with stag days.
We sighed in relief when we were shown our picnic spot, away from the guns and mud, next to the lake, with fields and trees in the background. Picnic blankets were placed on the grass, and cheese and pickle sandwiches, quiches, sausages, crisps, cakes, etc, etc, were placed on the picnic blankets. We definitely had enough food. Pink and black name badges were handed out (as arranged by me, the future bridesmaid) as a little memento and so we were all familiar with each other. Crackers were pulled, with wedding jokes and wedding facts inside, and bottles of wine were opened. All to the merry sound of laughter. It was a lovely start to the day. So lovely that we forgot we were meant to head back to the reception area at a certain time, to begin our treasure hunt. We had to be telephoned and reminded the treasure hunt was over due.
The treasure hunt was part two of the hen day. We spilt into two teams, where maps, clues and compasses were circulated. We had exactly two hours to seek as many letters as possible, from the clues and the maps. Each letter equalled cheese or wine. Personally I think cheese or wine are pretty good treasure!
Before the two hour deadline ended, we had to race back to camp with our letters. If one person (or more) from a team was one minute (or longer) late, their team would be disqualified. The team who’d collected the most letters were the winners. The team who’d collected the least letters were the losers.
The losers had to participate in a bush tucker trial. The trial was titled I’m a hen got me out of here! Don’t worry, the trial did not involve munching on crocodile eye balls, or bathing in a tub of stinking maggots. We were lead to believe it would be something quite horrid, but in reality it wasn’t too bad. The losers had to eat some very strange chocolates, strange chocolates which contained fillings such as curry. Huh, they were lucky there were no eyeballs or maggots inside the chocolates.
It was then back to the picnic spot, with the winning teams cheese and wine (I was on the winning team I hasten to add). We spread out on our blankets, nibbling and sipping, and I asked the bride-to-be to play two little games – What’s the deal with Mr H? Followed by Haven’t I seen this before?
The first game involved asking Caron ten questions regarding her future husband. Each correct answer was awarded with a present, and each incorrect answer resulted in a forfeit. Hence the garlic sweets and the pretend rotten teeth – they were the forfeits! (Plus something else on a stick, but this is a family blog, and I couldn’t possibly talk about it without blushing.)
The second game involved photographs of parts of the body. Caron had to guess which parts of the body were her future husbands. This was called Haven’t I seen this before? But this game had a twist. The twist was, none of the pictures were her husbands body parts, as I couldn’t get his darn photographs to print out. Worryingly, she was convinced a mutual friends husbands bottom was her future husbands rear!
Moving swiftly on, after the games I presented Caron with a photograph album, with contributions from her family and friends, and aptly named Before I was married. There were baby pictures of the bride-to-be and pictures of school trips, friends dressed as a pumpkin and a werewolf, us dancing on tables and posing at weddings and restaurants, etc, etc. Happy memories of many happy times. All in a pink and silver photo album.
And the fun did not finish there. After our cheese and wine and games, we boarded taxis to Caron's house to glam ourselves up for the hen evening.
The evening began with food and drink at a lively Chinese/Indian/Italian restaurant (basically if you didn’t like the food you were quite fussy) with gorgeous party bags expertly made by our friend Helen. Masks and feather boas were worn, more games were played, and chocolates gobbled. It was great.
The evening ended with dancing at a near by bar, followed by karaoke at Caron's house. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the neighbours as we screeched the lyrics to our favourite songs, all eager to grab the microphone and pretend we were pop stars. Until the very small hours of the next morning.
And that dear readers, was the hen do.
I think you'll agree, it's a far happier story compared to The tale of the severed finger.
Coming next, put your posh frock on and join the party! In other words, the wedding.

Our picnic.

This field held the key to our cheese and wine.

Let's have a look at the map.

I've found a letter!

You expect us to eat these?

The masked meal.

Caron and her pole.

You make me feel like dancing, I'm gonna dance the night away.

Tonight everyone, I shall be your DJ.

The tale of the severed finger

2009-08-25T20:47:00.007+01:00

This is a true story. It’s the story of how a bingo win full turned into a family tragedy. And a severed finger.
It’s also the story of how I met one of my best friends.
It all began about fifteen years ago. I was dating a lad called Martin at the time. I had an almighty crush on Martin which began at the tender age of fifteen. He lived in the house on the corner and worked in the local greengrocers on a Saturday. And I couldn’t believe my lucky stars when he started paying me attention, just after my nineteenth birthday. My patient four year wait was worth it! Even though he moved to Wales the day after our relationship began! But I’m drifting off the track here. Martin's best friend was called Keith and whilst I was dating Martin, Keith was dating a girl called Caron.
One day Martin and Keith received a wedding invitation. Their old school friend Vincent was marrying his childhood sweetheart, Michelle. The invites extended to Caron and I. The happy couple decided to wed after hitting the jack pot on the bingo. Weddings are pricey occasions, wouldn't you agree. Therefore a bingo win full was able to help them along the marital path.
So, one Friday morning Martin and I drove to the wedding venue. I remember continuously asking Martin questions regarding Caron and her personality, throughout our journey to the venue. I was nervous about spending time with her as we had only briefly met one night in the local pub. I knew we would be left to entertain ourselves later that evening, whilst our boyfriends attended the wedding rehearsals. I was slightly concerned that we would have nothing in common and the evening would be full of awkward silences.
Later that night I learnt there was absolutely no reason for me to be concerned at all. Caron and I hit it off big style. We sat in the hotel bar all night, drinking champagne and wine, talking and laughing non-stop. There were no awkward silences. I knew then that it was the start of a beautiful friendship.
When our other halves returned from their rehearsals (they were given best man and usher responsibilities) they were quite surprised how easy we'd bonded. And how hard we were finding standing straight and walking in a straight line. Oh how Caron and I laughed as we wobbled back to our hotel rooms, linked arms, and chuffed at our new found friendship.
We were not laughing the next day. The next day we did not find our pounding heads and queasy stomachs remotely funny. It felt as if a million angry kangaroos were jumping on our heads. It felt as if we were sitting on the world's fastest magical merry-go-round. I honestly think that was one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever experienced in my whole life. I did not even want to open my sore eyes and see the next day. I did not even want to remove my clammy hands from the hotel duvet. Of course I had to, I had to prise myself out of bed and pretend I felt human. It was Vincent and Michelle's wedding day.
Martin and Keith were not laughing either, when they saw the size and cost of the bar bill. The bar bill definitely cancelled their sense of humour.
Anyway, the wedding day passed with Caron and I constantly moaning about our health and flinching at the sight/smell of any alcohol. We did not receive any sympathy, but I'm not surprised as it was all self inflicted and we had no one to blame but our greedy selves.
There were wedding vows, photographs, speeches, wedding cake and dancing. As soon as it was not considered rude to do so, Caron and I sneaked back to bed to rest our poor dehydrated bodies.
That was when it all began to go horribly wrong.
I am not aggressive when I drink wine or champagne. Far from it. If I was to turn aggressive I know I would stop drinking immediately and ban myself from swallowing any liquids which made me behave in such a manner. Unfortunately some people are aggressive when they consume alcohol and they do not know how to stop and control themselves. This is what happened to certain individuals during the evening of the wedding.
When the bar closed for the night, certain individuals would not accept it was closing time and time to retire to bed. Instead, they helped themselves to the bottles behind the bar. They actually stepped behind the bar and poured their own drinks. This did not bode well with other wedding guests and the hotel staff. Or with Michelle and Vincent.
Arguments began, voices were raised, tempers were lost and alas, punches were thrown. I was told it was not a pretty sight. Certain individuals insulted and punched their way through the wedding guests. Caron and I slept through the whole fiasco.
The next morning everyone (apart from Caron and I) awoke in horror when they remembered the night before. Nobody dared show their face in the hotel breakfast room, everyone left the hotel as quietly as they could, avoiding other guests and the newly married couple.
Apparently Vincent and Michelle did not speak to half the wedding party for a fair few months. As you would expect they were very upset and very angry at the despicable behaviour from some of their friends and family. How sad that what should have been one of the happiest days of their lives turned into fight night.
You may be thinking that things must have improved for the couple. Perhaps they even learnt to laugh at the disastrous wedding night, and the appalling language and fighting that was displayed by the hotel bar?
No, that was not the case.
Vincent then left Michelle for another woman. That was enough to break a girls heart. But it wasn’t any old woman. It was Michelle's mother. His children's nanny. His own mother-in-law.
And the story does not end there.
Michelle's father did not take the news very well. So distraught was he, that his son-in-law had run off with his wife, that he chopped off his wedding finger, still wearing his wedding ring, and posted it to Michelle's mother.
I can imagine opening an envelope and seeing your husbands finger would not have the same affect as opening an envelope and reading your bank statement, or your gas bill. In other words, it would have completely and utterly freaked me out!
And I’m afraid I haven’t finished yet.
Vincents years ahead were somewhat troubled one way or the other. I won't go into too much detail regarding his troubles, but I am very sad to report one dark and tragic day Vincent committed suicide.
It's quite a story, wouldn’t you agree, the wedding that Caron and I bonded at. I wish I could say it had a happier ending, but that would not be true. I hope I have not distressed you too much. It's a story I decided to tell because last week I attended Caron's wedding day.
Caron and I’s friendship has gone from strength to strength. Men and champagne bottles have come and gone, but our friendship is still united. And last week I was honoured to be Caron's bridesmaid.
But before I tell you all about that, the next post is all about the hen do.
I promise you, it's a far happier tale in comparison to the tale of the severed finger.

Has anyone seen my ankles?

2009-08-16T20:10:00.007+01:00

I am not a skinny person by any stretch of the wildest imagination. I was bordering on skinny way back in my youth, when I was blessed with a body that could eat food at an alarming rate but not once add any extra pounds to my slender physique.
“You’ll explode one day if you keep eating like that,” I was warned. I didn’t explode, but I did gradually gain weight. Everywhere. Apart from my ankles and my wrists. My ankles and wrists have remained small.
These days I like to call myself curvaceous and pretend that I’m not really bothered about attaining a supermodel figure. Besides, I enjoy eating too much to deprive myself of one of life's pleasures. I’m not saying I’m unhealthy, I regularly eat vegetables and fruit and a balanced diet, but I do eat rather large portions and I refuse to stop eating cheese and chocolate and other such delicacies. So as a result of good food and a slower metabolism, I am not a skinny person, apart from those ankles and wrists.
However, last week was a completely different story. Last week it was impossible to see where my ankles stopped and my legs began. Last week my feet resembled the feet of a morbidly obese elephant. The reason? Pesky pond life at my photography club.
There we were, grey skies above, not ideal photography weather but that didn’t stop us from heading to the local pond searching for the perfect picture. There were ducks and swans and pretty pink flowers. And teenagers on bikes looking at us as if we’d escaped from the local zoo.
I was wearing black leggings underneath my black dress with my brown shoes. Had I realised we would be outside I would have dressed appropriately. I would have worn jeans and socks and covered those (skinny) ankles.
I crouched down to capture the swan and his elegant white neck. There were reeds and pond like things growing by the waters edge. And a rusty coke can added to the scene. Gnats circulated the air above me, and was it my imagination but could I feel the pesky pond life feeding on my ankles and making me itch?
It was not my imagination. The next day my ankles disappeared. My feet and ankles ballooned to very unattractive and startling sizes. My feet were covered in itchy lumps. And the next day after that, the bruises errupted. I looked a sight. It was also very uncomfortable.
I hobbled to the chemist, slightly concerned that my feet were pumped full of deadly poison and I may have to be rushed into hospital for life threatening surgery. (You can’t help worrying sometimes, can you?) The lady at the chemist assured me I would live and it was nothing to fret about. I was given cream and tablets and reassured I would be okay.
You’ll be pleased to know that I have nearly recovered from my ordeal. My feet and ankles are nearly back to normal. My ankles are practically back to their old skinny selves, and thankfully we have been reunited once again.
Dear ankles, it’s good to have you back.

Before I was bitten.

Taken whilst being bitten.

After I was bitten.

Come Dine With Me Part Two

2009-07-27T20:57:00.010+01:00

A little while ago, I mentioned the fateful words Come Dine With Me Part Two. I also mentioned that for part two of the Come Dine With Me experience, it would be my turn to cook a fabulous themed mystery feast.
For those of you who have been scratching your head in bewilderment, with a big question mark above your head, with regards to my mystery themed feast, allow me to rescue you from your bewilderment.

Below, dear readers, is my themed menu. Which, in retrospect, is really not that surprising or mysterious!

The George Michael/Greek menu

Club Tropicano
Sip into paradise with a sea breeze cocktail.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go
Humus, taramasalata and pita bread to tantalise your taste buds.

Everything She Wants
Everything you could possibly want in stuffed peppers.

A Different Corner
Moussaka with a difference, accompanied with traditional Greek salad.

Edge of Heaven with a Careless Whisper
A trifle of heaven and a chocolate careless whisper.

Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me
Coffee and mints.

I couldn’t resist it. Personally I am a huge fan of Greek food and I’m an even bigger fan of George (who incidentally is Greek/Cypriot origin), so I thought I would tie the two together. Predicable? At the end of the day, I am a faithful creature of habit!
Cocktails were sipped, pita bread was dipped, mushrooms were chopped and trifle was topped. All to the dulcet sound of George’s voice.
It’s rather lucky that my friend is partial to George too and did not mind me taking over their kitchen with George CD’s, cooking ingredients and implements. I even brought Greek flags, Greek wine and sunflowers for the occasion, so we could fantasise that we were sitting in a Greek restaurant, over looking the sparkling Mediterranean sea, with lemon and olive trees for company. A little bit of make believe is healthy for the soul!
After dinner we pretended we were rock stars and attempted to write a number one hit using the word apple.

For your viewing pleasure, a few picture from the night. (In our enjoyment my friend forgot to mark my cooking efforts but has promised my marks on a DVD through my post box very soon...)

Tuck in!

The make believe Greek restaurant.

Sainsbury's special offer

2009-07-16T16:21:00.010+01:00

I wish that some how, some where, in some place, you could buy extra time.
Could you imagine it? Whilst you were roaming around the supermarket, buying your fruit and veg, you paused at the time counter.
Perhaps the time counter would be next to the cheese counter. If it was me, I would greedily point at the blue cheese and order a hefty portion to feed my cheese obsession. I would then fathom out how much extra time was required for my week ahead (especially essential as I had lots of extra cheese to eat) and place my time order at the time counter.
I predict it would be a popular counter. There would probably be a long queue of impatient customers, tapping their feet and complaining they didn’t have the time to queue for their time!
Time. I’m sure it must be something we are all guilty of complaining about. For example, have you ever repeated one of the following statements:

I wish there were more hours in the day!
I wish there were more days in the week!
I just don’t seem to have the time these days!
Where has the time gone!

Can you see my point? I think we are all victims of time.
Time controls us.
Time lets us down.
Time can be our friend.
Time can be our enemy.
What a powerful thing time is. Needless to say, buying extra time at the supermarket could be the solution we are searching for. Maybe I should ask my local MP for his advice, suggest that local shops stock up on extra time. We would all benefit from this, I have everyones best interests at heart.
Okay, let’s be realistic here and face hard facts. If I was to discuss time counters with my local MP, he would likely suggest I visit my local doctor and stop scaring innocent residents with my wacky ideas. Or he’d accuse me of smoking the wacky backy.
You may well be wondering what’s brought all this time talk on. It’s simple - I wish there were more hours in the day!
I sneakily checked my blog this morning when I arrived at my not so new office, water cup in one hand and coffee cup in the other. I was a little tired from meeting my friend for a quick three drinks in a shabby chic decorated bar last night.
I miss writing my blog every day, I miss reading others blogs every day. I just don’t seem to have the time these days! I am hardly ever at home, and I’m not really suppose to use the internet at work.
Crikey, how come you're never at home, you could ask. Well, recently my time has been spent watching Oasis perform at Wembley (they rocked), participating in an evening of bowling with my not so new colleges, dining out with friends, dining in with friends, dancing to Michael Jackson (RIP Jacko) in a new bar in my local high street, dancing to George at a wedding reception, serenading strangers with Oasis songs at a house party, being stalked by an X factor reject, attending my photography club and photoshop evenings with other club members, travelling up and down the country in search of a new printer for our relaunch magazine, and barbecuing at a friend's house.
So now you know, if you were wondering.
Next, dear readers, it's time for something completely different - I would like to have more time for myself.
I need to sleep more.
I need to relax more.
I need to exercise more and drink less.
I need to stop spending money at an alarming rate.
I need to blog more.
I need more time.
Thanks for baring with me regarding my regular absences, I know you must all have busy lives too and I do appreciate you still stopping by to read and comment.
Crucial fact - it's been two years since I began this blog, and I missed FPE’s second birthday! Sorry for neglecting FPE's. I hope you forgive me and we’re still friends.
So you see my point with this post, I need more time! But I’m working on it. Perhaps I’ll stop by my local MP’s house on the way home from the office, for a friendly chat.
Or maybe I should go straight home, no stopping off at bars or shops, or friends houses. No distractions, no detours. Go to my house, do not go outside my house, eat my shepherds pie, and finally have some time for myself.

Impact for success

2009-07-15T11:33:00.005+01:00

Have you ever taken an instant dislike to someone? Perhaps you were introduced to a stranger and you received ‘bad vibes’ from them. Maybe this person came across as arrogant, or dismissive, and so therefore you did not feel comfortable in their presence.
Whatever your reason for a poor first impression, did you know, statistically, it would take a further 21 successful meetings with this person for your first impression to disappear?
And how fast do you think it takes for someone to meet you and create an impression of you, based on your first meeting? It’s three seconds for the 20 – 30 age group, ten seconds for the 30 - 40 age group and fifteen seconds for the 40 – 50 age group.
Intrigued? Impressed? Not bothered at all about my pointless information?! Or perhaps you are questioning the source of my information?
Impact for success was the name of the training course I attended where I learnt about body language, creating my own personal brand, and what colours suit me. I must say, as training courses go, I found this one rather interesting.
There were ten of us sitting around a table in one of the company training rooms, eagerly listening to the trainer and nibbling on the selection of biscuits. The biscuits next to the company branded bottled water. My not so new work place love courses and company branding. I could probably draw the company logo in my sleep and recite the words Collective Inspiration over and over, or at least until my police raid alarm clock disturbed me from my drawing and reciting. And I could possibly attend one of their many training courses every day for the rest of my life.
But hey, let's get back to the impact for success course. What other fascination facts did I learn? Apart from distinguishing the difference in taste between the chocolate fingers and the vanilla swirls – the chocolate ones won, but it was a close call. Well, I learnt I am a dramatic dresser (hence the zebra print dress I was wearing on the day) and warm colours suit my skin tone.

I also learnt:
55 per cent of nonverbal communication relies on body language, while up to 38 per cent is down to vocal cues and the actual words used can in some cases count for only 7 per cent of the impact of the message.

Having a very clear personal brand will:
Positively manage my impact.
Clearly articulate who I am and what I am about.
Connect my abilities to the reputation I have/want.
Identify areas in which I may need to manage myself more effectively.
Identify areas in which I may need to develop.
Differentiate myself from others.

Other stuff I learnt:
Communication research indicates the approximate personal space zones are as follows for the Western world (varying slightly from person to person):
The public zone – 12 feet and over
The social zone – 4 to 12 feet
The personal zone – 1½ to 4 feet
The intimate zone – up to 1½ feet.

I learnt about lies too:
In synergology, studies have detected more than 100 signs possibly expressing an emotion that is masked or a lie, but none of these signals is sufficient in itself for you to be sure that someone is lying or masking the truth. It is necessary to see at least eight signs during a period of 10 seconds in order to be absolutely certain that a lie or an untruth is being told. Signs include:
The person will look at you more with their right eye than with their left eye.
The eyebrows will be raised rather high.
They will stop blinking their eyes with the usual regularity.
The two sides of the face may appear more asymmetrical than usual, particularly in the area of the upper lips.
They may start to cough a bit.
Their voice may become weaker.
If they are seated face to face with you, then they are likely to position themselves leaning more on the left elbow than the right elbow.
The positioning of their legs will be in the direction away from you or toward the door.

My next course is project management, but don’t hold your breathe for any exciting revelations. Unless you want me to discuss schedules and spreadsheets with you? Nah, I didn’t think so.
Expect pictures of food very soon though, Come Dine With Me part two is fast approaching and this time I am cooking up a themed, fabulous, fantastic feast! At least I hope so…

Alfie

2009-06-29T22:26:00.005+01:00

On the 16th January 1988, at about 11pm, I was sitting in my cousin Sarah’s bedroom.
Wow, you may be thinking, what an astonishingly acute memory you have. Or, you could be thinking, why the heck do you feel the need to tell me this?
Well, I can definitely confirm my memory is not astonishingly acute. For example, sometimes I can walk up the stairs to fetch something, and completely forget what I am suppose to be fetching. Sometimes I can remember to do something vitally important, but then completely forget what I am suppose to be doing. And I won’t even mention forgetting to collect bags/cameras/purses from taxis/window sills/ cinema seats.
The reason I know this date, and the reason why I am telling you this date, is because that’s the day my cousin Sam was born. My little cousin Sam who is not so little these days. My little cousin Sam who now towers above me. My little cousin Sam who now has a baby of his own.
Three weeks ago I heard the joyful news that Sam had become a father. A father to baby Alfie. It brought the memories flooding back to the night I was at my cousin Sarahs, and we heard the news that baby Sam had entered the world.
Has twenty one years really passed?! Has it really been twenty one years since I held Sam, wrapped in his blanket, when he was two days old? The little boy I watched grow up and grow into a young man. The little boy who is now a father. Where have all the years gone to?!
But one thing I do know for sure, is how much Alfie is loved and cherished. How we have all welcomed him to the family. How proud we all are to hold Sam's son.
And you never know, in another twenty one years maybe Alfie will have reproduced and I will be toasting the health of his son?!
But for now, I'll just say, here's to many happy times ahead, and a big welcome to this mad world, Alfie.

Alfie.

Going...going...gone.

2009-06-20T22:05:00.004+01:00

He’s gone.
Mysterious man has not so mysteriously disappeared.
Again.
It’s different this time.
This time I knew it would happen.
I was not surprised or confused.
I was not hurt or bewildered.
I sensed the outcome.
I was ready for the outcome.
I was even relived at the outcome.
You can’t pretend somebody is something they are not.
You can’t pretend a relationship can turn into something it can not.
I’m glad I had the opportunity to see him again, to listen to his explanations, to understand his reasons, to learn more about the man I thought I knew. (Crikey, I sound like an Elaine Paige and Barbra Dickinson song, I know his so well.)
People ask me if I’m okay, if I’ve heard from him. I’m honestly fine, I say. No I haven’t heard from him, I don’t expect to nor do I want to. I sense some peoples sympathy. But I laugh it off. One day I’ll get it right, I’ll meet Mr Right, I say. Until then I am happy to be single.
Again.
It wasn’t the perfect relationship I thought it would be.
He wasn’t the perfect man I thought he would be.
At least I know that now.
I’m not full of what could have been.
I now know it could never have been.
Funny how you can read the signs completely wrong.
Funny how sometimes something you are so sure of can turn into something you are not sure of at all.
Life goes on.
The sky is still blue. (Well, in England it's often more grey than blue.)
I haven’t fallen apart.
I haven’t given up on love or life.
I’m still going out with my friends and enjoying myself. I’m still taking photographs and writing my blog. I’m still enjoying life in the not so new office.
Maybe I’m a little more cautious.
Maybe I don’t want to get my fingers burnt again.
But maybe I know I probably will.
If you don’t take a few risks how will you benefit from a few rewards?
Life isn’t meant to be simple, is it?
Life is far from simple at times.
But who wants a simple life anyway? If everything was simple how would we learn valuable lessons? How would we appreciate the good times from the bad times? I’ll take the rough with the smooth. I’ll carry on realising some things just aren’t meant to be.
It’s nothing personal.
It’s not a tragedy.
It’s not a disaster.
It’s just the way it is sometimes.
And I’m fine with that.

Tigers in the sky

2009-06-16T21:36:00.004+01:00

It is not ideal the night before you go on holiday to arrive home at three thirty am, without any shoes on your feet, plastic flowers around your neck, and a red sparkly hat on your head. I would even go as far as to say, it is anything but ideal.
However, there are times when ideal situations fly out of the window and are replaced by inappropriate, and often bizarre, situations.
I think the pre-holiday excitement must have gone to my head. Or maybe it was the fact my printers treated my new boss and I to tapas and wine in a charming, authentic, Spanish restaurant. And then I joined my friend at an 80’s revival bar, to celebrate her birthday. An 80’s revival bar where you can purchase flashing microphones, plastic flowers, red sparkly hats, and over sized glasses (we bought the lot). We enjoyed ourselves immensely, whilst declaring every ten minutes, “We’re going on holiday tomorrow!”
In my defence, I was long over due a holiday with my girlfriends. Therefore, I was ridiculously excited. My last holiday with friends (apart from my 3 day trip to a Cypriot wedding) was six years ago, to the beautiful island of Mauritius. And that particular holiday was shared with boyfriends, so it wasn’t a true girly holiday. A true girly holiday must have been the year before Mauritius, I think, to the pretty Greek island of Crete.
Despite the late night (or early morning, or whatever you wish to call it) before our holiday, my friend and I arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, ready to meet our other two friends. I’ll be honest, we were a little tired, but what the heck we thought, we can sleep on the aeroplane. Airport shopping added to our moods, gold flip flops, gold bangles, magazines, and a jug of sangria at the airport bar. We were going to Ibiza! Cheers everyone!
Now, if anyone is contemplating visiting this Balearic Island, let me warn you – you will need plenty of money. You may need to remortgage your house or discuss a loan with your bank manager. It is very expensive. There must be the odd cheap restaurant and bar, we managed to find one in Ibiza town, but on the whole it’s very pricey.
17 euros for a red bull and vodka. 35 euros entrance fee to the worlds largest club. 30 euros for a piece of fatty lamb and grains of boiled rice. Do you see what I mean? We were shocked.
After an expensive beach party, expensive boat party, and expensive bar where we danced and spun around on a merry-go-round, we decided to supermarket shop for pasta, salad, fruit, and a bottles of cheap but-surprising–light-and-refreshing plonk. We knew we couldn’t carry on spending the amount of money we had been. (But I still managed to treat myself to a turquoise ring and white cotton dress during a cloudy day, when the beach and swimming pool seemed cold and unattractive.)
I would also like to warn you about the characters in Ibiza. There are many unusual characters walking around the quaint Ibiza town, and drinking on the luminous and loud streets of San Antonio. Drag queens, hippies, people who swear blind there are tigers in the sky, and all sorts of weird and wonderful men and women.
Ibiza is certainly an interesting place to visit. If you have a bank account brimming with cash, cash you are itching to spend, and if you are prone to seeing tigers dancing in the sky, this island could be your ultimate dream come true.

Can you see the tigers?

Ibiza tapas.

Ibiza harbour.

Expensive club.

Expensive meal.

Come Dine With Me

2009-06-11T21:38:00.010+01:00

I do not have a lot of spare time to watch television these days, crikey I do not have a lot of spare time full stop. Spare time is definitely an exotic luxury. But the one programme I do like to indulge in, when I have the time, is a show called Come Dine With Me.
The concept is this – four evenings, four strangers, four houses, four meals, four marks out of ten, one winner.
A little while back my friend and I were discussing our mutual appreciation for this particular programme, and we decided to entertain ourselves with our own interpretation of Come Dine With Me - two evenings, two friends, one house, two meals, two marks out of fifty, one winner.
So, dear readers, with photography assistance, Come Dine With Us!

The first evening began at my friends house, and Italian was the theme. Italian music drifted through the speakers, Italian colours dressed the dining room and the dining table, and Italian scents wafted from the kitchen.

Italian colours.

In true CDWM style I grabbed the camcorder and browsed around my friends house, throwing random comments into the air regarding clothes, books, and rubber ducks.
After my filming, and amusing myself, I nibbled on the canapes and read the menu, suitably impressed with how the night had began.

Canapes.

My first course arrived, scallops, cooked to perfection, with runny egg yolk oozing over the dish. We toasted to the starter, and to our evening ahead. The wine complimented the food and our moods deliciously.

The starter.

After a little rest between the starter and the main course, where family trees and other such topics were discussed, the main course was brought to the table. Succulent chicken breast with melted mozzarella, on a bed of rocket salad and vibrant cherry tomatoes, drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Another knock out! A lady could become accustomed to this fine dining, with friend cooking!

The main.

And last but certainly not least, the dessert sparkled away. Gooey and gorgeous hot chocolate sauce filled the moist chocolate pudding, with refreshing strawberry ice-cream. It was the ideal finish to the scrumptious meal.

The dessert.

Without giving the game away, I recorded my verdict on the hosting, the food, and the presentation, whilst the chef hovered in the kitchen. The marking is a secret, it will be revealed after Come Dine With Me evening two. It will be my turn to cook (at my friends house, as I am not in possession of my own kitchen) and I already know my theme and the food which will be incorporated into my theme. I bet you can’t guess what it is! Don't worry, all shall be exposed in a couple of weeks, dear readers.
See how much fun this Come Dine With Me can be? Maybe you should try it with your friends. It's a good excuse to meet, and enjoy cooking and eating yummy food. As far as I'm concerned, that's a great recipe for a great night.
Until the next one...

PS I've been in Ibiza folks, hence the gap between posts. I hope you're all well and I shall be over to your blogs asap. Expect pictures of Ibiza very soon. Oh I'm such a tease.

The house by the pylon

2009-05-20T20:02:00.015+01:00

I used to live in a house opposite an electricity pylon. Named the house by the pylon by all who knew her. Later affectionately renamed the flat that time forgot. Renamed as a consequence to the amount of hours lost huddled on the sofas during Greek nights, dancing in the loft on girls nights, and standing in the kitchen with half the customers of the local pub on Friday nights.
It was not a quiet place to live. If you were looking for a quiet life, the house by the pylon/the flat that time forgot was not the place for you.
Quite a few people have lived in the house by the pylon. My ex purchased the top floor of the house from The Neville family. The Neville family who hitch hiked from Greece to England - we think Mr Neville gambled his money away before he could bank it, or he was mugged, we’re not sure which. What I do know for sure is they sold their story to The Sun newspaper, for much needed cash and for their five minutes of fame. My ex and I used the newspaper clipping, which contained a photograph of the family, for a cloak and dagger type adventure along the Greek harbour. We pointed at Mr Nevilles toothless smile and asked, “Have you seen this man?”
Mr Neville had returned to Greece when his finances improved but he‘d failed to sign important documents for my ex. Hence, my ex, myself, and my ex's friend who was wheel chair bound as a result of a nasty motor bike accident (the same friend who insisted on accompanying us on our first date) searched the streets of Greece for Mr N. I needed a holiday and I’d always fancied visiting Athens. Mr Neville’s sister had reported her brother was in Greece once again, and my ex needed him to sign along the dotted line.
Unfortunately we didn’t find Mr Neville in Greece, it was a long shot, but we had a nice holiday. Luckily we bumped into him in the UK, and the top floor of the house by the plyon was legally my ex's home.
When I first moved into the house by the pylon my friend Claire was renting a room, along with our friend Kia. Well, she was our friend at the time. I introduced her to a guy from Brighton and we never saw her again. I think she was looking for any excuse to move out of T.H.B.T.P and that was a good enough one for her.
Scaggs was the next victim of the flat that time forgot. That’s not his real name, his real name doesn’t sound half as bad but he doesn't mind answering to Scaggs. Scaggs also lived with Amber. Amber was a dog, the puppy of Blaze, my ex's dog. Blaze had two very large litters and you can see most of her daughters and sons trotting around the local area.
Darren was another lodger. Darren who had a wooden leg. He fell out of a moving train when he was a youngster, and tragically lost one of his legs. Sadly Darren is no longer with us. He died in his sleep a couple of years ago. R.I.P. Darren.
My ex's daughter also moved in, briefly, to the house by the pylon. That was fun to have another female to share the house with, and we would drink wine and watch programmes on hair dressing and footballers wives. Very girly.
Lenny, who used to draw on toast and had a major operation to cure his epileptic fits, also lived with us. He’s a very talented artist and I recently read a story in OK magazine regarding Lenny and his art. It was accompanied with one of his toast pictures, this particular one was Simon Cowell's face. Apparently Si offered Lenny a very large sum of money, for the picture which bared an uncanny resemblance to him. Perhaps Lenny is living the high life these days? Perhaps he can afford all the toast in the world now?
Heartbreak hotel could also have been another name for the house by the pylon. It was a well known fact that when relationships broke down, the heartbroken partner would move in, to forget their troubles and lick their wounds, until their partner forgave them or they’d grown tired of the flat. Which ever came first.
Sometimes I even struggle to remember the names of some of the lodgers. There was Lesso, the bouncer/courier who all the girls lusted over. Johhny, the one who was convinced strangers stood in the garden watching him. Mad John, who was actually mad. Oh hold on, I don’t think he actually moved in, he was just permanently attached to the sofa for a very long time, with his poetry book and his stories of madness. Sometimes I would return home from work to discover another body in the lounge, with another disaster story, and a musical instrument in their hand.
There would be frequent jamming sessions in my humble home. Guitars, bongos, keyboards, and all sorts. It was lucky for us that the man who lived downstairs was deaf and our joining neighbours only complained once, and that was after I played George Michael at a ridiculously loud volume one night. (I don't think they were George fans.)
The house by the pylon was a very lively and unusual place to live. It was rather like a magnet, a magnet attracting chaos and disrupting any kind of normal life. Of course there were times I loved living there. I would enjoy playing the hostess with the mostess, I liked cooking for ten thousand people, and I was happy arranging Greek nights. I even became accustomed to the crazy people and some very strange senoras.
But sometimes I craved peace. Normality. Dullness even. This was not possible with the house by the pylon. Eventually, like all the others before me, I moved out. When you have a family living in your loft who are being attacked by hammers (incidentally the father is now serving time for murder) and a couple living in the spare room, a man with a glass eye and a woman full of constant tales of death, depression and diabetes, you do question what kind of life you are living.
Leaving the house was compared to saying goodbye to an old friend. But a friend who you know is not healthy for you. A friend you know you can’t be around any longer, for your own sanity. A friend you know you have to leave behind, and you wonder if they were really a friend in the first place?
So I packed my bags, shed a few tears of relief and sadness all mixed into one, and I shut the down behind to my old life and to the house by the pylon.
It was odd at the beginning. The calmness of my parents house was the parallel universe I’d craved for so long but it took a long while to adjust to.
I dreamt about the flat. I thought about the flat. I laughed about the flat. I despaired of the flat. Part of me even missed the flat. Other times I despised the flat and I blamed it for everything that had gone wrong in my life.
Then the funniest thing happened.
Four years later, when the flat was a distant memory in my hazy mind, the magnetic force was up to it's old tricks. The force was too strong to resist. To my astonishment, I found myself walking up the beige carpeted stairs again. Sitting on the brown leather sofa again. Staring out the window and looking at the electricity pylon again. How on earth did that happen?
The house by the pylon was back.
I danced in the flat's loft at the weekend. The familiar loft with the walk in wardrobe that isn’t a walk in wardrobe and the spiral stair case that isn’t a spiral stair case. (I now realise that not everyone who say they are a carpenter are in fact a carpenter.) A few of my friends were in the loft too, and we were all wearing wigs. Marge Simpson type wigs, afro wigs, bright pink wigs, and blond plaited wigs. We screamed with laughter and spun around to the rudeness of Lilly Allen lyrics, and placed balloons under our dresses/tops to impersonate my friend Eve who is 5 months pregnant.
It was as if I’d never been away!
I'd returned to the house. I was in a time warp. The magnet was stronger than ever. I remember shaking my head in bewilderment. Smiling at the newly painted terracotta coloured walls.
I'll be honest, I’d had a few glasses of Pino Gricio, but what happened next seemed real enough whilst I was dancing in the loft at the weekend. Whilst I was spinning around and laughing loudly, I'm sure I saw something out the corner of my Marge Simpson wig. If you promise not to laugh shall I tell you what I saw? I was convinced one of the terracotta walls winked at me. That's right, a big, cheeky, you're back in my life kind of wink. And guess what I did?
I winked right back.

Who am I?

2009-05-12T21:58:00.009+01:00

I was born in England in 1809. Twas the era of widespread invention and discovery. Significant developments in the understanding and manipulation of mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, electricity, and metallurgy. Arr, what an exciting century to be born into!
My father and his father before him were greatly respected physicians, and my mothers side of the family built a respectable estate on the basis of Josiah Wedgwood’s successful pottery business. A mere two centuries since my passing, I have drifted along many antique shops and gazed at many Wedgewood products. Products which have left me flabbergasted to their retail price. But it seems the keen collectors think nothing of parting with their hard earned cash for such beauties of the past.
I was a natural thinker and explorer. I traveled the fearious and the calm seas, I studied at Edinburgh University and I published books on my discoveries.
In my life time I presented the world with compelling evidence of evolution. My passion was natural science and my five year voyage on HMS Beagle established me as an eminent geologist, my observations and theories supporting Charles Lyell’s uniformitarian ideas.
I packed as much as I could into my life, hungry for knowledge and explanations, intrigued and fascinated to what this world had to offer me and those who would live after me.
Oh and how the world is constantly changing! Technology has succumbed any expectations that I could have possibly imagined during my studies, home and away.
My family home, the place of many of my discoveries, still stands proudly in the rambling Kent countryside. It is open to anyone who wishes to observe and absorb the atmosphere and information. It brings me remarkable joy to look around and see the enthusiasm of the young and the old who visit my dear and beloved home.

Have you guessed who I am yet?

My house.

My garden.

Inside my house.

My family tree.

My day trip to Belfast

2009-05-04T21:37:00.013+01:00

Over the years I’ve experienced my fair share of day trips. Journeys have been meticulously planned via train/car, maps have been studied, places of interest have been thoroughly researched, and brightly coloured sweets, packed full of e numbers, have been bought.
I’ve traveled to different villages, towns, cities and counties for the day. But I must be honest, I have never visited a different country for the day – until last weekend!
Last weekend I took a mini adventure to Belfast, for the day. Mysterious man and I booked our plane tickets a few days beforehand, decided our agenda, and looked forward to our day trip.
On the day of our mini adventure we traveled by taxi to the airport, and chatted away merrily to the cab driver regarding his famous passengers, such as Steve Davis the snooker player, and we discussed his unfortunate and painful gout problem. (Not Steve Davis's gout problem, the taxi drivers. Although Steve Davis could have a gout problem for all I know?) And then we boarded our aeroplane to Ireland.
Once in Belfast we wondered around a farmers market, a shopping centre, admired the city hall and the architecture, and visited the famous murals. We dined in a nice restaurant, drank alcohol in a lively bar, and danced in a local night club, and then boarded our plane back to England. Oh and m.m. had his hair cut in an Irish barbers.
Phew, we packed a lot into one day, wouldn't you agree?

Belfast City.

Belfast architecture.

Belfast City Hall.

Belfast mural.

Belfast mural.

It's still me, but on a really good day!

2009-05-01T11:03:00.011+01:00

Everything appears to be different. Well, almost everything. Okay, most things appear to be different.
Allow me to explain myself. I have not decided to have a sex change or a personality transplant, but recently there have been many changes in my life. Hence many things appear to be different.
Some of these changes I’ve embraced with welcoming arms. Other changes I’ve eyed with great suspicion. I’ll be honest with you, certain changes have terrified me. And I have faced changes which seemed insignificant when they took place, but as time passed by, these changes have altered my life and my way of thinking.
Before redundancy (also known as B.R.) I was plodding along nicely. Same job (for nearly ten years), same routine, same social life, same friends, same debts, same person. But who was I to rock the boat? I was comfortable with my life. It was safe. It was familiar. I liked it. There were high points and low points, as one would expect in this day and age. But I wasn’t counting on changing the world, or flying to the moon.
Dear readers, I still haven’t flown to the moon, I haven’t really expected to nor wanted to, but boy has my world changed!
For a start, my week days now begin at 5.30 in the morning. B.R. I was unaware there was a 5.30 in the morning? In my old life I would stagger out of my bed at the last possible moment, challenging myself with the speed I could leave my house and arrive at my desk, trying not to look too flustered in the process.
These days, I leisurely stroll around the house in the (very early) mornings, dressing in my new, smart clothes.
Thanks to my redundancy pay out I now have trousers which are not frayed at the bottom and boots which do not have fake leather peeling away. I allow plenty of time for my journey to the next county, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the London streets, the over crowded city streets which played a heavy part in my old life. I’m even one of the first employees to arrive at the office (as opposed to the B.R. last), ready to face my new procedures.
Have I mentioned that I love my new job? Consider it mentioned. It terrified me at first. It was a culture shock. A new boss, a new company, a new position. A new me. A whole different atmosphere and environment. However, it did not take long for me to grow to love my position, and appreciate the changes.
The fact that I am not constantly worrying about my finances is a huge relief, and a very welcome change. A change which seemed impossible at one time. I look back and shudder when I recall how I would struggle with my loans/store cards/visa/outgoings and general day to day life, desperately trying to stretch my money from one pay day to the next. Thank goodness my redundancy has allowed me to pay my debts and release me from my finance worries. It’s a glorious feeling, I recommend it to anyone!
My social life has altered too. It’s had to, to allow me not to walk around in a zombie like fashion, as a result of my early mornings.
Ahem, I’m not perfect, I’ve had a couple of blips. One evening I was screeching into a microphone in a karaoke bar at an undignified hour, when I should have been tucked up in bed. And another evening I met a B.R. colleague and we drank too much wine, ate too much pizza, and jumped around her front room to Wham! songs until it was too late. But on the whole, I am far more responsible and restrained during the week. I’ve even disregarded the sofa in my bedroom, the sofa I used to lounge on and watch rubbish television. I now have a desk and a comfortable chair to sit on. How sensible of me.
Crikey, even my bedroom is different.
I also have two new additions to my social life. One of the new additions is my friend Sarah, who I communicated with through facebook. Yep, I’m a facebook fan too, something that I never thought would happen in my old life. Once I would mock facebook, now I am peeping at it at every possible opportunity, still grateful that it played a starring role in reuniting Sarah and I. We are back in each others lives regularly. It’s great. And an added bonus regarding our reunited friendship is that I can see my old dog again.
In the dim and distant past, my partner and I shared a dog, Well, it was his dog really but I lived with him and his Stafford Bull Terrier for eight years, so as you can imagine I was rather attached to the dog. When we separated I missed the dog more than I missed him. Sad but true. Sarah has now extended her family and her house to accommodate my ex’s Stafford Bull Terrier. My ex partner now lives many miles away, in a different country, in his dog free life. Lucky for me, I can now visit Sarah and the dog. I adore seeing the dog again. She has grown very old, very white, and a little deaf. Oh, and her breath still smells like a swamp on a hot, sweaty day. But I love her all the same.
I am also back in touch with my ex’s daughter. This is the second unexpected, albiet it very welcome, addition to my social life. We always shared a close relationship but unfortunately it was tested and became rather strained when I spilt with her father. We both deeply regret letting far too many issues come between us. Fortunately we’re back on track now. We have regular nights out and I have even sat in The Flat again.
The flat I used to live in with her father!
My ex’s daughter lives in the flat at present, while my ex lives many miles away, in a different country, in his dog free life. I did not in a trillion years think I would ever step back into that flat. I thought it would be unnecessary, too painful, too out of the question to even contemplate. To my amazement, I have stepped back into it. I sat on the sofa eating hummus and pita bread and it was fine. I didn’t scream in protest, or clutch my head and my heart wailing, “I can’t take all the memories!” Nope, I didn’t collapse into an emotional mess or sob into the pita bread. I had a nice evening. And I expect there will be other nice evenings in that particular accommodation.
And last but not least, there is my love life. Love and romance have been non existent for a long time in the world according to me. Then along came the mysterious man - see last post if you are baffled by this reference.
I have an announcement to make on FPE. Brace yourself, take a deep breath, sit down comfortably, because I would like to state - the mysterious man is back in my life!
For how long he is back is anyone’s guess. Life and love hold no guarantees. Don’t worry, I am not under any false pretences when it comes to matters of the heart. I know how delicate/confusing/weird these situations can be.
I received an explanation from mysterious man - it moved too fast, he was freaked out with the speed and the expectancy, he’s been hurt before. Was that a good enough explanation? I’ll confess to still being hurt by the agonising, ignoring period. I tortured myself, convinced everything was my fault and there was something wrong with me. It was not a pleasant time.
However, I have accepted his explanation. We have agreed to take things at a slower pace, have fun and see where it all leads. Again, this is all very different for me. I normally spend so long becoming friends with a member of the opposite sex, that by the time we are dating I know them inside out and back to front, and our relationship moves at a very fast pace. Maybe it’s healthier this way? Maybe.
So you see, my life is pretty different now. You have my confirmation to these changes. My world is different. My future looks different.
As I have heard a certain energy drink advert announce (not the chewing gum one, and I’m not sure why I keep quoting advertisements):
It’s still me, but on a really good day!

PS Please accept my humble apologies for the lack of posts and comments. Another thing which has to change - I need to blog regularly again. I hope you're all well and I look forward to catching up with you all very soon...

You win some, you loose some

2009-04-06T23:24:00.009+01:00

In every good old fashioned love story there is nearly always a thunder bolt. A thunder bolt from out of the blue.
I thought my thunder bolt had struck, dear readers. In hindsight, it must have been the strobe lighting. Or maybe my right contact lens was flickering, creating the illusion that something strange had happened.
There I was, dancing away, black dress, brown boots, wine glass, when I saw him. There he was, standing still, black jumper, black jeans, beer bottle, when he saw me. He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. And I had to turn around to be sure he was looking at me, and not a younger, prettier version.
When I realized he was definitely looking at me, I did something very out of character. I walked over to him and said hello. I figured I had nothing to loose. (Little did I know just how much I would loose. For example: sleep, my sanity, my dignity, my pride.)
We stood grinning at each other like a couple of loonies.
And that’s how it all began.
Now, if you were to ask any of my friends they will confirm that in every relationship I’ve had I have known the man in question since birth/school days/forever. I take my time getting to know future partners. I do not fall easily. I am cautious. I am not very trusting. I am skeptical. It takes me a long while to feel comfortable. Normally.
However, this is not a normal story.
We exchanged telephone numbers almost immediately.
We said that we had to see each other again.
We danced and smiled all night.
He text me as soon as we said goodbye.
He said it was amazing meeting me.
He said he couldn’t stop smiling.
I was smitten.
I couldn't stop smiling either.
I wondered what was happening to me?!
I felt like the girl in the chewing gum advert. The one you cringe at and wonder how someone could act so dopey around the opposite sex.
We shared four dates in one week.
He took me to an Italian restaurant, we ate pasta and swapped life stories.
We walked around Leicester Square holding hands.
We went to the cinema and talked about our love of dairy products.
We drank wine and Guinness in the pub.
We participated in the pub quiz and called ourselves Eclipse (after the tacky nightclub we met in).
He introduced me to his family!
His mother cooked me a roast dinner and his father talked about the family dog. They said it was nice to meet me and they were looking forward to seeing me again.
He downloaded George Michael songs for me to listen to! We sang Too Funky together.
He gave me an astrology book and spoke of the similarities between our star signs and how well matched we were.
He’s studied astrology and he drew my birth chart, after I commented that I’ve always been curious about it.
He spoke of the similarities between our birth charts and personalities.
We watched Dark Knight on DVD and I fell asleep on his sofa.
He kept smiling at me and holding my hand.
I never saw him again.
I am completely baffled.
What happened to him?
Why did he vanish?
How could someone change their mind so drastically?
What did I do wrong?
The worst thing is, I was doing okay. I was happy being single. I was happy with my life. I was content. I didn't need a man. I didn't particularly want a man. Then he came along, turned my whole world upside down, shook it, made everything seem perfect, and buggered off.
I text him. No answer.
I called him. No answer.
I worried that he’d been in a freak accident. Or lost his mobile. But lost mobile batteries die. Freak accidents aren’t that common.
He entered my life in a whirlwind. A whirlwind of emotions and anticipation.
He departed from my life in exactly the same way.

My Cyprus adventure

2009-04-03T13:54:00.010+01:00

One of my best friends married her partner, on April Fools Day, on a beach in Cyprus. The groom wore a kilt and the best man wore two black eyes. (He provides the general public with ghost tours and apparently walked into a pole during one of the dark tours.)
I was only in Cyprus for three days, it was a short break, but it will be three days I will look back on fondly for the rest of my life.
The wedding day was a magical day. The sun happily shone down on the wedding party, the ceremony was romantic and intimate (I stood up and read from the bible, which was a pleasure and an honour, albeit a little nerve racking) and we sipped champagne and nibbled canapes, to the sound of Cypriot music and laughter.
After the ceremony in the delightful chapel, and drinks and food on the beach, the wedding party moved to the villa for more drinks and food, and speeches and dancing.
By the end of the night the music was very loud and we had all become quite animated with our dancing. Unfortunately the villa owner walked in and asked us to turn the music down as the neighbours had complained. It was getting late anyway, so we decided to call it a night. Well, kind of. We waved the newly married couple off, they were spending the night in the honey moon suite in a near by hotel. The rest of us began the task of clearing up, whilst dancing around the kitchen with brooms and other such objects.(I didn't realise cleaning could be so much fun!)
The remainder of my Cyprus trip consisted of a visit to the waterfalls, a ramble around snowy mountain tops (I had a slight mis-hap and lost my way and nearly lost my feet too), an enjoyable fish mezze in the local town, and hanging around the swimming pool soaking up the sunshine and the white wine.
It was a shame I had to come home.

Leaving on a jet plane.

The villa.

The villa.

Michelle and I.

The chapel.

The wedding party.

The happy couple.

After the ceremony.

The flowers.

The waterfalls.

The waterfall.

Snowy mountains.

Record breaker

2009-03-18T22:28:00.005Z

I have broken a personal record. I have not intentionally broken this record. I have not set out with the sole purpose of accomplishing something I have never accomplished before. It has not been a personal mission. I did not wake up one morning and decide to do it.
It just happened.
Last week I met a vast amount of people. I can safely say that I have never, in my entire life, met as many people as I met last week.
I broke a personal record!
I guess working in a new environment meant it was inevitable that new people would enter my life.
I’ve lost count how many times, in the past week, I have been introduced to a stranger.
I’ve shaken hands.
I’ve smiled.
I’ve said “Hello,” politely.
I've listened to strangers' names and occupations.
I've made small talk.
I've had long, intense, conversations.
I've laughed and asked questions.
I've forgotten strangers' names.
They’re an interesting bunch in my new office. There’s a designer who is also an extra on film sets, and he's appeared in films such as Gladiator and First Knight. There is an editor who has published books and appeared on television chat shows. There are scarily intelligent researchers who discuss formulas in the way I would discuss what I ate for dinner last night. There are tall people, small people, quiet people, loud people. At lunchtime I sit with a girl whose sister’s best friend is a reality television star, a star who is tragically dieing of cancer and her face constantly features in the national newspapers. I also sit with a guy who insists on relating a tennis fact every lunchtime, and fantasising about opening a restaurant selling purely boiled eggs, whilst dressed as an emu.
I’ve participated in meetings with suppliers and managers and other valuable members of the company. I’ve taken the grand tour around the warehouse and met the warehouse staff. I’ve had an induction day with other new colleagues, and the HR manager, and had team bonding sessions (I’m going to hobby craft Friday lunchtime with one of the girls I bonded with). I have met men from Denmark and women from Cambridge. I have met the project team, the branding manager, and I have attended a data projection course and met yet more people.
And then guess what happened next? One night, on my journey home from the office, I joined my friend for champagne at a bar in the city. It was her birthday and she was out celebrating with her colleagues. Yes folks, it was introduction time again!
I shook hands.
I smiled.
I said “Hello,” politely.
I listened to strangers' names and occupations.
I made small talk.
I had long, intense, conversations.
I laughed and asked questions.
I forgot strangers' names.
I have now met most of my friend's colleagues too.
I am a record breaker.

Hello, my name is Nikki and it's my first day

2009-03-09T22:02:00.008Z

Today I was the new girl. Being the new girl can be a very daunting prospect.
The night before my first day as the new girl, with my new black, shiny shoes (yep, I thought the occasion should stretch to new foot wear), I hardly slept a wink. I worried about the most ridiculous things.
Would I get lost on my way to my desk?
Would I forget everyone's name?
Would I have enough clean, smart clothes for one week?
Would I like my new job?
Would everyone like me?
My stomach was tied in knots.
I was anxious.
I was apprehensive.
I had butterflies the size of mountains.
I was nervous.
I was soon to start my new job!
Finally, exhausted from worrying and thinking, I fell asleep.
I awoke to the unfamiliar sound of my alarm clock. It's been a while since I heard the police sirens (I think my alarm clock sounds like a police raid, but police sirens and getting out of bed are both unpleasant situations, so maybe that's the similarity). I reluctantly left my bed, washed, dressed smartly, ate weetabix, and began my journey to my new job.
I allowed plenty of time for my new journey to my new office, for the first day as the new girl. It was just as well because the circle line had severe delays and I would have been very late otherwise. I gave myself a stern pep talk, reminded myself of my publishing experience and enthusiasm, and read supportive texts from friends. Gradually I began to feel less nervous.
I arrived at my new building and headed straight to the reception area and I said, "Hello, my name is Nikki and it's my first day."
And that's how it all began, dear readers.
Next, the HR manager collected me from reception and introduced me to her department. I was then shown to my new desk with my new computer and my new work colleagues.
I barely had time to set up my e-mail and voice mail before I was called into my first meeting with a new fulfillment company. Six of us sat in one of the many meeting rooms, with coffee and chocolate biscuits, and we introduced ourselves to the sales representative from the fulfillment company. Again I heard myself saying, "Hello, my name is Nikki and it's my first day."
I was getting use to being the new girl!
After discussing marketing tools and on-line reports, etc, etc, my new boss and I grabbed a sandwich in the free canteen (that's right, free canteen, handy hey) and we attended the second meeting of the day. This time the meeting was with a new software company and we watched a presentation and asked questions. This was after I explained, again, I was the new girl and it was my first day.
After the second meeting I confirmed three other meetings for this week, five other meetings in the next few weeks, and an induction day for next week.
My first day was over! And it wasn't so bad after all. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. Everyone seems very friendly, the offices are nice, and I'm looking forward to my new duties on my new magazines.

Thank you so much for my congratulation messages. I promise to blog hop tomorrow but I have to go to bed now.
It's tiring being the new girl.